We get into the building and I’m led down a white cement hallway, and put into a small cement room with six Mexican guys. They all look at me and then at each other. The guard cuts my handcuffs off and closes the door behind me.

I smile and wave, “hola!” They don’t move. They just keep staring at me. I feel so self-conscious.  I really don’t know what to do. They don’t teach jailhouse etiquette in high school; at least not at the one I go to.

There is no clock in here. I never realized how often I check the time until I lost my watch.

After what seems like eternity, another door opens and we are all led to a hallway, and one by one we’re led to a window where we are given our personal effects back. What’s happening? Was I arrested? What are they going to do with me?

“Como se llama?”

Really? In Spanish? “Francsico Villa.”  The other guys look at me and take a step away from me, like I’m going to explode or something.

She stares long and hard at me, and opens a plastic bag and slips it to me under the thick, bullet proof looking window. I take my things.

We are led to a large chain-linked fence area outside. The black starless night has the coolness of late evening or early morning.

We’re left alone again for awhile and I’m drawing lots of cold stares. It’s like they can’t get far enough away from me to whisper amongst themselves, but at no time do any of their eyes leave me. This is creepy. Am I going to get gang raped? Do they really do that stuff in real life? Is this the time where I’m supposed to pick the biggest one of them and kick his butt so nobody will bother me? No, he’s pretty big. Maybe the second biggest . . . no, but I’m pretty sure I can take that little guy over there, would that count?

Someone comes and unlocks the gate and we’re told we can go. Go where? The Mexicans all just turn and leave, but I don’t want to go back to Mexico. “Look, I’m an American, I just lost my ID in Mexico that’s all.”

“You must be Pancho Villa.”

What the hell does that mean? He’s not saying anything, just looking at me through those wire-rimmed sunglasses. Well I’m not going to say anything either . . .  Wrong move. His stare just got meaner and he moves closer.

I turn and walk back into Mexico. What the hell?! I can’t believe I’m getting refused entry into my own country. This is nuts. Where am I supposed to go?

I walk around for a while, and then I laugh when I realize I’m not worrying about getting lost because I don’t know where I am to begin with.

I spot a pay phone. Right now it looks like a big, metal and glass rescue beacon. I wonder how much this change is in real money?  I guess I’ll put it all into the phone. Pay phones give change if I don’t use it all, don’t they?

I dial my home. I get a beeping noise and then I’m told something by the Mexican cousin of that operator recording you get when you dial a number that’s disconnected or no longer in service. Same voice—different  language. I wonder how many languages she speaks?

She says something about dialing a “uno.” I look at the pay phone and see it says, Ustedes Unidos and there is a 1 next to it. I hang up the phone and hear the change drop back into the bottom of the phone.  I put the change back into the phone, and this time I dial a one and then my area code and phone number.

The phone rings four times and then just before the machine picks up, I hang up and let the change fall back into the bottom of the phone. Mom must still be at her second job. I need to talk to her in person so I can make arrangements for her to meet me somewhere, and I don’t exactly have a number I can be called back on.

I wonder what time it is. I think I’ll wait till after sunrise and then call Taco Bell. I’m so tired. It doesn’t look like I’m getting home today, so I need to find a place to sleep. I’m not really tired, I slept some in the car. With no clock and no watch, time seems to stand still in Mexico. No wonder nobody’s in a hurry down here.

The sun takes forever to wake up. I call home again. Same thing. I hang up before the fourth ring. It should be late enough for Robb to be in. I put the money back into the phone and dial the 1, and then my Taco Bell phone number. “Taco Bell, how may I help you?”

“Hey, Roselyn, it’s me Frank, is Darren or Robb there?

“No, they are at a meeting.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes.”

Why would they have a meeting without me? “Hey Roselyn, I’m still in Mexico. I lost my ID and I’m having trouble getting through the border right now and I may not be back in time for work today. Can you tell Robb that for me please?”

“I heard you got deported with the others.”

“Tell Robb I’ll try to get back as soon as I can”

“Okay.”

An operator says something in Spanish.

“Okay, Frank, you are almost out of time, oh, wait, you probably understand that.”

“No Roselyn, I didn’t just learn Spanish the last two days.”

“Yeah, but if you’re Mexican—“

“I’m not Mexican—I’m American . . . Just tell Robb I’ll be in as soon as—“ The phone goes dead.

Now, what am I going to do? Crap, I should have told her to tell Robb to call my mom and tell her what’s up. Maybe I should just wait a bit and try going through the border again, by myself this time. I’ll just explain my situation. I can’t be the first American to lose his ID in Mexico. That would be absurd. I’m probably not even the first American to lose his ID in Mexico since September 11.

There’s a Mexican restaurant right behind me. It’s name is “El Burrito Crazy.” I wonder if this is Mexico’s version of Spanglish. They probably speak English there, being on the border and all.  The stupid phone took all the change, now all I’m left with is this . . . however much money this is.  Can I buy breakfast? Get a hotel room?

I’m hungry. I think I’ll go to this El Burrito Crazy and see if I can get something to eat when it opens. I’ll try to walk through the border again a little later. Hopefully the asshole border guards will be gone by then.

 

How’s the book so far?

Would you like to read this book without having to have an internet connection?
Buy the book now and read it when ever you want, where ever you like.

 

 

End of Part 2

 

 

Time doesn’t seem to mean much down here, which is probably why nobody wears a watch. I should have asked Roselyn when I had her on the phone. . . Naw, that would’ve been stupid, Hello, Roselyn? It’s me Frank, I’m in Mexico. What time is it?

How did my life get so crazy?  Before I came to Mexico, I knew who I was, and who everyone else was; I had everything figured out. Life made sense. Now I don’t know anything for sure any more.

It looks like El Burrito Crazy is open. Food. I’m starving.

I walk in and look up at the large menu behind the counter. Burrito and taco are the only things I understand. What the heck is all that other stuff? Tortas? Do they eat turtles here? Man, I gotta be careful. No telling what’s in the food in these places. I hear the water down here will make you sick, too. I wonder if there’s a McDonalds around here; if there is, I wonder if I can find it.

A short little brown man with black hair and a thick black mustache comes up to the counter. His face is worn with time, and there are many creases on his forehead and around his eyes. He smiles, and the creases deepen.

“Hey, what’s up? What can I do for you?”

How come this guy knows I’m American and the professionals over at the border can’t see it? “I’m pretty hungry.”  I take out the money from my pocket and lay it all on the counter. “What will this get me?”

He studies the money for a second and then studies me a little bit longer.

“That will get you a lot of things. You want a torta, a couple of tacos, or a nice big burrito maybe?”

“Okay, I’ll take a burrito. A large soda too. You can keep the turtles and the tap water.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

He takes about half the money on the counter and puts it in the cash register. “It’ll just take a minute” He smiles and extends his hand, “If you need anything, my Name is Cheech.“

What name should I use? “I’m Fran . . . cis . . . co.” I shake his hand vigorously, hoping it’ll mask that flub.

“Fran . . . cis . . . co?”

I didn’t think that’d work. “Yeah, my dad was Mexican.”

“What, he’s not any more?”

“No, he’s dead.”

“Oh, Sorry, mine is too”

“Dead?”

“No, Mexican. What kind of soda you want?” He points to the soda machine behind the counter.

“Coke, please.”

He turns to the machine and fills the cup with crushed ice and then Coke. “So, you came down here to do a little partying, lose your virginity . . . ” He hands me my Coke.

“I was here visiting some relatives.”

“Oh, right. With a name like Fran . . . cis  . . . co, I shoulda guessed. Ha ha ha.”

I’m never going to hear the end of this I can tell.

“Hey man, you don’t look so good.”

Should I tell him? It can’t hurt. I don’t think my day could get any worse. “I can’t believe it . . . I lost my ID, and now I’m having trouble getting back home.”

“Yeah, I heard that before.”

“No, seriously.”

“Yeah, seriously! You think being this close to the border and I don’t get some good stories?”

“Yeah? Well how did they get across?”

“How much money you got?”

“You’re kidding right?” I point with my eyes where all my money was laid out just a minute ago.

“Oh, right. Well, they had money.” He walks a few steps down the counter and makes my burrito.

I look at the steam table he keeps his hot ingredients in. Looks Mexican all right. Beans, rice, meats of different kinds in sauces of different colors. There’s a speed rack above a cutting board with small stainless steel pans filled with diced tomatoes, shredded lettuce, sliced jalepenos, diced onions, etc . . . Looks kinda like Taco Bell. Everything is prepped ahead of time. All you have to do is put the ingredients together, and you’re done.

Wait a minute. “You mean I won’t get across the border without money?”

“That’s right, kid. You might as well have all your mail forwarded.”

“What?”

“Yeah, hey, since you’re going to be staying here a while, do you need a job? ‘Cuz I always wanted an American dishwasher.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is he for real?

“Wow, put your eyeballs back in your head Fran . . . cis . . . co. I’m just yanking your chain.”

Oh My God!

“You got someone to call and send you some money?”

“Not until way later tonight, but I need to get home now! I think I’m just going to eat and then try walking across again.”

“That never works.”  He returns with a fat burrito wrapped in thin aluminum foil. He puts a piece of wax paper in a shallow red, plastic, oval basket, then places the burrito on the paper, then he takes a handful of tortilla chips and a small plastic cup of salsa and puts them in the basket. “Here’s your burrito.”

“Thanks. That was fast.” I wonder if he ever worked at Taco Bell.

“You want some more hot sauce with that?”

“No thanks.” Memories of orange hot sauce give me the heebie-jeebies, and I shake for just a moment.

“Yeah, I was just kidding.”

I walk over to a booth to eat my burrito in peace. All these thoughts of what I’ve just been through go zipping through my head and before I know it, the burrito is gone and I have no memory of what it tasted like—and that was a pretty big burrito.

Now what? It’s too soon to try to get back across the border again. I want to make sure those idiots I saw earlier are gone. I guess I’ll just walk around a bit and wait for this giant knot in my stomach to settle. I shouldn’t have eaten so fast. “Thanks for the burrito umm—Cheech.” I wave.

