by Jack Lopez
“Can I use your cell?” I asked Amber. Everyone knew the inevitable was here now.
She laughed, crinkling her nose. “I didn’t pay the bill and they cut off my service.” She had spread out a bunch of shells on the hood of my mother’s car, things she’d collected while Jamie and I had remained in the water.
“No problem,” I said. I didn’t want to talk with my mother anyway; I was just going to leave a message on our home machine. I rooted through her found objects: a seagull feather; soft, rounded green glass; sand dollars; and a chunk of abalone shell. Her usual shit.
Jamie said, “Well, I guess this is it.”
I tried to smile. “What’ll you do?”
“Keep heading south. Baja. The waves will get better and better.”
Jamie was right. The farther south you went, the better the surf would be, for the hurricane-generated waves were coming from the south so they’d have less distance to travel, less chance to dissipate their energy. I looked at Amber and she looked as if she were going to tear up. She looked at me for just a second and then turned her gaze out to sea.
“I’m not going back,” she said. “I can’t go back either.” She sort of puffed herself up, making her seem taller than she was after she made her statement.
Oh, great, I thought. If Jamie were going on alone, I might have had a chance to return. He could take care of himself. The brother and sister hitchhiking team seemed somehow pathetic to me, whereas Jamie going off on his own wasn’t.
My stomach growled so I changed the subject, something I was good at. “Let’s get something to eat. We’ll figure things out.” I knew a great sandwich place back up the road where you could get the best avocado and sprout sandwiches in the world.
The Nuevo Papagayo had an outside deck that faced Pacific Coast Highway, where we sat eating. Amber and I had ordered avocado-and-sprout sandwiches on that homemade wheat bread, Jamie a tuna-fish sandwich. When I heard that term I always thought it was redundant. Like salmon fish. Or trout fish. Or lobster crustacean. But then there’s catfish. Yet cats are mammals. Jamie also said things like “warsh” for “wash,” which pissed off Amber. And “eyetalian” for “Italian.” “You sound like an Oakie,” Amber would tell him. “I am,” Jamie would say. Their parents were originally from Oklahoma, and Mr. Watkins used to say things like that when he was trying to be funny.
Away from the water and not far off the highway, the afternoon was warm. We were sheltered from the wind, but could see the giant eucalyptus trees all around rustling about. We sat in silence, enjoying the afternoon sun and each other’s company.
Remembering something funny known only to her, Amber smiled before turning her back on us, facing the sun. Before she turned away I noticed that her eyes had small bags under them and her hair looked thicker from the salt water.
Jamie looked really tired. His nose was fat at the bridge, and he had a mouse under his right eye. The skin was scraped off some of his knuckles.
“Well, Watkins, you sure fucked up this time,” I said.
He looked deep into my face. “At least I’m not a car thief like you.”
“Ha! You’ve never taken your mom’s car …” Then I stopped because I remembered all the shit that went down yesterday was because he had taken F’s car.
Amber turned back to face us, seemingly glowing from the warm sun.
Jamie sighed and looked out over the highway.
I felt so comfortable with them, felt so normal, I didn’t want the moment to end. “Puntos would be unreal with the swell that’s coming.”
The edges of Jamie’s eyes creased and he laughed his high laugh, the first time since he came out of the water yesterday.
“It would,” Amber said, her cheeks breaking into a huge, knowing smile.
How did she know? She’d never been there. Puntos was my spot. It was a peak wave, breaking in shallow water over smooth rocks. It was just north of Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico. I’d surfed there on summer south swells, and nobody could touch me, not even Jamie. It was my power spot.
“My aunt has a place at San Rafael. Maybe Jamie could stay for a while.” He would be safe there, and then Amber and I could return to get him when things cooled off at home. I was already in trouble, so one more day wouldn’t matter, I figured, in the big scheme of things.
“Would you drive us down there, Juan? Could Jamie stay there?” Amber said in a voice that made me want to do anything for her.
“Yeah.”
“You’ve already done plenty,” Jamie said. “You should get back with the car.”
