The roar of the once yellow and crackling fire has turned to a silent, black-encrusted orange glow. Uncle Carlos is getting into his police car. His family is already inside and waiting for him. I wave and watch the last of the relatives leave. I walk back into the house and notice a picture on the wall, “Jose, tu photo?”

“Yes,” He smiles and looks around. “You photo here.” He points to a picture.

I take a closer look. He wasn’t kidding. That was taken today. “Ayayay!” There is a moment of dead silence, and then we start laughing. We all plop down on the sofa and big overstuffed chair. I can’t believe I said that.

Aunt Adriana is putting Clarita to bed, and Tia Joselyn is bringing out some coffee. That’s weird, coffee before bed?  Everyone takes a cup, so I do too. It’s good. “Coffee es muy bueno.”

“Yes.” Jose is still working his English.

“Si.” Herminio says, but with a sly smile, “Starbucks.”

“Párelo. Tenga un poco de respeto a su primo eh?” comes a voice of authority from another room.

I don’t know what that was, but they keep laughing anyway, until grandma walks in. Now they’re quiet as bricks and it’s my turn to laugh.

She seems to be giving instructions about quartos—rooms, so I think she’s giving us our bunk assignments. They all stop and look at me. I must have missed something.

“When you go home Pancho?” Jose asks.

I just shrug. That should work in any language.

“You fly here?”

“Si.” I’m to feel a language war coming on . . .

“¿Tienes tu boleto?” Grandma asks Jose to ask me, but I know what she said.

“No. No tienay ticket, wallet, dinero, zapatos, nada.” There, take that Jose.

Grandma says some more stuff to Jose, and he says some stuff back. Neither of them look surprised. Uncle Carlos must not have filled them in on what happened to me. Grandma leaves the room and Jose looks at me, “I drive you to Tepic mañana—tomorrow.” He smiles arrogantly at me.

“Donday Tepic?” I turn to face him directly.

“North from here.” he says with a serious look. This battle of languages is so on!

“Tepic es circa . . . donde?”

“The beach.”

Oh shit . . . my turn. What do I want to say?  Ummmm. He is waiting. “Ummm, okay.”

We both laugh. Technically, that works in any language, but we both know he won. High five Jose. Good job.

Aunt Josie laughs as she enters the room. She must have heard some of our dueling linguo’s. Yep, the old, kiss-on-the-forehead-for-your-little-cousin routine. “su ninos es muy gracioso eh?” she says as she leaves, ruffling Jose’s hair on the way.

Tia Adriana plops some blankets down right next to me on the sofa, and her warm lips smash into my forehead. “Buenos suertos Pancho.” She smiles at me and then goes to her room. I guess that means I’m sleeping out here. The coffee is just warm enough, so I finish it quickly, as does everyone else. Jose starts a yawn and it goes around like a wave at a baseball game. I want to laugh, but I’m finding it physically impossible to laugh and yawn at the same time, although I do put in a good effort. When I’m finished, I don’t feel the need to laugh any more. I must have yawned it out of me somehow. Herminio grabs my empty cup and takes it into the kitchen. “Gracias Herminio.”

The light in the kitchen is still on. It throws unfamiliar shadows across the walls. As I lay here collecting my thoughts and going over the events of the day, I began to feel . . . conflicted.

I’m in a foreign country, in a strangers house, with all kinds of people I’ve never even met before today . . . yet they are my family? How am I supposed to feel about this? Before today I didn’t like Mexicans at all. I’ve hated them my whole life. It’s all I know. I trusted that anger. It was mine. I earned every ounce of it. But now I know it was all a lie. Something we tell ourselves when we don’t really know the truth. The mixture of emotions is moving around my chest like oil and water, mixing, but not blending, fighting for their own space, their right to exist.

I’m so tired, but there’s no way I can sleep with all these thoughts bouncing around in my head.  What’s up with this? I can’t be crying. Oh, great, more tears follow. I feel the avalanche inside my chest. It’s hard to breathe.

A shadow comes through the kitchen, and I try to get a grip. It’s Grandmother. She walks over to the sofa and stands there. She’s staring at me. I know she can see me, even in the semi darkness. I must look like such a cry-baby. What’s going through her mind? Before today I hadn’t existed to her either. I was out there, but I was just a ghost from a past life that she had never seen in person, and would never have recognized if she had.

She comes over to me, and bends down, and hugs me tightly, just like the first time. This is not helping.

She is very strong.  She must know how tough this is for me. But for her? What about her? She officially lost a son today. She now knows she will never see him again.

Grandm—Abuela releases her grip and kisses my forehead. Suddenly I’m a child, small and alone. “No te preocupes Pancho.” She runs her fingers through my hair, stands and quietly walks away. I don’t move. I don’t know what to do. She stops before she enters the kitchen hallway. She turns and looks back at me.  One side of her face is lit and she looks . . . not happy, so much as . . .  content.

“Te quiero Pancho.” And she is gone.

The light in the kitchen goes out and the stars, the brightness of the sky at night, is the only light that intrudes on the living room, throwing shadows on all that it deems unimportant for the moment.

I see picture frames, but not the pictures themselves. I imagine what they look like and how they are related to me. This is what it was like before I came here; empty picture frames on the wall.

I see Jesus hanging on the wall too. That’s the only three-dimensional figure up there. Everything else is flat, square and empty.

He really stands out at night and seems to hold court on the walls of this home. I never paid too much attention to it before. His head is turned to the side, and looking down, almost as if he’s looking specifically at me, judging me.

Who is this stranger that dares come into this house? His sacrifice for me, evident on the cross from which he hangs. Oh, crap. I wonder if he knows the joke I pulled on one of his namesakes at work. That wasn’t so smart. I wasn’t so smart. I thought I knew it all. My angry world worked. Now I can’t tell north from south. My moral compass is busted . . . or maybe it always has been, and I’m only now just finding out. I don’t know what to think.

My chest is beginning to heave again and I’m no longer in control of my breathing. I feel a tug, deep down inside. Water gushes from my eyes like little fountains. My body seems to have a mind of it’s own. The days events replay on the TV in my mind. Horses, jail, airplanes, cantina, Taco Bell, beer, tequila, jail, Uncle Carlos, the party, Donna Villa, my cousins, my tias, my mom . . . my dad?

Yawn! What time is it? I guess I fell asleep after all. I look for my watch and I’m immediately reminded I don’t have one any more. I smell food cooking in the kitchen, but it’s not the normal breakfast smells I’m used to.  Maybe it’s lunch time. Man, I gotta pee.

I get up and walk down the hallway and see the door to Herminio’s room is open and the boys are not in there. The bathroom door is open, so I go through it and outside again and head for the outhouse.

I don’t think I would ever get used to going to the bathroom in an outhouse. It’s not very sanitary. I know it’s not dirty or anything, but it looks old, and for some reason old things don’t look particularly clean, especially if you have to put your naked butt on them. At least the toilet seat is plastic and not wood. Think about it; this is just a big hole in the ground with a little house type-thing on top. Anything could be down there. What if something jumped up and grabbed my—I’m done. That’s it. I’m not going to the bathroom again until I get back home.

I enter the front door still shivering from the heebie-jeebies and go straight to where the smells are coming from. I wonder what they’re cooking.

Adriana is in the kitchen with Grandma, and Aunt Josie is coming back from the barn with a pail of something.

The blanket and pillow are gone from the sofa, and in their place are some pants, a shirt, socks and underwear.

