Just to give you an update on our condo situation, the annual general meeting has been cancelled. Why, you may ask? Me too.
I had approached the president of our condo association back in early March as to when we would be sitting down to discuss the many burrs under my saddle. For instance, when would we be reimbursed for all the light bulbs my wife and I had replaced in the common areas of the building as no one else appeared to care? Or paid for the mattress lying in the street to be removed? I should explain that of the 15 suites in our home in the sky, all are Mexican-owned except for two, us and a lady who is rarely here.
It turns out that the fellow who owns six and another who has five decided there was no point having an annual chat, so that was that. When I stopped tearing up tea towels, I told my wife we were not going to be kicked around anymore.
I phoned our abogado (lawyer) and said, “Don’t spare the horses,” meaning spend what must be spent in order to have our AGM. He asked for the names of the two local owners who had refused my entreaties. The phone went silent when I told him. After a bit of dry coughing and a few “mmmms,” he said, “Chris, I wouldn’t bother.”
I shredded a few more nearby tea towels (my wife seems to have many, which I am not allowed to use to clean up messes. What are they for then?), then asked in measured tones: “Why not?”
“Because these are important men,” he replied mysteriously but firmly. I did not like his tone and said so. He asked me to forget I knew him before hanging up.
A coldness took hold of my bowels. I reported back to my wife that I was still looking into the matter though I suppose another year won’t make much difference in the big picture.
On another subject, I somehow thought that when we moved here, to avoid boredom and to make some “wine money,” I would get a snappy little job and then live happily ever after.
Not so fast. I have always thought of myself as a happy-go-lucky sort, a man who was welcome at the tables of most homes, but that appears to provide a very limited income.
Every day I watch the perspiring locals walking the beaches, trying to make a go of it. There is one man who pushes a peanut and candy cart through the beach sand whom I consider a hero. However he looks like he is about to have a stroke, so I don’t want that job.
Then there is the chap who is completely covered in rugs and wears 30 hats. He gurgles a greeting through clenched teeth below darting eyes under a wet brow. I don’t think I would look very attractive doing that, as much as I admire his doggedness.
For a short while I saw myself as someone who could be the second banana on a local stage, perhaps as one of Judy Garland’s hapless sisters (the Gumms). After all, I was considered a useful tenor at my school’s glee club some 50 years ago. Sadly for me the entertainment in PV does not consist of bad lounge acts from Vegas who say, “I am here all week, try the veal.” So that was a dead end. They are in fact very good. Rats!
I don’t make jewelry and the poor man who suggested I try out his potter’s wheel is no longer speaking to me. I mean I did not know how fast those things could go. I attempted to teach Zumba but everyone in my first class could do it better than me. They thought I was some sort of local comic before the real teacher showed up.
A lot of my failure could be due to the fact that I only speak a kind of “stripper” Spanish taught to me by one of my filthy friends — “How much for her?” or “I have U.S. dollars” or “I like fat girls” — and not particularly useful on a day-to-day basis. Also my wife does not think it is funny when I repeat these phrases at parties.
I must learn more Spanish.
Copyright Christopher Dalton 2016
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