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Living in a foreign country, you sometimes find yourself in a language conundrum for which not even Berlitz could've prepared you. I, for example, never expected, not in any far off galaxy of possibilities, that I would ever have to work my way out of a language quandary involving me (dressed in nothing but a towel), my young Mexican housecleaning woman, and Prince's funk extravaganza "Sexy Motherfucker."
The story starts like this: It was a hot and sticky morning. A Thursday. I'd awakened early, taken my stepdaughter to school and returned to our apartment. My wife left shortly thereafter to go work on a mosaic table she'd been making and hoping to sell in a neighborhood coffee shop. The apartment was mine.
As I said, it was a hot and sticky morning, so I took a cold shower to cool off and because, well, even a short trip in the car is enough time to gather about oneself the eau de toilette of Puerto Vallarta. (Think of a lingering admixture of sweat, sunblock, fading deodorant and the sweet, strong Mexican detergent favored by the local laundries.)
The shower is fantastic, as I knew it would be and, in fact, never fails to be in Mexico. I wrap a towel around my waist, as is my wont after showering, and proceed to commit my mostly naked body to the delicious airs of the fan to complete the drying process. Now, I can't speak for women, but I can vouch that drying oneself in this way, your dangly bits dangling freely in the breeze, is among the most prized joys of men and all too rarely indulged.
As the fan did its work, I decided to check my email, a recent luxury as we had only the week before established an Internet connection at our apartment. As the computer booted up, and in the full flush of the whole drying experience, I decide I need some music, something to match the feeling of optimism I was just then enjoying.
Not that I seemed to be listening to anything else since arriving in Mexico. Untouched and ignored for weeks were the Modest Mouse, Built to Spill, Tool and Queens of the Stone Age discs I'd brought from home. Since crossing the border it had been all Orchestra Baobab, Barry White, and The Ojays. And the two-disc The Hits by Prince, song for song the best double album since probably Kiss Alive.
So I select for this beautiful, perfect morning disc two, which starts out with "Controversy," and includes other rock-em sock-em put em in the safe and lock em gems like "Delirious," "Little Red Corvette" and "Gett Off," closing with the high-school slow dance classic, "Purple Rain." Let me put it this way, if the King's Table buffet served funk and not a bland assortment of meats, soggy vegetables and over-frosted desserts, they would serve this record.
Oh, and then there's the final plot point to this scene, the piece that seems like too much and in a TV mystery always betides some foul play about to spring - I make myself a cup of coffee. And this is no ordinary coffee either. This is coffee we get directly from the roaster himself, who gets the beans directly from the Mexican growers, who deliver these beans directly from the remote, mist-enshrouded mountain farms where they are grown. Good, in other words.
Jump forward exactly 44 minutes and three seconds (the time it takes to travel through the 13 songs that precede "Sexy M.F."). I'm sitting at the dining room table, dry now, but still in my towel for the sheer comfort of it, with a hot cup of excellent coffee, in a quiet apartment that is, for the next few hours, all mine, checking my email for maybe only the third time from the convenience of my own home and finding messages from close friends I've not heard from in weeks. Good, in other words.
And then, with all this, here comes the first few bars of "Sexy M.F.," a great rump-bumping, bass-thumping funkytime freakout of a song. And the first lines:
Yo man
What?
She came
Where?
There!
Oh!
In a word or 2 -- it's u I wanna do
Trust me, choose it the next time you see it on the jukebox and your jukebox cred is secured. And when you do, listen closely as you're sure hear something like the following exchange between some hipped out recent liberal arts grad and his equally natty, equally ironic and insouciant pal:
"I love this song!"
"Fucking bumpin' man. You choose this one?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Who is it? The Roots?"
"Uh, yeah, The Roots."
Anyway, there I am enjoying the unique funk and gutterjunk of the song, which is just getting to the point where Prince starts singing Come here baby, yeah/U sexy motherfucker, and in walks our young, cocoa-skinned, not unattractive housecleaner, Lucila. Having entirely forgotten this was her day, I jump to my feet, grabbing my drooping towel just before those selfsame dangling parts are unveiled. "Hola!" I offer hastily.
U seem perplexed I haven't taken u yet
Can't u see I'm harder than a man can get
I got wet dreams comin' out of my ears
I get hard if the wind blows your cologne near me
"Hola," she answers, smiling awkwardly, perhaps unsure what to make of the little scene into which she's walked. Or maybe reacting to the song? As I cannot speak Spanish, and she never uses English with me, though I'm sure she understands more than she lets on, we just stare at one another for a long moment, Prince going on in the background about come here baby, yeah U sexy motherfucker.
As she sets her purse down, I, still standing, send her a mental directive to start in the back bedroom. I don't know how much of the song she understands and figure this will give me a chance to cut to the next one, which is "Cream" and still pretty nasty but a more difficult translation it seems to me. But she immediately sets to straightening the living room, righting the tapes and books on the table shared by the stereo.
But I'm happy 2 change my state of mind for this behind
I bet that if you threw that ass into the air it would turn into sunshine
Sexy motherfucker shakin' that ass, shakin' that ass, shakin' that ass
Sexy motherfucker shakin' that ass, shakin' that ass, shakin' that ass
Sexy motherfucker shakin' that ass, shakin' that ass, shakin' that ass
Suddenly, I'm sweating like Marlon Brando in a Turkish bath -- I swear the fan is slowing down! I scramble for something to say, which I would do loudly so as to drown out Prince's repeated invocation "Shakin' that ass! Shakin' that ass!" But nothing comes, and then Lucila bends over directly in front of me to retrieve a magazine fallen to the floor, and I wonder is this her idea of a joke? She understands. Does she understand?
For a moment, I consider pretending to fall backwards in my chair. This would provide a good distraction and while she's helping me up I could move to the stereo and turn it off. Or it would knock me out, another solution. But then I'm just in a towel, and who knows what might fall out as I fall down. Our eyes meet and I smile weakly. And all the while Prince carries on and on. How long is this motherfucking song!
U sexy motherfucker
sexy motherfucker
sexy motherfucker
sexy motherfucker
sexy motherfucker
sexy motherfucker
sexy motherfucker
sexy motherfucker
sexy motherfucker
A line of sweat runs from my armpit. Beads collect on my forehead. Now I make a silent appeal to Prince. How many times must you tell us she's a sexy motherfucker! We get it. She's very sexy. Understood. As I urgently search for some way to interrupt him, I watch Lucila for any signs of comprehension. After all, aren't swear words really the first we learn in a foreign language?
Then the worst thought of all occurs to me: Maybe Lucila thinks I planned the whole thing! I cued up the song in wait, like a sort of X-rated musical ambush! Some weird American-styled come-on. My in-a-towel/naughty song signature that I use on all my housecleaners.
If she understands, she doesn't let on. Or does she? What was that knowing half smile I think she just gave me?
Finally, after the words "sexy" and "motherfucker" are repeated no fewer than 36 times, Prince gives it a rest. Very casually, very coolly, feigning a yawn and disinterested stretch, I walk over and turn off the stereo. Time for another shower.
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