Thursday, April 06, 2006

Run for the Border.

I stood vibrating like a tuning fork in the long line that crossed through customs and back into the United States. I was extremely paranoid. There were immigration patrolmen everywhere; the crackle of police radios echoed in my fried skull. I knew those junkie bastards back at the hotel would come here looking for me. But, I stood there, not glancing around like a moron waiting for the ice pick to penetrate my skull. They always use ice picks! Those savage fuckers! I was a sweaty mess; all though I cleaned my face and glasses, there were still spots of blood on my black t-shirt and black leather jacket. I was covered in a fine layer of plaster dust and my hands were still visibly shaking; my nails gnawed down to the skin.

The line jerked forward, distressed that I was standing here for thirty minutes and had not crossed over yet. The heady fumes from the massive car jam that spanned the bridge from Juarez City to El Paso made me even queasier…I wanted to vomit. Thoughts flashed through my mind of some asshole sliding up behind me and slitting my throat. Paranoia raced up and down my spine like a poisonous centipede. Hands in pockets, I shifted from one foot to another. It was taking too long to cross over to the States. This fucking bridge!

Some fat Mexican lady in saggy red sweat pants waddled up past everyone and cut in front of an old man about sixty people in front of me. She had an oversized white t-shirt that said in plain black lettering: Damn I’m Sexy. Others behind her started whistling and yelling, “La linea! La linea!” (The line! The line!)

Never fails! Don’t these fuckers know what a line is? I fumed.

The line jerked forward. my memories raced from one image to the next like film whirring through a camera; what was up with the crappy heroin? Weren’t they supposed to buy crystal, instead? It didn’t make any sense.

A custom officer was walking around with a dog. The dog was sniffing the people in line for drugs. The dog came up on me. Sniff away, mutt. Nothing on me this time.

“That’s a mighty cute dog.” I said as the officer passed.

The officer ignored the remark and goaded the dog on, “C’mon, Sammy, sniff out the drugs! C’mon, boy, let’s get some of them stinkin’ junkies.”

The lined cued on. Finally, I came to the custom inspector. I pulled out my identification card from my wallet and handed it to the fat and balding inspector; sweat beading down creased forehead. The inspector wearily snatched the card and started typing in information.

“American citizen.” I said blankly, ignoring the bloodshot gaze of the inspector.

“What happened to you?” The inspector asked incredulously.

I became conscious again of my appearance. I realized I must look horrible. “Nothing.” I said matter of factly, smugly shrugging. “You know…Juarez.”

“You best be careful over there son. You bringing anything back?” The inspector asked, looking me over. “What is that? Blood?”

“No…not at all.” I said, surprised at my amount of control. “Just a friendly game of food fight at a taco restaurant. It’s just salsa.” I made a vain attempt at wiping it away from my shirt.

“Oh. Okay.” The inspector said returning my identification. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks.” I took the card and exited the customhouse. I walked to the corner and took one of the city trolleys that were lumbering down the street. I plunked my quarter in the slot and took a seat. I was the only one on the trolley except for an old Mexican queer that kept staring at me.

Goddammit! Why won’t you just leave me alone! I thought, returning a hostile glare back at the old queen.

I got off of the trolley at the corner by an apartment of an old friend. Actually he's a little hispanic hottie that waits tables at a diner in downtown El Paso. I needed a shower and to lay low for a while. Plus he had the yummiest dope in South Central El Paso. When I arrive there he was, little Edward M. sitting and watching his novellas drinking soda pop and cutting up baggies of coke. We hit a couple of lines and I hit the shower. Edward watched me as I bathed and I related the botched score in Juarez.

After the shower, we drank some tea, smoked some coke and watched his novella. That's my life. A never-ending novella.

1 comment:

Marco Valente said...

Darn, thats pretty intense...