Bad Beans -The Beginning -by F. Scott Weitz (w/ Estella Fernandez-Weitz)

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!!BAD BEANS!! (OR: THE TRUTH, WITHIN, LIES)
BY F. SCOTT WEITZ W/ESTELLA FERNANDEZ-WEITZ
©2023 FRANK WEITZ +ESTELLA FERNANDEZ-WEITZ

[THIS BOOK IS HUMOROUS HYPERBOLE FOR HUMANS – FOR TRULY TWISTED IS THIS TIME. SO, DON’T TAKE IT PERSONALLY ….OR BLAME ESTELLA FOR THE REALLY WEIRD SH#T. THAT’S ALL ME.] [THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO FELIX FERNANDEZ. IN RETROSPECT, MAY WE LAUGH.]
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Foreword:
[‘My wife’s beans are very bad.’]
To her, this (knowing her) means that her cooking sucks. To me, it (definitely) means that her cooking is really good! To her sisters (judging by the ones I ran it past) it likely means that they, the Mexican-American ladies related to mi esposa, are interesting and unusual ….euphemistically speaking.
(Them bitches is some bad beans - who were positively enthralled by the title of this book ….by the way. – Works for me.)
[Being, originally, from the area of Boston, Massachusetts (i.e. Bean Town) and having, years ago, fled prosecution – to end up in Texas and, now, New Mexico, I guess maybe I’m a bit of a bad bean myself.]
Think about it.
Not too much. (Don’t over-think it.)
Got it?
Let’s go!
[BUT, DO NOT SPEED READ (I.E. SKIM) – AS IT MAKES READING AN EXERCISE IN POINTLESSNESS. PLEASE!]
Disclaimer:
Honestly, this book has nothing to do with my Hispanic relatives, the members of my wife’s familia. [And, yes, I’m in it as well (sort of) but it doesn’t really have much to do with what actually goes on in my world either.] It’s very much a work of fiction – and it’s unquestionably an odd attempt at outrageously real humor…. but, reality, it does not represent.
OK, one of my wife’s sisters is (@ the time of this writing) dating a Satan-worshipping ex-con – but I’ve never even met the guy. And, I have no idea what he did while in prison or what he’s doing out ….other than freaking out several family members. So, the weird sh#t I attribute to the Satan-worshipping ex-con in this book really has nothing at all to do with the dude in question.
And, alright one of my wife’s brothers-in-law is a deacon (or some damn thing) in his church and is into cornholing on a fairly regular basis – but that seems to mean something completely different to the rednecks in Texas than it does to the rest of the Beavis + Butthead world. So, your kids may well be safe with the guy. I really can’t say.
I’ve met him a few times but never got into a discussion vis-à-vis any strange proclivities he may be harboring. (And, quite frankly, if he has any and they involve consenting adults, then that’s his business…. although his wife is pretty tough so I would advise the fool to keep it under wraps or get her permission before engaging in anything ….recreational.) (‘Nough said. No further comment.)
Yea, and my wife’s dad, it seems, was (and still ‘is’ according to the little woman) an abrasive little so-and-so ….but the old wise guy in this book is a purely speculative creature. And, I personally bear the old wise guy he’s, to a small extent, modeled on - not an ounce of ill will ….and didn’t complain very much at all when my wife took our son with her to Texas recently when the man had that stroke. [If an adult woman chooses to forgive (to some degree anyway) her father in extremis for being an ass (now, then, and at pretty much every point in between) then it’s no skin off my butt.]
So, call the lawyer if you must. But, the weird sh#t in this book has nothing to do with the weird sh#t going on in the lives of my weird Mexican-American relatives – so don’t expect any apologies (let alone a payoff) from me. I’m actually hoping that some of my relatives (the ones fully capable of tanning – along with those capable of nothing more than burning + turning even redder ….along with the rest of you voyeuristic freaks) enjoy the workings of my weird imagination. But, if some of you don’t like it, then some of you shouldn’t freaking read it! So don’t. (The rest of you, have fun. And don’t speed read….ever!.)