Underwear? Really? Whose were they? This is so unnatural. I mean, it’s like they were wrapping somebody else’s package yesterday, and today they will get up close and personal with mine. Yech! It’s almost like they’ll be . . .  comparing or something. Another disturbing mental image comes in the form of the Fruit of the Loom guys, with clipboards, taking a tour of my crotch. The Apple guy is giving me the white glove test while the Grapes guy pokes his nose around giving me a sniff test. I can’t believe this; I’m an only child and I still get hand-me-downs.

I look at myself in the mirror. My face is growing some fuzz, only it looks more like dirt rather than real stubble. Strange clothes, my skin’s a little darker. I feel like a stranger at a one person party.

 

 

I’m the last one at the table, and they all waited for me. Nice spread. Milk, fruit juice, coffee, and some kind of scrambled eggs thing with sausage, and peppers, and fried potatoes, and cheese, and salsa, tortillas of course—no toast.

We all sit around the table and everyone wants to say grace. Grandma won. Wow, the first time I ever heard grace in Spanish. Now that I think about it, I haven’t heard grace all that much in English. I especially never heard my name in it before. My dad’s was in there too.

The second it’s over, everyone is all smiles again and food gets passed around. Several conversations begin at the same time. It’s like a horse race and the gates have just opened. I don’t know what to say, or who is talking to whom. Everyone else acts like this is a normal daily occurrence. I usually eat alone.

“Pancho, because you don’t have any transport home, Tio Jose will drive you to Tepic. Many of buses in Tepic,” Aunt Adriana says. “You can take one to the border. From there you call your mother. Okie dokie?”  Everyone laughs.

I nod, but I don’t have any money for a bus so I don’t know how—“Jose will help you get the ticket. I will pack for you some food.”

That sounds great, but I don’t know my way around Mexico. I might as well be on the moon. I look around and again I don’t know what to feel. Guest, family, stranger. This is so different than what I expected to find when I came down here

I kinda hate to go. I’d like to ride a horse again and chase a bull around the hills. I was just getting the hang of it when we got back home.

Grandma has been looking around the table, listening in on the conversations, but not talking much. She gets up and quietly disappears into the kitchen. I should start to say my goodbyes. I stand and look to my aunts. They smile and Aunt Josie looks at her mother who is coming back into the room, tears in her eyes. Josie can’t hold hers back either—this isn’t awkward!

My little grandma hugs me again and squeezes all the air out of me. She tries to hand me some money, but how can I take it from her?  She wraps my fingers around a small bundle of paper bills—pesos. I have no idea how much this is in American. Is it a lot? Can she afford it? She looks me in the eyes and takes in my face, like it’s for the last time. In her other hand she is holding out some kind of necklace. “For me?” She nods. It’s a silver Saint Christopher’s medallion on a silver chain. She puts it over my head and tucks it inside my shirt. She says some stuff in Spanish, and Tia Josie says,”St. Christopher will watch over you and protect you on your travels home.” I grab up the little woman and hug her like she had hugged me. She certainly feels like a grandma.

We finally let go, her face has regained Its color. She‘s still crying, but she looks much better. This is a very emotional place.  Lots of hugs and kisses. It feels more like I’m leaving my family’s house after growing up here, and not like I just met them yesterday.

Jose and I go outside and get in his car. I look back and see all the women are crying. Grandma says something to Aunt Josie and she runs into the house. Little Clarita is all smiles and waves—and shoeless.

Jose starts up the car, and Josie runs back outside and over to me, handing me a brown paper bag. Food. Nice. “Gracias Tia Josie.” She kisses me again, for like the hundredth time. She’s a very sensitive woman. “Vaya con Dios mi amor,” Grandma says. I don’t need any translation. Everybody waves and says goodbye in their own way at the same time; a fugue of Mexican blessings.

As we pull away I turn around and watch them standing, waving, crying. I will be missed. How can they love me so much? They hardly even know me. The road makes a sharp right bend, and they are out of sight. My family. They are Mexican. I am Mexican? Yeah, I’m Mexican.

 

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Jose’s eyes are on the twisting road ahead of us. He switches on the radio and I’m treated to that song again and this is really making it feel absurd. I am white. I grew up white, I have white relatives, I live in a white part of town—kinda. I have white friends—kinda, I go to an American High School, I work in a . . . okay, but I’m still white.

Cousin Jose has black hair, brown eyes, deep brown skin. He speaks Spanish, listens to Mexican radio and goes to Mexican schools and I’m sure, has Mexican friends.

He is my dad’s brother’s son. Is he the Mexican version of me?  If I had grown up here we probably would have played together, liked the same things, had some of the same friends, watched the same movies, eaten lots of meals together, played together. We would have grown up together and we would be like brothers. I would be more like him than me.

But if his dad had moved north with my dad, we would have had the same friends, played together, gone to the same schools, watched the same movies, speak English . . . he would be more like me.

I guess we were separated by fate, grew up in two different countries, speaking two different languages, going to two different schools, having two separate friends, even two different skin colors.

Of course that could have happened anyway, if his dad had married an American, or brought his wife up north with him, but anyway, what was I . . . oh yeah, this guy is like my brother. I can’t deny it. It’s a fact.

I am a Mexican . . .  well, some Mexican anyway. I’m still an American, can’t change that, I wouldn’t want to, but I’m also Mexican, but wait, that doesn’t work the other way around. Jose is Mexican, but he’s not American too. So we are different.

How do I feel about all this? How should I feel about this? Is there a right way and a wrong way?  Is any way okay? What is the honest way? Should I feel proud of being Mexican? God, I used to hate Mexicans. Should I just keep my American Identity? Do I buy a Mexican flag and hang it from my window? Should I start learning to speak better Spanish? Is it okay just to be American? Can’t I just live the way I did before I came here? Everything was so simple before I came to Mexico.

And my dad! He died trying to get back to his family. He didn’t just run out on us. How do I feel about that? It feels strange to know that the one thing I knew for sure, the one thing I could depend on, was not really true after all. So If I can be so horrifically wrong about that, can’t I also be wrong about all this?

Damn! This is so hard. Life can sure get complicated fast—overnight even.

We seem to be heading into a town, more houses and tall buildings. Time to start a little conversation. “Como se llama?”

Jose looks at me seriously. “Jose, you no remember?”

There is a slight pause, then we both start laughing. “No, esta bario.” I mean the upcoming town, but by the look on his face, I can tell my Spanish was less than perfect.

“Ixtlan del Rio.”

This is a good-sized town from the look of it. This freeway seems to be skirting around it though. Just as well. The sooner I get home, the better. If the radio hadn’t been playing this whole time it would have been one quiet ride.

I wonder if he is thinking the same stuff as me? Is he having the same realizations too? Does he feel weird and uncomfortable? What if he IS like me? What if he used to hate Americans and now he feels weird having me as his nephew? He looks deep in thought—It’s true. He is thinking the same as me. I am so uncomfortable right now.

This is silly. I don’t know anything for sure. Maybe he’s okay with this.

Maybe we can have one of those language wars again. . . “La musica es bueno.”

He smiles. “Yes? You like?”

“Si” . . .  Well that was another quick conversation. “Donde tu escoola?”

He gives me a funny look, then smiles, “My school?”

“Si”

“Guadalajara.”

“Qual es tu favorite-o subject-o.”

He smiles. “I like business.”

“Si?”

 

“Yes. Supervisor.”

