:I woke up in the middle of the night, in a pool of foam, blood, and vomit. For a moment, I couldn't see anything at all. All I could smell was the unbearable stench and the sticky puddle beneath me. All sorts of thoughts were swimming through my head—irrelevant and meaningless; I couldn't concentrate. I lay on the floor, completely stoned, thinking about Shakira eating burritos so she could gain weight and have the right kind of ass. I was so absorbed—so focused on Shakira and the burritos, Shakira eating burritos, and the burritos eating Shakira—that I didn't even notice when it started to get light. It felt like three hours had passed between the blinks.
Then I remembered I had a six-a.m. flight to Los Angeles. My plan had gone to shit—but I still had the tickets. I also had all the money I'd earned. Pablo had screwed up and left everything as it was. So I had everything I needed to get out of here, and a nagging awareness that it would be best to do it as quickly as possible. Pablo probably thought I'd gone nuts, and he'd probably told the people he worked for the same thing. So I guess they weren't planning on showing up and checking things out just yet. And I had to get out of here before the room service arrived and saw this whole mess.
I checked the time. It was 2 a.m. So I had four hours. Holding my head, I staggered to the bathroom. I desperately needed a shower to wash off all the filth I'd spat out and rolled around in. But a sudden pressure in my lower abdomen meant I had to wait—willy-nilly—for that. I had dozens of coke capsules in my ass, trying to escape—and I had no interest in stopping them. My job was over—I had the money, so carrying the stuff around was pointless. Besides, I wasn't in the mood to bust a nut if another one burst. So I shit them all out like a rocket and, with relief, flushed them down the Puerto Vallarta sewer system so the rats could get high. Then I got in the shower and rinsed myself thoroughly—of the blood, foam, and vomit.
The tattoo stung and burned again. I looked at it, stretching my arm to examine it, and was surprised to see a reddened number nine. But then I remembered that the tattoo had never been upside down; I'd been looking at it upside down. A six was freshly inked on my arm. Everything was fine.
***
I hurried past the hotel lobby—just to avoid being accosted by any of the staff. I hadn't brought a bag, just to give the appearance of just going out; though of course, at four-thirty in the morning, that was a bit odd. Most importantly, I didn't look like I was leaving. Besides, I didn't need anything. I only had one pair of jeans—the ones I was wearing—and one clean blouse. Besides, I only had dirty underwear and a puke-stained colorful shirt—and I didn't need them and didn't intend to take them. So I had practically no luggage.
I walked over to the taxi parked outside the hotel.
"To Gustavo Diaz Airport," I ordered, settling in next to the driver.
I sank heavily into the seat and closed my eyes. I was still sleepy, and strange thoughts of pink elephants racing through whipped cream were running through my head. I wasn't asleep, but I wasn't looking at the road either. We were going pretty fast—it was early, the streets were almost empty, so there was plenty of time to get going, and the taxi driver seemed to know I was in a hurry. I only grunted in displeasure when the car swerved too sharply around corners, because then my brain tried to escape through the outer ear. On the long straights, I experienced a pleasant sensation of floating, like a soap bubble.
"Hey, sir, wake up call!
" "What...?"
I woke up. However, I dozed off towards the end of the ride, because only the taxi driver's shout and a sharp jolt brought me back to reality.
"We're here," he explained, though I'd already realized what was happening. Gustavo Diaz Airport was right in front of us.
I paid my fare with the last of my pesos. I only had a few left. But I didn't need more. I had $2,600 on me, which I didn't plan to start spending until I got to Los Angeles.
I got out of the car and from the taxi stand, walked along the side of the building to the left. At the end, I turned right and stood in front of the building's front wall, with its four entrances. I entered through the closest one. Passing the restroom, I slowed, wondering whether to go in or not? I was already empty, but I still felt nauseous, and I didn't want to throw up in front of people. Eventually, I abandoned that idea and entered the main lobby to figure out what to do next. I looked around; the closest were a car rental and a currency exchange. A bank, a bar. I went to the left of the entrance—that was the only thing I was interested in: check-in. I passed through ticket inspection without any problems. My fake passport passed muster. I was flying Alaska Airlines. According to the schedule, my flight was supposed to depart in half an hour.
