The Mexico City Reader

División del Norte

The first time I saw the stuffed bear I was struck by the shade of its fur: the white, polar shine I always imagined in such creatures was sorely lacking in this specimen. An array of grayish, bluish, muddy stains covered the bear’s great back and huge head. Standing high on its hind legs, front paws boxing the air, and jaws wide open to show its fangs, this polar bear was no more than the shabby shadow of what it must have once been. For reasons that remain strange and mysterious, many of the kitchen- and bathroom-supply stores located on División del Norte, between Churubusco and Gabriel Mancera, have installed enormous stuffed animals by their entrance doors: two polar bears, two Bengal tigers , two lions, half a bull, and at least one zebra rise over the doors of shops with names so similar, one can’t help thinking that they all belong to the same person. After passing by this menagerie day after day—I drive down División del Norte seven days a week—I felt irresistibly compelled to enter the shops and ask where the animals came from and how they wound up in such inappropriate surroundings; I could not for the life of me think of a plausible reason for placing these creatures on 99 División del Norte    fiberglass stands and having them tower over people on the hunt for toilet seats. When I started to ask questions, I was met with another surprise: the reticent attitude of the shop assistants. Young salesmen in loud uniforms , who spend their days convincing ladies about the virtues of bathroom tiles and the imperative of combining marble with Mexican ceramic floors, pass their free time playing with lions, tigers, bears, or whatever animal they “ended up with.” They stroke hairy rumps and tousled manes, stick their hands into varnished jaws, and finger plastic dentures. They shake a bear’s heavy paw and stick out their tongues at a bull staring them down from the store’s upper level, next to a display of hot tubs recessed into the wall. These beasts are their toys: they hide behind the lion (or the bear or the tiger) and go “Boo!” to make unsuspecting clients jump; they rock the fiberglass stands, growling and roaring , to scare pedestrians away. Sometimes they lean back against the beasts, elbows deep in mangy fur, to have a smoke. “We’re used to them,” said Alejandro Gómez, from El Cerebro de los Azulejos, a store whose name translates as Brain of Tiles, as he toyed with a fearsome-looking lion perched atop three bathroom sinks placed in the middle of the sidewalk. Gómez explains that “the animals attract customers, so we get to sell more.” While there’s no doubt that stuffed animals stop people in their tracks, I have serious doubts as to whether the sight of a big lion or striped zebra infuses passers-by with an uncontrollable urge to buy kitchen faucets or fog-free mirrors. But I keep getting the same answer, store after store. I start watching the customers: it seems clear that people come in with a set purpose. If they stop to look at the lion, bear, or whatever, that’s because it’s there, towering over the entrance. As far as I can make out, no one arrives with the express purpose of petting the bear, only to be immediately overcome by the need to buy a toilet. At El Cerebro de los Azulejos, I am informed that the lion arrived about a year ago and that a man comes in to freshen it up every now and then (“about once a month,” says Juan, another employee). He combs the mane, scrubs the fur manhandled by employees and customers alike, and polishes the false teeth. While I’m admiring the recently spiffed-up lion, a voice behind me asks, “Is it a he-lion or a she-lion?” The question seems pointless, given the beast’s size and shaggy mane, but it turns out the lion is missing “something.” Juan hastens to explain: “It’s a he-lion, 100    but they had to remove that because he was going to be on display. No way could they let ladies or kids see that, let alone touch it.” That’s the cue for another assistant to scratch the lion’s empty crotch, the...