Hunting the Hummingbird

By David C Hoffman

After a chance encounter with a mystical expat on the beach in Mexico, Stanley Waters embarks upon a spiritual journey of self-discovery to decide whether his life is worth living. Suffering from the sudden loss of his wife, and feeling more and more disenchanted with his consumerist American life, he seeks something of lasting value. Will he find it? Or will he ultimately find nothing worth living for?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781365335136

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Hunting the Hummingbird

Hunting the Hummingbird

by David C. Hoffman

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Copyright ©2016 David C. Hoffman

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ISBN: 978-1-365-33513-6

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chapter 1

October 2000 – La Barra Colorada, Guerrero, México

The sun baked the dusty asphalt and let off a steam you could almost taste. Anything beyond twenty feet shimmered like a mirage in the desert as the waves of heat swelled upward from the street. Everything was contoured with wavy lines as if I were peering through an old piece of glass. That day, like all others that week, was enormously hot and dripping with humidity. It seemed to me that beach was like a sauna, with no walls and no door. My face, hands, back, legs and feet were damp and sticky with sweat. My sunglasses fogged up continually and I could only clean them with the sparing dry spots of my t-shirt. It was my last day in the small Mexican town on the Pacific Ocean and I had decided to go to the market. It was there that I met Mark Jones.

As I tried to barter a better deal on some souvenirs I was buying, a tall bearded man who had apparently heard me attempting to speak Spanish stepped in and, I think, told the vendor that the price she had quoted me was outrageously high, that he could take me around the corner and buy the same things for at least twenty pesos less. Then he took a bite of his apple.

Thought I could help you out, he said. She says she’ll let you have ‘em for eighty, no less.

That sounds fine, thanks, I replied.

I paid for the souvenirs and tucked them in a limp wad of newspaper in my backpack. I looked around for the bearded man after cleaning my sunglasses again to thank him once more, but he wasn't there. I walked to the nearby street very carefully—trying not to bump into one of the many obstacles that lined the aisles and poured out from the small booths. Stepping onto the dusty street, I scanned down it both ways and managed to see the tall man lumbering toward the foothills carrying a small plastic bag and still nursing his apple. He walked with a relaxation of the limbs I had never seen before, effortlessly. He stopped to let a woman and her children pass in front of him, then waited a long time to cross the street at a deserted intersection. It seemed that he had nowhere to go and nothing to do when he got there.

Suddenly, I was startled by a small man with a baseball cap standing beside me. ¿Qué hora tiene Usted?

I stared at the man for a few moments trying to understand any part of his question, but before I could come up with it, the man smiled and tapped two fingers against his wrist. I smiled and nodded in understanding and showed him my watch.

Gracias, amigo. Hasta luego, he said.

And after a couple seconds I replied, Vaya con Dios, but the man was already on his way. I looked down the street again for the tall man, but he was gone. I made my way back to the hotel and packed the souvenirs into my suitcase. It was neatly packed and I looked over it to see if I had forgotten anything. Souvenirs. Plane ticket. Sunglasses. Book. Bathroom stuff. Headphones. Three tapes. Camera. Two rolls of film, one still in the camera. All my dirty clothes. What else? I couldn’t think of anything so I grabbed my book and sunglasses off the top, walked out, locked the door and put the key in my pocket. I walked to the beach for the last time on a short pathway lined with tropical plants in pots. I sat in a beach chair outside the hotel and began to read. Soon, a waiter came to me. He asked, in perfect English, if I would like anything to drink. I looked at my watch.

Yeah, I guess it is about time for a drink. Could I get a screwdriver please?

Of course, sir. Anything else? Perhaps some chips or chicharrones? he asked.

Yeah, some chips would be nice. Oh, and some bottled water if you have it, I answered.

Right away, sir.

He left and my eyes followed him for a while and then wandered to the seascape in front of me. I slowly closed my book and set it down in the dark sand. I gazed at the horizon and saw a cruise ship in the distance. For a few moments, I sat and thought. It was one of those times when everything felt so profound yet I couldn't actually focus on anything specifically. As if I was thinking very deeply, but so deeply that my thoughts were crushed into a fine powder just by their own weight and that powder floated in the air and was illuminated by a thousand particles of light that came to rest on my mind in a thousand different places. The cruise ship moved slowly across the rippled ocean.

