Muerte

My head pounds at me relentlessly as my eyes open. I am weak, exhausted. Unable to even push myself up. But the paved ground beneath me exudes a heat so strong, I somehow find the strength to jump to my feet so as to save my elbows from burning. I turn my head only to see several men in army suits standing by a large wall. No, it’s more of a fence. Where am I?

I realize that I am hungover. How much could I have possibly drunk last night to end up in this horrible state? My chestnut hair is mussed, the band barely holding my bun together. Wisps of hair surround my cheeks, so clumsy that I know that I am nowhere close to decent. My eyes feel droopy, which I am sure doesn’t help my appearance. My clothes are, however, the closest thing to presentable about me. I’m wearing a fancy lime blouse that is modest, and black leggings that reach my ankles. At least I have this.

I approach one of the guards, trying to straighten up my hair that has only worsened in this humidity, opening my mouth to question my whereabouts.

“Hello, do you know what place this is?

”No comprendo, Señorita.” So he speaks Spanish. Where am I, in Mexico?

He calls another person, who jogs towards us briskly.

“I am so sorry, ma’am. He is our newest guard, and is not aware of much English.” Even this man’s English is heavily accented.

“What can I do for you? Why are you here at this border?” His tone suddenly changes. It’s more professional, more harsh too.

“What border? What is this place?”

“Why, ma’am, you are in Mexico, of course. The other side is los Estados Unidos, but I’m afraid I cannot let you cross.” He says the x in Mexico with an h sound.

“Then where the hell am I supposed to go?” How the hell am I in Mexico? I was only drunk, for goodness sake! And now I can’t go back home?

“Do you need me to call someone, ma’am? Since you are international, you need to go through many - what do you say - processes to return if you come from the other side of this fence.”

“Damn this, I won’t be here for one more second. ” I make a move towards the fence, but the man swiftly steps in front of me. I give him a threatening look, but I probably look more sick than scary.

The other man whips out a walkie talkie, talking rapidly in Spanish. I suspect he is calling for someone to come pick me up. Probably the police.

This is so great. Since I probably drove here somehow, (if I did, how did a random car get past the fence) I’ll probably be caught for drunken driving. And crossing without a visa or passport or whatever. And another million things. Great.

~~~

Hours later, the police arrive. Clad in faded brown suits, they look scary. Or they look scared and tired. Either way, I know I won’t make it out of here anytime soon. The tallest, most muscled one gives me a one-over. His dull eyes widen immediately, and he calls at one of the others to give him a phone. How do I know? Because he said this:

“Me da el teléfono, el teléfono. Rápido!”

I think I know enough Spanish to know that he was asking for a phone. Plus, one of the guys whips out an old iPhone. It looks like a 5S. Who even uses those anymore?

He takes a look at it, his eyes fly back up to me, and back at the phone. This continues for about 20 seconds. If I wasn’t so scared that I’d be jailed, then I would have laughed at this extremely comedic action. He looked like a pendulum swinging up to down rather than left to right.

“Put up your hands, miss. You are under arrest.”

WHAT THE HELL?! My hands fly up as he points a gun at me, and gestures about 7 other people to do the same. When 8 people have their guns all pointed at you, you will do whatever they say, believe me.

“What have I done? I’m an innocent.”

“No, miss,” says the head officer, “You are under arrest for murder of the Esteemed President of Mexico.”