“Hey, don’t worry Fran . . . cis . . . co. I’m sure you’ll be fine, heck, they let anyone into the US. Just walk up like you own the place, and they’ll wave you right through.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I do it all the time.”

“Really?”

He gives me a wrinkly smile. I turn and walk out the door.

I wander in the direction of the border crossing, taking my time and hoping the changing of the guard will take place before I get there. I consult my naked wrist for the time again. I was so hungry, I forgot to look for a clock.

I follow a flow of people on a sidewalk heading towards the border. We walk up a cement ramp, and then over the freeway on an arched bridge, and then back down again to street level on the other side. We walk past some shops with colorful signs and a few amputee beggars, and before I know it, I’m in a line. Wonderful. There are hundreds of people here, and the line seems to go on forever. This is going to take a while.

The line moves at the speed of peanut butter, reminding me of Disneyland, and I feel like everyone is staring at me. My fingers fumble around for the St. Christopher’s medal to make sure it’s still hanging from my neck.

All around me are little people, dressed in jeans, plain skirts, t-shirts of all colors. Tennis shoes, purses, bracelets, rings, tight curly brown short hair, and long straight jet black hair and a couple of blondes thrown in for good measure

The air in this place is a hot and sticky soup of perfume, burning asphalt, gas, diesel, and propane, topped with a generous sprinkling of accordion music for a garnish. Lots of people are fanning themselves, creating the breeze God obviously forgot, mixing the simmering soup to perfection.

After about two or three hours, I get to a large Grand Central Station-looking place with hundreds of people standing in a dozen or so lines. There are signs hanging from the ceiling and they are in Spanish, so I don’t know which line I’m supposed to be in. I wade into one of them.

Not many smiles. This is definitely a serious place. The closer I get to the window, the more I feel the papers, pictures and money in my pocket getting uncomfortable, almost telling me this isn’t going to work. I’m an American for Christ’s sake. I’m an alien on THIS side of the border. I need to psych myself up.

After what seems like forever, it’s my turn.  Everyone ahead of me had their ID out and handed it to the officer. She sees I don’t have mine ready. “Hi, how are you—“

“Can I see some ID please?” She looks right through me with a disgusted, you stupid or something? look on her face.

“Well that’s just the thing, I lost my wallet in Mexico.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, now I’m sure I’m not the first person to lose my ID.”

“You ain’t even the first one this hour.”

“Great.”

“Yeah, fantastic. You know the least you guys could do is buy a fake ID, you know, put some effort into this.” I feel the situation deteriorating quickly. “What’s your name?” She has a pad of paper and a pencil ready to write down my information, and that probably means she’s going to check on some kind of computer, which is great; I hope. “Francisco.”

“Okay Francisco, that’s a pretty American name. If your last name is Sanchez, we may have a little problem.”

“It’s not Sanchez . . . “

“Good.”

“. . . It’s Villa”

She shoots me a piercing look. “Villa,” she writes that down, then her face visibly changes.  Here it comes . . .

”Really . . . Pancho Villa?”

“Yeah, look, my—“

“Hey guess what? That Pancho Villa guy is for real,” she says over her shoulder.

“Yeah?” A head pops out from another room.

“Yeah, he’s standing right here.”

Maybe they figured out their mistake? Maybe after I left, someone ran a computer check and found there is a Francisco Villa living in Arizona like I said, and working at . . . Taco Bell. It sounds ridiculous even when I think about it. I watch a couple of middle-aged guards in tan uniforms come over and look me up and down with very amused faces.  I can already tell this is not gonna work.

“Yep, that looks like him all right,” the taller, younger one says.

“You look pretty good for your age,” the other says. Like I’ve never heard that before. They laugh, then walk away.

“Now you do me a favor Pancho and just go back and get some ID, and when you do, come on back and we’ll let you through okay?” This so sucks. “Oh, and Pancho, next time try a less famous—heck, less Mexican name okay? It might help.”

I can not believe this. I’m in some kind of bad dream. I turn around and stand for a moment, trying to wrap my head around the predicament I’m in. I stand here watching about a dozen Mexicans—obvious Mexicans—cross into the US, while I’m turned away. I can’t believe this is happening to me.

 

I wish I could get ahold of Mom today, but she won’t be home ‘till midnight. I’ll have wasted the whole day and I need to get to work today. But what else can I do? I don’t know anyone here, and my new family is way down south in Guadalajara—they can’t help me.

When I snap out of my worry-coma, I find myself standing in front of the El Burrito Crazy again. It looks like Cheech is coming out to greet me.

“Hey, I saw you coming, did you forget something?”

“Yeah, my ID”

“No shit? Wow.”

“Yeah, wow.”

“You really are a Mexican.”

This isn’t helping.

“Hey, no offense, but maybe it’s your clothes.

“My clothes?

“Yeah, not many gringos dress in guayaberas, levis and boots. I mean, that’s almost the official Mexican uniform in some places.”

I force a quick smile

“Why don’t you try going through without the sombrero and see if that helps.”

I have to laugh. He has on a sleeveless Metallica T-shirt behind his green apron, faded blue jeans and black tennis shoes. He dresses like a lot of Americans I know.

“Did you walk through like you owned the place?”

I give him my, Duh, no shit, look.

“Man, this is . . .”  he stops and looks at me, so I look back, expecting him to say something.

He walks over to the counter, grabs a couple of Styrofoam cups and goes to the soda machine. He returns and hands one to me.  We just stand there, leaning against the wall that has a hand painted mural of some Mexican guy in white clothes, a sombrero, and burritos in his holsters. It’s hand painted, probably by a relative.

Finally, Cheech breaks the silence. “I had an aunt almost as white as you. Blonde, too.”

“She’s not white any more?”

“Naw, it washes off. Hey you mind? I’m trying to help.” He smiles. “There are quite a few Mexicans with light skin in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I was fine until I told them my name.”

“Fran . . . cis . . . co, yeah, I know plenty of white guys named—“

I shoot him a serious look so he’ll know I’m not kidding, “Pancho Villa?”

“Hey, be careful who you make fun of around here.“

I just look at him with my, does it look like I’m kidding? expression.

“No way!” Then I watch it register on his face. He doesn’t say anything; he just leans back against the wall and sighs, “Francisco Villa? Man, you are screwed. I don’t think even a real ID would help you. Heck, it might even make things worse.”

We stand around some more, sipping cold coke on a hot day in a little fast food restaurant a few hundred yards from the border, and lost in thought. He’s swimming in amazement and I’m drowning in frustration. “Hey, if you can’t go through, why not go around?”

“What does that mean?”

“Yeah, go to the coast. The fence doesn’t even go to the water very far. You can just walk around and once you’re on the other side, they have to keep you, right? You’re an American.”

It does makes sense. “You think it’ll work?”

“Heck, I used to do it all the time when I was a kid.”

“Really?”

“Go, you’ll see. People do it all the time.”

“Oh, that’s awesome! Thanks Cheech.” Finally some hope to keep me going.

“No problem. Always glad to help a fellow Mexican get across the border. Ha ha ha.”

I shake his hand in gratitude, then leave El Burrito Crazy. I’m on a mission.

“Hey, Pancho.”

I turn around. He’s sticking his head out the front door and pointing in the other direction. “The ocean is that way,” he laughs, “Guero’s”

I look up and try to get my bearings from the sun. This is so embarrassing.

“Look for a big bullfighting ring. It’s right near the border. You can’t miss it.”

I wave. Bullfighting ring. What do those look like?

I can see the ocean way before I can smell it or hear the rhythmic whisper of the waves. As I get closer, sea gulls twirl and glide in the bright blue sky, their echoed voices scraping the air before fading out, farther down the beach.

When I get closer, I see a stadium and a tall white statue. Beyond the statue, is the bright blue sea. I get a little closer, and I see some people wading in the shallow water, jumping over or running from the dregs of dying waves as the water stretches the last few yards of its life. Others are on the beach in small groups, and of course, there’s the kid building a fort in the sand. Every beach has at least one of those kids.

The fence, extends down towards the water in a thin, straight black line, and just as Cheech said, the waves struggle to reach it.

Stopping on a cement bluff that looks out over the beach, I see over the fence and the wild sand dunes on the other side of it, with long, scraggly tufts of weeds that eventually blend in with a small forest of ragged plant life. It looks like nature goes on, unmolested, for miles.

There isn’t a border guard in sight. This is going to be easy. Finally, this odyssey is going to end and my life will return to its normal dreary routine. I can’t wait to be an American again.

Sliding down the sand dune towards the breaking water and the edge of the fence, I notice something odd.  There is an old lady cutting cake up against the fence.  She is with what looks to be her middle aged daughter and a couple of small kids, Then the mom of the kids passes a piece of cake on a paper plate, through the fence, and when she pulls back her hand, the piece of cake has vanished.

I keep walking and trying to get to an angle where I can see through the fence without tripping. The fence is made out of tall steel beams or pipes that stick into the sand and climb about twenty feet into the sky. There isn’t much room between the vertical beams, but just enough to pass a piece of cake.

Looking through the fence, there is a man on the other side, eating the cake. The Grandma is still cutting more pieces, which, now that I’m closer, I see has candles on it. Do people come here for birthday parties? I guess it beats having to sneak back in when the party is over. There’s a young baby in the arms of the younger woman. The man stares intently at it, as he eats his cake. How old is that baby? Is that his? How long has that guy been gone? Wow. That’s somebody’s life right there.

Nobody seems to notice when I walk straight down to the water, and around the end of the fence. I time it so the water doesn’t splash me or go into my boots. I wonder why that guy doesn’t just go around the fence for the birthday party and then back again when the party is over. Mexicans can be so stupid . . . I mean some . . . most . . . some.

I snap out of my little judgement-fest and I really feel like singing as I start my walk north to San Diego. From there I’ll call my mom and wait for her to come pick me up, or maybe hitch a ride to Arizona. It’s really not that far from here, and I did just hitchhike a few hundred miles already.

What a glorious day. It started out pretty crappy, but it’s getting better every minute. The sun is high in a cloudless blue sky. Sandpipers run up and down the beach poking holes in the wet sand with their beaks.

In the distance, some people are riding horses in a line, and they’re coming my way. I know how to ride a horse now. That looks kinda fun. I should bring Mom down here and do that some day.

