World's Scariest Places: Volume Two

by Bates, Jeremy

  Jesus asked me what was funny. I told him nothing, please continue. The back and forth escalated, the insults becoming sharper, Pita and Elizaveta telling us to stop. Then the asshole took a cheap shot, bringing up the accident that ended my racecar driving career, saying I didn’t have the guts anymore to break the speed limit.

  I could have taken a swing at him. I should have. Instead I went inside to take a leak. I didn’t return to the deck. I went to the second floor, to the balcony that overlooked the deck and the adjacent swimming pool. I climbed atop the railing so I stood precariously on the headrail, yelling that I was going to jump into the pool below, challenging Jesus, the fearless alpine skier, to do the same.

  It was probably a good thing I slipped. Roughly ten feet separated the balcony and pool, and had I jumped, I might not have reached the water. But that’s what happened, I slipped—or lost my balance, it was all a blur—falling backward and cracking my head on something. I have no idea what. All I remember was the exploding pain—loud was how it felt—then the gushing blood, then everyone gathered around me. They wanted to call an ambulance, but for some reason I didn’t want them to. I guess I didn’t want to spend the night in the hospital. Then I was in the shower. I seem to recall standing there for a very long time, watching pink water swirl down the drain.

  Grimacing, I pushed myself off the bed now, to my feet. I felt momentarily lightheaded, likely due to a loss of blood. I was in the guest bedroom. Not surprising. Pita wouldn’t have let me sleep in our bed bleeding like I’d been, even if it was my house. And what had she been thinking letting me go to sleep with a serious head wound? I know I said I didn’t want her to call an ambulance, but she should have done so regardless. I might not have woken up at all.

  Light streamed through the window, all too bright, almost audible, like a horn. I wondered what time it was. I stepped into the pine-paneled hallway and went to the bathroom because I heard running water.

  I knocked on the door lightly, then opened it. Steam fogged the mirror. Pita stood beneath the shower spray, her mocha-colored back and butt to me, her hands massaging either shampoo or conditioner into her dark hair.

  “Hey,” I said, the word coming out brittle. My throat was as dry as if I’d eaten a handful of saltine crackers.

  When we first began dating some five years before, Pita would have turned all the way around, showing off her body. Now she only turned her head slightly so she could see me sidelong. She lowered an arm across her breasts.

  “You’re alive,” she said in her Spanish-accented English.

  “Barely,” I said.

  “So does that mean you’re not coming anymore?”

  “Coming?”

  “Don’t you remember anything from last night?”

  That irked me, but I said, “Where are we going?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I did.”

  “Maybe if you didn’t drink so much—”

  “Forget it, Pita.”

  I was about to close the door when she said, “Isla de las Muñecas,” and went back to washing her hair.

  2

  Man, I really had been black-out drunk. But a light switched on inside my head, the darkness shrouding my memories cleared, and the rest of the evening came back in snippets. Isla de las Muñecas. Island of the Dolls. That was the reason Jesus and Elizaveta had come by. We’d spent most of dinner discussing the details of the excursion. We’d agreed to leave at 10 a.m. Jesus and Elizaveta would pick up Pepper, then come by my house. Pita and I would follow them in my car to Xochimilco, where we would embark on a two-hour boat ride to the island.

  Pepper was a host for a Mexican copycat of The Travel Channel, a basic cable show that featured documentaries and how-to programs related to travel and leisure around the country. He caught a break at the beginning of his career when he got a regular gig as a presenter on episodes featuring animal safaris, tours of grand hotels and resorts, lifestyle stuff—and in the process became a bit of a mini celebrity. Nevertheless, it wasn’t until last year that things took off for him due to a documentary he hosted on El Museo De Las Momias, or The Mummies’ Museum. The story went that after a cholera outbreak in the nineteenth century the city cemetery in Guanajuato was filling up so quickly that a local tax was imposed demanding relatives to pay a fee to keep the bodies interred. Most relatives couldn’t pay or didn’t care, the bodies were disinterred, and the best preserved were stored in a building. In the 1900s, entrepreneurial cemetery workers began charging tourists a few pesos to check out the bones and mummies—and the place has since become a museum displaying more than a hundred dried human cadavers, including murder victims, a Spanish Inquisition victim in an iron maiden, criminals buried alive, and children laid to rest dressed up as saints. Most were so well preserved that their hair, eyebrows, and fingernails were still intact, and nearly all of their mouths were frozen in eternal screams, a result of the tongue hardening and the jaw muscles slackening following death.

