Detention With Miss Downey Miss Downey s Story Chapter Four
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MARCH 2010
Comanche smoke signals of dust rise from an uneven dirt road, a half mile away. Beth’s bouncing pickup emerges from the cloud, an arrow aimed at Jim Ed’s southwest pasture barn.
Beth and Jen stagger from the barn, loaded with gear. Jim Ed Andrews, III leans against his white crew cab pickup. He grins at the pony-tailed brunettes, who are irritated at our lack of assistance.
The two girls are roughly 5-5, 120, with nice chests. Both are athletic and bright. Beth is dark skinned. Jen is medium. Beth is noisy and profane. A Methodist minister will blush, if within a mile of her. Jen is everyone’s best friend. They are inseparable since toddlers.
They are team ropers on the Rodeo Team, home on Spring Break, their junior years. Sul Ross State, in southwest Texas, is only an hour away, as far as either will attend college or live with all but two horses apiece still quartered at home. Besides team roping, Beth is an award winning, fourth generation barrel racer. Jen loves her cutting horses.
Jim Ed and I attend Texas A&M, several hours away. After tending to their horses, these two girls don’t have time for us anyway.
‘Girlies, if you want to see the inside of a Mexican whorehouse, you’ve got to leave your cell phones. You agreed to that,’ Jim Ed says.
‘We’ll dial up some Mexican dick while you and Ross are romancing your whores,’ replies Beth, who tries to kick gravel at my brown eyes and hair with her brown boot.
‘I’ll get you a donkey with a nine inch dong in Acuna, a star in the donkey show,’ Jim Ed replies.
‘That’s two more inches than I’m used to,’ says Beth, laughing.
Jim Ed swats Beth with his black hat. ‘Careful, or I’ll keep two inches in reserve the next time I hose you,’ he says, grinning.
‘You just all talk,’ Beth tells her 6-2, 210, well built blond boyfriend. She puts arms around his neck and kisses him, the way she has since the eighth grade.
I rearrange the girls’ stuff and clamp the cover of the pickup bed. To accommodate my 6-1, 190 frame, I’m riding shotgun.
‘Dammit Jim Ed!’ yells Beth. She pulls up on the rear seat [crew cabs have two] and looks down. She holds up a boot spur, like a murder weapon.
‘That’s where my spare is hiding. Look before you park your ass, Beth!’
‘I’ll spur your butt tonight,’ Beth answers.
‘I’m plumb tuckered out. You’ll probably have to,’ Jim Ed says, sighing. His dad ‘Bubba Junior’ had him grunting with a dehorning gate at dawn.
Four sets of Wranglers and a smuggled cell phone retrace through Beth’s dust cloud. Fifteen minutes later, we meet the hardtop, turn, and head southwest.
Early George Strait is set up on the CD player by clever Jim Ed.
‘In a bar in Acuna called Ma Crosbys I found myself not feeling any pain One thing led to another And I feel in love again for my last time Blame it on Mexico, if you need a reason Too much guitar music, tequila, salt and liiiiime’
Beth, who imagines she may be a country singer after she sets enough barrel racing records, sings along, with dramatic hand gestures. We grin.
Boys around here regularly visit Mexican senoritas. While absent from Sunday morning church services, boys hold shirts out of the window to lose the smell of cheap perfume while heading home from cultural exchange.
Beth and Jen lose their cherries to Jim Ed and I a couple of days apart our high school senior years, after their birth control pills kick in. But first, they make us promise that we have practiced safe sex in Mexico for at least the last two months. They warn us that if an unexplained pimple pops up on their private part, that we are barred forevermore from spreading their gates to heaven.
Jim Ed is so crazy about Beth that he quickly tires of whore visitation after Beth gives in. They plan to marry after college graduation. I doubt they wait that long.
– – – – – – – – – –
Four years ago, barely 16, my first time is with Marissa. She is in her early 20s, and the star of the White Lake Bar, commonly referred to as the White Lake Whorehouse, in Acuna, Mexico. I am pretty bad, but Marissa makes me feel great. I try a few other girls. They are okay, but while the ones I pick are cute, Marissa is beautiful. I watch her, laughing and at ease with her regulars. I settle on her.
Fairly soon, she sometimes gives me a free poke. Then, on slow nights or when I arrive very late, she takes me to her place, a small house she shares with two other girls, a couple of hundred yards from the White Lake.
A couple of times, I drop off Jen early in the morning, and travel to Marissa. I have cut Friday Constitutional Law classes at A&M to see Marissa late that evening.
Jim Ed has many talents. Keeping his mouth shut is not one of them. He explains my visits to Marissa to Beth, who passes it along to Jen.
Why are we taking our girlfriends to a Mexican whorehouse?