A little further in the distance, a guy on a quad zips down the beach. That looks like fun too. I wonder where you rent those?

This border thing is way too loose. Just anyone can get in here. Why doesn’t everyone sneak in this way?

The quad doesn’t look like a rental. It just goes down the flat part of the beach and avoids the dunes altogether. I thought quads were all about the dunes. Maybe he’s going for speed. That’d be funny if he’s a commuter; living in America and working in Mexico. I bet if he timed it right, that quad could go around the fence—no problem.

Wait a minute! That rider’s wearing a tan uniform and he’s coming straight for me. Oh shit. A cop? Really? How did he see me? There’s got to be some place . . . maybe I can get lost in those dunes. No that’s just low scrub and sand, besides, it’s already too late to run.

“Okay amigo, turn right back around. You need to head back to where you came from.”

Shit! He stops right next to me and gets off the quad.

“This is where I came from.”

“Don’t get smart with me Jose, just turn right back around and get back home.”

“But I AM home. “

“I don’t really care. This is not an official US entry point. You need to go back and enter the country where your Identity can be verified and your status can be confirmed.”

“But I—“

“Nessecitos en espanol amigo?”

That did it. If there was anyone on this planet I ever wanted to hit, it’s this asshole. I just want to explain my situation, but I can tell that behind those standard-issue, wire-rimmed, highway patrol sunglasses, there isn’t a person—just a uniform. He’s all border patrol. There is no reasoning, there are only rules.

I turn and walk back towards the fence. I can’t believe I’m having so much trouble getting home. How can they make me go to Mexico? I’ve never heard of this before. Shouldn’t Mexico deport me once I get there for not being a citizen? Hey, maybe that’s how I can get home. I’ll get deported. It is how I got here. Wow! Round-trip deportation—what a concept.

I stare at the sand beneath my feet. I’m in America right now, but I can’t stay. I’m actually being forced out of my country, and into a country that I’m not a citizen of.  I pick up a handful of moist sand, and glare at the border guard as he gets back on his quad. If I can’t get into America, I’m going to take a piece of America with me.

When I get to the border fence, I look over my shoulder one last time. He’s still there, watching me, making sure I don’t get lost. As I go around the fence I hear applause. Some of the locals have gathered around the fence, watching the show. The fence. What a joke. In places it looks like giant black toothpicks sticking out of the sand.

A couple of little kids are jumping back and forth through the fence, being in one country one moment, another in the next. I think they’re mocking me. Great, six year olds making fun of me; that just makes my day. Looks like he’s going for a world record too. Back and forth, back and forth, smiling at me the whole time. And, of course, this doesn’t bother the border patrol guy at all.

What if I don’t get back home tonight? What will Mom think? Can she do anything to help? There has got to be a way for me to get home. I’m due back at work today, and if I don’t show up, Darren will—wait a minute. Darren was! He was at a meeting with Robb—while I’m in Mexico. I’ve only been gone a few days. What could be so important they need a meeting without me? I need to get home now. There has got to be a way.

Several people are standing on the other side of the fence, talking to a small group on this side. If I could just mingle with them, then return with the group on the other side . . . No, that guard is still sitting there on his quad. Why doesn’t he just go back to where he came from?

Looking at the American sand in my right hand, I pick up some of the same kind of hard, wet sand with my left. They look the same. I bet I could go up to anyone on the beach and ask them which was American and which was Mexican, and nobody would get it right. Well, maybe fifty percent of them would; that wouldn’t prove anything. I drop the American sand on the ground and look at it for a second. I bend over and draw a line around where the American sand landed. Technically, is this America? If I were to call Mom on a cell phone from right here, would I have to dial a one first? I stomp on the American sand and then look at my footprint. I look at the border fence just a few yards away. It’s not the sand that’s important; it’s where you draw the line.

I sit down and take off my boots, stuff my socks inside, then roll the bottom of my pants up to my knees to keep them dry. With the boots in my hands, I walk along the water and look at the buildings along the beach. Most of them are brightly colored old shops. They’re old and ratty, and most of them need some major repairs. In the US this property would be worth millions, and the businesses and homes would be immaculate. It’s definitely a different world down here.

Just up the beach, there is a yellow inflatable raft lying in the sand. Across the street are some three-story buildings, which are probably apartments. The raft looks okay, but I don’t see any oars. I casually walk over to the street and try to look inside the apartments to see if there’s any activity.

Nobody seems to be interested in me, or this raft. I notice the beach is not crowded, compared to American beaches, and the nearest kids are about a hundred yards farther down the beach. They look pretty occupied playing some kind of game and don’t look too concerned about me being near this raft.

This is stealing—and I’m feeling guilty for even having these thoughts—but I gotta get home.  The water doesn’t look too rough from here. It looks like three lines of breaking surf and the first one I’ll probably just wade past. This should be easy.

Picking up one end of the raft and flipping it over uncovers a yellow plastic paddle with a blue handle. Awesome!  I toss it and my dad’s old boots inside the raft, and drag it casually, but quickly, down to the water.

No one comes to stop me, so I put the raft in the ocean and push knee deep into the water, and jump inside. Fumbling around for the paddle underneath takes some coordination and balance. Finally I’m ready to . . . uh-oh. There’s a big white foamy avalanche of what’s left of a wave barreling down on me.  The all too familiar fear of imminent failure paralyzes me, and I clumsily get situated for paddling.

Just as I get ready to paddle, the wave hits me and I begin moving backwards very quickly. Bubbling white water lifts the front of the raft up . . . lots of sky . . . “Aaaahhhh, shit.”

When I come up for air, I’m kneeling, chest deep in water and completely wet. A quick search for the raft finds it sliding up the beach on what’s left of the wave that flipped me over. Feeling around for my boots is a short job, thankfully, because my second job is to grab the paddle before it floats away.

I walk over to the raft, flip it over, toss the boots and paddle back in again, and look around to see if anybody cares about the raft.

Looking toward the border I see I’m a bit farther south now from where I started, and that reminds me, I’ll be fighting the current when paddling north. I hope I can paddle fast enough to make good progress. I’d hate to paddle out a mile and then when I get back to shore, find myself back in Guadalajara.

The first order of business is to get past these rolling, foaming, border-guards. There are three lines of surf that I’ll have to get past. It looks like there is a minute or so between waves. This really shouldn’t be very hard.

Putting the raft back in the water and walking it out as far into the surf as possible, I jump into the raft as a foamy wave passes me. Getting on my knees without tipping over is not very easy, but I get situated and then begin paddling like crazy. The wave forming ahead of me, and the memory of what just happened, is not very reassuring. I need to get over the top of that wave before it breaks, but having to switch sides after every two or three paddles in order not to paddle in a circle makes progress difficult.

The wave is peaking and I’m almost there. My heart is pounding as I paddle harder, and faster, but I feel myself tilt up, then begin to slide backwards as the wave becomes a wall.

Oh shit.

In a moment of genius that only comes from recently experiencing a similar failure a mere two or three minutes before, I grab the boots with one hand and hang onto the paddle with the other as my little world gets turned upside down again. An idea hits me at about the same time as the sandy bottom does. It’s moments like this that make me feel so incredibly stupid—and brilliant, all at the same time.

I stand up and shake the sand our of my right ear, then walk over to where the raft has now landed, twenty or so yards farther south. Even mother nature seems to make it easier to get into Mexico than get out of it.

Turning the raft over to empty the water, I put the paddle and boots inside and reassess my situation. Glancing up the beach toward the building where I got this raft, I see I haven’t been discovered yet. Come to think of it, as far as I know, this raft floated down on the current from the US. Maybe it’s an American raft . . .

Back to the mission at hand.

I blow some sand out of my nose and feel the gritty coarseness in my shirt, pants, pockets, and my underwear. I notice my white shirt is now almost clear, and I wonder if that means I could get sun burned out here—anyway, what was that idea I had a few minutes ago? Oh, yeah, I’m probably getting swamped because I’m sitting too far back in the raft. I’m easily pushed back down the wave. Surfers pass the first lines of surf all the time by jumping over it and paddling out past it. I’ll just act more like a surfer.

I catch my breath and make sure everything is situated just right, then wait for the right time to charge the surf, jump over the foamy remnants of a wave, and paddle my ass off to get to the next set of breakers.

Seeing my opportunity, I carry my momentum forward and jump onto the raft, positioning myself forward with my chin resting over the front of the raft, and my ankles hanging over the back. Laying on my stomach I paddle like a surfer, not even looking at the wave ahead of me. I know there is one, waiting for me, daring me to come get dunked again, I can feel it. I just don’t want to look at it and get spooked.

As the raft gets pulled up into the next wave, I paddle harder, digging deep into the water with flat bladed hands, and reaching the top of a wave, it begins to curl. A cold rush goes through my body as the fear of getting dunked again becomes a distinct possibility. Leaning as far forward as I can and reaching over the top of the wave I pull downward and climb as hard and fast as I can. In an instant the raft levels off, and the wave breaks beneath me, pulling me backward with it. I paddle harder to break free from the turbulent grip of the foamy white water. Finally, I sense some forward progress again. Man that was scary.

I look up at the next line of surf ahead of me. The muscles in my arms and chest are exhausted. The next wave comes surprisingly soon. Paddling harder and faster, leaning forward like last time, I make it over this wave a little easier, but again there is the backward pulling sensation. My arms begin to feel like rubber, straining to make forward progress. The wave seems alive, like it’s trying to keep me from escaping.

I’m exhausted and out of breath. Just one more row of waves to go, but I’m having trouble getting past this row. The taste of salt water and the smell of plastic remind me of how fun this used to be as a kid. My wobbly arms beg me to stop and take a break.

I look ahead, paddling and assessing my chances. It doesn’t look like I’m going to make this one, but I also don’t think getting pushed backwards to the previous surf line is going to do me any good either. The next wave begins to build.