“Yo tam bien.”

“Yes?”

“Si, yo supervisor en Taco Bell.”

“Yes? I cook in McDonalds.”

McDonalds. I wonder if he was there when I ate there? I want to say wow and express my surprise. I know, “Ay yay yay.”

Dead silence. Even the song on the radio ended. We bust out laughing. Yeah, this is another strange conversation.

We begin to pull away from town and our speed increases. Lots of farms re-appear in every direction. They sure grow a lot of cactuses around here. “Mucho Cactuses,” I say. Surely, cactus is a Spanish name.

“Agave.”

Okay, so cactus isn’t Spanish for cactus. Agave? Why would anyone grow Agave on purpose, and why is there so much of it around here? Aren’t cactuses like a big ugly weed or something? I don’t even want to begin that conversation. I think I’ll just take a nap.

“Tepic, “ Jose says, and I jolt awake. He laughs.

Lots of buildings. We’re on a wide street next to a river or canal. The city looks old.  I can see the bus station up to the left. It’s pretty big. Almost like an airport terminal-looking-thing. I’ve never seen anything like it in the US.

Several busses are parked along the building, and there is a line of people waiting to get on one of them as we pull into the parking lot.

The moment the car stops and I get out, heat begins melting me and sweat soaks through my shirt.  I hear some accordions, and the steady pulse of rhythm—it’s that song again—on some tinny radio. It sounds far away. I almost can’t hear it—almost.

The bus station is large and has many windows. The white sound-tiled ceiling is supported by rectangular orange pillars. The white tile floor echoes with footsteps of people coming and going.

I follow Jose to a window and he studies the menu for a moment; better him than me. I’ve been pretty much convinced on this trip I don’t speak Spanish very well, and I certainly don’t read it.

Jose goes up to a window and talks with a cashier. He returns and hands me a ticket. There’s a lot of writing in Spanish on it. I have no idea what it says.

He walks me to a map of Mexico that is taped to the inside of one of the windows and finds Tepic. “Here,” he points on the map, and then I follow his finger up a road that skirts the coast and he calls out some of the major towns along the way. He looks at me, “Guaymas, Guaymas.” I get the added emphasis, and then watch his finger go east to “Hermosillo,” and then to “Nogales.”

Okay, I got it. “Bueno” I smile. He hands me the left over money from buying the ticket. Looks like a lot, but I don’t know. At least it’s Mexican money. It’s easier to spend down here.

Well, this is the end of the line for us. You’d think after all the goodbyes last night I’d be good at this.

“Okay Pancho, come home fast.”

“Okay. Gracias for su ayuda, Jose.”

“Primo,” he says with a smile.

“Primo.” I have to smile too. He’s all right. He probably wasn’t thinking all those bad things . . . I think he’s more than my cousin, he’s my friend now too. We shake hands. None of that hugging stuff.

“Gracias.”

“No problemo Cousin!”

“Hasta luego primo!” I have to have the last word in this last contest.

He gets in his mustang and waves. I watch him leave. Now I feel really alone. I hadn’t felt alone before, at least not since I met Uncle Carlos—I mean Tio Carlos.

I think I like my new family. They are, after all, my dad’s family. I just have to get used to the idea of liking my dad. And liking Mexicans. And being Mexican. God, this is hard.

Where’s my bus? It probably says which one on my ticket. I wonder how many stops there will be along the way. Guaymas is a long ways away.

The ticket says bus 29 here and that bus has a 29 on the front. I’m glad they made it so even an American can take a bus back home. I am on the moon after all, and it would take nothing to get me lost.

I clutch my brown paper bag with all my food in it and climb aboard. It’s a big bus and we ride high on it. It’s pretty new looking. A lot nicer than most of the busses in the US. Hey, I feel air conditioning!

There are two flat screen TVs, both showing different programs. The one on the left looks like a black and white movie. The TV on the right of the bus looks like a talk show overdosed in green.

I wonder how much money I have. It all looks like monopoly money to me, except I know what monopoly money is worth. Stupid analogy. I think I have a couple hundred pesos. I wonder if I’m rich or poor. I’ll have to mail this all back to them when I get home. Maybe some extra too.

We seem to be moving. They didn’t take a roll, count passengers—nothing. The driver just closed the bus doors and took off. How do they know everyone has paid for a ticket?

Ok, lets see what’s in this bag. Looks like grandma packed me some oranges, a couple of apples and a couple of burritos. Yes! I have to admit, the food last night was great. I have never had Mexican food like that before. It’s way better than Taco Bell, and I like Taco Bell.  Wow, I’m riding a bus. I feel like a kid going to a new school for the first time.

I still can’t believe it; I have family here. Carlos didn’t blink an eye. I said goodbye to him, he asked me to call him Tio. I remember thanking him for finding me and bringing me to see my family. I can almost see his rugged cop face get soft, as he looked me in my eyes, “it was nothing,” he said.  “I am glad we met. I’m also glad that the years of silent anger are over. Meeting you has changed my life, and the lives of my family—our family.”

I have a nice little memory to take back home with me—I feel the St. Christopher’s medal against my chest and smile—a few of them, actually.

I have his card here somewhere amongst all those other cards and scraps of paper. I put all the business cards and scraps of paper in my left front pocket, and the money in my right front pocket. Tio Carlos said to call him and let him know I got home all right. I gave grandma and him my address, and he said if I tried to wait twenty years before calling him again, he would come up and punch me himself. That was nice. Yep, this is a much better outcome than I could possibly have imagined. Funny how things get worked out once you get off your ass and do something.

Wow, all these years; wasted anger. Of course I couldn’t have come any sooner; After all, I just turned seventeen. I’m glad I was deported. It turned into a free trip to Mexico to see my family. And they thought they were punishing me by sending me to the middle of Mexico. Ha! Punish me some more—idiots.

This is going to be a long trip. I wonder if they have bathrooms on this bus. I look around and see a closet looking thing towards the back. Yep, figures; they don’t have a toilet in their houses, but they put one in their buses.

We finally make it to Guaymas and some people get off the bus to stretch their legs. This bus has stopped a few times and people have gotten out and bought things or just stretched. I have been sitting here for hours. I think this time I’ll stretch some too.

It’s late, and I don’t see anything open. The people who got off the bus with me are getting into cars and are being greeted by people. The bus is pulling away. This was not a rest stop. Holy shit! Guaymas is where I’m supposed to start traveling east.

Oh great, the bus station is closed. It looks like it’s the same place that sells tickets for the ferry too. At least that’s what the graphic of a boat would suggest. This sucks. I think I should have stayed on the bus. Damn it! Now what do I do?

Looks like I’m going to have to wait until 7:00 am when the ticket office opens up. Not having a watch, I think I’ll sleep close to the bus station, maybe on a bench, no wait, that would look funny. I need to find some place close, yet inconspicuous. I don’t want to get arrested for vagrancy and thrown in jail again. Who knows what I’ll lose next. It’s a good thing I brought my bag of food with me

There is a warm, gentle breeze coming from the water and it feels good against my skin. Guaymas looks like a small fishing village. There are boat-shaped shadows dancing on the water where the reflections of the stars and moon should be. The sound of the small waves hitting the shore is calming. The air is wet and full of seaweed, with just a pinch of salt thrown in for flavor.

The lights of the city are mainly off, but there are some people having a bonfire a little farther down the beach and it’s lighting up a good sized area not too far from here. I wonder what they’re doing.