For Jim Ed and Beth, it’s for adventure and a chance to spend time with their best friends.
For Jen and me, it is complicated.
At Ozona, we turn south and after several miles, we meet a dirt road. Pandale is still on a Rand McNally map. But no one lives here. The last store closed while I was in grade school. This is a good starting point for a 90 river mile canoe trip that ends near Langtry of Judge Roy Bean fame.
We arrive sometimes with others, and spend a week, canoeing the river, fishing and farting around.
Today, Jim Ed breaks out the beer, grill, chicken, quail, potatoes, and corn on the cob. I start a fire, which will feel good on a brisk mid-March evening. Jen and Beth rig up the fishing gear.
After supper, we kick back around the fire. Deer drift to the Pecos. Raccoons approach us, looking for scraps. We watch the sunset and talk little. The girls are tired. They were up early with their horses.
Downstream the narrowing canyon and the mesquites provide cover. Here, it is open. We park the pickup at a right angle to the river. We lower the bed cover to the ground on its side, leaning on the pickup. This way, no one can see under the pickup. Beth is sassy, but is modest about showing her ass to anyone but Jim Ed. Jen and I place our sleeping bags twenty yards on one side. Jim Ed and Beth are on the other.
We are on our sides, elbows on the ground, head in hand. With the other hand, we are rubbing each other’s arms and sides. The early stars are coming out.
Jen is a mid-90s version of Kate Winslet, but with dark hair. I am a decent looking guy. I make good grades, too. But, I am not as clever or outgoing as others, especially Jim Ed. I barely stayed on the field in high school, as a neglected wide receiver. Jen, the head cheerleader could have anyone, then or now. I am a lucky guy.
Jen is such a good, strong person that when I make love to her, I feel that I am drawing on her strength. I told her that once. She smiled. She did not seem surprised.
We hear Beth squeak, at half second intervals.
‘Sounds like one coyote has jumped on another,’ Jen says, laughing.
‘Jim Ed has already put in his two inches of reserves,’ I answer, chuckling.
We are kissing. I watch her eyes, and rub my hands through her hair. Eventually I kiss her neck, shoulders, and the top of her breasts. I love the smell of her skin, next to her flannel shirt.
The evening quickly chills. We slither out of our boots and jeans, and slip into our double sleeping bag. Jen wraps a clean sheet around doubled up saddle blankets. She rests her head on my shoulder. We watch the moon rising. I kiss her head and smell her hair. She is breathing deeply, as regular as waves hitting the beach. I drift off, too.
I awaken, needing to tinkle. A million stars are out now. While I am watering Old Blue, Jen rolls onto her left side. I slowly slip behind her. Gingerly I shift her hair, to gaze on her face and beautiful neck. Lightly I kiss her below th
e ear.
Jen is still. I sense she is awake. After a few moments, she turns. Her lips eagerly seek mine…
– – – – – – – – – –
Fish are popping the water. It is about an hour past dawn.
‘Jen, wake up, the fish are biting.’
We stagger into shirts, boots, and jeans. Jen wakes up Beth. Soon we are casting for black and sand bass. Jim Ed starts the coffee. A couple of hours later, three full stringers are at the river’s edge.
Jen and Beth hike off to have their morning sit down.
I grab Beth’s not too well hidden cell. Good, I have coverage. I dial the White Lake Whorehouse. I know a bartender, probably Enrique, is cleaning up, getting ready for the Friday crowd.
In Spanish, I say ‘Enrique, this is Ross, Marissa’s friend.’
‘How are you?’ Enrique asks.
‘Okay. Tell Marissa that, as we discussed, tonight I am bringing my girlfriend to meet her.’
‘You are very brave,’ Enrique says, laughing.
‘Brave, or stupid,’ I answer.
A year ago, at the prior Spring Break, Jen makes me promise that I will introduce her to Marissa, a year later, which is now. I guess Jen hopes that I will give Marissa up, instead of keeping my promise. But here we are.
Jim Ed grins and stares at me. ‘I never thought my best friend would be stuck on a girl from the White Lake Whorehouse.’
Before I can answer, the girls are within range. By late morning, a good fish fry fills us. Beth strums her guitar. She creates naughty lyrics that she sings with familiar melodies. ‘I cain’t get over youuuuuu while you are over herrrr…Yee Haw!’ We all giggle, especially Beth.
Then we nap until two.
While packing up, Beth suddenly looks concerned. She stares hard at Jim Ed. ‘Did you remember to leave the rifles?’
He snaps his fingers and shrugs, as if to say he forgot. Beth hurries to the pickup. She opens the side cabinet. No hunting rifles.
Jim Ed is grinning with his feet spread. He holds up both hands, as if to wave surrender.