Paddling seems useless; I can’t seem to get enough air. The wave builds, pushing me higher, racing towards me, as my little yellow raft and I rush to meet it. It is so on, but I’m almost spent. My breathing is deep and raspy like I’ve been running a marathon. I’m in deep water now and swimming isn’t going to work for me. I have to make it, or I’ll drown. The realization that I might die turns my blood cold. I push harder to make the wave before it breaks. I’m lifted up, up, up. The wave begins to crest, and I feel incredibly high in the air right now. Leaning as far forward as possible, inching my chin way out over the front of the raft, paddling and paddling, hoping to get my head above the breaking wave. The wave breaks beneath me and once again I’m being pulled backward, but I keep paddling with spaghetti arms until I’m away from the danger zone, breaking free from the grip of the wave.

I made it! I paddle a bit more to get past the surf line, but ultimately my arms give out.

My victory dance consists of collapsing on the bottom of the raft, taking air in huge gulps, and wanting to take a serious nap. I made it. Yippie.

After recovering a bit, and catching my breath, I feel a swell roll by underneath me. I paddle a few weak strokes to get farther away from the breaking waves. I notice the raft seems less full. When I first got in it, the raft was pretty firm, but now it’s softer, lower in the water than before. It’s probably from all the tumbling I did on it. The loss of air may have even helped get past that last wave, being less buoyant than before. If I’d have thought of this earlier I could have saved a lot of effort. If pain is the feeling of stupidity leaving your body, my arms are telling me I’m a freaking genius.

I find an air nipple underneath my chin, pop it open and begin blowing. Since I’m facing the beach now, it’s becoming apparent I’m drifting southward, and towards the surf again. Maybe I can paddle and blow at the same time. I’ll just take it nice and easy. Turning the raft around and pointing it north, I take long, slow strokes, breathing in through my nose and out into the raft.

After only a few deep breaths, I feel dizzy. I close up the air nipple and focus on paddling. The last thing I want to do is pass out and end back up on the beach again.

I decide to paddle westward to get farther out where there is less risk of being sucked into the surf, or being seen by anyone on the beach. After a few minutes I stop and focus all my attention on filling the raft back up. The smell of plastic, salt and seaweed is strong with my nose buried in the raft. I can almost smell the suntan lotion Mom would put on me to keep me from getting darker. Suntan lotion. I look at my transparent shirt. Damn. I’m going to get sunburned out here.

When the raft feels as firm as when I first got it, I push the nipple back in, carefully position myself in a sitting position, and use the paddle to take me north-west, still trying to get out of sight. As long as I can see land, they can probably see me. This raft being bright yellow is not going to help me sneak past Mr. Quad either. I wonder if there’s a submarine around here, waiting for me to cross the border, where it will pop up and a guy with wire-rimmed sunglasses will stick his head out and tell me to go back to Mexico.

Paddling steadily on the left for three strokes, then on the right for three strokes, I try to get into a rhythm I can maintain for a few hours. I don’t want to tire too quickly. I’ll just go a mile or two up the beach, and then land in front of someone’s house and deliver the raft to them like I’m returning it.

 

After several minutes, I notice the raft is getting soft again. Maybe all this activity has started a leak. I stop paddling and push several deep, slow breaths into the raft. It doesn’t seem to be satisfied, so I repeat until my little yellow friend is firm and happy again.

I can barely make out the shapes of the buildings and houses on the beach. The dark patch between Mexico and California, and the outline of the stadium lets me know I’m still pretty far south of the border, and I should go even farther out to sea if I’m to cross the border undetected.

If I go one mile out, no one should be able to see me. Two miles north should take me well into the US, then one more mile east back to land. That makes four miles of paddling. I should be able to do that if I take my time.

Hey, what was that?  It felt like I hit something with the paddle. I don’t see any tree stumps or logs or anything down there. Maybe there is one but I just don’t see it. Whatever it was, it seems to be gone now. I’ve heard on the news that boats are always hitting stuff that’s partially submerged out here; it could have been anything.

The sun is pretty bright and I don’t have any sunscreen. I pull up the collar of my transparent white shirt up over my neck. Does that mean I’m as good as naked right now and I’m going to—there it is again. That felt weird. I don’t think that was a log; it didn’t feel that solid . . . A chill rushes over me. My eyes sting for a second and my heart begins beating like crazy. I keep paddling. It’s probably not what I’m thinking.

What is the first thing I’m going to do when I get home? Probably take a nice, long shower, and go to bed. My nice, soft bed, with real pillows—there it is again! This time I didn’t hit it with my paddle. I felt a distinct thump beneath my knees. Shit! My heart races out of my chest. Shit-shit-shit!

There is something down there, and I don’t need two guesses to figure out what it is. It’s a frickin’ shark—I just know it! Great! I’m in an inflatable rubber raft and the shore is a long ways away. All the comfort I felt being so far from it vanishes in an instant.

Now I know what they mean when they say, it’s better to be on land and wishing you were on a boat, than to be on a boat and wishing you were on land. And that goes double for bright yellow inflatable rafts. I’m a frickin’ man-sandwich in a plastic yellow wrapper.

What should I do? Should I just sit here and pretend to be a log or something? Maybe it won’t see me if I don’t move. “Aaaah.” Another bump. That time I screamed. It heard me for sure.

I start paddling delicately back to shore, hoping not to alert the shark. Yeah, I think I’ll just stay in Mexico for the rest of my life. This place kinda grows on ya, actually.

I slowly begin to pick up speed, now that I’m cooperating with the current. A dorsal fin pops up about thirty yards away.

A fin? Really? They do that?

I remember hearing that sharks are big babies, and if you hit them on the nose, they’ll go away. It sounded good on the TV show, but I was on land at the time and it was purely theoretical then.

The fin is coming straight for me. Time to make a decision. I stop paddling and nausea fills my stomach. Yeah, maybe if I chum some barf over the side, that’ll discourage it. If that yellow thing tastes like this, I don’t want any . . .  Here it comes. Okay, shit, shit, shit, “SHIT!” Smack! Holy shit! I hit it. I can’t believe it—Oh no! What’s it going to do now? Did I piss it off? I can’t believe it. What have I done? I hit a fricking shark with a stupid plastic paddle. How dumb is that? I gotta get outa here.

Paddling like a madman, I decide to dispense with the stealth mode; the shark definitely knows I’m here.

Shit, the raft is losing air.  Fricking son-of-a-bitch, fricking mother, shit, shit, shit!

I feel the St. Christoper’s medal bang against my chest.

“Holy Mother of God, Jesus, please help me! Holy God! Jesus . . .”  I paddle frantically towards shore;

Oh no! The walls of the raft are flattening out. I see the shark’s fin gliding away. I focus on paddling and keeping the shark in my peripheral vision. I don’t want another surprise visit. It makes sharp turns like it’s lost or it’s swimming around walls.

Water is now spilling into the raft from the sides. I reach down to pop out the air-nipple. Oh no! The shark is gone. Shit! I mean, Jesus, um, thanks—I think.

I paddle and blow, paddle and blow. I don’t even try to figure out how to do both at the same time, I just do it.  Some water comes in my nose as I breathe. I cough which is not helping me blow up the raft. I bend my head around with the nipple still in my mouth, to see if I can see the shark again. It’s gone. I’m breathing in, paddling, blowing out, breathing in, paddling, blowing out.

The fin appears again—dead ahead, coming straight at me. “Holy mother of shit!” My face is inches from the ocean. Bumping heads with a shark would not be a good thing. I don’t want the last thing I see to be a shark’s tonsils, so I sit up on my knees, which forces the bottom of the raft down a bit, pushing my legs underwater, but keeping a ring of air and rubber around me. As the shark approaches, I reach the oar back over my head, and angle the blade like a knife to slice through the water. If I’m gonna go, I’m gonna take a few teeth with me. “Here you go you son of a—“

I hit it with all my strength, and time slows way down. I notice that the distance between the dorsal fin and his tail fin is longer than I am tall; about six feet, maybe more. This shark is massive. I come to this realization at the exact moment my paddle connects with the shark’s tough outer skin. The plastic handle cracks, then splinters, then shatters into pieces. The shark’s tail reflexes and splashes tons of water in every direction. I close my eyes and wish I was just dreaming. Then he’s gone.

Time resumes its normal pace. Oh, my God! I hit that shark so hard, all I’m left with is half a paddle, not to mention a leaky raft and a pissed off whale-shark. I am so screwed.

Holy Mother of God, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Moses, the Apostles, who else? St. John, and anybody in Bible-land I left out; can you hear me? I could really use some help right now.

This broken paddle is useless. I chuck it into the water. I don’t want any sharp edges around the raft. Oh, shit! There goes my weapon. What will I do when the shark comes back? Arm wrestle with it? Damn it! Now I’m no longer a . . . fierce . . . yellow . . . animal of some kind. I’m more like a happy meal. After he eats me he can play with the raft.

I lie down, stick the air nipple into my mouth, and swim as fast as I can towards shore. I try to move my head around, but I can’t. It‘s probably better this way. I would just freak out seeing that fin coming at me again. I’m now transformed into one big, swimming and blowing machine.

The first line of breakers are just ahead, about twenty yards. I can’t believe I’m so happy to see them. I hope I can lose the shark in the foam and get catapulted to the shore like the other times. I just have to make it to the breakers.  Maybe I can lose the shark in the white water, like a plane getting lost in a cloud. But what if the wave turns me over again, and I’m thrown out of the raft? I’ll be shark bait.  I can’t stand this!

I can’t believe my life may soon be over. I remember having a good childhood. School was okay, and I had some friends that were fun to do things with, until I had to get a job and start helping Mom with the food and stuff.

Mom took great care of me. She did the best she could, and if Dad had made it back, we would have had a great family. I wonder if this is how he met his end, too? Trying to swim back?

Mom. I’m sorry, Mom. I hope you won’t hate me for leaving you without a trace.

It seems like it’s taking me a lot longer to get back to shore than it did to get out here. My arms are burning with exhaustion, but I can’t stop now. Why is it that when I want a wave, it won’t take me, but when I don’t want one, I can’t get around them?

The raft heaves up and a warm sensation spreads outward in my pants. I hold on tight with my arms as I’m lifted up, and then back down again, as the wave passes without me. Damn! I mean, great it wasn’t the shark, but damn I missed the wave.

I will never again watch those Shark Week specials. I get a great mental picture of the episode where a shark comes halfway up the shoreline to get a seal, or the one where they toss a seal six feet into the air like they’re playing with their food. Oh, wait, I think those were killer whales.

