Into the Beautiful North

by Luis Alberto Urrea

  He had driven down in his ’67 Mustang fastback, now parked beside Ma’s wasted minivan in the alley. He was too frozen to think. He was afraid—he was trapped in a bad story, where the Venus flytrap of Ma’s duplex somehow reached out and consumed him. Rod Serling stuff.

  He ate Ma’s macaroni and drank her instant coffee and Tecate and slept on the couch. He just couldn’t bear to lie in his bed unless Carla was there with him. But in the morning, it was worse to wake up beside her.

  When Ma’s phone started to ring, the cards he had handed out those years ago in Tres Camarones were the furthest thing from his thoughts.

  He pulled into the parking lot in Ma’s minivan. This had to be the weirdest thing that had happened to him. Ever.

  He got out of the van and said, “Nayeli?” but didn’t manage to get much more said because the three girls flew at him and threw their arms around him, crying out and squeezing and dragging him back and forth. He fell over against the van, but they didn’t let go as they rubbed him and hugged him.

  He wasn’t all that thrilled with the grunge merchant with the big stick, but he was delighted to see the girls again. He thought: They are short.

  He didn’t know what to do, so he took them home.

  He couldn’t believe they still had his number! How unlikely was that? In his mind, they had remained gawky and silly teenyboppers. And now. Now! He looked at Nayeli, perched beside him. He glanced back at Yolo and Vampi. They were not gawksters anymore.

  “Wow,” he kept saying. “Wow!”

  “Ay, Mateo,” Nayeli sighed, shaking her head.

  “But, like, wow!”

  “Mateo, Mateo. ¡Eres tremendo, Mateo!”

  To Atómiko, the whole thing sounded demented and silly—he busied himself during the drive looking at the nice houses, the cars, and the shining 7-Eleven atop the hill. A man could steal a fortune around here. He was amazed that all the cars looked new. Maybe he’d boost one and drive back to the dump in style.

  Matt prepared to apologize for how sad his ma’s place looked, but when they walked in, Atómiko whistled. He plopped on the couch and said, “Hey! You’ve got a remote!” He switched on the TV and said, “Got any beer?”

  “Uh,” said Matt.

  Nayeli cried, “Mateo! You house! Is a palace!”

  “Beer in the fridge,” Matt said.

  Atómiko pointed at Vampi.

  “Get me a beer, will you, morra?”

  She dutifully went to the kitchen and fetched him a can.

  “What a pimp,” Yolo said.

  She and Nayeli hugged Matt from either side. He put his arms across their shoulders. Their breasts pressed against his ribs. Whoa. Their heads smelled a little oily, though. That was semi-gnarly, right there.

  “Would you like a shower?” he asked.

  “Bubble bath!” Vampi said.

  He had to go across the alley and get Mr. Bubble from Carla. She followed him back over to stare at the illegals. Vampi got into the bathroom and soaked for about an hour.

  When she was done, Matt pulled a chair out of the kitchen and sat quietly, watching them watch MTV. Nayeli and Yolo kept casting glances his way and smiling. Vampi seemed mesmerized by the television. Atómiko had laid his pole on the floor in front of the couch.

  He said, “I want pancakes.”

  Nayeli winked.

  Matt just watched.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Tacho sat at a nasty little plywood table in a dull green room. The tabletop was splintery and gouged with initials and half words. It was charred in various places from cigarettes left burning. The walls of the room were cement blocks, and the floor was old linoleum. He noted the ugly industrial green of the tiles—they looked like they had skinny little off-white clouds swirling in them. His captors were not only stupid, they had bad taste.

  His left eye was black, and his lip was swollen. He held a wet cloth to it and winced. He prodded at a tooth with the tip of his tongue. He thought it might be loose. His hair spikes were all plastered down flat, and if he could have looked in a mirror, he would have been appalled to see he looked like Julius Caesar, with his tiny blond bangs sticking to his forehead.

  Tacho put his hands on his belly and surreptitiously felt his money belt. He couldn’t believe these morons hadn’t taken it and discovered his dollars. Good for him, though—they would have really thought he was a terrorist with all that cash. As it was, they had given him a good tune-up, bouncing his body on the floor and “accidentally” running his head into the wall.

