Beyond Reason by Rob Perez

El Mariachi

It is time to consider the mariachi. Not the music. Not the history. Rather, it is time to consider the men themselves.

Because for decades now—at restaurants, at mercados, in dining rooms and patios alike—I have been subjected to a close and entirely involuntary study of the mariachi. They appear beside the table. They perform. They collect their fee. They move on. And over time, I have come to know them. Proximity brings knowledge.

And after many decades of this study, I would like to offer an alarming theory. There is a real chance these men are dead.

Now, you may immediately reach for the metaphor. Emotionally dead. Spiritually dead. Culturally dead. You may wonder what it does to a person to sing the same thirty songs, in the same suit, for the same audiences—locals and tourists alike, the majority on their third margarita.

These are thoughtful questions. Alas, I am not qualified to answer any of them. I am here to suggest something much simpler.

The mariachis—the ones who appear nightly, without fail, in many Mexican restaurants—are not alive. They are, in fact, dead.

Consider the evidence.

They arrive without introduction. One moment you are enjoying chips and salsa. The next moment, they are simply… there.

They do not warm up. They begin at full volume, as if the performance has already been in progress somewhere else and has merely continued at your table.

They ask if you would like a song. You ask how much. They say twenty. Twenty dollars for one song is not something a living person can ask for with a straight face.

Consider their endurance. They do not tire. They do not hurry. They move from table to table without expectation. The living fade. The mariachi sustains.

Watch them sing. They emote, certainly. With posture. With gesture. With melody. But look in their eyes. Their eyes tell a different story. A much, much sadder story.

Consider their relationship to rejection. You say, “No, thank you.” They accept this without emotion. No disappointment. No persuasion. They nod and move on. It is not salesmanship. It is inevitability.

They wear the same clothes. Not similar clothes. The same clothes. Immaculate. Timeless. Jingly. The suit of a man who no longer participates in time.

But here’s the biggest thing. You never see them anywhere else. Not at the grocery store. Not at the gas station. Not at the coffee shop. No one has ever said, “Oh, that’s Carlos. He’s in my book club. His side hustle is mariachi.” Look deep in their eyes and you will see: there is only this.

After the final note, they do not linger. They collect their fare, thank you, and then they’re gone. Where? No one knows. No one sees them leave the restaurant. Come to think of it, no one saw them enter.

They’re just there. And then they’re not.

Which raises the question: what do the dead need with money? I have never seen a mariachi spend it. So where does it go? The only reasonable conclusion is that it is not for here. It is for there.

Perhaps it is passage. A fee. The toll required to get from here to there. A place where the music stops. Where the instruments can be set down. Where the suits can be removed. Where they are, finally, no longer required to perform. At least until happy hour tomorrow.

But at five o’clock tomorrow, they will reappear—fully formed, fully dressed, prepared to begin again, as if no time passed in between.

I am not saying this to alarm you. I am telling you this so that the next time they appear—mid-bite, mid-conversation—you might take a moment to appreciate what you are witnessing.

Not a performance. But a brief meeting of our world and theirs. A threshold. With guacamole.

Personally, I do not fear them. I accept them. They bring music. They bring atmosphere. I simply prefer a little distance between worlds. Let them visit. Let them sing. But if it’s all the same, how about two tables over?