The check-in line was getting a bit long for this time of day, but hey, Los Angeles is no small town, and there was probably a long line of people waiting to check in at any time of day or night. I was getting more and more impatient. The nausea was returning, and I was feeling dizzy—and there was no way to sit down. I put my hands in my pockets and bent over a bit, sucking in my stomach. My guts were churning more and more, and sweat was breaking out on my face. The line was moving like a snail.
As my turn approached, two policemen with dogs approached me, grabbed my arms, and led me aside. I was too numb to resist, but when we stopped, I glared at them.
"What's the matter?" I asked, my voice choked.
"You'll come with us. We'll do a body search.
" "Guys, get a life," I grumbled, trying to pull away.
"You'll come with us and don't make a scene."
If I didn't feel like a goat, I would have gotten away and beaten them up, or at least run them down from top to bottom so they'd back off and find another sheep to undress and grope. But now I couldn't really do that. Besides, there was no point in causing trouble. I didn't have any goods, so they couldn't do anything to me. And they probably took me in for the search because it was strange for someone to go without luggage. I'd just tell them I didn't need it because I was going to my uncle's and didn't need anything, and that was it.
They ushered me into the office and closed the door.
"Do you know why you were detained?" asked one of them—shorter, stockier, with a balding mustache.
"Detained? It's a body search!" I protested.
"We suspect you're smuggling drugs.
" "Where? In your underwear or under your tongue?" I snorted.
"You think we don't know it's in your stomach?" We've been watching you from the moment you walked in. That longing look at the toilet: to shit or not to shit? You didn't sit down for a second, because then you might damage the balloon, the capsule, or whatever it is you're carrying. Then in line, bent over, sweating... You think we don't know what a nervous guy with a stomach full of coke looks like? He laughed in my face. "He looks just like you!" he added, poking me in the stomach.
I kept pretending I had no idea what he was talking about, that I didn't know how anyone could smuggle coke. When he stabbed me, I restrained myself from doubling over in pain. I had nothing there, but my stomach was churning like crazy.
"Maria, take him to the toilet and give him some tea," the obese policeman said to the other, taller, younger one.
He grabbed my arm tightly and pulled me into the next room. He turned on the light. In the center of the stark white room stood a toilet. A filthy shithouse with no drain.
"Take off your pants and sit down.
" "Fuck you
," I muttered. "Sit down or I'll give you a dick."
As humiliating as it was, there was no other way. Thrashing around won't help. I'll only convince them I'm guilty. If I make a block and let them play with it, they won't find anything and they'll let me go. So I swallowed my pride, took off my pants, and sat down.
"Drink this," he ordered.
"What's this?" I asked, wincing as he thrust some infusion under my nose.
"Tea," he replied. "It'll help you, so drink it.
It's like tea, like a goat's ass! Some filthy stuff that'll make me shit out my entire stomach, and then pieces of liver. I drank it anyway because he was holding a baton over me, and crouched on the toilet, I probably couldn't do anything to neutralize him. He had a baton, towered over me, and had friends outside the door who were ready to beat me to a bloody pulp if I attacked the guy.
The bastard gave me something for my diarrhea to help it go faster, because he started pouring out microscopic droppings. But I sensed something was wrong; that something strange was coursing through my bowels. I was about to expel it with relief when I realized it couldn't be anything other than a capsule. The damn thing hadn't gone down the hotel toilet with the rest. I suddenly tensed on the toilet, and the bastard must have noticed out of the corner of his eye, because he started watching me closely. I clenched my buttocks to keep the damn capsule from coming out—and he was looking at me, probably guessing I was up to something. I held on tight and didn't let go, while simultaneously pretending I was still trying to shit my kidneys.
