by C. D. Payne
4:47 p.m. On the bus to Ensenada. I’m now in Mexico! I can sort of relax now, assuming you can ever do that in a Third World country. When I reached San Diego, I switched to the Tijuana Trolley for the ride to the border. I admit I was pretty nervous walking through the gate into Mexico, but no one even asked for my ID. You can waltz right into their country and the Mexicans don’t even raise an eyebrow! Of course, we gringos stick out like a sore thumb, so it’s not like they have a hard time keeping an eye on us.
At the Tijuana bus station I swapped one of my soggy hundreds for a big wad of colorful pesos, and bought a first-class ticket to Ensenada. They have different bus classes down here because theirs is not an egalitarian society, and people of means do not wish to ride with the chickens and the bleating goats. Fortunately, the ticket seller spoke English and understood where I wanted to go. I studied Spanish briefly in the seventh grade due to a scheduling snafu, but all I remember is buenas tardes—and I’m not sure what part of the day you’re supposed to say that.
Famous alcoholic fiction writers of the past often journeyed south of the border to soak up local color and get wasted. I’m trying to emulate them and be open to new experiences for my art. My initial impressions of Mexico: lots of dust, not many trees, and are the janitors all out on strike or what? No daycare for peasant toddlers down here. The streets are jammed with brown-skinned tots hustling gum to the tourists. I now have about a six-month supply.
9:15 p.m. As instructed by Connie, I’m now holed up in the Christina Hotel, a modest cinder-block structure in the southern part of Ensenada, one block up from the main road that runs along the harbor (no view though). The Spanish lady (Christina?) in the office wasn’t too thrilled about renting a room to someone my age with no luggage and a hunted look in his eyes, but I flashed my fake ID and some real pesos. My room’s not bad, except that when I walked in, it smelled like somebody had been having enthusiastic intercourse on the creaky double bed about two minutes before I arrived. I opened some windows to air things out. I have a chair, a wooden table, a small rug on the brown vinyl floor, a TV that mostly works (bad color), a bathroom with rusty metal shower, and the world’s smallest kitchenette. The little refrigerator in there runs constantly and sounds like a military helicopter with a bum muffler. It looks like it hasn’t been defrosted since way before I was born. I opened a cupboard door under the sink and a gang of tough-looking cockroaches looked up expectantly. I gave them some previously chewed gum to work on in hopes they’ll stay put.
After stashing my laptop under the bed, I had a fish taco dinner at a cantina around the corner—all washed down with some strong Mexican beer. Good news—the legal age for drinking down here is 18. It was all I could do to swig down one whole bottle and stagger back to my hotel. I can’t believe people drink that stuff by the case.
Ensenada is crawling with blue-haired gringos living it up on their Social Security, so English is spoken widely. The town is bigger than I’d been expecting: a bustling city squeezed between brown scrub-covered mountains and a curving blue bay. A nice place to visit, but would you really want to get a face-lift here?
Now I know how Trent felt before his wedding in Mississippi. This entire dubious enterprise is taking on a pronounced air of unreality. You meet a girl in a trailer park, and nine months later you’re hiding out under an assumed name in a foreign country and waiting to get your face carved up like a slab of meat. How did I ever let Connie talk me into this wacky scheme? What if the doctor botches the operation and I wind up grossly disfigured?
“Scarface Dillinger,” they might call me.
With a hideous mug and a moniker like that, I might have to think seriously about making a sincere commitment to a life of crime.
THURSDAY, March 18 — My little refrigerator has been defrosted. I had to unplug it last night to get some rest. Now my kitchenette is a swamp. Oh well, I’m not planning on doing any lavish entertaining here anyway. I had breakfast at a ritzy eatery overlooking the fishing wharf, then exchanged more dollars and bought a long-distance phone card and some T-shirts, underwear, and toiletries at a tourist store. I found a pay phone and called Connie, who was sounding major stressed.
“Were you able to bail out Paul?”
“Not yet, Nick. There have been some unforeseen complications.”
“Like what?” I asked. “What’s the big deal about a marijuana rap?”
“Well, it’s no big deal if they catch you with a few ounces, but Paulo had a whole gym bag full of it.”