“I want to ride some big waves,” I said. “A perfect wave.”
“Ha!” Jamie said.
There was another consideration as well. Should my parents report the car stolen, the police in Mexico probably wouldn’t know about it. But in California, they sure would. So the sooner we got south, the better chance Jamie would have of steering clear of them. This was the bogus logic playing out in my mind. In reality, I didn’t want to look like a wuss in front of Amber. Plus I didn’t want to be in school; I’d rather surf big waves than waste my time being bored. And this: I didn’t want my friend cast adrift to suffer his fate solo. We could be together for a time, maybe see him settled at my aunt’s trailer, till it was cool for his return.
We repacked the car, loading the boards on top so that when we crossed the border there would be no doubt about our intent.
“You drive, Amber,” I said as we climbed into my mother’s 4Runner. She’d disarm the Federales at the border.
With the afternoon warmth permeating the car, and the wind rustling through the open windows as we headed south, Jamie softly snored.
CHAPTER 5
“Dog meat tacos.”
“Jamie!” Amber said.
Laughing, I spat out the bite I had just taken. I could see some dogs lying in the sun by my mother’s car, a thin pit bull and a wiry German shepherd mix, sniffing their genitalia, scratching their backs by snaking upside down on the dirt.
It was a hot afternoon, yet in spite of the heat I could smell the smoke from wood-burning fires, smell food being cooked, tacos and churros, and once in awhile smell the fetid stench of raw sewage as it wafted up the streets from the river. We stood on Avenida Revolución in Tijuana, Mexico! in plain sight of the car — I’d heard all the stories about thefts when in TJ — and had paid a boy to watch it. For a dollar, he said he’d protect our car. Since he was probably the thief, Jamie had said, it would be in our best interest to pay.
My mother’s 4Runner was down an incline on a dirt track that led to some shacks, just off the main drag. The boy smiled and waved to me as I memorized where we were: Revolución and Second. Not too far from a big arch that was like photos I’d seen of the gateway to St. Louis.
“No, really,” Jamie said, “they make these tacos out of dog.” He hiccupped a few high laughs.
“Would you stop,” Amber said.
I didn’t care what they were made of, they were delicious.
There was something about the way the tacos were prepared right in the open, right on the street, the fire before you in a rolling cart, and the cook/vendor so eager to please, his movements quick and assured. What Jamie said about dog meat was the standard rap against Tijuana. It was a poor town, a town next to a rich city, San Diego, and the U.S. Navy was stationed there to boot. Always there were sailors crossing the border, spending their money. Supposedly anything went. Strip shows and whorehouses. But I’d never been here at night. Thus far it didn’t seem so bad. And this: I’d only driven on the outskirts of town on my way south with my parents during summers when we’d stay as a family at my aunt’s trailer on the beach in Baja California. Mexico, with its blaring poverty and wild art and tumultuous history, felt like home to me. And it was, on some level.
Yet you’re still crossing a border, aware that you’re entering another country. That’s obvious. But the change, the border, is so stark, so striking, so breathtaking in its contrast, that it�
��s almost stunning if you think about it.
You drive the I-5, the American freeway, all the way to San Ysidro. While you’re approaching you can see the hills of Tijuana in the background, looming up, getting more distinct with each passing mile: shacks and houses and villas with smoke curling up from maquiladora chimneys and house chimneys. A distinct contrast from the lush, developed hills of La Jolla, say, contrasted in their tired brown appearance, end-of-summer slumping from the persistent four months of heat already endured by its inhabitants.
As you actually cross the line of demarcation you can see to your left the orderly and repressive-looking archway where the American agents question anyone entering the U.S. from Mexico. On this side, the side entering Mexico, there are Federales in their khaki uniforms looking disinterested as you roll by. Then you’re funneled into waves of traffic, emptying into a bustling and vibrant downtown, almost European, in your imagination at least. The whole transition takes a matter of minutes, but the feeling lasts, is profound, even, when you think back on it. Especially if you’ve taken your mother’s car because your best friend has thrashed his so-called stepfather.
