I almost scream, but don’t. When I was a kid an' played with toy guns, I wondered what it would feel like to get shot. I’m not religious, but the instant I’m hit I pray that I’ll never be shot again.
Holy Fuck! I was just standing here… . Everything’s happening too fast…Jesus…my partners are both down. Oh, my God! All that blood coming out of Kevin’s mouth...he’s choking. Jesus Christ! I can’t believe there’s so much blood in one person’s body. The other guy… . Holy Jesus! The top half of his head is missing. What was his name? Fuck! I can’t remember. Why are those guys still shooting? Why? They were just talking to us… . Why did they have-ta shoot us?
Someone shouts, “¡Venga tipos! ¡Vamonos!”
More gunshots. That’s an engine starting…it’s the truck…an' that guy's voice... .
“¡Andele! ¡Salgamos de aquí!”
Truck doors slam. A motor revs…more voices…gunshots.
Jesus…are they leaving? Sounds like it. Holy fuck! Take our damn truck. I hope they’re leaving.
“Kevin?” He isn’t making any more weird sounds. Jesus, this is too crazy!
My arm and shoulder hurts so much I wanna scream, but Jesus, I’m afraid to make a noise. I smell blood. Jesus, I remember that smell…at grandma’s…she cut off chicken’s heads...there was all that blood. It must be blood inside my shirt…it’s so sticky. My left hand...It hurts to move my arm. Jesus Christ…all this blood…my heart’s beating so fast it freakin’ me. I don’t wanna die here in these Mexican mountains. God, it’s so hot. Jesus Christ, I gotta get outa here! I wanna be home… .
I try not to, but I puke. Not much comes up. I gotta pee. God, I hope they don’t come back. I can’t hold it any longer. Fuck…aw, fuck! Now my legs are all wet. Jesus, it’s warmer than blood. I should have unbuttoned my pants. I taste blood as well as smell it. I try not to bite my lips. Oh God, I think I shit my pants. Holy Jesus, I don’t want to die here…not like this.
Gray clouds cover the sun. It’s gotta be in the 90s…but I’m cold. This time something comes up when I puke. Fuck. I wish I hadn’t eaten whatever that was. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, but tears come anyway.
A bird starts to sing.
Other than my heart, it’s the first sound of life since the truck drove away. Aw, Kevin…I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I roll up on my side, hug my knees and try not to cry. It’s hard to breathe. I look up. Huge thunderheads over dark ridges. I smell rain but it’s dry.
The bird is sill singing.
Something’s stinging me…all over me. I brush them off with my good arm. I’m on a fuckin’ anthill! I try to move and almost black out. I get on my hands and knees and try to crawl. Is that sound a motor? Holy Jesus…I hope not! My ears are ringing. God…maybe it’s just the wind.
I look at Kevin…then look away. Jesus…should I go through his pockets? What about his passport? God, I can’t do this. I don’t even want to look at that other guy. I’ll puke again. Fuck. How did this ever happen? Why in the hell did they shoot us? Jesus, they could-a just taken the shit…our truck…our money and left us alone. Jesus Christ, they didn’t have to shoot us.
I crawl away from Kevin, not far. I gotta stop. It hurts to move anything. It takes time, but I get to my feet. I almost black out. Blood keeps running down my arm but it hurts to press. The bullet must-a went through me. Jesus, if I don’t stop it I’ll bleed to death. I use the tail of my shirt and make a pad to hold against my shoulder. Holy fuck that hurts! What time is it? There’s so much blood on my Rolex I can hardly make it out.
It takes me ten minutes to get back up to the rutted Jeep trail. I look at my watch again. It’s still working.
A bunch of skinny steers stand along the edge of the trail. They stare at me; then go back to grazing. I follow the ruts down the other side of the ridge. There’s a tin-roofed adobe structure and a couple of ramshackle huts just above a cactus-lined dry streambed to my right. I head for them. Nowhere else to go.
“Hola.” My voice isn’t much more than a whisper. I try again. “Hola.”
Someone comes to the open door…an old woman in black, white hair tied back away from a deeply-lined face. She squints and looks at me like I’m some kind of freak. Then I remember what I must look like.
“Por favor,” I begin. My Spanish isn’t good. ”Ayúdeme por favor. Yo estoy dolido.”
