What with the financial end-times and my tendency to brood, I realized nothing was going to perk me up except a Mexican Coke, so I drove up to my neighborhood CVS. Gratifyingly, they've got a whole refrigerated section of Mexican sodas and a mineral water you'd kill for. I loaded my cart with Mexican Cokes, then wheeled them up to the checkout and the waiting Hispanic clerk. Nearby, another clerk, a young guy with a spiky jelled do, was restocking candy bars, pausing now and then to slug back a Monster energy drink accompanied by refreshing doses of Beer Nuts.
I come to this CVS a lot, so I'm known by sight, and this Hispanic clerk and I have exchanged pleasantries now and again. She's stocky, with heavy black hair worn coiled up, and a mostly impassive expression, which belies a fast tongue and a hefty CVS expertise. "Mexican Coke," she said musingly to no one, scanning the bottles, "now what makes these Mexican Cokes? You drink them and start speaking Spanish or something?" "They're made with sugar," I said, "not that corn fructose." "Sugar," she said, shaking her head, "that's bad. Bad for children." "They taste better," I offered, "at least to me they do." The clerk looked over at the stock boy. "Watchoo drinking?" she asked him. He held up his Monster can. "What's in it?" she asked. "Sugar and caffeine," he told her. "You know I don't got a sweet tooth," she announced. "I come home and there's candy all over, but I don't want it."
The boy looked our way, "Ever since I been eating healthy, you know what I don't want?" The clerk and I both shook our heads. "Chocolate," he said, "Don't want it. I could stock these candy bars all day long, not think anything about it." I swiped my card, wondering if I should talk up my Mexican Coke choice: they don't leave you as thirsty, you're not bolting down 32 ounces of godknowswhat, you can recognize most of the ingredients, the bottle looks cool. But they were deep into a discussion of Monster vs. Red Bull, the pros and cons, so I left.
What I didn't say is that I'm a Mexiphile, which is faintly ridiculous since I've never been there. Like Palin spotting Russia from Alaska, I've looked across the border but that's it. I also collect retablos, Day of the Dead stuff, and I loved Frida Kahlo before she was Frida Kahlo. This particular CVS caters to the neighborhood, which has lots of Hispanics, so it also stocks Mexican patent medicines and cosmetics. I'm always intrigued by the packages and the claims printed on them, accompanied by pix of the Virgin of Guadalajara. With my scraps of Latin and Italian, I can usually read what they're about: a pearly skin or certain relief from arthritis. For years, I kept a Mexican calendar in my studio that advertised Jesus Coffee, just as a reminder that my world was really bigger than white-bread Dallas, Texas.
When I suck down a Mexican Coke, it's a taste of exotica to me, just a brief touch of sweetness but still good.
Viva.
I come to this CVS a lot, so I'm known by sight, and this Hispanic clerk and I have exchanged pleasantries now and again. She's stocky, with heavy black hair worn coiled up, and a mostly impassive expression, which belies a fast tongue and a hefty CVS expertise. "Mexican Coke," she said musingly to no one, scanning the bottles, "now what makes these Mexican Cokes? You drink them and start speaking Spanish or something?" "They're made with sugar," I said, "not that corn fructose." "Sugar," she said, shaking her head, "that's bad. Bad for children." "They taste better," I offered, "at least to me they do." The clerk looked over at the stock boy. "Watchoo drinking?" she asked him. He held up his Monster can. "What's in it?" she asked. "Sugar and caffeine," he told her. "You know I don't got a sweet tooth," she announced. "I come home and there's candy all over, but I don't want it."
The boy looked our way, "Ever since I been eating healthy, you know what I don't want?" The clerk and I both shook our heads. "Chocolate," he said, "Don't want it. I could stock these candy bars all day long, not think anything about it." I swiped my card, wondering if I should talk up my Mexican Coke choice: they don't leave you as thirsty, you're not bolting down 32 ounces of godknowswhat, you can recognize most of the ingredients, the bottle looks cool. But they were deep into a discussion of Monster vs. Red Bull, the pros and cons, so I left.
What I didn't say is that I'm a Mexiphile, which is faintly ridiculous since I've never been there. Like Palin spotting Russia from Alaska, I've looked across the border but that's it. I also collect retablos, Day of the Dead stuff, and I loved Frida Kahlo before she was Frida Kahlo. This particular CVS caters to the neighborhood, which has lots of Hispanics, so it also stocks Mexican patent medicines and cosmetics. I'm always intrigued by the packages and the claims printed on them, accompanied by pix of the Virgin of Guadalajara. With my scraps of Latin and Italian, I can usually read what they're about: a pearly skin or certain relief from arthritis. For years, I kept a Mexican calendar in my studio that advertised Jesus Coffee, just as a reminder that my world was really bigger than white-bread Dallas, Texas.
When I suck down a Mexican Coke, it's a taste of exotica to me, just a brief touch of sweetness but still good.
Viva.
No comments:
Post a Comment