Everyday David brings me a rose and I tell him, we all remember Birdsong. I pass the glass over the counter and David tries to steady his hands. "I'm going to go put on my suit  and tie," he says. He has neither suit nor tie. David takes the shot glass and downs the contents. He looks at me, frightened,  "Where are the roses? You knew my wife, right?"

            "Right here," I say, "the rose is right here."

"It is so beautiful," he says, "Where is the other one? Oh, someone took the other one."

There were never two roses.

 "My wife died in Mexico."

I never met David's wife, but I tell him that I knew her, that she was a beautiful woman, as beautiful as the birds. This makes him smile. He continues, "She didn't make it back. You know what that means?"

"What's that?" I ask.

 "That means that I don't have my right side," he says, pointing to his right and frowning. His lips quiver and he turns and walks away from me. He looks back, trying to smile, and says, "I'm going to go now. I just need to put on my suit and tie." He walks towards the bathroom with a small duffel bag and I see him pull a bottle of tequila from it. I imagine that is his suit and tie.

David walks into the bar on a Tuesday and he looks stronger, confident, and more alert. He tells me the story of Birdsong all over again, without adding a single detail.

            "You're looking alright," I say to him.

            "That's because we're all ready," David says, "We're going back."

            "Who's we?"

            "To Mexico," he continues, "We've been practicing."

            "Oh yeah?" I say, unsure of what he's talking about.

            He leans in close and he whispers, "You knew my wife right?" I nod. "Well, she was attacked in Mexico. She told me who did it--what they did--and we're all going back there to find the guy."

            I open my mouth, but David puts a finger to my lips and his eyes beg for silence.

            "We're not going to kill him," he explains, "but the man won't have any kneecaps by the time we're done with him."

            I always thought of David as a man with burdens to endure, but ultimately passive. Nonetheless, he continues, "When he's lying there on the ground, yelling to me, ‘Why! Why!' I'm going to stand over him and say into his ear, ‘This is for my wife, you bastard.'"

            "Didn't your wife die of cholera?" I ask.

            He stares back, angrily and sys nothing. I turn away, frustrated. David begins to walk out.

            "David!" I call.

            He turns, his eyebrows partly raised.

 "Just be careful."

            "Alright," he says, "If I'm not back in a week, you know they've got me."

            I've waited three weeks.

            I find myself driving through Rosarito, stopping along the side of the road to watch men scouring the city streets. They urge foreigners to crowd around them. A young boy calls to me, "Tequila Frogs! This way." He flaps his arms at me like a bird with a broken wing, "Ten dollars all you can drink." I shake my head at the boy and he runs along, already yelling to another couple, "Ten dollars, all you can drink!"

            On a busy street corner, I find a couple of barstools, with waiters scurrying about and cutting limes. One man curls his lime into a small semicircle and places it in the mouthpiece of his bottle. I order a beer and do the same. On the other side of the street, a huge billboard is displaying sports scores and news clips. People crowd around to watch this giant television screen. I find myself engulfed by the bright baby blue and the quick spattering of language that goes along with the images. A man walks by me, amused by the intensity of concentration I'm offering the spectacle. He pulls up a chair.

             "They're fascinated with the other side," he says, tapping the corner of his bottle with uncut fingernails. "It doesn't even matter what it is, as long as it's about the other side."

             "You ever go bird-watching?" I say.

            "No," the man says, "can't say that I have."

            I shake my head and stare down at the lime, now wedged into the mouthpiece of my bottle.  

"Why do you ask?" the man says.

            "Do you know Birdsong?"

            He shakes his head.

            "Do you know David?"

            "A few," he says.

            "How about a single rose bush that grows on the beaches of Puerto Nuevo? How about that? What do I have to do?"

            The man lets out a deep, unconvincing laugh. He stands up and says, "I'm sorry amigo, I had you pegged all wrong."

            "Pegged?"

            "This is Rosarito, my friend. Just have yourself a good time. Okay? I'll see you," he says, pinching my shoulder with his fat fingers. Uncomfortable, I start back towards the car.

            Ten hours from home, the traffic moves so much slower. I carve a path through the tall mountain, cutting the ground with the hum of my car's engine. In the distance, I see a van pull out and a blockade is set up. I opt for the toll road to avoid the check-point and find myself on the way to Puerto Nuevo.

            Down in the sandy dunes, I see the remnants of a street fair: cracked coconuts and long blades of glass wrapped in cowhide and formed into spears. A little farther up, a small food-carts with yellowed signs advertises fish tacos and ceviche on Sundays. A young man walks towards me.

            "Langosta," he shouts, "You want lobster tonight?"

            "I'm looking for a rose bush," I say.

            "You want to see it?"

            "You know where it is?"

            "You found it, amigo. Best langosta in Puerto Nuevo."

            I shake my head and the man wanders off without second thought. Nothing looks like I thought it would. I imagine David sitting on a small bar-stool in an empty yard; I imagine Birdsong rounding a corner and flying into his arms. Nowhere do I see any of my story.

            I keep walking through the streets hoping that I'll see David sitting on a corner with a fake smile plastered to his face. He'll come up and wave me closer with his hand, he'll inch his mouth closer and closer to my ear, until I finally get there and he'll whisper, "We did it."

            I walk farther from the main road, hoping that somewhere in the outskirts of this sad city, I will find something that will keep this story alive. On a thin branch, which reaches up over an empty wooden bench, I see a small, fluorescent, Mexican Woodnymph. I sit at the table and it flies down from the branch and settles next to me; it faces its head in my direction. I reach out to touch it, but it shuffles out of reach. I continue watching the small little bird and the thing seems glad to have company on this cold night. I wonder why the poor thing hasn't gone to sleep and all of a sudden I'm flooded with an image of the poor bird flying miles and miles over open seas, watching from above as countless fishermen cast their hooks into the sea. I imagine myself a fisherman on the shores of Puerto Nuevo and think that somehow, out of this story, I should shape myself in the image of those that have come before me.

            I imagine David pressing his face against tarnished-green prison bars. I imagine him wishing that he had something to use as a bribe, that he might escape his destiny here in the sands of Puerto Nuevo. If only he were a Mexican Woodnymph, he could fly through the prison-bars to freedom. He would try to catch the largest lobster. He would bury the creature without eating it, place a red rose on the grave, and etch a small poem, dedicated to wish wife, in the sand.

            The waves quiet. I look around and wonder why I'm so drawn to the energy of this land, why I want to sit on the beach and bathe myself near the warm ambers of a fire. The urge to be nudged by the care of an anonymous soul onto the comfort of a warm blanket is overwhelming. If only I could wake to the sound of the ocean. I try to fall asleep but all I can think of is David.

            I walk back towards my car. On the side of the road, I see an old man selling food out of a small cart. A pang of hunger shoots through my stomach and the man looks at me inquisitively. "Que Onda," he says. "Comida," I reply.

            "Langosta?" he says.

            "No, Lobster is for David," I say.

            He looks at me confused, having only understood the first word.

            "Entonces," he says, "ceviche o tacos?"

            "Ceviche," I say, "Pass the ceviche."

            The man rummages around through blackish yellow bins, pulling fillets of fish onto a yellowed cutting board. With a dulled butcher's knife, he begins to cut hot pepper and cloves of garlic. He sprinkles cayenne pepper onto the mixture and then adds a few droplets of lime juice. After placing his mixture onto a hardened tortilla shell, he takes my money, passes the food, and begins to stare at the sky. I nudge the old man with my elbow and say, "I'm proud to be a fisherman."