From What I Remember (23 page)

“Excuse me, officer, I’m just curious what exactly I did?”

“Please step out of the vehicle.”

Uh-oh. We’ve gone from “car” to “vehicle.”

His rigid body stance seems to be saying,
Go ahead, make my day.
No interest,
amigo
. I’m all about keeping the peace. Confrontation gives me a headache.

I open my door and step out of the “vehicle,” which is the first time I realize how inappropriately I am dressed for the occasion. I could be in trouble here. I’m dressed more for a Scottish Highlands party than an altercation with Mexican border patrol. I am wearing a Marc Jacobs kilt (bought in the men’s section, but I doubt this will make any kind of impression on my friend here, so I choose not to mention that pertinent fact) paired with black combat boots (my guess is that the subtle juxtaposition of styles is lost on him). I have a jaunty little beret on my head, and a T-shirt emblazoned with a skull and crossbones. I shouldn’t be wearing this. For the second time today I am slapped in the face with the realization that my outrageous fashion choices may be coming up against the law of diminishing returns.

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 planning on driving to Ensenada?”

“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 innocence and your ability to pay damages. I would suggest you get it. You should also add legal services to your policy. This way you can have a lawyer represent you, if need be.”

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 winning goal,” Manuel tells us.

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.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Manuel says. “Believe it or not, I was a teenager once.”

“Yeah, it’s not so much a teen thing with my dad. It’s just a…thing thing with him. He doesn’t talk about his past. And my grandmother died a few years ago, so there’s really no one around to tell me anything.”

“Believe me, I know how difficult Javier can be. We grew up together. There were days when he’d stop speaking to me for some stupid remark I’d made. He was always a moody bastard, but he’s got a good heart. I think Javier is probably trying to protect you.”

Manuel is trying to gauge things, figure out exactly what to say. He knows Kylie is freaking. Who wouldn’t be? This is all pretty heavy, even for me. And I don’t know the guy. I feel like I shouldn’t be here, like I’m interrupting a private moment, listening in on Kylie’s family secrets. But it also seems rude to just get up and walk away. So I stay where I am.

Kylie is still looking at Manuel, hoping he’ll confide in her. Manuel sighs audibly as he gazes at Kylie.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe your dad should tell you.”

“He won’t. But maybe if you will, it’ll help me understand him better,” Kylie replies. And then adds, for good measure, “Please?” Looking up at Manuel with those big, beautiful, golden eyes.

It’s going to be hard to say no.

“Okay, I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to go slow when you talk to your dad.…”

“I promise.”

“He’s not good with the surprise attack. He shuts down.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Hopefully, it’ll be good for both of you. Maybe it’ll get you two talking more. If nothing else, I think it’ll help you appreciate him in a different way.”

Manuel settles himself onto the couch and then launches into it. “Javier was in a horrible accident. It was almost thirty years ago, a few months after the World Cup. Mario, Javier’s father, was a truck driver. And sometimes he would bring Javier and his brother with him on long hauls. I remember your father learned to drive a truck when he was fifteen. I hated him for that. I thought he was so cool.

“That night, all three of them were in the truck and they were almost home. They’d been on the road for a couple of days. Your father was driving; he must have been around nineteen. Another car veered into his lane and Javier swerved. The truck flipped over. His father and his brother died. But Javier didn’t have a scratch on his body.”