by Johnny Shaw
“We’ll find out, won’t we?”
We were in the Mexican-side lobby of the U.S. Immigration Building. It was a large room built to accommodate hundreds of people. The room was furnished similarly to a train station or an airport with bench seating and scattered potted palms that replaced the need for urinals. At this time of night, there were only a few people using the lobby to catch some shut-eye. A rowdy group of drunk teenagers hung out in the corner vocally comparing their pornographic discoveries.
Bobby and I walked the length of the lobby to the long hall that led to the “Welcoming Station.” I kept one hand on the wall for balance, running my fingers along the lines of a faux mosaic mural. I couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe a fish or a snake. Whatever it was, it felt out of place in the sterility of the government building. It looked like Quetzalcoatl as done by the guy who did that children’s book The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
There were two Border Patrol agents on duty. The white one working the desk looked like the kind of guy who works out three hours a day, but can only do it if he’s looking in the mirror while he pumps up. Upper body show-muscle. The Hispanic agent had a solid boiler for his age. I was impressed. A tight potbelly at twenty-five takes some extra work. They both looked mean and dumb.
Bobby put on his best dumb smile. “Hey, guys, how you doing tonight? Bet you’d rather be drinking, right?”
The white one gave us both a look, focusing his attention on Bobby’s face, then mine. “Jesus, what the hell happened to you two? You get in a fight with a cheese grater?” He hit his partner lightly on the shoulder, prompting some laughter.
“Good one,” Bobby said. “We got jumped. You know how it is. Head down to Chicali for a couple of drinks. Couple cowboys didn’t like the way we looked at their chicas.”
“Can we just get this over with?” I said, tired and frustrated.
Bobby gave me a light elbow. But considering that my entire body was a giant bruise, I couldn’t help but yelp.
“Obviously we’re done for the night. Time for bed,” Bobby said.
The two Border Patrol agents looked at each other. The Hispanic who hadn’t said anything gave him a nod. “Let’s see your passports.”
Bobby pulled his out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to the man.
“Where were you born?” the agent asked. He held the passport up, his eyes going back and forth between the photo and Bobby’s face.
“Right here in El Centro. Imperial Valley Regional Medical Center is what they call it now. Back then, they just called it ‘The Hospital.’”
The agent shook his head and grinned. “All right. Go ahead.” Then he turned to me. “Passport.”
I reached into my back pocket and then remembered that I had put my passport in my boot. I sat down on the ground and untied my boot, tugging at it to get it off. It was gone. I looked up at the Border Patrol agents and Bobby. They were all shaking their heads.
“Try the other one,” Bobby said.
I took off my other boot and shook it. My passport dropped to the floor. I put my boots back on. I had trouble getting the thin passport off the slick tile, sliding it around for a while. Eventually, I got a fingernail underneath and handed it to the agent. It felt like it took me a full, painful minute to stand back up.
“Where were you born?” the agent asked. He squinted at the photo and then flipped through the array of stamps in the back.
“Brawley. California. Here. What’s the point of this? You know we live here. You know we’re Americans. Can’t we just get back in our country?”
“You travel a lot. Been to a lot of places.”
“Yeah,” I said, getting even more annoyed.
“You bringing back anything I should know about?”
“Why didn’t you ask him that?” I said, pointing at Bobby.
Bobby rolled his eyes, indicating his assessment of me as the stupidest asshole in the world.
“Do you have any drugs, alcohol, fireworks, produce, or anything else that I should know about?”
“Produce?”
“Fruits or vegetables.”
“I know what produce is. No, I don’t have any drugs, fireworks, or produce, but I have some alcohol. I’m not sure if this counts, but I bought a couple of drinks and now I’m attempting to smuggle them into the U.S. in my stomach. Should I declare that?”
“Look, smart-ass. You want, I can call the cops, have them bring their breathalyzers, give you a drunk and disorderly.”
I was about to tell him that I was, in fact, acting drunk and orderly, and also that he could go fuck himself, but the face that Bobby made stopped me. I stuck with “Yes sir. Sorry. When I get tired, I get punchy.”
