Hip to Be Square

by Hope Lyda

  “Just come take her from me. Okay?”

  Oh. “Okay.”

  While I wedge the phone between my chin and shoulder and rush around to find my keys, officer Jim Rodriguez explains that my clever friend has passed out at the Nogales, Mexico/Nogales, Arizona border. This is his entire explanation, which leaves many details unanswered. Why would she be there at night? What caused her to collapse? Why is she being held at the police station? I drive the two hours south with blurry eyes and a lightning-fast heartbeat. There is little to do but drive straight ahead with my foot pressed on the gas pedal while my mind tries to think up reasons why Caitlin would be at the border at this hour.

  The two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew I had grabbed on the way out the door is drained dry and my bladder is expressing its regrets. I reluctantly pull into a gas station. Each moment I spend off the road I envision Caitlin sitting in a sparse jail cell counting the seconds until I can rescue her. But the single girl’s rule of the road to not stop at gas stations at night unless absolutely necessary does apply. Thankfully, the bathroom is one located inside a well-lit market attached to the station. I snag some jerky for me and a bag of Oreos for Caitlin but resist the urge to buy another bottle of soda.

  After miles and miles of dark land and wide-open sky and lots of imagined scenarios, I reach the border town. During the day this area has lots of friendly foot traffic as tourists and townspeople go between the countries with ease to purchase handmade goods, bargain-down overpriced souvenirs, or eat at one of the many nearby authentic Mexican restaurants. But at night this place is eerie and definitely not a tourist pamphlet highlight. My dad will kill me if I don’t get killed first.

  This is one of those times when I wish I had a person in my life locally to call and say, “It’s three-thirty A.M., and I’m in Mexico. Just thought you should know.” Maybe there are lots of other benefits to living in the same town with your boyfriend. I tuck this aside for later contemplation and return my focus to my surroundings.

  I use the minilight on the end of my key chain to read the final last two lines of directions on the back of my phone bill. My only handy writing utensil was eyeliner, so all the letters pretty much look like O’s in the dim ray of light. While trying to figure out the last line, I realize I am just a block from what looks like a security station. A long, narrow stateside brick building is the only place where light shines from windows. I notice a large policeman standing near a corner window and consider this my likely destination. Only when I approach the gated door do I see the very small painted sign that reads “Police Station/Estación de Policiá.”

  Apparently, they do not care to be noticed.

  The yellowed, cracked doorbell is loosely attached to wiring that hangs tangled from the doorway and seems to wind its way along the brick and through a small gap in the closest window. My finger presses in several times since I do not hear a noise from this side of the door. I’m praying it works and shudder as I look behind me, around me, and then finally back in front of me in time to see the same policeman I saw from my car fiddling with the lock on the gate.

  The iron grates on the cement of the step as it swings wide and creates an opening through which I am to pass. The officer motions for me to come in and starts walking toward a hallway past a check-in desk without watching to see if I am following. It must be very obvious who I am because they do not even ask for my name or my ID. My first humorous thought of the evening…maybe they are eager to release Caitlin to my custody. She probably suggested that they add sequins or authentic Mexican braiding to their uniforms.

  This image relaxes my muscles, which have had a death grip around my bones for nearly three hours. All of this is too surreal to take in. I just want to get to my friend. “Take me to Caitlin,” I say, as if rehearsing lines for a part as an extra in an extraterrestrial flick. Though it is unnecessary to ask because the officer is already pointing toward a door near the end of the hall.

  “Infirmary.” His eyes are kind, not gruff as I expected them to be, and this setting is much warmer thanks to the Mexican cultural touches. Rooms painted with colors originating from rich natural pigments create a celebratory cell block. Draped, woven fabrics cover chairs, tables, walls, and counters. If one of those silver-and-turquoise seeking tourists were to stumble upon this place, they would think it a part of the market.