I stop blowing, and look behind me, hoping not to see that huge shark again. Nothing. He’s probably right underneath me. Another wave is coming. If I paddle hard, it could take me all the way to shore. My arms and shoulders and chest and neck burn from the effort, as I strain one last time to get me back to dry land, while also bracing for a huge mouth to come and steal me away from my mom, my job, my new family. Nobody will ever know how I went missing. They’ll think men disappearing on them runs in the family.

I dip my hands into the water for only a fraction of a second each time, not wanting to dangle any shark treats in the water. The next wave picks my legs up and I paddle even harder to surf the wave in.

I paddle about twenty or thirty times before the raft and I get launched forward, and we ride on a bubbly, bumpy, scarier-than-shit wave in. Any moment, this ride could come to an end, and those bubbles could be from the shark as it comes to get me. It could be just below me, messing with me, letting me think I’ve made it safe, and right when I get to the shore, it’ll reach out of the wave, grab me, and jerk me back into the water, or toss me in the air like a doomed seal.

Why do I keep thinking these things?

I’m surfing. I’m jetting quickly to the shore. I just might make it. I can almost feel the sand beneath me as I stay in the raft well after I could get out and stand up.  When I feel the bottom of the raft skid across the sand below, I roll out. I sense the shark is waiting for this exact moment to pull me back and play with me a bit longer, and I shiver violently. I roll and do a kneeling kind of cartwheel, then I jump up and get as much air as I possibly can and land on the hard sand in front of me. What if I’m not far enough away from the water? Without stopping, I roll uphill. I roll, and roll, until I’m not only completely out of the water, I’m completely out of the hard, wet sand as well. Rolling and rolling until I’m covered in hot, gritty, dry sand, high above the water’s reach. My heart is pounding through my chest. I want to scream-cry-shout. All I can manage is a painful grunt as I collapse, covered in a gritty warm blanket.

After catching my breath a bit, I look at the water to see if that pussy of a shark is swimming around, waiting for someone a little easier to catch to float by in a leaky raft.

Taking in long, slow gulps of air, I try to get my heartbeat back to normal. My chest is thumping like a jackhammer and my arms shake uncontrollably. I think I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.

“Get a grip Frank, it’s over,” I tell myself.

I look to see where the raft is going. It’s bobbing on the remnants of a wave, about fifty yards away. I don’t care. I never want to see another plastic yellow raft again as long as I live . . . as long as I live. Man, it feels good to say that. I look down at my St. Christopher’s medal. I wonder if things would have worked out okay if I wasn’t wearing this?

One of the kids playing in the sand sees the raft, and runs over to it. The others quickly follow. They are all smiles. I’m happy to give it to them. Besides, should the real owners come looking for it, all I have to do is point to them and I’m off the hook. Come to think of it, I’ll bet that’s why it was left on the beach in the first place. Maybe there were people watching through the window, waiting to see the show. Maybe this was just a giant mouse-trap; I grabbed the big yellow cheese and got what was coming to me.

I lie still, relishing the feeling of the sun baking me dry and cooking the chill out of me. I love the feel of solid earth, sturdy and unmoving beneath me.

Man, this border is tough to cross. I thought It would be easy, considering the numbers of illegals living in the US. Some of them even bring their wives and children with them. Kids! How the heck to they do it?

I’m feeling extremely inadequate right now. If it weren’t for the fact that I just beat the crap out of Jaws . . . I did! I smacked him right in the kisser—twice! Oh-my-God! How many people do I know can say that? “Ha Ha! I am the man!” A young couple frown and walk quickly past me. I look at myself, caked in dry sand from head to toe, lying on the beach and bragging how great I am.

I’ve stopped shaking, for the most part. I get up and realize I don’t have my dad’s boots. Down the beach toward the kids there is something lying on the beach; a couple of small dark spots. The kids must have tossed the boots when they commandeered the raft. I’m just glad I didn’t lose them. I guess I could have shoved one in the shark’s mouth, if it tried to eat me, but, since they’re made of leather, the shark probably would’ve thought that it was just a chewy appetizer.

I shake most of the sticky sand-frosting off of me, then walk down the beach to pick up my boots. When I get there, the kids stare silently at me, mouths open. I half-heartedly smile, pick up my boots, turn and walk away. Soon the childish laughter resumes behind me. I turn to warn them of the shark nearby, but they’re in pretty shallow water, and no longer interested in me.

Where to now? I don’t have any friends or relatives in Tijuana. I can’t get home. The only person I know is Cheech, from El Burrito Crazy, and he told me how easy this was going to be.

Since I’m still wet, and covered, head to toe, in wet, glittery sand, every inch of me is grinding and squeaking as I slowly make my way up the beach.

I look at the water . . . I look at my clothes . . . I look at the water again . . . How long should I wait after hitting a shark in the head with a paddle, before it’s safe to go back in the water?

Keeping my eyes on the surface of the water, I slowly go back to where the water skims the beach. Surely he couldn’t get me here. I take a few more steps toward the water and wait for the next wave to rush over my feet, ready to run at any moment. The wave recedes. I take a few more steps toward the water, and the water rushes up to my ankles. Surely I would see the shark way before it came for me here.

After testing the water for sharks, I wait for a wave to break, and for the water to rush up to me again. I see there is no danger, so I fall to the ground, roll a couple of times in the water, leap up, and run back to dry sand . . . God! That was scary. Some of the sand washed off, but I probably need to do this a few more times.

When I’m finished, I feel a bit cleaner, but there isn’t any way I can get all the sand out of my underwear, waist, collar and armpits—not in public anyway. Going into the water deep enough to rinse myself off completely is out of the question but I also can’t exactly walk through town dripping wet. I decide to take a nice long walk along the beach, my boots in one hand and my socks in another. I look like I’ve been swimming and lots of people swim at the beach . . . but I didn’t bring a swimsuit. This’ll also give me some time to come up with a plan for what to do next. There’s got to be a way for an American citizen to get back into the country. I mean—it’s legal for Christ’s sake.

 

How’s the book so far?

Would you like to read this book without having to have an internet connection?
Buy the book now and read it when ever you want, where ever you like.

 

“You can sleep here, on that bench outside,” Cheech says, when I return.  “It won’t be getting cold here for another month or two, so you should be okay.” He looks me straight in the eyes, “my wife would kill me if I brought another stranger home.”

He doesn’t have to be doing any of this, and if he didn’t, I would be stuck in cold and sandy clothes, looking like a bum, and scaring away any chance of having someone take me seriously enough to help me get home. “Hey, no problem Cheech. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me. I really don’t know what I would’ve done without your help—I mean it.”

“Yeah, I know you do.” He has an understanding face. He probably didn’t know about the border shark. How could he know?

He locks the doors and leaves. I lay down on the bench, using my apron as a pillow. I look up at the stars staring down on me, observing my difficulties. The sounds of the city are complimentary and form a kind of—urban choir. Cars and trucks drive by, singing bass and tenor, in-between the alto sirens, wailing, and when they fade into the distance crickets chirp like little sopranos until the crescendos of the louder instruments chase them off the stage. This is a busy town—were those gun shots? I’m glad to be behind this tall wooden fence, although, I’d feel much safer if it were made out of bricks or cement.

What’s this cat doing on my chest?  Oh, right. I’m in Mexico. I wonder what time it is—when am I going to stop looking at my naked wrist? God! I’m so tired. My dreams were horrible.

I sit up and my neck and shoulder send stabbing pains to my back. Sleeping on a hard bench with nothing but an apron for a pillow sucks. I try stretching slowly, but the friction of cloth against the soft spots where sand tried to grind through my arms and legs makes me wince. It feels like my joints are on fire.

Some change has fallen out of my pocket and onto the ground under the bench. I should try calling Mom again. If it’s early enough, she just might be home.

The phone rings three times and I hang up. I hear the familiar sound of the change falling into the coin return. It must be after seven-thirty and Mom will be at the insurance agency. Damn! I wish I knew that number by heart. I hardly ever call her there.

For as long as I can remember, she’s had two, and sometimes three jobs. It must’ve been tough to raise a kid alone. Grandpa and Grandma weren’t, what I would call—close. All those Fed-Ex’d Christmas gifts, and cards on birthdays. They rarely came over, and Mom would always have an explanation. She sometimes threw a small party and invited my friends. I should tell her I appreciate everything she did. I should tell her that when I grow up, I want to be just as strong as she is. I should tell her that I’m going to start pitching in more than I have in the past. Buying the groceries really isn’t much help to her when she’s never home enough to eat them. I should tell her . . . I should tell her I love her.

I would, if she’d just pick up the damn phone!

I put the change back into the phone again and call Taco Bell.

“Good morning Taco Bell.”

“Hey Darren, is Robb around?”

“Hey what’s up Frank? No, we had to change the schedule around since your little trip is going into overtime. Dude, this is not cool.“

“I know. Sorry Darren, I’m having a hard time getting back through the border.”

“You are? I thought you were a—“

“I am a citizen, but someone stole my wallet with my money and my ID, and the border is much stricter now, ever since nine-eleven, so I’m having a little trouble getting home.”

“Yeah, trouble with the border huh?”

That’s all he heard out of that whole explanation. “Anyway, tell Robb I’m really sorry about the schedule problems, and I should be home later today. I’ll come over as soon as I get home and get the schedule all back to normal.”

“Sure, Pancho, I got your back.”

Yep, that’s where the stabbing pain is all right. I hang up.  Darren is going to milk this for all he can. If I don’t show up soon, I probably won’t even have a job, much less that promotion.

The phone swallows the change and I return to the restaurant. Oh good, Cheech is here and it looks like he brought his friend. He’s short and stocky guy and looks a little rough, with those spider-web tattoos on his neck, and something on his left cheek too. I’m surprised Cheech knows anyone like this. I don’t think I’m gonna like this guy, or anything he’s gonna want me to do.

“Okay, Paco, this is Pancho Villa, the guy I was telling you about.” He looks at me like I’m supposed to deny it. Instead, I just shake his hand.

“Mucho gusto.” He doesn’t say anything.