  An American in a badly fitting black suit came into the room and set a manila folder on the table and smiled as he sat.

  “Mr. Lora,” he said.

  “Hmm,” said Tacho, looking away angrily.

  “Do you understand English?”

  “Chure. I espik good Englitch.”

  “Fine.”

  The fellow opened the file, moved three papers around, cleared his throat. Tacho sneered: the guy was wearing musk cologne. That was for thirteen-year-old boys. Tacho would have recommended Aramis. And a serious haircut.

  “Yes, ahem, well. There was certainly a misunderstanding here.”

  “Yes.”

  “You understand that the heightened security demands of the post-Nine-Eleven world…” blah blah blah.

  “An’ mine ass get kick pooty good by gringos,” Tacho interrupted.

  “I—cannot agree with your assessment. Perhaps there was involuntary roughness in your apprehension.”

  “Is not soccer game, guey!”

  “No. It is not. However, you were already guilty of entering the country illegally. And when you blurted the name of a terrorist organization…”

  “¡Mierda!’ Tacho cried. “Is name of my restaurant!”

  “Ahem.”

  They had actually called around Sinaloa and found that La Mano Caída was indeed a cantina of some sort, owned and operated by Mr. Lora. The information on his Mexican driver’s license corresponded to his official domicile. So now they had to make sure the forms were in order. These days, even illegals were litigious.

  “Although you will be returned to Mexico, we would like to extend our apologies for any harm you might have accidentally suffered when resisting arrest.”

  Tacho smiled. The bastard. He nodded.

  The man rose and walked briskly from the room.

  A migra agent stepped in and crooked a finger. Tacho followed him.

  “Are you going to lodge a complaint?” the agent asked in Spanish.

  “No.”

  “Are you going to cross again?”

  “Yes.”

  They got to the bus.

  “All right,” the Border Patrol man said. “See you next week.”

  “See you,” Tacho called as he boarded the bus.

  Back in Tijuana, in the dark. He called Aunt Irma.

  “Nayeli’s gone to Matt’s house,” Irma told him.

  “Really?” Tacho said.

  “That is the plan.”

  “So they made it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What is Matt’s phone number?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, m’ija, what do you know, because I am calling you to find out, and you aren’t telling me anything!”

  “Now, now.”

  “Don’t now-now me!”

  “Tacho! Get a grip on yourself! You tell me. What will you do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  La Osa spit a small curse.

  “I will go to San Diego,” he said. “Somehow. I can’t let my girls do their business alone.”

  “Good boy,” said Irma.

  Tacho rubbed his face. Cross the border again. That was just great. Just what he wanted to do. Tacho sighed. He had a little crust of blood around the rim of his nostril. He flicked it away with a fingernail.

  “Has my restaurant gone out of business yet?” he said.

  “Not yet, but it currently lacks your feminine touch,” Irma
replied.

  “Look! Don’t start with me, Doña! I am in no mood for your pendejadas! I been arrested, I been beat up, I been deported! And I’m not going to listen to your homophobic comments. Oh, no! Eso sí que no. Not tonight!”

  But Irma, of course, had already hung up.

  The taxi driver did not bat an eyelash when Tacho told him, “Take me to a gay bar.”

  How he had longed to visit a gay bar. To drop his guard for just an hour. To laugh with men who did not laugh at him. He was afraid, for an instant, that the taxi driver would tell him there weren’t any gay bars in Tijuana. But the driver merely mentioned two, and Tacho sat back, closed his eyes, and said, “Take me to the nicest one.”

  It wasn’t far from the Palacio Azteca hotel. The front had a kind of Mediterranean motif. Neon tubes ran up the sides of the building, causing the crenellations in the salmon stucco to glow like hot sheets of glass. He was terribly underdressed, and dirty, but he didn’t care. He could hear the music coming out the door. He could hear laughter. Smell cigars and cigarettes.