  I receive a few nods and “holas” from a small grouping of officers and apparently their wives or girlfriends who have arrived with meals for their nocturnal lunchtime. Now, that is devotion. I can smell polenta and tamales from a nearby dish and realize that eating most of Caitlin’s Oreos was not such a good idea on a queasy, shaken-from-being-awakened-in-the-wee-hours tummy. The fumes from a bowl of fresh salsa with lots of cilantro and peppers make my eyes water.

  My pajama bottom legs slap against one another as I make my way past this makeshift dining area. In my haste I had only added a bra and a sweater to my nighttime attire. The drawstring, wide-legged cotton pants seemed good enough at the time, but I was really only thinking about my comfort during the drive. Now I felt a bit naked, knowing the kind-eyed officer was watching me. My Grocery Bag incident flashed in my mind. I slightly exaggerate the raising of each leg as I make my way down the dimly lit, pale green hall. No shuffle here…no, siree.

  A first glance into the room reveals a village woman in colorful native clothing squatting on a cot. I stop my forward motion in order to look again at the sign outside the door. I glance once more at the officer down the hall and shrug my universal language question. He motions again and nods and points. I step back into the small room. There are two cots, one cabinet, and a wastebasket. There is no room to hide a human, except within the miles of fabric seemingly wound around this village woman.

  “Mari?” A faint version of Caitlin’s voice does indeed emerge from the folds of a woven poncho.

  Either the woman is ventriloquist or…or…that hefty native woman is my friend.

  “Caitlin?”

  She starts crying, and even before the sombrero falls and the strap catches around her neck and strangles her voice for a moment, I know for sure it is she.

  Her crying is loud enough to beckon a female officer from another one of the small rooms. The woman is young and pretty with a very full, round face and eyes that have endless, thick lashes that curl right at the very tip. A smile that holds warmth and not condescension invites me to lean closer toward her. The pile of clothing that sounds like Caitlin is rocking back and forth—either the back-to-the-womb movement of a shock victim or an effort to get up from the low military cot. While the blob is in action, the female officer pulls my sleeve toward her, motioning me to have a word alone. We step back into the hallway.

  “Her friend?” she asks as she leans against the cement wall casually.

  “Yes. I’m Mari.” I reach out to shake her hand and her smile grows larger.

  “Ah, our names are similar. I’m Maria. Officer Sanchez.” Her petite hand offers a firm shake and then it returns to my sleeve. She is a person used to calming down victims or giving bad news to families.

  Uh-oh. My heart races again. How bad is this? I mean, driving basically to Mexico in the dead of night is bad for me…but how bad is this for Caitlin? We all know she is quirky, but has she crossed over the border into the land of crazy?

  “What happened? I don’t know what is going on.” My lips shake nervously as I talk.

  She nods a few times and fails to keep in a small laugh. “Do not worry. She is fine. She passed out from the heat today, that is all.”

  “Passed out?” People park on the Arizona side and walk over to Mexico to shop all the time. I know Caitlin does this once in a while, but I still cannot quite put together the scene.

  “Yes. She was overheated and passed out. This actually happens now and then, but with your friend and her…plentiful outfit…it was quite serious. The doctor came to check on her throughout the evening, but your friend refused medical attention.”

>   “Why didn’t she call me when she was starting to feel bad?” I think out loud. I’m getting a bit perturbed about the late-night hour and the risk Caitlin put me in to get here for her.

  “Your friend was hallucinating a bit. Dehydration was the main culprit. That happens most often to women who are…” she pauses to choose her word carefully, “ample.”

  Ample? I laugh.

  “Oh, the bulky clothes might make her look large, but she is really…” A sharp kick knocks my knees out from position. Apparently Caitlin is back among the living and gives me a not so subtle hint from her place in the doorway.

  “…much larger. She gained even more weight lately. Ah, here’s my ample friend.” I turn around and look into Caitlin’s face for the first time this evening…morning…whatever. Her usually flawless skin is red, bloated, and blotchy from heat rash. Wilted hair spikes have become sharp daggers of black etching into her forehead, plastered there by sweat. I give her a “that was so sweet of you to kick me” smile and turn back to Maria.

  “Thank you for taking such good care of her, Maria.” I want to pinch Caitlin, but I know I would have to drill for hours through fabric to find flesh.

