The amount of preparation was mind-boggling, for weeks I watched my wife and daughters and other friends of the family putting together the little packages of recuerdos which consisted of trinkets and tiny items to commemorate the affair - along with making table pieces and procuring food items and liquor and constructing hand-made decorations. I couldn’t imagine how large it was going to be. The event would take place on the roof of the large, five-story condominium that my son rents in the affluent hills above the Aguas Calientes section of Tijuana. A Baby Shower. For whatever reason, my wife wanted me in attendance.

"Certainly, you don’t have to go," she said when I protested. There comes a point in every married man’s life when he comes to understand that sometimes no really means yes, and this transcends culture and language, and he’d better do what’s right by his wife or there will be consequences somewhere down the road. She assured me that the men in attendance (apparently, others have learned this lesson as well) would be happily content with beer and liquor and a large room below with a pool table. We were to do some of the heavy lifting beforehand and then be happily vanquished to a large room below once the party started.

Everyone had taken off early in the morning, leaving me behind to get there on my own. The Baby Shower was supposed to start at two-thirty that afternoon, but private event times in Mexico are set with deliberate inaccuracy. One could expect that, perhaps, the first guests would show up at around four o’clock. At two that afternoon, I wandered out the door and caught a route taxi and had the half-full van drop me off ten miles west near the Grand Hotel. I slowly hiked up the hill, by the country club and golf course, and thought about how I’d never attended – not even a floor below – either a Bachelorette Party or a Baby Shower. I figured that the former might employ male strippers and the latter would not. As it would turn out, I was somewhere near partially correct.

My first ever time coming to Tijuana was on business well over two decades ago. I knew nothing about this place, only a few stories I had heard that seemed far-fetched. I was single at the time, and subsequent trips that brought me down here left me time to explore this place in the evenings. I hit a lot of bars and strip joints along the way, dancing girls and hookers and inexpensive beer. I stuck to the beer and took it all in. There were also transvestites, and perhaps transsexuals, which initially surprised me since Mexico had such a reputation for being a macho society.

My only encounters with any man dressed in women’s clothing had been limited to occasional midnight showings of the Rocky Horror Picture Show and episodes of Benny Hill on television. I have always considered myself open-minded, often hung out with gay people in high school and college and thought nothing of it. Transvestites and transsexuals certainly didn’t freak me out. They would playfully paw at me or speak whatever English they knew, hoping for a trick or a lap dance. I stuck to my beer. Everyone has the right to make a living.

Over the years that followed, I married and then moved here, and then began to speak Spanish and learned what I could of the culture. I would work in the United States of America and then come home to Tijuana. I noticed that the transvestites and transsexuals were simply part of society here. The macho Mexican men, big beer in one hand, would eye them suspiciously, but would treat them respectfully for the most part. Sometimes I would read an article about a murder of one, deep in the bowels of the worst part of Tijuana, but that was rare. The general lack of animosity is surprisingly wonderful; it is one thing about this city that I am proud of.

It took me a while to walk all of the way to the Baby Shower – it wasn’t the distance that winded me, it was the climb. It was the first time I’d been to where my son lives since he moved out. The entrance from the sidewalk betrays the size of the place; it is simply a gated doorway with stairs leading upward. And upward. And upward. Fourth floor. That room was huge, with a pool table and a couch and little else. All of the bedrooms were off to the side, behind a hallway door that was kept locked. The kitchen was on the far end, no pots and no pans, with stacks of empty pizza cartons sitting near the trash can. I went up to the roof to see what was going on.

My height got me immediately employed to set decorations, and so I did. The wife and in-laws made themselves useful with other tasks. My middle girl meanwhile was busy doing the hair of the pregnant one, my son’s girlfriend. There were a lot of tables up there, and already a lot of beer chilling in several large trash cans, and I grabbed one. In the auxiliary kitchen, my wife was on the phone to my son, who was out chasing down the food. They had paid for a mess of empanadas for the main course to accompany the ranch-style beans that were already cooked and waiting. The empanadas were never prepared, the paperwork somehow lost, welcome to Tijuana. Instead, he found someone willing to part with a few hundred tamales for about the same price. I finished my beer and grabbed another and looked out at all of the upper class dwellings in Tijuana. I noticed two window awnings on the hill across the street. I remarked to my mother-in-law that they cost over two thousand dollars each. I don’t think she believed me.

