RESACA CLUB

During my youth there was no classier hotel than the Fort Brown. The Resaca Club was the hot spot. It was a miniature version of a Las Vegas showroom. Management brought bands that specialized in acts. By the time I started venturing into the Resaca, its reputation had suffered setbacks. Clubs on Brownsville's northside were closer to the expanding subdivisions. Just like the residents preferred shopping at the new mall, they preferred partying closer to home. The Resaca became a shadier establishment where a man could bring his mistress. I became a regular in the 1980s; the club retained its chintzy elegance. The waiters were attired in tuxedos and they treated every customer as if the client were a big spender. I see the former waiters working at other restaurants or at private parties and there is a wistfulness in their voices when we reminisce. They are attired in their old tuxedos and their manners remain impeccable. "It's been a long time, Juan. How have you been?" "I'm fine, sir. And yourself?" "No complaints, but I have great memories of the old days." "Those were good days, sir, but everything comes to an end. What will you have, sir?" The Resaca Club never fell into disrepair because the hotel was popular among tourists who wanted to be a short walk from Mexico. There were always unfamiliar faces in the bar. And it remained a favorite among veteran politicians and aging lawyers who took their accustomed seats around tables at elevated levels where they observed everything and everyone. They were wily eagles on the watch for divorcees or a señorita from Matamoros who was hoping to improve her fortunes by finding a sugar daddy from Brownsville. And for a whippersnapper like myself, there was an ample gathering of lounge lizards who were bored enough to find a passing curiosity in me. There was a period of time between my second and third marriages when I resided in apartments across the street from the club, which made rooms at the Fort Brown unnecessary for me. The Fort Brown condominiums were upscale and I rented fancy digs in a split-level apartment on the second and third floors. As had been the case on previous occasions, my hangout served as a clubhouse for my friends. Those were fun times, but not for the retired Mid-Western couple living on the first floor beneath me. Coincidentally, he was a journalist, but he was a graduate from the crusty school who as an editor was the sworn enemy of recalcitrant reporters. He had a sweet, white-haired, faceless wife whose various ailments kept him on edge. I was the neighbor from hell. My second floor balcony overlooked a patch of grass between his backdoor and the resaca a beer-bottle throw away. One of my many bad habits was dumping bacon grease from my balcony that started a brown spot on the lawn, which befuddled my neighbor. I further exacerbated the problem with the disposal of another item from my perch. The balcony was the perfect place to watch a sunset or view Matamoros in the distance with the city's cathedral spires thrusting into the sky. I would not only smoke marijuana from the balcony, but I could clean my stash. Both the roaches and seeds I'd toss nonchalantly over the edge. I received a visit from the landlord who was my neighbor's friend. "Rush is going berserk. He says that besides all the noise you and your friends are making, he knows that you are responsible for the brown spot in front of his patio where marijuana shoots are sprouting. Can't you take it easy on the poor guy? He wants to spend his last years in peace." I did my best to pour the bacon grease into milk cartons and the seeds I would deposit in a trash can. Between the Resaca Club and the Fort Brown condominiums, it was a year of ceaseless activity. I can't remember any of it now except for one episode when Estanislao, who had taken up temporary residence, and I crossed the street from the apartment to the club for the afternoon botana. We encountered two gals who seemed familiar to me, but I couldn't place them. One kept staring angrily at me. "What's that chick's problem?" I asked Estanislao. "She's mad at you." "Why? Who is she?" "Are you kidding? You met her last weekend in Matamoros and took her to a hotel." "Did I fuck her?" "Yeah." "Was it good." "Yeah."