Mezcal Fever
Lori Toppel
Word Count 591
A field of agave plants grew on the property, two donkeys grazed nearby, and a Dalmatian named Mr. James roamed the house. There were six dogs altogether. Some lingered in the courtyard; others sniffed outside by the garden or compost. At night, while they slumbered, we drank mezcal, distilled from the heart of the agave, whose smokey and buttery tones lulled me. I was staying with my friend, also a writer, at his home outside the city of Oaxaca to work for two weeks. He lived on an ex-hacienda that was over 200 years old, surrounded by valleys and mountains.
At dawn, I heard voices roll across the valley. Over breakfast, I asked my friend if he had heard anything, and he laughed. He told me he had hired a curandera, a medicine woman, to clean the earth of any evil spirits after they had bought the place.
The notion of the dead, whether walking through the valley or resting underfoot, unsettled me, and Mexico had a trove of ghostly legends. Whenever I wrote, the destructive strain of my imagination quieted, but, at night, as I passed through the courtyard on my way to the bathroom, the cape of sounds––hooting owls and other yearnings––fell upon my shoulders and I looked inside the stall to make sure there were no thieves or ghosts hiding.
I had to leave early when my dog was diagnosed with cancer. My friend gave me a bottle of aged mezcal, shaped like a gas can, its glass the color of smoke.
Fourteen months later, I poured myself a shot of mezcal and sat down to watch a movie. Although I’d finished my friend’s bottle some time ago, I had bought another. The house was still, my adult children had gone back to the city, my husband was upstairs watching football, and the world was reawakening after the onslaught of the pandemic. I sipped the mezcal. The weight of the drink spread through my limbs, more so because I hadn’t eaten lunch. Before turning on the television, I checked my phone and saw a text from Netflix: my subscription was about to expire. I’ll take care of that now, I thought. I filled in the information requested, including my social security number. Within seconds, it hit me. I jumped up from the chair and called Netflix. No, they said, they never send texts for payment.
I ran upstairs and told my husband what I had done. I canceled my credit card, called a credit protection agency, flagged my social security number (for free), and enrolled in a total protection program (for a fee). I cursed myself, changed passwords, and insisted my husband do the same.
Later, I imagined giving form to the invisible thieves. A camouflaging wildcat, sleek and watchful––too grand. A crimson-eyed vampire, thirsty and quick––too bloody. These thieves were best described as masked cowards, phantoms, nothing like the ghosts of Oaxaca conjured by folklore, sustained by faith, and expelled by curanderos. These ghostly thieves lacked history and were rarely captured, let alone pursued. They materialized through the victim: you were tricked, emptied out, scarred.
If I hadn’t had that mezcal straight up, I would have deleted that Netflix text––I let myself believe this. Whenever I see the spirit on a menu, I’m tempted to order it but never do. As for the bottle from that January afternoon over a year ago? It’s half full, in a cabinet, and if I happen to be reaching for a bowl or platter, I push it out of my way.
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Lori is the author of the novella The Word Next to the One I Want, the collaborative memoir Still Here Thinking of You, and the novel Three Children. Her stories and essays have appeared in literary journals including Inkwell Journal, The Antioch Review, and The Del Sol Review. Toppel, the mother of twin sons, grew up in Puerto Rico and lives in New York with her husband. More at loritoppel.com.