The Hopperettes

Pulled into Mazatlan, I was feeling about half-past dead. Just looking for a place where I could park my va-a-a-n.

There was plenty of room at the inn. One lonely rig inhabited a far corner of the RV lot, towered over by adjacent three star all-inclusives. I meandered over and introduced myself to our solitary neighbor. “Hank, from Ohio” is a genial fellow.

He looks a lot like Kris Kringle. He’d been in the same spot since November. The mountain of empty “Sol” beer bottles outside his trailer testified to the length of his stay; as did his red nose and snow-white beard.

“You should come on down to Heather’s Taverna tonight,” he told us. “They got a benefit concert going on over there for this sick kid with M.S. or P.D. or something. You’d like it. You’re Canadian. Dick Damron from Bentley, Alberta will be singing and so will The Brentster from Black Diamond.”

I don’t have to be invited twice to watch Dick Damron perform, particularly when beer’s less than a buck a piece. A chorus line of bulky women – whom I affectionately dubbed the “Hopperettes” – can-canned through the crowd to Dick’s sandal-stomping beat.

When Dick petered out Mazatlan’s favorite Kenny Roger’s impersonator stepped onstage. It was our newfound friend, Hank. He was pretty good. Afterward, wiping beads of perspiration from the end of his cherubic nose and signing autographs for his adoring herd, Hank invited us to a beach party he was hosting the next day.

Manyana, we buried our feet in the sand and listened to the waves crash. Like Kindergarteners, we had new best friends within minutes.

“Tabby” a retired firefighter from Chicago proudly disclosed that he was “a professional drinker”.

Tabby’s head was shaved. On top was a big flap of skin that looked like it had been soldered back in place by the sun. The result of a hard day’s night bingeing no doubt.

It was two-thirty in the afternoon. I had already seen him throw back ten shots of tequila – and we missed the first two hours of the party.

“So you’re a pro drinker. You get paid to booze it up?” I asked.

He ignored my query and instead began a long sordid tale of his alcohol-fueled sexual exploits.

Florence was disgusted so we left the party early, well shy of our quota to break even on the “all-the-tequila-you-can-swallow” afternoon special. The tide was coming in.

If there is one thing I have learned over the years it is to never go against the Flo(w).

Gerry