JENNIFER FURNER
|
FEMALE STAMINA We entered the busy restaurant and walked right past the host stand to the first table inside displaying a sign on it with our tour group logo. The restaurant walls looked to be made of plaster or some type of adobe, and I could see bricks in the ceiling above me. The front of the building had large wooden beams across the ceiling, and colorful flags and piñatas hung from them. This place wasn’t air conditioned, and it was ninety-five degrees outside, so I pulled an elastic from my purse and collected my hair in low ponytail as our guide disappeared for a moment. A mariachi group entered the establishment mid-song as our guide returned with bottles of beer, already wet with condensation. As I took a sip, I looked around at the dining families—the restaurant was full of adults and children for a Thursday night. One of the waiters, an older man, balanced a full margarita on his head; he blew a whistle to the beat of the band. This restaurant was a neighborhood party, and everyone was invited. The guide looked at us, waiting for our opinion of the beer. Chris and I both hummed an “mmm” as we went to take another sip. Our guide stepped away to place our order, and when he returned, he had a strange gadget in his hand—a type of a battery. It had two cables snaking from it, and both ended in metal cylinders. A sly smile came across our guide’s face as he began to explain, in good English and with a thick accent, what it was. “So, uh, this is a game we like to play. This box generates electricity, and you hold onto the handles, and then you move the dial up higher and higher and see who is the first who cannot hold on any longer.” In other words, they were going to intentionally electrocute themselves. I looked at our guide and his two friends across the table through squinted, doubting eyes, but they all smiled back at me excitedly, as if they couldn’t wait to play.
54
Volume 16 • 2021