Music is coming from a couple of guitars, and there are several people singing. I see beers in their hands, but they sound too good to be drunk. They obviously haven’t been doing this all day. I think I’ll keep a little ways off, and just watch and listen to the music. This actually sounds like a different song than I’m used to hearing . . . or maybe it is the same song, and they are drunk.

 

 

The stars wink all around and the horizon. It doesn’t look natural. The sky looks like space has swallowed the earth. The stars are so big here, and so many. A sideways smile of the moon draws a line on the water, all the way to the beach. A shooting star lights up the sky and the music from the guitars, hiccups for a moment, and in the silence, the oohs and aahs fill in. The sound of a wave making it’s final push for the shore is like punctuation at the end of a beautiful sentence.  A new song begins. If I’m going to get lost, this is the place to do it.

Someone is coming this way. The fire is behind him so I can’t see what he looks like, except he is about my size and moves like a younger person, not an old man. I don’t think he’s a cop.

“Hola amigo,” he says.

“Hola, como estas”

“Adonde vas?”

What did that mean? Adonde . . . that means where. He must have seen me get off the bus—vas. “California” I say, hopefully with enough of an American accent to explain the fact I don’t really speak much Spanish.

“Bueno. Yo soy Jose.”

I stand up and move to shake his hand, and move to where I can see who this Jose is. “Yo soy Franciso.”

“Buenas noches, Pancho.”

Great, Pancho. I smile. “Buenas noches.”

“Queires un cerveza?” He shows me his beer, and nods toward the bonfire.

“Gracias.” I would love—well not love—I could stand a beer. I wonder how many of these I’m going to have to drink before I start to like it anyway?

The flavor doesn’t seem to bother the people who drink it. Maybe it’s like Brussels sprouts; you have to be born to like them or you’ll hate them your entire life. Maybe the beer-liking gene passed me over.

He leads me to a large plastic tub filled with icy water and he reaches in and pulls a beer out, his arm dripping all over the already wet sand around the tub. I can’t really make out the brand in the dancing light of the bonfire, but the bottle is dark.

“Gracias.” Hey, am I having a purely Spanish conversation with someone? I wish Jose were here to see this. I guess these last few days are what you would call a Spanish immersion class. I gulp down half the beer without even blinking.

He reaches in the ice barrel and pulls out another and hands it to me. I take it with my other hand, now holding one in each hand and feeling kinda stupid. “Gracias, Jose.” I down the first one so I can get rid of it. I hope he doesn’t try to give me another. I look over at the musicians singing and playing. There’s a guy playing guitar, a guy on a large bongo-looking drum, and an accordion. I could do without the accordion. The accordion gene definitely passed me over. “La musica es bueno.”

He nods and gives me a knowing smile. I think he knows my secret. I guess there’s no hiding my accent.

“Ven.” He waves me over and I follow him next to the fire and sit on the warm sand. We watch the others play and sing. Every now and then someone would give a good, “Ayyyyyy yay yaaaaaaaay”  or “huueeeee, huueeeee, huueeeee” pig-like squeel.

After my third beer, I begin making coyote calls too. A bottle of tequila is going around the campfire. I hesitate for a second, but since a girl passed it to me, I can’t really say no.

After a few pulls off the bottle, I start singing too. Everyone is laughing and passing me more beer and more tequila. I think I may be the entertainment right now, but I don’t care. It’s all good.

There are five girls at this party, and they all have long jet black hair, tank tops or bikini tops, short Levi cut-offs and no shoes. They dance, sing, and sip off the beer next to the bonfire. The stars aren’t as many near the fire, but there are still a lot of them left in the sky. The breathing of the water is a constant rhythm and the music seems to be in sync with it. I look around at all the happy faces. This is like some kind of perfect Mexican-bonfire-on-the-beach kinda night. Mexico is awesome. I love being a Mexican.

 

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I wake up with the glare of the sun in my eyes and spit some sand out of my mouth. My head throbs as I sit up. White and black spots dogfight in my front of my eyes. I feel sand down my shirt, and I see there are a couple of other people sleeping on the beach, having drunk too much at the bonfire last night too. I’m not sure if I know them or not. I look at my missing watch again.

I shoot up, standing, and look straight for where the bus should be. I see more stars swirling in my vision, but no bus. I immediately feel nauseas and dizzy.

I look for the ferry.

After I’m sure I won’t throw up, I stumble up to the road to the store where the bus dropped me off. There is no activity going on right now.

I run into the store, “Que Hora Es?” The poor man behind the counter, stocking cigarettes and fearing for his life, slowly points to the clock above his head. It’s nine thirty. Holy shit!  I’m late.

I look around for a bus schedule and try to tell the shop owner that I was on a bus and I need to get to the border. Even with the shock to my system of missing the bus, I’m still pretty groggy and not too sure if I’m speaking English or Spanish. He just looks at me like he’s scared that I’m crazy and might do something nuts at any moment. It must have been pretty tranquil in here before I barged in like a lunatic. I look around to see if there isn’t anyone else in here I can talk to.

I catch a look at myself in the reflection of the glass beer cooler door. I see what’s freaking him out, and it’s not the sudden burst of energy that entered the store. I’m a mess, and what is that on the side of my face? Oh shit! I must have fallen asleep with my mouth open and drooled or something. The whole right side of my face is plastered with wet sand from my cheek to my chin. I quickly brush it off, and then notice I have just dusted the candy display near the counter with sand, and what misses the candy spills onto the floor.

I begin to shake uncontrollably. He says something about four, or fourteen, or something. The Spanish that I’d been using all last night is presently being squeezed out my nose. I need a napkin. The store clerk is frozen in time, wide eyed and clutching a carton of Camel cigarettes. I leave the store in a snotty, sandy daze. I’m beginning to think Mexico doesn’t agree with me.

There are a bunch of cars in a large dirt lot off the road, next to the store. The ferry must have come and gone. How the heck did I miss all that? Four-o’clock for the next bus? What am I going to do until then?

I walk back to the bonfire area and find my paper bag with what is left of the fruit inside it. All the tortillas are gone. Looks like somebody got the munchies last night. No big. I’m more thirsty than hungry.

I begin peeling an orange when I notice a familiar, sandy face waking up not too far from me. It’s my friend . . . what’s-his-name, the guy who introduced me to the party and helped me miss my ferry. He gets up and stretches, like this is an every day occurrence to him, which I guess it could be. He stands up and walks over to me. “Hola Pancho, que te pasa?”

“No bien.”

“Yo tambien,” he says, rubbing his head and then his stomach. I reach in my paper bag and pull out a banana and toss it to him. He smiles and sits down next to me.

“Donde esta su autobus?” he asks.

“No se,” is all I can come up with. Probably far away, I guess.

He says some more Spanish and then stops in mid-sentence and smiles.

We sit there eating fruit for a few minutes and I watch some birds coasting on a light sea breeze. I wish I were a seagull.

A guy over at the little marina waves at us, and my friend waves back. I think I recognize him. He was at the bonfire too. “Su hermano?” I ask, temporarily forgetting how to say cousin in Spanish, and using brother instead.

“Si, Si.” He gets up and motions for me to follow him. I grab my bag of fruit and hurry to catch up. When I get to the dock, the two of them are already having a conversation, and his brother keeps looking over at me. I feel like I’m being talked about, in front of my back. It looks like my friend is doing most of the talking. He sounds like he’s pleading. I’m suddenly very uncomfortable.

