I walk into Micheviche, a ceviche and michelada spot in Condesa in Mexico City, to wait for my friend Helena and her sister Delphine. I’ve been in Mexico City for four days, working on my novel—or trying. The hot air is suffocating. I don’t wait long before the host sees me.
‘Tres, por favor,’ I hold up three fingers, uncomfortable he’ll hear my Mexican-American accent and mark me as a fake.
He takes me to a table in the center of the restaurant. The people at tables nearest me speak English and I wonder if I’ve been seated in some kind of gringo section. I ask for a michelada de tamarindo.
Above me, by the bar, the news is on TV. More information about the mass shooting in a Wal-Mart in El Paso, Tejas. The shooter had written a manifesto. More people in the restaurant turn to look at the TV. The bartender, a tall, lanky dude smiles at us as he fumbles with the remote control and changes the channel. A waiter brings me my michelada and I turn my back to the TV.
Helena and Delphine walk into the restaurant and I waive them over.
‘Kari!!’ Helena squeals and hugs me tight. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Hey,’ Delphine smiles and kisses my cheek.
Helena and Delphine say something to each other in Greek and Delphine hands Helena a wallet. I sip on my michelada—I feel the cold beer trickle down my throat. A cool breeze sweeps through the restaurant, the papel picado strung along the ceiling dances with the movement of the wind.
‘How was Castillo de Chapultepec?’ I ask as Helena and Delphine look over the menus—their faces still flushed from hours of walking around the bosque and the museum. I had asked Helena to join me in Mexico City since she’d never been and she brought Delphine to keep her company.
‘So much art and so many historical artifacts,’ Helena shows me her phone to scroll through the pictures she took of the portraits of Spanish generals, artifacts and painting of indigenous people.
‘Nice,’ I say as I bring the mug to my mouth. ‘I haven’t been yet.’
Being in Mexico City makes me feel like I belong and don’t belong. Here, I’m not Mexican enough. In the US, I’m too Mexican.
I pull out my phone and check Twitter. I see more news about the El Paso shooting: 22 dead, 24 injured, is it a hate crime?, shooter wanted to kill Mexicans.
I chew on my nail, my left middle finger, my go-to lately. I gulp more michelada. The sourness of the tamarindo lands on the inside of my cheeks and I shake my head to make the pinching stop.
The food arrives and I ask for another michelada. Helena and Delphine ordered ceviche. I get a quesadilla de camarón. Our table is quiet as we start to eat. The TV has been turned off and Maná plays on the speakers. I see a table in the back grab their beer bottles as microphones and sing, ‘Me vale, vale, vale, me vale todo.’ A woman with long, wavy hair catches me staring at her. I polite smile—I don’t want to give a fuck either.
‘You okay?’ Delphine asks. I nod and point to the beer.
‘Ahhh, yea. The tamarindo got me.’ I half lie, ‘Bathroom,’ I point and make my way to the back. The bathroom is at the end of an impossibly tiny hallway. I shuffle in sideways, my gut and ass rubbing against the walls. In the bathroom, I dab cold water on my face. The beer is getting to me.
‘I’d definitely make it. I’m resourceful,’ Helena laughs and sits up straight. There’s a fresh michelada at my place at the table.
‘Uuuhh, I don’t know about that,’ Delphine laughs and sips on her michelada. ‘You’d stay behind, trying to help someone and that’s the last we heard of Helena.’
‘What are y’all talking about?’ I scoot in and grab the cup of water near me.
‘Which one of us would die first in a dystopian movie. And my sister here doesn’t think I’ll make it’ Helena turns to her sister.
I laugh louder than I mean to and cover my mouth.
‘Yeah, I mean I’ll try to save you but I also know when it’s time to go. Everybody for themselves.’ Delphine raises her glass, ‘Cheers.’
‘So, I guess that leaves me to die first,’ I chuckle, ‘Yeah, that makes sense. I don’t have the upper body strength for it.’ I lick some of the tamarindo pulp from the rim of the mug.
‘Awww,’ Helena rubs my back. ‘I’ll get the next round.’
I rest my head on Helena’s shoulder for a second, ‘It’ll be okay. I probably lived longer than I should have. Audiences would be like we’re surprised she made it this far. I mean, it’ll be sad. Think Rue in Hunger Games sad. It’d be like aww, not Karina. Anyone but Karina. And the survivors will avenge me.’
‘I’ll fight in your honor,’ Delphine raises her glass in my direction.
‘Then how would you die, in this dystopian, Hunger Games scenario?’ Helena asks me and then turns to her sister.
I’m struck in the chest by the fear of dying. Right now. In this bar. I drink more of my tamarindo michelada. ‘I’d probably just die from all the fucking running they’re doing in those Hunger Games. My body would be like nope, pass, dead,’ I say. They burst out laughing, I join in. A knot forms in my throat.
When the waiter brings us the check, I ask for more water. Helena and Delphine talk about where to go next. I check my phone again: AK-47, white supremacist, alleged.
‘Provecho,’ I say to the people still eating as we make our way out.
We walk toward el metro. I hug myself because despite the heavy beer blanket I wear, I still feel the cold.
Sonia Alejandra Rodriguez is a Professor of English at LaGuardia Community College in New York City. She is an immigrant of Juarez, Mexico and raised in Cicero, IL. Her work has been published in Huizache: The Magazine of Latino Literature, Hispanecdotes, Everyday Fiction, Acentos Review, Newtown Literary, So to Speak A Feminist Journal of Language and Art, No Tender Fences: Anthology of Immigrant and First-Generation American Poetry, Longreads, and Lost Balloon. Find Sonia Alejandra at @RodriguezSoniaA.
