Truths From The Back Side Of A Mexican Gas Station

So many topics to write about in these latter days.

Climate catastrophe, pandemics, extinction of life on the planet, ecological collapse, increasing inequality, rising authoritarianism, and, of late, the threat of a nuclear world war . . .

All serious, existential inquiries to be sure.

But readers of this blog most often ask me to address a deeper, more personal, question:

“How are the Chiquitas?”

If you have read this blog more than a few months, you know Cohime, Cómeme, and Lámame —the Chiquitas. If not, let me introduce you.

I met the girls months ago at a gas station on a lonely stretch of Mexican highway at dusk. Twenty-something girls selling gasoline additive in short skirts with beautiful smiles.

I ended that entry with this Epilog:

“Now, months later, I still deliver tacos and tequila to the girls twice a week. My most vivid recollections are the joy I see and feel when we are together. They giggle and show me their tits, what they call “regalitos,” little gifts, to show their appreciation.

“Never a word of sorrow, regret, or self-pity.

“We get drunk and act crazy, not because we can, but because we should. No, we need to. All of us. There is one life and time is running short.

‘No time to regret what’s happened or fear what may be coming,’ Cohime said, matter-of-factly, as she drew deep from the bottle of cheap tequila and then handed it back to me. ‘We are here. This is now. I am grateful.’

“‘I love you, Cohime,’ I smiled gently. She knew what I meant, leaned over, and gave me a kiss on the cheek.”

Not much has changed in the last several months, at least not from the view of a casual observer. I still show up once a week, buy whatever gasoline additive they haven’t sold, and we sit in the dirt behind the gas station and enjoy our tacos, tequila, and talk. I have met a few of their friends who often show up about the same time I do. Life dealt them a poor hand of cards, too.

At least that was my conclusion before I got to know them.

The girls were all born on ranches or farms, have little to no formal education, may or may not be able to read, and show up to work every afternoon to sell something basically worthless to guys who are willing to pay 40 pesos (two bucks) just to be flirted with by pretty girls younger than most of their daughters.

Which has led to many questions from readers I feel compelled to answer:

Yes, they are really beautiful, inside and out.

No, they are not hookers.

Yes, they go to Mass every Sunday, or at least say they do.

No, they don’t use drugs even though our buddy Pablo sells meth just a few steps away.

Yes, they understand the cards life has dealt them.

No, they don’t feel sorry for themselves.

Yes, each would love to meet a nice guy who could and would take them away from the two room shacks they live in, but mostly they want to be loved, unconditionally.

No, they don’t believe that will happen.

Yes, they know their stock in trade - their good looks - won’t get better with time.

No, they aren’t preparing for the day can’t sell fuel additive any longer. They are too busy preparing to pay for their next meal.

And . . .

Yes, they are happy.

In my late night talks with them behind the gas station, I was forced to face the disturbing fact that they way I learned it, that happiness is achieved through acquisition of toys or experiences, was altogether wrong from the start.

In its place, the girls have taught me that . . .

• Happiness has little to do with how much we have. Rather, it is the difference between what we expect to have and what we do have. The Chiquitas have very little which is exactly what they expected out of life, leaving little to be unhappy about.
• It is easier to control your expectations than your reality. The girls didn’t grow up being told they should want more, watching the rich and famous on television or surfing Instagram. Rather, they were told to be grateful for what they have. And they are.
• Wanting less is a surer path to being satisfied than wanting more. One of the most miserable sons of bitches I ever met was a trust-fund baby who lamented the fact he had to fly commercial when all his buddies were flying private. He confided in me once that he had considered suicide due to the embarrassment he suffered. Cómeme pulled up her skirt last week and asked if I thought her panties were pretty. I nodded. She smiled. “These are a year old. I thought I would only get six months from pretty panties like this.”
• Happiness is not a condition, but a decision to be satisfied with what you have. The dream that more will one day become enough always turns into a nightmare. More is arithmetic. Enough is a decision. One does not lead to the other. The Chiquitas are resolved to make the most of what they have, and mostly who they have, in their lives.
• Happiness isn’t the result of being dealt a great hand of cards, but rather, learning to play a poor hand well. And they are poor, but maybe, just maybe, the hands they were dealt weren’t so bad. After all, they are the ones giggling, smiling, and hugging each other.

Thank you, girls.

I only regret that I don’t have more to teach you. Tacos and tequila will have to do.