Finally his brother agrees with whatever he was saying and he turns to me and tells me his brother works on that fishing boat and I can go with him. That’s nice, but how do I say I need to stay here and wait for the next bus?  He says a bunch of stuff rapidly in Spanish so I don’t get a word in edgewise. “California” jumps out a couple of times. California works.

The brother walks over to a crate, picks it up, and then walks over and hands it to me. He picks up another one. I think it has food or bait or both, and he motions for me to follow.

We put the crates on his boat. I keep hearing “Bahia De Los Flores,” among other incomprehensible stuff.  That will be cool if he gets me close to home. They look at me oddly, as if apologizing for something. I smile.

It’s a fairly old fishing boat, the kind that you steer from a control center up high on a second story. Below it is a cabin, and behind it all the way to the back of the boat is a big, open area where people fish. There are several places to put fishing poles all around the back area.

Jose, introduces me as Pancho and the other guy as his brother Ernesto, even though I saw him at the bonfire too. We both nod at the same time. I wonder how much longer I can keep up this Spanish thing before I get outed. They both look at each other with knowing looks. What is that about? I guess they know I’m stranded here. I hear “Maroon” a couple of times, very softly and almost without moving their lips.

I follow Ernesto back to the store where I had that wonderful conversation with the man stocking cigarettes. Maybe if I straighten my hair and shirt a bit before I get there, he won’t recognize me. I make sure there is no trace of the tropical-sand facial-mask I had on earlier.

We get inside, and the old man behind the counter has finished stocking the cigarettes. When he sees me he opens his mouth, but Ernesto is quicker. He tells the man that I am marooned here and they are helping me. The old man nods slowly, turns to me, smiles really big, and gives me a couple of slow and exaggerated nods.

I follow Ernesto into the back room and he grabs a plastic bag from a dispenser, then opens an ice machine. He grabs a scoop out of the ice and rapidly fills the bag. He does this twice and then hands me the cold, wet, aluminum scoop. I’ve done this many times at Taco Bell, so I rapidly fill my bags too, and trudge on right after him, holding one of the ice bags on my shoulder to avoid the overly understanding eyes of the cigarette man.

When everything is loaded, we get on the boat and I am introduced to Pablo. He owns the boat, or co-owns the boat, or something like that. He is told, like all the others, that I am marooned and need help. That must be the word for stranded, but they say it so oddly, but then again, most Spanish words that sound like their English counterparts are pronounced a little different. I shake Jose’s hand and thank him for the help. I don’t really know what else to do.

He apologizes for telling everyone I am marooned. I don’t know why—I am. “Yo soy” I tell him. He looks at me then laughs his butt off.

He sees my confusion. Something about last night. He points to me, then mimes something. He keeps pointing to me and miming a boat, and eating, and he points back to where the bonfire was. “Tu, tu” he keeps saying. “Mira” which means look, and I hear a couple of more Maroons.

I say, “Maroon, Maroon.” to show that I understand what he is saying, and I nod to let him know I agree. Suddenly my Spanish isn’t working any more.

“No, Moron.”

“Maroon.”

“MORON!”

 

Wait a minute . . . “Moron?”

He smiles, “Si, Si, Moron!”

Holy Shit! They think I’m a moron. I must have gotten drunker than I thought last night. And I don’t speak Spanish very well, so I guess, yep, there he goes, miming stuff again—Oh, I was miming—I  was miming a conversation—drunk. They think I’m a moron. That’s why they’re helping me. I’m some mentally disabled guy—mentally disabled Mexican guy—trying to get to California where my family is.

Great! Just Great! Now those special looks they gave each other make total sense now. I have never felt so embarrassed—retroactively—in my whole life. Oh, and the cigarette man too, with that exaggerated nod and goofy smile. I don’t think I’ll ever feel this embarrassed again—ever!

Ernesto starts the engines and they rumble beneath the water, creating a mini Jacuzzi for whatever fish are behind the boat. As the engines warm up, we finish putting the stuff away, making sure it won’t roll around. Then we cast off and leave the shore behind. Rodrigo and Ernesto pretty much talk to themselves for a while. I don’t know what they’re saying, but I strain to listen for the word moron to see if they’re talking about me.

It’s a beautiful day and the sea is warm and very clear. Seagulls swoop and dive, and a several of them follow us.  The sun glares off the water and the temperature is starting to climb. I look around the boat for anything that resembles sunblock. Nothing. Figures. The next time I want to say something is highly improbable, I’m going to say “that’s about as unlikely as finding sunblock on a Mexican fishing boat.”

Ernesto climbs down from the driver’s area and begins to get some fishing poles ready. There are about a dozen fishing poles hanging in a rack on the back of the cabin, tucked away nice and neatly. Ernesto pulls a fishing pole off the rack and disconnects a hood from it and inspects the shiny lure and hook setup before casting it over the back of the boat. Then he counts as the reel spins wildly, “uno, dose, tres, quatro, cinqo, says, siete, ocho, nueve, dies.“ When he says dies, he stops the reel from spinning by reeling it in a turn and then places the handle of the fishing pole in a holder built into the tail end of the boat. The holders look like tall white cup-holders without bottoms, and when he puts the fishing pole in one, the handle hangs down below the holder and the reel and the rest of the pole stick out above the top.

He picks up another pole, inspects the hooks and lures, and does it all again, this time putting the pole on the left side of the tail end of the boat. He grabs another pole and casts it out and counts to eight this time, and then stops the reel and places it in a holder in the corner of the back and right side of the boat. He points to a pole and looks at me to see if I understand. He hands me and the pole and helps me put it in another holder. “Entiende?” he asks.

I nod like a good little moron, and pick up a pole from a holder, release the hook from a ring in the pole, step to the back of the boat, bend way back, and cast it out as Ernesto warily watches. I count to eight, turn the reel handle one full rotation to stop the line to set the reel, then place it in the left side corner holder. “Bueno” he says, and he looks over at Pablo, like he just taught a crippled guy to walk. Pablo looks unimpressed.

We do this a couple of more times, with the last poles farther up the side of the boat and counting to six. All together we have six poles in the water trailing behind the boat at different distances. The boat has slowed a bit, but we are still moving at a good pace. Ernesto keeps his eyes on the poles on both sides of the boat, as well as the idiot helper they have with them. I have no clue what to do should we actually hook a fish. I guess Ernesto will take it and I’ll just watch him. How tough could it be? It’s only fishing for Christ’s sake. I need to relax. This is not rocket science.

Ernesto brings out a couple of folding chairs from the cabin of the boat. He mimes sitting in one and then points to me and then the chair. Yes, I know how chairs work. How much of this am I going to be able to take before I jump off the boat and start swimming home. He takes one chair, and I take the other.

He reaches into a large, square ice cooler in the middle of the boat and pulls out a couple of beers. Do they drink anything else down here besides beer and tequila? He tosses me one, and sips his casually, while I chug the first half of mine to begin killing my taste buds.

Cold brewskies, a fishing boat, a beautiful sunny day and a fairly calm and beautiful sea. I hear people pay big money for fishing trips like this. I wish I could do this all the way home. Beats the crap out of busses. Missing that bus was actually a good thing. I smile when I remember the St. Christopher’s medallion hanging around my neck. I feel like someone is watching over me on my journey home.

We sit there, staring off the back of the boat, drinking beer and relaxing. I wonder what I’m going to tell Robb when I get home. And Mom, how am I going to tell her about Dad?