I wandered back down and us few guys that were there racked up the balls and played some pool. There was a decanter of scotch on the coffee table and I helped myself. Beers were there to quench our thirst. People began to arrive and I paid no attention. It was a Baby Shower. Men don’t have any business up there, you let the girls have their fun.

A couple of years into my life in Tijuana, I met my second mentor in the world of thoroughbred horseracing. His name is Robert, and I like him a lot. I miss him. Wherever he is, I hope he’s still playing the ponies and still happy. Last I heard he was living in Temecula. I can’t imagine him that far away from Tijuana. He loved this place.

I was a weekend warrior and so was he, we would show up at the race book in Tijuana within minutes of each other and we talked mostly horses. We won a lot. We were patient. He taught me to look for value, to define a betting system based on my bankroll where I could invest smartly. I owe him a lot. I was married and Robert was single. Sometimes he enjoyed spending his winnings later that evening in some of the cantinas and strip joints. He took me along, my Spanish was sometimes valuable in negotiations when he found a girl that he liked. I would leave after a deal was cut, go get some tacos and go home. We had a lot of fun.

One evening, he wanted to hit this certain strip joint, and through my protests he proceeded to convince me to go with him. I hadn’t won very much money, but he had a few good payoffs that day. We went in there and sat and drank a beer, watching the stripper do her thing on the dance floor. Out of nowhere, there was a girl on each of our laps, back and forth. Except it was immediately obvious that they weren’t girls in the original sense. Surgery, injections, make-up, perfumes, heels, short dresses. Being married, I wasn’t interested regardless, and Robert wasn’t into them. I gently pushed the one off of me, no harsh words. Everyone has to make a living.

About a minute after they wandered back over to the other side of the room, it hit me. I stood up. I checked my pockets. I looked at Robert.

"She stole my money," I said.

Robert offered nothing, what could he say? Apparently, he buried his bankroll well, and apparently I didn’t. I was not happy. I didn’t approach her. Instead I went to the bartender and told him what happened. He shrugged, as if there was nothing he could do. Then I got mad.

"Listen," I said in Spanish. "This beer bottle is going to crash into that magnificent mirror you have behind the bar if I don’t have my money back in about two minutes. Have the cops arrest and take me to jail, but that mirror is worth a lot more than the money she stole. Think quick."

In two minutes, she handed my back my wad of cash. "I didn’t steal anything," she said, again in Spanish, "but here, you can have my money."

We got out of there. I think about that now, and it was one hell of a gambit on my part. We never went back. I have walked by that place a thousand times since then and I think about what might have happened if I had actually thrown that bottle of beer into the mirror. It makes me smile.

We played a lot of pool and drank and talked about the World Cup, as the Baby Shower began on the roof. Guests would arrive sporadically, and since there was a gate buzzer in that big room I charged myself with buzzing in the guests. Basically, I just buzzed in anyone. I paid no attention to who wandered up to that party. I had beer and scotch and pool, and we all wondered out loud if the Mexican National Futbòl squad would make it out of the first round. It wasn’t any different than what happens at my house in there, except for the pool table.

From where we were, we could hear the girls getting their party on. People kept on coming. We let them in, what in the hell did we care? We were guys being guys. Baby Showers are for the girls.

Then I noticed something. Where was my son? I went up there, sheepishly, to investigate, and there he was, with his friends, all playing waiters. "Hey, guys, come downstairs, this is for the girls." They came down, and we played pool and drank. I sat on the sofa and wondered what the baby would have to say about that party. My son and his girlfriend are having a boy. If they decide to get married, I don’t want to be around to help with that wedding. I can’t imagine how big that one’s going to be.

At one time I was fairly good at billiards. When Armando ran Armando’s Ladies Bar, I went in there almost every weekday after work, Armando had a pool table in there and we all played. Then, Joe bought it and to this day it remains as the Nuevo Perico, in his caring hands. There is still a pool table in there. I don’t seriously play anymore. I can no longer see from one end of the table to the other. This is what happens.

Back so many years ago, I could run that table for at least a couple of hours until I felt that I’d burned off enough steam from the workday to go home in a good mood. Some of the players were pretty good, like Danny and Oliverio and Don Chuy and others. Occasionally, girls would show up there and some would even play. And one transsexual gal named Nancy. Nancy wasn’t especially pretty nor not pretty, but enough surgery had been completed to where we referred to her as her. She played pool, not particularly well, but she could hold her own. She worked at one of the local strip joints and came into the Perico sometimes to take a break.