‘I was kidding. In Mexico, I had rather drive 100 miles per hour the wrong way on a one way, past a drug lord’s house, with his kidnapped daughter yelling in the back seat, than get caught by federales with guns in the car.’
On the road again, north of Del Rio, we visit a rancher that is a good longtime friend of Jim Ed’s dad. In addition, the rancher has used Jim Ed’s mom, Sierra, a big animal veterinarian. We’ve visited before. There is a lot to talk about with the rancher. Jen and Beth talk horses with the rancher’s wife. The wife watched Beth and Jen team rope in Kingsville, and complements them.
We visit a saddle and tack shop on Del Rio’s edge. We stop by the mall, a must do for the girls. Closer to the Rio Grande, we indulge with good fajitas. Finally, it’s around nine pm — time to go to the White Lake Whorehouse.
You know you are in Acuna when you hit a pot hole that shakes your teeth. You’re not sure if you will see the sky again.
The Whorehouse rests in the middle of a string of bars that double as whorehouses, on the outskirts of town. Young boys compete to guard the pickup. Jim Ed tips a couple.
The White Lake is about 25 yards wide on the street side, with swinging doors on both ends. Several ceiling fans labor year round. We enter. We draw looks, but it is not extremely rare for college girls to visit, if accompanied by boys.
The building is about 20 yards deep, with a long bar in the back straight from a western movie set. Dark tables and uncomfortable low back wooden chairs inhabit one half of the bar, on the street side. A jukebox sits in the middle. Except for a few golden oldies, the jukebox spits out country records, twenty plus years old. I recognize Patsy Cline.
Probably 30 men, most of them middle-aged Anglos, are scattered throughout. A few girls are sitting with their regulars. A couple of girls lounge in laps.
A covey of girls chatter in a corner. Either they have buzzed the men once without success, or they are not yet in the mood to start looking for work.
Jen finally asks, ‘Is she here?’
‘No, not yet.’ We order Tecate beer and watch the goings on. A girl waltzes by, throws one arm around Jim Ed’s neck, kisses his cheek, and rubs his chest.
‘Fuckee, suckee tonight?’
‘I’m afraid not tonight, darlin’.’ The girl laughs hard and struts off, looking teasingly over her shoulder at Jim Ed.
‘You are not only a good looking man, but a wise man,’ Beth says, pointing a finger at him.
The prettiest girls start to arrive-the ones that demand the higher prices, have devoted regulars, and don’t need as many encounters to make their money.
Marissa enters through a little used door. She rests one arm on the far end of the bar. Marissa glances every direction but ours, which means she has already checked us out. One senorita whispers to another, and they both turn Marissa’s way. Two Anglos stare at Marissa.
There is no good, smart way to describe a beautiful woman to a very cute one that I have dated since the 9th grade. Luckily, I have never been asked to.
Marissa wears a white cotton dress that ends just above the knee. Her familiar crimson beaded necklace rests on the top of her breasts, revealed by the dress. She is dark haired, 5-2 about 115, with nice but averaged sized breasts. In skin tone, face, but not with the big boom booms, she favors actress Salma Hayek.
I’m breathing hard, as if I jogged from the Del Rio Bridge.
Jim Ed notices that Beth and Jen are staring with admiration at Marissa. He grins at me. I silently mouth ‘I have a hard on.’
Jim Ed laughs, tips his hat back, and grunts. ‘Damn, I chauffer your butt down here. Now I have to choose your senorita.’
He pushes his chair back, struts toward Marissa, holding his hands out and shrugging his shoulders. He leans and hugs Marissa. She hugs him back. He whispers something to her. She laughs, places her hand over her mouth, and looks our way. After a little more banter and laughter, Jim Ed and Marissa stroll our way.
Jim Ed speaks fluent Tex-Mex Spanish. Beth and I are decent with it. Jen speaks good school taught Spanish.
Introductions are made. After Marissa is seated, the conversation in Spanish, with some help from Jim Ed, is principally as follows:
‘You are very pretty,’ says Jen.
Marissa smiles again. ‘Thanks. Both of you are pretty, too.’
‘Are you from here?’ asks Beth.
‘No. I am from Chihuahua City. I understand both of you have horses. That is very nice. I wish I had a horse.’
‘Do you have any pets?’ asks Jen.
Marissa hesitates. She looks at me. ‘I have a cat.’ Her cat and I do not get along.
‘What kind of music do you like?’ asks Beth.
‘I’m familiar with the singers that play in here.’ Marissa says, and laughs. ‘But, Tejano music is my favorite.’
Jen asks Marissa ‘Is there some place that you, Ross, and I can go for awhile?’
Marissa is very surprised.
Jen replies ‘No, I do not mean that. I brought you something.’
Marissa is still uncertain. ‘We can go to my room, but only for a little while.’
