The day that July read about the dead tiger was oppressive, mercury registering in the low nineties, air thick with moisture and flies. Six months of clay dust had settled thickly over the town and the sparse wintertime jungle. Parched vegetation begged for a storm and though dark, cumulous clouds promised rain, they consistently failed to deliver.
The cantina customers tried to remain still, moving only to lift their drinks or when a seat under the unbalanced, barely turning ceiling fan became available. In spite of its tattered appearance the cantina was the most profitable place in town. The bar “Revolution” was more than a watering hole to ex-patriots. It was meeting place, bar, restaurant, mailroom, telephone booth, and used book swap.
It was late in the season, the rains were about to begin, and the only foreigners remaining were Ex Pats, restricted either financially or legally from traveling to the springtime that beckoned north of the tropics. Some were running from the law or worse. Others had been chased from home. They tried to maintain the illusion that they were happy, not stuck, in paradise. Mostly they drank and spent time waiting for that something that almost never happened.
July was different. She needed the heat. She wanted to be where she was. She was a rough girl who had been beautiful, but now was only pretty on first glance. Hard living made her claim of thirty-five unbelievable by at least ten. Men who met her often walked away wondering what in hell had happened.
Despite the huge amounts of booze ingested daily July always had the energy needed to make a party. She smoked, drank, and swore in a way that made the hombres uncomfortable when their women were present. Her behavior intrigued them when their women weren’t. Many had carnally sampled what intrigued them. Even July was uncomfortable with number of locals she had bedded. But that number was nowhere near the vast quantities whispered in the gossip of the senoras.
July spoke Mexican Spanish as if she was born to the tongue. Other gringos in the area were awed by her skill. July had been working at the “Revolution” for more that a few years, and although she wasn’t really an employee she was an icon. Memo, the owner, hadn’t hired her. She had just assumed the role of manager, postmistress, secretary, and librarian, and in spite of the more than a quart of the cheapest mescal daily, she got things done. She worked for tips and drinks.
Many a patron commented that July’s willingness to bargain with whatever was necessary saved Memo, also known as Cananda Bill, the owner, from losing the Revolution to some legal technicality or cultural gaff. She used every tool available to her to protect The Revolution. Lies, truth, something in between, it didn’t matter. July’s palm greasing and ego stroking kept the place going. She saved the place again and again. The regulars protected her for protecting their haven.
“Oye, Carmen”, called July, wanting another mescal and tang (orange juice was too expensive, unless some one else was paying), “ listen, Carmen, “the newspaper says the circus tossed a dead Bengal Tiger on the side of the road in your neighborhood, es cierto? is it true? If it’s there you must have seen it.”
“Es cierto, July.”
“Really,” asked July, removing a bummed cigarette from cracked lips, becoming animated. “Does it still have its teeth and claws?” Bones, teeth, skins, skulls and assorted anatomical oddities turned her on.
Carmen, the waitress, rolled her eyes, visibly repulsed. “No se, huele feo. (I don’t know, July, it smells). I won’t go near it.”
“Wow,” July said, looking up and down the bar, surveying the occupants seated on their perches, searching for a likely candidate to go with her to scope out the remains. “Hey, Memo,” July called, “can I borrow the jeep to go to go see this tiger? I have to get a look at this.”
“I’ll drive you, July, you’re in no condition.” Memo, with effort, lifted himself onto his gout swollen feet, while motioning for the waitress to put their drinks into “go” cups. A mobile party with July sounded like an entertaining way to spend the afternoon. Business was going to be slow for the next six months and Memo enjoyed his role as provider. Cruising with July and footing the bill for the party was okay.
“No clumsy, gout ridden, alcoholic, overweight, blind gonna tell me that I am in no condition to drive,” July said.
“Although he would be right,” observed Rob. Robert. Robbie.
“Oh, and I suppose that you are.” For a year July had been sleeping with Rob and they were perfect for each other. Both were foul-mouthed, know-it-all, alcoholic, and rude, yet somehow still competent. But whereas July was a fading beauty, Rob’s ugliness was tempered by age. Although he was technically tall enough to escape the dwarf label, his arms were much too long for the size of his trunk. He was bald, only intermittently shaven, and possessed a cranial ridge that extended far enough from his brow to shade his porcine eyes. July liked to tell any one who would listen that his was enormous.
“Well I’ve got a really high tolerance…”
“True enough. Let’s stop by your house on the way.” She said hiking up her skirt, tucking the hem into her waistband, and climbing into the jeep. I’m gonna need some tools. And another drink.”
And a joint, chimed Memo.
Two hours, a twelve pack of Tecate beer, six more hash marks on the thermometer, and a Marlboro sized joint for each of them and they had traveled the fifteen miles and arrived at the site in question armed with a hack saw, a sledge hammer, a pair of vice grips, and a bucket.
Carmen had been correct; it smelled ugly, and July was disappointed by what she found. The beast had been skinny when it died and the few teeth that remained in its head were rotten. Its body had been run over by a truck or a bus, and only the head was uncrushed. Whoever tried to make booty of the claws rendered them valueless by cutting them instead of extracting them.
“What a waste,” mourned July, “ the only thing that I can salvage is the skull. Hey, give me the hacksaw.”
Astonished at the spectacle that was unfolding in front of them Memo and Rob stared at each other in disbelief and, slack jawed, stared back at July. July pulled the hem of her skirt tightly through her legs and tucked it firmly into the waistband while straddling the tiger. Teetering on her strappy heels she had to tilt her head and squint to keep the smoke from her cigarette from stinging her eyes. One hand pulled the tiger’s head through her legs and firmly against her crotch, stretching the neck, while the other positioned the hacksaw to separate the body from July’s prize.
Memo found the stench overwhelming and he vomited the morning’s tails with the first pull of the saw through the neck. “Jesus Christ, woman! You’re competing with the vultures for a corpse.”
Rob stood rooted, vigorously shaking his head no while wailing about the likely permanent nature of July’s impending scent. Her dog, Ese, had planted its face in a soft spot on the corpse that rendered a gray coating across the animals face, neck and shoulder, where he had joyously rolled himself. That same spot was currently clamped tightly between July’s thighs as she worked away at severing the large kitty’s head.
After twenty minutes of tearing at fur, cartilage, meat and bone with the ancient blade the job was done.
Memo and Rob, having found the proceedings disgusting, and in anticipation of the sharing the ride back with July, had wandered off to find a bar. July caught sight of them returning as she unceremoniously dumped the tiger’s head in the bucket. With out effort July was convince to bathe herself with water from the spigot at the little bar. Rob loaded July’s bootie in the back of the Jeep and Memo got 3 beers to go. Piling into the Jeep the three headed back to the Revolution to see if anything new was happening.
