***
The trip into the city followed a timeline of its history, beginning with us roaring along a deserted and dusty dirt road, wide strips of weeds growing between the well-worn grooves of tire tracks. An occasional seagull fled roadside at the approaching sound of Jack's machine, as fine a steel thoroughbred ever machined on a North American assembly line. We soon reached a bumpy and sporadically paved one-lane road, laid out between a scattering of fishing huts, small haciendas and chicken-wired stick-built coops. As with the evolution of organized civilization, more livestock and animals appeared, standing alongside the occasional spectator who offered a wave to the affable motorcycle operator. Finally, like a stream feeding a river feeding a lake, we entered the city proper, with its multiple lane highways and volume of traffic to match.
Jack was clearly at home amid the bustle of urban unruliness, commanding it to obey his whim just as the sea did his boat. In, between and out we weaved, cutting off cars and trucks alike, garnering the imprecations of young and old, male and female. Jack paid no attention to the insults. If anything, the derogatory comments fueled his daring-do and increased our brushes with disaster twofold. After one excruciating close call while threading the needle between an Esso oil tanker and a luggage-laden multi-colored VW Microbus, we veered off a hairpin exit, occupying the center of what was designed to be two lanes. Amazingly, Jack stopped when spotting the red light at the intersection.
"Well done," I said, trying to loosen my grip from the dashboard long enough to offer a thumb's up.
"Federal Express across the courtyard," Jack yelled, twisting the throttle so the idling bike backfired. I braced myself, expecting a hard right with the flow of traffic. Instead, Jack tore straight through the traffic circle and over the curb, causing an errant pigeon to rise and strike me in the face. The bird was, at that point, the least of my concerns as the park in which we were navigating was until now for pedestrians only. Without a care written on his face, Jack guided the Indian over the bumpy cobblestones and past a beautifully ornate water fountain full of children cooling themselves in the rising heat. While alarmed mothers and nannies shrieked at us, Jack simply tooted the tinny sounding horn and smiled, as if he was the inconvenienced party allowing for amends.
The posting of the flash drive and note was done so efficiently I found myself back in the canister of a sidecar sooner than desired, again into the busy streets like a crazed rocket launched into an oncoming meteor shower. "Now to American Express, yes? From one express to another express on Jack's express!" The fisherman-cum-daredevil released the clutch into third gear, running a series of cautionary lights with the aplomb of a seasoned politician careening his way through a crowded cocktail party to meet the newest cash-flushed lobbyist in town.
The height of our harrowing journey was reached ratcheting through an open-air bodega several city blocks long, featuring vendor after vendor selling fresh fruit and vegetables. We no sooner began our thrust into the fleeing crowd when a squash -- I believe of the acorn variety -- crowned me directly on the forehead. This served as the harbinger for the abundant aerial crop hailed upon us: Tomatoes, cucumbers, bananas, eggs and pumpkins were included in the variety of items striking me from the waist up. I was forced to admire the proficient aim of the hurlers, for we were making a good twenty miles per hour along certain stretches of the narrow corridor. At one point, in what was an impressive display of aggressive tactics, I suffered passage through a gauntlet of dried cornstalks held forth by a contingency of elderly women who seemed intent on connecting the lengthy plucked shoots with my Adam's apple. At the end of our run we were met with several buckets of cold water, a lame apology made for having covered us so entirely in newly-picked garden commodities.
Jack swung the Indian into a sharp left turn and downshifted, allowing the bike to build up a head of steam. "The bastards," he shouted down to me, his white beard now stained in a fusion of orange, yellow and green, "they do that every time!" Within minutes we pulled onto the sidewalk in front of the Amex office, this time sending but a handful of citizens running for their lives. In the shade of an overhead awning, Jack shut down the engine and lifted his veggie-splattered goggles onto the baseball hat, now cap-backwards on his head.
"In your country," he spoke calmly as if he just stepped from a nearby confessional, "you are apt to say, 'Who is your daddy?'. Am I correct?"
"I'm familiar with the adage, yes," I replied, removing a half ear of corn from inside my shirt.
"I don't like that expression. At this moment, when the bill is to be paid, I prefer to think of you as my catch of the day, no? I fish for my living. I went out in my boat. I pulled you in. Would a fish pay me to throw him back in the water?"
"Not being aquatic, I've never considered such a scenario. But most probably, yes."
"Aquatic or not, now I throw you back to where you swim. Remember that when adding your sums."
"Will do. That and the hockey playing soccer kids --"
"Football."
"And the mother of your children."
"Those fresh vegetables were good for you. You're thinking smart, Skeet."
Viewing me as though I bore two heads, the American Express personnel could not have otherwise been more helpful. They were kind enough to overlook the drying tomato seeds on my transaction slip and even allowed me to dip into the complimentary hard-candy dish upon concluding our commerce. Feeling a renewed sense of independence with the replenishing of my wallet, I thanked them profusely and set aside the generous remuneration for Jack in a separate envelope before returning to the lively action on the street. Jack sat astride his bike in casual conversation with two members of the Policía Federal who, with mirrored sunglasses shading their eyes and muscular arms crossing their chests, leaned against a battered and dusty squad car blocking our exit.
"Aquí ahora está el americano," he said with a weak smile as I approached. "Skeet, my good friends here say I drive well for you, but much too fast for the city. They wish to place a tax on you for our speed."
"Is that a fact?" I eyeballed the two officers, recalling my previous experience with corrupt and mean-spirited Federales while in the thick of Le Bourgeon de la Folie. Encountering them on their turf was the rough equivalent to stepping barefoot into a pile of fresh dog waste. The smell was noxious, tainting one until the offensive matter wore off of its own accord.
"They say if the tax is not paid, they will continue their investigation at their headquarters. Find out what ship it is you came from."
"How much?" Disgusted and alarmed, I handed Jack his envelope.
"Be polite." Jack distanced himself from me, obviously concerned with the officers demeanor. "Smile."
I folded a one-hundred dollar bill in half and thrust it toward the nearest Federale who, in a clever move, clamped a handcuff about my wrist while plucking the C-note from my hand as though taking a tissue from its box.
"Dos más bién esto en el aeropuerto y él sale."
"What?" I shook my arm in an attempt to loosen the steel bracelet.
"You heard him, Skeet. They escort us to the airport. You pay them two more once we are there and they let you go. Not such a bad deal, yes?"
"How did they know --?"
"Effective interrogation method," Jack said, firing the Indian to life and lowering his goggles onto the bridge of his nose. "The waterboard once was one time too many for me."
"They were going to waterboard you?"
"Me?" Jack laughed, carefully easing into traffic behind the now lit-up police car. "No, no, no. They wanted to strap you down for a talk, amigo. Here they use warm ginger ale. Hard on the sinuses. Feel it for months."
"Why in the world?" Despite the sweltering humidity in the city, cold chill traveled its way up and down my spine.
"Ahorro su asno con todo otra vez."
I had no choice but to agree that Jack had indeed rescued my backside once again.
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 28