“He did! What for?”
“Nick, Paulo worked as a pool cleaner. There’s no point in having that job if you don’t peddle a little dope on the side. People expect it as part of the service. Unfortunately, Paulo has some prior arrests too.”
“Paul has a police record?” I asked, flabbergasted.
“Of course, Nick. You can’t go on a spiritual quest in this country without having a few run-ins with the law. So now the D.A.’s talking three strikes.”
“You mean …”
“Yes, Nick, Paulo could get 25 years to life! That’s why the authorities think he’s a flight risk and are asking the judge to deny bail. If my father’s lawyers do succeed in getting him freed, I hope to God he’ll do the sensible thing and run away to Europe with me.”
“Connie, that’s awful.”
“I know, Nick. Paulo’s parents flew in last night. They’re staying in the guest house. My initial impression of my future in-laws was not favorable.”
“And it’s not likely to improve. Was Sheeni with them?”
“No, she stayed in Ukiah.”
Sheeni’s all alone in that big house. I hope she doesn’t do anything immature like invite Vijay over.
“How’s your hotel, Nick?”
“Uh, it’s OK. Is it where you stay when you come here, Connie?”
“I hardly think so, Nick. I asked our housekeeper Benecia to recommend a place for you. Be sure you’re back at your hotel by 12:30. The clinic is sending a car for you. And no more trying to chicken out. I know you’ll thank me for this. Dr. Rudolpho is a genius.”
Yeah, that’s what they said about Dr. Frankenstein too.
“Nick, have you decided to take my advice and go with the Aryan god look? Of course, you’d have to lighten your hair and wear blue contacts.”
“I’m not sure, Connie. I don’t know if looking like a face on a Hitler Youth poster is really my thing.”
What a shock about Paul. You find a guy to look up to, a mentor figure who appears to have escaped most of the bullshit of modern life, and he turns out to be a drug dealer. And why didn’t he foresee those cops bearing down on him? A brother in the pen and a fiancé on the run—can fate be this cruel to a gifted young intellectual like Sheeni Saunders?
3:50 p.m. I was extremely nervous on the drive up to the clinic. For one thing, I was being conveyed in another one of those big slab-sided Lincolns—a pearlescent silver sedan from the 1960s. Not a good omen. The last time I was in one (Jerry’s convertible) I managed to spark a $5 million fire in Berkeley. And let’s not forget what happened to JFK in his. At least Dr. Rudolpho’s clinic makes a good first impression, giving some cause to hope it’s not an entirely fly-by-night operation. A big two-story hacienda is surrounded by a dozen or so adobe bungalows—all set on lavishly landscaped grounds with a sweeping view of the town and the sparkling blue bay. Nobody walking around in bandages, thank God. I assumed all the patients were laid up in the swanky bungalows.
The hacienda was beyond posh, and not a dust ball in sight. They must be running the janitors on double shifts. I was shown into a small waiting room and left by myself. Nothing to read except a pile of glossy magazines called Gorgeous! devoted entirely to nose-job success stories. Hard to believe so many people got shafted that severely by Mother Nature in their nasal equipment. I can only imagine the playground taunts some of those beak disaster cases must have endured. Of course, the whole scene was making me even more nervous. Waiting for a plastic surge
on has got to be at least a hundred times more nerve-wracking than waiting for your dentist.
Eventually a bell rang somewhere and a cute nurse in a white uniform came in to escort me to Dr. Rudolpho’s private office. He rose graciously from behind his massive carved desk and shook my hand. I felt reassured immediately. He was a tall outdoorsy fellow (about 40?) with the boyish good looks of Joel McCrea enlivened with a vigorous dash of Randolph Scott. It was all very professionally done with hardly any visible scarring. Is it possible for plastic surgeons to operate on themselves? I speculated that perhaps his surgical training was like barber college—with the neophyte surgeons first working on each other before graduating to the paying public. One of his talented classmates must have been a big fan of old westerns.
With the preliminary chitchat out of the way, Dr. Rudolpho pressed his small but expressive fingers together and launched into a disquisition on aesthetics.
