Slouching into Oblivion

During my first decade living in Mexico while still practicing law in the U.S., I wrote a column entitled “Me and Big Joe” that recounted my adventures with a 350-pound Mexican bodyguard, Big Joe, a lunatic psychopath with a serious grudge to settle. He was big and stupid, but loyal. I have republished a few of those stories here and I do so again today if only because I have spent the last three months writing only about grief, about pain. I am tired and I am sure you are, too. It is time to get back to The Front . . . March 3, 2008. 33,000 feet somewhere between LAX and Houston Intercontinental It ended like it began. Suddenly, no warning. The evil bastards who had told us from Day 1 they had a lock on the case just gave up. After six weeks of hand to hand combat, it ended with a whimper instead of a bang. When I was younger, and a lot stupider, I would demand they stand up and take it like a man, but years have taught me that hits, runs and errors are no different than a ...

Lupe is single mother, 4 children, looks a lot younger than she is, and sports a serious work ethic and an opinion on just about everything. Born in Mexico City dirt poor she worked her way up - first high school, then a bachelor’s degree in the military, citizenship, took a couple of years off to get her masters and is now managing an operation for a significant transportation company we happen to both be working for at the moment. She’s tough. Even Big Joe defers and it is best not to look at her in the eyes unless you want to hear one of Life’s Lessons According to Lupe. Last night I was packing up when she walked in, slammed her hands flat on my desk, leaned forward, and said nothing. I glanced up and our eyes met if only for a second. That was her key. “Do you know the problem with most people?” she asked, point blank. “Yes, I do,” I replied, which apparently was not the answer she was looking for. “Well, let me tell you,” she said in way that sounded like, “I don’t give a...

LAX is perhaps the dirtiest, most unfriendly piece of shit airport in the world, and that is saying something. Even the best airports, like Amsterdam and Singapore,are no more than long crowded hallways filled with gemcracks and the harried soulless who have been beaten senseless by corporate America but read the Wall Street Journal anyway. And these fools are punctuated by the truly evil who wear uniforms and badges that say things like, "May I help you?" but in a special way to make sure you understand clearly that they don't mean it. The main airport into Los Angeles is different than most, older and dirtier, an architectural nightmare built long before interminable security lines were invented to make us all feel better about our total vulnerability. And, to make matters worse at LAX there is no legal way to move from one terminal to another and stay inside security -- a real problem for those who despise the General Public and count the number of steps to the next...

It was dusk and I was standing outside the bus terminal talking to someone I don't know. She was smoking cheap cigarettes, looked like someone who could be paid to tell everything she knew and we shared a half pint of Muscatel I had chambered in a paper sack. We were chatting amicably when a black Porsche with dealer tags slid into the parking lot. Driving was a young black male, MLB hat, about 26 1/2years old, and next to him a young white female, blonde, who reminded me of a jaded American Airlines attendant. I could see she was crying. Her door opened, she got out, said nothing, slammed it and walked towards us. The Porsche crept away and she pulled a cell phone from her purse and started jabbering, interrupting her conversation only long enough to bum a cigarette from my new friend. About 32 seconds later, the Porsche pulled back into the parking lot and she walked over. The driver lowered his window and handed her a small knit bag. She took it, turned on her heels, and ...

I found Big Joe in the south L. A. Greyhound bus terminal in 2008. It’s a long story and one I will tell. Since then Joe has been my constant companion, a thug with no excuse for anything, my bodyguard who wants to do nothing except stomp the shit out of anyone I feel deserving. I began writing about Big Joe shortly thereafter. It’s time to begin again and bring you up to date. I returned from Las Vegas last night and a series of late night discussions with those in know about the endgame -- recession, depression, and hyper-inflation all shot through a fine whiskey-prism. For most, being right on how we lose will determine the few who will win and whether one orders steak tartar or waits in a soup line and fights a toothless hag for their one meal that day. For me it is about posturing correctly to haggle over the ruins. Big Joe was waiting outside the Leon airport in a no parking zone idling the flat-black Suburban he uses for high-speed airport runs. The beast has a 454 with...