With the addition of Brooke to the household, things did shift. When we did want to go out for a beer we did less Sail Club and Gaff. We began to frequent Mariner's Inn on the beach. Everyone still called it Beach Lodge because that is what it had been as long as it had been there previously.
The Inn was owned by a couple from Wisconsin, Rick and Sherrill. They were wonderful people. Sitting at what was perceived as the main table with them was more like a kitchen table in a big house with a large family. It was that warm and as a result, this became a regular stop. Tom from Island Retreat would hike through the dunes and also hang out with us as well as our neighbor Jim, who worked at the University of Texas.
The hours of conversations that happened at that table were wonderful. It was a group of people from many different places in the world all congregating here as friends. A Lone Star Beer long neck was $1.25 and we always carried our darts with us. There was no air conditioning in Mariner's. It enjoyed that offshore breeze that kept the air moving and several ceiling fans working overhead.
Towards the tail end of Spring Break, Dad, Brooke and I went down to Mariners around 1 p.m. on a Saturday. We were joined by Harry and Steve. Steve was a core member of the Sunday Morning Gentleman's Club, our Sunday morning dart games at the house. Harry, who lived over in Rockport, frequently came over to play.
We were all sitting around the table and it was pretty harmless. At some point, however, it seemed like Steve may have argued with his wife, which explained why Harry picked him up and got him out of the house. Other than the dart games on Sunday, Steve never left the house.
Then Steve said the words that dissolved the group at the table and set into motion a very crazy idea: "Hey, let's go to Mexico."
Dad looked at Steve like he had lost his mind. Harry just about jumped out of his chair to go. I, at 19, who did not get to go to Costa Rica suddenly saw an opportunity to go to this wild and crazy place I had only heard stories about, I was in.
Let me just say that my ability to make intelligent decisions was next to nothing at this point. I was so spontaneous and someone just laid out an adventure. I volunteered to drive and not drink another drop of alcohol until we reached Mexico. Drinking and driving was still legal in Texas in 1985. You could legally drive, with an open container but God help you if your blood alcohol was over the legal limit. I was certain that Harry and Steve would likely drink all the way to Mexico.
When I asked Dad to come, he made it clear to me that there was no way he was going. He even pointed out to me that maybe I should not go. He reminded me who I was going with. Steve was the guy who would fall asleep on the couch while his two-year-old son was randomly walking around the neighborhood 2 1/2 blocks away. Harry had so many DWIs that he served time in the state pen at Huntsville last year. He was the one who made the front page of the Toast of the Coast Herald last year. A photo of officers trying to cuff him and him waving his fist in the air at the paper cameraman as he kept screaming, "I'll remember you!!"Above the photo a bold headline: "MEMORIES". Deep down inside, I was wondering if I was going to end up in one of those Mexican jails I had heard so much about. But, I just had to go.
We left Mariner's Inn. There was still a lot of activity on the beach so driving on it was stop and go. Dad and Brooke were in the Chrysler in front of us, and Harry, Steve, and I were in Harry's 1970 blue and white Ford pickup. I was sitting in the middle between Harry and Steve. As the beach traffic kept stopping, Harry thought he would be funny and started racing the truck and making it jump up close to the back of Dad's car. I could feel my Dad's annoyance back here in the vehicle behind his. This was a mistake.
The one thing I knew about my father was it was never a good idea to call his bluff. He would make you own whatever was used to mess with him. Harry persisted in his antagonizing by stomping on the gas pedal and bouncing up right behind the Chrysler, stopping just inches from it. The traffic line moved and we stayed back as Harry shifted the truck back into 1st, revving the engine, making his intentions known. I kept warning him. "You know he is going to rub your face in this Harry, you should know better." Harry, obviously a person who did not know how to learn from his mistakes just laughed.
