The Delivery

by Mara White

  The border is just like in the movies and buzzing with action. The signs alone give me chills, and I wonder if I’ll be flagged to pull over. I’m only three cars out from the tollbooth when a border officer with a K-9 patrol begins to sniff my tires. I don’t have anything illegal, just bottled water and granola bars.

  A little farther on there’s a plaque in both English and Spanish that reads “Boundary of the United States of America.” I take a deep breath and hold it in my lungs. I’m crossing multiple boundaries right now, and it’s as scary as it is thrilling. I take my phone out and take a picture for Lex.

  Even if I don’t find him, I’m still glad that I did this. It’s empowering to step out of the monotony and commit to gigantic and terrifying choices. If I still feel this gravitational pull toward him three years later, it must mean something, right? I’d be stupid to pass it up and let it walk out of my life.

  The questions at the border consist of: US Citizen? Are you traveling alone? Business or pleasure? When will you return? How much cash are you carrying?

  That’s it. I’m waived through. What if I never come back? The Mexican side is about a hundred million megawatts brighter than San Diego. There are people selling every single object under the sun, from oranges and water to blankets and underwear and packets of chewing gum. The sides of the road are set up with stores, offering every trinket and souvenir in a blizzard of color. There are food stands and small loncherias taking up every little space. The air smells of crackling roast pig, fried onions and plenty of car exhaust.

  I buy a bag of oranges from a toothless old man in a poncho while I’m stopped at a light. I’ve got an urge to take his picture, but I stop myself thinking I don’t want to be the worst kind of tourist. I’m not making a documentary. I’m finally living my own life. I turn on the GPS and type in the address for Western Union, and about twenty-five addresses’ come up. My only link in the world to Mozey—the reason why I’m here. The man who makes my whole system hum, now divided by twenty-five possible Western Union pick-up stations.

  It only takes me ten minutes to find the first one, and I park on the street and lock the car. The neighborhood seems quiet with a few small restaurants and bodegas dotting the otherwise residential street. The air is hot and dry and everything is covered in a layer of gritty dust. I stretch and turn in a circle taking in everything around me.

  The cinderblock and cement houses come right up to the street. Many are painted bright colors, lots of pastels, like a roughed up candy land. In some cases you can easily see into someone’s living room and watch their TV. The vibe is sleepy in the late afternoon haze, and I wonder if it’s nighttime when everyone really misbehaves.

  I walk by a portly woman in a flowered housedress sweeping the sidewalk. She’s kicking up orange dust with her broom that appears to be crafted out of dried hay tethered to a long stick. I peek right into her kitchen as I pass by and spy her son or grandson relaxing in a hammock watching a telenovela on a super-sized flat screen. The broom and the television come from two different worlds. I wonder if the people who live here originally came this way to cross, then ended up staying for whatever reason. Living on the border must be like living at the airport.

  As I pull open the door to Western Union, I’m hit with cold air-conditioned heaven. I remember that most of the Southwestern US used to actually be Mexico and that the inhabitants of Tijuana could have been here for centuries.

  The sweet girl behind the plexi-glass does her best to explain to me that Mozey’s transfer could be picked up at one of their five hundred thousand, million, trillion locations. I chide myself for being so dumb. I feel a tiny bit better when she hands me a list of their two hundred Tijuana locations.

  She punches in the tracking code as my heart flip-flops in my chest like a fish out of water who just realized how fucked he is. It hasn’t been picked up yet and the transfer went active yesterday. It’s very likely it will be picked up today, so it’s just a matter of waiting. After it’s been collected she can tell which outpost the money was claimed from even though she’s not really supposed to. She’ll make an exception because I do have the tracking number.

  I rub my face, nod my head and thank her for her time. I turn to go but then look down at the list and head back to her window.

  “If you were me, which one’s would you check. There’s just so many here—I… I don’t know.”

  Her face brightens, and she looks at me with some form of endearment and pity.

  “Did you meet on vacations?” she asks. Oh God. She thinks I’m one of those.

