Return of the Jed

by Scott Craven

  “No, lucha libre,” Elena said. “Mexican wrestling. Though, in Mexico it’s just called wrestling. My cousin is part of a traveling lucha libre show. It’s cheap, and it’s very entertaining. And people will get hurt. At least they’ll make it look like they get hurt.”

  “We’ll probably refrain from anything that could spawn violence in these guys,” Dad said. ”Very impressionable.”

  “Dad,” I whispered. “Thanks for making us sound eight years old.”

  “Jed, it’s for your own good. Relax. Besides. Mexico is a big country. What are the odds?”

  “By the way,” Elena said, nodding to where Tread was curled up, only now there were two empty bowls by him. “Your dog loves chili. I guess you’ll find out if chili loves him.”

  Once Elena vanished, Dad gave me one of his “We need to talk” looks. It looked pretty serious, on the level of “don’t do drugs” and “here’s how babies are made.”

  “I need to ask a favor,” he started, taking a deep breath, “Jed, everyone at this table knows you’re a bit different, and we love you for it—”

  “Speak for yourself,” Luke interjected. “You haven’t had to endure the gas of the undead when you’re playing video games for hours on end.”

  “True that, but I’ve endured my share,” Dad said, smiling.

  A smile. That was a good sign. Maybe this wasn’t as serious as it seemed.

  “Son, you’ve matured an awful lot over the last year, and I know how tough seventh grade was for you,” Dad continued. “So I’m going to be honest and meet this thing head-on.”

  Oh, crap. It went from zero to severe in three seconds.

  “Most people still aren’t open to zombies, not surprising since there’s probably only one.”

  “Probably?” I said.

  “Figure of speech. I’m sure you’re one in seven billion, as impossible as it seems. The only thing people know about zombies are the stereotypes, the shuffling brain-dead with an insatiable hunger for flesh, preferably that of people. So I just want you to promise me to keep the undead thing under your hat, so to speak.”

  “So you want me to be someone I’m not, after all this time of telling me to be who I am.”

  “It’s not that simple, and you know it. You’re an awesome kid, and I love you to death, so to speak. But you know as well as I do the challenges posed by your uniqueness. I know for a fact there have even been times when you’ve wished you weren’t a zombie.”

  That was a tough truth to accept, but Dad was right. There had been times I wished I could blend into the background, fade into the crowd. Just be Jed. Not Dead Jed.

  Dad noticed my expression. “I know it’s tough, but it would make things go smoothly.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “I get it. I can keep a lid on the zombie thing.”

  “Right. Be Jed, the kid with the quick quip and easy smile. Go out, enjoy the experience, see the sights, relish this opportunity of being in a different land, meeting its people and learning its culture.”

  “But keep my arms and legs on me at all times.”

  Dad and I laughed. It felt good.

  “All I ask is that you create no international incidents,” Dad said. “This trip allows you to hit the reset button and be among people who have no idea you’re any different. For the next few months, you can be the one thing you’ve always wanted to be: just another kid.”

  It was a great thought, and so very wrong.

  Chapter Seven

  “Do you have anything to declare?” the man in uniform said, one hand on the Man Van’s window, the other out of sight. I presumed it was on his firearm because that’s where my hand would be as soon as I saw the monstrosity that was the Man Van, painted in a yellow so bright it was probably visible from space.

  “I declare I am so awesome, if your country taxes awesomeness, I am not sure I can afford it.”

  “Luke, shut up, would you?” I said for the umpteenth time, if the umpteens went into the millions. If the border agent hadn’t been staring at me, I would have pulled off my left arm and hit Luke with it, because he knew to keep out of swatting range when he was showing his Luke-itude.

  Yes, that’s what he called it, explaining it this way: “You take attitude, amp it with a large dose of Luke, stir it until it bubbles. Wham goes the Luke-itude.”

  “I will ask you again,” the uniformed man said, leaning farther into the van, forcing Dad to scoot closer to me. “Do you have anything to declare before you enter Mexico?”

