We stumbled across the bridge with a stream of Mexicans, past passport control and a row of armed-to-the-teeth border guards. A beefy latex-gloved immigration officer tore through my backpack, took out two glittering luchadores masks, and said, “What are these for?”
“Me and my girl like to wrestle.”
He laughed and waved me into America.
I was drunk, oh god, nineteen years old and on a trip across America. We had crossed into Juárez on foot, into a world of tejano music, drugs (illegal and prescription), burritos, discount dentists, señoritas and waterfalls of sweet golden dollar-a-bottle Corona. What did we know? Juárez was just another town. Sure some pint-sized street rat tried to nab Murphy’s wallet, but our waiter scared him off with a knife. Things always worked out like that: dumb fucking luck. And besides, gang wars and abductions mean nothing to kids looking for fun, and I’ll tell you this much—we found it (our waiter found a tip to smile about) and several hours later, we found ourselves on a little bench in El Paso, Texas, holding our swimming booze heads.
“Oh god,” Murphy said.
“I know,” I said.
“Our flight is tomorrow,” Oxeberry said.
“I know.”
“Dallas is twelve hours away.”
“I know.”
The bustle of traffic beating in my skull, the sun blazing hot even at five. I could just hear the sound of an accordion wafting over the brown churnings of the Rio Grande as we crossed the street for bottles of water and cola.
“This dilute you,” I said to Oxeberry. We’d elected him driver because Murphy looked the worst (and I didn’t have my licence). Oxeberry guzzled the drinks and instead of sobering up he just got bloated, drunk and very queasy.
Well, we got in the car. What could we do? Oxeberry squinted over the wheel.
“I can’t do this,” he said.
There were some minutes of dusty stop and go, and then we were in open scrub desert. Oxeberry kept the car straight, drove fine. I turned up the stereo, blared Chuck Berry loud and wild.
Murphy said, “Turn down that fucking music,” and I said,
“We got to stay alert.”
There was an hour of this before we saw the checkpoint.
“Oh shit,” Oxeberry said.
“Take it nice and slow,” I said. Murphy wasn’t saying anything—he was trying to keep from puking.
We rolled up to the gate, to these pistol-armed Agents in armour with razor toothed (and nosed) dogs. A swollen, sunburnt Agent with a sunglass tan said, “Where you going?”
“Dallas.”
“Where you from?”
“Canada.”
“ID.”
Oxeberry fumbled for his wallet. The Agent eyed the card. The dogs sniffed the car. Then he said, “Well boys, do you hear this whimpering dog? Do you hear the sound he’s making?”
I didn’t hear anything, but said, “Yes, sir.”
“Well, this here dog’s telling me that your trunk is loaded with cocaine.”
Oxeberry looked some kind of panic fear and the Agent looked at us all for a few seconds, then said, “Nah, I’m just messing with ya’. Enjoy your time in America.”
Oxeberry hit the gas and we zipped onto wide Texas tarmac.
“How are you feeling,” I asked Oxeberry.
“Drunk.”
“Stay up with me, all right Motis?” he said.
“All right.”
I watched the sun streak the amber beginnings of night behind us and before I knew what was happening, it was long past dark and Oxeberry was shaking my arm, saying, “I gotta stop. I feel like shit.”
I looked at the map, said, “Where are we?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know? You’re the goddamn navigator.”
We turned into the next rest stop, bought coffees, and Murphy took the wheel. As soon as we were back on the highway, Oxeberry fell fast asleep.
“How do you feel?” I asked Murphy.
“Like shit.”
The road was long and wide with darkness only interrupted by the headlights of massive tractor trailers burning American-made midnight oil. I watched the stars, the world go by, drifting, dozing until Murphy hit the brakes and skidded across the highway.
“Oh god!” I screamed. Murphy got the car under control and brought it to a stop.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” he kept saying.
Oxeberry stirred in the backseat, “Why did we stop?”
“I thought I saw someone running across the road,” Murphy said.
“Oh shit,” it was my turn to say. “Are you ready to drive?” I asked Oxeberry.
“Fuck no.”
“Well what are we going to do?”
A tractor trailer roared by, blaring its horn.
“I don’t think it’s legal to stop in the middle of the highway,” I said.
“Why don’t you get your goddamn licence, Motis?” Murphy said.
“Why don’t you pull onto the shoulder?”
Murphy did as he was told and I picked up the map and said, “the next stop is a picnic area, six miles ahead. Can you drive that far?”
“I guess so,” Murphy said.
“Fuck you,” Oxeberry said. “I’ll drive Betsy.”
Well we drove to the picnic area, which was nothing more than a single lane about five metres from the highway, a thin layer of burnt grass and a few picnic tables under wooden gazebos surrounded by a half-dozen parked trucks with generators humming thunder into the night.
Murphy and Oxeberry stretched out in the front seats of the car, and I stuffed my ears with cotton, took a blanket and my knife, and camped out on one of the tables (snake, spider, scorpion fear), the highway rush and trucks singing my lullaby.
Out like a light.
Then, first orange in the sky and Murphy shaking my shoulder, saying,
“Let’s go.”
I blinked, wiped the crust from my eyes, stretched the stiffness from my back.
“Did you sleep?” I asked—Murphy looked terrible.
“No.”
“Well, I did.”
“That’s fucking grand.”
“Sorry.”
We woke Oxeberry up and he climbed into the driver’s seat. Murphy lay down in the back and said, “In the middle of the night, a pack of dogs came out of nowhere and circled your table.”
“Well, at least a trucker didn’t rape me.”
“Bwa haha,” Oxeberry said. “You would have liked that.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
“Fuck you, Motis,” Oxeberry said.
“Fuck you both ‘cause I wanna sleep,” Murphy said.
Oxeberry laughed and hit the gas and we drove into the rising sun. Fuck all of us, I thought. Fuck us all. Fuck us and our dumb lucking fuck.
Copyright © 2011 by Daniel Shawn Otis
