Six Bad Things

I HAVE an hour to kill. In the cantina across the street from the depot I’m able to buy a few packs of cigarettes; Marlboro Lights as they don’t carry Benson & Hedges. The place is quiet, just a few other people waiting for the bus, and the mother and daughter team behind the counter. I get some coffee and blow smoke rings at the TV, where the news is playing. The sound is off, but I watch it anyway. So it’s really impossible for me to miss the moment when photos of Sergeants Morales and Candito are flashed on the screen with the caption my spinning brain can’t translate except for the words cimentar, which I’m pretty sure means found, and muertos, which any asshole knows what it means.

BAJA HIGHWAY 1 is more a theory than an actual road, an impossibly long and narrow strip that connects Cabo with Tijuana. Upkeep on the highway is constant, but hopeless. The substructure of the roadway is sand or shale or crumbling coastal cliff face. Erosion has the upper hand here. Crews work endlessly to maintain this lifeline, but it’s a losing battle and they know it. You can see it in their eyes when you pass them every hundred miles or so.

I have an aisle seat right up front where I can watch every oncoming vehicle that plows head-on toward us before veering to the side and scraping past. Hours of it have numbed me. All I can do now is twitch as the driver casually one-hands the steering wheel, balancing us on this rail of death as yet another semi slams by and rocks us in its slipstream. It’s only about a hundred and fifty miles to Constitucion, but by the time we get there I already feel like I’ve been on the bus for days. We have a half hour to stretch while passengers get on and off. If I time it right, I can smoke about ten cigarettes.

There is only one other white guy on the bus. We make brief eye contact and he lifts his hand-rolled smoke toward me. It’s a joint. I shake my head and he turns and walks off a bit from the rest of the passengers to smoke. I wouldn’t mind a little toke, but I need to avoid falling into any casual conversations with people who might be able to identify me later.

I smoke three cigarettes, grab a bottle of water and a couple pork tamales from a vendor, and get back on board. An hour later we start to climb the coastal mountains that run up the edge of the Golfo de California. That’s where the ride starts to get really fucking scary. The 1 is still just as narrow and in the same state of disrepair, but now it twists and turns around safety-railless blind corners. The driver continues to steer with just the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. I am now seriously wishing I had smoked some of that joint. I get Steinbeck out of my pack and try not to look at the little memento mori altars that commemorate beloved victims of highway death every mile or two. I know exactly what it looks like when a body flies through a windshield and I don’t need to be reminded.

THE BUS station at Santa Rosalia is just a counter in a bodega. We pull in well after dark. I stand in line for the bathroom inside, then go out to smoke. Right across the road from the station is a massive concrete breakwater. I walk out onto it a little ways to kill myself a little more. The guy with the joint comes up behind me.

– Hello.

He has a French accent.

– Hi.

– American?

– Yep.

He nods. He’s got another joint, offers it to me.

– Thanks.

Not wanting to be a hero on the next leg of the trip, I take a big hit. He points at the joint.

– I could not do these long rides without it.

– Yeah, I could have used it on that last stretch.

I take one more hit and pass the joint back. He licks the tips of his fingers, pinches the cherry off, and drops the roach into his cigarette box. We start back toward the bus. He inhales the sea air deeply. There is a slight chill. I realize it is December and I am heading north for the first time in years. It will be strange to be cold.

– Do you have something to read on the bus?

I nod.

– Yeah, but I’m still reading it. I saw some books in the bodega.

We walk into the bodega together. The books are next to the cooler, mostly in Spanish, but there are a few tattered second-handers in English on the bottom shelf. I pull out a bottle of water from the cooler, grab a second one, show it to him.

– Want one?

– Yes, thank you.

I turn for the counter, catch something out of the corner of my eye, look again because I’m stoned and this can’t be real. I grab a book from the rack and go pay for everything, my heart pounding. Frenchie was right there when I picked up the book. Did he see it?

He joins me outside and I give him his water. He doesn’t look at me funny, just takes a sip.

– Thanks.

– Sure.

He holds up a beaten copy of The Client.

– The movie was crap, but I have never read any of his books. Maybe they’re good?

– Don’t count on it.

– What did you get?

– Oh, one of those true crime things. I’m a sucker for that shit.

The bus pulls back out. Most of the passengers are starting to settle toward sleep. I click on my overhead light and pull the book from my grocery bag. I hold it close to my body, like a poker hand. It’s by a guy named Robert Cramer and it’s called The Man Who Got Away. It is the unauthorized story of my life and crimes.

AT GUERRO Negro we cross over from Baja Sur to Baja Norte and soldiers come on board the bus. This is particularly bad timing as I’ve spent the last several stoned hours reading about the forces that warped me as a child and the role my parents played in turning me into a killer. By the time I realize what’s going on, it’s too late to hide this book, which features several photos of me, including the three-year-old booking shot on the cover.

One soldier stands at the front of the bus while another walks down the aisle. Behind me, he asks only one person for a passport. When a French accent replies I know what to expect: this will be a passport check for gringos only. There are more soldiers outside, all armed with assault rifles. Are they looking for me or is this normal? Do they control border traffic like this all the time? If I give these guys the Carlyle passport there will be all kinds of questions about how I’ve been living illegally in their country for three years with no visa. If the search for Morales’s and Candito’s murderer has gone far enough the other passport will get me dragged off this bus by my ankles. And shit, which passport is in which pocket, anyway? Why did I get stoned?

The soldier behind me barks something and the French guy starts a stream of denials in Spanish. The soldier at the front of the bus raises his weapon and takes a step into the aisle. I close the book, tuck it between my thighs, and crane my head out into the aisle to see what’s going on back there. It’s pretty easy to figure out what the ruckus is about because the soldier is holding the French guy’s open knapsack in one hand, and what looks like about a quarter kilo of weed in the other. They get the French guy off the bus and you can see by the looks on the soldiers’ faces how delighted they are to be busting a white guy for a change. The last one has just climbed off and the driver is getting ready to close the door when the soldier steps back in and looks at me.

– Frances?

– No. American.

– Los Angeles?

I shake my head.

He narrows his eyes.

– San Diego?

I shake my head again, desperate not to be associated with either of these clearly undesirable locales.