  “No. I’m his social worker. He’s a family friend. My friend. He’s my brother’s best friend. That’s who sent the wire.” I’m rambling. My justifications sound hollow, and I feel like her face is wearing a mask of pleasantry but she knows I’m in love with somebody I shouldn’t be in love with.

  “I’m not married,” I bark like a crazed fool out of nowhere.

  “It’s fine. Let me show you the most trafficked locations in Tijuana. I think if this one came up first on the device you’re using it would be good to watch here. Chances are, it will come up on his device too.”

  “God, you’re good. It’s okay if I lurk? I’ll do it in my car—or is there someplace where I can get coffee?”

  My head is pounding with the scope of this task and all the driving and the pretzels and the gas station blue slushie.

  “Right across the street. There is a place called, Miramar. You can get—” she glances down at her watch “—you can get comida corrida if they’re still serving. The coffee is good and the place is quiet, especially this time of day.”

  I lean down toward the cut out in the Plexiglas, trying to make better eye contact.

  “Thanks. You’ve been such a big help. How late are you open?”

  “No problem. Until nine. My name is Remedios, but you can call me Reme,” she says as she smiles at me genuinely.

  “Good. Cause I couldn’t have said the other one. Thanks, Reme. I’ll be back before you close.”

  Chapter 17

  At the restaurant I order soup and coffee—the lunch special is over. The stoic waiter brings me greasy, thick tortilla chips with three different bowls of colorful salsa. As soon as I dip, the exciting flavors wake me up: there’s a green one, a spicy brown-red one and fresh pico de gallo, which I’m already familiar with. I can’t stop eating them, and it’s not long before my mouth is on fire. I have to order a beer to cool down because there’s only a ceiling fan and I’m sweating like a fat man in a Russian bathhouse sauna.

  So far not one single customer has entered the Western Union. I take out my phone and save the fifty odd addresses’ of the various Tijuana locations. What’s my plan? To stake-out every money pick-up point possible in this money pick-up city? It just doesn’t seem possible. The beer is working to cool me down, and it’s making me feel all melty. I order another one and squeeze a wedge of fresh lime into it. With the beer they’ve brought me more chips and now a cobalt blue dish of peanuts covered in a fine red powder. I gobble those up too, and now even my teeth are on fire. I snap a picture of myself, with red on my teeth, and Instagram it for Lex even though I know he’s at work.

  It’s not too much longer before I finally put two and two together and realize the more beer I order the more snacks they bring me. What a beautiful invention! Why not advertise it openly? Apparently it’s a secret only the brilliantly minded like me can figure out. Since it hit five o’clock, they’ve been bringing me miniature coronas in a cute little tin bucket. I’m dipping some white, crunchy, fruit-vegetable into an orange mayonnaise sauce when Lex hits me back on Instagram with a picture of his mop splayed out over public school tiles.

  “Looks great, Lana. What ya doing? Chewing betal nuts again?”

  I pick up my phone and text him back instead.

  “Oh, God, Lex! F
ree food with beer!!!!! They don’t put their peanuts in honey—they roll them in satanic baby powder with enough citric acid to burn holes through flesh. I think I’m in love. I’m going to move here. Don’t know. I just like how they think.”

  “Sounds good, sis. Maybe you should go home? Are you drunk? Any word from Mo yet?”

  “No and Yes!!! He still didn’t pick up. I mean, yes to drunk.”

  “Be careful down there. At least spring for a nice place to sleep. From the news and movies it seems like they chop off heads and carve up bodies for foreplay.”

  “I’ve got a Marriot rewards card from Dale’s production company that guarantees me a soft bed with clean sheets. Don’t worry about me. This is like vacation, but without Dad wearing socks on the beach and mortifying us to death.”

  “Oh god! Do you remember the year he shaved his beard halfway through vacation and walked around with a two toned face?”

  “How could I forget? Those were his tan lines. Beard, Speedo and calf socks. I’ll be fine. Really.”

