path. Friends were easy to make when you were the only white guy in a bar full of Mexicans. A novelty.
“Whoa.” Portman leaned back, waving off the tequila in surrender. “No fucking mas.”
Juan laughed. “C’mon. The last one. I promise you.”
Portman exhaled a watery sigh. He wasn’t sure how he’d make it back to his motel room, let alone the flight of steps that led from the tavern to the street below. They’d probably find him the next morning passed out in the zocalo covered with vomit and bird shit.
“Okay.” He picked up the tiny glass. “This is it.” He tilted back his head and swallowed, well past the point of feeling the burn. He decided he better get back to China.
Juan leaned forward in his chair. “I’ll help you down the steps.”
“I can make it.”
Portman started to get up but felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. He squirmed around and saw a pockmarked face staring at Juan.
“I brought the gringo a drink.”
“Leave him alone, Benito.”
Benito’s glazed eyes were crisscrossed with tiny red veins that looked like snakes hungering after his pitch- black pupils. Portman could smell the alcohol on him even over his own potent breath. Benito produced a pint-sized mason jar from a paper sack he held.
“Homemade,” he said. He lifted the jar up so that the golden tavern light shined through it. It was full of a cloudy, amber liquid. “I call it
Juan started to get up. “Leave him alone.”
Benito ignored him. When he tried to smile, his face twisted up into a grimace. “Tequila,” he said.
Portman looked at Juan. Juan shook his head gravely. Portman felt Benito’s fingers burrow deep into his shoulder blade.
“Just a sip,” Benito said.
Portman didn’t want to be the cause of a fight, particularly if he was going to be in the middle of it. “I think I can handle a sip.” He held his hand out for the jar.
Benito pulled it away from Portman’s grasp. “Only if it’s okay with Juan here.”
Juan’s eyes smoldered. “Just a sip,” he said finally. “A small sip.” He sat back down.
Benito swirled the tequila. Something stirred in the bottom of the jar. He grinned at Portman. “Wanna swallow the worm? Can’t say you’ve been to Mexico if you haven’t swallowed the worm.”
“Just a sip,” Juan said once more. “No worm.”
Portman tried to focus on the jar. The residual swirl of the tequila made the worm dance. It was pale white, the size of Portman’s index finger. “I didn’t think they got so big,” he said.
Benito laughed. The small crowd gathering around the table laughed. Juan did not laugh.
And just for a second, as the candlelight glowed through the glass, it glowed through the body of the worm. A trick of the light, of the occlusions in the tequila, perhaps, but it appeared as if a small heart beat in the middle of the worm. Appeared as if the worm had a dozen tiny legs grasping helplessly at its own chest.
“
“Drink,” the crowd began to chant in Spanish.
Drink.
Portman lifted the mason jar to his lips and took a sip. It went down like water. Not bad at all.
“
The chant was verbal adrenaline. It gave Portman a feeling of power, made him want to show them that even though he was a foreigner — worse, a
He ignored Juan’s pleas to stop. He tipped his head back, relaxed the muscles of his throat. The homemade concoction rushed in, flooding his mouth, a few drops spilling out of the corners. But he got it down.
And then there was the worm. Bleached from the tequila. Portman looked down his nose at it as it left the glass. He saw its mouth open just before it entered his own mouth. He gagged as it slid down his throat. Gagged at the feel of it grabbing at his esophagus, trying to latch on, trying to climb its way back out. Portman gritted his teeth and forced it down.
The crowd cheered.
Juan helped Portman back to his motel room. Only two blocks away, but he never would’ve made it without Juan’s help.
Along the way, Juan whispered urgently into his ear, “On your way home, don’t drive at night. You understand? Listen to me. Don’t drive at night. That’s when they come out.”
“Right.” Portman had heard this many times from friends back home. “Federales. Banditos.”
“No.” Juan squeezed Portman’s wrist painfully so that he felt it. “Listen to me. Do not drive in the countryside at night.”
“Banditos,” Portman murmured.
Juan let Portman drop onto the motel bed unconscious.
“I have to pee,” China said. “I really have to pee.
Portman couldn’t look at her. He could barely wave the gun anymore. “You can’t.”
“What do you mean I can’t? What the hell do you mean I can’t?” She was losing it. Had lost it long ago.
“I’m sorry.” Portman’s breath came out in quick wheezes. “You’re going to have to hold it or just let it go.”
China was already out of tears, but their trails remained, thick and pink. “In my pants? You want me to go in my pants?”
Portman didn’t answer.
China began to hyperventilate. She hunched her neck, her shoulders, her face contorted into a tight knot. Then she relaxed. Her whole body relaxed, except for the tear trails that grew a darker shade of red. The stench of urine filled the truck.
He dreamed of the worm. Of its mouth and the tiny rictus of teeth, pointed and sharp. He dreamed of it crawling inside his belly, eating its way through his guts. And all the while, there was the vibration, the feel of the ground rumbling, of things large and lumbering sliding wet across the earth.
Portman was jolted awake as the truck bounced along the shoulder of the lonely Mexican highway. The smell of stale urine was almost gone. He struggled to sit up. His gut was on fire.
“I can’t stay awake.” China’s voice was hoarse. Defeated. “I can’t do this.”
“You have to,” Portman said.
China slammed her fist against the dashboard. “I almost drove us off a fucking cliff! I can’t do this anymore.”
“I have to get to a doctor. It’s killing me.”
“I can’t stay awake.”
Portman felt the truck slow down, the gravel at the side of the road popping beneath the tires. He lifted the gun up and pointed it at China. “Don’t.”
She stared straight ahead and ignored him. They rolled to a stop. This wasn’t right. Portman had the gun. He had the gun. How could she stop?
“Don’t,” Portman said again, but she already had. And he knew, had known it all along, that he couldn’t shoot her. He couldn’t shoot anybody. He set the gun down gently next to him. He was going to have to drive.
China opened her door and got out. She stood with her back to the side of the truck, leaning over, her hands on her knees, taking in deep breaths of air.
After a short struggle, Portman managed to open the pickup’s gate. He slid out of the truck’s bed, his stomach feeling like a knife thrower’s convention. When his feet touched the ground, his legs buckled, and he collapsed onto his butt. The world swam, the stars above, so many of them, all bright, glaring, dug into his eyeballs. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fight away the dizziness that swept over him. The cacophony of crickets was
