Aliens and A Fruit Delivery




   "You cradle robber!" he said to my father. We were in Tulum, Mexico on a random vacation in the middle of my hair pulling, snot bubble, tear causing process of applying to college. Why? Don't you need to spend any second you can working on it? Yeah the questions always make me feel better. "They call me Poncho Frijoles" said the man with blood shot eyes in his cliche 1940's American clothing mix of a Hawaiian dress shirt and muscle tank top. After the introductions my father went on to explain how I was not his young catch for the evening but the fruit of his loins. It was only the 1 of 6 explanations we would have to give that week. The three of us sat down in front of this cafe that was painted like an Easter egg with service that was as gray as they come only bothering to ask "Cervesas?".  With two beers and a water, Poncho would tell stories that would cause my perspective of my dad to change forever. Senior Frijole is a 40 year resident of Mexico and a 40 year soldier for the fight of freedom to smoke as much weed as we want. But you had to pay him to get it delivered to ya. That was his living, growing, selling, and puffing good ol Mary Jane. The trade was learned from his Vietnam Veteran uncle. This was all funny because I've never inhaled or had anything to do with this drug and neither did my fath......."Oh yeah I transported pounds from Mexico too!".......er.  What?! Dad? This was not the man who took me to see serious documentaries about poverty in India, who sulked with me in the car whenever 1990's Coldplay would serenade our night. No this was a criminal, a rebel, no longer a simple intellectual dad. That one statement created movie like scenarios that played in my mind silencing and darkening everything around me. My dad and I in a jeep with a machine gun, escaping from a deal gone bad, revving the engine through the jungle