Here is your drink and your water, sir, and I will be right back with your chips, okay? Okay.

I took the drink from him and he set off again in the sand toward the restaurant.

Thanks, I thought. Gracias. My profound moment had lulled me into a sure silence. When I can only smile and nod. When I can only sit back and observe.

Hey there. Got your souvenirs okay? It was the tall man from before. I looked up to answer him and saw only a dark profile in the glaring sunlight above.

Oh, yes. I did, I said, squinting up at him and breaking my silence. I rose a little in my lounge chair, And I wanted to say thanks a little more formally, but you were gone too quickly.

Yeah well, people have always told me that I disappear sometimes. It doesn’t feel that way to me. I’m always right here, he said as he eased himself down into the chair next to mine. From his long face hung a matted, sandy-brown beard and he had slightly curly hair that reached to his chin. It was a few shades darker than his beard. He had a broad forehead and a strong chin. His nose was large, but not too large for his face, and it came to a rounded point that sloped down to his beard.

Gorgeous, isn’t it. He motioned to the ocean with a sweaty bottle of beer. Sometimes, I think I could never get enough of this place.

Well why don’t you move down here? It wouldn’t be too hard, I replied making an attempt to sound knowledgeable about something I knew nothing about.

I did, and you’re right it wasn’t. He sat and looked at the ocean and took a long slow drink of his beer, swished it in his mouth and swallowed. He sighed and lowered in the chair.

You did? Wow. How do you like it?

What—this? What’s not to like, was his response.

Yeah, that’s true, I guessed. Was it very expensive?

Nah—It wasn’t that expensive at all. You’d be surprised. ‘Bout three, four years ago I met a guy tells me there are spots all over Mexico on the beach to live cheap and well. Highlights a few spots on a map and points me in the direction of a real estate man he knows—Who knows, guys probably work together. Anyway, this guy gives me a packet all done up and points out this place as an ideal spot. I figure he must point it out to everybody so how ‘ideal’ could it be. Turns out it was. Still is, I guess, he said. He was quiet for a moment, took a drink, and smiled. Yeah, I’d say I like it here.

Very expensive?

Not too much. No, not too much at all, he said smiling and took a long drink from his beer. He looked over at me and lowered his glasses. I’m Mark. I live right over the hill there. He offered his hand to me.

Nice to meet you. I reached to shake his hand but he closed it too quickly, shaking only the ends of my fingers. I hate when that happens.

I’m Stanley, I said, Stanley Waters.

Sounds like some kinda beer, he said as he laughed. I like your name, Stanley. I like it. He laughed some more. A cheap beer!

When the waiter came with my chips, Mark half-raised his beer and asked, Jose, get me a beer, would ya?

¡Oye, Nito! ¿Quieres una chela, eh? I’ll be right back, he said and trudged away. He stopped seconds later and turned, ¿Una Bohemia, Nito?

That’s the one! replied Mark. He leaned over to me and looked at me from above his shades. Something about the Mexican people, man. They’re just charming, uh? They go out of their way to make you feel at home, don’t they?

Yeah, actually I have noticed that.

It was hard not to. The people of the town had been, since I arrived six days earlier, among the nicest people that I had ever met. One man at a restaurant even offered to share the food off his plate simply because I had tried to ask him what it was. With my Spanish being so poor, the people, it seemed, were incredibly understanding. With a number of them, my communication was so reduced that I found myself scribbling in the sand with a stick and waving my arms like a maniac. The kids enjoyed that and they loved to help me whenever they could. There was one in particular who worked at the restaurant in the hotel lobby. He couldn’t have been past the age of seven, but he was the most outgoing person I had met there. He was, as he said, in charge of waking me up. I learned this after a long discussion with him standing in the doorway of my room at six thirty-eight a.m. I tried hard not to be angry and was able to tell him through more scribbles and broken Spanish that I normally wake at nine when I’m on vacation. Every day after, he woke me sometime between nine and ten in the morning with coffee or fresh-squeezed orange juice.

For maybe three hours we sat below the sun in our chairs. My book never opened again. Mark was a really interesting guy. He had this way about him. A wise countenance made it seem like all his answers came dipped from the pools of his own experience. After noticing a growing redness around my shoulders, he suggested that we get some shade. It wasn't until I stood in agreement that I even thought about being drunk.

