Gimme Some Skin - NOT!

What’s on my mind? Peeling.

And wedging your foot so far into your mouth that extracting it is impossible. So here’s my short, sad story.

Last week, we vacationed with another couple. We all brought so much food in bags and coolers that someone suggested it might have been simpler to tie a rope around our fridges and drag them behind the car. 

As we unpacked, I saw that they’d brought four bananas and we’d brought four bananas. 

“We can have a foursome!” I chirped - and then, realizing how deeply inappropriate that comment was - tried to “fix” it by adding: “With bananas.”

© Nicole Parton, 2019

The Bridge to Nuevo Progreso

What’s on my mind? The bridge to Nuevo Progreso. My late mother-in-law and I walked across it one very hot day - but then, it’s usually hot where Progreso, TX, meets Nuevo Progreso along the Texas/Mexican border.

I sometimes think of that bridge when I join the Costco Shuffle - that slow dance known to Costco shoppers whose buttocks are spongy from too much eating and too little walking; shoppers whose hands reach deep into frozen tombs of breaded chicken, petrified prawns, and (yes, amazingly!) ready-made burgers; shoppers whose eyes flick-flick down aisles laden with food; shoppers whose minds try to assess the inventory already spilling from their kitchen cupboards, but who “just in case,” buy two more of whatever it might be.

I remember the bridge to Nuevo Progreso. What a place Nuevo Progreso was! Mariachis wandering through the cantinas … Giant sombreros and striped serapes heaped in market stalls … A bone-thin goat tethered to a post, its fate intertwined with that of the dressed, sun-dried cabrilo hanging in the sun. I hear some things have changed: No more terrified goats tethered to posts, an explosion that took out a quarter of the town, a gun fight here or there ... Other than that, Nuevo Progreso is more or less the same.

I remember the bridge to Nuevo Progreso. Have you seen it? Have you walked it? The bridge has changed, too, blocking out what visitors don’t want to see. If you saw the bridge as it was then, more than 20 years ago, you wouldn’t forget what you’d seen. You surely wouldn’t forget.

I remember the bridge to Nuevo Progreso. Adult Mexicans stood on flatbed pickups at the base of the bridge’s concrete footings. Sometimes with adult balanced on their shoulders, together hoisting five- and six-year-olds onto the tops of footings so high the kids would plunge to their deaths if the adults missed the catch. Maybe some kids have already died. Maybe … I don’t know.

In those days, the sides of the bridge were reinforced with heavy mesh. Today, steel shutters block the view of those kids hoisted high on those footings. Back then, you could see the kids as they wailed and begged, hoping someone might drop a coin or a folded American dollar through the mesh and into the plastic pails hooked to the broomsticks they held high. 

I remember their big eyes and tiny hands; I remember their bravery and their terror, balanced as they were on the footings of the bridge to Nuevo Progreso, some 20 feet above the pickup trucks. 

You can’t see the children through the metal shutters, but I’ve heard some kids pry open the shutters just enough to wiggle their fingers, hoping for compassion. They risk their lives to stand on the footings of the bridge because they are desperate. 

I remember the bridge to Nuevo Progreso. No Costco Shufflers, here. These children are hungry. So are their families. Some say giving them anything encourages a dangerous situation. Others say anyone who would hoist a small child onto the footings of the Progreso Nuevo-Progreso International Bridge must be crazed by desperation. Both views are correct.

US president Donald Trump wants to turn back asylum-seekers without due process, in violation of US law. He believes “a great, beautiful wall” along the southern border will keep asylum-seekers out. He says the Mexicans will pay for the wall. Yeah, right. 

I remember the bridge to Nuevo Progreso. Perhaps Donald Trump has also seen it. If so, did it give him pause? I suspect not. The dogs may bark, but the caravan moves on.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Don’t Fence Me In

What’s on my mind? The fence. We needed one to keep rabbits and deer out of the back garden.

So we talked to a fence guy who said: “I will build a great fence - and nobody builds fences better than me, believe me - and I’ll build it very inexpensively. I will build a great, great fence on your southern property line, and I will make your neighbors pay for that fence. Mark my words.”

To which the fence guy’s son, Eric, added: “My father will build the fence so fast, people’s heads will spin.”

“But how are we going to get our neighbors to pay for it?” we asked. To which the fence guy said: “It’s an easy decision for your neighbors.” And walked away, not really answering our question. When we tried to get specifics, he said: “We don’t know where the rabbits and deer are coming from. We don’t know who they are. They could be ISIS.”

We thought that was scary, so we got another quote from another fence guy. He said we needed to “patrol and secure neighborhoods before the rabbits become radicalized.” 

“What does that mean?” we whispered. “They’ll eat your tulips,” he said. Our hands flew to our mouths in horror.

The first fence guy said he’d keep an eye on the rabbits. It was only fair to hear what he had to say. “I saw the migration and it looks like mostly strong males. There aren’t that many females or bunnies. I understand the whole thing with migration. It’s a horrible thing. It should never have happened in the first place.”

“We’ve heard that the scent of human hair can keep deer from entering a garden,” we said.

“Let me tell you, I’m a really smart guy,” said the fence guy. “Sorry, losers and haters, but my IQ is one of the highest - and you all know it. Please don’t feel stupid or insecure, it’s not your fault.”

We tried to steer the conversation back to the effect human hair might have on deer. 

“I do not wear a rug,” said the fence guy. “My hair is 100% mine. I get up, take a shower and wash my hair. Then I read the newspapers and watch the news on television, and slowly the hair dries. It takes about an hour. I don’t use the blow dryer. Once it’s dry, I comb it. Once I have it the way I like it - even though nobody else likes it - I spray it and it’s good for the day.”

We looked at one another in confusion. “How much will our fence cost?” we asked.

“Eight billion bucks.”

“What???”

The fence guy shrugged. “The neighbors are gonna pay for it.” 

When we looked doubtful, he added: “Part of the beauty of me is that I am very rich. When I build something for somebody, I always add $50 or $60 million onto the price. My guys come in, they say it’s gonna cost $75 million. I say it’s gonna cost $125 million, and I build it for $100 million. Basically, I do a lousy job. But they think I did a great job.”

“And no one complains?” we asked.

“The neighbors are gonna pay for it,” he repeated.

Changing the subject, he said: “Black guys counting my money! I hate it! The only kinda people I want counting my money are little short guys that wear yarmulkes every day.” 

Disgusted, we said we’d talked to a second fence guy.

“I think the only difference between me and the other fence guys is that I’m more honest and my women are more beautiful,” he said. “You know, it really doesn’t matter what the media write as long as you’ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass.”

Emotionally exhausted, we agreed to let him build the fence. And it was high, and the deer couldn’t jump it - but the rabbits still sneaked through and our neighbors didn’t pay.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019