MARISA

I was serving my apprenticeship under Barry when circumstances intervened. Walking out of a club, I brushed past a young woman headed in the opposite direction. I turned around and followed her. A year later Marisa and I married in her parent's frontroom. I bought a blue-stripped, seer-sucker suit for the ceremony while Marisa's dark-skinned contrasted invitingly against her white dress. The justice-of-the-peace whispered a question prior to his opening remarks, "Do you want the short version or the long version?" "The short version!" Laurie, my oldest sister, had moved to San Luis Obispo, California. She said there was an opportunity for a sportswriter. After serving John and Barry my two-week notice, Marisa and I commenced a two-year odyssey that took me to five different newspapers. My multiple talents, as Barry had assured me, paid dividends as I moved seamlessly from one post to the next. I lasted three months in San Luis Obispo, my inability to recall the sports editor's first name driving him crazy. He fired me screaming, "If you can't remember my name, how can I rely on you to get the facts straight?" I have never been able to ascertain the reason for my forgetfulness, a problem I never suffered before or after, but I couldn't argue with his logic for terminating me. Unencumbered, we journeyed to Mexico City where I worked the desk for the Mexico City News. Marisa used my college transcripts to find a job at an English speaking school for foreigners. At the News I filled the pages with wire copy. The newspaper had a circulation of 50,000 and dedicated itself to keeping expatriates abreast with information about the United States, Mexico and the world. I worked four hours a day, six days a week, earning enough money for our daily expenses, reserving my traveler's checks for other contingencies. Since Marisa was busy most the day and I toiled from six to ten in the evening, I had the mornings and afternoons to explore Mexico City. The News didn't pay me for my articles, but I had a forum for anything I wanted to write. I would submit features about different cities and sites near the capital that I visited by myself or with Marisa whenever we had a few days together for an overnight trip. I was a boxing aficionado and I penned a plethora of pieces on the pugilists who trained in Mexico City. There were any number of off-beat stories I wrote as my press pass gave me access to stadiums, artistic events, political functions, movie studios and other miscellaneous places. The subjects ranged from interviewing American actors in the bars of plush hotels to meeting with the American ambassador and discussing the fate of a fellow citizen. A young American had accidentally killed a Mexican in an automobile accident and the authorities incarcerated him. The frantic father was pressuring the embassy to use its influence to free his son. He had appeared at the newspaper to convince the editor to join his cause, but the editor informed him that the newspaper didn't have any beat reporters. He suggested that he talk to me and enlist my help. He would be more than happy to publish my submissions. In the end the unpleasant situation resulted in a happy ending, the successful climax once again proving to me the important role I could play in the lives of those who needed a voice at a crucial time even though the odds were pitted against them. Marisa and I had been in the capital six months with no set plans when the editor summoned me. He explained that an acquaintance was running a weekly in Guatemala City and needed a reporter posthaste. He thought that I might be interested in adding another exotic locale to my repertoire. I would be responsible for local coverage. It paid a pittance more than my present gig. He added that there were many Americans residing in Guatemala and he didn't anticipate Marisa encountering difficulties finding a position teaching. I had wanted to travel throughout Central America. Living in Guatemala would allow me to explore these tiny, mysterious countries from the Mexican border to the Panama Canal. I didn't anticipate Marisa being a difficult sell, but I had to convince her that forsaking her comfortable situation would be more than compensated by exploring Guatemala City and roving through those faraway places called Belize, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. "We're leaving for Guatemala next week," I told her when she arrived from school. She was 21 and had never held a job that filled her with more self-esteemed. She had been a secretary and a bank teller but never a teacher. After we divorced, she returned to college and earned a master's degree in business. Over the past 25 years she has held several executive posts as well as marrying a college vice president and a wealthy lawyer. The impending departure erased her smile. She knew that we had embarked on a trip without destination, but her earlier lust for adventure was ebbing as too many unexpected turns had her yearning for permanence. She had overcome her fears of Mexico City. Now that she was feeling comfortable and content, I was going to uproot her and force her to grope through the darkness that was Central America. I could see that familiar face of terror beneath the strained features. The previous month we had taken a trip to the Pacific Coast on the recommendation that a village of thatched roofs was primitive but picturesque. Marisa, who insisted on packing four suitcases that contained a dozen pair of shoes when we had left Texas, wasn't going native without her conveniences. The prospect of spending a weekend on the edge of civilization between the ocean and the jungle didn't hold the same fascination for her as it did for me. We took a bus to the nearest city and hailed a cab for the 45-minute trip to the coast. We were speeding along the narrow road struggling for its survival against the invading foliage when I asked the driver about the town. "All the city people go there on the weekends," he answered. "Five minutes from here there is a fork and I can take you to a place that nobody goes that is more beautiful." "And how much will that cost us?" "No difference. The distance is the same." "We're not going!" blurted Marisa. "You said that we were going to the first place and that's where we're going." "What are you talking about? You didn't want to go there for starters and now you're acting like it's your hometown. The driver knows this area better than we do and if he says the other place is better, it must be better." "What does he know!?! Only perverts and ignoramuses drive taxis." "Which way?" asked the driver when we arrived at the fork. "Let's go where you suggested." Marisa slumped into her seat, a volcanic fury bordering on bursting. I would not hear from her for the rest of the day although I expected an explosion at any moment. We pulled into the fishing village that was a straight line of thatched huts paralleling the ocean 50 yards away. We inched though the sand and stopped at the "motel", an open-air restaurant with two cinderblock rooms. A portly fellow dressed in bathing trunks exchanged an embrace with the cabbie and identified himself as the proprietor. He had a room available for ten pesos, less than a dollar in those days. He pointed to an enclosed cubicle with a hose at the back of the restaurant that served as a shower and an adjacent cubicle that served as the bathroom. Marisa was incommunicado. "We're staying," I told her. "When you're ready, the room is to your immediate left." I motioned to the driver to follow me to a table and for the next two hours we drank beer and tequila. When I saw Marisa dart for the room, I thanked the cabbie for his patience and bade him adiós. I proceeded to drink with the proprietor and by midnight we had sworn a lifelong allegiance. It was a pristine escape and Marisa found her bearings. She wasn't going to stay in a dark room indefinitely with the hypnotic sound of the waves pounding outside her door. She became the favorite of the owner's family. After feasting on fresh catches for several meals, she had had her fill of fish. "I feel like chicken soup," she declared. "Mi 'jito, mátame un pollito," ordered the proprietor. A son pursued a hen as the rest of the flock scattered. He grabbed the fowl and wrung its neck. In less than 30 minutes the wife was serving bowls of steaming soup with the veins of the slaughtered bird still throbbing. Marisa surrendered to her surroundings. "This is good," she smiled.