After I fell, my mind stumbled and fumbled to regain control. I groggily murmured my way back into a standing position and I heard Mark chuckle and say, Yeah, that sun is the real killer. Not the beers, vodkas, or tequilas. It’s when you mix ‘em with that sun is when there’s trouble. Let’s go. I gotcha.

We stopped to pay the bill and then it was a long staggering walk to his place. He told me stories of different locations we passed by while I—every so often—bumped into him, bumped into road signs, into buildings and cars. I found some things to say, but saying them with a tongue that felt two times its normal size was a bit difficult. As we climbed up a hill, I stopped to lean against a building for a moment. The hill seemed to get steeper with every step and, in the heat of the day, I looked very suspiciously at it. It lurched and settled, lurched and settled and I gazed at it like it was guilty of a crime I'd watched it commit. Then it happened. The sudden lurch in my chest and the hot flood rushing up my throat and out of my mouth threw my body to the pavement before I could react.

The next thing I remember is that it was dark and I was in a bed with mosquito netting and had a warm, wet rag spread across my forehead. I sat up slowly, waved the rag to cool it down, and held it against my head. I climbed below the mosquito netting like a fly trying to slip out of a spider’s web. Confusion reigned in the small kingdom of the mosquito netting. Finally, having found the bottom and made it out of the bed, I looked around the room. There was a small wooden table next to the bed bearing only a lonely candle and a book of matches. Below the table was a tall stack of small notebooks. On the opposite wall was a painting. Oil on canvas. Something that looked like a wave emerging from a rock face and spilling out to black and white people standing below. The people were featureless and their expressions were only intelligible by the positions of their bodies and their sculpted stances.

Interesting, I thought.

I made it out of the room and came into another small room. This one had a hide-a-bed couch opposite a sliding glass window. Through the window, I saw Mark sitting on the patio. His back was turned to me as he sat staring out at the ocean—lit now only by the emerging moon and the huge cruise ships that reflected their slow progress along the water with a hundred deck lights apiece. Beside him was another table like that in the bedroom and on it was a half-empty beer. There he sat, tapping the end of his pencil against a notebook and humming to himself. I walked to the patio.

Hey, Mark. I take it this is your house.

Hey, buddy. Awake at last huh? How do you feel? he asked.

Better—and worse at the same time, I said.

I know the feeling well. Sit down. I’ll getcha something.

No, you don’t have to— I was going to protest, but he walked right by me and motioned to the lone chair on the patio. In a moment he was back with some aspirin, a glass of water and a beer.

No, I couldn’t drink a beer right now. My stomach is way too—

It’s not for you, but these are, he said as he set down the aspirin and the water, grabbed his already half-empty beer and took a seat on the patio rail to my left.

Thanks.

I took the aspirin with large gulps of water. Six in all. That should help. At least I hope it will. My head is absolutely killing me, I said.

Well if it doesn’t, I do have some more beer in there, he said with a half-smile. He shook his head and chuckled. Then, drank.

I looked up at the dark night sky. The stars were bright and low clouds were faintly lit by the streetlights of the small village.

No more beer, thanks, I said musingly. After those three screwdrivers and however many beers we had, I just don’t feel up to it. I can’t believe you’re working on two beers right now.

What this? No you can’t count this as two beers, one’s only half-full. So I’m really only having one beer, that is, if you round down.

Alright, I said with a laugh.

We sat for a few moments in silence. I was rubbing my head and trying to wake up when it occurred to me. Then, I panicked.

Ohhh—No! I fumbled to check my watch, but found instead a bare wrist and a tan line the shape of my watch. What time is it?!

You got me, I don’t wear a— his voice faded as I scrambled to the bedroom to look for my watch. I searched everything and couldn’t find it.

Hey! Where’d you put my watch?! I yelled.

Your what?! he yelled back from the patio.

My watch! I replied.

You mean you don’t remember?! he yelled back.

Remember what?!

That you gave it to that kid on the way here!

Suddenly, the image of a young boy with chocolate smears on his face flashed through my mind. He was tugging at my arm and smiling at me with a smile that spanned his face and folded his cheeks, spreading the chocolate farther from his mouth. Then, another flash: the boy was giggling and pushing buttons on my watch making it beep. With every beep, he giggled. Then, another flash: the boy walking down a cobblestone street.