“What humans regard as beauty, Mr. Dillinger, is merely a subtly perceived harmoniousness of features. Your features, for example, lack a vital symmetry. Your chin is recessive, your nose a facial afterthought, your eyes want positional credibility, your lips are too thin, your ears too big, and your hair … well, let’s not get into that. Is it your earnest wish for me to unscramble these genetic miscarriages and reveal through my art that hitherto elusive underlying order?”
“Not really, doc. I just want to look completely different. I want to walk out of here looking like a totally different person—someone that no one who knew me before would recognize. Can you do it?”
Dr. Rudolpho gazed up at his carved ceiling beams and thought the matter over.
“Oh, and one more thing. I want to look older—at least 18.”
“I thought you said you were 18.”
“I am 18. I just want to look it. Care to see my ID?”
“No, I’m sure your ID, if not your physiognomy, validates your age. Nick, I could get into serious difficulties operating on a minor without his parents’ permission.”
“My parents are dead, doc. I’m, I’m on my own. And I’ve got the money.”
“So our mutual friend Connie assures me. What sort of direction would you like to go? I need a little guidance from you.”
I handed him a damp picture from my wallet; he studied it with interest.
“Are you sure this is what you want, Nick?”
“I’m positive. Can you do it?”
“I can do anything, Nick. Let’s get that straight. OK, we’re looking at a rhinoplasty, eyes and lips reconstruction, and inserts for both cheeks, forehead and jaw. The ears we’ll have to let slide this time. That will be $10,000, payable in advance.”
“No problem.”
“Postoperative recovery will require at least a week, preferably two. Our fee is $500 a day.”
“Gee, that’s kind of steep. Do you offer any budget plans?”
“You can stay in your own hotel. Our nurse will visit twice a day. That’s $100 a day.”
I blanched. “Do you have any super-saver discount plans?”
“That’s as cheap as we go, Nick. Our fee includes all medication and liquid meals. You’ll have to drink through a straw for the first few days.”
“Does it hurt, doc? I think you should know I experienced some major trauma recently when I got my ears pierced. I don’t cope well with pain.”
“Trust me, Nick. It won’t be too bad.” Dr. Rudolpho escorted me to the door. He had the longest legs on anything I’d ever seen not drilling for oil in the North Sea. Even in his loose-fitting white doctor’s smock you could tell the guy was all pants and no torso.
“Have a light lunch this afternoon, Nick, but eat nothing after 6:00 p.m. And no liquids after midnight. Our car will pick you up tomorrow morning at 7:30.”
“OK. One more thing, doc. Can you do anything about changing my voice?”
“Well, that’s not normally in my line of work. The larynx, however, is a remarkably uncomplicated organ. One snip and the timbre of your voice would be altered forever.”
“How much would that cost?”
“I’ll throw it in on the house.”
“Thanks, doc. But I must tell you I’d rather not sound like Andy Devine or Gabby Hayes. I’ve never contemplated a career as a cowboy sidekick.”
“You’ll sound fine, Nick. Connie’s right. You’re a remarkable young man.”
Dr. Rudolpho turned me over to the cute nurse for “preliminary processing.” A plastic badge pinned to her left breast identified her as “Angel.” I wasn’t sure if that was her name, her vocation, or a cogent summation of her physical assets. Angel took my weight, measured my blood pressure and pulse (it went up whenever she smiled at me), extracted a hypo of blood from my arm for laboratory analysis, and snapped some “before” photos of my face and head from all angles. She assured me in her endearingly accented English that the pictures would be kept in the strictest confidence, and that I need not fear finding myself splashed across the pages of Gorgeous! magazine.
“I pity the chicas bonitas when Dr. Rudolpho finishes with you,” she assured me. “Mucho hearts you’ll be breaking—even more than you do now.”
Before François could imply that she could operate on him anytime, I was led away by a staff honcho. He took me into a small inner office, where I counted out $10,700 in damp C-notes and signed a slew of forbiddingly worded liability releases in Nick S. Dillinger’s fancy new signature. I may emerge looking like the Second Coming of Boris Karloff, but Dr. Rudolpho and minions are legally untouchable.
