The night the mariachi ghosted: A sleuth contest for misled readers

It was your typical, atypical Monday afternoon shift at our friendly, neighborhood Irish pub.  As any experienced bartender will tell you (there’s more than just me out there, right?), no two shifts are alike, which is what makes our job so glorious and constantly entertaining.

While we see many of the same beautiful and familiar faces, every shift brings with it something new.

Enter… the traveling mariachi band.

I struck up a conversation with two Latin gentlemen sitting at my bar right after shift change, which is my job.  As it turns out, one was Spanish, the other Colombian, both part of a traveling mariachi band scheduled to play somewhere in Wesley Chapel on Friday night and somewhere down in Sarasota the next.  I’m not sure if mariachi bands have booking agents but apparently theirs is working overtime to land their clients some cushy gigs.

After a few moments, one of the gentlemen asked me to play Vicente Fernandez’ Aca Entre Nos over our sound system, which I did.  He immediately started singing along, which was all the proof I needed that this gentleman was the real deal.  The other, shier fellow sat by and harmonized as the lead vocalist lit up our not too crowded Irish Pub with a Mexican classic.  I even asked the man to sing to my friend’s newborn girl, which he did to the baby’s wide-eyed amazement.

Then, it dawned on me.  As this all occurred on a Monday, the following day was Taco Tuesday.  These gentlemen said they had nothing to do until their weekend gigs.  How about we invite them to play a few hours in our humble little pub, creating a culture clash of potentially epic proportions.  The owner agreed to a healthy comp tab and to allow them to work for tips.  The mariachi agreed.  They would bring one more musician with them to provide us with a power trio: vocals, guitar, bass, and trumpet.  It might have been the first time ever a traveling mariachi band graced an Irish pub.  One small step for man, one giant step for mariachi-kind.  As usual, I’m doing my best to promote world peace one cocktail at a time.

I told all my friends.  I stopped people on the street.  I spammed my Facebook page.  I alerted all the regulars in our pub’s social media group that this would be a limited engagement.  Enter the mariachi!  Anticipation was brewing.

Tuesday afternoon came.  I pulled out my sombrero from my bartender prop closet and it was on!

I walked into a crowded pub that Tuesday evening, so many people already there, brimming with anticipation.  Those who had been there Monday were eager to see what these guys could do in full dress.  Those who saw my posts were equally excited.

I’d asked the mariachi guys to start at six and play until nine so that they wouldn’t interfere with our normally scheduled karaoke.  Seeing these guys sing karaoke afterwards in full mariachi regalia would have been the icing on the cake.  In my head, I pictured the photo that all of us would take.  It would be epic.

Six o’clock rolled around.  No mariachi.  Okay, I thought to myself.  They’re running late, probably caught up in Tampa traffic or having a problem getting into their get-up.  The bar filled even further.

Six-thirty came.  Uh-oh.  I get it.  Latin myself, I understand the tradition de llegar mas tarde but in this instance, I didn’t like it.  I started to fret.  “I’m gonna be really disappointed if these guys don’t show.”

7 o’clock.  Maybe they misunderstood me, my broken Spanish still perfectly capable enough of ensuring a 6 pm start time.  Or maybe they’d show up at nine and karaoke and mariachi would have to co-exist, a beautiful fusion of Mexican, Irish, and Japanese tradition.

Alas, they never showed, despite giving me absolutely no indication that they wouldn’t.  I became the Boy Who Cried Mariachi.  Where in the World is Carmen Mariachi?  I believe this is how the Mexican-American War started.  Or maybe it was the War of 1812, I’m lacking in American History and am officially short one mariachi band.

So, to make the best of a sorry situation, I’ve decided to come up with a sleuth contest where you, my faithful reader, come up with the best explanation for what happened to the missing mariachi.  El perro comio mi tarea.  Translation: the dog ate my homework.  And please, people, come up with something more original than They Built a Wall.  Anyone submitting an answer so trite will be disqualified.

The person to come up with the most imaginative and hilarious reason in the comments section below as to why my mariachi ghosted me will receive: one free top shelf margarita made by yours truly, three free delicious JJIP tacos (redeemable Tuesday evenings only) y un gato en un sombrero.


Please follow and like us:
Pin Share

6 Replies to “The night the mariachi ghosted: A sleuth contest for misled readers”

  1. This immediately made me think of the Full House episode. Jesse and Joey tell everyone that R.E.M. is going to perform at the new nightclub, but instead, three elderly ladies named Renee Esther and Margaret show up. They were lying and playing a trick on you, for one of two reasons. They were going to have three elderly ladies show up instead. Or they assumed you knew how badly life has changed. Who doesn’t want to kill all the news stories about when many invitees RSVP for gatherings and birthday parties, and then not a single invitee shows up.

  2. Maybe in your rusty Spanish you mispronounced Tuesday. The bad news is the mariachi band ghosted on karaoke night. The good news is that you have a mariachi band for the entire month of March.

  3. Just between us , we did not mean to ruin Taco Tuesday , but as in the song , all those tequila shots caused us to lose our way.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *