The Best Little Whorehouse in Tejas

The NYT recently published a story about my hometown, in which townspeople speculate about what will happen to its old-town charm now that the American invasion is in full bloom, led by luminaries such as Stone Phillips and Antonio Banderas.

And I for one, welcome our new celebrity overlords, and would like to remind them that, as a trusted narcotics magnate, I could be helpful in rounding up others to toil in their underground sugar caves.

The best part about this new rush to old Mexico is, of course, the infusion of dollars. As difficult as things are up here in America, the dollar is still king. Its incursion into San Miguel's economy would be welcome indeed, as it would go a long way towards introducing and establishing many goods and services that, in the dark days of yore, were tragically lacking.

I speak, of course, of strip clubs. Or rather, the lack thereof.

Story time.

A few years ago, my buddies and I, along with my little brother, who had just turned 18, were out and about, looking for something, and, eventually, someone to do. But it was still early in the evening, and we were bored.

So one of us, Yellow the Mellow Fellow, suggested we go to a strip club.

As the only local, I told him, "Yellow, there aren't any."

"Lies," he said. "Every town worth its salt has a strip club."

"Buddy, there's none," I said. "Trust me."

He refused to take no for an answer, and so went to ask people to recommend a good strip club.

The first guy he went to said that I was right, and that there were no strip clubs.

"See?" I said.

"That guy's a bigger nerd than you are," Yellow answered. "I have to ask someone with a girlfriend."

So he went and asked someone with a girlfriend. He chalked up the negative response to the fact that his girlfriend was there, "and of course he would have nooooo idea about a strip club."

And then he saw a cop.

"Perfect," he said, and went to ask the cop.

To our astonishment, the cop smiled, nodded, and actually pulled out a map. He was like a cabbie in Vegas. The cop proceeded to animatedly gesture, slap Yellow on the shoulder, and sold it like entrepreneurs sell Adderall at law schools.

Bottom line, we were heading over to "La Cabana," a wonderful place 2 miles out of town, accessible only through the old royal road.

We took a cab out there and pulled into what looked like the Bada Bing, except without the neon and dead Italians. It was a nondescript, squat building with no windows and one door/escape route. The parking lot featured, alternately, pick-up trucks and tethered horses.

So we walked into this place, and, as is to be expected, it was dark, dingy, and had a bunch of men in cowboy hats seated in tables around a stage. So far so good.

And then we got stopped by the madame. God knows what you call them. She had to be at least fifty. Her hair was Marge Simpson blue. Her teeth were mostly there. Her legs looked like a map of major European rivers.

And, when she spoke, she did so in Harvey Fierstein's voice.

"Hello, boys. You new to these parts?"

(No, of course not). We nodded.

"You know how it works here, right?"

(No, of course not.) "No, of course not."

"Well, you boys all take a seat at one of those tables, maybe have a drink or two. Then, when you pick a girl who strikes your fancy, you take her up on stage, dance one song with her, settle the terms, and then the rooms are in the back."

Most would have figured out what was going on by now, but I'm a little slow. "Terms?" I asked.

"Yeah," the madame said. "Terms. Usually it's five dollars, but it can go up to maybe twice that, depending on how far outside the line you want to color."

By this point, even I understood what was going on. But, as the laws mandate it, I still had to ask another stupid question. "So this isn't a strip club?"

She looked at me as if I had said Africa was a country. "No. Not quite. I mean, they'll strip, but not out in public. Go on ahead and sit. Bucket of beers OK?"

We could only nod and be led to our seats. We were still in a state of shock. Somehow, we had managed to find ourselves, at a cop's recommendation, in a five dollar whorehouse.

I have neglected to mention that, although we were all Mexicans, we were suburban Mexicans. And, with the exception of my brother, I was the least Anglo-looking one in the bunch. Those who know what I look like can understand this implication. We looked like a bunch of Swedish tourists. I mean, there's a reason we called the instigator of this whole mess "Yellow." The man is completely yellow.

So not only are we out of our transactional element, we are out of our cultural element. Remember that scene in Road Trip, when they crash a frat house, claiming to be brothers there, and it turns out to be a national black fraternity, and then someone finds a KKK mask?

That's what this was like, except it's in backroads Mexico, the land that law forgot.

Every one of the beers in our beer bucket was flat. We kept getting stared down. Every time the huge cowboys behind us got up, they always "accidentally" elbowed and kneed us in the back. The entire time, we're sitting there, barely talking, praying it wouldn't turn out to be From Dusk til Dawn in there.

So we chugged our (flat) beers, left like a 50 percent tip/thanks-for-not-killing-us-toll, and high tailed it out of there like our asses were on fire. We waited maybe ten seconds for a cab, and then power walked the hell out of those two miles down an old abandoned road back to town.

From what I understand, those two miles are now developed, and La Cabana is probably no more. At the very least, it should be markedly more expensive. Hopefully.

Gentrification can't come soon enough.