Francis Scott Weitz -01-11-2024 -Albuquerque, New Mexico -USA

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!BAD BEANS! (OR: THE TRUTH, WITHIN, LIES)
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[The ‘chancla’ holds a very especial place in the lore of the Mexican cultura. It is an instrument of unbridled ….peculiarity. Usually the ‘sandal’ maintains a low profile – between the bottom of mother’s foot and just above the flooring of her casa. But, in an instant (as each child in the household can attest – for each will on occasion test the patience of she who wears the espadrille especial), it may be transformed (very quickly indeed) into a weapon mas peligrosa.]
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[*‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’ the old Hebrews used to say. *I’ve asked the ones within my head – but they watch not as I pray. *And, I pray so very rarely. I seek not ancient lessons. *Often enough, I find it tough to believe that my confessions *will earn me any favors. I never hit my kids. *It may have been a favor (looking back) if, that, I did. *Too late to worry ‘bout it. I’m old and they have grown. *I beat myself up sometimes – for what I once believed was ‘known’. *I love my sons. I hope that they may read this book one day, *but life, for them, moves very fast ….and they’ve barely time to play. *One day you’ll have your own sons boys. Hit them gently – if you must. *Ask many what a man should do. Don’t, every answer, trust.]
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[‘A Very Slippery Slope’: *In the reflection of the cross-shaped mirror in the hall, *Jesus watches without judgment (hanging on the bathroom wall). *He warned you to turn the other cheek. But, no, you wouldn’t listen. *Now listen to the chancla child. Through the still air, hear it hissin’. *Don’t strike back at your sister. Girl, you just missed her. Mommy won’t ….*fail to hit you in the mouth just as you holler ‘Mommy don’t’. *Yes, the slipper’s soft. It won’t hurt too much. Don’t touch; it’s a magic symbol *that may expose (like no other article of clothes) that you are not (as mother’s mind) so nimble. *Oh, you ducked around the corner – but you failed, you fool, to swerve. *Now, mommy, you little dummy, has learned to throw the curve. *Speak no ill of mommy’s cooking. Of her beans, she’s very proud. *And, if you fart son at the table, you better not son make it loud. *Your mother is a fine one (and she will not, bad girl, be mocked). *The shoe’s not on the other foot boy. It’s in her hand. It’s cocked and locked. *So, sit still when at the table. Oh, and maybe start to pray *that she didn’t see the face you made. (Or, pray sister’s head is in the way.) *But, discipline’s the deal dolt. That slipper will find you; there’s no doubt. *The wickedness inside you? The chancla’s here to knock it out.]
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“Gramma, is my mommy a ho?”
Abuelita Juanita eyed the infamous chancla on her right foot. She could still flip that sucker up and have it out of her hand in three seconds flat. “No,” she said to her second youngest daughter’s youngest girl. ‘She gives it away,’ she thought. ‘She wouldn’t have sense enough to charge for it.’
“Who told you that sweetie?” asked Juanita, no inflection in her voice…. no intention divulged.
“Grampa,” little Melony muttered. (‘Pinche Fernando’ the girl actually thought – for she had heard the phrase often in the few years since she had grasped the concept of communication. Of course, she said nothing of the sort. She had, also, a fairly decent grasp on what kind of damage a flying slipper could do to a child’s ….psyche.)
“*Mas viejo, mas pendejo,” Juanita, just under her breath in the presence of the young girl (and directed so that Fernando, in the living room, couldn’t help but hear), said. She’d heard that phrase (in one form or another) a thousand times (directed, of course, at her and/or one of their children) when Fernando was considerably younger - but just as much of a pain in the ….neck as was he today.
And, boy howdy, he was just as clueless. (Pinche Fernando.) The chancla took the glasses off the top of his head from ten feet as he entered the kitchen.
