For privacy and security reasons, I don’t use my real name in this blog.
Here’s how I came up with the name “El Flaco.” I’m afraid the story is longer than it is interesting, but I include it here in case someone’s curious. “Flaco” is the Spanish word for “skinny” or “lean.” “El flaco” means “the skinny one.”
Years ago, I was assisting another lawyer in my firm try a case. He is portly. I’m of medium build, perhaps a little on the thin side.
The opposing lawyer used Spanish to communicate with his client, who spoke little English. At one point during the course of the trial, during a break, the opposing lawyer was talking to me about some issue and was illustrating his point by repeating to me something he had told his client about something I had said earlier. The opposing lawyer said to me, “I told her [his client], ‘Dijo el flaco que . . .’” and then he switched from Spanish into English for my benefit as he continued telling me what he had told his client about whatever it was I had said earlier. “Dijo el flaco que . . .” means “the skinny one said that . . . .” In other words, whatever it was he was talking to his client about, he was referring to me as the skinny one to distinguish me from my portly co-counsel.
The words “el flaco” caught my attention, not because of their literal meaning but because of the way they sounded. To my ear, they sounded like a nickname. The nickname of a tough guy. El Flaco.
I picture a dusty village in the Sierra Madre. A barefoot boy comes running into view shouting “El Flaco! El Flaco viene!” (“El Flaco is coming!”) The people of the village scatter. The padre scurries to the little adobe church and begins ringing the bell. (Luckily, everyone in town knows that the ringing bell means “El Flaco is coming, so stay away” instead of “come to church.”)
Soon, El Flaco and his gang lope into town on horseback in a cloud of dust. They stop. No one moves a muscle. Even the horses seem to know that this is a moment for complete silence.
El Flaco is not skinny at all. He’s a burly man, with a thick, handlebar mustache and a sombrero pulled low over his eyes. Leather pants that go all the way down to his spurs. Silver conchos on the outer seam of the pants. Twin bandoliers crisscross his chest. There’s a revolver on each hip and a lever-action .30-30 in a scabbard hanging from his saddle.
He surveys the street without moving his head. His eyes move left, then right. Finally, the silence is broken only by the creak of leather as he leans forward slightly in his saddle. He squints his eyes and frowns.
(That’s all I’ve got so far.)
Now, you may object that this is ethnic stereotyping. Don’t blame me. Talk to Hollywood. What do you picture when you hear the words “El Flaco”? A concert pianist? An engineer? A CPA?
I thought so.
Granted, there is a Tejano music accordionist named Leonardo “Flaco” Jimenez. But he’s “Flaco,” not “El Flaco.” Big difference.
And besides, just because El Flaco is tough and kind of scary-looking doesn’t mean he’s necessarily bad. Like, maybe the townspeople are afraid of him because of a misunderstanding. Yeah . . . like they haven’t heard his side of the story yet, but he’s too proud to beg or to try to get them to like him or to explain himself, and he’s not the kind of guy to stay where he’s not wanted anyway, so to hell with them, and he and his gang ride away, but then they come back later when the town is in some really deep caca because someone who is both tough and bad (really, really bad, someone you really love to hate, we could even make him a gringo to even things out) is giving them a really hard time about something (I don’t know what yet), and El Flaco and his gang come back and really kick the bad guy's ass big-time even though the townspeople don't really deserve any help after the way they treated El Flaco, and then he and his gang ride away again, and he still hasn't explained himself and so the people of the village still don't know his side of the story about whatever it was that made them scared of him in the first place.
And as he and his gang disappear over the ridge, one of the villagers says to another, "There goes El Flaco and his gang. That's one tough hombre."
And the other villager says, "Y muy complicado, too."
"Si, muy complicado and muy tough," the first one answers.
But see, the audience knows El Flaco's side of the story about whatever the original misunderstanding was and so they know that El Flaco's not complicated. He's just misunderstood.
There's a difference, you know.
