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.