“I can see that. Punched in the face-y is more like it,” he said with a snort for a laugh. He turned to his partner, who joined in.
“Good one,” I said.
“All right. Go ahead. But next time you head across the border, I suggest you drink a little less or learn how to fight a little better.”
Bobby smiled, looking at me. “Sound advice, sir. I’ve been telling him that for years. You officers have a good night.”
“What the fuck was that?” Bobby said, walking back to the Ranchero. “You had to fuck with that dude. All night you’re made out of pussy, but as soon as it’s time to shut the fuck up, the time to be ‘yes sir,’ ‘no sir,’ then your balls drop and you got to be Rickles?”
“I liked your Eddie Haskell. How many times did you call that douche ‘sir’? Shit. I was going back into my country. The country I’m a citizen of. Fuck them.”
“They’re doing their job.”
“Being assholes isn’t in their job description. They were assholes. Don’t matter the job. If a waiter is doing his job and acts like an asshole, I’m going to call him on it. Their job isn’t to dick with me because they’re pissed they aren’t cops or FBI agents or some shit. Assholes like that crave that tiny bit of power. Sure they got a crap job, but it’s the one they chose. The one they’re pissed they settled for. The one that ensures them the daily duty of fucking with people, whether those people need to be fucked with or not. They get off pushing people around. They’re probably having a hearty masturbate as we speak.”
I took a breath and then continued. “I’m sorry. Am I out of line? No, you’re right. They’re heroes. American heroes. Keeping us safe on the front lines.”
“Bro,” Bobby said, “maybe wine coolers or appletinis are more your drink. Who knew beer and tequila made you self-righteous?”
“I’m fucking exhausted” was all I could get out.
“You want to go to the hospital or home?” Bobby asked, not joking.
“Home.”
As soon as my ass hit the bench seat of Bobby’s Ranchero, I dozed. The warm haze of sleep crept over my skin. But not for long. Bobby punched me in the arm.
“You probably have a concussion. To complement your preexisting brain damage. Better stay awake for a while,” he said.
“Tell that to all the alcohol you pumped into my system.” I slapped myself in the face, immediately regretting it, but waking up. I was tempted to flip down the sun visor and check out my face in the vanity mirror, but I decided to save the surprise for later.
Bobby said, “It’s just that I’m going to be a little embarrassed if you die. I’ll have to tell your dad and everything.”
“Yeah. That’d be a real bummer for you.”
“Exactly,” Bobby said, starting the car. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We drove back a different way. Bobby took the car slowly through the quiet residential streets at the east end of Calexico. Even though it was late, a few people were sitting on their steps. The smoky remnants of barbecues wafted through the air. It’s never too late to have a couple of beers with your neighbors. The peace of the blue collar Mexican neighborhood was refreshing. It reminded me that most people led quiet lives and not everyone had just gotten a world-class beating.
“So, wh
at happened?” I finally asked Bobby as we left the city limits and drove onto the back roads. The sweet pungence of a distant skunk and the sticky, grassy smell of the alfalfa fields felt like home. Back in the country.
“You mean, while you were taking your little beauty sleep?” Bobby said.
“The last thing I remember was getting jumped. When did you show up?”
“When last we saw our hero, he was entertaining a young damsel named Marguerita. Man, I don’t know about you, but don’t matter who the chick is, there’s nothing better than making a woman laugh. Don’t care if she means it or not. I was telling Marguerita knock-knock jokes in English. A language she knows about three words of, but I taught her how to say, ‘Who’s there?’ and, you know, the ‘Who?’ part at the end. And every time, didn’t matter what I said, didn’t matter if it made sense. Every time I said the punch line, she laughed her ass off. And she had an ass. ‘Knock-knock.’ ‘Who there?’ ‘Shorty.’ ‘Chorty who?’ ‘Shorty Fuckadoodle.’ Big laugh. ‘Ha, ha, ha, ha!’ You got to respect that. That’s a professional. A whore who takes pride in her work.