I gave him my watch? I asked as I came back onto the patio rubbing my forehead with tense hands.

Yeah, why?

Because I need to know what time it is. I have to get to the bus station!

Well, it's not exact, but I'd say it's around seven-thirty. The sun set about an hour ago, so yeah, somewhere around there. What time is your bus leaving? he asked.

I just missed it, I replied with a sinking feeling in my stomach. My flight leaves at ten from Acapulco and that was the last bus I could’ve caught from here. I was starting to get very stressed very quickly. Oh, that sucks, I said with a heavy sigh.

I had to be back to work the next day. I was going to be the only manager there and if I missed it— Now what? I said in desperation as I slumped into the chair.

Hold on a minute. You wait here. I’ll be right back, okay, he said as he put down his beer and rushed toward the front door.

Hey, where are you going? He didn’t answer. He was already halfway through the door. My head throbbed and I held it with both hands.

In a couple of minutes, he was back with another man.

This here is my friend Raúl. He’s the one who’s gonna drive us to Acapulco in time for your flight. He stood with his arm around a timid older man, probably well into his fifties, with a dark brown mustache that seemed to outgrow his lip. He smiled and nodded to me. I started to wonder if we had enough time, but Mark interrupted my thoughts.

We’ve got enough time, so come on. We gotta get to your hotel, get your stuff and bomb up the road here to Acapulco. Raúl says it’s seven-twenty on the dot and that it takes about two and a half hours to get there so I suggest we get going.

Frantically, I threw on my shoes and rushed out the door while Raúl calmly walked to the other side of the pickup. Mark ushered me into the middle seat while he sat by the window. He and Raúl both slammed their doors at the same time making the cab of the pickup act as a momentary compression chamber, which created a feeling much like a vice grip clamping down on the optic nerves behind my eyeballs. As Raúl started up the old pickup with synthetic leather seats that were stretched and thin, he turned and smiled at me with a couple missing teeth.

Vamos entonces, he said.

I leaned over to Mark and asked if we had any seatbelts to which he replied, Stanley, that's exactly why the good Lord gave you your arms and this fine dashboard. I know a good whiplash doctor, too. He laughed quietly and patted me on the back.

We’ll be okay, Raúl here's one of the most experienced drivers you’ll meet in México.

The stars that night were amazing. They were the brightest I had ever seen. They shined down on the land not like stars at all, but like holy torches sent from God himself. The hills were a dark blue from the moonlight and the night breathed a mystic air. The headlights were dim on the old truck and useless beyond sixty feet as the road lurched out of the dark blue haze in front of us at incredible speed.

Mark and I were talking. The aspirin had helped and my headache was much milder. He asked me if I liked sports.

I don’t really follow sports all that much, I replied. I don’t have that much time to devote to following certain teams or being a fan, I explained and went on, "I can never remember all their names because they’re always changing players from one team to another. The salaries are so ridiculous for some of these guys that I get really frustrated hearing them say how hard it is to go out and do all this work. They're playing professionally! Besides that, I think, for the most part, they're pretty boring."

Really, he replied, that’s interesting. I didn’t expect that of you.

What do you mean?

Well, for me, sports are like ... a representation of human achievement. What the human race is capable of. I watch a baseball game not to see who wins, but to appreciate the ability of these guys to hit a baseball going ninety-five miles an hour and curving, no less, over a fence four hundred feet away that’s ten feet tall. Or golf, where they take a club cut at a certain angle and manage to hit a tiny white ball two hundred yards within five feet of the pin. Or football, I mean, soccer—where they use only their feet and they do incredible things with a bouncing ball. Or take—hell, even pole-vaulting requires amazing agility and perfect timing. The hurdles—

Right then, Raúl slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel to the right to avoid a dog—some idiot dog that had waited until the exact moment that we came along to cross the road. Then, he floored the gas pedal and hurdled us back over the bank and onto the road.

Mark took up where he left off, "Lacrosse. Volleyball. Ooh, racquetball!

There’s a good one. Then he looked out the window and back at me. For me, it’s not about teams or associations or even my favorite player. It’s about the maximizing of ability, the perfection of