En Sonora no soñaba

Where the hell am I?

My head was splitting, I didn't dare open my eyes; the bed was as stiff as a board. If it hadn't been for the sheets around my ankles and the pillow under my head, I would have sworn I had woken up in the streets again. But no, there was no doubt about it, I was in bed. It wasn't my apartment in San Diego, that was for bloody sure, but at least it was a bed. I opened my eyes.

The light pouring through the open window crushed the back of my eyes and the middle of my head. I fell back again, I groaned.

Yes, I overdid it again, I was lost. Maybe they raped me. My ass didn't hurt, though. Maybe someone stole my kidney. I felt my stomach. No stitches. I was naked except for my underwear, it was so hot. Hotter than San Diego, that was what I thought. That scared me.

Really, where the hell am I?

I forced myself to sit up on the bed. I was nauseous, I could have puked then and there. But I was a veteran, I kept last night's Gouda cheese, ham and vodka in my stomach where it would damn well stay until I decided it was a good time for it to leave, in one direction or the other, it didn't matter.

The wave of nausea slowly subsided, I got a grip of myself and opened my eyes again. I took a look around. To my right was the godforsaken window. Outside there was a wall of brown rock and dust and shrubs. It looked like the bloody desert is what it looked like. Maybe I did have reason to fear. I painstakingly turned around and glanced at the rest of the room someone had been so kind as to let me sleep in. The walls were dark wood. There was a television screwed to the roof and wall directly above and in front of me. It looked like it must have been from 2005 or something. Everything seemed to indicate that this was a hotel room, but one of the cheapest ones I'd ever slept in. That explained the rickety ass bed.

The remote controller was on the nightstand, beside my wallet, cell phone, car keys and passport. That was a relief, but what in the hell was my passport doing there? The alarm clock: 9:05 AM. It wasn't that late. Maybe they were serving breakfast. On second thought, I couldn't have stood the sight of eggs. Coffee, that's what I needed, some coffee. And some goddamn answers.

What the hell happened last night?

I tried to remember the night before. We were at Stefan's party on the rooftop of his fancy hotel. The drinks were endless, there were hot chicks in the pool, everyone was in a good mood. Braxton was there, of all people. How many years had it been since I'd last seen Braxton? It felt like a decade, at least. It must have been more like six years. Anyways, he seemed to be the same fuckup as always. You know what, I can't be harsh on the guy, it’s been a long time. Who the hell am I to judge?

Anyways, all of that happened around 11 o'clock. It was early in the night, the party had just started. I couldn't remember a thing, really. That was it: a rooftop pool party, some near-topless bitches and Baxter. And somehow that little formula ended in me waking up in my underwear in the goddamn desert. It was enough to make you want to puke. I gagged.

Goddamn it.

That was enough. I forced myself to stand up, I dragged myself over to the chair under the TV set where my clothes were hanging, slipped my pants on, nearly fell over the concrete bed, sat down on the bed, wrestled with my pants (tight pants are Hell at a time like that), managed to get them both on, slipped into my shirt, etc., etc.. I wasn't feeling that God awful as long as I was in motion, as long as I was thinking about the next step. Okay, now that I've got my clothes on, what do I do? The obvious answer was to get to the bottom of what in the hell was going on: where was I and how did I get there? And the answers obviously weren't in that shady hotel room.

I walked out into a hallway. The door in front of me was 106. I didn't imagine that a hotel like that could have very many rooms. At the end of the hall to my right there were stairs going down. Down into Hell. I went that way. I nearly forgot to check if I had a card to get back into my hotel room. Surely enough, it was in one of my back pockets: room 114. That suited me fine.

Downstairs there was a ruckus. The first words I heard weren’t in English, the first faces I saw were brown. At least it's Saturday, I told myself. I had the whole weekend to figure out what was happening and how I was going to get back home. But my mind kept nagging me.

You’ve really done it this time, buddy, you’re fucked.

At the bottom of the stairs there was a small lobby with the same basic decorum: dark wood and mirrors. The receptionist was a cute little brown thing. I tried to ask her in English where I was, one of the most absurd questions a human can ask at any given moment other than ‘what year is it?’. For all I knew it was 2005, but I was going to take it easy, one stupid question at a time. She smiled at me and said something in Spanish. I had taken enough Spanish in high school to at least understand that it was Spanish she was speaking.