  “Be careful. I hope you find him. “

  “I hope you find him” echoes relentlessly through my head, like a sad mantra your batty aunt gives you at your junior high graduation, as if finding a man were your one and only ticket to salvation. I don’t want to put that much pressure on a man or a relationship. If I don’t find Mo, then it wasn’t meant to be. Speaking of pressure, my belly feels like a dragon’s lair filled with fire-breathing demons. I just ate so much weird shit. I don’t know what I was thinking.

  I pay my bill, which is surprisingly cheap. I could live off of those chips and peanuts easily for at least a week. The cool part is you don’t get too drunk when you’re constantly snacking. Just a warm body buzz and a swollen face from the salty stuff.

  I stop in to see Reme just as they’re closing up shop. She’s changed out of her blue polo shirt with the insignia and is wearing tight jeans and a mid-rift bearing t-shirt. She flings a tiny purse on a chain over her shoulder, hands me a stick of gum and says, “Come-on, I’ll walk you out.”

  She lights up a cigarette as we walk to my car. “I ran his name through the database to see if he’s picked up before. A lot of people just go back to the same store. Stick with the same one, since they already know the location,” she says as she waves her match to extinguish it.

  “Wow, Reme, you’re a genius. I never would have thought of that.”

  She smiles at me and laughs. Her pink tongue darts out, and she pulls a stray bit of tobacco off the tip with her thumb and middle finger.

  “No filter, huh? That’s hardcore. Or old-school depending how you look at it.”

  “Cheap is what it is. Delicados. Only one peso, want one?” she says, adjusting her weight. She looks at my car and then back at my face. “Do you think you could give me a lift? I’m not too far from here, and it can be dangerous walking.”

  “I. Uh. I…” Stop stalling you fool, she’s been so nice and helpful to you. “Sure,” I manage, sounding only a little bit strained. I’m scared, Reme. Of Tijuana, of Mexico, I’m even a little scared of Mexicans.

  “Buenas,” her co-workers call as they lock up the door. The sound of padlocks banging against metal, roll-up doors being yanked back down signals the end of the day: the end of the business day that is. I’m sure for other creatures of the dark, their day is just beginning. The doors slamming down are an alarm clock to wake up those night crawlers.

  “Yeah, of course I can! I just might need directions.”

  I drive Reme home, and she lives pretty out of the way. Turns out, Tijuana has a huge residential sprawl that climbs up into the hills and eats up the entire countryside. At some point the pavement ends, and we’re driving on a dirt road. My car is pretending it has no springs and kicking up a dust storm to add to the already surreal ambiance.

  “It’s just up here,” Reme says, pointing to distant light. “You can let me off at the corner, and I’ll walk up the driveway.”

  “If you’re sure it’s safe,” I say, dying to turn the car around and scurry back to civilization. “Looks like a hike.”

  “I’d have walked the whole way if you didn’t offer to drive me.”

  Reme has me pull over, and I don’t know how she can call it a corner. I can’t even see the driveway she’s talking about, but I do see a patch of clustered lights in the distance. To the left of it the purple aura of Tijuana beckons.

  “Think you can figure your way back?” Reme asks as she slides off the seat. Three mangy, shorthaired dogs greet her and jump and whine at her feet.

  “I’m just going to plug the Marriot into my GPS,” I say with conviction. If I catch a flat or get pulled over it will probably be the end of me. I’ll become one of those girls who went missing at the border, and Reme has just become the very last person to see me.

  But for all my fear and dramatics, it takes me an hour to get back and find the Marriot. The front desk clerk, Mario according to his nametag, is adamant about adhering to the gold card policies. Apparently I can’t check in without Dale’s ID and the hotel could give two fucks if I’m Dale Foster’s long lost lover or just the jerk who stole his wallet. Mario offers to call Dale and verify with verbal permission over the phone. My enthusiastic no earns a smug look as I confirm all of his suspicions.

