“So, do ya like Mexicans?” asked the guy on the barstool next to me.

I set my beer on the counter. “What?” My stomach churned, not helped by the bitter brew.

“I said, do ya like Mexicans?” He turned toward me and pushed his cowboy hat back. His grin and eyes told me he’d been drinking steadily since opening.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Well, you’ve been starin’ at those chicas in the corner ever since ya got here.”

“What’s wrong with that? They’re beautiful.”

“Nothin’ wrong, mister. I’m just curious. I remember when they wouldn’t let ’em in here. Them and blacks.”

I rocked back on my stool and sized the guy up: old, alky, a real Texas he-man beyond his prime. “Yes, I’ve heard stories about back then . . . the bad old times.”

He frowned. “At least they stayed with their own. Now they’re everywhere. Every damn TV show has ’em. We need the wall to keep ’em out.”

“Yes, with their own.” I gulped my beer, laid some bills on the bar and slid from my stool, knowing that saloon was no place for me to spend a lunch hour.

Outside, the heat hit me, the mid-day beer on an empty stomach a big mistake. I got into my Lexus, cranked the AC and drove through beautiful Texas hill country until reaching a largely deserted town, more like a village. Pulling off the highway onto the square, I parked in the shade of a massive oak. I lowered the windows part way and leaned back in the sticky heat, ready for a nap, thinking about black folks, brown people, Asians, anybody that had a skin color different than mine.

Why should I like or despise an entire race of people different from my own? Shouldn’t we form our likes or dislikes with individuals? And why was I thinking about this in the middle of an August heat wave, in a dusty Texas town far from home? I closed my eyes and dozed for about an hour and a half, waking up soaked in sweat, cotton-mouthed and thirsty.

Driving south on the highway populated with pickups, I reached San Antonio in time for my jobsite visit. Circuit riding for a nationwide construction company had its challenges, with every state having its own building codes. But my visit to the luxury condo project and a session with its managers went without a hitch; I was back in my car in a little over two hours, searching for a place for dinner. My per diem would cover just about anything.

I avoided the franchise restaurants and looked for a small place where the locals might eat. A Mexican café several blocks off the highway looked interesting, its parking lot near full, its front lit with neon beer signs. Opening the heavy front door, I slipped inside the cool low-ceilinged interior, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.

“Good evening, señor,” a woman’s warm voice came out of the darkness. “Are you here to drink or to eat?”

I grinned. “Can I do both?”

“Of course. This way, por favor.”

We passed the bar with every stool occupied by men still dressed in rough work clothes and moved into a bright dining room filled with families and older couples. The sound of squalling children hurt my ears. As I passed between tables, the rumble of Spanish conversations quieted.

I stopped the hostess. “Are there tables in the bar? Can I order food there?”

She smiled at me just as a very loud baby cut loose at my elbow; I winced. “Si señor. You can order from the cocktail waitress.”

We retraced our steps and turned into the lounge. She laid the laminated menu on a highboy against the wall and disappeared. As I climbed awkwardly onto the metal-backed chair, the row of men sitting at the bar turned ever so slightly toward me, all tough-looking Latinos. One of them lifted a Lone Star beer bottle in my direction and grinned. I smiled back, feeling so much the minority.

I stared at the menu, everything written in Spanish, and tried to remember what I’d learned in Father Salvador’s Spanish II class. The food selection was extensive and I had barely narrowed my preferences down to a half dozen offerings when the cocktail waitress arrived.

“Would you like to order drinks and food, señor?”

She was petite, well-figured and gorgeous. Only the crows’ feet around her eyes and parentheses around her full mouth hinted at her age. Her smile helped me relax.

“You have so many things, what would you suggest?”

“Do you like spicy food?”

“Yes, but not too hot.”

“Rosalia has made some special tamales con cerdo. They’re very good with our homemade tomatillo salsa.”

“Thank you. I’ll have that.”

“And to drink?”

“How about a mezcal margarita?”

“Any special mezcal?”

“No, thank you.”

“Your food will be up in a little while. Our kitchen is very busy tonight.”

“Is something special going on?”

She grinned. “One of Rosalia’s brothers got married. Both families have been here all afternoon in the banquet room. The more they drink the hungrier they get.” She laughed and touched my arm.

“Well, I wish the newlyweds good luck . . . but I too am muy hambriento.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She disappeared from the bar. I removed my tie, loosened my collar and took off my suit coat. My entire outfit screamed “gringo,” and I needed to relax and enjoy. Tomorrow I’d be on the road for the daylong drive to New Orleans to check out a federal housing redevelopment project in the Ninth Ward.

My drink arrived and I sipped the tart liquid, the mezcal having a distinctive smoky flavor. I checked my cell for texts and emails. The one from my wife showed a video of our three-year-old daughter chasing our cat around the living room. The cat looked pissed, probably at Sonia’s high-pitched squealing. Why is it that I can tolerate caterwauling from my own daughter but not from other people’s kids? One of the many mysteries of families.

