The only worthwhile part of this two-week sentence was the trip our squadron made to Juarez, Mexico. It was a blast going to the marketplace (where all of the merchants became miraculously fluent in English at the sight of American dollars). I'd never seen anything like it in my life. Tables, piled with what I can only recall as everything Mexican, stretched to the edge of my vision. I bought a serape and a shawl for my girlfriend. Other people seemed preoccupied with buying switchblades. Almost everyone found it necessary to buy a bottle of Mezcal, the tequila with the worm in it. No matter what one purchased, everyone haggled over the price. The merchants seemed to take great pleasure in bantering over a few cents. I couldn't see the point, but I figured it must just be the way Mexicans do things. Our squadron also went to a Mexican restaurant where we drank Mexican beer and ate Mexican steaks and listened to a pair of Mexican guitarists (who also understood English when money appeared).
But the most memorable thing about this trip was a person I met. The boy must have been about four or five years old. He had a cute little brown face with cute brown eyes and a big smile that can only be described as contagious. He was wearing what looked like small blankets. As he was looking up at me I heard him say, "Nickel?"
I really thought it was clever of the little guy to have picked up English. I figured that he must have been a frequent visitor to the marketplace and, as money was one of the most frequently discussed items in such a place, that he had probably picked it up by listening to all of the haggling.
We had been told prior to our leaving that we shouldn't give the children money because they might follow us around and that would be a hassle. The colonel had said a number of things that morning regarding our conduct in Mexico, but the unit party the night before had rendered me incapable of concentration at such an early hour. Anyway, as I looked down at this little guy, whose head was nearly perpendicular to his back as he looked up at me, I figured that he was just proud of himself over saying something in English. So when the boy said "nickel" again, I said to hell with the colonel's warning and gave him one.
You'd have thought I'd given him a ten-dollar-bill. He ran over to his friends and rattled in Spanish and pointed at me, and I just couldn't believe how happy he was over a nickel. "That's what learning English will do for you," I thought.
Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me say, "It looks like you've made a friend." I turned to see one of my sergeants standing behind me. "Yeah, guess so," I replied. "Hard to believe that a nickel can be such a big deal."
"A nickel," said the sergeant, "can feed his family for a day."
"Oh bullshit."
"No it's not. Their parents send them here to beg. Didn't you hear the colonel talking about it before we left? These children beg tourists for money because there isn't any work in most of the city."
I couldn't believe it. My head was starting to clear. All day long I had seen shopping malls and restaurants; poverty was nowhere in sight. I realized that my superiors and the Mexican business people had shifted my focus away from reality. I almost wish that my focus had remained on the unreal.
On the way back to Ft. Bliss, I saw a different Mexico. Instead of shopping malls, I saw shopless streets. Instead of the smile of my friend, I saw the desperate, blank expressions of the people who probably knew his parents. Instead of watching people haggle over prices, I watched people hobble down streets that led to nothing but dust.
Now when I hear the ping of a worthless nickel falling on the floor, I wait to see if the person who drops it, recovers it. If this person decides that a nickel "ain't worth no more than the dust it falls in," I'll wait until he or she leaves and pocket my little treasure.
I've seen nickels. I've seen dust. I know the difference.
