Mexican Radio

I drove down to Tijuana and went to jail. In there I was beaten repeatedly. I was arrested for absolutely nothing. One minute, I was walking past a prostitute after I had parked and locked my car, walking around Mars, past the strange billboards and faces destroyed by poverty, in a town destroyed and dependent upon lust and drugs. I was walking around a people who hated me for needing me. The poor sat in file on the sidewalks, their palms out. The faces on the necks reminded me of shrunken fruit. The owners of strip joints and fruit stands and street-side booths were happy to see me. Their English was broken and desperate. The prostitute followed me. She was offering me anything. Her face was a novel. It was carved throughout with lines of grief, with angry knuckles and damage from the sun. Her hair was like black straw electrified on its post. Her eyes were sorry. Her whole self almost brought me to tears. I reached into my pocket in the middle of that dark orange sea and handed her a five-spot. She handed me a crumpled up baggie with nothing in it. She hustled off. The next minute, I was dropped on my face, cuffed and stuffed and wiping the blood from my forehead onto the back of a torn leather headrest.

In jail the big Mexicans pummeled me in turn. One guy tried to get my pants off. I fought them wildly. After a while they gave up, from time to time walking by the corner I was thrown into and kicking me, spitting on me. The cops held me for nine hours, took everything I had and kicked me in the ass out into the dark. Back at my car, my rear windshield was shattered and the whole car was gutted, saving the driver’s seat. They even got the mirrors. My bike was gone, my music, my books, my backpack, my life. They had my keys back in that dungeon. I could hear the Mexicans laughing at me behind the rusted bars. They were sitting on that diseased, urine stained concrete with no windows, sweating and laughing about me. I broke off my ignition switch with a rock so I could turn the wheel. I had never jump started a car before. I learned quickly. The guards at the border showed no interest in my face.

I drove to Yuma, bitterly. I was low on fuel. It was December. The desert was cold but my face burned with a heat I’d never known. I pulled into a gas station and explained to the Indian behind the counter what had happened. He shook his head. I asked him for ten dollars in gas so I could get to Phoenix. He said nope. Up the street I found a Shell station. The old lady said that I could gas up and she would treat it like a drive off. In the bathroom I locked the door and looked in the mirror. I looked like a mask. My whole face was twisted and swollen. I looked diseased. I fell back against the door and sank to the ground.

I drove north with a sympathy cup of coffee and a full tank. The wind from the opening in back chilled my neck and shoulders, the exhaust billowed inside and choked me, made me sick. The smell flavored my coffee. One of my eyes had just swollen shut so I drove the limit, confused.

I reached Phoenix before dusk. At a stoplight two girls stared at me like I was an animal. I could feel them. They honked. I looked over. They were laughing with the two guys that were in the backseat. No mercy. By the time I found my sister’s house I was sick from the exhaust and the desert on top of the germs from the floor of the jail spreading under the cuts. I was certain I could not go on for another second. The house was empty. She had moved.

I called one of my brothers collect in Illinois, woke him up. He gave me her new address. He asked me how I was and so on. During the conversation I would throw up while he was talking. I told him everything was fine and that I was home for a while, at least until after the holidays. He told me he loved me. I threw up. I made it back to my car and used up the rest of my strength finding the address.

I parked. Her house was bigger. I could see the Christmas tree in the window. I had nothing to carry inside. She lived in a better part of town. I hadn’t spoken to her for a long time. I thought it was funny that this would be the second time in a row I showed up at her place badly beaten. Only this time was worse. I had long hair and was older, taller, a little heavier from working labor. I didn’t want her to see this. I made it to the door and pushed the ringer.