‘Ross, go get the manila package at the bottom of my duffel bag.’
I stare hard at Jen. ‘What the hell are you up to?’
‘Trust me. And don’t peek.’
In moments I’m in the pickup. The package is taped at the end. I shake it. It cannot be a bomb.
Three of us head out. Jim Ed grins and raises his Tecate, in salute. ‘Nice knowing you, pard. See you on the other side.’
Marissa leads us through a door in the saloon’s back. Several adjoining rooms, similar to a motel’s, trail north on the west side, with rooms facing to the east. Between the wings is late winter, brown Bermuda grass.
Marissa’s room is neat. She uses this room principally for screwing. There is only one chair beside her made up, queen-sized bed.
Confidently, Jen plops in the middle
of the bed. She pats and points on her left to Marissa, and on her right to me. Marissa sits on the bed’s edge, turns toward Jen, but both feet are on the floor. I rest against the headboard, right boot on the floor.
Jen bites an opening in the packet. Then she tears it.
Damn. I tell Jim Ed about Marissa’s fondness for these after three beers. I am amazed he remembers and passes it to Beth, who tells Jen. With this ear for detail, Jim Ed should become a lawyer, instead of a sixth generation Texas rancher.
Marissa’s eyes sparkle. She thumbs through a dozen or so Berenstein Bear illustrated children’s books. Then, she glances through vintage Dennis the Menace comic books. I noticed a well worn Berenstein book and a tattered Dennis the Menace at Marissa’s. I watched her look through them more than once.
Marissa turns to Jen. She may cry. ‘This is very thoughtful. I really appreciate it.’
Jen smiles. ‘Can we look at one together?’
Marissa leans on the bed, besides Jen, who turns the pages and slowly reads The Berenstein Bears Have a Fight. Marissa follows along. Marissa reminds me of my younger sister, when Mom read to her.
My mind drifts. This became Marissa’s work room three years ago, about a year after I started seeing her. A few months later, she grips my arm, hard enough to bruise. Afterwards, she grins. In Spanish, she says ‘You are only the second man who has brought me to orgasm.’
I smile. ‘I am that good, huh?’
Marissa laughs. Her smile fades, she looks into my eyes, and brushes the hair from my face.
‘You are only the second guy that I really like.’
While Jen reads, I think about Marissa’s beautiful petite, brown back. One thought leads to another.
Brother and Sister Bear make up by the end of the story that Jen reads. All four Berenstein bears are happy.
Marissa sees her parents, brothers, and sisters about three days a year, if she is lucky.
One Dennis the Menace comic, in good condition, is several years old. Dennis is swinging in a tall, green tree. The outdoor scenes in the cartoon blocks, with a multitude of colors, are a world away from the mesquite trees and brush outside this room. I have been to the Farmer’s Market with Marissa more than once. She likes the bright natural colors of the apples, oranges, and others-so different than the mainly brown around here.
Jen finishes the Bear book. Again, Marissa thumbs through them all. ‘I will spend much time with them.’
Jen looks around again and smiles. ‘Time to go.’
I open the door and step out. Jen stands in the doorway. This time in English, Marissa says, ‘Jen, this is very nice of you. I will never forget it.’
I am stunned. I have never heard Marissa speak but a word here and there of English.
‘You speak English!’
Marissa grins. ‘I speak it probably better than you.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It’s easier for us if the customers don’t know we speak English. Not many of us do, anyway. Then later, you were working to improve your Spanish. It seemed better to not let you know.’
Marissa looks to Jen. ‘But, I am just starting to learn to read English. This gift will help a lot.’
Jen and Marissa hug. As Jen looks away, Marissa gives me a small wave, just before she shuts the door in front of her.
We walk back into the While Lake Whorehouse. The bar’s favorite song, Jailhouse Rock by Elvis, is booming. Great Uncle Ray says this song has been on this jukebox since at least the early 1960s. Where is their stack of 45 rpm records of this recording, I wonder?
Three Mexican bar girls are flapping their arms and shaking hips. Jim Ed and Beth are doing a Texas two step, which looks silly with this song.
‘Lose any blood, Ross?’ Jim Ed asks.
I roll my eyes and shake my head no. Twenty minutes later, Acuna and Del Rio’s lights shine in our rear view mirror. We head northwest, pointed towards home.
Jen and Beth have a full day tomorrow, Saturday, with their horses. Jim Ed needs to help move some stocker calves, work on fence, and finish his dad, Bubba Junior’s to do list before we head back to A&M on Sunday. Dad needs me at his law office.
On the way back to College Station, we’ll detour back to Marissa’s.
Jim Ed and Beth are asleep in the back seat. An almost full moon rises. We near the bridge that crosses the Pecos River. I slow down, to see the water’s reflection.
Mckenna
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