The retaliation suddenly came, in the form of backup lights on the Chrysler. Dad stomped the gas pedal of that 440 and it screamed through its way undersized glass pack muffler. The car lurched towards us and made contact with a crash. Dad kept the pressure on. Harry thought he could push back with the truck but that was like trying to push an oil tanker, it was no match. The rear tires of the truck just spun in the sand. This demonstration of opposing force lasted for what seemed like a couple of minutes. As we sat in the seat of the truck, I noticed that our view was transitioning from a straight-on look at the back window of Dad's car to the roof to more of the sky. Harry had buried the truck up to the body at the back wheels.
Dad, seeing that he had made his point, took off like a rocket and left us there on the beach, in the middle of the roadway where there was a line of cars behind us. We were angled as if we were going to launch into space on a vertical trajectory. Realizing that since I was riding with these two, I was going to need to help them dig the truck out. "Satisfied?" I looked at Harry. He laughed his crazy laugh, he loved this. Yeah, going to Mexico with a guy who was on the outs with his wife and this guy tonight. I started to think, I am so going to Mexican jail.
We briefly stopped back at the house, mostly to get music, I cannot deal with lots of miles and no music. I kept getting the "this is a bad idea vibe" off of Dad. Of course, mindless 19-year-old, and zero dollars in my pocket, I was going to do this.
In 1985, this was about a 4 hour drive since it would be another year and a half before the federal government decided to repeal the 55-mile-an-hour national speed limit that had been in effect since 1973. The road from Corpus to Laredo is a long lonely one. We talked and listened to the music that I brought. Of course, Steve and Harry drank from a cooler that was in the bed of the truck and wiped out the better part of a bag of pot. I could never be bothered with that stuff, I never cared for it. In Port Aransas, that and a 12 pack were the most common legal tender on the island.
As we drove west towards Mexico, the sunset and the most amazing moon rose from the horizon. I recall it was one of the most beautiful moons I have ever seen. We made a quick stop in Laredo to eat at a Mcdonalds drive-thru, then drove across the international border. I noticed the Mexican border agent just waved hello and smiled at us as we drove through his booth. That surprised me a bit, I always thought entering another country would be more complicated. I was unaware that the real trick was getting back into the United States.
It was definitely a shock entering into Nuevo Laredo. We went from one large city, and immediately right into another, but more 20 years ago and more post-apocalyptic. The potholes in the roads were larger than the truck we drove, people drove so much more aggressively. I told Harry that I needed him to drive because I did not want to be responsible for damaging his truck and at this point, some kind of damage seemed inevitable.
He told me where to go and we ended up in a parking lot of a rough-looking 2 story motel. It reminded me of something you might see in Beirut in the movies. We got a room for like $15 US. The exchange rate at this time was 4100 pesos to 1 US dollar. Once we secured that we headed back out to the street and got a cab, by which I mean a 1968 Plymouth Valiant that barely had an exhaust and a suspension that was seriously fatigued from the ridiculous conditions of the roads. The driver drove it hard, like a Chicago Cab driver would. You could tell he was not worried that he could potentially fly the car apart. Harry and Steve seemed to know exactly where we were going. I just went with the flow. I did notice as we navigated the city, Federales with automatic weapons were everywhere.
When we arrived at the club we were attending I could not help but notice, like so many properties in this area, it was surrounded by 6 to 10-foot concrete walls, except this one, when they poured the walls, they placed glass liquor bottles upside down and then after they dried, the bottles were broken leaving jagged glass across the tops of the walls. This was designed to keep people in just as much as it was to keep people out.
I had no money, I was not sure what Harry had, and Steve had a pocket full. This was ironic because Steve did not work, only his wife did. Once we got inside it was clear that even though the alcohol was flowing, alcohol was their second best-selling commodity. There was no doubt in my mind, that alcohol was as far as this went for me, I had heard too many awful stories about these ill-fated trips over the border. Steve bought me a beer, and in a short time, he disappeared. Harry was talking to different people. A man sat at our table and started talking with me. He was a middle-weight boxer. We had a long conversation and I actually felt better hanging out with him in a place with glass-topped barrier walls and Federales outside with rifles.
