Cinco de Mayo Gone Bad

Cinco de Mayo Gone Bad

With my second margarita in hand, I watched the Cinco de Mayo party unfold in the Mexican restaurant around the corner from my house. Walking distance. Today had been a particularly crappy day. Mainly because it was a Tuesday, which meant I had three more days of hell in a job I hated, before getting a brief respite called the weekend.
The bartender happened to be a good friend of Jose Cuerva and shared that friendship liberally in her margarita making. In lieu of this fact, I could feel myself getting in a Friday mood on a Tuesday. That good mood lasted for all of ten seconds before someone through a sombrero in my direction, and by instinct I ducked to avoid getting hit in the face and in doing so, I fell off my bar stool. The last thought I had was that I was now wearing my really tasty margarita and then the lights went out.
I woke up because I felt my arm being tugged on and someone speaking what sounded like jibber jabber. I must have conked my head real good! As my eyes tried to focus, the figure in front of me was blurry, but it looked like he had on a uniform of some sort, and oh my, he had a gun. I desperately looked around for my drink, but all I saw were horses and men running and that was when I heard the sound of gunfire. Crap! I scrambled up with the assistance of the soldier pulling on my arm as he spewed more jibber jabber. Only this time I understood him. Not only did I understand him, but when the words came out of my mouth – I was speaking jibber jabber too and it sounded a lot like French. More French than my two years in school would have warranted me speaking.
“Quick, we must retreat to Orizaba, the Mexicans are surrounding us!” He spoke this as he violently pulled on my arm, which to my astonishment was covered in blood and hurt like mad.
Bizarre, but not only was I not in the Mexican restaurant down the road from my house, but I was a French soldier lying wounded in a ditch on Guadalupe Hill and I knew without a doubt that I didn’t have time to question how I got here, because I was about to be captured by the fast approaching Mexican army. So, I allowed the French soldier to tug me upright despite the pain shooting through my wounded body. He was able to help me get up onto a horse and we were then off. Wait, I don’t know how to ride a horse I thought, I have never been on one in my life, but I was doing it, and despite my injury, I was doing it well.
The night air was riddled with the acrid smell of blood and death, and I felt certain that my own mortality was fast approaching. Somehow, despite what the soldier had told me, I knew we had to get to Orizaba and from there; we would have to get to the coast. The urgency to do so caused me to overlook the pain shooting through my limbs.
All around me, I watch in horror as men fleeing are hit by gunfire and fall from their horses into the darkness. I hear their cries, or is it my own scream I am hearing as I feel the pain in my chest and feel myself falling from my horse? Once again, I am on the ground and I am staring up into the sky at the full moon. I can’t move and it feels almost as if I am floating. I struggle to keep my eyes open, but to no avail – they close.
I hear a mariachi band. Someone is slapping me on my face and calling my name. I open my eyes and I am lying on the floor of the Mexican restaurant with my margarita all over my shirt. People are all staring down at me with concerned looks on their faces. I won’t even begin to tell them where I have been as I get up with a little help from my friends.
I think next Cinco de Mayo, I will stay home and have a good French wine and leave the Jose Cuerva alone!




Word Count: 730