On The Wing

Editor’s note. The America farm. Once the envy of the world, today a battleground between Corporate America, genetic scientists and sound economic policy. Thomas Sullivan has his take on the very real displacement that occurs when Corporate Uncle Sam spreads his winds across borders, sending economic shock waves both near and far.

Our Apologies Senor

By Thomas Sullivan

The two middle-aged guys that I passed while first checking out the beach are still sitting under a tiki-umbrella with drinks when I mosey up to the outdoor lounge three hours later. I grab the empty table next to them and watch in awe as the enormous Mexican sun sinks further into the horizon. Birds sail past silently, gliding over the gently churning water. The flock looks like it is skipping between the specks of light reflecting off the waves. The beaches on the Yucatan are absolutely wonderful.

A loud grunt disrupts my placid ocean viewing and I turn to locate its source. The larger of the two guys has removed his cowboy hat and is wiping his brow with the strap from a cotton tank-top. He waves a meaty hand in the air, calling for another drink. A slender server wearing khakis and a dress shirt with tie hustles across the sand to their table. He takes the drink order and inquires about their possible interest in dinner. A meal perhaps, amigos? The men wave this off and direct the server to bring more chips (free). Then they resume talking about the cell phone business in their deep Texan drawl.

I turn back to the water. The sun has set fully, releasing a warm and gentle breeze across the beach. A fat moon rises behind us and bathes the ocean’s edge in a soft light. The scene is one of pure peace and tranquility.

The guy in the cowboy hat lifts out of his seat, wobbles through a turn, and marches unsteadily towards the water. He staggers to a stop at the surfs edge and stands in place, backlit by the moon glow. Then he grips the top of his shorts below his big gut, unzips his fly, and starts urinating in the water.

The scene is no longer one of peace and tranquility.

A sizeable wave crashes near the guy’s feet. He struggles against the resulting undertow and goes down, face forward. He lies on his stomach flapping his arms as water courses over his flabby frame. The undertow drags sand over his legs and into his shorts. It’s a truly avant-garde spectacle of man versus nature.

His friend and the Mexican server jog towards him like a Greenpeace rescue squad. They each take an arm, lift the guy to his feet, and escort him back to the table. The guy falls into his chair like a creature that has just completed a difficult evolutionary transition from water to land. He coughs and hacks for a bit, dislodging salt water and sand. Then he tries to order another drink.

I look at the guy’s chest and face, which are covered with wet sand, and think about something the Mayan guide told me as we puttered through a UN biosphere reserve. After NAFTA passed, many small farmers were displaced by cheap, heavily subsidized imports of American corn. They could no longer sell their crop to a local market they had been sourcing to for centuries. To survive they often ended up seeking employment in resorts like this one.

The server approaches with a towel. The guy grabs it without thanks and starts wiping off his pudgy face and hairy chest. I look at the server and wonder if he was once a proud farmer now reduced to serving drunken sleaze.

The pair stands up and starts heading for the hotel behind the tiki lounge. The dry guy falls in line behind the urinator as they enter a dirt pathway between a row of small yucca plants. As they move under a stucco arch the urinator swerves hard to the left and slams into a wall. He reaches for his forehead and then stumbles back into the other guy’s arms. The server just stands and watches, done with the whole affair. His air is one of resignation, suggesting that this is not a unique occurrence. He knows that another gringo will take the guy’s place in short order.

I wave for my bill while pondering dislocation. We Americans like to think of ourselves as a wellspring of inspiration and economic development for the rest of the world, but we’re actually quite the opposite. Our agricultural mega-industry displaces indigenous farmers around the world. Our factory-like movie industry smothers local filmmaking. Our fast food gulags threaten local cuisine and imprison people in their own obesity. And so on. It’s always big and always about making more money than we ever needed. If it was my economy that got undermined and my choices were (1) serving drinks to classless Texans or (2) making junk in a nasty American maquiladora or (3) risking my life trekking across a scorching desert to pick your fruit while being harassed by crackpot Minutemen, you can bet I’d choose option #4, growing drugs and selling them to your kids.

And the sight of a fat, drunken American lying facedown and choking on the surf of a foreign land? That’s the perfect metaphor for the world fighting back against callous greed and insatiability.

I pay my bill, leaving a huge tip for the server, something like 900%. He’s more than earned it.