“Then our buddy, Guillermo. You remember, ‘Talk to Guillermo’? Dressed like Cesar Romero. He comes bouncing in, saying there’s a fight outside, thinks it might be my friend, you. I get up quick, accidentally drop Marguerita to the floor. But of course, she laughs more. They don’t make enough of ’em like her.
“I hit the sidewalk. It takes me a couple of seconds to find you. You ended up kind of around the corner. But I see the cowboys, and I hear the thuds. You might want to take it up with Mr. Turquoise, that dude that was sitting with Tomás, ’cause he was leaning against a wall watching and smiling. I don’t know what you did, but he was enjoying himself.
“I hit a couple cowboys before they even know they’re fighting me. Couldn’t give you details, just swinging at everything that moved. You weren’t one of those things. You were out. They got a few licks in, but I took most of the heat off you and I was definitely giving better than I got. I put my back against the wall, my head down and kept my punches short, letting them come to me. Punishing them when they did. My shins are bruised to shit from those boots. Talk about kickers.
“Then the cops show up. First time I’ve been glad to see a Mexican cop. These three local federales shove everyone apart. One of them, probably the new guy, got to his knee and checked your pulse. Of course he checked your back pocket for a wallet once he knew you were alive. I was honestly relieved when I heard you moan. I mean, you were crumpled up in a weird-ass position, one hand squeezing your junk.
“So I’m bleeding all over myself and what do our pals, the federales, do. They roust me. Completely ignore the five fucking cowboys. Five against one and it’s my fault. Like I would start some shit. They come at me with rapid-fire Spanish. And the cowboys ain’t going anywhere. Just waiting. Smiling.
“This ain’t my first cage match. I know the deal. It’s always about money. I give the lead cop the rest of your money. Problem is, it’s only like twelve bucks. Bro, we bought a lot of booze. He took it, but I’m pretty sure he was insulted. I do my best to explain that that’s all I got. Todo dinero. He nods, steps back, and says something I don’t hear to one of the cowboys.
“I know then, I’m super fucked. One of the cops points at me and holds up some money, yelling, “Treinta pesos.” Another gives him a nod, digging into his pocket. They’re betting on me. Or against me. It’s like a fucking cockfight or some shit. The cowboys circle me again. The cops are laughing and betting. I get my fists up, ready to go.
“But before the cowboys have a chance to make me into a squishy pile like Beetle Bailey after the Sarge jumped on him, the Incredible Hulk, that big dude that works for Tomás, the one that threw you over the table, he starts grabbing guys and throwing them left and right. Throwing them like a midget toss. The cops just watch. Me too. We’re stunned. And in like ten seconds, less, all the cowboys are on the ground, hurt, moaning. One of them is shaking in a really freaky, disturbing way. Like a seizure, you know. Then the Hulk turns to the cops. I don’t know what he was going to do, if he was going to do anything, but they sure thought he was. Because they all drew their guns.
“Man, you missed some shit. I don’t how you slept through all of it.
“Now the Hulk and me are standing there. He’s breathing hard ’cause, Christ, it’s got to be something just hauling all that weight around, let alone beating serious ass. And I’m bleeding. Pretty much all I’m doing. Bleeding as quietly as I can. And there’s like the three federales pointing guns at us. They’re scared absolutely shitless. I mean, guns-shaking, piss-stinking terrified. Full disclosure, the piss might have been you, I don’t know. I concentrate every ounce of energy on not moving. I know if I move, one of these mothers is going to freak, shoot, then the others are going to unload. Red light. I’m frozen. And I’m hoping the Hulk gets it, too.
“We’re like a what-do-you-call-it? One of them scenes in a museum. Like with a stuffed mountain goat. That’s what we are, like in a museum. Nobody’s moving. Nobody’s saying anything. The only sound is the Hulk’s breathing, which is deep and steady with a nose whistle. Actually kind of nice. Soothing. I couldn’t help it, I started breathing with him. We were on the same side kinda, so it was like we were bonding.
“A diorama, that’s the word. We were like a diorama.
