Who Needs a Bottle Opener?
By: Jesús Vargas
Tags: Coca Cola, Persistence, Baby, Mexico

If there is something that you should know about me to start off this collection of stories, it’s that I’m extremely persistent. When I set my mind to something, I follow through. This book is proof of that (though you’ll see that later on), and as you read these fragments of my life, you’ll understand why.

Let’s start with my first memory.

I was two-years-old. “The child who was sup­posed to fulfill all the expectations of his parents.” At least that’s what I’ve always thought. I was my mother’s baby boy. She chose my first name Jesús, “The most powerful name of them all,” according to her. I was always besides her, with everything I desired one cry away. My father saw me as his “Mini Me,” and from the hospital photos you can see that I looked exactly like him, except for his moustache. He chose my second name, Guillermo, after him and my grandfather. Just by the names I was des­tined to do great things from the moment I was born.

After a long afternoon of battling the evil Rocket Team to become the leading Pokémon master with my brand-new Pikachu action figure, I got a little bit thirsty. I went to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

My mom was talking on the phone while washing the dishes, but for me that was irrelevant. I don’t remember how I asked her for a drink, but she ignored me. I asked a second time. She ignored me again. I couldn’t believe it! I was her baby! I’m sure that this is how I learned so early in life that if you want something, you have to do it yourself, an idea that would be extremely useful in the years to come. The thing is that I didn’t have the strength to open the fridge, that enormous box where I knew beverages were stored. I did try. My tiny fingers grabbed the side of the white door and I pulled. Nothing.

I pulled again, but the door was too heavy.

I pulled a third time, using all of my strength, and I fell on my diaper!

OK, fine, the white icebox was not an option. Perfect. Still, I was a persistent (and very thirsty) mi­nuscule human being. My mom was not paying atten­tion, the gigantic door wouldn’t give in, so I turned and looked at the pantry, the other place where I had seen my parents would take out food and drinks. I crawled as fast as I could. When I got there, I saw an opening and I slipped my fingers in. The door was lighter. No challenge for a toddler. Yes, there it was! The family’s treasure! That sweet liquid. Thinking back, it was the only constant in our house in those years. Sure, we could go days without popcorn, chips, milk even. But those greenish-transpar­ent bottles? Never.

Back in 1997, the Mexican branch of the Coca Cola company used to send delivery trucks directly to every home. You couldn’t picture a residential street in Monterrey without one of those red trucks, driven by two or three men with brown striped uniforms and red hats. Coke became a must on every table. Thus, we always had a case of Coca Cola, Sprite and Fanta stored on the bot­tom shelf of the pantry.

So, there I was. Door opened.

I set my eyes on the gold prize, the elixir that would save me from my piercing thirst and mother’s in­difference. I propped myself up with the box of an old slow cooker next to the Coca Cola case and managed to balance my tiny body. When I did, I pulled the neck of a bottle as hard I could. It was heavy. Or was it stuck? I tried again and failed, but when I pulled up instead of towards me, I managed to get it out. I could barely hold it, but I HAD MY DRINK! The few seconds of excitement quickly vanished. Now I faced an even harder problem. How was I going to open the glass bottle? I had seen my mom and my dad use a bottle opener, so I knew I needed that, but how was I supposed to use one if I couldn’t even reach the cabinet? At that moment, I had one of the most brilliant ideas yet (during my “long line” of adventures): I thought that if I smashed the bottle cap against the floor it would open and I would be able to drink the black liquid. Well, maybe that was the solution to a lot of problems when you’re two. Just smash it. Smash whatever it is until you get it. And I did.

I smashed the bottle once.

I smashed it twice.

Thrice.

Although I didn’t do it as softly as I thought, when I smashed the bottle for the fourth time, it exploded into a million shards of glass, slashing my face. The coke spilled and I was sitting on a puddle of bubbling black liquid. My face cut. The sound made my mom turn, and she saw her little baby with a “I just fucked up” expression and blood splattered all over him.

My mother reacted as if I was shot in the battle­field. She saw my twenty something months of life flash before her eyes and with no hesitation — just like any army doctor would have — she quickly picked me up and kept telling me that everything would be okay.

Then she tried to pull the bigger shards from my face. She called our maid and asked her for towels and Band-Aids but as soon as the maid saw my face she couldn’t move from the middle of the stairs, in shock, unresponsive to the situation. So, my mother had to run with me on her arms to the upstairs bathroom to get the first aid kit.

I was quickly rushed to the emergency room and was surrounded by many doctors and nurses in a matter of seconds. Some of them were trying to keep me from touching my wounds, others “fixed me” with a few minor stitches. In the end, it wasn’t as bad as it looked.

A couple hours later, the doctor came to the hos­pital room while I was watching the Pokémon cartoon series on TV and asked me how I was feeling. And this I don’t remember, but my mom told me all I said was, “I’m thirsty, can I have a Coca Cola?”

See? Persistent.