FETAL POSITION
Turista
Portman lay sick in the back of the pickup, his throat like a sponge drying on hot asphalt, the crystalline glare from the stars making his skin ache. China had thrown together a bed for him: the two blankets they haggled for in San Miguel, and a small pillow she’d made in home-ec over twelve years ago. The pillow was soaked through with his sweat.
The drive was endless. Over 1100 miles from Mexico City to El Paso through central Mexico, and at night the countryside was all looming shadows edged with silver.
He slid in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he’d sit up with the wind howling through his hair, unable to tell how far they’d gone, or where they were. Sometimes it seemed as if they’d traveled 200 miles in a few minutes, while other times, it seemed to take hours just to burrow through the deserted streets of some shit-hole town.
“How are you doing back there?” China had to yell to be heard through the small window at the back of the pick-up’s cab.
Portman sat with his back to the cab, the blankets pulled tight around him. He turned to the open window and shook his head. He saw China’s eyes in the rearview mirror, wide with worry, darting between him and the endless, snaking road ahead. His mouth felt full of sand, but when he hefted the plastic water jug up to his lips and sipped, his abdomen clenched in protest.
“We’re making good time.” Most of China’s words were swallowed by the wind and the noise of the truck’s engine. “We should be in Chihuahua by morning.”
Portman closed his eyes tight against the harsh starlight. He had tried averting his eyes earlier by looking down at himself, but it had made him nauseous seeing his stomach, feeling it churn and recoil and writhe within.
The truck hit a painful series of bumps in the road, and then there was China’s voice.
“—the chicken or maybe the chocolate. Could’ve been the chocolate. Wasn’t wrapped. That’s not a good sign. That’s never a good sign.”
Portman wondered how long she had been talking. He had given up responding to her conversations earlier in the evening, shortly before the sun had finished stretching long shadows across the highway like dirty taffy. It took too much effort to talk. Too much energy to respond. He sensed that China knew this, and felt maybe she was talking to him to keep herself awake. Sometimes he was thankful for her voice, and other times it was unbearable.
He took another weak sip of water. It felt like a dull knife jabbing him in the guts. But he was dehydrated. He needed more. He took a deep breath, raised the jug to his lips and poured it down his throat. When the water hit his stomach, it was like an explosion of glass. He fell to his side gasping for air, wheezing, trying to hold the water down. The thing in his stomach—
“—you doing?”
China was yelling again.
“I said how are you doing?”
Portman felt the truck begin to slow down. He forced himself to sit up, his stomach screaming in protest. He looked through the small open window into the cab and shook his head. Even that was hard. “No,” he said, his vocal cords shredded. “Keep going.”
China glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “You look like shit.”
“Keep going.” Portman wrapped his fingers loosely around the cold metal at his side. He wished she would just keep her eyes focused in the cone of the headlights and shut up. He closed his eyes again and concentrated. Constricted his wrist and triceps to lift.
“Keep going.” His words were swallowed by the long silver-lined throat of night as he pointed the gun at China’s neck.
“Hey, okay. Okay. Put that down.” She peeked at him one more time in the rearview mirror, then turned her attention to the road ahead. Portman felt the truck accelerate, the vibrations of the passing road turning from a trot to a gallop. He let his arm drop to his side, his fingers too tired to unwrap themselves from the pistol’s grip.
They had known each other for only two months before embarking on their journey. Met the last month of their sophomore year in college, their passion consuming and sweaty, increasing at a feverish pitch. They wanted to see the world. Expand their minds. Fuck like animals.
Neither of them knew much Spanish or had ever been to Mexico, but they poured over the guidebooks. They didn’t want to experience Mexico from first class resorts and restaurants. They wanted to starve a little, hurt a little. What better way to experience the world than through the crystal clarity that a little suffering can bring. Besides, most of their money was already earmarked for their last few years of school.
The trip south had gone great. Seeing the countryside of the central highlands, the colonial towns, the small villages in between. They ate mysterious meats from street-carts, tortillas hand-made by little wrinkled women squatting at the sides of roads. They drank cheap beer and tequila. They wanted to remain lucid, but a slight buzz was better than no buzz at all.
Yet even after all the driving, the hours and hours of driving, they didn’t really know each other. But hell, the sex was great and it seemed to get better the hungrier they were, the dirtier.
They fucked like animals. He buried himself in her, felt the primal force of her heat turn him inside out, like snakes coupling, their limbs twisting about each other, shaping, reshaping.
When the time came to head north again, they were worn out. Almost out of money. Walking the fine line of getting too much of a good thing. Neither of them said it, but both knew that when they got home, they would take a break from each other. Not break up, but cool off. They knew the dangers of flying too close to the flame.
One of the last towns they stayed in was Guanajuato, about four hours north of Mexico City. China turned in early, but Portman wanted to drink up a little more culture. He watched China fall asleep next to him, and then stepped out of their simple motel room. Only two blocks away, he found the tavern—
—
He almost didn’t notice it. Sleep had overcome him, dreams of vibration and the sounds of things sliding wet and slimy over the earth. But when the truck slowed, the hiss of the wind died, and it was the approach of silence that screamed at Portman. He tapped the barrel of the gun on the frame of the cab’s window. “You can’t stop.”
“What’s happened to you?” There was fear and exhaustion and frustration in China’s voice. “I can’t go on forever. I can’t.”
Portman sucked in a mouthful of air. “You have to,” he managed. He touched the gun’s nozzle to her cheek. “’Til morning.”
She barely winced, but the engine roared back to life as she pressed heavily on the gas.
“Good girl,” Portman whispered. He let his hand drop to his side.
The hot, smoky tavern glowed with candlelight reflected off the polished wooden tables, off the mirror and liquor bottles behind the bar. He’d already had one too many shots of tequila and hadn’t paid for a single one.
“Here, friend, have another.” Juan slid a fresh shot across the table. It left a trail of spilled tequila in it’s