  “My pleasure.” Maria now places her hand on Caitlin’s shoulder…or in the vicinity of Caitlin’s shoulder. “And you take care of yourself. Always bring water for a big day of shopping.”

  “Oh, you don’t know how big,” I say snidely and sidestep out of Caitlin’s kicking range.

  My friend is a waddling bag of rags who cannot get out of this place fast enough. We make our way down the hall in record time. Caitlin’s path is a bit crooked, like a cartoon figure after being twirled around and around and then set loose to run. The tall officer stops us at the door and Caitlin’s splotchy face grows pale beneath the rash marks. “Come on,” she whispers to me while motioning toward the door in a spastic style.

  I give her a dirty look. It isn’t as if I plan to stay for dinner or volunteer for the night shift. But as desperately as I want to leave I am not about to ignore the policeman’s request. “Yes, sir?” I ask in superpolite, solid-citizen mode. I am really saying “Despite my crazy friend’s behavior, I am a responsible person of good standing and good sense.”

  “Your friend forgot her belongings, miss.”

  How sad that I am old enough to like being addressed as “miss.”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you.” Caitlin approaches him and looks down at the floor, avoiding eye contact.

  He removes a brown legal envelope from the drawer and unwinds the string around the metal brad. A few items tumble out of the container and onto the countertop. A piece of gum half out of its wrapper, a compact mirror, a slender watch, two rings, and a flattened chocolate bar that had obviously mutated through several forms of matter, from solid to liquid to something in-between.

  I expect Caitlin to reach out and gather the items, but she motions with her eyes for me to take care of this small task. I actually haven’t seen her hands, or any other body parts, for that matter, since I got here. She had better be able to explain why she is acting like a complete fruitcake and dressing for the Eskimo version of Hello, Dolly.

  Our Laurel and Hardy frames walk toward my car when we realize the officer is saying something to us from the narrow doorway. His comment is meant to be discreet. A just-between-us courtesy. He says it softly and then winks, and I am so focused on his wink that I don’t get what he is telling us.

  “What?” I stand closer to the door, hoping to be able to read his lips should he repeat it again as a whisper. But he has already disappeared back into his warm, colorful world.

  “Did you get that?” I ask Caitlin’s back as she scurries to the car. Because her feet are hidden beneath the layers, she looks like an eccentric ghost hovering over the gravel.

  “Just get in the car,” she barks at me as if I have not just performed a divine act of friendship.

  I follow her orders, not because she deserves control of my actions, but because it is now almost five o’clock in the morning, and I want desperately to be home and in bed.

  Not until we are several minutes away from the Twilight Zone scene we just experienced does Caitlin begin to shed her clothing. Piece after piece after piece. This striptease goes on forever, and soon my backseat is piled up with rugs, belts, jewelry, vests, blouses, hats, and of course, the poncho. My incredulous stare goes unnoticed because she is frantic to get out of these hot, stifling garments.

  “Did you steal these? Is that what the secrecy was all about?” Caitlin is odd, but she is moral and odd. And she is a proponent of higher wages and prices for Mexican craftsman, so I ask this shocking question not as a serious accusation but as a way to get her to spill the beans. Expect the worst so that the person can take responsibility for a lighter infraction. I may not be a police person, but I have had to wrangle the truth out of more than a few of our city’s elderly.

  Her response is a dirty look that fades to worry. “No. Oh, goodness. You don’t think I would do that, do you? Please don’t tell Sadie about this. Or Angelica. I get enough flak from everyone, you know?”

  If Caitlin is my forgiving friend, I am hers. I hold up my little finger in honor of a pinky swear. But in case she has forgotten the situation, I remind her. “At an absurd hour this morning I was awakened by that tall policeman with kind eyes…in Spanish, mind you…and I drove all the way to another country to get you. So no, I will not tell Sadie or Angelica, but yes, you will tell me exactly what it is that I am not telling them. Go. Speak. Spill.”