My food arrived along with a boat crammed full of various salsas and toppings.

“Can I get you anything else?” the cocktail waitress asked.

I stared at the steaming plate. “No, nothing right now. You’ve brought me enough food for two.”

She smiled. “Most of our bar patrons are working men. They eat a lot, drink a lot and go home to their families satisfied.”

“My family is in San Diego, so I’ll have to wait on that.”

“So you are here on business, señor?”

“Yes, but only for today. Tomorrow I drive to New Orleans.”

“Well, I hope you enjoyed your . . . your stay and have a safe trip.”

“Thank you.”

She touched my hand and moved to the order station where a tray full of cocktails and bottled beer awaited. I imagined her pushing through the door of a modest ranch-style house sometime after closing. She’d be quiet so as not to wake the children, would undress in the darkness and slip into bed, snuggle next to her husband, the warmth of his body relaxing her tired muscles. Tomorrow was a mid-week day off to rest.

I ordered a second margarita and flan for desert although already painfully stuffed. The TV above the bar telecast a soccer match between Brazil and Argentina, the sound turned off. All heads at the bar tilted upward, stared at the match and shouted when a player scored or missed a chance. The man who had acknowledged my arrival pushed his stool away from the bar, grabbed his drink and shuffled toward me. He outweighed me by at least fifty pounds, was burnt dark by the sun, his bare forearms showing old tattoos. I braced myself.

“Hey, I saw you today,” he said and sat on the stool across from me.

“Really? Where?”

“At the project. I work concrete for Granite Construction.”

“Ah yes, I noticed their trucks.”

“If I can ask, why did you show up?”

“I work for the general contractor, checking on projects across the country.”

The man tilted his beer bottle and drained its contents. “Yeah, you guys took over a few months back after the owners fired the first general.”

“That’s right. Taking over a big project in mid-stream can get messy. That’s why I’m here – to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“So you guys don’t plan on changing subs, firing some of us?”

“No, certainly not. What made you think that?”

“When some white guy comes bustin’ onto a site in a slick car to check on things and asks questions, us pourers get nervous.”

“Are all of you concrete workers?” I motioned to the guys at the bar, some of which stared at us.

“Yeah, we’ve been together a long time. We all need this job to keep going.”

“So does our company. I don’t think you need to worry.”

I kept a straight face and breathed slow and easy as I spoke. At that moment the full truth might do me more harm than just spoiling my dinner. The Granite Construction managers had let slip that they’d be laying off some of their workers the following week. From the man’s icy stare I suspected that he didn’t believe my rosy proclamation and knew something was up.

“Well, thanks for talkin’ with me,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“I have to stay sober enough to find a motel. But thanks for the offer.”

“Ningun problema. By the way, you should stop flirting with my wife.”

I sat bolt upright and stared at the guy. A grin creased his face but his eyes told a different story.

“Your . . . your wife?” I stuttered.

“Yeah, she’s the cocktail waitress.”

“She . . . she is muy bonita. And you’re a lucky man.”

“I know, but just be careful. They say all Mexicans stash knives in their boots.”

I nodded and took a big gulp from the dregs of my margarita. “Are . . . are you Mexican?”

He laughed. “I was born in Johnson City, just up the road. But my parents came from Juarez forty years ago. And no, they didn’t swim across.”

The man got up shaking his head and rejoined his friends at the bar. I took a deep breath and finished off my drink. The cocktail waitress walked toward me with a tiny tray that held my check.

“I saw you talking with my husband.”

“Yes, we chatted.”

“What was that about? He didn’t threaten you, did he? He can get so jealous.”

“No, nothing like that. He was just being . . . being protective.”

She turned and glared at the guys at the bar. Fortunately, her husband had his back towards her. “Men can be such idiots. I can protect myself, you know.”

“I’m sure you can. But don’t be too hard on him. I probably would have done the same thing if you were my wife.”

Her face momentarily darkened. “Jesucristo, another idiot,” she muttered, but then smiled and turned away quickly before her husband could notice.

I paid the bill with cash, leaving a twenty-five percent tip, and got the hell out of there. Outside in the parking lot, the night air felt wonderful. It calmed me and cleared away some of the brain fog that had settled in. My restaurant encounter taught me little more than I’d already known. But my God, Latinas can be so beautiful.

As I approached my Lexus, I noticed its left front tire had gone flat. I ran my hands along the tire’s sidewall, expecting to find the spot where someone had stabbed and slashed it with a knife. I found nothing. What I did discover was the head of a 16-penny nail embedded in the tread; I’d probably picked it up at the jobsite. As I waited for the Triple-A service truck to arrive, I pondered how quickly I had assumed that some Mexican had slashed my tire. Maybe that place really had taught me something.