"How about some tea?" he asked, laughing in my face.
"No...
" "I know you've got something, and you know damn well I do, so let's end this mess," he said, standing over me. "The sooner, the better for you. And you'll stay here as long as necessary.
" "I don't have anything, you fucking do!" I hissed, glaring at him. If it weren't for the baton pointed at me, if we weren't alone, and if it weren't for the tea that was making me sick, I would have jumped him and drowned him in the shit.
"Don't give a damn!" he shouted, jabbing me in the stomach with his baton. I cringed. I relaxed my buttocks, and the capsule slammed into a sea of diarrhea.
"Fuck..." I whispered under my breath, sliding off the toilet onto the floor.
"That's it!" the cop said. He opened the door and called out to his buddies.
At the sight of me on the floor, with my pants down, my bare, shit-stained ass, and a single capsule of coke in the toilet without a drain, they burst into laughter.
"A real wholesaler," said the one guarding me, followed by another round of laughter.
***
You'd think they'd simply arrest me and take me to the police station, to jail, to await trial. Where would I be? They immediately handcuffed me and threw me in a police van, along with two other guys, and we went on a long drive. I couldn't really see where we were going—we had no windows. Anything was visible only through the windshield, separated from us by a solid grate. I stopped looking, stopped guessing. They were taking us to jail—there was no other option. I sat there, handcuffed, slumped. I didn't look at the guy across from me or the one next to me. If either of them had spoken, I would have punched them myself.
When we finally stopped—I don't know, after half an hour, an hour—a policeman was talking to someone outside. I peered through the bars. There was a barrier ahead. It lifted, and the van moved on. After a moment, it stopped, and the van door opened.
"Get out," the policeman ordered. Behind him were two burly guys with guns. Now was not the time to resist.
We left. We stood in the middle of a square, on packed yellow earth. It was completely fenced in by a high concrete wall, topped with a beautiful chain of barbed wire. Beyond the gate, all you could see were trees. No people, no cars. The only sounds were birds. We were far from any human habitation—and probably rightly so. In the distance, I heard the rumble of a train. Maybe a kilometer away—because the echo carried better where there were no people.
"Follow me," came the order. We obediently followed the cop: one guy in front of me, one behind me, and finally two guys with shotguns. They led us into the prison cell—a dingy building with peeling plaster. We walked along the corridor, then up the stairs, inhaling the musty stench.
"They brought us new cargo," a thug said from behind the bars, and the cell erupted in activity. A few thug muzzles pressed against the bars, staring at us. I walked without looking around. I fixed my hateful gaze on the neck of the guy in front of me.
"Here," one of the armed men behind us said at one point. We stopped at one of the cells. The guard took a bunch of keys from his belt, selected one, and handed it to a policeman. He uncuffed the three of us and then opened the cell door. Two guards stood behind us the entire time, their weapons ready to fire in case we tried anything, or if anyone in the cell got a stupid idea.
"Come in," one of them ordered. I passed the barely opened grate; behind me were the other two guys. Then the grate closed, and the guards and the policeman left. We were left alone in the cell with a bunch of thugs and idiots who'd gotten caught for something small and were waiting for their sentence in jail, just like we were now. They weren't big cells. There were too many of us. There were four bunks, and there were nine of us in the cell. Some sat on the bunks, some stood against the wall. They glared at us. The cell had already been overcrowded before they'd locked us in, and now we were only making it worse. It was hard for these bums to like us. We were a pain in the ass to them; just another problem.
When one of them—a barrel-chested bruiser with a broad, plump, bearded face—got up from the wall and started shuffling toward us, I knew he wasn't going to say hello or look at the corridor through the bars. I wasn't wrong. He brushed past me and punched the guy next to me in the stomach, one of the two newcomers besides me. The guy—a shriveled little man with a snotty snout—curled up on the ground. The colossus retreated to the wall. I breathed a sigh of relief that I wasn't the one who would be in real trouble tonight. I moved back against the wall and peered through the bars into the corridor. Occasionally, a guard with a gun would march past, looking at us from behind his sunglasses as if we were carrion
.
