Staring Down an Uzi

On market day we were negotiating our van through the narrow warrens of La Peñita, a busy seaside village near Puerta Vallarta, searching for a rare and coveted parking spot. We spotted a woman and her husband stuffing a piñata and an armful of other cheap trinkets into their van. It sported Alberta plates. I stopped and asked if we could have their spot when they left.

Then we started to shoot the shit.

“Oh, you’re a Feehan. I went to school with your cousin!” she reminisced.

She was telling me she grew up loving my brother’s music when I heard a rap on the window.

A soldier had his assault rifle pointed at me.

I rolled down the glass. He demanded in Spanish that I move. I looked in the rear view mirror. I was blocking the entire road. Three truckloads of elite army forces armed to the teeth were backed up behind me.“Uno momento, por favor,” I said, staring him down.

After casually wrapping up my nostalgic moment with the gal from Edmonton I pulled into her now-vacated parking spot.

This whole “Uzi pointed at the head” thing is getting pretty mundane.

Gerry