The San Pedro Mall couldn’t have been more ill planned, in typical Costa Rican fashion, because it was right in the middle of a traffic circle where two highways spilled out onto the city’s surface streets. There were no crosswalk, bridges, pedestrian lanes, or even traffic lights to get to the mall, so thousands of patrons had to sprint across the traffic circle daily, dodging cars as they yanked their kids airborne by their arms but carefully protecting their shiny new shopping bags. Every man, woman, and child was on their own when it came to crossing the six lanes of traffic, including the 100-year old grandma scooting her walker across the highway at record speed so she wouldn’t get clipped, and it was commonly understood that your whole family might not make the trip back from the mall. Of course pedestrian rights were nonexistent - if you got hit by a car you had to pay your own medical bills and compensate the driver for damage to his car. Run fast my friends.
Not that it discouraged the patrons at the mall, but walking on a Costa Rican street was a full contact sport. The leading cause of vehicular deaths in the country was due to people being hit and killed by cars, even more so than cars getting into accidents with each other or drunk driving. Stop signs and traffic lights were considered optional, and I could vouch for the adage that Ticos loved to use their horns but hated to use their brakes. The scramble for safety on the roads around the San Pedro Mall extended to the sidewalks, where it was customary for the woman to walk on the inside of the man when a couple strolled together, not only so people wouldn’t think she was a prostitute for sale, but so she’d be further away from traffic in case a car jumped the curb and drove onto the sidewalk. It was so bad that the slang word for speed bumps was “son muertos,” or literally translated, “the dead people.”
There wasn’t much else remarkable about San Pedro; a small college, a few bars, pizza shops, and mom and pop grocery stores, a small Spanish colonial church stained with centuries of bird crap overlooking a soccer field sloped at an improbable angle, and the monolithic structure of the mall dwarfing the skyline. My travelling campadre Shane and I found a little apartment on the ass-end of town for our six week stay in Costa Rica and quickly befriended our neighbors, six Dominican hookers. Noelle, Helena, Porkchop, and company worked at the seedy Hotel Del Ray at night and hung out with us playing cards, reading the Bible, and cooking rice and beans with fish during the day. Hanging with them was all the amusement we needed, but the main form of entertainment for most of the local Ticos was to browse the mall, especially during the rainy season. Other than the usual cell phone, video game, and teen fashion shops it had a multiplex movie theater and a huge disco that took up the entire top floor called Planet Mall. The dance club was ultramodern and cavernous, the main dance floor and bar area taking up one whole city block, so big that it was almost impossible to fill with people. The wall-length windows offered a view of the street far below and the sun setting behind the green hills through the smog. Planet Mall was rumored to be owned by Sylvester Stallone, and I also heard Arnold Schwarzenegger’s name thrown in there sometimes, but supposedly it wasn’t doing well because no Tico could afford to party there. Just the cover charge alone was an astronomical $10 USD. We didn’t go to the mall often, preferring the small dimly lit bars near the train tracks by the University of Costa Rica, drinking beers in Escazu with our Tico friend Luis “El Toro” Diego and tipping the waitresses with handfuls of weed, but I have to admit it was a great place to people-watch on a rainy day. But I kept reminding myself that one of the reasons I left the United States was to get away from the anestitized consumerism of the Gap and Burger King joints on every corner.
Other than risking their lives getting to the mall to buy things they couldn’t afford the Costa Rican national pastime was hustling gringos for their money. I learned that the hard way. Shane and I: young, wild, and free, wanted to experience some of the indigenous wildlife, so we never turned down an opportunity to meet local chicks. We considered ourselves somewhat of a couple palm-tree Casanovas, and the mall was a great place to meet women, but little did we know the hunters were actually the hunted.
On our first Saturday night in town we wanted to celebrate our new apartment so we walked to a campus bar for pizza and beer. A middle-aged lady with enough makeup to double as a rodeo clown sat across from us with her two daughters. The oldest daughter, Paola, was breath taking; with cocoa butter skin and icy blue eyes, natural blonde hair, perfect curves, and unusually blessed in the fun bag department. Her little sister, Tatiana, was even bustier, but her curves were squeezed into a 4’11” frame, making her look like someone was shooting a rap video in a fun-house mirror. For some unknown reason Tatiana was intent on squeezing her bodacious bod into clothing more suitable for an anorexic thirteen year old, so her jeans were so tight they defied the laws of physics, swelling and straining the fabric. I seriously considered putting on safety goggles in case her buttons started popping and shooting around the room. Their mother invited us over for a beer. Shane and both shot up and dove for the chair next to Paola, wrestling each other to the ground for the chance to sit next to the beautiful sister. I thought I had won the seat with a good karate chop to Shane’s larynx, but he managed to take control of the chair by threatening to stab me in the throat with a fork. I resigned to take my seat next to Tatiana and gave her a fake smile as he started to suavely chat up big sis. After a few beers they invited us out to go with them to another bar after pizza, and got up to leave, assuming that the bill would be handled by us. We weren’t too cool with that move, but agreed to hit the next spot, both jockeying for the beautiful Paola. I was secretly hoping Shane would blow it with the sister so I could move in, but he was as smooth as melted ice cream, so I was resigned to employing an ancient Zen secret to accentuate the beauty in Tatiana: beer goggles.
