Tijuana Radio

Short Story

Look at all the lonely people.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

I am looking here on the Me-xi-co side of the international slab of the border shaking my head down to my ankles. Under my legs is a fenced-over order for walking from side to side. I was dropped off on the other side and ambled my way through security showing them my bag which had nothing in it. And then crossed the border from the English side to the Lado español. They did not ask me to hold off my cowboy boots which if they had they would have seen oodles of dough. But it’s not getting down here that is the problem for me it’s getting back. But first things first I need to find the car which will take me up.

I spend a moment looking at the statues of the boy and girl all dressed up and with no place to go. Then I look one more time at the street and see the prisoners of the gutter moving slowly ass-to-ass in the SUVs that now seem to be popular on the sides. Don’t ask me why it’s a petroleum thing. Wasteful, zestful, and downright expensive. And slow. Maybe they have imported it from El Texas where they have oceans of the black goo under the miles of sand.

You can’t breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

I just keep walking, stride after stride stride with my cowboy boots in an even measure. It will be my last trip to Tijuana and I can hear the radio in the distance. Then I saw the beige-colored ocean-wide Buick with a petite Mexican chica in the driver’s seat. Since no one knows about her on the US side I am not going to tell them why I am so tired. After all, she doesn’t tell me about the other boys she has even though I know at least two.

There was the drone of the radio.

But enough about me talking about me, how do you feel about me? Okay so I am slightly thin and 6 feet 2 inches or 188 centimeters, give or take. The scraggly beard lends class to my nick of the world.

It is only the people at 5 feet who worry about the Inch whereas my height it bends by 3 inches every day depending on when you want to measure dawn or dusk. You can ask my girlfriend why the half-inch matters she would know. She’s constantly scheming for that inch and other things.

And the rumble of the bass drums can be heard on Tijuana radio. What does he say? It’s funny I hear more about the US inflation in Tijuana than in San Diego. Because it affects how much they can rip you off for at the local souvenir joint. Why anyone would buy such stuff is beyond me. There are much better things to spend your money on.

And I heard the echoes from a station on Tijuana radio reverbing my spine. I am now in Tijuana but have no time for eating barbecued iguana.

Even if it was on the radio.

Then I got into the car and pecked her on the cheek. I could smell somebody else’s cologne. It was cheap. I know I like my girls small, the Tijuana chick is under five feet. I will translate from Spanish because I know that many readers have no hables español. Más para mí. Me vale madre qué piensas. If you are thinking it with your brain or your hands it does not mean a thing.

I let her start: “How long are you going to stay this time?”

“Only in and out, and not for you. I need to get some refreshments of the hard kind.”

“You mean you want a boy?” she was genuinely shocked.

“No, no, no, if I want to play it will only be with you.”

She stroked my chest and was pleased by that. Then she ripped the gears, and we were moving down Boulevard Garita de Otay. I looked back and saw the pile-up in both directions. Smelly petroleum juice oozed from every pour.

“Such losers, I am glad that you were here to pick me up.”

She squeezed. “It’s not una pedo.” She turned on her favorite radio station and it was immediately clear that the rhythms both speaking and singing were so different down here. And one could see those rhythms in the way the cars drove as well because there was an ease about handling the vehicle which was not present in the tight American way. But then many of the vehicles down here were 20 years old and no one wanted to crack the car on a Sunday drive.

 We went past Bellas Artes - you could call it beautiful art if you want - and past the hospital till there was green and blue on the right. It was the park that I had seen so often with the lake in the middle and kayaks waiting in two the crip water. But I needed to stop by the usual place to get refills.

 So around the bend and to the south to Del Fuerta. It was near a school, and not unintentionally. It was a rundown neighborhood of short concrete homes. Only a few trees were visible, and all of the doors had gates. Wire strewned the air and some lights decorated the walls a few dishes caught the rays of the television frequencies because there was not much else to do. One young boy drove along on his pushed-powered scooter but that was the only person that we saw. The horizon went off to the cloudy distance.

She parked the car with many of the others and we ambled into a small door in a large house. It was yellow and freshly painted. Next door was a small convenience store with no one inside it. Of the above on the balcony, there were bushes in red pots which suggested some decoration had happened.

We pushed the small iron door because we knew it would be unlocked. Of course, the man was waiting for whoever that wanted what he had. And I fit the bill.

“Hola.”

“Hola.”

I strolled into the living room, and we slapped hands because it had been a couple of weeks for me, and for a lot of people that means curtains. He was not surprised.

Then I hiked up my left cowboy boot, took it off, and then extracted the green green green lucre. He was amazed at how much I had.

“I want the good stuff.” I smiled.

He looked at the wad and moved over to a wooden chest and opened it with the latest equipment. You can’t be too careful with the best of your stash. I looked around the room and saw that he had redecorated since last I was here. “Nice touch.”

“A client didn’t have the money, so I got it from him the furniture. This year, apparently everything is red.”

In a moment the red velvet displayed all of the liquids and pills that were the finest of the fine. I pointed to what I wanted and then handed over the cash in return for the ecstasy that was offered in a fine plastic bag.

We pushed back in through the outdoor and rested inside the car. It was then that I turned to her and said: “This is my last farewell.”

 Her mask was a deep despair and she uttered: “What’s going on?”

“The roads for me are at an end. North of the border my girlfriend has been talking to Los Federales. That’s why I left my car on the American side.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“On the contrary, there is nothing else for me to do. She wants the money, and she’s got it.  And the DEA will be all over me once I get back to California. And you want your boyfriend and you will have him. You can take whatever money I have once I am gone because it doesn’t matter to me.”

“How do you know I want someone else?”

“Because if you didn’t, he wouldn’t have worn his cologne. And I know he’s cheaper than I am so you must love him.”

Her head back bashfully but she didn’t object.

“And I know that there cutting even the good stuff with fentanyl, which is why I have been staying away. Now it doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t do this.”

“It’s all right, there is nothing for me left on this side.” Then I simply popped two pills from the bag and almost immediately started to drift. This was. the good stuff, even if it is your final goodbye. What do you say?

The last sound I heard was from the radio. And I could not breathe.