  It turned out Eats wasn’t that far from the border, maybe a half-million miles. But the sun was pretty low in the sky by the time we joined a line of about twenty cars, and Dad promised we’d get a hotel once we crossed, then we’d get to Guadalajara around mid-afternoon the next day.

  The line was moving pretty fast, and it looked like each car was stopped for maybe a few minutes before being waved through. At that rate, we’d be at the hotel in about thirty minutes, I guessed.

  I just hoped Luke-itude wasn’t going to slow us down.

  “Officer, do you have to declare smart-alecks?” I said. “Because we have one in the back seat.”

  He smiled, lips folding ever so slightly under a thick moustache. A good sign.

  “No, because if you did, the paperwork alone would take weeks to fill out,” he said. “I think smart-alecks are a natural resource, si?”

  “Si,” I said, noticing his nametag. Cesar Calderon. Dad noticed it too.

  “Officer Calderon,” Dad said, “I’m not sure what we have to declare. Fruits and vegetables? That kind of thing? Because we don’t have anything like that.”

  Calderon turned to Luke. “What about weapons? Knives? Fireworks? Anything that could stir up any trouble?”

  “No,” Dad said, getting serious. “Nothing like that at all.”

  “Alcohol maybe. Drugs.”

  “No, no, of course not. Nothing like that.”

  “How long do you plan on staying?”

  “Maybe a month or two, hard to say.”

  “Why is it hard to say?” Calderon said with a hint of suspicion. ”Most people visiting know exactly how long they are staying.”

  “It depends on the job—”

  “Oh, so you are here to work. Are they here to work too?” he said, pointing to Luke and me.

  “No, they’re just along for the ride.”

  “Good, because that one—” he pointed to Luke—” does not seem very employable. And the other, he could use a little sun. A job would be good for him.”

  “Thanks, I’ll think about it,” Dad said.

  “Passports. I assume you have a work visa from your job.”

  “Absolutely. Boys, hand Officer Calderon your passports, please.”

  I reached into the glove box and fetched the passports, handing them to the border agent. Dad got his from his back pocket and did the same.

  “Be right back,” Officer Calderon said. “Until then, please pull to the side and park your, um, vehicle, next to that red sign, por favor.”

  Dad rolled up the window, put the van in drive, and pulled to the side. I recognized that frown on his face. It was the same one he gave me every time I started an explanation with, “It wasn’t my fault.”

  The van bumped a cone with a large red sign with white letters saying Alto Aqui.

  “Stop here,” Dad translated, reading my mind.

  Luke shoved my seat. “Have you noticed most people have gone right through? And that the only other people pulled over are those bikers, and that tanker covered in ‘Danger, Hazardous Materials’ stickers?”

  “Maybe it has something to do with having too much awesomeness,” I said.

  “Hey, that’s what I was thinking, too,” Luke said. “I wasn’t sure you’d buy it.”

  “It has nothing to do with your awesomeness and everything to do with your attitude.”

  “You mean my Luke-itude? Don’t blame me if that guy’s
stick up his butt has a stick up its butt. Seriously, does he think we’re drug smugglers? In a van so yellow it glows at night? We’d be less noticeable if we had a bumper sticker that said, ‘Thugs With Drugs.’”

  He had a point. We had a pretty low OQ (outlaw quotient), somewhere between ladies going on a shopping spree and teens hoping to score cheap tequila. Yet, here we were in the Alto Aqui lane, where people do not pass “Go” on the way to Mexican jail.

  Ooze began to puddle in my armpits and in the hollows of my knees. I was about to have a limb drop off. I could feel it.

  “Keep it together, literally,” Dad said, sensing my anxiety. “My guess is that these folks have very little zombie-based experience, and losing an arm could lead to unwanted attention.”

  “Or jail time,” Luke chimed in. “Maybe they have laws against it. ‘Your honor, the defendant knowingly and willingly dumped a limb right in front of law enforcement officials, attempting to hide the unlawful act with duct tape and staples.’ Then the whole zombie community would be up in arms, so to speak, leading to equal rights for the undead. You could be a hero!”

