Just then, a gargantuan man in a uniform whacks the door open. He sees the popcorn dude with his dick out and smells trouble.
To my relief, he flashes a badge and tells Popcorn guy to put it away. Then he looks at me.
“What were you two doing"?
My first instinct is to just duck under his arm and run for the bus. But I already know what happens when you try to run away from a cop. You’re guilty until rendered innocent.
Popcorn guy is still fumbling with his zipper, so I concoct the story.
“He was asking me for directions to Union Square, and he must have forgotten to zip his pants.”
The oversized cop narrows his eyes. I see my open window and talk my way out.
“My bus is leaving in a few minutes, and my parents are expecting me. I need to go to Aisle 7.”
“Where are you going"?
“Mexico. I mean San Diego.”
Damn. The cop is glaring at me.
“My family live in San Diego, but we’re going on vacation to Ensenada.”
The cop brightens up. “Ensenada - the jewel of the Pacific. The fishing is excellent. You’re in for a real treat.”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“You sure this guy wasn’t bothering you"? He indicates Popcorn with a jerk of his head.
I must answer the cop now, but for several nanoseconds I debate telling the truth. This guy is a wannabe serial killer and I was about to be his next victim. But I keep it simple.
“Not a bit, officer. It was just an honest mistake. I know I’ve done it before.” I force a chuckle and smile. “Haven’t you"?
The cop frowns, “No. I put things back in my pants where they belong. And I don’t make a habit of talking to strangers in the bathroom. It’s not normal.”
I’m done protecting my would-be killer, so I beg off. “So may I go catch my bus now? My little sister would be heartbroken if I didn’t see her before bedtime.”
“Yeah, okay.”
I don’t look back, hightail it out of the restroom and head straight for Aisle 7, where the driver is just unlocking the door. A handful of passengers have formed a line, and I put myself in the back of it. Every second ticking by makes me think the cop will let Popcorn go and I’ll be abducted. My rational brain tells me abducting someone in daylight in front of a dozen witnesses is not realistic. My limbic brain has other ideas. I’m in a spiral of fight or flight. I fumble in my backpack for Cogentin and swallow one dry.
Three people are behind me in line, and I’m only a few steps from the coach door. I’m safe. I look over my shoulder, and see Popcorn skulking away. He doesn’t approach me; I am free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - THIS WAY TO MEXICO
As soon as I slump into my seat near the back of the bus, I curl in a fetal position with the window and aisle seats as my feather bed. Nobody sits this far back, so no one is there to complain. I learn why no one sits at the back of the bus. The restroom smells like an outhouse. On Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, sleep trumps olfactory distress. The smell makes me nauseous, but I don’t vomit, so sleeping in the stink zone is the better choice.
I don’t know how many hours have elapsed, but the coach appears to be somewhere in the Central Valley. We drive past 100 miles of dormant fruit trees, vineyards, almond blossoms, and Cowschwitz aka Harris Ranch. The combined scent of megatons of manure and the well-used bus toilet bring me very close to the vomit zone, but I retch and retreat as the cows fade behind us in the distance. Once my stomach settles, it admonishes me it is empty. I realize there is no food aboard a bus, and I forgot to buy anything in The City before we left.
I find my way to the front of the bus. The driver points to the sign “No unnecessary conversation with the driver.” I’m not sure how to gauge this on the necessity scale, but it would be at the base of Maslow’s pyramid.
“Sir, I can see you are very busy so I’ll be quick. Where do we stop next"?
“Bakersfield in two hours.”
“Will there be time to disembark and buy some food"?
“No, there won’t.”
I thank him and head back towards my stinky seat when a wrinkled brown arm reaches out and grabs me. The arm is connected to an ancient Mexican woman in a colorful poncho who beams at me.
“Tienes hambre, mijo"?
“Si, mucho hambre.” I’m very hungry.
She digs into her bag and produces a foil package for me.
“Es un burrito"? I ask.
“No, es tamal de pollo.” It’s a chicken tamale.
“Cuanto"? I reach for some bills in my pocket, but she puts her leathery brown hand on mine and shakes her head.
I fight back tears. This is the first kind gesture anyone has shown me since I left Wanda’s house. “Grácias no seria suficiente para expresar mi gratitúd.” I say, stringing my word beads with vocabulary gleaned from García Lorca. She is impressed I was able to put together such a complex sentence, and compliments me on my Spanish. I beam as I tell her I am going to Palenque and I will need to be even better in Spanish. At least I think that’s what I am saying.
She motions me to lean in, then kisses me on the forehead and says, “Que Dios te bendiga y te proteja en tu viaje.”
I return to my seat and peel back the layers of foil, paper, and corn leaves so I can devour the tamale. It’s delicious. The chicken is just the right amount of spicy without burning my tongue, and the masa is oily and firm, with no lumps or dry spots in the middle. I can see the old lady looking back over her shoulder towards me. I raise the tamal in salute, and smile so wide, she can’t miss it. She smiles back. Thank heaven for small mercies.
After the Grapevine and a winding pass through the Angeles National Forest, we descend into the chemical warfare pea soup smog belt of the San Fernando Valley. Visibility drops; eyes water. This is Los Angeles. It is huge. You could fit Manhattan into a single neighborhood of Los Angeles. In Frank Lloyd Wright’s vision of Utopia, everyone has a house with land and a driveway. Los Angeles is the embodiment of Wright’s ideal. Le Corbusier, a rival architect, pictured people living in close quarters, with layer upon layer of public transportation between buildings. He saw Hong Kong, Manhattan, San Francisco. In Los Angeles, tall apartment buildings are only found in a few places. Unlike home, there are only a few apartment buildings downtown taller than 12 stories. I remember reading somewhere there was a law stating buildings could not be higher than City Hall. When the ban was lifted, it was during the growth of big business. Skyscrapers are commercially zoned in Downtown Los Angeles. The biggest population lives on Skid Row in giant cardboard cities. Los Angeles abandoned its center and created a dozen smaller centers. And there is no subway, so every journey requires a car or a two-hour bus trip. Traffic crawls on the 5, and houses sprout in clusters of poison mushrooms. I have heard Los Angeles is beautiful, but from where we are parked on the Interstate, no proof can be seen. If I could see further than 100 feet, I might see something beautiful. I know there are mountains and tall buildings nearby, but they are lost in the dark brown mire.
