Devil Monkey Boy

"How are you today, Mister Heeyurt?" The staff of the W Hotel speaks excellent English, with the exception that they all, to the last man and woman, insist on adding a very long extra syllable to my name.

My English is, como se dice, 'not so good' this morning. I mumble something in response. Whatever I said, it prompts Jorge to smile and set the American Breakfast on the table. The American Breakfast consists of eggs (scrambled), bacon, potatoes, and whatever other choices I made when I placed the room service order late last night. It all seemed like a good idea at the time. That time has passed. It's morning, and there's no more tequila in my system. The American Breakfast turns mi estomago. I settle on the toast and the juice.

The American Breakfast, as with all things offered by the W Hotel, is ridiculously expensive. It costs more than I spend on groceries some weeks. This is one of the things I probably have in common with Jorge. I give him a decent tip. He leaves. The tip and the breakfast get billed to my employer.

I step into the shower. There is no boundary between the shower and bathroom. The floor simply slopes gently toward the drain. I turn on the water. It sprays at me from three directions. I look out the window. Mexico City begins twenty floors beneath me and ends somewhere past the horizon.

The sunrise is as beautiful as I have ever seen. Rich purples and vivid yellows, and it breaks my heart to know the cost of it. From the airport to the hotel, we took a taxi. A giant Suburban that dwarfed the hundreds of cars all around us. All running, speeding, exhausting. All of them contributing to the smog that makes my eyes burn and the sunrise so unnaturally lovely.

Today, on the way to the office, we take another Suburban. We are seven today, six chatting merrily and me. The commute isn't even close to the real Mexico City, but it's as close as I get. We pass palatial estates, ringed by ten foot tall walls. They are guarded by the "middle men". There seems to be three classes of people: the rich, their security guards, and everyone else. It's the middle group's job to serve as the wall between the first and last.

I work for the rich. It was never more clear than when I stepped into my room at the W Hotel for the first time. "I'm working for the bad guys," I said to myself. "I have to be. The good guys don't have this kind of budget." I never entirely shake that feeling the whole time I'm there. I try to drown the feeling in Herradura Reposado, smother it in filet mignons, but it always comes back, gasping for big breaths of polluted air.

Out the window of the Suburban, I see guys in banana jumpsuits. There are always guys in banana jumpsuits. They walk up and down the roads, selling phone cards. The phone system is fucked up, so most people rely on the cards. There are other people walking the roads too. They sell flowers or candy, or sport bulletproof vests and revolvers.

Tonight at a club I am surrounded by the pampered sons and daughters of the rich. They are beautiful and happy. Their hairstyles come from anime, their attitude from wealth. There will be no banana jumpsuits in their futures, unless it becomes the fashion trend of the fall season. They have cell phones, whose bills they will never see. They too ride in Surburbans. And tonight, like me, they will rest beneath 500-thread count sheets. If I'm lucky, I will drink enough to sleep as soundly as they do.

In the morning, I wake. It begins again beneath a Technicolor sky.

So, how are you today, Mister Heeyurt?