6:35 p.m. My last afternoon resembling former person Nick Twisp. I took my old face out for one last airing. I strolled into town along Ensenada’s main drag. A big white cruise ship had anchored in the bay, and the open-air shops were jammed with souvenir-hungry tourists. The two-year-old gum-hustlers were out in force, but were thronging mostly the older, more affluent-looking gringos. I watched a kid about my age grilling skewers of meat on a sidewalk barbecue made from an old paint can. It smelled delicious, the price was right, but I decided to pass. For all I knew he might have been serving up marinated dog bits.
To stave off scurvy I had a margarita at a fancy cantina that claims (on its cocktail napkins) to be one of the most famous bars in the world. Since I intend to be the one of the most famous alcoholic fiction-writers in the world, I felt it was destiny that had guided me there. I chugged a second margarita for its vital salt, then lurched off to look for a pay phone. My Love wasn’t home, but I reached my old pal Fuzzy on the third ring.
“Nick, where are you?”
“Oh, out and about,” I slurred. “How’s the Nick Twisp manhunt going?”
“The cops worked me over, Nick, but I didn’t spill. I just kept telling everybody that I never knew Carlotta was a guy. The cops had the nerve to ask me didn’t I feel you up after the Christmas dance? I said no way. I said I only took Carlotta to the dance because I felt sorry for her. I swore the same thing to Lana. I told the cops the only person I knew who was making a serious play for Carlotta was Bruno Modjaleski. So they dragged him downtown.”
“The cops interrogated Bruno?”
“For about five hours. They figured he must have known Carlotta was Nick—being so intimately acquainted and all. Turns out one of your neighbors saw him pawing Carlotta on your front stoop. Boy, is Candy Pringle pissed. Bruno hasn’t been to school for two days. I think the guy’s ashamed to show his face. Good thing the season’s over. He might of got tossed off the football team for being a degenerate.”
“Frank, did the cops ask you what Carlotta had been living on?”
“Yeah, they asked me all kinds of stuff, Nick. I lied just like you told me. I said I thought maybe you’d been scamming old ladies.”
“Gee, thanks, Frank.”
“Well, I couldn’t think of what to say. I figured you didn’t want me to spill about the Wart Watch.”
“Good job, Frank. I appreciate your discretion.”
“So how much are you going to p
ay me, Nick? I’m running up a big tab showing Lana a good time. She invited Sonya to the movies on our last date and I dropped over ten bucks at the snackbar.”
“Oops, I have to go, Frank. I’ll keep in touch.” Click.
Still no answer at Sheeni’s house. I slipped my phone card back in the slot and dialed the aforementioned Sonya Klummplatz. She was amazed to hear from me.
“Oh God, is it really Nick Twisp himself—in person?”
“The very same, also known as Carlotta Ulansky.”
“Oh, Nick, you are so cool. You fooled everyone. God, you’re so great. Lana and I think it’s neat that all those cops are looking for you.”
“You guys aren’t mad about gym class, Sonya?”
“Not us, Nick. We both need practice being naked with guys. But Barb Hoffmaster wants to murder you. I think it was just a big put-on—all those girls flipping out and demanding counseling. It was just so they could sue the school for emotional trauma. It’s like when they have a bus crash in San Francisco and all those bystanders rush on the bus and start moaning. So I guess you weren’t really interested in Trent, huh?”
“Of course not, Sonya. Would I lie about that?”
“And you told the truth about Bruno too. Nick, I owe you $50. Where should I send it?”
“Just hold on to it, Sonya. I may be by to collect it one of these days.”
“You can collect more than the fifty, Nick, assuming you don’t dig Bruno’s manly lips.”
“I have no interest in football players of any sex.”
“Cool, Nick. My bedroom’s off the porch in the back. I’ll leave the window unlocked.”
Flattering, I suppose, but hardly news to inspire unalloyed delight. Still, it’s nice to know someone will be pining away for the late Nick Twisp.
9:37 p.m. Señora Christina’s nine-year-old son Guadalupe just knocked on my door to tell me I had a call. I almost hoped it was Dr. Rudolpho phoning to say my operation had been postponed for 24 hours to permit additional patient chickening-out contemplation. Instead it was Connie calling with the latest Paulo update.