“Paco is going to get you across the border, and he’s in a hurry, so you need to go with him right now. He’ll show you what to do when you get there.”

I am so dreading this. Paco starts walking away and I start to follow, but then I remember my addresses and wedding photo are still on the counter. I run inside the restaurant to gather my little slips of paper, fold them nicely and put them back into the plastic baggie and in my pocket. I put the wedding photo in my back pocket. When I get outside, I don’t see Paco. He’s started without me. Cheech smiles, “I told my wife about your apron show. She almost died laughing. You know, If this going home thing doesn’t work out for you, I think I should hire you—being so good with the ladies and all.”

If that was supposed to put me at ease—it didn’t. I fake a smile. He’s trying to help after all, but look at what happened with, just walk around the fence. People do it all the time—It’s easy.

“You better hurry, Paco won’t wait for nobody.”

I smile and run to catch up with Paco. I round the corner and just barely see him get into an old, white, Ford panel van. Yeah, like that doesn’t just scream, criminal smuggling vehicle.

When I get there, the sliding door is open and I see there are a bunch of guys in there already. Nice looking bunch of felons, I must say—some of them anyway. They give me a new kind of look. I wonder if they think I’m some kind of cop or something. Oh well, it beats the heck out of the sympathy looks I’ve been getting.

I get in and someone closes the door and then jumps in the passenger seat next to the driver. Paco drives. This van is pretty beat up. The carpet on the floor is blue, oil stained, and it smells a little like gas and ass. The vinyl seats are ripped a bit, and there is spider web-like crack in the passenger side of the windshield. Looks like Paco doesn’t believe in stopping for pedestrians. Either that, or he had to make a sudden stop, and somebody wasn’t wearing their seatbelt. I look at the faces of my fellow passengers. It could have been any one of them.

I’m not comfortable about this whole situation, or the looks I’m getting. I need to show these guys I’m friendly. I smile. There, that should do it. I take in my surroundings and my whole situation in one big mental picture. I’ve never felt as much like a Mexican as I do right now. I hate my life.

There are no windows that open back here. I wonder how long it’s going to be before we get where were going. Where are we going? What am I going to have to do when I get there?

After a lot of wondering about my future, and pretending I don’t feel uncomfortable with everyone staring at me, the van stops and the big sliding door opens. We are inside some kind of warehouse. Are they going to make me assemble TV’s or something? Great. I’m not going home, I’m being kidnapped and forced to work in a . . . Maquilladora, or whatever those places are called that make you work for, like, a dollar a day. At that rate I’m going to be here for fifteen hundred days. That’s like five years.

Paco leads us all down a hallway between steel shelves filled with boxes of appliances. Maybe this is a distribution center or something. Where are we going? Are we going to load trucks?

We walk between some rows of shelves, kinda like they have at Home Depot or Costco, and we all end up in a small empty area in the back of the warehouse, where some of the shelves have been moved around to create an open space. It’s not very big—maybe ten by twelve feet or so. My bedroom is a little bigger than this. Good thing there are only about ten of us.

There is a door in the floor, and it’s open, revealing a dark hole in the ground. Is this some kind of grave? From the looks of some of the other guys, I’m not the only one thinking this. But why would anyone want to kill us? Oh, that’s right, this is Mexico—they don’t need a reason. Thousands of people die here every year. People go missing. Bodies are found in trunks of cars, or pickup trucks, or . . .  storage sheds.

Off to the right is a set of shelves, haphazardly moved against the wall. They probably used to cover the hole. On the shelves are some large, dark-green, square, backpack-looking things, with large red numbers on them. This is getting scary.

There’s an angry-looking guy over there. Is that a machine-gun? Yep, the guy with the machine-gun is scanning us for trouble. He’s looking right at me. I feel like a naked skeleton. I try to act normal, but I feel like I’m shouting, Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Any minute now he’s going to shoot me. I try to smile and nod and give him a, hey, what’s up?

Nothing. He just keeps looking very serious.

Paco catches up with us. At least I kinda know him. I give him a nod, like, Hey Paco, remember me? I’m a friend of Cheech’s. He gruffly turns his attention towards someone else from our group.

Paco tells one of the guys I came here with to go down the ladder into the tunnel. This is the first time I heard Paco talk and he sounded kinda like a drunken Swede, but I understood what he said. Fear is an efficient translator.

I watch this first guy sink out of sight, and then Paco grabs a backpack, goes over to the hole and tosses it in. He signals another guy to go down the ladder.

Mr. machine-gun is giving me the creeps. Why do all drug smugglers have scars on their faces?

Well, It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that those are not backpacks filled with Christmas presents for the poor we’re about to smuggle across the border. I wonder what’s in those things—marijuana or cocaine? Maybe heroine? I guess it doesn’t really matter. If we get caught, I’m going to prison for a long time. I’m also going to look like I’m part of a drug cartel. They’re probably going to interrogate me and try to find out who my boss is. Where do you get the stuff? Tell me punk!  And because I don’t know anything, I’ll look like I’m just a tough guy who won’t talk. Then they’ll probably waterboard me. My heart is pounding through my chest. I’m sweating all over. Some of the other guys are sweating too. They probably got hoodwinked into this like me. Good, that means we’re not all cartel employees. Well, temps maybe.

I make eye contact with one of the other guys from the van. Yeah buddy, me too; I didn’t know anything about this either—Oh shit! Machine-gun guy just caught me eye-talking to that other guy. Shit! Shit! Shit! He probably thinks we’re plotting against him. He’s frowning at me, and it’s not an; I’m gonna send you to your room with no desert frown. it’s more like an; I’m going to ram this machine gun into your teeth and make you swallow hot lead, kind of frown. He’s gonna shoot us for treason, or mutiny, or whatever it’s called. 

Calm down, Pancho—Francis—k. Frank. Take it easy. Breathe slower. Look innocent. But not too innocent. Maybe innocent with a touch of crook, but not like; I’m gonna steal these drugs kind of crook, but more of a; hey dude, I’m cool with smuggling dope, kind of crook, so he won’t want to kill me after . . .  after . . . what if they do kill me after? All of us. No witnesses. Less people to split the profits with too—not  that I want any money for this! They can keep it all, just let me go. What am I thinking? They’re gonna point machine guns at me and make me walk down this tunnel with a backpack full of drugs, and I’m gonna collect a paycheck at the end?

My chest is about to launch my heart. It’s my turn now. Mr. Machine-gun is looking at me with his X-ray vision—drilling inside my head, reading my thoughts. He doesn’t need highway patrol sunglasses. He’s just naturally intimidating.

I’m cool. I’m cool. I can do this. Paco is smiling. He thinks this is funny? I wonder if Cheech knows what he does. No, I didn’t just think that. I’m cool, I’m cool! I’m going, I’m going!

This wooden ladder is really just leaning against the side of the tunnel. It’s not attached to anything. I have to be careful not to tip it over. I get to the bottom. Ahh! Shit! He just threw that backpack down here without saying anything. Oh wait; he didn’t say anything to the other guys either. I should have payed more attention in drug smuggling class just now.

The tunnel is a square-ish horizontal hole in the dirt, and it’s not very tall. Even the shorter Mexicans are leaning over a bit. God! This pack is heavy.

There are Christmas tree lights all along the top right corner of the tunnel. The person who hung them was thinking more about utility than decor. They droop in some areas, and are strung tightly in others, giving off a kind of, “Drunken Santa, Hidden Gopher,” motif.

I don’t know why we’re all just standing here. I guess we’re going to go across together. Why? It’s not like any of us are going to get lost, or take off with the drugs. Where would we go?

We begin to move. I wonder how long this tunnel is. It smells like dirt and sweat down here. We are kicking up dust as we walk, and there is nowhere for the dust to go but up my nose. At least it’s cool down here. Yay! A silver lining.

Just follow the Christmas lights. Maybe I should start singing Christmas carols—NOT. I get a chill from even having a fun thought down here; it feels forbidden. I’m still sweating like crazy and my stomach Is tied up in knots.

After about ten minutes, we slow down, then stop. The guys ahead of me block my view. It’s true what they say, If you’re not the lead dog, the view doesn’t change much.

We begin to move in slow, small steps. We must be near the end. When I get a little closer to the front, I see some guys are taking off their backpacks. Good idea. This thing is breaking my back.

Normally, I’d feel boxed in in a little space like this, but right now, I’m way too scared to be claustrophobic. This is taking forever. We’re moving much slower now. I’m two people away from the front now, and I can see the front guy is handing up his backpack. It floats up out of sight and he climbs up a ladder after it. Now the guy in front of me hands his backpack up. Zip! There it goes. Now he goes up the ladder. Okay, I got it. After this trip I’ll be a seasoned pro. Maybe if I lose my job at Taco Bell, I could put this down on my resume.

What’s going to happen to us when this is all over? What if I get busted? Will I spend time in prison? What am I saying—of course I will. The real question is, will it be a Mexican, or an American prison?  Since this is happening on both sides of the border, do we get to choose?

The guy behind me pushes me. I stand under the hole that leads out of this tunnel, lift my pack up and someone takes a long pole with a hook at the end of it, and grabs the strap of the backpack with it. Up it goes. I test the ladder. It’s a little shaky, like the other one. These guys really should secure these things. Someone’s going to get hurt.

Climbing up is easy. When I get to the top, the bright light hurts my eyes. I guess even with the Christmas lights down there, it was still pretty dark. I squint to shut out some of the extra brightness. Some hands grab me and help me up. Wow, they almost lift me up.

“Thanks.”

Someone grabs me by the arm and I’m being led someplace away from the tunnel. Good, I can’t see too well. The guys on the American side of the border are actually quite helpful. They must have a better union.

Hey, What the? Someone just tied my wrists together behind my back. Oh shit! I am so-not-liking-this. I knew it! I knew it! They’re going to kill us. Oh another van. Great. Where are we going? Shit, this isn’t over yet. What if they take us to the desert and shoot us?  We all know where the tunnel is—kinda. It’s under ground, we know that. Maybe they’ll blindfold us.

There sure are a lot of guns around here. I don’t have a gun. I feel so helpless. Not that I would try shooting my way out of here or anything. I just feel defenseless.

