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Officer Grumpy takes in my ensemble. His eyes sweep down to my toes and move slowly upward until we are staring at one another. His distaste (and that’s putting it mildly) is carved into his face. I smile goofily at him, hoping he’ll see that I’m not worth his time.
“Listen…William,” he says, glancing down at my license. “I need you to open your trunk for me.”
An obvious joke comes to mind, but I swallow it.
I pop open the trunk, wondering what the hell he thinks he’s going to find in there. Cash? Bombs? A dead body? I mean, really? I’m so much less interesting than I look. I smile to myself as I watch Officer Grumpy take in the mind-numbingly dull contents of the trunk.
There’s a beach chair, a few textbooks, and an empty Vitamin Water bottle. Ooooh, so raunchy. I’m such a bad boy. Spank me.
He closes the trunk and turns to face me. “Are you pla
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you have Mexican auto insurance?”
“Uh, no. But I have American auto insurance.”
Mexican auto insurance? Are you kidding me? God, this whole encounter is really dampening my enthusiasm for my Mexican holiday.
“Technically, you don’t need Mexican insurance, but if you get into an accident and you don’t have it, you’ll be taken to jail to determine your guilt or i
Jesus, what the hell?
News flash: You are lucky I’m even coming down here with my American dollars. I’m doing you a favor, guy.
“Why would I need a lawyer while I’m in Mexico?” I ask, just out of curiosity.
Officer Grumpy doesn’t even dignify that question with a response. I guess the answer is just too obvious. My mere presence violates the law. Say no more. I get it. I look like the sort of person who would need a lawyer on a regular basis, particularly in a foreign country.
“You might also want a number for a doctor and a decent towing company. Anything can happen in Mexico.”
Dude’s in the wrong line of business. He should work for the bureau of tourism. He really knows how to sell it. Jail? Doctors? Lawyers? Mexico is one big party. Fun in the sun.
Officer Grumpy hands me a stack of business cards—no doubt his drinking buddies, from whom he gets a nice kickback when some idiot American, like me, actually decides to buy into his bullshit. This guy has quite the scam going.
“Do yourself a favor. Call these guys. Protect yourself.”
“Definitely, Officer. I will do it as soon as I get back on the road,” I say, taking the cards, with the intention of tossing them into the trash. Seriously, what’s the worst that could happen? A little Montezuma’s revenge, maybe. But my car’s going to be just fine.
“If you’re going to be on your phone while driving, make sure to use your headset.”
“Absolutely,” I say, pulling my headset from my pocket and dangling it from my fingers to illustrate my point. I am all about bowing down and kissing the ring of the law.
With Officer Grumpy’s blessing, I get back in the car.
“Next time, William, consider wearing pants.”
I hear you, loud and clear. Leave the cross-dressing at home. That’s the one piece of advice I actually intend to heed.
I get back on the road, having spent a good half hour with Officer Grumpy. And now I’ve got to pee like a bandit. I’m going to have to pull off the road and pray I can slip in and out of one of these roadside dumps without attracting too much attention. Damn, time is a wastin’. So much for the beach party. I’m going to have to pick up Kylie and Max, turn right around, and hightail it back to the border before it gets too late.
I pull over at a gas station/restaurant/bar (one too many slashes for my taste). There is one lonely gasoline pump. Several feet away, a few men sit on stools, drinking beer and eating tacos as the delightful smell of gasolina wafts through the air. Lovely.
I take the keys from an old woman at the bar and walk around back to the bathroom. There’s a father with a small boy at the sink. As I enter, the man grabs his son and dashes out of the bathroom like he’s seen a ghost. Whoa! That was rude. And a big, fat depressing drag. I’m scaring people. That’s hardly the goal. I know I should be able to dress however I want, but I don’t want to frighten anyone. I don’t want to be that guy. In trying to thrust my sexual preferences into everyone’s face, I’ve become someone I’m not sure I recognize anymore. And what have I accomplished? Does anyone really accept me? Has anyone else at Freiburg come flying out of the closet? Have I helped make La Jolla a gay-friendly place to be? Sadly, no, no, and no. Out here in the real world, beyond the gates of Freiburg, I’m even more of a freak show.
I realize that this persona I’ve created isn’t even who I want to be. I vow to find a pair of jeans ASAP, even if I have to dig them out of a Dumpster.
o far today I’ve eaten tripe tacos, Carmela’s legendary sopa de mariscos, and a plate of stewed goat meat over rice, all of which was amazing. I’m drinking my third glass of sangria and bonding with my new bud Carlos, an eighty-year-old bullfighter. I’m out of my element and totally into it. I want to get home in time for graduation, but I’m not really caring about tonight’s Freiburg parties anymore. I’d rather hang here and do something different for a change. My life’s become so controlled, so contained, I’ve forgotten how good it feels to go off the grid. This whole crazy Mexican side trip, which was a freaking nightmare only a few hours ago, has turned out to be the best thing I’ve done in ages. Another country, a different culture, new people—it’s something I’ve been craving without even knowing it.
I wander into the living room and find Kylie staring at pictures of her father like she’s in a trance. This must be majorly wigging her out. I’m not sure I could handle it if all this news and information were coming at me.
“Here’s one of your dad in high school. He was team captain and we’d just won the countrywide championship. Javier scored the wi
Kylie’s seventeen-year-old dad is being carried through the streets of Ensenada on the shoulders of his teammates. He’s our age and looks like he owns the world. There are pictures of her dad playing soccer for huge crowds. A picture of him holding up some major trophy. One of him signing a poster with his image on it, for a bunch of schoolkids. How could Kylie not know any of this? Kind of mind-blowing.
Kylie pores over the photos, gently touching them. It makes me want to wrap my arms around her, protect her. But I don’t. I keep my arms to myself.
“This is the night Javier won the soccer championship for Colef, College of the Northern Border.” Manuel holds up a picture of Javier smiling stupidly as his teammates pour beer on his head. “Javier dropped out of Colef right after that, I think it was sophomore year, to play for Mexico in the World Cup. Recruiters started talking to him right after that game. Real Madrid, Manchester United. He’d hit the big time and would have gone on to play professionally if it hadn’t been for the accident,” Manuel tells us.
“He got hurt playing?” Kylie asks.
“You don’t know about the accident?” Manuel asks.
“No.” Kylie stares at Manuel, confused.
“He didn’t get hurt playing. But, maybe I’ve said too much. Your father should probably tell you.”
“He never says anything,” Kylie says. I can tell she’s trying really hard to keep her voice neutral. But her eyes betray her discomfort. “We don’t always…get each other, if you know what I mean.” Kylie shifts around in her chair.