Now we were golden tired after surfing the good waves at Swami’s, and it was a warm afternoon with the low sun glinting off buildings and tin roofs. Traffic sounds — horns honking, buses chugging forward emitting dark trumpets of smoke, ranchera music from passing cars — and food smells, along with bright objects for sale right on the sidewalk, assailed my senses. Street vendors and pharmacies and all sorts of specialty shops dotted the streets. The odd thing was how you’d be walking on a sidewalk next to a paved street and then, bam! no sidewalk, just dirt, and the street was suddenly rutted and dusty. Then there’d be a really nice store, along with food carts, and the street and sidewalk would reappear. And there were strip joints, which Jamie seemed very interested in and which I masked my interest in for Amber’s sake.
“I want to go to a bar,” Jamie said.
“What for?” I said. “Let’s get out of town.” Even though I was now almost relaxed about having taken my mother’s car since there were no American police here, I was excited and scared because I had taken my mother’s car! We were in Tijuana! We had surfed the front edge of the approaching swell. And Jamie was okay, not arrested or anything. “We need to get to my aunt’s.” I wanted to say, Let’s get some waves.
“I want to see if I can buy.”
“Anybody can buy here, dunce.” Amber was ahead of us, pigeon-toeing her way over the sudden dirt.
I looked at Amber and Jamie and couldn’t control my excitement, doing a little shuffle with my feet.
Looking back at us, she shrugged her shoulders and made a face at Jamie.
I didn’t resist, though I should have, and we now had a reason to wander the crowded streets in the time before dark but when it is no longer day. The strange thing was — what hadn’t been strange in the last twenty-four hours? — a man on a skateboard followed us, it seemed. A man on a skateboard is somewhat unique in general, but this man was particularly striking since he rode his out of necessity. He had no legs. Cut off right where the legs meet the hips. He had a powerful upper body, and wore fraying gloves, which slightly protected his hands as he literally paddled over Tijuana’s streets the way we paddled our boards over the ocean’s water.
I’d first noticed him after we’d crossed a street on the light and he’d followed after it had changed, right through traffic, with cars honking and drivers yelling. It didn’t seem to faze him. I don’t know why he followed us, but he did, persistent as hell, always there. We’d go in a shop — Amber was looking for some long pants and maybe a light jacket, since she’d only brought her cut-off Levi’s and my sweatshirt — and Half-man on Skateboard would be a few doors away, tailing us like a bad detective. He started to bother me, and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else after a while. I didn’t tell Jamie or Amber, figuring I’d wait and see what the guy wanted. Probably a handout, and I didn’t blame him, and I would give him money, should he ask.
As we entered an alleylike outdoor shopping plaza, Amber said, “I like that skirt.” She looked around at clothes while I looked at the statuary that was all over the floors. Carved frogs and busts of Indian-looking guys, and yard ornaments. Jamie gravitated to a big display case that had a bunch of switchblade knives.
“Here’s a nice one for F.” He pointed with his index finger toward a huge bowie knife. The edges were serrated and I could feel at that moment the hatred Jamie had toward F. It showed on his split and raw knuckles.
“I don’t think so, Rambo.”
“Hey, guys, what do you think of these?” Amber held some tapestry pants with a drawstring next to her Levi’s cutoffs. She also held up a jacket — a tightly woven cotton Indian one that’s warm when it’s cold but cool when it’s hot — a great jacket, a Baja jacket, blue and white and green with a hood on it.
I watched her pay the full price for the clothes; she hadn’t even tried to bargain with the guy. “Amber, next time let me do the talking.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause I’ll get you a better price. You don’t pay the asking price. Everybody knows that.”
“I don’t want a bargain. If that’s the price, then that’s the price. These guys aren’t rolling in dough, you know.”
“Hey, Juan, get me a deal on that bowie knife. It’s got F’s name on it.”
“You’re not funny,” Amber said, pulling on her jacket.