The light is even brighter outside. We must have gone from one warehouse to another. Great. Already I know too much. I know! I’ll just act dumb—retarded. They wouldn’t shoot a developmentally disabled guy would they? What kind of a threat would they be? I won’t say anything. I don’t even speak Spanish.

I step up to get into the van, and someone grabs my arm and helps me in. Should I make a run for it? My vision is starting to return. I can barely make out the uniforms. There are bright white DEA letters on the back of the windbreakers. Yay! This is a police van. Wahoo! I’m not gonna be shot in the head—Oh shit! I just got caught smuggling drugs into the United States. I’m going to prison for a long, long time. I am so not getting that promotion. If I had a gun right now, I’d shoot myself in the head.

I get held into position by one person, and someone else pats me down all over. Someone pulls out the baggie of contact information out of my front left pocket, then I’m pushed deeper into the truck. “Ow!”  I land on my knees with a thud. I need to make way for the people behind me. Where’s the guy with the machine-gun? Not in here, thank God! All these guys are the ones I came with in the van. They don’t look too happy . . . with me. What did I do? Blame the white guy? Hello! I’m in handcuffs too! I look over my shoulder at my hands, and then at them. That doesn’t seem to help. This eye conversation is going nowhere.

When we are all inside, the doors close and the truck begins to move. All around me are scowls and silent accusations. Good thing their hands are tied behind their backs. I wonder if I’m going to be put in the same cell as these guys. Great. Then the handcuffs come off. The desert with the bullet in the head is beginning to look better all the time.

We bounce around for a while. No windows, hard metal benches, and just enough head room to bang my head with every bump; but that’s not the worst of it.  Every now and again we go for a sharp left turn that sends everyone on the other side of the truck, flying into the guys on this side of the truck, and with my hands tied behind me, my head gets rammed into the side of the van. A sharp right turn, and all the guys on this side of the truck, fly into the guys on the other side of the truck. The guy I should have landed on moved quickly and got out of the way. My forehead bangs sharply against the metal side of the truck. I nearly black out. We hit a few nasty bumps as well, and I don’t even know which way is up any more. Several of us just lay in the bottom of the van and bounce around like popcorn. If Walt Disney had hooked up with Wes Craven, this would be their ugly step-child of a ride.

Finally, the road is smoothing out; we must be on a paved road now. I wonder where the drugs went? Maybe I should get a good lawyer. Your honor, the drugs weren’t his—honest.

After a while, the van starts and stops violently a few times, and I can hear everyone’s heads banging against the metal sides of the van. We stop and I hear doors slam. We all look at each other. A couple of guys have blood coming out their noses. I’m sure I have a few bumps on my head. So now I know what it’s like to be inside the truck when immigration makes margaritas. Thanks!

 

How’s the book so far?

Would you like to read this book without having to have an internet connection?
Buy the book now and read it when ever you want, where ever you like.

The doors open, and one by one we get out the back of the cramped little truck. It hurts to stand up straight, so we stay bent over for a while. We all look like a bunch of old folks who lost their walkers. We seem to be in a fenced-in area, of some kind of desert jail facility, but I could be wrong . . . That guard could open the door and lead us into a gift shop, the kind you often have to go through when you exit a major attraction at Disneyland. I wonder what kind of gifts they would sell here. Maces, beds of nails, maybe a waterboarding kit—deluxe home edition.  Handcuffs and whips are a given. Axes, chainsaws . . . it’d probably look like a combination, hardware store and evil gift shop. They could call it, Mace Hardware. Or better yet, Dungeon Depot!

We’re herded inside, down a dingy white hallway, and into a large holding cell. Once everyone is inside, a guard closes the door. Good, we’re all still handcuffed. My left hand is getting numb, but I don’t care. These guys don’t look too happy with me. Maybe they do this all the time, and now that they bring me along—they get caught. That would explain the hard stares, but then so would, this guy is a mole—lets kill him.  Mole, hah! Mule, actually . . . Okay everyone, we’re in a bit of a hurry, so please, I’d like all the moles against this wall, mules against that wall, and the coyotes right over here. Now, do we have any stool pigeons? Raise your hands . . .

This cell is a large cement box with dirty white walls, and a dark grey floor. There’s the obligitory heavy stainless-steel toilet off to the side, and there are floor drains scattered throughout the cell.  Metal benches with hard wooden seats are bolted to the ground and everything is painted white. They went all out on this facility. I can’t believe I’m becoming a connoisseur of jailhouse holding cells. This is worse than any nightmare I’ve ever had, and the worst part about it is; I can’t just wake up and escape.

The coyotes, or leaders, or whatever, must have been taken someplace else, or maybe they got away. Some of these guys look scared and unsure of what’s going to happen next—others don’t seem to care. Some of them are whispering in Spanish, and I can’t understand a word they say, although, I am getting more than a few harsh eye insults. I wonder what’s going to happen to me now? This is going on my permanent record for sure. Great, I’m a former drug-courier. Maybe I could work for FedEx when I get out of prison . . . Hi, my name is Pancho Villa. Previous work experience—currier of a privately owned multi-national shipping company, some experience with international package delivery. Yes, if required, I can lift seventy pounds . . .

One by one, people are taken out of the cell and nobody returns. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason for who goes next, but I get the feeling some of these guys would like it to be later.

An overweight, middle-aged guard looks right at me and says something in Spanish. He points to the green stripe on the floor, and I follow it down a narrow hallway that ends in front of a door with a small window in it. The guard looks through the window, a buzzer goes off, and we enter a white room with a grey cement floor. We are greeted by two more guards, both tall, with black hair, thin, and in their thirties.

The wall to my left has a shelf running the length of the room, and in the center of the wall, is a thick glass window, where another guard sits, quietly working on something. He is sitting at a desk, built into the wall on his side of the window, and it runs the width of his room. The walls on my side are made of white cement, and they almost glow from the long, thin florescent lights in the ceiling.

The guard behind the window says something in Spanish that I don’t understand. “You can speak English, I’m American,“ I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. The guard I walked in here with looks at me for a second, rolls his eyes, cuts off my plastic handcuffs, then leaves the room.

“Okay, then,” one of the other guards behind me says, “take off your clothes and put them right here.”

I walk over to the side of the window and start to undress. I stop at my underwear, but the guards just stare at me.  I plead with a look that says, Do I really have to get naked?

They don’t say anything. I notice they are staring at my crotch, which makes me extremely uncomfortable. I look down and it occurs to me they are probably re-thinking their demand to take my underwear off. The dark brown stain from the french fry warmer last night doesn’t look very sanitary.

One of the guards returns my look with one of his own. It’s a—get to it, we don’t have all day—look.

The two guards watch me take my underwear off and I toss them on top of the pile on the floor. One of the officers puts on a pair of rubber gloves and goes through my clothes, while the other tall one pats me down. Seriously? I’m naked for Christ’s sake.

“Squat and hold it.” The officer that patted me down says.

“What?”

“Squat and hold your position.”

It sounds stupid, but what are my options? I do as he says.

“Okay, now cough.”

“Cough?” My escort grabs his night-stick and I suddenly have a coughing attack.

“Okay, stand up and do it again, and this time, cough hard, or were going to have to go up in there and take a look around, and I can promise you, you’re not going to like that.”

I don’t need any convincing, but I thought I was coughing hard. I squat, on tiptoes, and cough like a ballerina with the plague. Within seconds I let loose a nervous fart.

“Okay, that’s good.”

That’s good? That’s what he was waiting for? A fart? Doesn’t this guy know the difference between a cough and a fart? I sure wouldn’t want to be around him when he has the flu.

Officer Fart hands me an orange jumpsuit while the escort guard returns from wherever it was he went, and sets a grey bus tub down on the floor for my clothes and my personal effects. By this time, the silent guard finds my Mexican money, wedding photo, and the plastic baggie with my phone numbers. He gives me a sideways glance. Mexican money and Mexican contact information and a picture of a Mexican wedding party. You don’t have to be psychic to know what he’s thinking right now, but then again, if he’s anything like his partner—the fart guard—I could be highly overestimating him.

The silent guard places everything into the bus tub, being very careful not to touch my underwear. Officer Fart takes the St. Christopher’s medal off over my head and puts it in the bus tub too. “Excuse me, I want to make a phone call, please.”

“You are in Estades Unidos now, boy,” says the fart guard. “When you return to Mexico, you can make all the calls you want.”

“But I’m American.”

“Of course you are. We get a lot of you Americans crawling through tunnels from Mexico.” They all laugh.

The escort guard motions for me to go back to the window. I see the guard behind it is now ready to focus all his attention on the present situation. Lucky me.

“Okay, gringo, como se llama?”

Gringo? Como se llama? If I don’t tell them my real name, they’ll never find out who I really am. If I do tell them the name on my social security card, they’re likely to think I’m messing with them, and who knows what these guys are capable of.

“Pienselo,” says the escort guard.

“Think of a good one now,” says officer Fart.

I finish putting on the jumpsuit, which magically is just a few sizes too big, and say with all the seriousness I can muster, “Francisco Carlos Villa.”

There is a deafening pause in our conversation. “Maybe you should take another minute,” the fart guard says. They all laugh some more. Apparently, this is what they do for fun around here.

“Come on, Mark, There’s lots more where this came from, lets go,” the escort guard says to officer Fart. I slip on some rental-looking flip-flops and watch the guy behind the glass write Francisco Villa on a form on his clipboard. The silent guard standing next to me grabs my hand and starts taking my fingerprints with a little pad of ink on the shelf, while the escort guard takes the bus tub with my stuff in it and leaves the room.

The escort guard appears in the room behind the glass, and the guard behind the glass takes the bus tub and begins to inventory the contents, writing it all down on that same clipboard. The silent guard finishes with my fingerprints, and hands me a kleenex for my fingers. Without any warning, he sucker-punches me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I double over in pain and fall to my knees.

“You think you’re funny now, do ya Pancho?” His eyes dare me to talk back to him.  I shake my head.  What’s the use?  The guard behind the glass just looks at me funny, cracks a half-smile, and reads the inventory aloud for my benefit; “ One pair jeans, one white shirt, one black belt, one pair cowboy boots, two white tube socks, one pair mostly-white briefs . . .” more laughing, “twenty seven pieces of paper with Mexican names and Mexican phone numbers on them, one silver St. Christopher’s medallion on a silver chain, and six pesos—all belonging to Francisco ‘Pancho’ Villa. Let him go boys, I think we’ve made a terrible mistake. He’s obviously an American.” Yay, he has a sense of humor too!