"Listen, I have no clue how in the hell I got here and I really don't have time to play Simon says, you got me? I just want to find out where this is and how it is I got here?"

I knew I was being an asshole, but I was frustrated and hungover. She answered in Spanish again. I got the gist of it, something along the lines of ‘I don't speak English, sir, please fuck off’. Fine by me, fine. I saw there was a lunchroom by the lobby and people eating beans and eggs.

I'm in Mexico… I'm in fucking Mexico.

Where in the hell else could I be? I couldn't believe it. That's when I saw that straw blonde head of hair, last table to the left, right by a door that lead out to the desert.

"Gracias," I said to the lovely little receptionist in my thick American accent just before I stormed off in Baxter's direction.

"Buenos días," said Baxter, raising his cup of coffee as a sign of greeting. I was a couple of Spanish words away from bashing his face in, but then I remembered the other Mexicans and their families at the tables around us and decided it was best not to start a scene. I sat down at the table. The smell of coffee enraptured me.

"Where's the coffee?" I said to him, naturally as you please, as if I didn't have a care in the world.

"It's over there," he said pointing at the opposite corner of the lunchroom where the eggs, beans and coffee were all set up for us wandering pilgrims.

"Goddamn, do I need a cup of coffee," I said, but I didn't move. My head was pounding. I cut to the chase: "Where in the hell are we, Baxter?"

"A little town called La Cabrita in the state of Sonora, Mexico," he said cheerfully, though I could tell he was nervous. I must have looked like a wreck, I must have looked like I was about to crack, another broken egg.

"And what in the hell are we doing in Mexico, Baxter?"

"You don't remember?" he said, apparently in earnest.

“No, I don’t fucking remember.”

“But it was your idea.”

“To come to Mexico, are you serious?”

“Yeah, I am serious. You thought it was a good idea to chase after Alba, you said it would be a good way for us to catch up. A road trip through the Mexican desert. You don’t remember any of that?”

“Goddamn it, Baxter, do you think I was in my right mind?”

“No, I know you were drunk, but drunk people are honest.”

“And stupid, Baxter! Drunk people are stupid!”

I was yelling, but I could tell the other people were listening to us and felt uneasy. I turned it down a notch. At least they probably don’t understand a word I’m saying, I thought. That was a small relief.

“Who’s this Alba character we’re chasing after?” I asked him.

The question felt ludicrous. It felt like we were acting out a scene from a mediocre Hollywood rom-com. I was surely the butt of the jokes.

“The love of my life,” he said. I laughed out loud at that, my suspicions were confirmed. “You’re much less of a dick when you’re drunk,” he said, but I couldn’t help myself. The whole scenario was too ridiculous.

“You dragged me to Mexico to chase after the love of your life? What, are you twelve?”

“Again, Dennis, it was your idea.”

I’m only such a cynical bastard when I’m sober, not drunk. I’ve been known to spread love and tenderness in every which direction once my liver is forced to process enough rum and tequila. Which is why people love me when I’m drunk. They tolerate me when I’m sober. I’ve come to terms with that. In other words, I’ve become a rampant alcoholic. But I make good money, I have a beautiful condo with an ocean view, I have tons of friends. No one complains. Only a couple of times have some of those same friends mentioned that maybe I should calm it down just a little with the drinking. Usually it’s after I end up in a situation like this one. Like the time I ended up fucking my friend Barry’s boss and his wife after a dinner party. I digress.

“Well I’m sorry to let you know that I don’t remember any of that, none of it, nada.”

That’s it, I’ll win the sweethearts over in Mexico with my fluent Spanish. Baxter was speechless, I was speechless. There was chitchat in Spanish all around us. I didn’t understand a thing. I wondered if Baxter knew much Spanish.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” I said, somewhat theatrically, then I slowly got up and walked across the lunchroom. Surprisingly I wasn’t feeling as horrible anymore. There were still lots of questions that needed answers, but at least I knew the gist of what was going on, absurd as may have been. I poured that black, oily elixir into a white mug and waltzed back over to our table. I sniffed at the coffee. The very scent of it dragged me back to life.

“How the hell did we even get here?” I said after a sip. It was lukewarm. “Just how far from the border are we?”

“My car’s outside. We’re about one hundred fifty miles from the border right now.”

“I hear it’s pretty dangerous in northern Mexico, that there’s lots of drug-related violence and such.”

“These people seem nice enough.”