  The documentary proved to be a huge hit, so Pepper pitched The Travel Channel an ongoing series titled Mexico’s Scariest Places. They liked the idea, and Pepper’s next project took him to La Zona del Silencio, or The Dead Zone, a patch of desert in Durango that got its moniker after a test missile launched from a US military base in Utah malfunctioned and crashed in Mexico’s Mapimi Desert region. The missile was carrying two containers of a radioactive element. A big US Air Force recovery operation lasted weeks—and made the region a pseudo Area 51 ripe with myths and urban legends regarding mutations of flora and fauna, lights in the sky at night, aliens, magnetic anomalies that prevented radio transmissions, the whole works.

  Pepper has since done several other episodes in the series—most of which focused on haunted mansions and shuttered asylums and the like—but the Island of the Dolls had always been his golden egg so to speak. Problem was, the island was private property. The owner had recently died, and his nephew was now in charge—and he repeatedly refused to allow Pepper and his film crew access to the island. The Travel Channel, for their part, gave Pepper the unofficial go-ahead for the documentary, telling him if he got footage, great; if he got busted doing so, they didn’t know anything about it.

  That was where Pita and I came in. Pepper didn’t want to go to the island alone, and we didn’t have any affiliation with the television network. I had been looking forward to the trip until Jesus got wind of it a few days ago and, in his blusterous fashion, insisted he and Elizaveta come as well.

  Pita was rinsing her hair now. Milky white soap streamed down her back. I asked her, “We still leaving at ten?”

  “Yes,” she said without looking at me.

  “What time is it now?”

  “You have half an hour to get ready.”

  I groaned, wondering if I could pull myself together in time.

  “You don’t have to come,” she told me, turning enough I could see the side of her left breast.

  “I already told Pepper I would.”

  “I’m sure he would understand—your head and everything.”

  “Would you mind?” I asked cautiously, wondering whether I was walking into one of her traps. I would agree with her, only for her to pounce, accuse me of never wanting to do anything with her, of disliking her brother, something along those lines. Her machinations would have been amusing had they not always been directed at me.

  “I think you should rest, Jack,” she said. “That’s what I think. But it’s up to you.”

  3

  Jesus and crew arrived forty minutes later in Jesus’s brand new Jaguar X-Type. The vehicle suited him: all show, little substance. Because under the prancing cat hood ornament, and leather and wood interior, it was nothing but an all-wheel-drive Ford Mondeo. Jesus likely didn’t know that. He would have purchased it because it was the type of car a young, affluent guy should be driving.

  While Pita went out to greet everyone—wearing a chambray shirt with roll-tab sleeves and cu
toff jean shorts that showed off the bottom curve of her ass—I went to the garage and loaded our daypacks into my three-year-old Porsche 911. It was parked next to a junked ’79 Chevrolet Monte Carlo. I used to own the same make and model as a kid in Vegas. I’d worked in an auto-repair shop for three years to save enough money to buy it. When I turned eighteen and got my racing license, I began racing four nights a week at the local tracks. I consistently finished middle to back of the pack, but I nevertheless became a fan favorite because of my name. The race track announcers thought Jack Goff sounded like a joke and took every opportunity to mention it over the PA system to the delight of the crowd. Soon nobody was calling me Jack anymore. It was always Jack Goff. Announcers, interviewers, fans, whoever. It had that two syllable cadence—and of course innuendo—that made you want to say the whole thing.

  I never won a checkered flag with the Monte Carlo, but it was my first race car, and I had some of my fondest memories in it. That’s why I bought the junker to restore a few months ago. It was a pet project, a way for me to fill in the days now that I was finished racing.