My company was generally awful. There was no one to speak to—I didn't really feel like talking to the old prisoners, because one of them was ready to slap me for pronouncing "s" funny. I didn't speak to the new ones who came with me either, especially the one who—as I predicted—was in serious trouble and had a blue ass; because then the old ones would think I was against them, and then I would be in trouble too, and I wasn't about to get screwed by those insatiable psychos. Sleeping was on the floor. I could complain that I wasn't on a bunk—but on the other hand, even though I slept on the floor, which was uncomfortable and bloody cold at night, at least I slept without anyone bothering me. The food was bearable—once you realized there wasn't going to be any better, and not eating meant starvation. I didn't want to eat at first because it made me feel sick—after that tea, I didn't recover quickly. But when I got stuck, I'd just poop without a whine, like I'd never eaten anything better in my life. The worst part was relieving myself. There was no cozy restroom where you could experience a moment of sweet solitude. Oh no! Got a craving? So they'd bring a bucket to your cell, and you'd have to pull down your pants and into the bucket in front of everyone. It was humiliating for whoever was doing the bucket, and the stench in the cell was poisonous for everyone else. It was even worse than those jerks from the cell at the end of the corridor who started making hip-hop in Spanish. Morning or evening, and if they got a craving, even in the middle of the night, they'd start rhyming about prison life, and one of them would play drums—until a guard came and threatened to shoot them all. A bunch of stupid hillbillies who thought they were blacks and could rhyme.
I was still tolerating it somehow, and generally, I was doing relatively well. It was worse for the little, skinny one who had been in trouble from the start. They called him Chiquita. They beat him up at every opportunity, no chance at all. They wouldn't let him sleep at night. He was starting to get hit. He was shaking and looking at me with eyes that could have scared you. I wasn't surprised when, after one meal, he surreptitiously rolled up his spoon and hid it in his pants. He was up to something, but honestly, I didn't give a damn what it was. I stayed away from him, didn't talk to him, and when the others beat him, I only watched. I knew if he went crazy, there would be smoke—and I didn't want to be within his reach when that happened.
"Why do you let them do this?" he asked me, his voice breaking, barely audible. It irritated me that he was sitting so close to me, talking to me. I could get in trouble for it. I didn't answer; I didn't even look back. It was as if he weren't there.
"Why don't you help me?"
I ignored him again.
"You're afraid..." he whispered, looking at me with eyes as wide as saucers. "You're afraid that if you talk to me, they'll beat you up and fuck you good morning and good night, just like they did to me."
I turned around, wondering how to kill him for what he'd just said.
"Why didn't you help me?" he burst into tears and lunged at me.
I wanted to just push him off, then stand up and kick him. But then I felt a spoon piercing my gut. The little bastard stabbed me.
"Why the fuck didn't you help me?!" he shouted in my face, stabbing and stirring my guts, pinning me against the wall.
"Ole, Chiquita!" someone shouted, and the rest burst out laughing. And Chiquita was slaughtering me, looking me straight in the eye with the look of a psychopath driven to the brink of despair. When I lost my balance, he stepped back. I fell to the ground and writhed in a pool of blood until darkness came.
"
You beat him, now you have him!" I heard a voice coming from somewhere nearby. "Dig faster, my ass is freezing.
" "Digging, digging..." This time the voice—different: quiet, hoarse—was closer.
I lay on the ground in my bloody shirt. A shiver ran through me; it was cold. When I opened my eyes, I saw the forest above me, and the gray sky peeked through the leaves. It must have been early morning. And right next to me, with his back to me, Chiquita was maneuvering a shovel. I was about to get up when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a guard, gun at the ready. So I didn't move. I lay with my eyes closed, motionless, trying to breathe shallowly and silently.