  Her chest expands as she takes in air and courage. “You know how I am always looking for ideas from the Mexican artisans. Well, I had an idea to use parts of these things and incorporate them into more trendy fashion items. Like this…” She reaches back and grabs a rug that has a pattern of purple, navy, and a shocking pink. “If I alternate something like this with pieces of, say, gray suede or green silk, it could be fabulous.”

  “Yes…” Okay, so I wouldn’t wear it, but I do appreciate her creativity. I do. “The point?” I motion for her to continue and then reach into the glove box for the remaining few Oreos. We both start crunching as Caitlin obliges.

  “Well, you have to pay a tax if you bring more than four hundred dollars worth of stuff across the border. And I really need all these things now, so I had the idea to start wearing things as I bought them. Then at the border I just claimed these…” She holds up a dainty pair of silver earrings.

  “Those? You only claimed those? They really believed you?”

  “You heard Maria. She just thought I was ample.”

  We burst out laughing and sing a twisted version of the bo-bana song “ample ample bo-bample…ample” until our stomachs are sore.

  Our cookie breath fogs up the windows and we each wipe a peephole on the glass so we can take in the rarely witnessed sight of early morning’s arrival.

  “I know!” Caitlin screams out of nowhere and shocks me back into adrenaline mode. She faces me for her personal epiphany. “Who does this kind of thing? I actually thought it was a smart idea at the time. Until about five o’clock. I tried to make my way to the bus station so I could catch the early evening return to Tucson. All of a sudden I was shaking and sweating and itching. Next thing I know, I am staring up at Jim. Officer Rodriguez…or as you call him, ‘the tall policeman with kind eyes.’” She pauses to catch her breath and, I do believe, to also linger over the image of those eyes. As I change lanes and hit the middle road bumps she jolts back to the surface of her thoughts. In between hiccups she continues. “I swear, Mari, I need to come and live with you and your friends at the home. In a special wing of Golden Horizons.” She pauses and then says, “I forgot you aren’t there anymore.” Her tone is solemn, as if this really saddens her. The thought gets to me a bit too. But just as quickly her eyes light up again and she is positive. “Oh, but you could probably still get me in without an initiation fee.”

  “Good grief. It isn’t a gym, Caitlin.” I have to laug
h. “But don’t worry. I’ll get you in and set you up with a nice room by Wilson, the man who makes dresses out of the drapes when the staff isn’t looking. You two might hit it off.”

  “Do you want to know what he said? The tall policeman with very kind eyes…?” I knew her thoughts would circle back to the handsome man.

  “Of course.”

  Caitlin sits up and takes on his stoic demeanor. “Next time, just pay the tariff. Or better yet, make two trips and stop in to visit.”

  “So he knew!”

  “Yes. He knew.” She sighs and hiccups loudly. “He really did have nice eyes, didn’t he?”

  I exaggerate a Western drawl. “Nicest pair of eyes this side of the Mississippi.” We both take a moment considering the man in uniform. “So maybe this was worth it after all.” I wink at her the way Jim Rodriquez winked at her. And we laugh some more.

  Surprisingly the drive north is quick. Our state of delirium is an easier accompaniment to travel than my upset stomach and visions of Caitlin’s incarceration among killers had been. We are both hungry, our adrenaline burning through our junk food as quickly as we can inhale it.

  Caitlin’s escapade inspires me to practice something I am not very good at…spontaneity. That and trusting my instincts. When you ignore such urges and life compasses for too long, they get buried, just like Caitlin in her quest for Fab status. But this experience has allowed me to tap into an idea that seems perfect for this morning. Just a few minutes before our official turn, I take the exit to the San Xavier del bac Mission. Caitlin nods her approval, and we both hope that vendors are already preparing pastries and tamales at the stands by the mission’s parking lot.

  My hunch was a good one. We sit on top of my car, sipping warm sodas that were about to be placed on ice and savoring our treat. The biggest treat of all, a colorful and spectacular sunrise over the gentle hills leading to town. Deep pink and faint lavender splash against the white of the grand Spanish mission as though God has taken a paint brush to this church just for us and just for this moment.