Border Washout

Border Washout I roared out of town, cursing Texas traffic, after a night of revelry with Bonnie: smoking, drinking, singing, laughing, and storytelling on the porch at her cool place in the hills outside San Antonio. (When I first met her in Matehuala thirty-five years ago we had a big fight, but neither of us can remember what it was about, most likely my fault.) When I got to the border 150 miles away they wouldn't let me take my truck in because my registration was the one from the year before. No amount of cajoling, persuading, begging, and outright bribery attempts would make the bank official change her mind. (No papers, no tortillas.) I had messed up big-time: When I had been cleaning out the truck in Austin I had realized I only had last year's registration but figured they wouldn't notice or care at the border. (I should have immediately gotten the up-to-date title overnighted from Garberville.) Being stuck at the border, there was nothing to do but turn around and drive back, but first I’d have to throw my stash in the garbage, a couple ounces of nice weed, before heading back into the U.S. (Damn, there had to be a better way, I just didn't want to lose those smoky dreams.) I drove further into Mexico looking for a place to hide it, and hoping to find a big flat rock to put it under. I saw one by the side of the road, slowed to a stop, then looked across the road at the prison towers, hmm, better keep moving. A mile later I noticed a relatively flat rock and stopped. After carrying the heavy rock into the brush, I got the double seal-a-mealed stash out of my truck where it was in the garbage bag covered with stinky compost: rotting banana slices, orange peels, coffee grounds, egg shells, and more. I wiped it clean so it wouldn’t attract animals. The rock didn't completely cover the stash, I jammed some dead leaves into the gap, and will be pleasantly surprised it it's still there in a few days when I make another run to Mexico. Then there was nothing to do but drive back to San Antonio, they waved me back across the border with no search or concern. What a washout: I was on the road twelve hours and ended up where I started, here at Bonnie's house the next day, out on the porch on a pleasant May morning, drinking my coffee with the wind blowing gently, birds singing, and waiting for my registration papers to arrive from California. Three days later we were loaded and on the road, I drove us out of the city through the San Antonio dawn, and then handed the keys to Bonnie’s son Cactus. We breezed through the border and a mile inside Mexico I triumphantly found my flattened stash where I'd hidden it four days before. A few minutes later the cops stopped us. Cactus got out and talked with them, I got fifty bucks ready, and he came back to the truck a few minutes later. “They say we were speeding but it's bullshit,” he said. “They want 362.” “Pesos?” I said. “No. Dollars,” he said. “If we don't want to pay we can follow them downtown to the station.” “Okay, let's do that,” I said, then thought about the weed in the back of the truck hidden in the garbage. I quickly decided to bargain and went over to the police car and offered them a hundred bucks. They countered with half the $362, so I reluctantly gave those assholes $181, and we were back on the road again. hillmuffin@gmail.com