Mississippi Kite

The city Parks officer rang our doorbell at about a quarter to 3.  It was a bright August day in ‘87.  I was 7 years old.  My brothers and I knew why she had come.  As my dad answered the door we hid in the kitchen so we could hear and not be seen.

“My name is Shirley and I’m with the City Parks and Recreation Department.”  She was a big women with a crew cut on top of a great big head.  ‘Butch’ my dad would later call her.  Shirley explained that she had followed us from the park and needed to talk about what we’d been doing.  My father listened intently it seemed, but I could sense a smirk on his face.

“Do you know what a Mississippi Kite is sir?”  My dad replied that he didn’t.  “It’s an endangered bird of prey.  One of them is nesting in the park where I saw your sons throwing rocks at it.”  This was entirely true.

Exactly how we discovered the Mississippi Kite I can’t recall, but we weren’t the first to notice her.  We were the first, I think, to play with her.  Throwing rocks was boring and pointless really.  There was no way any of us could hit her even though she was huge.  The bird had a wingspan of about four feet from what we could tell, and we had a pretty good idea since we found a way to get it to attack us.  What we did was get her attention with a rock or two, and then we would ride our bikes up a man made hill some distance away.  The hill was about 30 feet high and smooth all the way down which made it a perfect launching point.  After the bird was sufficiently aware we were some sort of danger to her eggs, or chicks  or whatever she had up there, we would tear ass down the hill and cross a clearing in the trees.  Once the rider entered the clearing, the Kite would instinctively swoop down from the trees and buzz the rider.  It was an incredible rush to see a falcon-like bird flapping its wings, looking straight at you, and whizzing by at a high rate of speed.  The goal was to get to the other side of the clearing and remain on your bike.  Most often we’d ditch just as the bird passed over.  I guess we were scared it would claw our eyes out or something. We did this almost everyday for a week, until Shirley caught us.  We were throwing rocks to get the bird’s attention when we saw a truck coming through the park in our direction.  Instinctively we ran.

After Shirley finished explaining the situation, she revealed that no one was in any trouble as long as we left the endangered beast alone.

Dad couldn’t resist asking a couple of questions.

“How many of these ‘Mississippi Kites’ are there?”  He said the name as if it were someone’s imaginary friend.

“Less than a thousand.”  Butch replied.

“Well, I only have 3 boys.  Who’s more endangered?”  Butch walked away shaking here sizable head, and my dad shut the door with a smile.

The Mexico Story - part 4

“What the hell!?” I was pissed. “How could you not tell me to say ‘American’?” They all had just assumed that I knew. Or at least that’s what Jerome told them to say. To this day I think they set me up, but at least they got wrangled up in it too.

So that happened.  What’s more amazing is that we went back.  Why you ask?  I hadn’t gotten drunk yet, and I was on a mission.

I don’t remember how we found the place, but after poking around several “clubs” we stumbled upon a real Mexican dive bar.  No wider than a trailer home, and no deeper than my intentions, it was a bar with no name.  Rather, it had a number.  Let’s call it No. 37. Clearly this was the address, but it’s cooler than saying No. 37 Gringo Central.  What made it the obvious place for the night’s festivities was the decor.  All over the walls and ceilings was a collage exclusively of 70’s era playboy nudes.  Hundreds of thousands it must have been.  Everywhere you looked were dated, slightly too hairy, woman looking at you wantonly.  I couldn’t help but wonder where these ladies were now, and what they might look like.

Needless to say, I sat at the bar and drank beer after beer shot after shot, sampling a little bit of everything.  The regulars (prostitutes and drug dealers all, based on the pagers that kept going off every 5 minutes)  were now doubt laughing at the prices I was being charged, and the pleasure I took paying them.

Hours later, it was decided we should go.  Perhaps the bartender cut me off, or maybe Jerome had gotten bored.  That part is fuzzy.  The next part however, is as clear as the fear in my face would eventually become.