“Oh yeah. You’ll never believe this. I look down. There’s a knife sticking out of the Hulk’s ass. One of the cowboys stabbed him in the butt. Some blood running down the back of his leg. Deep in the meat of his cheek. I don’t even know if he knows. Didn’t make a move to take it out. Didn’t seem to bother him. He was just breathing.
“And then, ‘Amigos.’ Someone says, ‘Amigos.’ I hear the word, I know what it means, but I don’t know why I’m hearing it. Then again, ‘Amigos.’ We all turn our heads. Real slow. Nobody moves their bodies, just the heads. And we all see Tomás standing on the sidewalk. And he’s got a fistful of twenty-dollar bills fanned like he’s Biggie fucking Smalls. And he’s smiling ’cause he knows he owns the situation.
“The tension immediately fades. The cops, they slowly put their guns back in their holsters, although they keep looking at the Hulk like he’s going to smash. Tomás peels off a couple of bills, pays each one of them, but not before he says something in each one’s ear. I don’t know what he said, but if they were scared of the Hulk, they were terrified of Tomás.
“And right there in front of our eyes, I watch everything change. The cops start kicking the cowboys awake. Four of them slowly get to their feet. The other one won’t wake up. So, two of them drag him by his feet as the cops hold them at gunpoint and walk them down the center of the street. To jail or a ditch at the edge of town, I don’t know and I don’t want to know.
“Tomás knelt down next to you, checked your pulse, your eyes. You kind of woke up, but then dropped back out. More passed-out than knocked-out, I was thinking. I told him I would take care of you. And without a word, Tomás went back into Cachanilla’s.
“When did Tomás turn into Tony fucking Montana?
“The Hulk followed Tomás. And as he walked, no shit, he reached behind him and pulled the knife out of his butt cheek. Just dropped it on the ground, barely missing a step. I wanted to watch him turn back into the Mexican Bill Bixby, but I figured it was time to get you home.
“I carried your ass three blocks. You are one heavy sleeper.
“But that settles it. We have got to go to Mexicali more. The weird shit always happens when you’re around. I missed you, man.”
Bobby dropped me off at the house. I decided that I would rather die in my sleep from my probable concussion than stay awake. I didn’t try to reflect on the events of the evening. I didn’t want to think about the fact that I’d only been back one day. I didn’t even take my shoes off. I just dropped on the couch fully clothed. And through the spinning, I let myself pass out.
Ow.
I knew I was going to be in
pain, but—ow. Ow all over my body.
The morning sun woke me, searing light ripping through the living room windows. I had been awake for a half hour, but remained motionless on the couch. I knew if I moved it would hurt. How did I know? I wasn’t moving and it hurt. I seriously considered avoiding any kind of movement until sometime next week. Or next winter.
I kept time with my pulse, counting each pounding heartbeat that echoed in my head. I hadn’t lost a fight that decisively in a long time and was quickly remembering why I had put it off so long. A hangover was bad enough. Pile on an A-plus ass-kicking and it made you forget that life was precious and every day a miracle.
I sat up slowly, holding my ribs for fear that they would shatter inside my body. I may have screeched in pain, making a sound not dissimilar to a cat fighting a pterodactyl. It’s hard to recall. I was alone. There were no witnesses. So let’s just say I manned up and silently took the pain.
I rubbed my hand gently across my right side where I had taken most of the punishment. My ribs were definitely bruised, a couple probably cracked, but none felt out of place. You know you’re having a rough morning when the most you hope for is to not piss blood.
I sat up. That was enough for the moment. I went back to not moving, my teeth pressed so tightly together I thought the enamel would crack. I lit a cigarette and smoked two before I made the effort to stand and make my way to the bathroom.
I stood in front of the mirror and stared at my face. I looked like the parachute hadn’t opened. It was an impressive array of injuries. I had a mouse under one very bloodshot eye, a fat lip, and a greenish bruise on one cheek. Coagulated blood filled my inflamed nostrils, and the entire length of the right side of my face was scraped with thin, red scabs. Some caked blood covered my forehead, having dripped down from where I had hit my head. I could feel the cut under my blood-matted hair, the wound still wet.