One of the fishing poles bends really hard and Ernesto is catapulted up off the chair and has the pole in his hands in the blink of an eye. He begins pulling and reeling, pulling and reeling. They both yell, “Ay yay yay,” and shout other things too. I just smile and watch.

It seems to take forever for Ernesto to pull the fish up to the rear of the boat and he points with his nose to a long wooden pole with a large steel hook at one end. I grab it and I think he tells me to hook it. Yes, hook it. Okay, I’ll hook it. I’m not used to spearing live fish, and the thought of stabbing it makes me hesitate. I don’t want to hurt it.

Ernesto is keeping a watchful eye on that hook in my hands, and I seem to be taking a long time to get the job done. I take a few swipes at it, but all I do is poke it a few times, probably pissing it off. “Fuerte, Pancho, Fuerte”

Hard, okay, I get it. I reach the hook past the fish and then pull in like I’m scooping it up. I bring the huge fish into the boat, hand over hand. It struggles on the hook, knocking me over, and lands in the back of the boat near us. Ernesto puts the fishing pole back in the holder and takes the hook from my hand and removes the large writhing fish. Next he smacks it on the head with a rusty ball-peen hammer. The fish moves no more.

Ernesto removes the shiny lure from the fish’s mouth and tosses the huge fish in the ice chest in the center of the boat where he also keeps the beer. I’ll think about how I feel about that later, but now I’m engrossed in watching him go over to the pole, inspect the lure and the hook to see if it’s alright, then he casts out, counts to ten, then puts it back in the holder where it came from.

Ernesto catches two more fish, and tosses them in the large ice chest in the back of this heaving, bouncing boat, never even looking like he’d miss. The last one he tossed over his left shoulder and it went right in without even touching the sides. Ernesto must be the Michael Jordan of Deep Sea Fishing.

He begins to pull in another fish when a second pole bends fiercely and Ernesto barely has time to look at me and he says something, which I take to mean I should get this one. “Si Pancho Si, rapido!”  I pick up the pole, and it’s as if a giant has the other end and yanks it right out of my hands. We watch it sink quickly out of sight. Ernesto has a stunned look on his face, momentarily forgetting he’s in the middle of catching a fish himself. I don’t even want to look at Pablo. I don’t think he likes me being here. That fishing pole did not look that heavy when Ernesto is reeling in a fish. He makes it look so easy.

Ernesto gets back to work with the fish he has, and then the fishing pole right next to me bends down hard. I grab it and hear the Spanish cries of someone who only has a limited number of fishing poles on his boat, but I have to redeem myself. I’ve got to show these guys I’m not slow in the head.

I pick it up out of the holder and stand there for a moment just getting used to how much the pole is pulling on me, and wanting to drag me overboard. I stagger unwillingly toward the back edge of the boat, being pulled by Moby Dick himself.  I wonder how Ernesto braces himself to keep from going over, because if I don’t figure it out soon, I may get dragged off this boat and meet the same fate as Captain Ahab.

I look over and see he has his pole handle in his belly and his right foot is wedged up against the floor and the back wall of the boat. I gotta do something quick. The frantic screams tell me I probably shouldn’t have done this. If I let this pole go over, I’m pretty sure they are going to make me go after it.

I wedge my left foot against the back wall of the boat and lean back with all my weight on my right leg, bending it like a shock absorber. I finally stop moving backward, but with the bobbing of the boat on the ocean swells, I feel like I’ll lose my balance at any moment. I scoot my right foot out to widen my stance and begin to pull and reel, pull and reel, mimicking Ernesto right next to me. He can only watch in horror, and Pablo is yelling his ass off and steering the boat. The swells seem to have picked up a bit, and the boat is going up and down, tilting left and right, as well as moving forward.

Ernesto grabs the hook with one hand, grabs the fish with it in one sweeping motion, drops the fishing pole and pulls his fish into the boat, smacks it on the head with the hammer, pulls the hook out of it’s mouth and tosses the fish into the ice chest. Then he picks up the pole with the hook on the end of it and waits for me to get my fish close enough to spear it.  All that happened in about three seconds. That was like watching the fishing version of a rodeo guy taking down a calf, flipping it over and tying its feet in record time.

And the yelling has stopped.

As Ernesto waits for me to pull my fish closer to the boat, another pole dips down hard.

Ernesto looks like he’s lost. He puts the hook near me and runs over to the pole and begins fighting with another fish.

Wait a minute! I’m supposed to do all that? Didn’t he have to show me how a chair works just a few short hours ago?

Okay, think about it. First, I have to get the fish near the back of the boat . . . check. Next, grab the hook—it’s in Pablo’s hands right next to me.  Good, some help. Hey! Who the heck is driving the boat?

I don’t have time to worry about that now. I need to get my fish just a little closer to the boat. Just as Pablo gets ready to hook the fish for me, the pole goes limp. “Ay yay yay. Damelo,” he says, reaching for the pole.

I offer no resistance and he reels what is left of the rig up. He looks disappointed, I feel really embarrassed. Ernesto pats me on the back and casts his pole again as Pablo goes and finds another shiny silver lure/hook setup.

After he attaches a new lure and hook to the fishing line, Pablo tosses the shiny new rig back into the water and another fishing pole bends, and another, and another. We must have run across a school of them—and the lunch bell just rang. All three of us are now pulling and reeling, and still nobody is steering the boat. I don’t think there’s anything for miles around, so I guess it’s okay. It just feels unsettling not to have anyone at the wheel of a moving vehicle, especially as moving as this one is.

After a while, Ernesto grabs the hook and lands the fish with one graceful swooping motion, smacks it with the hammer, then throws the fish into the ice chest without even looking again. He jumps to Pablo’s side and hooks his fish. As the two of them are spearing, smacking, and tossing fish, they leave me to pull in my own fish as they set the rods again and cast them out. Seems they don’t want to waste a single minute without having as many hooks in the water as possible. Either that, or they probably figure the fish on my pole is a goner anyway, so just forget about it and get the other poles working as quickly as possible.

When they finish I can see Pablo wants to take the pole from my hand, and I don’t really have a problem with that. I hated feeling foolish last time, but Ernesto ever so slightly nods no and they stand by, watching me. Ernesto grabs the hook as I get the fish to the back of the boat. He jabs and pulls in my first fish. “Ay yay yay!” I scream. They all scream too, and pat my back.

Pablo hands me the hammer and I go over to the flopping fish and this part feels really weird. Smacking a fish with a hammer. Is this legal?  I swing a couple of times and they laugh because this fish is jumping around like crazy and I’m not even coming close to hitting it.  Every time I miss, the hammer bounces off the deck of the boat. I sound more like a carpenter than a fisherman.

As they laugh, I jump on top of the fish and ride it like a bucking horse. These things are really strong!  I finally hit it, but it just keeps bucking, practically knocking me over. I hit it again, expecting it to stop, but it just keeps on going. It’s like some kind of energizer tuna or something. Ernesto and Pablo are just cracking up, holding their sides, and having a hard time staying off the floor of this bucking boat that lurches up and down on the mischievous ocean.

Now I’m pissed. I begin beating the shit out of the slimy fish, but the fish is dodging me, and it’s so hard to hit and hold onto at the same time. “Bang.” “Bang.” “Bang.” With every swipe I take at the flopping fish, I smack the fiberglass deck with the hammer. Finally I take a knee and hold it down against the deck and smack it quickly before it figures out a way to wiggle itself free. The boat lurches up and I get smacked in the face by the tail, lose my balance, and fall over with the fish on top of me.