I was not very old, but I was already developing expedient survival skills in thick situations, a skill I would really develop later on. Steve arrived back at the table, he was different. A very dark case of regret and obviously buyer's remorse had set in. On the ride back to the motel he was lamenting out loud about coming down here, leaving his wife at home, taking the money, everything was a disaster. I would not want to be him for anything.
He was difficult to be around, so Harry and I walked away from him as he headed into the motel room. We hit the streets of Nuevo Laredo. It was about 2 AM. The city was alive, people everywhere, some in the light, many others just inside the shadows of doorways and alleys, all seeming suspicious of us, Federales also looking at us, waiting for the reason. The city was so broken everywhere, the roads, the sidewalks, the faces of the buildings. At one time all of this was new, and now years of neglect were everywhere. The night was hot and full of fumes from cars and food.
We walked into this little shop that was bright with yellow light, fans blew loudly, and skinned animal carcasses (allegedly goat) hung from the ceiling. We sat down at a little square table in the middle of the shop, as we seemed to be the attraction of those people sitting in the perimeter seats. We ordered two Carta Blanca beers and Harry ordered tacos.
He talked and talked, the whole time eating like he was Andrew Zimmerman. Beer after beer, taco after taco, and an hour passed. He kept offering me the goat taco but I held up my hand, "Oh, I'm good, I ate at McDonalds, what, only 8 hours ago?" At this point in my life, I was very closed-minded when it came to food. Pizza at the time was non-existent on the island, which I would have eaten frequently so that only left McDonald's when off the island and Whataburger the rest of the time. That was how I rolled back then. I was not about to eat a taco when they waved the flies off the raw meat hanging from the ceiling before putting it on the fire. Nope.
When we neared the two-hour mark, I really started to grow concerned. "Did Steve give you any money?" I asked Harry. He shook his head no. "How much do you have?" I carefully asked. He reached into his pocket, "11 dollars." I told Harry that I appreciated the several beers I had, but with all the food he had eaten, we were either going to do dishes and mop the floors or the more likely outcome. The proprietor would bring in the Federale who was standing in the street just outside the door, and we would go to jail. Harry, was nothing short of amused and irreverent. He just shrugged his shoulders and kept shoveling those insane tacos into his face. He loved this.
Finally, he had enough, and he said, "Let's get out of here." He asked the man at the counter how much, $7.75. Obviously, Harry knew we were fine all along. I was absolutely stunned at the cost of this outing. We walked back through the dark streets, up to our room, and went to sleep.
Because Steve was so full of remorse when the sun rose, he was like a drill sergeant, making us get up and get moving. No coffee in Mexico, and no breakfast either, he wanted us on the road. We quickly got down to the truck, got in, and headed for the Laredo border.
There was no nice smiling American border patrol person waving at us as we went by. No, in fact, they thought it was a good idea if we pulled off to the side into one of their more intensive inspection areas. We had to leave the truck and sit in a holding area. They took off door panels and checked under the truck and under the hood too. After something like an hour, we were allowed to return to the truck and enter the US. We went right to the McD's to get a coffee and then travel that long barren road back to the Coastal Bend. Steve was super quiet, Harry and I listened to music and talked about it the whole way.
When we pulled into Avenue J, my Dad was pleased I made it home. The only casualty for me was the Wings At the Speed of Sound tape. Harry's tape deck ate it. Steve had sold this trip as showing me the ways of the world, not that I would be so foolish as to accept that, but in the end, I learned that this was about his own selfish impulse. It was deep enough for me at 19 to pull a significant life lesson from.
I am thankful that his life was not mine. They later that year moved off the island and later that year his wife and son went to the store for milk and bread and never returned. She drove until she was at her parent's house in Pennsylvania, rightly so too.
Harry was an interesting person to spend time with, he knew the rules and and knew them better than he let on. He always made it seem like all caution was disregarded, but to some degree, it was a façade. Later that year he had a girlfriend named Linda. She would come around to the Sunday Morning Gentlemen's Club dart games we held. Our friend Bob for some reason did not like her. She had been all over the world, living in tents, Peace Corps in Africa, and who knows where else. Bob always called her Bazimba. Never figured out what the deal was.
No comments:
Post a Comment