*This is the first story I ever had published in a magazine and got paid for. It was originally published in 2012 with Alfie Dog Press, recently defunct. I’m proud of this story. I worked hard on it. I was 29 years old when this was accepted. This was back when we still received physical rejection/acceptance slips. I can still recall the shock and jubilation when I opened the envelope, saw the letter and realized—finally—my work was getting taken. What a moment, after hundreds of rejection slips. Scarily, this story is, if not 100% true, then very close. It tells the tale of an experience my roommate and I had when living in San Diego and going to Mexico circa 2005. I was 22.
Enjoy. If you’re a free subscriber you can read about half the 13-page story. Go paid ($35/year) if you’d like to read ALL of my writing.
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Going to Mexico was a bad idea, and deep down both of us knew it. But the great thing about my roommate was that every time I came up with a bad idea, I could count on him to be on board. My brain was always concocting thrilling plans in which the only person I could include was Hilly. No one else would be crazy enough to walk that tightrope with me. They’d be too jaded to see the adventure of it, or too nervous to take the risk. No, when these prolific ideas came to me in the night, it was dear old Hilly whose face I saw.
And that's how it came to be that I woke up in the early morning San Diego fog proclaiming, “Hey, Hilly…ok man…I got this great dig, ya see. You and I…”
“Yeeeeessss…” he interrupted, drawing out the “e.”
“Listen Hill, listen. You and I…we’re gonna go to good ole, MEX-I-CO, Baaaby!!!” Hilly sat perplexed, his eyes registering somewhere between indifference and exuberance — as if the plan was a no-brainer. Of course we’d go to Mexico; we lived in San Diego, thirty minutes from the border. Living at the gateway to a foreign land, a land where anything might happen, well, it was gonna happen at some point, right? It was just a matter of one of us deciding it was time. We both knew it would be me.
After finishing breakfast, we headed out for the bus that would take us to good ‘ole Mexico. We found the seats farthest in the rear, as we had done during our high school careers, and probably would continue to do for the rest of our lives.
Hilly looked good. I looked good. The world looked good. Mexico, the idea of both of us in it for the next twenty-four hours, made life seem exciting, the way you felt as a kid getting in the car with your parents as you left for a road trip. Yet as the bus careened through downtown San Diego I felt some warning, some bell sounding in the depth of my soul. I couldn’t be sure what that bell meant, nor what, if anything, going to Mexico meant. But I did have the sensation of fear.
Nearing the border, we were in such a state of excitement that I thought we would go crazy and jump out of the vehicle while it was moving. The train dropped us off in downtown Tijuana and turned around, heading back to the Land of the Free, Home of the Brave. There was no turning back now.
We started sprinting — toward what we weren’t sure, maybe the freeway leading away from Tijuana toward fun and freedom.
We stopped, bent over, breathing. Still hunched, Hilly put his hand on my shoulder, pressing.
“Gonna be a search n’ destroy mission, eh ol’ boy,” Hilly said.
Looking for a cab, we were flailing our arms in the air. In no time a taxi with advertisements in Spanish pulled over. I jumped in the back and Hilly followed, slamming the door. We knew we were on the brink of being spit into the dragon’s lair. Who knew what would be waiting for us.
The road wound up, up, up, like a concrete snake slithering toward sand. Tijuana was behind us, and Hilly seemed to relax. I know I did. Hilly’s arm hung out the door, flapping against the taxi as the force of the wind blew it back.
Coastal villages passed — shanties with cardboard walls, covered in blankets. Half naked kids played. Dogs, ribs sticking-out, wandered noses to the ground, through lots littered with brokendown vehicles, old washing machines, trash.
We were approaching Rosarito; the all-night party was coming.
The taxi stopped in front of a bar, as we’d instructed. Hilly paid the driver.
“Pay me back with drinks,” Hilly said, shoving us out of the cab. The driver waved, flipping a
U-turn, heading back to the border to pick up the next batch of American kids.
The place was bigger than it looked from outside. Men sat idly. One man was shooting a game of pool, twisting the cue stick into the blue chalk cube as he stared. Hilly pulled up a stool at the bar.
Beers and shots went down. Hilly confided he’d brought his switchblade. To prove it, he opened his jacket, quickly brandishing the metallic blade.
We moved to another place. The new bar was smaller. Hilly seemed thrilled, bouncing like a
Mexican Marlon Brando, with a too-big head and too-dark everything. He swaggered like Brando as he tapped over to the bar stool. Drink was fueling him. He eyed the place for a good fight, or a woman he could harass.
I ordered beers and shots of tequila, which we downed in minutes. We were trying to catch up to Mexico. It seemed as if Mexico was always one step ahead.
We walked down the street to The Gold Nugget, the name written in English, neon bulbs flashing, the Mexican tribute to Las Vegas.
In the center of the club was a stage in the shape of a figure eight — two oval platforms, seats along the edge. A naked girl, sixteen at best, danced.
I began to feel my body slowing. I watched the girl — breasts, ass, feet moving in dance steps. Her set ended and Hilly hit the john. The second he walked away, I knew.
My friends, most of whom were really just drinking buddies, knew. Once I got close to blacking-out, I would slip away. The next day they would ask me, where’d you go last night? I would answer: I don’t know.
Beer in hand, I walked out of the strip club. From the street I could still hear jazz music. It was dark. Houses began giving way to closed shops and markets.
I jolted at the sound of tires on cobblestone: The police. Mexican police — corrupt cops. Two officers got out. Pulling my arms behind my back, one of them ran his hands up and down me. The one searching shoved his hands in my pockets and found my passport and wallet.
There was no cash in the wallet, which he flung.
He tossed the passport alongside my wallet. The officer said something in Spanish. He repeated it; I shook my head, indicating that I didn’t understand.
This seemed to frustrate him. He pulled out cuffs, throwing them over my wrists. Immediately the two officers started fighting, the pitch of their voices getting higher. Mexican jail — what would that be like? How would Hilly find me? The cop shook my shackled wrists. The two men had a stare down.
Then he unlocked the cuffs. Without a word, they took off, dirt flying. I had escaped
Mexican jail. Hilly would be proud.
I drifted over to an area where light was blocked by an alley. Leaning against the wall, I was grateful for a rest. My passport and wallet! I reached into my pocket, realizing I’d left them back in the dirt. Panic settled. I started to organize a plan, but it was too late.
My breathing slowed. Eyes closed as I let my body slide, sinking deep, deep, deeper into oblivion.
“Argggghhhh!!!” I bolted, sweat down my cheeks. I was in a moving car. I wasn’t dead. It was dawn. The sun had come up over the hills, beginning its ascent.
I counted four others — one driving, one riding shotgun, two guys next to me in the back. Who were they? Where were we going? The car felt huge, like a Buick. No one looked at me, not a sound — no talk, no radio, nothing.
“Um…excuse me, but…ahhh…where are we going, and uhh…”
I was cut short by the driver. He turned around and spoke in Spanish to the guy next to me. The guy started answering. They conversed, neither of them talking to, or looking at me. Was I being kidnapped? Kidnapped in Mexico? What if they were going to keep me in some dungeon, away from civilization? Or kill me and sell my organs? Or worse…hold me hostage for the rest of my life — beaten, underfed, tortured, far, far away from the American tourist traps. Hilly would look for me. My family would look for me. But they would fail.
The girl riding in front turned, facing me. She appeared Mexican, but was lighter-skinned than the others. Her hair was pulled in a ponytail, an appendage, as if the hair had power, as if it represented her personality.
“You pass-out, eh. We grab you, no get grabbed by la policia.”
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