Some team won the first two games in Caborca, but don’t ask me who. I have PTSD from that shower at the hotel and I black out every time I try to remember too much. I do remember that after the game ended at eleven thirty at night, we had to follow the bus to the next town they were playing in – five hours away. Sweet. So I regurgitated some of the previous pride I had swallowed and decided to drive my own car. There was no way I was contorting myself into that backseat again, especially now that I was on the verge of developing Blount disease from my last back-seat country music festival. I was so excited to control my own volume and temperature that I sort of failed to realize I was offering to drive a BMW through five hours of dark, rural roads in Mexico. Hashtag, woops!
About one hour into the drive, we came up to a stop light behind the bus and waited to make a left hand turn. The light turned green, which typically in America means ‘go,’ and we made a normal left-hand turn directly behind the bus. Just as I turned onto the next road, blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror and a cop came speeding up behind us. I slowed down, hoping he might go around us and pull over the bus or any other soul in the world, but no. It just wouldn’t be right if I caught a life-saving break, so I pulled over and watched the bus full of our only allies drive off ahead of us. Glancing over to my side mirror I saw that two officers were getting out of the car and approaching us with bazookas across their chests. Okay, they weren’t bazookas but they were big and directly in front of my face when I rolled the window down to “speak” to them.
“slkjsdlkgoirfowefsdklgasldfj asdlkfj sldfjsldfkj alskdfjasoifjwegnaiowegh” was what we heard, but I’m sure it was something like, “We are going to boil you alive and feed you to the stray dogs and steal your car and kidnap your familes, you dumb Americans!” All I could do was say, “Lo siento! Lo siento! No hablo espanol.” Then suddenly they started speaking pretty respectable English. “You go through red light,” they said and pointed back toward the intersection we had undoubtedly, legally passed through. When we politely said that, um, no we sure did not run that red light, they pointed to Anthony and told him to get out of the car. Oh God, it was happening. I was going to witness to my boyfriend’s murder, and all I could think of was, “I just HAD to drive my car tonight. I just had to.”
I told them no, Anthony was not getting out of the car – quite a valiant, moronic move on my part – and I maintain to this day that I basically saved his life. They then told us to go to the police station to pay a fine, and I decided to just play it cool: “Senor, you’re really out of line here. Can I just give you my address and you go ahead and mail me the ticket? We’d like to be on our way now and your guns are getting somewhat intimidating.” Of course, they couldn’t read my mind, but they did respond well to, “Cuanto?” They told us they wanted ochenta dollares, and I remember exclaiming, “American??!” These guys were totally scamming us, and being unemployed I was starting to consider picking up their line of work. I made a mental note to research how to become a crooked federali in Mexico and then turned to Mama D for the cash. I’d like to say I felt bad taking her one hundred bucks, but…I didn’t. I handed the psychopaths the cash and I’m pretty sure they told us to have a good night.
Once I pulled back onto the road, the fear subsided and the rage started to set in. “Does everyone still think it’s a BRILLIANT idea to bring a BMW into Mexico??!!?” I hollered. I believe some obscenities were thrown around too, and for the first time in my life I had no concerns about respecting my elders. All I cared about was getting to the hotel and getting out of that friggin’ car. As the adrenaline wore off though and the sun started to rise, I could barely keep my eyes open anymore. I caught myself nodding off, but I refused to ask for one of those jabronies to help me out and drive. Eventually Mama D, who was probably scared for her life, piped up and offered to take over. I really wanted to say no and be an ultimate tough guy, but the sad truth is that I’m a wuss and couldn’t stand to drive another second.
The hotel in Guaymas was The Trump Tower compared to our last accommodations, so I actually took my sneakers and sweatshirt off to sleep at night. Anthony’s new team lost the series in five games, so all we had to do was get Anthony paid and drive the entire eight hours back to the American border. No one seemed to have any definitive answers about where the money was coming from though, so we waited in that hotel for over a week before finally admitting defeat. Well, I admitted defeat as soon as all my designer jeans didn’t fit in the RV, but those two lifers finally packed it up and decided to drive home peso-less. Some kid did promise to Western Union us the money, when and if they got paid, but I wasn’t holding my breath. Plus, the money Mama D spent every night on the hotel made Anthony’s check a moot point, ten times over.
The drive home to America was one of the longest drives of my life. Sure enough, I was ostracized to the back seat of my car again, so this time I put on my headphones and ignored everything Anthony and his mom tried to say to me. I didn’t close my eyes and pretend to sleep, I just stared right at Anthony when he spoke and said nothing. Unless you count the look in my eyes telling him I wanted him tortured slowly for an indefinite amount of time, I said nothing the whole way. At the border, there was an hour wait in the immigration line. Once again the BMW attracted attention, this time from bums and pan-handlers. God officially hated me.
I took a box of left over pizza from the car and handed it to some starving piece of work who wouldn’t stop rapping on my windows. I prayed one last time to God to recognize my kind act and to send me some positive juju in my life. Well wouldn’t you know it, he didn’t listen to a damn word I said.