Behind me the guys can only speak in one word sentences, in between laughing and gasping for air, “Andale . . . Pancho . . . rapido.” I drop the hammer, grab the fish by the tail, stand up, and swing it over my head and smack the whole thing down on the deck of the boat, but it keeps trying to wiggle out of my grip. I swing it and hit the deck of the boat again, and again, and again, but because the fish is wiggling around so much, it softly lands on the deck each time. This is not doing anything. I feel like I’m digging a hole in the back of this boat with a rubber fish-shaped pick. Man, these fish are strong.

The smell of fish and sea air fills my heaving lungs as I swing the fish around again, three more times in a row, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP! It finally stops moving, but I do it a couple of more times, just to be sure; it could be faking.

The boys liked that.

Some more shouting and congratulating and we all try and catch our breath. My arms, shoulders and back feel like rubber. I had no idea fishing was such a physical sport.

I take the hook out of it’s mouth and pick up the fish. They admire the size of the fish. I guess it’s a big one. Bigger than any of theirs anyway. It’s only two feet shorter than me, and I’m almost six feet tall. “Bueno Pancho, Bueno.” I feel proud, vindicated. It may have been ugly, but I caught the biggest fish. I turn around and throw the fish to the ice chest just like Ernesto, but the boat comes sharply down off a wave and the fish goes sailing overboard, missing the ice chest by a mile. They both just stare, not believing what they’ve just seen. I can hardly believe it myself.

Pablo speaks up, looking at his friend, but loud and slow enough so I can hear.  Pablo speaks something about fifteen fish I think. I hear either “Pancho” or ‘Pinche” a bunch of times. It’s a little hard to make out the difference the way he’s talking.

Ernesto just smiles and says “Calma te” over and over again, and then he says a couple of sentences that seems to have worked.  Pablo, a bit calmer now, turns to me and smiles, places the fishing pole in Ernesto’s hand and walks up to the bridge or whatever you call that steering place above us.

 

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After a while, during which a couple of my fish actually make it into the ice chest, the boys notice a power boat way off in the distance coming in our direction. Pablo jumps down from upstairs and takes six fish out of the ice chest, and stashes them somewhere in the cabin. I don’t know what’s going on, but these guys don’t look too happy, and this time it’s not about me.

A few minutes go by and the mystery boat comes up alongside us. It’s an official-looking white and red powerboat with a red light on top of the cabin and two spotlights on either side of it. Pablo stops our boat, and the other boat pulls along side.

One of the men on the other boat throws a rope. Ernesto catches it and ties it to a metal thing on the side of our boat. Two uniformed men with tan cowboy hats, Highway Patrol-like wire rimmed sunglasses and thick black mustaches, smile and talk to Ernesto and Pablo like they are old friends.

They introduce me as their primo and I smile and nod. The police smile and the taller one asks me a question, but I don’t understand him. The police or wildlife officers, or whatever they are look at me, and then at Ernesto and Pablo. I feel a lot of tension in the air as Pablo and Ernesto try to make small talk with them.

I just stand there smiling, not knowing what else to do. I wonder if Pablo and Ernesto have fishing licenses. Ernesto tells them that I am simple, or slow, and Pablo heartily agrees. Ernesto tells them the story of how I threw three fish overboard, and Pablo corrects him with “Quatro.” Ernesto corrects himself and finishes telling them I killed the first one after riding it like a horse. The two uniformed men turn and look at me with incredulous expressions. They look at each other, and then laugh. I feel so stupid. I was wrong a little while ago about not ever being able to feel more embarrassed. I look down at the deck and pretend not to understand much, which is pretty close to the truth, but I do understand more now than I’d like to.

A police radio of some kind makes raspy, murmuring sounds in the background as Ernesto walks over to the ice chest with the two men, who inspect it admiringly.

Pablo picks out a nice-sized fish and holds it up for them. They both smile and nod and the taller man takes it and puts it in their boat. He comes back and they stand there waiting, and then Pablo jumps and pulls out another fish. They both smile and nod again, and the same man takes it from him and places it inside their boat. When he returns again they talk like friends for a few minutes, and one of them nods towards a beer sitting in a cup holder in one of the folding chairs and Ernesto goes to the cooler and pulls out a couple and hands them to the officers who graciously accept such a kind and generous offer. They speak a bit longer, asking about family and such, and looking over at me from time to time.

They finally say they have to go. The officer who didn’t put the fish in their boat, walks over to the ice chest and pulls out four more beers, still in their plastic six pack holder, before getting back onto his boat, while the other officer unties their boat from ours.

“Aaaadiiioooos Paaaanchoooo,” they say to me, slowly and loudly. They leave at half the speed they arrived. I wave and do the best simpleton impression I can.

Pablo and Ernesto take a deep breath. Pablo looks at how many beers are left in the cooler, grabs one and solemnly climbs up the steps to the steering place. Ernesto looks at me. “Pinche Policia,” he says, along with some other stuff.

Ernesto grumbles back into the cabin and returns with another six pack of beer. This must happen a lot. They know better than to keep everything in plain sight.

We keep fishing, and sweating, and drinking beer. This beats the hell out of the bus!

After catching about twenty fish, not counting the couple I lost, Ernesto and I put the rigs away, and Pablo drives us toward a small bay, that later I see is really a large island separated by a narrow channel and a beach as far as I can see in either direction. We pass the island and head for a small village on the edge of what I think is Baja California. We pull up to a small dock that leads to a general store, a few shacks, and small houses. This is an authentic Mexican coastal village. Cool.

Pablo pulls us up to the dock and Ernesto grabs a rope and ties the boat up with a few quick motions, then runs to the front and does the same. Pablo turns off the engines and whatever else he has to do up there, and then climbs down off the bridge. We all grab a fish in each hand, holding them by the gills, and walk up to the store, which thankfully, is not far; these fish are heavy.

A few small kids dressed only in cut-offs and smiles, run up to us, look at me, and ask who I am. Pablo just says “retardito,” or something like that and they laugh briefly, then realizing it may be true, they hide their amusement as best they can, before running away, bursting with laughter, unable to hide it any longer.

The man at the store smiles at my friends and they talk like they are old pals. Ernesto introduces me as his primo, and we both nod and say, “mucho gusto.” Pablo, ever the serious one, points to the fish and asks about them. The store owner, a thick, balding, middle aged man, with dark leathery skin and large, wrinkly hands, looks the fish over. He admires them and says “bonita,” which is a type of tuna I think. He says something about business being slow and he doesn’t have much money. The brothers nod and say they understand, or agree. We all put our fish on a table behind the cash register area. I guess the deal has been made.

The man hobbles slowly and painfully over to the cash register, and takes out some bills and counts them while looking at the fish. He hands the money to Pablo.

Ernesto walks over to the beer refrigerator and returns with a beer for each of us. Ernesto offers to pay for the beers, but the man refuses. He wants to be kind and generous to us and he would not accept our money in his store. Ernesto and Pablo smile and thank him profusely, like he was the most generous and kindest man on earth, which makes him smile proudly and not limp so badly.

Ernesto says something and the man looks at me and replies, but I’m not understanding much. Ernesto says, “California,” really slowly, and I smile and nod. The man looks at me sadly, and says some more things I don’t understand. Ernesto and Pablo say, “Gracias,” several times. I smile and nod, feeling very uncomfortable at the relative ease I seem to be acquiring the aura of stupidity. We head outside toward the boat.