We nicknamed the sisters the Titty Twins because, well, what the hell else were we going to name them? The whole lot of us – including their mom - hit the San Pedro night and walked to the next spot, a rooftop bar in San Jose. The Twins and their mom stopped wanted to stop in a little market for some things. They ripped through the store and ended up with a pile of cigarettes, ice cream bars, gum, and even lottery tickets by the cash register, stepping back when it was time to pay, once again assuming Shane and I would pick up the tab. What the hell were the lottery tickets for? I asked. Tatiana told me that they were for her father’s birthday next week. Oh hell no! I threw them aside, but the girls did get all of their edible treats. The bar was four floors up but the elevator was broken, so we all hoofed it up the stairs. Tatiana didn’t look like she was going to make it. She held a lit cigarette in one hand, a double scoop ice cream cone in the other hand, and was chewing gum. By the third staircase she was bent over and wheezing, clutching the railing like she was going to have a heart attack. As we continued the walk she kept stopping abruptly so my face would smack right into her ass like an air bag was being deployed. Once we arrived at the club Tatiana and Paola led us to a table where their entire family was seated – not exactly what we planned. The relatives introduced themselves one by one, and as far as I could understand the girls had three moms. They began ordering pitchers of beer and rum and cokes to sip on in between. I tried to keep up with the three moms and the Twins, but after an hour I was shit-faced. After that my memory got a little hazy. I remember stumbling to the bathroom and Mom #2 grabbing my crotch under the table when I returned. Then I recall one of the other moms hitting Shane up for some money – “just a little loan until the bank opens on Monday.” Instead we threw some money on the table for a good portion of the bill and promised to meet them at the mall at 3:30 pm the next day just so we could leave. The moms tried to grab our shirts and hold us there, probably so we could subsidize the entire family’s drinking session for the entire night, but I executed a flawless Ju Jitsu move on her wrist to get free and ran for the stairs. I knew Tatiana wasn’t chasing anyone.
Shane and I left the club drunk and with rabbit ears where our money used to be, so the smart thing to do would have been to go home and lick our wounds, calling it a night. Instead we jumped in a taxi to take us to Escazu, the upscale entertainment district in Santa Ana, to keep the dream alive. No sooner did we step out of the taxi than a gang of girls started whistling at us and calling out “Aye poppy!” and “Ricoh carne.” No matter how many times I hear those sayings it still cracks me up. The girls brought us to a disco called Coco Loco. I hung out with a cute girl named Hazel, who had pale skin and straight brown hair, and Shane with her friend Daisy, who looked half Chinese. They were Nicaraguans who had moved to Costa Rica for better work opportunities a couple years before, and Hazel found work for a car dealership and Daisy at a kindergarten. Hazel and I hit it off and it was great to finally meet good girls who weren’t trying to hustle us. We boogied with our new friends to reggae, dance hall, and salsa tunes until we were all covered in. We exchanged phone numbers before heading for home, exhausted but smiling because the night was an overwhelming success.
The next day, however, was an absolute freak show. We woke up with vicious hangovers and pockets full of phone numbers, feeling like big ballers. We had made plans to meet the Titty Twins at the mall at 3:30pm, so we had all morning to lounge around. A few minutes later our phone rang. Shane answered it, talked in Spanish for a minute, and then hung up looking confused. He reported that some girls had invited us to dinner that night at 6:00 pm at a place called Johnny Rockets. So what was the bad news? He had no idea who he just talked to on the phone. His best guess was that it was Daisy and Hazel calling with the invite, but he couldn’t be sure. Oh well, we should be able to meet up with the Titty Twins and get rid of them and find Johnny Rockets well before 6:00pm.