“Yeah, well I bet any one of these people could get us killed on a whim if they felt like it,” I whispered to him, just in case someone knew any English.

Oh, naïve, innocent Baxter, the same as I remembered him back when, in college. He dropped out first, I’ll never forget that. I’ve got to admit that the way he gave up on higher education was a bit of an inspiration for me. But unlike Baxter, with his dreams of winning the hearts of millions with his silky voice and an acoustic guitar, I had no such illusions of grandeur. All I wanted was to make money and to make money fast. Getting into debt and not even finding a job as a chiropractor or a dentist’s assistant was of no interest to me. We both quit school and moved to California with our own ideas of success, and now here we were, south of that godforsaken border that kept these savages from plundering the Land of the Free.

“Where have you been all this time, Baxter?”

He seemed embarrassed. I know I would be if I were him.

“I told you last night. I’ve been around…”

“We’ve all been around, Baxter. Some of us just haven’t made it back.”

I thought I was being witty. Baxter didn’t seem to appreciate my sense of humor. In fact, he looked pretty damn sad. I wasn’t being very nice to him, I realize, but you have to understand the circumstances, where we were, how I was feeling. This was a real shitstorm of unprecedented magnitude.

“Listen, Dennis, I’m sorry things ended up like this. I didn’t know you were like this…”

“Like what, Baxter? Go on, like what?”

“Boy, it’s just you didn’t seem like such and asshole last night, that’s all.”

That didn’t offend me in the slightest, I knew he was right. The lukewarm coffee made me feel better, anyhow. Baxter played with the little bit of scrambled eggs left on his plate with his fork, I drank my coffee and looked outside: cacti and dust. It was going to be a very hot day, it was already pretty damn hot.

“So tell me about this Alba girl,” I said. His eyes brightened visibly.

“Aw, you should have seen her, Dennis. It was like out of a movie, this beautiful little señorita with a denim jacket and hair cut short, you know, the kind that don’t seem to be aware of how beautiful they are? And there I was, minding my own business, looking around for a coffee shop to kill time in before the party, and there she was looking at magazines by the side of the road. I’m not usually the kind of guy that just walks up to a cute girl he’s never seen in his life, but this time was different. I was feeling pretty good yesterday, I guess. So I walked up to her and told her she didn’t need any advice from any of those tacky beauty columns, and she smiled, she actually smiled at that. Next thing you know we were talking in Spanish about Leonard Cohen and Mexico and I took her out for coffee. But I told you all of this yesterday, don’t you remember any of it?”

“I’ll be honest with you, Baxter, I really don’t remember any of that.”

“Damn it, man, I didn’t know you were that fucked up.”

“Neither did I. So what happened after that?”

“Not much. We really hit it off, anyways, but when I asked her for her number she told me she was leaving on a flight back to Mexico in a couple of hours. I insisted that I didn’t care, that I’d go see her down there. She let me know where she lived and told me I could go there whenever, that she’d show me around. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, but I wrote that info down and looked her up on Facebook.”

“Well, show her to me,” I said. Baxter still seemed all excited about the fact that he got to talk about this girl. He showed me a picture of her on his cell phone. She was alright, not really my type.

We finished breakfast and checked out of the hotel. Baxter spoke what seemed like some pretty smooth Spanish with the receptionist. She smiled at me ironically. There I was, the butt of some cosmic joke.

The same Nissan Sentra I remembered Baxter owning six years ago was outside in the parking lot, which was basically just an open plot of pebbles and dust by the road. He asked me if I was going to go with him with no sign of conviction. I told him that I had to head back to San Diego. He didn’t seem in the least bit disappointed. That hurt me a bit, I admit it. I know that the way I acted that morning was pretty shitty, especially considering the beautiful, drunk performance I must have given him the night before. This other, Saturday morning, hungover Dennis had practically no redeeming qualities other than a beautiful face and a credit card. Which is why I was always in such a hurry to erase him again.

“I guess I’ll see you around, then,” said Baxter.

“Yeah, who knows?”

I didn’t think we would. I couldn’t tell whether I cared or not. We shook hands and he slipped into his beat up car. I stood by the side of the road and watched him pull out and zip past the shacks and the gas station at the end of town towards the desert and beyond, towards his Alba and whatever dumbfounded shenanigans awaited him in the state of Sinaloa. I watched the car for a long time until it dipped under the horizon, it was a straight road to nowhere. What a stupid, pointless scene.

