Committed
I’m what you might call a Method Writer - write what you know and all that. So in order to comply with the prompt [You wake up hungover in a Mexican jail. No idea how you got there, and no memory of the last 48 hours.] I went down to Laredo, got some GHB from a guy I know - another Deadhead (thus well informed of the local narcotics scene) - and walked across the border into Nuevo Laredo.
Due to certain innate advantages I had never been in jail despite a few arrests in college for public drunkenness and disorderly contact and once for petty theft. But in none of those instances did I spend any time in a cell. I guessed my college antics would only land me a beating or, worse yet, an escort back to the border and possible time in a US Customs & Border Protection cell. My best bet to achieve this goal, I figured, was to bribe the police in Nuevo Laredo.
The only things I brought across the border were a small, spiral-bound notebook, a pen from the La Quinta I stayed at the night prior, five $100 bills - my bribing and drinking money - and, of course, the GHB, which came in a little brown glass bottle with a dropper cap.
My first stop was a bodega just over the bridge that spans the Rio Grande. The store essentially serves as a cheap liquor and tobacco depot for Americans. I bought a fifth of tequila and two packs of Marlboros (they still sell unfiltereds in Mexico).
Then, I wandered the streets until I found a police officer. [The following conversation has been translated from Spanish.]
“Can I give you this hundred dollar bill?” I asked.
“What for?” he asked.
“I want you to put me in jail.”
“You want to pay me to put you in jail?”
“Yes,” I stated, then clarified, “Not right now, but two days from now.”
“You are American…?”
“I am.” I still held the bill out in front of him and he finally took it.
“OK, cowboy,” he said pocketing the bill. “How will I find you in two days?”
“Well, if you can recommend a good bar or a brothel, you will find me there.”
“You fucking Americans. You wanna come across the border and get drunk and get laid and you even want me to be your babysitter. Fuck your mother.” The police officer began to walk away but I flashed the other bills and he halted.
“Listen, sir. I am a writer and I take my craft very seriously. I need to know what happens when I wake up hungover in a Mexican jail with no memory of the previous forty-eight hours. And I need your help to do this.”
The officer’s eyes never left the bills in my hand. “I can put you in jail, mister, but I can’t do anything about your memory.” I returned the bills to my pocket and withdrew the brown bottle.
“That’s what this is for,” I said. His gaze raised from the bottle to my eyes. He kept looking at me for a moment then he smiled and shook his head.
“You are crazy, mister.” He eyed the pocket where I’d placed the bills. “You know, it’s police policy to make sure there’s nothing in the pockets of someone going to jail.”
“I have nothing I will miss, except this,” I held up the spiral-bound notebook. “I will be greatly appreciative if you keep this safe for me.”
The officer nodded and took the notebook. “Yes, yes. I will be sure to keep this safe.” He slid the notebook into the breast pocket of his uniform. “I know just the place for you to go. And what luck, my cousin runs the place.” He pulled a cell phone from his belt.
“What luck...” I muttered.
The phone went to his ear. Seconds later he began talking. “Hey, Miguel. I’m sending a gringo your way and I want you to take good care of him...” He listened for a beat and his eyes met mine. “Yes, he’s thirsty and lonely.” He gave me a wink. “Yes, yes, that’s right. And I’ll be by in a couple of days to pick him up... Perfect. Later.” He put his phone away and then said, “You’re all set. Just follow this road here to Calle de Cabeza de Vaca and make a left, Miguel’s place will be on the right. He’ll take care of you.”
“Thank you, sir.” I took the dropper out of the bottle and used it to squeeze several drops on my tongue then washed down the foul-tasting substance with some slightly less foul-tasting tequila. I offered each bottle to the officer. He took the tequila.
“Please, mister, I’m working.” He took a healthy pull from the bottle and passed it back to me. “See you in two days.” He laughed and walked away. I had another sip from the bottle before recapping it. Already the floating feeling tingled in my head. I turned in the direction the officer indicted and starting walking…
I woke up with the worst hangover of my life on a metal cot with nothing but a dirty sarape for a mattress. My head was some kind of spinning magnet, heavy and throwing my equilibrium off. The sun blazing through a small, elevated, barred window stung my eyes. When I sat up my stomach objected and I gagged and dry heaved before I could crawl over to the stainless steel toilet a few feet from the cot. There was nothing to throw up but some bile. When the retching stopped I became aware of a feeling that I should write something. Then I noticed a small spiral-bound notebook on the floor at the door of the jail cell. I crawled over to it and discovered it was one of my notebooks, the one that I’d brought to Laredo. I opened it and on the first page was a message in Spanish. It read:
Mister, here is your notebook and your pen. I kept up my end of the bargain
and put you in jail two days after we met. But we made no arrangements to
get you out and you have no money and no identification. I trust this was what
you intended. I am taking a week of vacation. Good luck to you. - Your friend
I leafed through the rest of the pages but they were blank, which was just as well as reading hurt. So did thinking. So did moving, breathing… I crawled back to the cot and rolled onto the sarape. I closed my eyes, hoping to return to sleep. But sleep didn’t come, just the nagging thought that I might take my art too seriously.