Fernando was shocked. In the general direction of Juanita, he gaped. Fernando should not have been shocked. Fernando had evoked the wrath of Juanita many, many times over the years. But, Fernando was all but incapable of learning from past mistakes. He simply continued to make the same ones over and over and over again. (Fernando was a dumbass.)
And, what’s more, he was a chihuahua – who thought he was a considerably bigger and badder dog. He wasn’t entirely detached from reality. He didn’t imagine himself to be a pit bull. A man can’t lose every fight he’s ever had and still consider himself terribly dangerous.
And yet, he did manage on a fairly regular basis to overestimate, by the nature of his bark, the size of his actual bite. He figured himself to be maybe a beagle. He was, without a doubt, a chihuahua.
The would-be beagle picked his glasses up off the floor and retreated into the living room. He imagined he was giving Juanita a substantial break in so doing. (Pinche Fernando - the dumbass.) Juanita’s second youngest daughter’s youngest girl howled with laughter.
“Bad damn beans,” Fernando growled - just soft enough that Juanita could pretend not to hear what had emanated from the little dog’s mouth (if she so desired) as he tucked his metaphorical little tail between his metaphorical little legs and scampered off to metaphorically lick his tiny little ….wounds.
*Footnotes:
*Mas viejo, mas pendejo: The older he gets, the dumber he gets.
[Go to *Footnotes (ETC.) @ the end of the book for footnotes – as well as further information + entertainment.]
(*esposa: wife *chancla: slipper *casa: house *peligroso: dangerous *abuelita: (little) grandmother *pinche: worthless)
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When Blanca, little Melony’s mother, arrived to pick up her daughter, Juanita was working a slow boil – both at the stove ….and in her mind. (And, Fernando was the least of her worries.)
She eyed her errant daughter. The woman was an entire batch of bad beans…. in one stinking pot. Juanita lowered the heat on the burners, reduced the temperature of the oven, checked on the enchiladas inside ….just for the chance to slam the door.
The steam rose off her as will souls rise (at the rapture) off the surface of the Earth. (Well, at least …in Texas.) [What I’m saying – is that grandma was hot.] She sent her granddaughter to the back yard to ….fill the feeder for the birds.
Juanita briefly imagined bludgeoning Blanca with her slipper. She laid her oven mitts aside to avoid acting upon the impulse to use them in a manner neither intended nor imagined by the manufacturer thereof. She took a breath ….so that she’d have enough to waste on this wanton wastrel of a woman. ‘Damn,’ she thought, ‘you may teach a girl to cook ….just to see the woman she becomes burned by the heat again and again.’
Oh well, a parent must do his or her duty – on the off chance it may do some good for the progeny produced. And, so, Juanita would. She took yet another breath. This would, as #ss chewings go, take a while.
“Blanca, I should have named you Idiota!” “When your sisters told me you had become a *buckle bunny, I thought you’d at least have sense enough not to crush on cowboys at the prison rodeo.” “Did I hit you one too many times with the chancla when you were young? Did I not hit you enough? Are you high?! ….What is wrong with you?”
“Mo….”
“Don’t talk. I am talking.” “And, now you plan to move some clown…”
“Mo….”
“No. I know he’s not a rodeo clown – Blanca. This does not mean he is not a clown.” “A rodeo clown I could live with. A felon just out of prison I could live without. - You could live (as in ‘remain alive’) without. - Your children, my grandchildren, could live (as in ‘remain alive’) without.” “And, now you plan to move this clown into your house? - A man who is not only an ex-con, but a Devil-worshipping ex-con!” “If you wrote such nonsense in a book, people would refuse to read it. They would dismiss it as too improbable to make sense ….because, Blanca, it does not make sense!”
“Mo….”
“No. No. Only one conclusion can be drawn. You have lost your mind.” “Ay dios mio! I’m going to get a doctor to have you committed – locked up ….before you get us all killed!”