The heat of the day had built up dark clouds rolling in from Volcano Arenal to the West, but it looked like the rain might hold off for a while. Shane and I waited for the Titty Twins to show up on the front staircase of the mall. I turned around and saw that the Dominican hookers from next door had spotted us and were walking over. Much to our surprise they were the ones who’d invited us to dinner. We our best tried to back out of it, promising them that we’d do it another time, but despite our best efforts Noelle sternly insisted. Pork Chop loomed behind her ready to rough us up, and probably eat us, if we didn’t comply. It was getting dangerously close to 3:30, so finally we acquiesced just to get them out of there before the Titty Twins showed up. We looked at our watches and breathed a sigh of relief – Paola and Tatiana hadn’t shown up yet and seen the Dominicans, but we weren’t out of the woods yet. I was shocked to see Daisy and Hazel out at the mall, doing a little Sunday window shopping, and they came over to say hi to us. They invited us in for a beer and were in no hurry to leave our sides. We didn’t want to be rude because they were sweet girls, so we agreed to meet them later on that day at the mall for a beer and they finally walked off, leaving us in the clear. It was now 3:45 so we decided to wait inside the lobby of the mall and watch for the Twins arrival so we wouldn’t get caught again.
We were hanging out in the center aisle of benches and palm trees between the stores when I noticed some commotion. A dozen teenagers in matching football jerseys were getting jostled by two security guards. We found out later that a professional club football team were appearing that night at the dance club on the top floor of the mall. The unruly teenagers were supporters of the rival team from a nearby poor neighborhood, and came to represent their barrio and stir up some trouble. A middle-aged security guard, wearing a white shirt with a black tie, had grabbed one of the kids and trying to hold onto one him for some unknown transgression. The kid was having no part of being detained and probably arrested, so he squirmed and pushed to get out of the security guard’s grasp. The tension mounted as more teenagers circled the two officers and began pushing to free their friend. Several security guards came running over from other parts of the mall with walkie talkies squawking, armed with mace and black metal nightsticks. The kid pulled and kicked to get away from his grasp, ripping his football jersey as the guard hung on for dear life. A handful of other security guards pushed into the fray and tried to grab the kid. Finally he wrestled free, leaving part of his ripped jersey in the security guard’s hand, and another guard wound up and smacked him in the head with his open hand. All hell broke lose. This was all unfolding in the span of a few seconds, only a few feet from where I was standing, and I took in every detail as if it were slow motion. The football hoodlums swarmed in to defend their friend, unloading a fury of kicks and punches on the security guard. The guards, much bigger and armed, pulled out their nightsticks after absorbing the initial shock of being attacked, pushing the kids back with a few wild swings. Everyone on both sides started swinging their fists furiously. The fight spread through the lobby in a whirlwind of punches, kicks, and falling bodies. The kids instinctively made for the exits to get to daylight. People on both sides were getting clocked and falling to the ground, and I had to back-peddle so I wasn’t tripped by falling bodies and pulled into the fray. Mall patrons screamed and pushed to get out of there, causing an instant panic in the crowd and a stampede for safety. The football ruffians were chased out of the mall lobby onto the staircase out front. Radios cackled panicked shouts as a phalanx of security personnel swarmed in from all parts of the mall, nightsticks drawn and pepper spray readied. The rag-tag and bloodied kids backed up and regrouped on the sidewalk at the bottom of the stairs, about 20 yards from a wall of security guards in white shirts poised for violence. Somehow I had moved outside too, though I don’t remember walking there, and found myself standing on the side of the staircase directly in between the two rival groups. Everyone was pumped up with adrenaline and pissed off at getting smacked around, shouting curses at each other, but no one daring to cross the no-man’s land separating them. A few of the guards with pistols or shotguns, like the ones who worked at the banks in the mall, came to the front. The kids picked up rocks and bottles and chunks of concrete – anything they could find on the street and the sidewalk, and threw them full blast at the officers. Debris whizzed through the air right in front of me and I ducked down a little so I wouldn’t get hit by an errant bottle. Most of them fell short and clanked against the stairway in front of the guards, but a few found their mark. A rock smashed through the mall foyer’s big plate glass window in an explosion of glass shards, eliciting screams from a woman somewhere. Then the kid with the ripped jersey stepped forward and whipped a small baseball-sized chunk of concrete towards his adversaries. I watched its trajectory and instantly knew it would be trouble. I watched it smash into one of the guards squarely in the face, catching him completely unaware and sending him staggering back, a steady trickle of blood appearing down his cheek. His eyes filled with rage and he instinctively charged like a bull. Only a few of the guards had guns but he happened to be one of them, pulling out a black revolver. A collective moan of fear rose from the crowd. As he approached the kids he waved the gun around in anger, like it was an extension of his arm. The poor football thugs scampered onto the street to get away from him and out of range of his gun.