  Inside, he let the dark and the lights and the heavy bass wash over him. They were playing Justice and Kid606. A bar gleamed invitingly under amber lights at the far end of the room. He let it pull him through the crowd. He had earned a drink. Several drinks.

  He met Rigoberto at the far end of the rosewood bar, as he leaned over a green-apple martini and swayed to the comforting music. The men around him smelled good—Hugo and Versace. People who understood him. Someplace that felt safe. He’d downed the first martini and resisted the approach of a sad sack in very bad makeup and false eyelashes. The guy actually had a beauty mark blotted above his lip with eyebrow pencil.

  “Not tonight,” Tacho said.

  A handsome middle-aged man nodded to him as he pushed into the bar.

  “Hello, señorita,” the man said to the makeup queen, who went away unhappily.

  Tacho accepted his second martini from the bartender.

  “Do you smoke?” The man offered him a black cigarette.

  Tacho shook his head.

  “It’s a Sherman,” the man said. “Chocolate.”

  “Chocolate?”

  “The best cigarette ever.”

  Tacho took it.

  “I shouldn’t,” he said.

  “But you will.”

  The man fired up Tacho’s smoke with a lapis lighter and lit his own and dropped the lighter into his jacket pocket.

  “Muy rico,” Tacho said.

  “I told you so.”

  The man gestured at the bartender—he didn’t have to order; the barkeep nodded.

  “Who are you?” the man asked.

  “Tacho.”

  “A wanderer.”

  Tacho nodded.

  “Yes. I’m a stranger here.”

  The man laughed.

  “Brother,” he said, “this is Tijuana. Everybody’s a stranger.”

  He put his hand out.

  “Rigoberto,” he said. “Call me Rigo.”

  Tacho shook his hand.

  “Pleased,” he said, swoony—the martinis and the exhaustion were just about knocking him over.

  Rigo sat on the stool next to him and stared at his face.

  “What?” Tacho said.

  “Your face,” said Rigo. He received a Johnny Walker Blue, one rock. Tacho raised his eyebrows. He had good taste, this Rigoberto. He didn’t approve of the ice, though—a waste of space in the glass, in his opinion.

  “I’ve looked better,” Tacho said.

  “Oh, you look good,” Rigo answered. “Just beat up.”

  “The Border Patrol.”

  “Oh,” Rigoberto said, a bit of distaste in his voice. “You’re a border crosser.”

  Tacho laughed.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  So he told. Rigo listened with his head cocked to one side. He kept a small smile on his face the whole time. He sipped his whiskey and crunched the ice cube.

  “You’re kidding,” he said when Tacho was done.

  Tacho shook his head.

  “Look at this trash I’m wearing,” he said. “I look good in the real world. Would I go out looking like this if I hadn’t just escaped with my life?”

  Rigoberto laughed.

  Everybody around Tacho was dressed well. The men danced and chatted. Tacho felt the sweet liquor move out his arms, down his legs, relaxing him almost as much as the men’s laughter. Rigoberto gestured at them.

  “Professors. Lawyers. Office managers. The cream of Tijuana.” He ordered another drink. “You’re the only criminal in here.” He grinned. “Very exotic.”

  Tacho didn’t think a third green-apple martini was a good idea, but Rigoberto pointed at his glass and nodded at the barkeep, and it was refilled.

  “It’s boring tonight,” Rigo said. “So slow. If you want to have fun anymore, you have to go to San Diego.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Rigoberto regarded this mysterious stranger with the crazy dye job. He liked Tacho. There was a certain aplomb about him. But he’d have to get him in some better clothes.

  “God,” Tacho said.

  “What?”

  “I feel like… like I’m home.”

  “Home?”

  “We don’t —” Tacho smiled ruefully. “We don’t gather where I come from. We don’t have clubs.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s nice.”

  Tacho felt his eyes sting a little—he was more tired than he thought, he told himself.

  Rigoberto raised his glass to Tacho.

  “Salud,” he said.

  Tacho tapped his glass to Rigoberto’s.

  “By the way,” Rigo said, “I’m a doctor. I could look at that eye. And that big fat lip.” He smiled.