One evening, I was running the table well. Nancy’s name was on the board, and after I beat someone, she was the next to challenge me. While she slotted her fifty cents into the machine and racked the balls, I took a leak. When I had returned, she had snagged the house cue I was using. Of course, I wanted it back, I had filed the tip into something acceptable to work with, but she laughed at me and refused. If you ever find someone in the Perico that has been a regular for over a decade (or more), they will qualify my story. It is legend now.

Listen: I got mad. I didn’t want to confront her over it. Instead, I wandered over to the utility closet in the Perico and grabbed a broom. I chalked it up, right on the big fat end of it. I broke what she racked. I ran the table. With a broom. I never saw Nancy again. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but I feel bad about that. After all, everyone has to make a living. And sometimes, everyone needs a break. All I wanted was my Goddamned pool cue.

The party on the roof went on and on. Us guys just played pool and drank. At some point, someone up there ran us all plates of food down, the tamales were great, the beans were quite interesting, and we were all Gods in our own universe. Juan’s pals are generally good guys. We all got along swell.

Someone brought a laptop in there and I had them play some tunes, American music, I hope I enlightened them a little. We talked about indie rock, you know, we started with Silversun Pickups, and I told them, "Hey, you want great indie with a chick bass player, pull up anything by the Pixies." And they did. I was completely impressed with their willingness to listen to some old man go on and on. Perhaps they were being nice.

I remember sitting in a chair off in the corner. Apparently I fell asleep. It is my right, after all. My son-in-law woke me up at some point, and he drove me home with the rest of my family here. The party broke up, everyone had left. I had given my camera to my daughter, so when I got home – now wide awake – I had to download the pictures she took of the Baby Shower. It was enlightening, to say the least.

When I got laid-off from all of my years in aerospace, I had this misplaced hope that Boeing would somehow see the error of their ways and once again reward the hungry San Diego aerospace subcontractors with new shiny contracts. I wanted to believe that it had mattered to them somehow. Obviously, they couldn’t have cared less. And another confession: I was tired of aerospace, anyway. I remember cracking up the staff with an idea that perhaps we should email the military and simply offer to build components and then blow them up, thereby saving the government billions on unnecessary logistics. It was entertaining and practical, and perhaps I should’ve sent that email. At the very least, it would’ve made me feel better in the long run.

In the months that followed, I found myself drinking in the Perico one afternoon. Joe walked in. They had a kitchen. Many had tried and many had failed. The worse I could do was to fail, it beat cashing unemployment checks. Joe thought it a good idea, so what the hell. I ran it. Cheeseburgers, big as you’ve ever had, and even fries. Chili beans, freshly made, every day. Other stuff, as it occurred to me. To this day, some people often see me on the streets and ask me where I cook now. "At Home," I say. They seem truly disappointed.

I am proud to claim this as more legend in Tijuana. Sometimes us gringos can make a difference.

In the afternoons when I ran that grill, it was boring most of the time. Very few drank and no one ate. I simmered my chili beans and waited. One day she walked in. I wish I could remember her name. Someone had a guitar, and she grabbed it and played it and sang. She didn’t start out life as a girl, but that’s how she wound up. Long black hair, angular face revealing indigenous features, tight body apparently augmented surgically. It didn’t matter. She was magnificent.

I belted out the few Ranchero tunes that I had come to learn here, and her harmony was amazing, and her guitar was flawless. She was perhaps one of the most charming people I have ever met. I saw her a couple of times after that. But not in over a decade. People come and go. And they leave an impression on you. And you realize that, after all, people are just people. I really miss the good one’s I’ve met in my life.

I got home and nabbed my camera – now wide-awake – and downloaded the pictures. So many great memories these gals are going to have from this Baby Shower. And other images that made me double-take. The mother of my future grandson, sitting next to a transvestite. I quizzed my wife. "The son of my friend thought it would be a good idea for entertainment." Perhaps. I have no idea what went on up there.

I thought about that, wondered what I’d be able to tease my grandson about when he got old enough to take a good ribbing. Perhaps I could tell him that it might have been a minor miracle that there wasn’t a big mirror around to throw a bottle of beer at. Or perhaps, that somehow no transvestites made it downstairs and stole a pool cue away facilitating finding a broom to chalk up and run them off of the table. Or maybe sadly, that one of the most amazing people I’d ever met, who just happened to be a transgender, was quickly never to be seen again. And that maybe he could learn to play guitar and we could sing old ranchero, regardless of whatever he is to become.