Some scrawny chickens run across the dusty bare-as-bones space between her and where I’m standing. A mangy gray cat comes into the yard but stops when it sees me.
The woman’s squinting, but I think she understands I’m hurt. I wanna keep walking but I fall to my knees. She calls to someone. Two men in jeans and old shirts--like most of these mountain Mixtecs--appear and half carry me into the old adobe.
The woman tells them to put me on a big wooden table in the middle of the room. Not much light gets in through the narrow doorway and two small open windows. The smell of the room reminds me of a little Mexican place where I used to eat…peppers, frijoles, and corn. Not loudly, but they’re all talking at once.
It sounds like they don’t agree about helping me. Jesus…who could blame them. “Ayúdeme por favor,” I whisper, holding up my bloody hand, begging, hoping they’ll at least help stop the bleeding.
The old woman brings water…lifts my head so I can drink. She wipes dark arthritic hands on the front of her ankle-to-neck cotton dress and moves my hand away from my shoulder. She glances up at the men.
They’re speaking Mixtecan. I don’t understand a word. I think they’re discussing the hole in my shoulder, an’ probably how I got it. It’s obvious they’re afraid.
The woman brings a steaming pot of water from the fireplace, opens my shirt and starts to wash away the mess. My God! I can’t help it…I’m gonna pass out… .
I come to. The men are standing there, staring at me. Jesus…I’m as unwelcome as death. They exchange glances; older-than-years faces weatherworn and sun-darkened from so much time spent in the fields. One asks me in Spanish what happened. I tell him, best as I can, that a bunch of men robbed me and two pals…and then shot us. He looks at his companion, and then at the old woman. Then back to me.
“¿Dónde están sus compañeros?”
I tell him where I left Kevin and the other guy…that I’m sure they’re dead. He looks at his companion again. They go outside. I hear, but can’t tell what they’re saying. The woman is doing something to my shoulder. I’m not sure, but I think I keep falling in and out of reality.
I dream about Kevin and us making the plan…about the trip and the Mexican guys in their truck. I don’t remember it all, but it’s a bad dream. I open my eyes. I hear what sounds like chickens going to roost. It’s dark. Jesus. My shoulder still hurts like hell. The room smells the same. Someone’s putting wood in the fireplace.
I turn my head to look. The woman is working at a table next to it, grinding something in a small stone mortar. Only one of the men is in the room. He’s sitting on a stool near the fire and watching me like he wishes I wasn’t here. When he sees I’m paying attention he says something to the woman. She nods and shrugs.
I swing my legs over the edge of the table and sit up. That makes me almost cry. He gets off the stool, comes closer and looks at me for a long time before speaking, this time in Spanish. He tells me that Kevin and the other guy are dead, that he and his companion buried them. I understand the fear in his face. I tell him so. His expression doesn’t change. He goes back to his stool.
When the woman finishes preparing food, she serves the man where he sits. I get off the table and sit on one of three rickety wooden chairs that are pushed up against the adobe wall. While I was out the woman bandaged my shoulder with some kind of material. The bleeding seems to have stopped. It’s dark outside, it’s cooler, but it must still be in the 80s. It’s so weird…I have chills but I’m sweating.
The woman brings me a large glass of water, a bowl of beans and a plate of corn tortillas and sets them on the chair next to me. Even though my shoulder is killing me, the beans and tortillas smell so good that my stomach grumbles. I thank her, but she’s already on her way back to the fireplace. When I see that she’s eating, I eat too. No one says anything until the other man comes into the room. The three exchange words and he’s served a bowl of food by the woman.
I drink the water. The woman refills my glass. I drink that and she fills it again. When the men finish eating, one goes to an old box in the corner and returns with a pair of old jeans. He holds them toward me, points to a large basin of water in the opposite corner by a window, tells me to wash, and to change my pants. I know why, and I thank him.
I scoop out water into a smaller bowl, wash my face and hands, and turning my back on the woman, wash myself and change my pants. My wallet and a roll of money…I almost forgot. I take them out of my old pants and put them in my pocket. No one seems to pay any attention. My belt’s the only thing that keeps these jeans from falling to my ankles.
The man brings a faded plaid long sleeve shirt…then takes my pants, the blood-caked mess, and tosses them outside the door. I thank him again. He nods, but says nothing.