I was half way into my first Tecate ever, when we started to leave.  They weren’t waiting for me, I wasn’t going to sit in that bar alone, and I certainly wasn’t going to leave half a beer behind.  So I did the one thing I was told not to do.  I broke the law. I knew what I was doing at the time.  I thought, “No big deal.  I’ll just chug it on the way to wherever it is we’re going.  It won’t take 2 minutes, and no one will see me.  It’s dark outside.”  It was dark, but the streetlights framed me perfectly for the 2 Mexican Police who were standing 25 feet from the door.  From the corner of my bloodshot eye I saw them.  I was going bottoms up as they pointed at me, said something, and began moving in my direction.  I bolted back into the Playboy Mansion and put the beer back where I had been sitting.  I don’t know why.  What was I thinking?  Did I think I had just undone something?  Was I going to be able to deny drinking in public?  No, but I was able to keep my cool.  I walked back outside and was immediately stopped by the cops.  They didn’t touch me.  Instead they told me what to do, in very clear English.  I faced the wall hands up and legs spread.  I was given the pat down.  I was warned before the searching officer took my wallet from my back right pocket.  This step was odd to me. In the States you give the cop ID, but here I’m sure they want to know how much money I had.  I wonder now how odd it was to see $300 dollars in some drunk kid’s wallet on a weeknight in Juarez?  They must have thought we were up to no good.  But so were they.  It would not be a stretch to assume they were aware of our presence, and were waiting for us to leave the bar, and make a mistake.  Extortion is the name of the game for border town cops.  “Supplemental Income”  My wallet was politely returned to me and I was told to check it as to assure nothing had been taken from it, yet.

While all this is happening, my cohorts are speaking with the other cop.  I have no idea what they’re saying, but I didn’t care.  It was all in Spanish anyway.  I was too drunk to be worried.  I knew all I had to do at some point as offer these guys some money, and I would be released.  At what point, and how much were my only questions.  I waited for the right moment.  Apparently I waited too long.  I was told to walk around the corner.  “Around The Corner!?” I thought.  “This street is terrifying enough!  What the HELL could be around the corner?”

“You’re under arrest.” my cop said to me.  Now the fear broke through my drunken veneer.  As I was about to ask if there was some sort of fine I could pay, the other cop walked up and said I could go.  “Go back to America, now.”  He said.  Without a word, but with hundreds of thoughts I started walking.  Jerome right beside me.  On the walk back he told me it had cost $40 to get them to back off.  “Cheap justice.”  I thought.  I’ve never walked so fast in my life.  As we crossed the border I told the guards “American” and was barely glanced at.

No mas.

The Mexico Story - part 3

Note:  I should never have started telling this story.  I don’t want to finish it, but it seems I can’t do anything else until it’s done.  Here on in it’s going to be very rough, and probably poorly edited.  I just don’t care anymore.

After lunch we drove to the border, parked, and walked to the pedestrian bridge.  We paid a small toll and across we went.  There was no security to speak of.  The security is encountered when crossing into the US.  The Rio Grande looked like an empty cement moat as we walked over it.  At the apex of the bridge is a seal, some kind of marker.  A history buff like myself wanted to take a closer look, however the dozens of begging children surrounding us with puppy dog eyes and empty palms made that impossible.

The streets of Juarez we crowded.  people walking, vendors selling, even crazy ladies shouting from doorways.  “CHEAPER THAN K-MART CHEAPER THAN K-MART!”

Our first order of business was to buy liquor.  My adolescent excitement about legally entering an adult beverage establishment and purchasing whatever I wanted was giving me chills.  It’s not that I was that big on liquor.  And liquor was never that big on me if you know what I mean.  My excitement came from the simple idea that I would be able to calmly browse isles of alcohol for my ideal bottle as opposed to sneaking drinks of my parents swill or bumming whatever happened to be at a party.  Honestly I can’t even remember what it was I bought or what it cost.  If I had to guess, it was probably Crown Royal, or perhaps Chivas.  There was a limit to the number of bottles we could buy, because each ‘adult’ was only allowed to carry 2 bottles of liquor into the US.

There is only one thing you have to remember when crossing from Mexico into the United States.  Tell the border guards - the American ones - that you are American.  It’s like saying hello.  Just look at the guy and say “American” as you calmly walk past.  No one told me this.  It was probably meant to be a joke, but border guards have no sense of humor.  It also doesn’t help when you look like a pot head, in your gold Doc Martins, and you are walking all alone through the checkpoint.  You see, I split up from the guys, because they were carrying all the booze.  I couldn’t help but be nervous.  I’ve always been that way.  I got pulled over once for having a headlight out, and the cop asked me why I was so nervous.  I told her “I don’t know, I guess I just don’t like cops.”  She wasn’t to happy about that, but she let me go without searching me or my vehicle.

