Second Draft

In The Shawshank Redemption, Tim Robbins’s character, Andy Dufresne, describes Zihuatanejo as a place with no memory. He felt it was almost timeless, the ocean washing away who you’d been. In the couple of decades since the movie came out, the town had turned a little touristy. Some shops even sold Shawshank T-shirts. But the miles of deserted beach were still there, appearing infinite. I’d been working in Mexico City, and “Zihua” was a common weekend trip. As my own boss, I have the bad habit of holding myself by the scruff of my own neck, and have never been good at taking vacations. But here I was, away. The Shawshank connection was an added curiosity. I’d loved the movie as a teenager, grew up with the poster on my wall—Andy free and euphoric in torrential rain, having escaped wrongful imprisonment. For my high school yearbook quote, I chose a line of his as a note to self: “Get busy living or get busy dying.”  

On our first night, my girlfriend and I enjoyed a pleasant meal at a seaside restaurant, toes in the sand. Once we were done eating, the waiter came by and asked if I wanted a Kahlúa con crema, por la casa. Assuming—tourist town and all—he was trying to sell me on some dessert, I immediately said no. Then, as sometimes happens with my high-school-level Spanish, I got a mental playback a few seconds after, as though reality arrives to me late, and I realized my interpretation was wrong: he had been offering us a drink, on the house. A common drink, but one I’d never had and suddenly wanted to try. But it felt like it was too late to say anything; I was too embarrassed to summon him back and request it. My mood soured as I turned on myself. I often shut things down preemptively, over-sure. I get uptight. I play it safe. I need convincing … But then—déjà vu! A cosmic do-over!—our waiter got distracted and a different one showed up with the check. Did I want a Kahlúa con crema, por la casa? he asked, following the restaurant script. I pounced on the offer. Sí. ¡Sí! I like this version of myself better, the one who says yes, who’s eager to embrace an offering, who just jumps in the pool. Each sip added something to the evening, deepening the moment, wrapping me in a new mood, those earlier thoughts scuttled, sunken. Belonging to someone else. 

Jason Schwartzman is the author of No One You Know: Strangers and the Stories We Tell (Outpost19, 2021). His writing has appeared in the New York Times, New York magazine, Narratively, Gothamist, Bull, River Teeth, X-R-A-Y, and other places. Jason lives in Oakland. You can find more of his writing at jdschwartzman.com. 

This essay is a Short Reads original.