"Well, I guess I can... throw him in now," Chiquita said, and I heard him turn. When I felt him looming over me, I opened my eyes and shot him point-blank in the face. He staggered, and in a single bound, I stood up and reached for the shovel.
"What's up?" "The guard asked, almost casually, and slowly turned around. He clearly hadn't expected Chiquita to attack, and that calmed him down. And I took advantage of that. Before he could even turn around and see me, I slammed the shovel into his face. He dropped the shotgun and slumped to the ground. Assuming he wouldn't get up quickly, I charged at the little bastard with the shovel. I didn't want to shoot—that would have drawn all the other guards right away. As he was getting up, I smacked him over the head with the shovel. I ripped off his shirt—it was too big, so it fit me—and put it on. I buried Chiquita with my own, bloody and unwearable. Then I could run. I didn't correct the guard. He didn't have to die. He was supposed to wake up and think Chiquita had done this to him and then let him go. He was supposed to see the grave—a hole filled with earth—and think it was me buried in it. He couldn't have known that—stabbed to death with a sharpened spoon—I would get up and run away.
And I didn't need to look to know that the stinging tattoo on my arm was a five.
My stomach hurt like hell
.
The distant rumble of the train reached me again. Until then, I'd been trudging aimlessly—anywhere away from the prison walls. But when I heard the train, I decided to reach the tracks, hop on the first one I saw, and get the hell out of there. Bent over, I took great leaps through the forest, running as fast as I could. I could barely breathe; my lungs and ribs ached, and the cold air rasped in my throat. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard the next train quite close, about a hundred meters from where I stood. I slowed down a bit, though perhaps I shouldn't have, but my destination was close, and I really didn't have the strength to sprint anymore. When I saw the embankment over which the tracks had been laid, I almost laughed with joy, like someone who had found an incomprehensible treasure. I climbed onto it, hearing nothing coming from either direction, and then stepped off the tracks on the other side. I decided to go right. Something told me I'd find a station there and catch a train. I was trying to figure out how to get on—I had neither money nor documents. The police at the station had screwed everything up; I was practically going to jail naked. So, the only option was to stowaway. But how could I get on and not get caught without a ticket? Lock myself in the toilet? Sit in the compartment alone, and if someone tried to sit down or check my ID, I'd just jump in and transfer to another car. As I walked, pondering which option was better, I noticed a long train—the one that had passed me a few minutes ago—stopped in the distance. I quickened my pace, figuring it wouldn't be standing there all day, waiting for me to stowaway. I also went a little deeper into the woods so no one could see me. The only way to get on the train was illegally—and no one could catch me doing so.
As I got closer, it turned out it wasn't a passenger train. A long row of freight cars lay before me. Creeping in the shadows, watching for any signs of approach, I searched for a spot. The brown car—empty and open—seemed ideal. Still keeping a watchful eye on the sides, I emerged from the shadows and climbed in with a single bound. I hid in the shadows, far from the hatch, against the wall adjacent to it—so that no one who was merely checking empty cars for formality could spot me. If anyone were looking for someone in them—the police or prison guards, for example, would have nabbed me immediately. Logically, I would have hidden in an empty, open car, where no one would be watching the goods. So I silently prayed for the train to move as quickly as possible. I listened for the baying of guard dogs. If the police reached the station, they could stop the train even while it was moving. I blessed the silence; finally, I breathed a sigh of relief when the train started moving.
I don't know how long I rode—but I wasn't about to get off anytime soon. I sat down opposite the hatch and watched the landscape pass before me in the wide rectangle of the open door. Forests, meadows, forests. A city in the distance. A lake. Forests again. I dozed off for a while—I don't know how long either—lulled to sleep by the steady clatter. I had a pleasant dream; I dreamed of a hotel, and that I could stay there as long as I wanted. Shakira was there, with her wide hips. We were making babies. I woke from this blissful dream quite naturally—it was over, and I was back in an empty freight car, not in a luxurious room on the third floor of La Jolla de Mismaloya, overlooking the sea and the pool. I saw fields—vast expanses of land where the plant that made Mexico Mexico grew—maguey. The locals used it to make pulque long before Columbus and the others arrived and wiped them out. Then the people who killed them turned pulque into real alcohol—the kind that burns your throat, makes your head spin, and gives you a hangover in the morning, unless you drink it with salt and lemon. I don't know how long I drove—how long, or how far—but I was passing through Tequila. And I never knew if the alcohol was named after this land or the other way around.