I have to switch buses in downtown LA. If I thought the San Francisco depot was bad, it cannot hold a candle to the chaos, corruption, crack and crank cementing this place together.
The San Diego bound coach is already taking passengers; I can climb aboard to remove myself from the beggars, fallen women and thieves who call this station home.
We leave the smog behind us as we traverse Orange County. In San Clemente, we reach the ocean, where the beauty returns and intensifies. Despite nuclear power plants and military bases, the road to San Diego belies a beauty reminiscent of the descriptions the Padres made when they first built El Camino Real. As we enter the San Diego urban sprawl, there is none of the dire ugliness glimpsed in Los Angeles. It’s more Disneyland than Detroit. The air is clear, buildings gleam, and every street has a Spanish name. I’m on a boat stuck in the Mexico section of “It’s A Small World.”
The Greyhound depot is the only ugly thing in San Diego.
I can see why my friends who grew up here have such happy faces and sincere smiles. The shining golden streets are criss-crossed by silver trolley tracks. The sunset over Coronado inspires the same awe as the fall foliage in Vermont.
I make the connection to the bus to Calexico. In the old days, the buses used to cross over the border into Mexicali, but things are not so easy any more. After a winding trip astride the mesas, we pull into a squalid town lined with drought-tolerant cacti growing from salty grey sand. This is Calexico.
Heffernan, the street leading towards the border, is lined with money exchanges. My pack is heavy, but not too much to handle. The border is at least a half-mile from the bus depot. As I pass the various money exchanges, I notice the different ways they gouge their customers. Some make it look as if you get 3,600 pesos to the dollar, but there is a 7% commission on the back end, so it’s really only 3,350. Another advertises 3,500 pesos to the dollar with a $17.00 service fee (in fine print). I settle on the house offering 3,600 pesos with a 2% commission and a $5.00 flat fee. I keep 100 US dollars in reserve, and exchange all the rest for pesos. I need a wheelbarrow to carry the money. It stresses the seams of my duffel. I spend 20 or 30 minutes rearranging my gear so the money is stashed in multiple places, all of them out of sight.
Out in front of a restaurant called Pollo Grande (Big Chicken) is a person dressed as a big chicken, spinning a sign reading “Full chicken dinner for four - $10.99” and “Mexico Car Insurance”. The chicken approaches me.
“Do you need Insurance"?
“I’m not driving.”
“We have traveler’s insurance.” The chicken is a skilled salesperson.
“What does it cover"?
“In the event you are killed while you are in Mexico, your family receives $50,000.00”
“Anything else? Like if someone robs me, can I get my money back"?
“No, nothing like that. Just death.”
“Thanks, I’ll take my chances.”
“Are you hungry, my friend”?
I am. He escorts me into the fluorescent glare of the restaurant. The menu hangs from the wall, grubby and limited, I settle for the five dollar special, two pieces of chicken with French fries. When the food arrives, it surprises me in several ways. First, it is delicious. The skin is crispy without being dry. The fries are the thick kind you see at a fancy steakhouse like Cattleman’s. Plus, without any warning, the meal includes Spanish rice, whole pinto beans, and a foil wrapped stack of corn tortillas. San Francisco makes you pay extra for this kind of stuff. Here in Calexico, it's all included.
I underestimated just how far I would need to walk. A young boy in a pedicab pulls beside me. “Going to the border, Mister?”
“Yes. Is it far?”
“Hop on.”
“Dude, I am counting pennies. How much?”
The kid shrugs. “How about a buck?”
For a faggoty trip with a rickshaw boy, one dollar is a bargain. I climb aboard. “What’s your name, kid”?
“Juan. But I go by John.”
Juan careens through the dusty streets, until traffic forms a blockade his pedicab could never penetrate.
The border is within sight. I can see a large Mexican flag, and a series of tollbooths, topped by giant cement letters spelling out “Welcome to Mexico.” I give Juan two bucks and he pedals away.
So this is it. Chance convinced me to make this journey with him, then became a figment. Now I stand here alone at the crossing. I have no idea what to expect. Do they search your bags? Do they insist on bribes? Each step forward brings me closer to finding out.
The gateway to Mexico is flanked by a chain link fence. From a distance, the fence has shrubs growing through the links, but as I near the border, the shrubs come into focus. They are the hands of a hundred children. Their little arms reach through the fence, grasping for anything they can take from America. A simple chain link barrier severs the first world from the third.
I come to a plaza marking the last remnants of the United States. I expect hundreds of people in line to enter Mexico; I am the only person in the plaza. No one wants to go to Mexicali at this hour.
There are bilingual pedestrian arrows pointing “This way to Mexico | a Mexico.” There never was any doubt as to which way to go. It’s obvious where to cross. There is no one waiting to frisk me or demand information here in the United States. I guess nobody has a problem with people leaving. I ascend a concrete set of steps. At the top of the steps is a brass plaque: “Boundary of the United States of America.
Just past the plaque is a one-way revolving metal gate. I become a piece of cheese in a grater as I press forward, through the gate, crossing the barrier between two worlds.
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