Granada..bada bing………….

“You really want me to ask her that?”

“Yeah, I really want you to ask her that.”

Sammy shrugs his shoulders in resignation to Egbert’s request and turns his attention from Egbert toward Marisol, seated diagonally opposite the two of them; he knows where this conversation is leading. In his passable Spanish, Sammy asks the Granada girl why she didn’t return to Egbert’s room the previous afternoon as she had promised.

“I went to visit my sister in the hospital.”

Sammy rolls his eyes, where have I heard this before? Of the ten or ten thousand patently mendacious answers you expect from a Nica, this ranks one or two on the list of the most obvious. There have to be at least twenty seven thousand beds in Hospital Japon because every family has a grandfather, mother, sister, cousin convalescing at any given time.

Egbert, who is seething, has, with Marisol in tow, joined Wilbur and Sammy at their table on the sidewalk in front of The Hangout. The two have not made eye contact since they sat down. Egbert is fidgeting, hands shaking as he goes from cigarette to rum bottle to lighter, to ashtray, in perpetual motion display of nervous tension.

“Ask her this for me, Egbert’s voice is cracking with anger, “why didn’t she call me–I bought her a god-damned phone just for that reason!”

“I’m not gonna ask her that Eggy, says Sammy, who despite his general amusement over this lover’s spat, is finding his role as interlocutor tiring. “You know the answer, or you at least know it’s gonna be another lie, so what’s the point?” Marisol, speaking little English is blithely ignorant of the specifics of the conversation, but she can guess the topic, more or less.

Egbert lets the matter drop. In spite of his sixty five years he remains incredibly naive about most things. He’s a tiresome questioner about the all too obvious in life. You can hear little Eggy with that endless string of questions to daddy: “Why is the sky blue daddy?”  “Because it just fucking is Eggy!”

After uncomfortable moments of silence, the atmosphere lightens a bit as Egbert begins to fathom the futility of his position (on the floor, fetal). He doesn’t stand a chance. Marisol has the best set of tits on the street, and Eggman is a devout mammaphile or mammaphiliac, whichever. Marisol knows this of course, and dresses to attract attention to her most valuable assets; this evening a puce-colored Spandex/cotton blend blouse with plunging neckline that is guaranteed to invite the lascivious interest of not only Eggy, but all of the expats on Gringo Street. This always leaves Egbert in a confusion of emotions, posessiveness, jealousy, pride, anxiety, as he sees other men staring at her, sensing that for just a fistful of dollars, she will gladly share the delights of her company–tits included–with them as well.

Marisol knows she has won this round, of course, and knows that Egbert will barely blink as he gladly coughs up the dough for that fine fine pair of silver strapped stilettos she’s had her eyes on at the zapateria on Calle Commercial. She’s certain to be on parade tomorrow in her finest gear, maybe on Eggy’s arm, maybe not…

“