Chapter 23.
The sun absconded below the Mexican horizon for another day, leaving a silhouetted landscape, showcased on a pink and crimson canvas and dappled with wisps of purple cloud. The border fence approached rapidly – it’s charred looking profile raced across the vista in our direction. A few naps had helped pass the time. My final reserve shot of adrenaline kicked in, followed by a pang of absolute undiluted fear. My cargo had migrated to a crooked position. I sat up, straightening my posture. The tape clawed at my chest and ripped at my skin, when I realigned the load. A few random passengers remained awake playing gin rummy over flasks of coffee and sandwiches. There was hushed excitement from the winners and jovial accusations of deception from the losers. The bus slowed down on our approach, through the funnel neck of border immigration. I considered ending my insane plan and dumping the entire kilo under one of the seats. I stretched the neck of my t-shirt and peeked down to the lumpy mass, taped to my chest. I had done too good a job, to remove the vest without being noticed. I had a moment of complete paralysis, from fear – I couldn’t breathe.
“Care for a sandwich son?” a timid, voice asked, from halfway up the bus. “We’re going to be dumping them in Laredo. They’re good. Chicken. Made ‘em myself this morning. No crust.”
A old woman’s bony hand pointed a crust-less triangle sandwich at me. I struggled to gather enough air for a response.
“No, I’m good but thanks.”
She returned to her fresh hand of gin rummy. I sucked in the air from the air-conditioning vent, like I was a drowning man taking my last gulps of life. The bus speaker made a loud scraping sound. Dozing passengers stirred.
“Ok ladies and gents, we’re going to be heading through the border in a few moments. Looks pretty clear tonight so shouldn’t take too long. Just remember to bring your ID with you for immigration. I will pick you up on the other side. There’s a printed pamphlet in the seat pouch in front of you with instructions. Please feel free to take one.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck was I thinking? If I got busted, it wasn’t like I could plead dumb, “Oh sorry officer, someone must have excessively taped twenty cocaine filled condoms to my chest when I wasn’t looking.”
“Oh that’s ok sir, it could happen to anyone. Happens all the time. It was probably that organized gang of retired Florida teachers. They do it all the time, the scallywags. Now off you toddle.”
“Why, thank you officer.”
My fantasy ended with the sight of a black Labrador, with a spit flapping, foot long tongue. It’s handler tugged his best friend, in and out through the slowly moving traffic. We edged forward. I could see only one dog. It enthusiastically wove its way in and out between the cars – the four legged fucker must be on doggie treat commission, for busting smugglers, I thought. Some passengers dragged out plastic bags of figurines, hats, musical instruments and mini pinatas. I slid over to the opposite side of the bus, extending my distance from the dog by another three feet. We shifted forward. The dog was a few hundred yards away. I hugged my duffel bag close to my chest, hoping the combination of distance, traffic fumes, the stench of hot rubber and my ever increasing stink of nervous body odor would conceal any scent of drugs. The CityFlyer finally hissed to a stop. I scoped all directions for sniffer dogs. The black Labrador continued it’s zigzagging in and out between vehicles. I camouflaged myself in a posse of retirees in dippy hats.
Immigration loomed ahead – the line with the female customs officer seemed less daunting. Maybe she’d be repulsed by the body odor emitting from my haggard looking carcass.
I remembered reading an article about some famous drug smuggler and he said in order to remain calm when passing through customs, he used to visualize himself in a serene environment – somewhere peaceful, a million miles from his current situation. My mental escape, was on a beach in Belize, lying next to a beautiful caramel skinned girl, drinking glamorous drinks from coconuts and listening to Sinatra hits. It was a wonderful five second holiday, until Sinatra’s honeyed tones, mutated into a gangsta rapper, busting rhymes about prison rape and my sun kissed beach babe, remodeled into a five-foot-two, angry looking customs officer, with a bad lisp. I couldn’t see straight – I felt suspicious. My heart felt like it was humping my tonsils. I wanted to run. Her eyes narrowed when she saw my derelict face next to my ancient passport photograph.
“What was your purpose in Mexico?” she asked in a curt tone.
“Just holidays. And checking out some potential talent. I’m a talent agent.”
I pulled a dog eared business card that had doubled as a toothpick from my wallet. Meatloaf or some form of dead animal had stuck to one of the corners. She attempted to stretch her lack of neck, to check out my bag.
“What kinda talent? Traveling kind of light aren’t you?”
I thought this is it. It’s all over. All she had to do was move me over and pat me down and the jig was up. There was almost a sense of relief – I could just curl up in a nice interrogation room and call it a day.
“Yeah. I represent singers, comedians and bands. You know stuff like that.”
“Anyone famous?” she asked flicking through my blank passport pages.
I fought back a smile, thinking about, The Stuck Pigs, Ted Burns and Barbie and the Butchers.
“No I’m pretty sure you’ve never heard of anyone I’ve ever represented.”
She handed my passport back to me. She examined my business card once more and handed it to me.
“I used to be a pretty good singer’, she said with a heavy accent, filtered through a thick lisp.
“Ok move on.”
It was over. The coin hadn’t even hit the floor and I’d slipped through. I felt like dropping to my knees and thanking the Gods. I wanted to kiss my chubby little customs officer, right on her crooked mouth. Both my legs jerked for a moment like they’d been hit with a live wire. I was frozen. I disguised my lack of ability to move, by awkwardly stuffing my duffel bag with my passport and primeval business card. One of my fellow passengers from the CityFlyer coughed, demanding my exit cue. The customs officer jabbed her thumb in the air behind her right ear. I happily obliged and wobbled through.
A stream of senior citizens lit the path to Cactus Mel’s CityFlyer with their M&M coloured shell suits and golf pants. I eagerly joined. The gift of freedom, coupled with intense relief immediately made me want to be a better person – not in a I’m going to go get my satchel and name tag and go and recruit the planet. But I was overcome. Every nerve in my body deflated.
“Sorry was a bit out of sorts earlier,” I said to the woman who offered me a sandwich.
“But they looked like they were good.”
“No problem son, you just looked like you were having a rough afternoon,” she said in a gentle caring tone.
“Yeah you know bad.....,” I pointed to my stomach. She nodded and slipped into her own clique of gin rummy cohorts. I must have looked like an outlaw to these guys –the fodder for a few emails to loved ones about their great adventure.
I submerged myself in the slow moving flow, occasionally taking a bead for any dogs. I re-staked my throne at the back of the bus and slid tranquilized across the full row. The bus rumbled to life, flexing it’s air suspension. Girlish yelps of excitement from late comers cut through the tired mutter. I hugged my chest and fell into a hypnotic paralysis, transfixed on a rosary beads and crucifix dancing under an air vent. It moshed to the bus’s revs and rattles. Multiple body counts later, we were off.