Charlie looked surprised, pained and chagrined. With a wounded look, he once again went into his mock prayer, "Por Dios. For my brother Rene, a very pretty price," and jotted down another figure on the notebook I handed him. 

I feigned surprise and said to the other men, "Now I'm his brother. I should get a very pretty price. Si?"

The men laughed. 

Charlie, laughing now himself, grabbed the notebook out of my hand, and jotted down another figure, this one thirty-five dollars less. The price seemed reasonable and we shook hands. I dropped off the van the next day. 

I came back four days later when Charlie promised the job would be finished. He wasn't quite done. "Dos mas horas," he said, and I left promising to return in two hours. Charlie was almost finished when I crossed the bridge and walked down into the yard. 

The day was blistering hot and sopping humid - cold beer heat. I walked across the highway to the Corona distributing plant and picked up a cold six-pack of Modelo in cans. Back at the Laminero yard I offered the guys a cold cerveza. The owner didn't drink but the rest of the crew including Charlie gratefully cracked open a cold one. 

For a moment I wondered if I’d made a mistake giving Charlie a beer since he hadn't finished the job yet. But the gesture relaxed everyone and they started asking me where I lived and what I did for a living. They were razzing each other too. Charlie referred to the yard’s owner who hailed from Chiapas as "Commandante Marcos."  Everyone laughed at that. When I told them I grew up in Montana, they wanted to know if I was a "vaquero," (cowboy).

"Si," I said. "Yo soy Clint Eastwood. Vaquero muy imporante" (Yes, I’m Clint Eastwood, a very important cowboy). They thought that was funny too. It's easy to get a laugh in Mexico. I told Charlie that I was a writer, an "Escritor.” Charlie brightened and explained that he was a songwriter. When I showed interest he quickly broke into song with one of his compositions. The other men standing around guffawed. Charlie gave them a look of mock indignation and disdainfully referred to one of them as a "Chinga Guatemalan." More laughter. Many Mexicans have a wry and surprisingly sophisticated sense of humor. As Charlie and I were talking, one of the men, a dark Indian looking guy, pointed to Charlie and said to me in English: "This man's grandfather was a monkey."

I almost fell over laughing. Charlie, trying to keep a straight face, called the man a "Guatemalan," then "Estupido Azteca," as the other men howled. Apparently, there is some pecking order based either on skin color or social status. Mexicans who look more "Indian," are together lumped with Guatemalans who evidently have an inferior social standing to Mexicans. I got the feeling I would soon hear a "How many Guatemalans does it take to change a light bulb," joke.

Suddenly Charlie asked me, "How old are you?" 

Sixty," I replied.

He looked me over, eyebrows raised, then asked, 

"Tiene sexual impotencia?" (Do you have any sexual impotence).

The other men tensed, watching to see how I would respond.

"No, No," I exclaimed, "Yo soy fuerta mismo el toro." (I am strong like bull).

More laughter. 

Charlie's eyes widened and he pointed his finger accusingly at me, "Usted usar Viagra, si?" (You use Viagra, yes?)

"Si," I laughed. "Viagra mucho gusto.

All the men joined in the laughter now and Charlie yelled at the man who called his grandfather a monkey, "All you Guatemalans need Viagra." 

Finally, Charlie finished his beer and went back to work. In another half hour he was done. When I inspected the job, I was pleased. For approximately a tenth of what it would have cost in the States, he had nicely spruced up the van. Charlie somehow glued the fiberglass bumper back together so that it looked almost like new. 

After paying Charlie, we chatted for a while in a more serious vein. Charlie's dream is to move to San Jose, California where his cousin has a business. "Pero es muy difficil,"(But it is very difficult), he sighed, realizing that getting a legal visa to work in the United States may be impossible. "No dinero here," he lamented.

I sympathized with his longing for more income, but wondered if he would really be better off. To me, Charlie’s hometown is idyllic. But for Charlie it means he has to work at many different jobs: driving an ambulance, construction, auto body work and being a musician, just to make ends meet. From my perspective Charlie seemed to have a better life than he would have in San Jose. But, I also realized that it was my fantasy. For an ambitious young man with a limited future Del Norte is still the land of opportunity. Over the next months, I referred some other gringo customers to Charlie. He was good at his craft, and in any culture, that ought to be rewarded.

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