Everyone ran except one kid, a scrawny punk who was maybe fifteen years old with a homemade mohawk haircut. He actually stepped forward towards the guard. He was not tall, not big, not remarkable in any way except for his insane cojones. He walked right up the guard, so scared that he was shaking like a leaf, but not wavering in his resolve. The guard was still fuming mad and pointed the revolver in his direction. The kid was so charged with adrenaline that he could barely stand, and fell to one knee on the pavement, and then both knees, screaming at the guard. The guard moved forward until they were only an arm’s length away and leveled the revolver right at his chest. Possessed by some unearthly courage, the boy dared the guard to shoot. He pounded his own chest with his fists and yelled at the guard with his head thrown back, fully exposing himself to the gun. I didn’t translate what he said, but yet I still knew what he was screaming: “Go ahead and shoot me! You don’t have the balls! Shoot me then! I am only fifteen and from the barrio but I have nothing to lose! I will die for my hood! Shoot me!” Families with shopping bags, the whole line of guards, and all of the other kids looked on, awestruck and frozen. The guard pressed the gun against the kid’s chest and got ready to shoot. The kid screamed at him and ripped open his shirt as if to give him a better shot. I had to blink to make sure it was real – the kid was wearing a Superman tee shirt on underneath the shirt he had ripped away. He was daring the guard to rip a bullet through his chest, and the guard was raging mad enough to do it. But he wasn’t Superman and this bullet wasn’t going to bounce off of him. I thought for sure that the guard was going to shoot – everyone did. I was about to see a bullet rip through another human being’s heart and end his life. This wasn’t a movie or TV and the gravity of the moment weighed me down from moving or even yelling out. But the guard didn’t shoot. He paused. When the kid had ripped open his shirt and dared him to shoot he had lost his edge, and just like that the millisecond when the universe had crashed to a stop was over. The anger drained from the guard’s face as he, too, was shocked by the kid’s willingness to die for his pride. He lowered his revolver. The mohawked Superman got up and scampered away, no longer a super hero but just a scared punk again. The guard was suddenly conscious and thinking through consequences of his actions, so he just yelled a half-hearted warning at the kids and walked back up the steps to the mall, holstering his gun. The guards milled about long enough to see the kids curse them out and give them the finger but then walk away down the street, celebrating and slapping each other on the back. I came back into my own existence. Oh my God, I couldn’t believe I came that close to seeing someone murdered right in front of me. To this day I can vividly recall the image of the kid on his knees, ripping open his shirt to expose a Superman crest, daring the guard to shoot. It instantly reminded me of Tank Man, that unidentified guy who blocked the path of a column of tanks in the 1989 Tiananmen Square protests in China, one person willing to give his life just to be heard, even for a brief moment. I wished I had my camera with me, because a photo of what just went down would win some serious awards. The crowd breathed a sigh of relief and collected their possessions and children, unsure of what to do next, and either went back into the mall or made the sprint across the street to go home.
A minute later the Titty Twins found us, sweating and grinding our teeth and trying to explain what just happened. For some unknown reason they had brought two out of three of their moms along again. They didn’t even ask us how we were, they just went into their spiel about how they were hungry and wanted to eat at the American-style burger and milkshake joint right next to us in the mall, and then wanted us to take them all to a movie. I looked up to see the burger joint they were talking about and was befuddled to see that it was Johnny Rockets - the exact same one where the Dominican chicks wanted to meet. Shit! Shane tapped me on the shoulder – across the other side of the mall, walking towards us, were Daisy and Hazel. This couldn’t get worse. Shane and I took one look at each other and turned and walked away without speaking a word. I needed a drink. We made a beeline for the stairs and ran all the way up to Planet Mall. We paid our steep cover charge to the burly bouncer and walked in. The infamous football team had arrived and were autographing posters for the other disco patrons, completely oblivious to how much blood their presence just spilled. My nerves were shot and I was shaking with adrenaline from seeing Superman almost get shot. The last thing I noticed, before I headed to the bar and got properly soused, was the Titty Twins and their mom, the Dominicans Noelle, Hazel, and Pork Chop, and even a confused Daisy and Hazel outside the club entrance, clamoring to get in like wolves at the door, but being held back by the bouncer. They were all pointing at us to come get them and pay their cover charges. Fuck that noise. I slapped every last dollar I had on the bar and told the bartender to line up shots of his cheapest Tequila. We were safe, for now, but getting home was going to be a bitch.
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