Ancients
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A wise man I have known for many years clings tenaciously to the belief that it is not the cataclysmic events of history that alter and shape our lives. Rather, he claims, it is the sum total of all those small and seemingly innocuous happenings and decisions that are the most important factors in defining and shaping our destiny.
I tend to agree with him.
It rained that day — not a storm, just a steady, dreary drizzle that blew foul in off the gulf. I had fully intended to journey south of the border and spend the day foolishly squandering hard earned Yankee dollars in an attempt to bolster the sagging Mexican economy, but I hate to shop in the rain.
I sought refuge instead in a decidedly nontourist — a cantina that happily concealed itself on a deserted stretch of beach miles from the teeming masses. The bar was populated by two men; one was the prototypical bartender — bold, massive in girth and the possessor of numerous chins. The other had a thick rust-colored mat of unruly hair and a lush, if tightly cropped, reddish brown beard. The latter's name was Elliott Grant