What actually happened was this.  As I got through the rope line, and approached the guard I was simply going to walk past.  The people if front of me however, were each showing the guy something, only I couldn’t tell what.  So it was my turn.  The guard looked at me as if he expected something, so I showed him the receipt I got when I payed the toll to cross the bridge.  Yes, I showed him a receipt for a dollar toll.  The guard took it from my hand, and very forcefully said “What’s this?” as he threw the receipt to the ground.  Without a word, but probably with some unseen gesture, I was immediately surrounded by half a dozen border guards.  I was asked for my ID.  One of the guards took it and said, “You’re from Odessa huh . . . what’s going on in, um” I could see him thinking “Andrews?”  Puzzled I replied ” How should I know?”  Before I could explain that Andrews was an hour away from Odessa, I was joined by my cohorts.  I could sense a scowl coming from Jerome’s direction.  Apparently  it wasn’t all that hard to link us together.  We were all lined up like a gang of usual suspects.  It must have been good for a laugh for all the Mexicans who were passing by.  And then there was the drug dog.  These guys wanted  scare us or something, and it worked on me.  They literally brought a drug sniffing dog out to sniff at our crotches.  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  Fortunately none of us was holding, so we were set free, without any explanation or apology.  I guess I just don’t like cops.

yes, there’s more.  Part 4 will be the last.

The Mexico Story - part 2

While I drank Mountain Dew and ate beef jerky everyone else slept. At some point in the night I started thinking. These guys are crazy! I’m driving 95 in the pitch black and they’re sleeping. They don’t know me or anything about me. I could have narcolepsy. I could fall asleep, cross the median into an oncoming semi and explode us all in a fireball. I could be doing blow off the steering wheel and careen off a guardrail into a support pillar. I wouldn’t trust me. Lucky for them I just want to go to Mexico.

At sometime around 4 am I saw the lights of the fabled old western town of El Paso. The city is amazing at night. From the mountains to the north that encroach on the city like a monolith, to the Rio Grande that separates but doesn’t, across which lies the much bigger Cuidad Juarez, it all seemed surreal.

We checked into a Motel 6 and got some sleep. Jerome got his own room, the rest of us split a room with two queen beds.  Me and the quiet guy got to sleep on cots.  This was less than ideal, but we were only staying two nights and I just wanted to go to Mexico.

The next morning it was up and out on our way to downtown.  Jerome said he knew a good Mexican food place so we could eat before we crossed.  Downtown El Paso is basically on the border with Mexico.  We drove up and down in a maze of one way narrow streets between warehouses and office buildings.  Once I was sufficiently lost, we pulled into a generic parking lot filled with old work trucks and tiny imports.  All with Chihuahua plates.  This was a big moment for me.  I’m a huge Mexican food fan.  It borders on food snobbery.  This was going to be the closest to authentic Mexican food as I was ever going to get.  I was not disappointed.  My Spanish was good enough that I could read the menu fine, but there were some items that weren’t familiar, which was what I was hoping for.  I didn’t come all the way from Odessa to eat burritos or tacos.  I was going to try something NEW.  One entree caught my eye - Chile Rellenos.  Battered Anaheim Chiles stuffed with cheese.  I couldn’t have imagined a better start to my Mexican adventure.

The Mexico Story

It was already well past sundown when we finally left town on the 4 or 5 hour drive to El Paso.  No one else wanted to drive, so Jerome gave me keys to the rented Chevy Tahoe.  Jerome was a 40 year old heavyset black man who was widely rumored to be gay.  I didn’t know him all that well, but when he said he was going to El Paso and Juarez with some of his friends I couldn’t help tagging along.  I just wanted to go to Mexico.

I was 19 years old and full of an eagerness to see new places and do new things.  As I drove we talked about what it was we were getting ourselves into.  Jerome had grown up in El Paso and had been to Juarez many times.  He assured us (mostly me) that there was nothing to worry about.  He said it was simple “Don’t do anything stupid, or break the law, and we won’t have any problems.  Besides, we can always bribe the police in Mexico.”  That last line always brought up something of  a chuckle.  I don’t think any of us believed we would ever have to pay a police officer to let us go free.  It’s just not something that happens in the U.S.  You don’t even think about it.

For the most part it seemed I was the only one with any real apprehension.  Besides Jerome and myself, there was:  Mike, who was Jerome’s closest friend that I knew,  and there was the blonde quiet guy Matt, I never did figure out why the hell he was around, and then there was Rob.  Rob was the greasiest, sleaziest, grossest looking guy I’d ever seen.  If you’ve ever met someone and knew immediately you couldn’t trust them, that was Rob.

So it was that the 5 of us were driving in the middle of an October night to El Paso and adventures unkonwn.  The chatting died down slowly over the hours until there was nothing but me, the road, and the occasional chirp of the radar detector as I slid the Tahoe through the bug filled desert darkness.

to be continued . . .