He puts all the stuff from the bus tub into a black plastic garbage bag, then puts the sticker with my name on it on the bag.

“Stand over here with your back flat against the wall,“ the guard formerly known as Silent says.

They’re going to take my picture. Now what do I do? Do I smile and pretend I’m not guilty so that everyone who sees this mug shot will know I’m innocent, or do I just stand here and do nothing, and just get it over with, while trying not to look guilty or stupid? I opt for not smiling. I’m pretty sure I won’t be ordering any eight by tens. Besides, anyone who ever smiled for a mug shot always seems to look crazier than they really are. They say regular cameras add ten pounds to a person, but jail cameras take away half your I.Q. points. Even in all this light, I’m blinded by the flash.

“Turn to your left,” the guard formerly known as Silent, barks. Flash! “Good, now lets get moving. As soon as your prints come back and we ID you, we’ll see what else is in store for you—smart ass!”

I’m still not sure if that’s going to be a good thing or a bad thing. I hope they learn their mistake, but without having a drivers license yet . . .

The escourt guard picks me up by my arm and leads me out of the room through the other door, into another narrow hallway, then through another windowed door, where I’m buzzed in. On the other side of this small room, is my final destination: an all-cement palace with stainless-steel furniture. Everyone here is dressed like felonious carrots and sitting around on thick, white wooden benches.

I look for a place to sit. There’s a spot on that bench. I walk over to it, but one of the Mexicans sitting there scoots over and blocks me with an evil grin. Great. This is going to be fun. I’ll just go sit over here . . . same thing. This guy glares at me too. I’m done. I get the hint. I’ll just go over and sit on the floor next to the short wall by the toilet. I think I’ll be safe there.

 

 

A couple of mind-numbingly boring hours pass, then a guard starts handing food through the bars to the eager guys nearest him. Looks like apples and sandwiches. The guys pass the food around. I’m not hungry, having recently feasted on a knuckle sandwich, but I think this condition won’t last forever. Everyone else has grabbed some food; the guard throws a few more sandwiches wrapped in plastic in the center of the cell. I can see two pieces of bread with a piece of bologna through the clear plastic wrap. I’m pretty sure there’s no mayo on them. There’s surely no point in asking if they have any packets of mustard.

The guard tosses me an apple and I catch it. I’m grateful he didn’t just roll it along the sketchy floor. I don’t think I would have eaten it if he did. Cardboard boxes of apple juice are also tossed into the cell for anyone who wasn’t standing near the door.

I wake up and notice the lights are out. Everyone else seems to be sleeping. My back is stiff from sleeping sitting up. I move my head and my neck complains. There is a funny taste in my mouth and feel my clothes to see if they’re wet. I check my hair, face, butt—nothing. I must have just slept with my mouth open again. I’m learning that sitting next to the toilet is one thing, sleeping next to it is a completely different experience. This must be one of those things you learn in jail that makes you street-wise. I rub the back of my neck and reflect on how much wiser I feel at this moment.

The lights turn on and the sound of several people walking down the hallway wakes up a few of the others.  As the door to my cell is opened and the new guys come in, even the heavier sleepers wake up to the shuffling and half-hearted greetings of tired and defeated souls.

There’s a juice box by my feet and it doesn’t look opened. I take the straw out of the plastic wrapper, punch it through the box and drink it all in a few seconds. I must have been really thirsty. It’s hard to say what I feel, really. Fear, an unfamiliar environment, and a pretty dismal future; those kinds of things tend to push out the lesser senses, like hunger, thirst, even bowel movements. I haven’t had to go to the bathroom the entire time I’ve been in a jail, and I haven’t seen anybody else go either. I’ll bet guards were constantly ferrying prisoners to the bathroom until they installed one in the cell. Then nobody has had to go ever since.

Trying to see a bright side, I guess it’s encouraging to see our invaders treated like this. Maybe they’ll think twice about sneaking into America again. On the not-so-bright-side, my own country thinks I’m one of these . . . guys.  This is so depressing. I feel that familiar cold satin glove grip my heart, and my attitude drops way below sea level. I really feel like crying right now, but I can’t. I gotta keep it together, or these guys will eat me alive.

Some people just stand around, not having room for much of anything else. I find myself unusually fortunate to have a nice comfy cement wall beside the toilet, where nobody else wants to be. Location, location, location! I feel like the Donald Trump of jailhouse real estate. Thinking about his hair, I pat my head to make sure I don’t have toilet hair.

A guard comes to the door and calls three names. Three guys go over to him, and they disappear around the corner. A little while later the same guard returns and calls three more names. They are escorted out of the cell and around the corner. My old familiar dark blanket swallows me whole, as I wait for the inevitable. I wonder where we go from here. Some place worse? Court?

“Jose Martinez, Julio Rodriguez, Pancho Villa.” The room is filled with a mixture of laughter and louder rumblings. All eyes are on us and I bet everyone in this cell is trying to figure out which one of us is Pancho Villa.

I drag myself up slowly, and try to look as non Pancho Villa as possible but my legs are asleep and my back and neck are stiff. I don’t move very . . . human-like. I shuffle and fall over to the door with about as much composure and grace as a paraplegic mummy.

Me and two other guys, are led into a small room, and the door closes behind us. The front door opens, and we are led out into a hallway and told to stand behind a yellow line painted on the floor. I lean against the wall until my legs wake back up. The other two guys look at me like I’m some kind of circus freak. It doesn’t bother me, I’m used to it by now.

All my life people have reacted strangely to my name. Kids made fun of me in elementary school and in junior high they asked me Mexican trivia questions, like I was supposed to know all things Mexican. Frickin’ idiots never stopped to look at themselves; in school and learning all things American.

My life didn’t really start to get interesting until high school. Last year, the popular kids began teasing me by giving themselves famous names like, “Elvis,” and, “George W. Bush,” and my personal favorite, “Yogi Bear.” Not the cartoon—the baseball guy. Yes, these were mental giants that were making fun of me. That dweeb didn’t even know Yogi Berra was a baseball player; he thought he was an old-time stand-up comedian like Abbott and Costello. The only reason he had even heard of Yogi Berra, was that somewhere he had heard one of his famous one-liners, and he liked to work it into almost every conversation you had with him, “where’s room 403? Just go down that way, and when you get to a fork in the hallway, take it.”  Who knows what ocean of humiliation I’ll be dunked in again this year.

The florescent lights in the ceiling are the only light we get in this windowless building, and they’re giving me a headache. At least I think it’s the lights.

One by one, we are taken out of here. When it’s my turn, I go inside and walk over to a window where a guard asks me my name, and then looks at me cross-eyed when I tell him. The only way I’m gonna get out of here, is if someone takes the time to actually look it up!

Will they ever realize that I’m an American, or will they continue acting like the dullards back in high school? Either way, I think I’m gonna need a lawyer. Hey, that’s it! A lawyer could help me get back home. Courts listen to them.

“Okay, Francisco . . .”  He says some stuff in Spanish, and I don’t have the patience for this right now.

“English. I speak English. I’m an American.”

“Yeah, right. You are registered in the system as, Francisco Villa, previously deported to Mexico from Arizona just a few days ago. If you thought that was a good name to use as an alias, I hope you think it’s funny ten years from now, because you’re stuck with that name now.”

Does he mean I wasn’t stuck with that name before?

“Seems now you smuggle drugs for a living?”

“No, these guys with machine-guns made us do it.”

“Who are these guys? Where did you meet them?”

“I don’t know who they were; I just met them in Tijuana an hour before they made us carry those backpacks into the tunnel. Hey, can I speak to a lawyer?”

“No need, we’re letting you go.” The guard hands me a ripped plastic bag. It looks like the same one I saw the other guard put all my stuff into, but my name must have fallen off. I look inside. There’s a bunch of white clothes inside. I guess this is going to be my new jail clothes. There’s a plastic bag with my phone numbers, and my St. Christopher’s medallion . . . I look at the guard.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t understand. What’s this?”

“That’s your stuff. We’re sending you back to Mexico. You’re no use to us.”

“My stuff?”

“Yeah, tus cosas.”

“But these are not my clothes.” Should I be complaining? I’m not going to prison.

“Are you sure?”

I look at the inventory stapled to the bag. “Do these look like Levi’s? And where are my boots?”

“If you’d like to file a complaint, you can see the officer at the front desk the next time you pass through.” He puts on a big smile.

That’s it? No boots and somebody else’s clothes? What the hell is going on? How hard is it to hang on to a plastic bag of clothes for a few hours?  “So I can go?”

“I can arrange an extended stay for you, if you’d rather.”

Shit. What else can I do? I pull out the clothes. Somebody is playing a practical joke on me. The pants and shirt seem to be made out of the same white cotton, and there’s a wide black cloth belt. I guess no one wanted my underwear, those are still here. I shoulda burned my shirt and pants too; I’d probably still have them. I’m gonna be barefoot without these Flip flops. This just keeps getting better. I change clothes quickly and the guard leaves.

When I finish getting dressed, I look at what I’m wearing. I feel like I’m going trick or treating. The guard returns, “Hey Pancho!” He tosses me a large, sombrero. I catch it before it hits me. He’s smirking at me, obviously getting me back for my smart-ass name. My father is lucky he’s dead, because if he weren’t—I’d kill him.

I walk out the door into a hallway and stand, barefoot, on the green line like everyone else. After a few more of us are gathered together, we are led out into a yard surrounded on three sides by a high chain-link fence with curly barbed wire all around the top. Daylight is just beginning to gain a foothold on wherever the heck I am.

All the other guys stay away from me. They must be laughing at the gringo with the Mexican clothes. Someone here has got to be wearing my father’s clothes. They are all I have left of my dad and I pity the guy who is wearing them.

When enough of us assemble, or when they run out of deportees to put in this holding pen, we are led into that small truck again and we go for another ride, this time without handcuffs.