  What a sly one, Tacho thought.

  “You want to do something about my lip,” he said.

  “I could. It’s a bit… swollen.”

  Smiling.

  “You’re devilish,” Tacho said. “Aren’t you, Rigo?”

  “Devilish? I am indeed. Incarnate.”

  They bumped knees.

  Tacho could not believe that in his state, as tired as he was, as sad and fed up and physically sore, Rigo was getting him turned on.

  “Let’s go,” Rigo said.

  “Where?”

  “We can go to your place,” Rigo said.

  Tacho snorted.

  “I’d have to take you to Sinaloa.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Or back to the Border Patrol station.”

  “Por Dios.”

  Rigoberto gave the barkeep a credit card and pointed at both their glasses.

  “Allow me,” he said.

  He signed the chit and stood.

  “I suppose,” he said, “we will have to go to my house. You know. To attend to your lip.”

  Good Lord.

  Tacho followed Rigo and was deeply gratified to settle into the leather seat of his fat BMW. Chet Baker came on the CD changer. Tacho closed his eyes. He was snoring before they’d left downtown and headed into the posh hills to the southeast.

  When Rigoberto woke him, he thought for a moment he’d gone home. They were surrounded by hibiscus, bougainvillea, birds-of-paradise, lantana, sego palms, and small pine trees. The whole lush jungle was backlit by red and blue spotlights.

  “Welcome,” Rigoberto said.

  Tacho asked, “May I take a shower?”

  Rigoberto replied, “Thank you. I was about to say, ‘Would you please take a shower?’ ”

  They walked into his house, laughing.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Nayeli, she’s hot,” Atómiko whispered.

  “So is Yolo!” Matt replied.

  Atómiko had never given up the couch. Matt had dragged his mattress out of his room, and Nayeli was in there, sleeping on the box spring and a mattress pad. Yolo and Vampi had pulled apart Ma’s bed and were jammed in the other bedroom.
The two men were drunk and giggling like Boy Scouts. Matt couldn’t believe his Spanish had returned so easily, though his accent was atrocious. Atómiko didn’t care. He was enjoying his own mastery of English. They were speaking some conglomerate pidgin. He’d downed eight Tecates, and Matt could have been speaking Chinese. They found a bottle of Ma’s tequila, and Matt was veering toward cactus juice visions.

  “Chingado,” Atómiko sighed as he gulped a shot of Cuervo.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” said Matt.

  This struck them as hilarious, and they buried their faces in their pillows and guffawed.

  A door opened in the dark.

  “Uh-oh,” said Matt.

  Yolo came out, wearing one of Matt’s T-shirts. It barely covered her nether regions. They could see her in the streetlight glow, luminescent in the hallway.

  “Morra,” Atómiko growled. “Hurt me. Damage me. Put me in the hospital.”

  “Would you,” Yolo said, “please—I am being nice—please—be quiet so we can get some sleep!”

  “I’ll help you sleep,” Atómiko said.

  She went back and shut the door decisively.

  “Oh, my God,” Matt noted.

  They snorted into their pillows some more.

  “Hey, gringo,” Atómiko said, “don’t you got any shorter T-shirts?”

  They screamed into their pillows for a minute.

  The door opened.

  “I mean it!”

  That was even funnier than whatever they’d found funny a minute ago.

  “You are such idiots!” Yolo said.

  The door slammed.

  “One time,” Atómiko said, “there was this chick named Alma Rosa. She was hanging out at the dompe when the missionaries came around. I used to help the gringos give out beans and, uh, potatoes. Alma Rosa took me back by her father’s pigsty and showed me her chi-chis. Can you believe that? I guess she wanted more beans.”

  Matt lay on his back, staring into the dark.

  “I’m lost,” he announced.

  “Huh,” Atómiko replied. “You’re drunk.”

  “No. Yeah. I know I’m drunk. But it’s deeper, dude. It’s like, I’m lost.”

  “Ah.”

  They listened to the muffled and sparse traffic going down Clairemont Drive. The Mongols were in residence next door—they could hear the TV going. Atómiko farted explosively.