Ernesto tells me about a truck driver who will come by soon and they will ask him to give me a ride to the frontera, or frontier I think. Wow. I’m getting closer to home all the time. This is terrific. I thank my fishing buddies like they thanked the shop owner. “Necessario mas?” I ask, reaching for more fish to give to the man at the store, and they both say, “NO!” at the same time, and with the same, no fricking way, inflection. Pablo says something about more money at the next village and I think they will fish all the way home and make more money when they get home. We talk, admiring the day, and drinking our beer. These guys are pretty good fellas. I’m already going to miss them. This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

Ernesto nods at a truck pulling into the parking area of the store, which I notice is very close to the highway. I say my goodbyes to Pablo as best I can, Ernesto grabs a beer and we walk up to the truck.

When the driver has finished doing business with the shop owner, Ernesto explains my situation to him and asks him if I can ride with him to the border. He smiles and accepts a beer from my very kind and generous friend. Does that mean yes? The man jumps into the cab and Ernesto shakes my hand and bids me farewell. Yes! I’m almost home.

“Muchos gracias Ernesto.”

“De nada Pancho.”

“Vaya con dios.”

“Tu tambien, primo.” Ernesto and I smile at the family reference.

People must have been very kind to Ernesto growing up, or maybe he was just born that way. I get into the truck and as we pull out, I wave goodbye to my new Mexican friends and begin heading home. I wonder if I’ll ever see them again.

When I get into the truck the driver finishes writing something down on a clipboard then puts it away under his seat. He’s a nice enough fifty-ish looking guy with short dark hair and a thin, wiry frame. His uniform is jeans, a t-shirt, and black boots. He looks kind enough. His forehead is developing some good, deep wrinkles and his mustache is very thick and dark.

As he pumps some pedals on the floor and shifts I notice his window is rolled down. I’m guessing the air conditioning probably doesn’t work. When he finishes shifting, he looks over at me and smiles. It was a kind smile. A smile that seemed to say, “don’t worry little buddy, I’ll get you to California.”  I, of course, returned his smile with a, “duh, thank you,” smile of my own. Well, a, “thank you,” smile, anyway. I’m pretty sure the, “duh,” was implied.

After about ten minutes of silence, I notice a definite tension in the air. I never knew this before, but sitting in a confined space with someone you don’t know, just inches away from you, is a little unnerving. I can’t think of anything to talk about. He doesn’t look too interested in starting any conversations, so another hour or so goes by until the silence between us begins to drown out the radio.

While I’m on the subject of radio, I’m beginning to think I can tell the difference between some of the songs, although a lot of them are still just variations on the same theme. Come to think of it, isn’t that what makes a musical style? Rap has that explosive base that wants to rip your car apart, and they rhyme everything to death. Country music singers have that twang to their words and those whining pedal steel guitars.

Okay, I’m stalling. It’s about time to break the ice so we both can relax a bit. It’s obvious this guy is as stubborn as they come.

“La musica es moo-ey bueno.” I tell him, letting him know my appreciation for his music selection.

“Si.”

That’s it? Si? Is it me? Maybe this guy just doesn’t talk. “Como se llama?” I ask, not wanting to stop and fall back into the silence thing again.

“Guillermo Mendoza.”

Short and to the point. This is a no-nonsense kind of guy. “Yo soy Pancho.” I don’t know what else to do if he doesn’t start talking, maybe we—

“Pancho? Solo Pancho?”

Does he want to know my whole name? This might not be good. Actually, when was it ever good? I mean except at the family reunion thing. ”Pancho . . .” My poor Spanish is going to get unmasked any second now. He looks at me sideways and says something about the “Policia.” Oh, he thinks I won’t tell him my name because I’m wanted by the police. “No, no Policia.” If I don’t tell him now he’ll probably wonder who the heck he has sitting next to him in his truck a hundred miles from anywhere. Okay, here goes, “Villa.” I try to look serious, and stare straight ahead, but I can see him putting it together; we’re only a foot apart.

“No problema.”

Wow, that was easy. He probably doesn’t want to press the issue. “Tiene trabajo en los Estados Unidos?”

“Si.” I have a job back home.

“Donde?”

Hey, it’s working. He’s finally beginning to open up and talk. We’ll be friends before this ride is over. “Taco Bell.”

My face slams into the dashboard. Tires are skipping and chirping on the road below us. Obviously somehow I have offended him. He’s talking so quickly and motioning for me to get out. I can’t get a word in edgewise. Where the heck are we? Is he serious? He wants me to get out now? In the middle of nowhere? “Okay, okay.”

I open the door and jump down to the ground and hear him yell a few things I actually do know the meaning of. He shuts the door and drives off. I try to piece together the last thing he said. It was something about me being a famous worker at Taco Bell. I should have just stayed quiet. Or maybe I should have told him I have the blood.

Yeah, just drop me off in the middle of nowhere. Right here will do. Thanks!

Where am I and how far am I from the border?  Maybe I can walk to it from here.

 

 

It’s been about an hour since I got dropped off and I begin to feel defeated, and kind of tired. I’m in the middle of nowhere without food or water, and it’s almost dark. I hear a car driving up and turn around to face it. I stick out my thumb, just like they do in the movies. I expect the car to keep going by like we always do when we see a hitchhiker back home. The car slows down as it passes me, and I can see several people inside.

It looked like a whole family in an old, faded blue two door Honda Accord. And it’s stopping. Wow, I got a ride—first time! I run to the car and look inside. It’s full of people and blankets. There’s no way I can fit in there.

“Hey, um Gracias for the ayuda, perro . . . no tienay . . . room. I mean . . .” The driver and father of the family cuts me off in mid sentence.

“No, si se puede, si,” he insists, and the mother gets out of the front seat in the back with the three kids. The youngest, a boy, is now sitting on the oldest daughter’s lap. I am expected to take up the whole front seat while they sit cramped in the back? This isn’t going to be awkward. They did this with startling precision, so I presume they do this all the time, but still . . .

I try to beg off, but they won’t hear of it, and now I’m feeling sorry for them, as they sit, packed in like twelve toes in a pointed shoe, and I’m here stalling. What have I gotten myself into? I knew when you hitchhike, the drivers don’t have to pick you up, but I didn’t know that putting your thumb in the air means you have to take the ride if the car stops for you. I guess I should have thought about that earlier.

Maybe if I tell them my name and where I work, they’ll drive off.

Okay, okay, I’ll get in. ”Gracias.” Their smiles are pleading for me to hurry up.

We get our introductions out of the way early, and not really wanting a replay of the last ride, I tell them my name is Frank. That lets them know that I’m American and don’t speak much Spanish. This seems to work pretty good. I wish I would’ve thought of this before. I thought my Mexican name would be acceptable here in Mexico. It was more than good enough in Guadalajara, but nowhere else it seems. I wonder if Jose Cuervo has trouble hitch-hiking too.

Mr. Delgado is a happy man, about thirty or so, with dark black hair and a thick, neatly trimmed mustache. His wife, Rosario, is a pretty kind of plain, and they both have the bodies of people who work hard for a living: thin and strong. The teenage girl has long and straight black hair that falls about her shoulders. She is shy and quiet. The three-year-old boy, Julio, is a bundle of kinetic energy. He climbs and squirms and slithers his way from one lap to another, while the middle girl watches in stone cold silence.