Stuck Between a Mariachi and a Hard Place - Part 2
 Gil Gevins - PVNN
November 13, 2010
In order to clean the tinaco I had no choice but to insert myself first within its tomb-like confines, a feat requiring much wriggling, shimmying and scraping of skin; the square opening, composed of rough cement, was just wide enough to accommodate my hips. Then, after gingerly taking hold of the defunct lizard and flinging it as far as I could into the neighbor's yard, I set to work.
Cleaning out the tinaco was not the most electrifying way to spend a Monday morning, but at least it was over quickly. Two hours after wriggling my way in, I stood up, took a deep breath of fresh salt air and prepared to wriggle my way out.
But right away, I realized, that wriggling-wise, something was, as Elmer Fudd used to say, "not quite wight." My hips, bruised by their earlier forced entry, must have swelled up in the course of my labors, outgrowing by microns the dimensions of the opening, and now they appeared to be... stuck.
"Guadalajara!" I called out, "we have a problem."
Lucy and Filiberto had been standing at the foot of the ladder, out of view. Now they stepped back to the center of the terrace where we could all see one another.
"What's the matter," Lucy said, "you run out of soap?"
"You're not going to believe this, honey," I said, laughing half-heartedly, "but I'm stuck. I can't get out."
"Oh," Lucy said, "do you think you'll be stuck very long? Should I cancel my manicure?" "This is no joke," I told her. "I'm wedged in solid. Get me some olive oil. I need to lubricate my hips."
"The imported extra-virgin olive oil?" Lucy asked. "The one you always complain about being so expensive?"
"All right. Any old oil."
"I don't use any old oil," Lucy declared with culinary contempt. "Wait a minute; I hear someone coming." When Lucy returned a few minutes later, it was to inform me that the gas truck had arrived. "How many tanks do we need, one or two?" she asked maliciously.
It was painfully obvious that my wife, still frothing at the mouth over having bathed for five days in dead iguana water, was determined, now that she had the upper hand, to exact her revenge. I would, it appeared, get no help from that quarter. "Honey, do me a favor, please," I said, gritting my teeth, "tell Moe I want to talk to him."
"Moe's not working today," Lucy announced cheerfully. "Someone dropped a gas tank on his toe. Curly's here by himself."
Curly, by himself? Driving a truck loaded with fifty pressurized tanks of propane gas? I made a mental note to inform the office of Homeland Security the minute I could get to a telephone.
"Batman," Curly called up to me. "What are you doing on the roof? You look like somebody cut you in half."
"I'm stuck, Curly, and (God help me!) I need your assistance."
Curly always called me "Batman." Once I'd asked him the reason why, but only a trained anthropologist could have unraveled his reply. Then he'd returned the favor and asked me why I called him "Curly." I said it was because of his close cropped head, which always looked as if it had just been scraped with a sharp stone.
When I told Curly that I was stuck, he said, "What do you mean?"
"Never mind that now, Curly. What you're going to do is run down to the corner store, buy a bottle of cooking oil and bring it back here as fast as you can."
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to pay you," I said.
"I don't know," Curly said uncertainly. "I have a lot of tanks to deliver, and I'm all by myself today. The Jefe's hurt. He put his foot under a tank I was dropping."
"All right, Curly, I want you to listen very carefully. Do I have your full attention?"
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind. Just tell me one thing: how much money do you make each day?"
"I don't know," Curly said. "They pay me by the week."
"All right. Then, how much do you get paid every week?"
"I'm not sure."
"Take a guess."
"About... two hundred pesos?"
"Correct. Now, I'm going to give you two hundred pesos for only a few minutes of work. What do you think about that?"
"Okay, Batman," Curly said. "Where's this corner store?"
"It's on the corner, Curly."
Twenty minutes later Curly returned with a liter of premium multi-grade motor oil. "I couldn't find the store," he explained, "but I was passing the gas station, so I thought, maybe he can use this. And if he can't, I can always put it in the truck. That's why I want to keep the receipt, so in case..."
"Fine, fine," I said. "Now, have you got something to open the can with? Yes? All right. Now it's time to climb up the ladder."
Curly put the can down on the ground and began to climb the ladder.
During Curly's unsuccessful search for the corner, Lucy, after mixing up a pitcher of margaritas (and several gallons of lemonade), had planted herself, along with my wallet and a cell phone, atop a chaise lounge in the epicenter of the terrace, where she could observe my ongoing mortification in complete comfort. As Curly started up the ladder, sans motor oil, Lucy broke into a prolonged giggle.
"No, Curly," I shouted, "with the can. I need the can!"
It was almost noon and the sun was beating down with heinous intent on the unshaded roof when I finally began to baste my waist with the multi-grade motor oil. Curly, kneeling beside me, looked dazed and confused. "Batman, what are you doing?" he asked fearfully.
"I'm trying to get out of the water tank, Curly."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll tell you later. What I want you to do now is grab my wrists, and pull."
"Pull?"
"Yes. Just pretend I'm a gas tank that's fallen into a hole."
Curly did as he was told, but my hips refused to budge.
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