***
At the next station, I got off. I stretched my legs and rubbed my sore butt; I glanced furtively to make sure no one was watching, then jumped out of the car and staggered into the nearby bushes. When the train pulled away, I stepped out of the shadows, crossed the tracks as if nothing had happened, and set off down the yellow line, wherever it led.
"Son, need a ride?"
I turned. A rumbling van slowed as it passed me, its driver—a little old man missing a few teeth—grinning at me invitingly. I stopped and stared at him for a moment, unsure whether to gladly accept the offer of a ride or brush him off with a few insults. Apparently, I didn't need a ride, as I was going nowhere and in no particular hurry. On the other hand, I wasn't sure what to do with myself. There was a chance this man could help me with something. I wasn't in the mood for robberies, thefts, or more trouble. No drugs, no guns. Although I did want to live a normal life for a while. Here I had a chance. I was in Tequila—away from my old troubles: the Ayauicalo mafia, the drug dealers from Puerto Vallarta, the police, and the prison in... I don't even know where. Here I had a clean slate, an offer of a ride—and a chance to help. And the guy didn't seem like he wanted anything from me. He was an elderly, gap-toothed, simple-minded peasant.
After a while, as I just stared at him, wondering—should I get in or should I get out? I nodded in agreement. I walked over, opened the door, and got in.
"What's your name, boy?"
Exactly—what's my name? Luca? No, no, that whore Claudia beat him to death with a lamp. Ronaldo? No, he went crazy on drugs and then got stabbed with a spoon in prison. Plus, he had a police record.
"Ramon Estefan," I blurted out without thinking. Ramon Estefan, I repeated to myself to remember.
"I'm Hector Mario Gomez," he said in a quiet, hoarse voice. He didn't lisp much, despite his missing teeth. "And where are you going, Ramon?
" "I don't know," I replied, instinctively. I wondered if it wouldn't hurt me, and when I realized it was true and could make a good story, I continued. "I have no one, I don't know what to do with my life, and I have nothing to live on." I'm looking for a place to sleep and some work," I said, then looked at him, gauging his reaction, waiting for his response.
"Then I guess we're both in luck," he replied. I shuddered as I remembered the same conversation I'd had with Pablo. I stared into that honest, gap-toothed, withered peasant face and told myself it wasn't the same. What could he possibly want from me? Smuggling moonshine into the States in my underwear?
" "I need someone to take care of the cows," Hector continued. "I have a few, and I'm too weak to keep an eye on them myself.
Cows... I couldn't think of anything illegal or exceptionally profitable to do with a handful of cows. No big deal. A cow is a cow—milk, and when you get tired of it, meat." I looked at Hector, staring at the road, and thought that if he were a fortune-hungry mafioso, he'd really choose something other than cows. I'd started to get a bit paranoid, and now I'd even look at ducks with suspicion—but I'd been hit by so many people I'd never expected to be hit by them that I didn't trust anyone anymore. A shot between the eyes from a friend. A lamp in the face from a girl. A stabbing by a filthy loser. So I had to force myself not to suspect the grizzled old man of anything.
"I could work with the cows," I said, shrugging. "I don't have anything else to do.
" "Can you milk?
" "Is that a more complicated art?" I asked.
"You'll be up to it," he grinned at me, pleased. "You're young, you can do more than me.
" "Do you have a place to stay?
" "We'll find something. We have to raise you. You look miserable, sonny." You're probably hungry and tired?
- True, I replied. - I haven't eaten anything for a long time.
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