“Mo….”
“No. You be quiet.Have some beans ….and rice ….and enchiladas. I can’t listen to you anymore.” “Sientate ….y silencio ….estupida.”
*Footnotes:
*A buckle bunny is a groupy for rodeo cowboys – as a big belt buckle, of silver +/ or of gold, is often awarded to a winner. (I’d set my ten gallon hat for an Argentinian cowboy were I a cowgirl in heat. They are so hot – and usually win because they muscle up and get in shape, treating the sport as if it’s really a sport ….rather than a curious + continuing attempt at suicide. No bull.)
(*sientate: sit down)
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[For maybe three thousand years, the Day of the Dead, el Dio de los Muertos (or the Days of the Dead, los Dios de los Muertos), has/ have been celebrated. The phenomenon can be traced back to the Aztecs. Today, in Mexico and wherever Mexicans congregate (they form a majority in Texas, New Mexico and California), it is celebrated primarily from October 31st to November 2nd.
November 1st is dedicated to the celebratory remembrance of deceased infants and children. [It’s OK if you shed a tear or two – but remember the dead are with us on these days, so try not to depress them any more than necessary. They’ve got enough to deal with as it is.] November 2nd is dedicated to dealing with adults who have passed beyond the veil.
On the last day of October, I guess you can check out all the pretty and peculiar ladies painted and primped in plumages plangent (metaphorically speaking ….of course). [But, especially if you’re married to a Latin lady, don’t get carried away. Your wife may be watching – and getting an eyeful now ….may get you an earful later on.] (Believe me. I know.)
Set up a shrine (an alter - or ofrenda) with offerings for your departed loved ones. Use photographs and, perhaps, burn some incense. This can be done inside or out. Be sure to include items indicative of the, elements, four (earth, air, fire and water).
Food (for those who, such nourishment, need not ….one would think) and water (a pitcher for the perpetually parched) may represent earth and the other (which is water). Colorful streamers can represent the wind (i.e. air). And, candles (fire) are usually used to help those who had moved on - to cross once more into the land of the living.
Put on a heinously beautiful death mask or paint your face and, if you so desire, paint select body parts to resemble a skeleton. (*Dress up fancy and bright – like a flower at night. *May you bloom, your perfume causing wicked ones fright.)
Oh, and don’t forget the marigolds – in case you don’t own a xolos [the Mexican hairless dog that may, when called upon to do so (since 1956 anyway), guide a spirit back home for a visitation (with those oxygen dependent earthlings – us)]. (*I have heard it said that tequila, marijuana and/ or cocaine make it considerably easier to see visitors from the other side. As I’ve seen some pretty f#cked-up sh#t on coke myself ….I don’t doubt it.)
Be certain to clean up and dynamically decorate the graves of the dead. Did your mother like aguas frescas while, on this world, she walked? Drink some in her honor. This refreshment is supposed to be quite popular during the Days of the Dead [though I’d never heard of it (or Jamaican iced tea) before I did the research necessary to complete this piece]. My wife confirmed that aguas frescas would make a fine offering. (She likewise confirmed that the Jamaican iced tea might better be used at the alter of a dead Jamaican.)
Tamales are a food favorite. (You gringos be sure to remove the corn-husk wrap and lightly salt the bland offering within – so that you may enjoy the sustenance ….as opposed to choking on it and, next year, joining the celebration …as an honored guest.)
A special dead bread (pan de muerto) is sometimes cooked for the celebration. It will be wanted by you and your loved ones (dead or alive). Sugar skulls are also offerings - which may be eaten. Crack that cranium ….and gobble it down.]
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[*Remember the dead – for one day you will die. Will you be soon forgotten - you wonder? *Will your relatives come just to cry for their loss – or to, your fine possessions, now plunder? *Did you take it all with you? I don’t think that you did. Will your children remember your day? *Will they dress up and drink so that, of you, they’ll think ….or to chase your damned shadow away?]