Jesus… . I think about Kevin, about our little deal. It all sounded so easy when we planned it. What a screwed up mess this turned into. I thought we were going to make some real easy money…fly in…make the deal…fly out in a week. Fuck. I have no idea how I’m gonna get home.
They let me sleep on a padded rug on the dirt floor. I have more bad dreams, and wake each time soaked in sweat. My shoulder is stiff and so fuckin’ sore I can barely move. I gotta piss so I get up and go outside. A sliver-thin moon is rising. A rooster crows somewhere near one of the shacks. My watch shows five o’clock.
I button my pants and go back inside. The men are not present. The woman is crouched, doing something with cooking ware by the fireplace. She looks at me over her shoulder.
“Buenos dias.” I try to sound grateful.
She nods and turns her attention back to her work. I fill my glass with water and drink. The rooster crows again. Jesus, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so lost…or so stupid.
One of the men comes in, gets a drink of water, and speaks with the woman. She keeps working but nods as he talks. They come to some kind of conclusion.
He looks at me. “¿Tiene hambre? Coma. Entonces nos iremos. Usted debe salir de aquí pronto. Yo le mostraré cómo llegar a la carretera.”
I am hungry. The woman makes two bean burritos. I sit at the table and begin to eat one. She wraps the other in old paper and hands it to me. I finish eating and follow the man outside.
It’s getting light. We walk back to the dirt road, follow it for a couple of kilometers, and cut across another ridge to our right. At the top I can see for a long way. There’s mist in the valleys and higher mountains beyond. A valley separates the rocky slopes from the scrub-covered hills where we stand. That’s gotta be the highway over there. Those are highway markers and a guard rail… .
“Tenga cuidado,” he says.
Be careful? I guess so, I think, so sore it’s hard to walk.
“Eso está al norte.” He points north. “Usted puede encontrar un aventón con un conductor de camión si usted espera en los marcadores.”
He’s pointing to the highway markers across the valley. I hear a truck grinding up the far grade and wonder if I do what he says, if a driver will stop for someone like me. I sure as hell hope so. Nogales is a long way away.
“Tenga cuidado.” He shakes his head sadly. “Y tenga buena suerte.”
“Gracias para todo.” I indicate the pants and shirt…and even the burrito.
“Por nada. Tenga cuidado.”
I nod. “Si. I’ll be careful.”
By his expression it’s clear that our encounter has left some deep marks. He turns and leaves. Legs still shaky, I move down the hill toward a path that looks like it heads for the highway. I’m the only one on it.
How did I get myself into this? Holy Jesus… . I try not to let images of yesterday into my head. I’m not successful, and struggle to keep the burrito down.
By the time I get to the highway the sun’s been up for an hour. It’s getting hotter by the minute. A small Mixtec man sits by the side of the road.
“Hola,” he says, a leathery-face toothy ear-to-ear smile. A front tooth is missing.
“Hola.” I look down the grade, hoping a truck might appear.
“¿Donde vas?” His face is dark as chocolate. “¿La linea?”
“Si,” I answer, wondering where I’m really going now. “The border.”
“Mui lejos.” He smiles like a mask.
I nod. The border is maybe three days away. “¿Tres dias?”
“Eso depende. Algunos transportan en camión y manejan directamente por. el otro lado.” He coughs, watery eyes distant and cloudy.
I think about what he says...about getting a ride with a trucker who’ll drive straight through to the border. With my luck the truck won’t make it. I sit on the guardrail and try to relax. The man looks away. Neither of us talks. The sun gets higher in a cloudless sky. I close my eyes and hope that he doesn’t question me.
A half-hour later a beat-up semi hauls up the paved grade, downshifts and slows to a stop. We stand. The driver waves to the little man and gestures toward the other side of the truck. It smells like pineapples. We climb on the running board and get in. The Mixtec explains that I’m headed for the USA. They chat like they’ve known each other for years. I look out the window and think about what’s happened, can’t stop seeing Kevin’s face and all that blood.
An hour later the driver looks over at me. He’s wearing old aviator style dark glasses. I can’t see his eyes. “You are going to the border, yes?”
“Right.” I’m surprised that he speaks such good English. “To Nogales…actually to Los Angeles.”
“Me too, but it costs much money. Sometimes more than I have.”
He wants money. I don’t wanna pull out a roll of bills. “How much money?”
“How much?” He smiles. “How much do you think it is worth? To go so far?”