  “Shut up, Luke,” I said, folding my arms on my lap for support as I felt my shoulder joints loosen. “You’re not making it any better.”

  I knew I was being irrational. We were three fairly nice people looking to spend a few months in a country that we knew very little about, save for trips to Mexican restaurants, (though I was sure no one in Mexico celebrated birthdays with sparklers stuck in a plate of nachos grandes presented by a parade of singing servers). What were they going to do, tell us Mexico was closed, and please return during regular business hours?

  “He’s coming back,” Dad said, his eyes focused on the side-view mirror. “Everyone relax and let me do the talking.”

  I shot Luke a glance that said, “If you open your mouth, I will risk arrest by removing my left leg and slapping you upside the head with it.”

  He shot back with a look that said, “You are the uptightest dead dude I’ve ever known.”

  “OK, everything checks out fine,” Officer Calderon said, handing the passports to Dad. “I hope you enjoy your stay in our country.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Dad said, handing me the passports. I opened the glove box and threw them in.

  “Drive safely, señor. And you …”

  Officer Calderon thrust his head into the van and eyed Luke. “You will find our country is far more awesome than you think.”

  He shifted his head slightly, his gaze landing on something that was not Luke.

  “Excuse me, but what is that?” he said.

  “What?” Dad said, twisting his seat. “Where?”

  “That plastic box back there. Is that a carrier? A kennel?”

  “Uh, well, yes, you see, we didn’t want him out, he’s much safer in that.”

  “Who’s much safer?”

  “Tread.”

  “Tread? What is a Tread?”

  “Our dog,” I interrupted. “My dog. Tread.”

  Calderon pushed away from the door and crossed in front of the Man Van, bumping the red Alto Aqui sign, which rocked like a metronome threatening to fall over. Once on my side of the van, Calderon tapped the window with his meaty fingers.

  I rolled down the window, very slowly as I felt my shoulder slipping, losing its hold on my left arm. I could only imagine what he would do if it dropped off right then and there.

  Calderon put his hands on his hips, waiting. Waiting.

  The window slid out of sight. He placed his right hand on the window frame and looked squarely at me.

  “I thought you had nothing to declare?” he said.

  “I had no—”

  “You do not have to declare clothes or toothpaste. You do not have to declare your happiness at visiting the most amazing country on Earth. You do not even have to declare your best friend is a smart-ass. But you know what you do have to declare?”

  “I—”

  “Something that can bring any number of germs and bacteria. Something that is a ticking time bomb of infection.”

  “But—”

  “Like a dog. You did not think a dog is something to declare? Were you trying to sneak it in, to use it to bring down our canine population? Are you a bioterrorist or something?”

  “He’s no—”

  “Step out of the van,” Officer Calderon said, opening the door. “Now. You will show me this dog.”

  I scooted to the right and leaned away from the door, should Officer Calderon try to grab me.

  “Dad, what’s going on?” I said, but Dad was already out the driver’s side and walking around the back of the van.

  Luke leaned forward and whispered, “I told you the stick up his butt had a stick up its butt.”

  “Señor, please, out of the vehicle,” I heard Officer Calderon say, feeling his hand on my shoulder.

  “Go, it will be all right,” Luke said. “They’re not allowed to dognap anything they want to.”

  Chapter Eight

  It wasn’t so much the concrete floor or stifling heat that reminded me of the locker room at Pine Hollow Middle School, the scene of one of my most humiliating experiences less than a year ago. It was the smell.

  “Luke, does this room bring back any memories?” I asked, squirming in one of the dozens of plastic molded chairs bolted to metal racks that shook every time you moved.

  “Not really,” Luke said. “This place is pretty much one of a kind, if you ask me.”

  “Don’t think of the room itself,” I said, leaning closer to Luke, my shifting weight jolting the other seven chairs sharing this particular rack. “The smell.”