  I got behind the wheel of the Porsche and rolled down the driveway until I came nose to nose with the Jaguar. Elizaveta, in shotgun, her face hidden behind a large sunhat and sunglasses, flashed me a smile and a wave, which I reciprocated. Jesus had his window open, his elbow poking out, as he spoke with his sister. His hair as always was impeccably neat, the sides short, the top parted to the left and slicked back. He wore Aviator sunglasses and a day’s stubble he no doubt considered fashionable. The glare of the sun on the windshield prevented me from seeing Pepper in the backseat, and I was wondering if I should get out to say hi when Jesus and Pita finished their chat.

  Jesus finally acknowledged me, tipping a grin and tooting the Jaguar’s horn. I squeezed the steering wheel tighter and wondered why I had decided to come. But I had little choice. As I’d told Pita, I’d already committed to Pepper. I would be copping out if I gave him some excuse, especially given my head didn’t hurt that much. In fact, my hangover bothered me more than the gash. I felt heavy, unmotivated, blah—but okay enough for a daytrip. Besides, Jesus’s company or not, I was still interested in seeing the infamous Island of the Dolls.

  Cranking up the volume of some Mexican song heavy on the base, Jesus reversed onto the street, swung about, and started off. Pita hopped in next to me in the Porsche.

  A couple of minutes into the ride she began humming to herself. She’d pulled her thick wavy hair into a ponytail, away from her face, which was sculptured with faultless features. Long-lashed, coyote-brown eyes (which she liked to say were hazel); a straight nose so unremarkable you didn’t notice it, which was a plus when it came to noses; full lips more playful than pouty; angular cheekbones, and a gently rounded chin.

  Pita’s hums transformed into words, a Spanish song I recognized from the radio. She sang it softly under her breath. She had a throaty singing voice.

  “What’s up?” I asked her.

  She glanced at me. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re in a good mood.”

  “I’m not allowed to be in a good mood?”

  “I just mean…what were you and God talking about?”

  “Don’t call him that.”

  “I don’t to his face.”

  “He calls you Jack.”

  What she meant was, he didn’t call me Jack Goff. And she was right; he didn’t. Not to my face anyway. I said, “What were you and your brother talking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You were chatting for five minutes.”

  “He’s my brother, Jack. We were just talking.”

  “About the weather? The trip?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I’m making conversation, Pita.”

  “No, you’re making it sound like we were conspirating or something.”

  I didn’t correct her mispronunciation. She sometimes got certain English words mixed up or wrong altogether. Conspirating/conspiring was one I’d never heard before though.

  “How’s Pepper?” I asked, changing topics.

  “Excited.”

  “Does he still want to interview you?”

  “Yes, he will give me what he wants me to memorize on the boat. He wants you to say some things too.”

  “I’m not going on film.”

  “He really wants you to.”

  “Why doesn’t he ask Jesus?”

  “Because Jesus is too well known.”

  “And I’m not?”

  “We’re not in America anymore, Jack,” she said. “I’m talking about Mexico. People here know my brother. They don’t know you.”

  It was true. I only stood out in this country because I was white, and because of my height. That anonymity was the initial appeal of moving down here. Having said that, my exit from racing had been a pretty big deal, and I could only imagine ESPN getting their hands on a copy of Pepper’s “Island of the Dolls” episode and airing a clip of me with the headline: “NASCAR Rookie of the Year, Jack Goff, Turned Paranormal Investigator for Mexican TV.”

  “I’m not going on film,” I repeated.

  Jesus stopped at a red light. I pulled up beside him. I was staring ahead at nothing in particular, going over the directions to Xochimilco in my head, when I heard the Jag’s engine rev.

  I looked past Pita and saw Jesus grinning at me. He revved the engine louder and longer.

  “Is he serious?” I said.

  “Don’t you dare think about racing him,” Pita said.

  “I’ll cream him,” I said, grinning myself.

  Jesus started blipping the throttle, making the Jag go vroom vroom and sound sporty.