“I don’t have much money.” I indicate my clothes and unshaved face. “I have a little…not much. I have to eat…”
“Me too.” He’s smiling and patting a generous over-the-belt-belly. “Maybe you buy food for me when we stop?”
I take a deep breath, look out the open side window, and think about the things that have happened…the things that still could. If I lose what’s left, this is it.
“If we find some place to eat that isn’t expensive…”
He laughs good-naturedly and nods an acceptance.
Later in the day we slow and pull off toward a set of diesel pumps and stop. He fills the truck’s tanks. It’s a long stop. We eat at a small roadside stand, drink strong black coffee and chat about politics, taxes, living conditions in the USA and Mexico. Religion doesn’t come up.
While I pay for the food the other two excuse themselves, say they are going to take a short siesta next to the truck. I can’t sleep, but I climb up and rest in the cab. When it starts to rain the men climb back in, and we’re on our way again. It rains the rest of the day.
Two days later, we pull into Nogales. The Mixtec and I thank the driver and get out. The Mixtec disappears in the crowd of pedestrians. After I eat a couple of tacos at a street vendor’s stand, I join a small group of American tourists walking back across the border.
A Border Patrol officer stops me. “Where were you born?”
“Los Angeles.”
“How long have you been in Mexico?”
“A week.”
“Anything to declare?”
“A hangover?” I hope I sound like a smart-ass college tourist.
“Don’t drive if you’ve been drinking.” He waves me through.
Feet in America, I almost do the get-down-on-my-knees thing to kiss the ground. No one is paying any attention to me. For the first time since I put it there, I pull out what’s left of the small roll of bills from my pocket and count it. One hundred twelve dollars. Holy Jesus. I left over 85,000 bucks in Mexico, and my best friend. What did that cost? How can I ever explain it to anyone? There’s nothing I can do or say that will make things right.
I go into a convenience gas station, buy a Nogales T-shirt, gauze, adhesive tape, a safety razor, and lock myself in the restroom. I wash my face and shave off three days of stubble. I gotta see it. It takes me a couple of minutes to peal off the bandages. Jesus. The hole looks so dark…at least it’s not bleeding. I can’t see where the bullet came out, but I don’t think it hit any bone. I make two pads and tape them over the holes. How can something so small hurt so bad for so long? I stuff the blackened bandages and plaid shirt into the trash, put on the T-shirt and come out hoping that I look a little more American.
It takes me an hour to hitch a ride with another trucker who’s headed for L.A. He reminds me of my Uncle Charlie. God, I wish it were you, Charlie. Why did you have to go and die? You wouldn’t have let me screw up like this.
“I’m driving straight through,” the driver says, tuning in a country and western station on his rig’s radio. “Use the sleeper if you’re tired.”
On my back, and staring at a map of the southwest that’s taped to the ceiling, I can’t stop the tears…or the rockslide of events that almost killed me…the stupid ill-conceived idea that’s made a wreck of my life.
“You okay, son?”
“What?”
“You were talking to yourself. Got something you wanna talk about?”
It comes out, all of it. I tell him the truth. “I’m gonna have a lot of explaining to do to some people who are expecting to make a lot-a money, but there’s nothing they can say or do that will make me feel worse. Nothing.”
He feathers the brakes and takes an off-ramp to a rest area. The truck rolls to a stop before he speaks.
“Look…for your sake I wish that was so, but those kinna people, son, well, they got ways that could make you think you’ve been on a picnic. It’s not just you…what about your mom, your dad…you got brothers and sisters?”
I nod. “My mom…and a sister.”
His jaw muscles tighten and he shakes his head. “Wanna go somewhere beside home? It’s a big world. They might not find you.”
Heat waves on black asphalt make passing cars look like they’re floating. Jesus, my shoulder still hurts like hell.
He reaches into his pocket, "Don't have much, but you can get a plane ticket...see you through for a few days." He shows me a wad of bills. "Your call."
"You think my family would be okay…I mean, if I did that?"
He frowns. "No. Probably won't change that."
I shake my head, hesitantly push his hand away, and motion toward L.A. “Thanks, but no thanks. Let’s just go... .
My head hurts so bad… . I lean back against the seat. So dizzy. The driver shifts into gear. The rig starts to roll toward the onramp. My vision. I look out the window but everything’s so blurry… . Everything’s fading… .