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Since 1975 I have been getting drunk downtown. My first watering hole was the Barrel House around the corner from the Hotel Milner--now The Colonial--where I had found my first job in my new surroundings as the desk clerk working the swing shift. As part of my $1.35 an hour job, management provided me with a room including a hot plate and a small refrigerator, but I had no air-conditioning.

The Milner was home to both retired men and weathered prostitutes. I remember working behind the desk and watching Rick Barry's Warriors sweep Julius Irving's 76ers in four straight, one of the biggest NBA upsets. A California boy who never imagined he would be spending the rest of his life in Brownsville, I cheered each victory heartily.

The Barrel House predated the Palm Lounge. Johnny Quiroz managed the Barrel House and cooked his famous hamburgers. It was a popular establishment. Besides the singular burgers and the cold beers, the air-conditioning was an oasis for me. When a gringo wouldn't sell Quiroz the business, he took his waiters Beto, Servando and Toque with him and opened the Palm which became downtown's top cantina.

During my first year on the border the Silver Dollar Club was a popular hangout. Located in the El Jardin Hotel caddy-corner from the Milner, a thick cloud of smoke hung over the varied crowd that drew a boisterous clientele; the joint was filled with barrio babes and Matamoros mamas. You stepped out of the club, entered the elevator directly to the right before she had time to change her mind and shot to the fourth or fifth floor--there were at least seven floors--to a room where Gideon's Bible remained unopened on the night stand.

I have frequently lived downtown in the nearly half century I have resided in Brownville. I lived in the vacant Samano building on the Corner of Elizabeth Street and Twelfth in an office with neither a bathroom nor a shower. I used to piss and shit out one of the many windows overlooking the alley. I had no sympathy for the bums below.

Twice I rented apartments at the Fort Brown; the Resaca Club across the street drew well. The same action unfolded at the Resaca Club as the Silver Dollar, but the patrons were powerful politicians and successful businessmen. The women abounded and the hotel rooms were a short walk from the action.

Besides the many good times and the countless meals as well as the various shelters from Palm Boulevard to International Boulevards that have provided me temporary addresses, downtown's architecture has captivated me as much as any señorita greeting me with a coquettish smile. I have argued that renovating downtown--a living museum--should be the city's top priority, but the municipality has chosen to pursue this goal in a piecemeal fashion.

Prior to the Coronavirus pandemic, downtown was making strides and there was optimism that this renovation would gain momentum with Trey Mendez as mayor since he owned both a restaurant and historic buildings. We had someone in office who appreciated downtown's aesthetics.

Lighting was improved, cameras were placed at strategic corners and the police increased their presence. Most the ancient cantinas that attracted the dregs of society had closed and their patrons had exiled themselves to the 14th Street cantina strip.

Upscale bars, clubs and restaurants opened. A few prostitutes and transvestites remained to maintain the ambience, but cruising the historical streets was as safe as walking to one's mailbox. George Ramirez became the unofficial mayor of downtown, Commissioner Ben Neece allied with the mayor to promote downtown and the legendary bluesman "Delta" Dave Handelman ascended to poet laureate of the night life.

When Ramirez died, Dr. Tony Zavaleta, endowed with mystical powers, interpreted George's demise as a sign. With First Friday at the beginning of each month providing Market Square outdoor music venues, studios offering art shows and the restaurants, bars and clubs collaborating on promotions and entertainment, an insouciance imbued downtown with the increasing numbers of pedestrians moving from hotpot to hotspot.

Then the Trump plague swept through the community. From Elizabeth Street to the northern reaches of Alton Gloor Road, everything began to close. City and county governments mandated stay-at-home and curfew orders to counter the mushrooming numbers of sick and hospitalizations. The politicians, ignoring medical advice that they were acting prematurely, chose to reopen and the community rushed from their homes like prisoners liberated from their cells as if COVID were a sentence that had been commuted.

Painting the town red was the new mentality. As a result of ignoring masks, social distancing and avoiding large gatherings, Coronavirus found new life and recommenced its death mission. These days we are painting the town black as the air has turned thick with the ashes of cremated humans.

And downtown? I remember the peso devaluations in the late seventies and early eighties as well as the openings of Amigoland and Sunrise malls that reduced downtown to a ghost town dependent on its barrio and Matamoros customers to keep the second-hand stores, the greasy spoons and the rundown shops with cheap merchandise open. The middle and upper classes would only know downtown existed on their excursions to dine across the bridge.

Downtown is fighting for survival. A few of the young pioneers have managed to keep their doors open, but they are doomed if vaccines aren't found soon to give the public confidence that it is safe to socialize. There are those who loved downtown but have no desire to permit close contact with anyone again. 

Many of these over fifty bon vivants have rediscovered their kitchens and have found that purchasing their own wines at HEB or Sams or Feldman's instead of paying two to three times their true value at over-priced restaurants is a much better deal. With the savings, they are purchasing more expensive reds. Let the fun flow as we pour another glass. These homebodies fanaticize like young men and women on the prowl, but staying healthy is a more sexier option.

Has Coronavirus sounded downtown's death knell? The rejuvenation of downtown was a beautiful dream. We would be the New Orleans of the Rio Grande with our own French Quarter. Both the older and younger generations would mingle again. Old men had visions of young movidas. Those fantasies are over. With death comes decay. Will only the hollow edifices remain as a reminder of what might have been in the wake of the destruction?

I miss meeting my buddies on a regular basis at the Palm that fights the odds and remains open. I miss chugging a cold beer and bullshitting with my amigos that Trump is a fucking, cocksucking piece of shit. But there are many things that I once missed that never enter my mind anymore because circumstances changed. There may come a day when I will miss these times when COVID kept my existence simple and the little things like reconciling with the ex and hanging with my youngest son more than sufficed.