Carrie is rifling through tie-dyed headbands, looking for a green one like the kind her favorite Mexican reality TV star wears. We’ve been watching a lot of Mexican reality TV recently. Today, though, we’re at the market because Carrie wants to look like Galilea, the beautiful meteorologist. In Mexico, meteorologists are a lot younger and better looking.
It’s July and the air is sticky with smells of roasting meat and candy. We’re two of the surprisingly few tourists in Mexico City, judging by the absence of other sweaty people with confused expressions and money belts. This market, too, is entirely Mexican. The vendors call to us, “Rubias, rubias!” Blondies, blondies! not because we’re blonde but because we’re white. At first I’m flattered that they think I’m blonde, but then Carrie explains. The woman working at the stall next to us won’t stop hissing “Rubias,” and I want to move along, so I tug at Carrie’s elbow but she’s hasn’t found a green headband yet.
“Hold on—they might have it in the last layer.” She’s shoulder-deep in a curtain of gauzy, hanging headbands when a little man appears behind her. His face is wrinkled with a vacant smile. Before I can say anything, he leans close and breathes wetly on Carrie’s bare shoulder. I see him extending his tongue.
“Whoa!” she says, bursting from the curtain. She grabs my wrist, and we move fast to lose him in the crowd. It’s funny to me. I lean over and breathe on Carrie. “Eeehhhhh,” I groan.
“Stop it!” she says, batting me away.
“Eeeehhhh, ruuubia,” I say. She rolls her eyes.
But then there he is again, somehow, reaching out for Carrie. He smells like urine and his clothes are old and dusty. She doesn’t notice him at first, but I grip her elbow as he leans in. “The dude,” I whisper. This time we leave the market altogether, glancing back as we walk rapidly, practically running. No one bats an eye as we rush past, a sweaty white blur.
Finally we catch our breath on the sidewalk. Cars speed past, horns and radios blasting. The air is heavy with exhaust and roasting nuts. “I hate him,” Carrie says. Her brows are drawn, her hands are on her hips. She hates confrontation.
So we start walking again, in the general direction of our hotel. We cross a few plazas and talk about lunch. I stop short, noticing the word “Edith” etched into the sidewalk. I make Carrie take a picture of me crouched down, pointing at the “Edith” with one hand, at myself with the other. I want some chilaquiles, she wants McDonalds. We got McDonalds yesterday. “Yeah,” she says, “but it was so good.”
I have to agree; it was particularly delicious. “Carrie, though, seriously. Let’s get some regular food. You can get the meat wheel if you want,” I offer. The meat wheel is a rotating slab of meat that vendors shave slivers from to put in tacos and little tortillas.
“I don’t want the meat wheel,” she says, “I want a McFlurry.”
We stop at an intersection, wait for the walk sign.
“Carrie. I know you know this, but you can get McDonalds anywhere. Let’s get some good Mexican food, like that place yesterday where they had Big Brother VIP.” Big Brother VIP (“Bee Bro-der Bee-Eye-Pee”) is a Mexican version of the reality show Big Brother, except all the characters are Mexican “VIPs”—marginally famous soap opera stars, spouses of marginally famous soap opera stars, and Galilea, the pretty meteorologist with the headband. It is Carrie’s favorite show, and it was on TV at the tiny restaurant we went to yesterday.
“Yeah, but it was on mute,” she counters.
“Carrie! I don’t want to go to McDonalds!”
“Well, where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know, maybe the place—”
“GAAAA!!!” she screams, leaping into the street. The little man is there, kissing and licking her shoulder. “Oh my god!” Now he has a plastic bag filled with an opaque brown substance that he’s stretching toward us.
“Ew, he has shit! In a bag!” I scream.
We turn the other way, frantically, in some direction we didn’t come from, any direction away from him, and push desperately through. The little man is in hot pursuit.
“I can’t believe this!” Carrie hisses as we cross the street. He is right behind us with the bag of poop.
“What the fuck is he holding, seriously?” I pant.
“I DON’T KNOW!” she yells. We run down the street, the little man staggering along, grinning behind us. No one, not a single person, turns his head. A few men murmur “rubias” as we pass, but otherwise no one seems to notice that we’re being chased by someone holding what might be a bag of feces. We tear across the street again, and right as we reach the sidewalk, traffic surges gloriously behind us, stranding him on the other side. He pretends not to notice, calmly holding up the bag, spinning it aimlessly, looking the other way. I feel safe with the flood of cars between us, and looking at him from this distance I can see how small and old he is. He’s just a dirty, crazy old man.
“Déjanos, bendejo!” Carrie shrieks at him. This is the maddest I’ve ever seen her. Leave us alone, asshole! I could never have thought of that.
“Good memory, Care!” I say, congratulatory.
“DÉJANOS!”
And then, following directions while pretending not to, he and his bag disappear quietly into the crowd, and Carrie and I are alone on the pavement, flushed and frazzled in the baking sun. I lean over and pretend to drool on her shoulder.
“Yaaa!” she cries, recoiling. “I fucking hate him!”
“He had a crush on you,” I say teasingly.
“Ugh! I just want a MCFLURRY!”
“Fine. Let’s go get McDonalds.”
So we head cautiously to our favorite McDonalds, where we talk to Valeria, our favorite employee. We love Valeria; she encourages our Spanish and tells us we’re smart. We even write a letter to McDonalds saying what a great employee Valeria is. We take our Happy Meals and our McFlurries back to the hotel room, where we feel less sweaty and “blonde.” We turn on Big Brother VIP. Carrie translates.
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