Most of the barkers outside strip joints left us alone as we passed, because we were with Amber, and there seemed to be a very strong sense of propriety toward an American girl. Yet there was also a strong sense of machismo too because the men couldn’t help but stare at her. I, of course, was always aware of her sexuality because she was constantly in my life and I’d always had a crush on her, I think. But she was Jamie’s sister, older than both of us, and that was that. I’d never seen the effect she had on men, however. Granted, the guys on the TJ streets were not pillars-of-the-community types, but they were men who could see the beauty of a woman, of that I was sure. And Amber was striking in that dusk as we made our way in the time when the streetlights haven’t taken over. She wore her new clothes and she looked happy, for the moment at least, and we had forgotten, however temporarily, why we were there in the first place.
When finally we stood outside a bar that we all agreed seemed okay — American rock music blasted from Club City Light, and laughter and shouting emanated from within — I’d lost sight of Half-man on Skateboard, which was just as well, for I might have been unable to enjoy myself once inside.
Club City Light had a long polished bar in a large rectangular room. The cement floor was covered with sawdust and beyond was a raised dance floor toward the back. It was crowded, almost exclusively with Americans, many who’d been drinking all day judging by the loud whoops and frantic energy that hit you like a wet towel once inside. There were periodic rumbles of laughter and sound, vibrating the large mirror behind the bar. Three bartenders hustled behind that bar, spilling liquid, bumping into each other, and generally jamming to keep up with the consumption of the drunks.
Buying beer was not a problem. First Jamie bought a round, looking particularly tough with his battered face and aviator sunglasses on, even inside. Then I got one, and Amber did too as we stood in various places around the bar. I didn’t much care for beer, but after three of them, I was feeling it. One summer when Jamie and Amber and Claire had gone to Oklahoma to visit their relatives and I was in Ensenada on a surfing trip with some older guys, I’d had gin and tonics at Hussong’s Cantina. They had made me sick, but I figured I could stomach these beers. Yet Jamie showed no sign of slowing down. In fact, he began flirting with an older woman, someone who was at least twenty-five. Probably because she sat at a table. Her hair was up in a bun and she wore makeup and tight pants and a slingshot T-shirt that showed her chest.
All of a sudden I saw a guy who looked like Greg J. heading for the door. He was
with some older guys. “Is that Greg J.?” I shouted.
“Where?” Jamie yelled back, taking his gaze off the woman.
Amber, while turning to look, bumped into my shoulder. By the time she was all the way around, the guy was gone.
Jamie said so the woman couldn’t hear, “His dad’s cool, but not that cool.” He refocused his gaze on the woman.
“Ha!” I half-shouted. Jamie was right, Greg J.’s dad wasn’t going to bring him to a bar in TJ, surf trip or no surf trip.
“It’s packed,” Jamie said.
“You can sit here,” the woman said.
Jamie grinned huge, dwarfing that damn Cheshire cat. “Cool,” he said, moving toward her
Jamie was changing fast. In two days he’d fought F and won, run away, and now was with a woman! When he was young he had been shy on land, but aggressive in the water. Always he would stand up for himself in the water, but not necessarily so on land. On land it had been a different deal. I guess things were changing for him pretty fast. Jamie was with a woman in a bar!
“Moo!” I bellowed as he sat on her lap. Moo was Jamie’s name for old women, because of a sixth-grade science film that called cow teats “mammary glands.”
“How old are you?” the woman said.
“Nineteen,” Jamie said.
Amber almost spat out her drink of beer.
“Easy,” I said.
She cracked up.
Maybe Jamie looked dangerous with his battered face, and maybe the people with whom the woman sat were so drunk they couldn’t tell our ages. Who knew? Something happens to people when they cross the border; something exits the consciousness of otherwise reasonable people when they enter Mexico. Under normal circumstances the twenty-something-year-old woman probably won’t ask the fifteen-year-old boy to sit on her lap — they quickly reversed the scene, with the woman standing so that she could sit on Jamie’s lap — and have her friends make room for us at their table, a small wet affair. The woman and her friends ordered round after round of beers.