Once I was certain that he was gone and that I was really on my own in northern Mexico, I walked back to the hotel. For a moment I forgot that my Spanish was practically nonexistent and that the cute receptionist was probably just going to spit me back out into the desert streets. Luckily for me there was another character there beside her, a fat middle-aged man that may or may not have been the owner of the joint, behind the counter. I asked him if there was a bus out of town back to the US of A. He told me in not-too-shabby English that there were two buses back to the border, one at six in the morning and one at six at night. They left a few blocks north of where the hotel was.

“Gracias,” I told him, flexing one of the only two or three words I knew in Spanish again. That at least made him smile.

I felt terribly vulnerable in that town walking back up the street towards where the bus station was supposed to be. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Someone could have told me they were going to cut my balls off and feed them to the coyotes straight to my face and all I could have done was smile and say that I didn’t understand Spanish.

I found the bus station with two or three colorful buses lined up under a tin roof. I found the schedule plastered on a wall in front of the buses. It confirmed what the fat guy at the hotel had said. That was good enough for me, I needed a drink.

Across the street I found a tiny, shady bar where some older fellows with straw hats were drowning their sorrows. It was almost dark in there, everything was made of wood.

“Tequila,” I said casually as you please to the bald bartender behind the counter. He smiled in a way that let me know that he found me funny, everyone was in on it. Some words were exchanged between him and one of the customers at the bar. They both laughed. I didn’t dare ask in English what it was that they found so funny. He gave me my shot of tequila with no lime and no salt. That was fine by me. Alcohol’s alcohol at the end of the day, no matter how you dress it up.

“Gracias,” I said.

I swallowed it in one scoop, nearly gagged, but kept my composure. I hoped that the next eight hours would go by in a hurry so I could forget that this had ever happened. I twirled my finger in the air in the universal sign of ‘one more please’.

“Por favor,” I said, suddenly remembering the magic words for please in Spanish. It hadn’t been pointless to take Spanish in high school after all. The bartender smiled knowingly, more words were exchanged between him and this crusty customer at the bar, they both laughed out loud. I was given my second shot of tequila and once again I gulped it down in half a second, no gag reflex this time, I was back in my zone.

Things went on like that for a few minutes. I just kept asking for shots, saying please and thank you in Spanish, watching the bartender tell stupid jokes to his clients at my expense. I must have been four or five shots of tequila in when I dared ask the bartender why they didn’t add lime and salt to the equation.

“No English,” he responded curtly. I understood I was alone in the world. At least I had something to drink. Next I asked for a whisky. My bidding was the man’s command. I sipped at it slowly, already kind of drunk, but with no one to share my joy and intoxication, I was still deflated. I lost all hope.

That’s when I started thinking about Baxter again, I couldn’t help it. First I puzzled through the memories I had of him from that morning and the night before, few as they were, this new and apparently not-so-different Baxter. But when I saw him in my mind’s eye, there did seem to be something radically different about him. He must have told me more about his life last night. Even though he had the same kind of lighthearted, careless spirit, there seemed to be some weight and sadness behind it all. He had been through some shit in these last few years, I didn’t doubt it. I, on the other hand, was the same asshole he must have remembered from college. Maybe I was angrier than I used to be, I thought in my drunkenness, maybe I wasn’t the same person. In fact, maybe I had regressed, whereas Baxter had grown kinder and more understanding. The bartender and the drunkard at the bar beside me continued laughing heartily.

The sober part of me that still lingered around the edges of the glass of whisky wanted to tell me that those thoughts were bullshit, but I was drunk enough already to recognize the truth in them and they lingered. I just kept staring at the enormous distance between Baxter and myself.

A voice on the radio sang joyfully of lost love to the tune of an acoustic guitar, not that I could understand the words. They were songs from a bygone era, I could tell. I asked for another tequila. The bartender wasn’t smiling anymore. I took out a couple of twenties to appease him. He gave me one last shot. I slammed it back and waltzed back out into the streets. The bartender muttered something to my back.

The sun was at its highest and tried its damnedest to make me crash down onto the ground. I walked aimlessly past a gas station and a liquor store and a small supermarket and the like. Looking back, I really am lucky I didn’t get raped, or that I at least didn’t get my wallet stolen.

I finally did crash under a flimsy tree in a field by the road, it was as hot as hell and I needed the shade. I dozed off, the sound of an acoustic guitar and laughter trailing in and out of my consciousness.