  Luke tilted his head back and sniffed, then closed his eyes.

  “Ah yes, the aroma reminds me of the only place on this Earth only slightly worse than this one,” he said. “All that’s missing are half-naked guys wielding towels as weapons.” He opened his eyes. “The delicate scent of the locker room, a fresh vintage, just last year. I know it well.”

  I closed my eyes as well, and those memories of towel-wielding bullies came back.

  Most people think “pound of flesh” is nothing more than a Shakespearean saying. But that’s exactly what was taken from me early in seventh-grade. When wet towels take on undead skin, towels win, and pretty handily. Darn their absorbency!

  Too many bad thoughts. I opened my eyes and focused on where we were and why.

  Officer Calderon had led us to this depressing place, which he called Mexico’s waiting room. It was the customs office. Well, at least somewhere beyond the olive-green door set in the middle of a brick wall hidden under who knows how many coats of beige paint. Drips of paint, frozen in time, clung to some bricks.

  Dad asked why we were being detained, and Officer Calderon said something about smuggling in a chupacabra, and violating rules as they pertained to beasts once thought mythological. He refused to say anything else and ordered us to take a seat.

  Luke, Dad, and I were among thirty or so people in the waiting room. Every now and then the door swung open with a groan, revealing a customs agent holding a clipboard. A name was announced, people stood and accompanied the officer out of the room. I imagined a line of holding cells filled with people apologizing for trying to sneak fruits, vegetables, and an array of healthy snacks into the country.

  If Disneyland was the Happiest Place on Earth, this was the anti-Disneyland, the most miserable place on Earth. I expected to see posters of Mr. Toad’s Agonizing Ride, or for the Life-Doesn’t-Matterhorn and its Plunging-Into-the-Depths-of-Depression Bobsleds.

  It anyone were tweeting here, the last of every 140 words was #killmenow. This was where joy went to die.

  “Dad, are they really allowed to take Tread like that?” I asked. Officer Calderon had ordered us out of the van and didn’t say another word as he slid open the back door and took out Tread’s crate, placing it on the ground.

  He raised his arm and whi
stled, and another, heftier officer appeared a few seconds later, lifting Tread as if dog and crate weighed no more than a Chihuahua in a dainty purse. I watched as they disappeared behind a squat gray windowless building that had been built by the world’s gloomiest architect.

  “Their country, their rules,” Dad said. “Don’t worry about it, Jed, this will all work out. I’m sure once they realize Tread only looks like a chupacabra, they’ll release him.”

  Dad ruffled my hair, coming away with a clump of my scalp, rubbing it on his pants. “Sorry, sport, that should grow back just fine. Maybe if you smooth it a little this way—”

  I slapped his hand from my head. “It’s fine, it doesn’t matter, OK?”

  After they took Tread, Officer Calderon led us to the Customs Office, a squat gray building right next to another squat gray building. There were another half-dozen such buildings scattered about. The copy machine evidently played a major role in construction.

  As soon as we were inside, Officer Calderon broke his silence. “Wait here, someone will be with you momentarily.”

  “Any idea how long that might be?” Dad said. By the time he finished his sentence, he was talking to an empty space formerly occupied by Officer Calderon. Dad shook his head. “How does he do that?”

  We took seats and waited. And waited. And waited. The clock ticked as if measuring days, not minutes.

  “Is time different in Mexico?” Luke said.

  “Yes, Luke, time is different in Mexico,” I said. “It’s measured in pesos instead of dollars. So there are six minutes in Mexico for every one minute in the U.S.”

  I shook my head.

  “Wait, that means time should move faster here.” Luke looked at his wrist, not remembering he never wore a watch. “So we’ve been here, what, three hours? That’s twenty-one hours in Mexico. Crap, we’ve lost a whole day almost!”

  Luke leaned and gave my shoulder a light bump, flashing that sly smile of his.

  “That was pretty good,” I said. “I almost thought you were that stupid.”

  “Thanks, that’s nice to hear.”