Read Online Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) by Shaw Johnny - Free Book Online
Authors: Shaw Johnny
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dog fight, or a cock fight if that’s your pleasure. What is fun and illegal in the U.S., Mexico gladly offers in a semi-legal, slightly dangerous way. If the law looks the other way, then is it really illegal?
Mexicali is a fairly normal city in the day. A great place to shop, grab a bite to eat, and see the sights. It could be trouble, but it didn’t have to be. Nighttime was a different story. Most of the activity was a varied form of trouble. In high school, we used to call twenty-dollar bills “Get Out of Jail Free” cards.
I could vividly remember the last time I was in Mexicali. Not coincidentally the closest time I had ever come to being thrown in a Mexican jail. I was in the back of the police car in handcuffs and everything. Of course, I hadn’t done anything. I had been there to rent a tuxedo for prom. The “crime” I committed was running a stop sign that didn’t exist. The real crime was that I didn’t have any money on me.
I don’t blame the Mexican cops. They’re underpaid and underappreciated, so they built the mordida system into the economy. La mordida means “the little bite,” and that’s usually all it was. The real mistake I had made was getting angry. Drunk, I would’ve been meek. But sober, I was self-righteous. As I refused to pay for a crime I didn’t commit, they knew they had me.
When I realized my steadfast protest was only going to get me pain and more pain, I gave in. All in all, it had ended up being reasonable. They took my Maglite, an old Playboy (Mensa edition), my Leatherman, and a Billy Joel CD that some girl had left in my car. Only the Leatherman pissed me off. It had been a gift from Pop.
Back then Mexicali was fun and scary and dangerous and welcoming. Now, it just felt scary and dangerous. I reminded myself that it was a city like any other and that most of its residents were just regular people. It didn’t help. I was glad Bobby was with me.
Bobby and I walked down the steps of the tunnel that crossed the border. Half the dim fluorescents were out, and the shadows implied movement. There were a few businesses in the underground no man’s land, but only the magazine stand was open. At the end of the long tunnel was a turnstile, the identical design used at the exit of amusement parks. Once you leave the U.S. into Mexico, you can’t return the same way. It’s just like leaving the fun park and emerging in the harsh reality of the parking lot.
A fat Mexican border agent barely looked up from his skin mag. A small wall-mounted fan made his mustache dance on his upper lip. Sweat poured from his face and over the thick flesh that spilled over his too-tight collar. He didn’t ask to look at any paperwork. He didn’t ask us where we were from. He didn’t say a single thing. Not a word. I’ll hand it to Mexico. It was not a country that lived in fear of the people who crossed over its borders. Maybe they felt like they had nothing to lose.
We walked through the turnstiles and Bobby and I were in Mexico.
Walking over the border can elicit culture shock for people whose Mexican excursions have been limited to getting off the plane in Cancún or Puerto Vallarta. For most tourists, the only concern is whether or not the cab driver overcharged for the ride to the all-inclusive resort. Walking into Mexicali, there weren’t any welcome signs. No bienvenido . No tourist board. Just a crumbling set of concrete steps that led you out of a tunnel and onto the bustle of Avenida Francisco Madero.
The air felt different—thicker and dustier with a hint of burnt meat. It might have been in my head, but the difference was acute. We’d walked fifty yards, but it may as well have been fifty miles. I immediately wanted to be back on American soil.
As we climbed the steps, I watched the buildings of Mexicali rise in my field of vision. Not hindered by building codes or common sense, the architecture was a hodgepodge of cinder block, concrete, link fence, and corrugated tin.
Mexicali is a fairly normal city in the day. A great place to shop, grab a bite to eat, and see the sights. It could be trouble, but it didn’t have to be. Nighttime was a different story. Most of the activity was a varied form of trouble. In high school, we used to call twenty-dollar bills “Get Out of Jail Free” cards.
I could vividly remember the last time I was in Mexicali. Not coincidentally the closest time I had ever come to being thrown in a Mexican jail. I was in the back of the police car in handcuffs and everything. Of course, I hadn’t done anything. I had been there to rent a tuxedo for prom. The “crime” I committed was running a stop sign that didn’t exist. The real crime was that I didn’t have any money on me.
I don’t blame the Mexican cops. They’re underpaid and underappreciated, so they built the mordida system into the economy. La mordida means “the little bite,” and that’s usually all it was. The real mistake I had made was getting angry. Drunk, I would’ve been meek. But sober, I was self-righteous. As I refused to pay for a crime I didn’t commit, they knew they had me.
When I realized my steadfast protest was only going to get me pain and more pain, I gave in. All in all, it had ended up being reasonable. They took my Maglite, an old Playboy (Mensa edition), my Leatherman, and a Billy Joel CD that some girl had left in my car. Only the Leatherman pissed me off. It had been a gift from Pop.
Back then Mexicali was fun and scary and dangerous and welcoming. Now, it just felt scary and dangerous. I reminded myself that it was a city like any other and that most of its residents were just regular people. It didn’t help. I was glad Bobby was with me.
Bobby and I walked down the steps of the tunnel that crossed the border. Half the dim fluorescents were out, and the shadows implied movement. There were a few businesses in the underground no man’s land, but only the magazine stand was open. At the end of the long tunnel was a turnstile, the identical design used at the exit of amusement parks. Once you leave the U.S. into Mexico, you can’t return the same way. It’s just like leaving the fun park and emerging in the harsh reality of the parking lot.
A fat Mexican border agent barely looked up from his skin mag. A small wall-mounted fan made his mustache dance on his upper lip. Sweat poured from his face and over the thick flesh that spilled over his too-tight collar. He didn’t ask to look at any paperwork. He didn’t ask us where we were from. He didn’t say a single thing. Not a word. I’ll hand it to Mexico. It was not a country that lived in fear of the people who crossed over its borders. Maybe they felt like they had nothing to lose.
We walked through the turnstiles and Bobby and I were in Mexico.
Walking over the border can elicit culture shock for people whose Mexican excursions have been limited to getting off the plane in Cancún or Puerto Vallarta. For most tourists, the only concern is whether or not the cab driver overcharged for the ride to the all-inclusive resort. Walking into Mexicali, there weren’t any welcome signs. No bienvenido . No tourist board. Just a crumbling set of concrete steps that led you out of a tunnel and onto the bustle of Avenida Francisco Madero.
The air felt different—thicker and dustier with a hint of burnt meat. It might have been in my head, but the difference was acute. We’d walked fifty yards, but it may as well have been fifty miles. I immediately wanted to be back on American soil.
As we climbed the steps, I watched the buildings of Mexicali rise in my field of vision. Not hindered by building codes or common sense, the architecture was a hodgepodge of cinder block, concrete, link fence, and corrugated tin.
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