  I take out my phone and stare at it dejectedly and consider calling Dale. I shove it back into my pocket but not before I snap a pic of a gloating Mario. I Instagram it for Lex and caption it “No clean sheets for this Russian princess. What a cocksucker.”

  In the lobby, the automatic doors open when you step on the reproduction oriental carpet. The hot, corrupt air swirls in from outside, trying to lap up Mario’s expensive air-conditioning. Since I won’t be able to partake of this luxurious comfort, I’ll stand still on this trigger point and hold the door open just to piss off Mario. Within arms reach is a welcome table covered with brochures. It boasts an obnoxious fake floral arrangement and a white ceramic bowl holding a pyramid of green apples. I pluck the one from the top and take a loud crunchy bite without moving my feet so the doors remain open.

  “Fuera!” Mario yelps, and I quickly pocket another apple. I wink at him over my shoulder as I skip out of the Marriot into the hot, sweaty Tijuana night.

  Three blocks away I see a decent enough place. The awning has a hole in it but the flower boxes are real and overflowing with a cascade of pink flowers. The hotel looks like someone keeps it up carefully, the shutters are also pink and have been recently painted. It’s a local place, definitely not a chain. It’s called, Paraíso, which I’m guessing probably means paradise. The clerk inside is a pleasant, middle-aged woman who appears to also be the owner. Her front desk is adorned with a giant rainbow sarape and mini potted cactuses all looking spiky and phallic. She sets me up with a room for two nights resulting in a credit card charge of fifty bucks. For a price like that, I’m already imagining shared bathrooms. She hands me a key but comes around the desk, flips the lock on the front door and offers to walk me to my room. The center area of the hotel opens up to the night sky, and it’s full of tropical plants, real dirt and ivy vines crawling up the balconies of the three floors. There’s a bubbling fountain in the middle where a beautiful white parrot is perched.

  “He doesn’t fly away?” I ask as we walk around the secret, lush garden that’s invisible from the outside of the hotel.

  “He like paradise too much,” the woman says, smiling as we approach my door. “Call a desk for more towels. Coke machine and ice first floor only.”

  “This is great! What did you say your name was?”

  “Claudia, but lot’s of the boys call me Coco.”

  I’m wondering who the boys are when a hand in hand couple brush past us on the balcony. One man is shaved bald and wearing sunglasses despite the darkness, and his boyfriend is clad in skintight white j
eans and shimmering butterfly collared blouse. I peer through the paradise jungle to the second story balcony across the way at the only other people still left at the hotel. A couple making out. Two men. Hmmm. There is a theme to this paradise.

  “Oh, so this is a gay hotel? Is it okay if I stay?” I ask, suddenly nervous about being turned away once again.

  “Haha!” Coco says and slaps me on the shoulders. “You are welcome here, love. Paradise is for everyone!”

  “Thanks!” I say, taking Coco in again through the dull cast purple shadow. I don’t think Coco is a lady now that I look a little closer and maybe peep stubble through her thick coat of tan foundation.

  “Tommy and Rocco are next to you in case you run into trouble. They come every weekend. They from San Diego.”

  “Thanks again, Coco. Tommy and Rocco next door. Soda on the first floor. I think I’m good. I’m so tired. Thank you, really, really. Thank you.”

  I’m talking fast and trying to get her to back off because my stomach is staging the first signs of a revolt. Down dragons, down devil peanuts and so, so much salsa. I’m not sure if I need a toilet or an Alka Seltzer or another beer to tame the roar. Welcome to Mexico where they serve up free hellfire with chips and a beer.

  Coco flicks on the light, revealing a tidy room with a traditionally Mexican, woven bedspread. Not what I expected. Much, much better than I could have imagined.

  “Careful if you go out. Stick to the main clubs. Don’t take a street taxi.”

  “I think I’m just going to sleep,” I say as I put my backpack on the foot of the bed. “Anyway, I left my car in the Marriot parking lot.”

  “That’s what they all say, mi vida, but Tijuana turns us into night creatures.” With that she closes the door, and I lie back on the bed.