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[‘A Dead Certainty’: *It’s said the dead, among us, walk - and talk if we would hear. *The cold you feel is in your mind ….but is it born of fear *that makes a perfect kind of sense - for jealous are those taken. *And, causes, not to do with you, may be, by them, mistaken. *Perhaps they blame you for the shame that drives a soul to hide *behind the mask that bore a face replaced by only pride *when smiles framed by lips sustained that certain sense of self. *Ashes to ashes – one from sunshine dwells now upon a shelf. *Forgotten and forlorn, they rise. ‘Wait for your day,’ we say. *One day a year can’t be enough for one who’s passed away. *Your tears will not appease one who, in life, held your attention. *Do not believe one passing thought will constitute a pension. *I will return when have I gone to haunt all who forget, *replace that apathy for me…. with naught but your regret.]
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“My friend, if you get your wisdom from television commercials, you are ….an idiot,” said Fernando’s dead father-in-law. (He was dying ….again - for a taste of that Cuervo Gold in Fernando’s grasp.)
‘Ay dios mio,’ thought Fernando. Why did this f#cker always have to bring his worn-out, dead-#ss advice with him when he crawled out of the damn grave? Had he never heard *‘El muerto al poso. El vivo al negocio’? And, why did he only show up when he, *Fernando Orlando Hernando Hernandez ….the Seventh, was almost finished with the bottle?
The ad (on the TV) had told him that he could drink without fear of consequences if he took a water break between pounding down the brain-cell-killing poison one glass upon the next. - Sounded good to him.
“Mind your own business old man. No one asked you to come back here and ruin a good buzz with your damned palaver. Go away and leave me alone ….just like you did to your wife and kids when you were alive you drunken, lecherous, lazy bastard.”
“Like you were any better ….back when you were alive ….pendejo.”
“Go away!” Fernando said – as much with his hands as with his strained vocal chords.
“Fernando – shut the hell up ….and get inside!” Juanita hissed from the back door. “You fool,” she continued, “the neighbors don’t need to hear your mental breakdown in progress – as you commune with the devils in your head ….drunkard ….*borracho sin verguenza. Some of these people actually have to go to work in the morning.”
“I’m *72,” he slurred and murmured as he stumbled past in the direction he vaguely remembered as leading to a bedroom. He hoped it would be his own. He was so tired. Life was nothing but a trial. He looked forward…. to leaving it behind. He would come back and haunt them all.
Juanita glared at the battered little bantam as he attempted to strut past – failing miserably to impress. (‘Pinche Fernando,’ she thought.) She peered through the open door at the shadows living in the yard out back. “Adios Papa,” she whispered – quickly closing and locking the sliding door. The wind chime called gently from its place beneath the mesquite. (No wind stirred its sleeping leaves.) She pulled the curtain shut.
That idiot Fernando always found something better left buried when he went digging up the past - at the bottom of another damn bottle. So many years on Earth, and the fool had not yet learned to leave the cap on all that ….nonsense.
She peaked out the blinds, crossed herself. “Ay dios mio,” she said aloud to the stuccoed ceiling. She turned the A/C fan from ‘auto’ to ‘on’, made her way to bed. She had to get up early ….to start the beans.

*Footnotes:
*El muerto al poso. El vivo al negocio.: The dead in the hole. The living back to business.
*The proud name of Fernando Orlando Hernando Hernandez the Seventh speaks of much history ….and almost no imagination where (@ least) the naming of children was (+ is) concerned. Take from this what you will.
*borracho sin verguenza – drunkard without shame
*Fernando was probably closer to 82 than 72 years old. The records are incomplete ….and vary rather widely. Fernando himself had been lying about his age for so long that he knew not the truth.
(*aguas frescas: cool waters *Ay dios mio.: Oh my God.)