I would still feel the same way every time I thought of her!
“What can I get you?” Her voice. Her lips. Then she glances at me. The blue of her eyes glows and spills out as in a watercolor. And then, a miracle: I manage to stutter a few words. For the first time I speak to a girl without forcing myself to come up with the most clever line ever. She doesn’t answer. She keeps looking at me. I don’t sense that annoyance or boredom that I get from most of the girls I try to strike up a conversation with. It’s more like curiosity. While she’s probably wondering how to get rid of me, I ask what time her shift ends. She answers calmly, and I take off immediately, before she regrets talking to me.
*
“Rough night, huh?” A voice wakes me.
“Uh-huh.”
“Sir, are you in a condition to operate this vehicle?” Where is the voice coming from? Border patrol booth, US border, young officer, kind eyes.
“Yes, sir,” I say, trying to sound chipper. I hand him my driver’s license and passport. “Must have dozed off while waiting.” He looks at the passport, then the license, then back at me, clearly checking to make sure the pictures match up.
“It’s your birthday today, huh, Zachary?”
“Yes, sir.”
“By yourself?”
I don’t answer. I look straight ahead.
“Anything to declare?” He says, scanning the inside of the van.
“No, sir,” I say, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
“Why didn’t you take a cab, Zachary?”
“I ran out of money, sir.” I notice a smear of something on my right cheek.
“Where are you from, Zachary?”
“A small country far away.” An ugly dark smear.
“No, Zachary, I meant . . .”
“Sorry, officer! Rancho Penasquitos.” Could be blood.
“Where’s that?”
“Just north of San Berna . . .” It could be mud. But then again, it could be blood. It’s on my right cheek though. The officer is inches to my left.
“I know where Rancho Penasquitos is, Zachary,” he cuts me off. “Where is the small country far away?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. It’s . . . just north of Greece, sir.”
“I see. They don’t drink and drive just north of Greece, do they?” His voice seems louder.
“No, sir, they don’t.”
“Well, we don’t drink and drive just north of Mexico, either.”
“We certainly don’t, sir.” I wait for him to ask me to step out of the vehicle. There’s no point in trying to run. There’s no point trying to hide my smeared right cheek.
The radio on his shoulder buzzes. He picks it up, lowers his chin to listen to the distorted voice. His eyes are still on me.
“Ten-four, sir,” he barks at his shoulder. I slowly exhale my last moments of freedom.
“Happy birthday, Zachary,” he says and hands me my license. “Go straight home now, you hear?” He says as he waves the next car over. “Straight home.”
I press the gas and head back into civilization.
*
When I came back to meet her after work, she was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a tight, light-blue T-shirt. She had on high-heeled platform sandals and a bag slung across her shoulder. It’s easy to fall in love with a girl who wears everything with such ease.
I had my hands shoved deep in my pockets, most likely.
The regular summertime crowd must have been swarming around us. We walked, I remember, toward the Sea Garden. Somewhere around the Museum of Art, I lose the thread of this memory. I can’t remember what we did between six, when she finished work, and the time it got dark. Did we sit somewhere? Did we just walk? Later, we went into a bar on the corner of First and the street she lived on, a small, dark place called “Impulse.” We sat at one of those little round tables with a black tablecloth pressed under a circle of glass. We drank gin and tonics and munched on peanuts. And started talking. We talked over each other. We talked as if we had been talking forever and someone had just interrupted us. We talked as if we were only pretending we didn’t know each other. We finished each other’s sentences, completed each other’s thoughts, and reminded each other of where we stopped. We talked as if tomorrow we would have to go our separate ways forever.
*
California! I’m saved! There’s the parking lot where I left Stella’s car. I feel like stopping, jumping out, and kissing the pavement.
I stop, jump out, and kiss the pavement. Then I get back in and park the van. I jump into Stella’s car and gun the engine. Then it hits me—I might have killed somebody an hour ago in Mexico. I’ve stolen a van and left a ton of fingerprints. One must think about these things. I get out, open the trunk of Stella’s car and look for something—anything—to wipe down the inside of the van. Nothing. I walk back to the van and open the passenger door. Nothing on the front seats that I can use. I open the back door.
I stifle a yell when I see the prone body and slam the door shut. My heart bangs crazily. I open the door again slowly. I exhale. Not a body. I sigh with relief. A giant plastic bag, stuffed full, slightly bent in the middle. It does look like a corpse. It’s soft to the touch, yet dense, as if packed with straw. I glance around the parking lot, then open the bag up. The pungent smell hits me. I know what it is. I know what I should do. Instead, I pull the bag out of the van, drag it across the parking lot, and spend several risky moments shoving it into the trunk of Stella’s Mercedes.
I get behind the wheel, turn the ignition, buckle up, cross myself, and head north into the bluish daybreak with a trunk-load of marijuana.
*
“. . . what to do with your life . . .”
My exit is just a few miles away. What I want to do more than anything right now is sleep, sleep, sleep. I roll down the window for some fresh air, to keep myself awake these last few minutes. The morning chill laps at my face. Along with it comes the unbearable thought that I am headed toward an empty house.
Who am I kidding? What am I going to do at home without her? Sleep? I already tried that a few hours ago and ended up almost dead in Mexico. No more sleep. I need to decide what to do with my life . . .
In the bag behind me, there are at least seventy pounds of marijuana. I haven’t the slightest idea how many joints that makes and I suspect that if I start calculating right now, I’ll get sick and throw up inside the car. That shitty margarita did me in, I know it. One joint is about five bucks. Ten joints are about fifty. A hundred joints are five hundred. One pound makes . . . there, shit, I’m getting fucking sick to my stomach. Here we go-o-o-o. I’m already in the emergency lane, slowing down, throwing up
