The Christopher Bryson Series
Neon signs
Most times when I pass these signs it is near dark, or coming out of night. Even when I saw them for the first time I felt that I had seen them many times before.
I know the name is French, after Guillaume Tujague, but I see Tijuana, 1976, the Frontón Palacio and the diner across the street, the constant reminders of Revolución, then the free road south past the bullring, playas, lost and salty coastal days, Todos Santos, the cove and the lobster in foil, Ensenada nights, the neon of Hussong's, and the more intimate cantinas with names I don't recall: Piso Rojo, Manuel's, Abierto 24 Horas, and like that. Street taquitos at 25 cents, diesel-fueled Margaritas in a champagne glass for fifty. The night the contrabandistas offered me pesos for my wife—and when I refused, they sweetened the deal with a wooden box of cigars from Havana. Not believing them, I still refused, and the man with the gold tooth told me that they would take her to their boat if they really wanted her. Under the bar, he showed me a bone-handled cuchillo. I believed him. And the ceiling fans chopped the air like helicopters and deep heartbeats as we eased out of the place, ran like children under the neon light, scared, then later, laughing.
Neon in darkness is a visual cliche, but it remains compelling to me—its shape, its blurred sharpness, color. It can remind me of what has happened, where I have come from, and somehow holds promise for something more in the secret excitement of night.
Tujague's, Bar
Decatur Street
New Orleans
March 4, 2017