  I depressed the clutch, shoved the Porsche into gear, and brought the engine up to 5k RPM.

  “Jack!” Pita shouted above the noise. “You’re not racing him!”

  “The road’s clear.”

  “Jack—!”

  Jesus jumped the start before the light changed. I dumped the clutch and nailed it. The tires let out a brief squeal, the revs went to redline. My head snapped back. Jesus’s head start had given him a fender length on me, but I gained it back on the shift to second.

  We remained side by side through to third gear. I wasn’t worried because I knew I would out-per-mile him when I hit fourth.

  And sure enough, by the time we were both in high gear, I’d put a car length on him with no trouble.

  “Slow down, Jack!” Pita said.

  Given I was doing ninety in a forty zone, and now two car lengths ahead of Jesus, I figured I’d proven my point. I let off the throttle.

  Instead of backing down, however, Jesus ripped past me.

  “Little prick,” I grunted, gunning it again.

  “Jack!” Pita said.

  We were approaching an onramp to the freeway that ran east-west across the middle of Mexico City. Jesus hit it without slowing. I did too.

  Pita was still shouting over the roar of the flat-6—only now she sounded more scared than angry, her shrieks punctuated with “Stop!” and “We’re going to die!” But there was no way I was backing off. Not until I put the poser in his place.

  Jesus and I moved into the left lane, passing traffic at more than a hundred miles per hour. I parked myself on his ass, riding his slipstream.

  I veered slightly to the right, to see ahead and to make my move to overtake—when I noticed one of the cars we thundered past had lights on top and “Policia” written down the flank.

  A moment later the cop swung into the left lane behind me, siren wailing.

  “Jack, you have to pull over! You’re going to get us arrested! Pull over! Jack!”

  Jesus overtook a red sedan in front of him, swinging back into the left lane. I stuck with him for the next five hundred yards, whipping around several more vehicles.

  “Jack!” Pita all but wailed. “Please!”

  And I conceded.

  Speeding down the far side of an overpass, I glanced in the side mir
ror, didn’t see the police car, and locked up the brakes, squeezing in between two freight semis in the right lane to the tune of bovine air horns and flashing high beams.

  Several long seconds later the cop blasted past me none the wiser.

  Jesus’s problem now.

  4

  When we reached Xochimilco an hour later, I followed signs that read “los embarcaderos”—the piers—to Cuemanco, one of nine locations that offered access to the ancient Aztec canal system. It was where we had agreed to meet the others. I parked in a busy parking lot, retrieved our daypacks from the trunk of the Porsche, and handed Pita hers. She took it silently and started toward the strip of ramshackle buildings that separated the parking lot and the waterfront. I fussed through my bag for a minute, checking the sparse contents. It wasn’t necessary. I knew what I’d packed. But Pita and I needed a bit of space.

  After we had evaded the cop, Pita had spent the next ten minutes yelling at me in a mix of English and Spanish, saying I was crazy, I could have killed them, all because of my ego. I didn’t argue with her. She was right. Street racing was stupid and reckless. So I listened stoically to her tirade, which seemed to incense her all the more. Eventually, however, she ran out of fury and called Jesus on her cell phone. As it turned out, he ended up pulling over and paying off the cop. I didn’t pick up any more details than that, and Pita refused to speak to me, let alone elaborate, after she hung up.

  Nevertheless, the outcome was what I’d expected. This was Mexico after all, and just about every cop could be bought. Some actively searched out bribes. I’d learned this firsthand my first week in the country. A cop pulled me over on some empty stretch of road and told me I’d been speeding, which I hadn’t been. He took my driver’s license as a “guarantee” and said I could either get it back on the spot if I paid him one hundred fifty American dollars, or I could follow him to the police station, where I would have to pay two hundred fifty. It was clearly a scam, I got pissed off, and tried to swipe my license from his clipboard. He accused me of being aggressivo and doubled the fine. We continued to argue until I gave up. I paid him one hundred sixty—all I had on me—which he was more than happy to accept.