I was drinking in a bar in Puerto Escondido, on the south-western
coast of Mexico, with Andy and two Australian surfer guys we had met that afternoon.
One of the surfer guys was pretty cute. I was trying to think of a way to mention
casually, in the course of conversation, that Andy and I were just friends,
not boyfriend and girlfriend. Around that time we were joined by an American
guy who lived in town. Then Andy got tired and went back to our hotel. The American
guy-- no, I don't remember his name-- invited the other three of us back to
his place to drink more beer and do some cocaine.
At first, everyone was up for continuing the party, but out on the street,
the Australian guys changed their minds and decided to go to bed. I decided
to go drink the beer and do the coke. I knew it was a stupid move. No one, at
this point, knew where I was going or whom I was with. And the only solid information
I had on this guy is that he claimed to know where to score coke at 2 in the
morning in a sketchy Mexican resort town.
We got in a cab and rode through the crescent-shaped town, which is built along
the border of a bay. The cab dropped us on a side street, and the guy then led
me down a dark alley and into the back yard of a run-down apartment building.
The mescal, apparently, was already wearing off, because I was starting to feel
like I might be in danger. As a pathetically inadequate safety precaution I
tried to stay more than an arm's length away from the guy.
He knocked on a window, and an old Mexican man stuck his head
out and sold him a baggie of coke. Then we walked down a dirt road that was
completely unlit and full of potholes. I started to be able to smell the ocean
again, and we got to a group of big houses. We went through a gate in an adobe
wall and entered a lush yard, with patches of manicured green lawn bordered
by banana trees and hibiscus bushes. There was a big white adobe house that
wasn't all the way completed. Beams and boards and a pile of blue tiles lay
in the yard.
We went around back to a guest cottage, which was where the guy lived. It was
small and luxurious, especially compared to the kind of places I'd been
staying lately, with terra cotta tile floors, its own little porch facing the
beach, and a big bed, which was the only place to sit. The guy put some crappy
rock music on the boom box and started tapping out lines on the case of the
CD. He also brought in some cold Coronas from the main house; he said we had
to be quiet because his friend, who owned the place, was asleep.
I don't know much about cocaine, but I think this was some pretty good
stuff. Instead of just making me feel like I wanted to talk about everything
really fast, it actually made what the other person was saying seem interesting,
too.
The guy decided to show me some of his stuff. First he showed
me his spear gun. That made me a little nervous. But then, when he didn't spear
me to death, I figured I was home free. I mean, he'd already passed up perfectly
good opportunities to kidnap me, sell me into slavery, or even spear me like
a prize tortoise. He'd also said something about how roofies (aka the date-rape
drug) were so misunderstood, and could actually be a lot of fun if you knew
what you were doing. I had another fit of concern when he got out his knife
collection. He had a big black box with a lock on it. Inside were many different
kinds of knives. One was a cruel-looking thing definitely meant for hand-to-hand
combat. Another was a South American Indian blade, with feathers attached to
it. I think he was bragging about how much they were worth, because I asked
him what he did for money.
Back in Florida, he had worked in restaurants, and we proceeded to trade stories
about outrageously rude customers, wild after-work parties, and of course, trying
to dish out food with a killer hangover. "So what do you do now?"
I asked. "Look at this," he said, leading me over to a corner of
the room. There was a dresser with a bunch of boxes piled on top of it. He took
down the top row of boxes, and opened one underneath. Inside was a huge block
of dense, green, dried marijuana. I don't really how big a bushel is,
but this looked like a whole bushel of pot to me. It was definitely about 2000
times as much of it as I'd ever seen in one place before.
We also looked at his collection of seashells. That was pretty
cool. I got the feeling he thought I was cute, but he didn't say anything or
try anything. Eventually, the sky started to lighten a little, and then turned
from dark grey to a very pale blue. I told him I was going to walk home along
the beach. He tried to get me to take a cab, or let him go with me, but I said
no. He asked me to have dinner with him that night and I said OK. We agreed
to meet at a certain café that night around 7 pm and I left.
I walked through the yard of the house and onto the beach. The
sun was just coming up, and the sky was streaked with pink and apricot clouds
that were reflected in the grey ocean. I felt dazed, tired, relieved to be alone.
Pelicans were fishing all along the edge of the water, just past the breakers.
They looked like pterodactyls flying overhead and then collapsed into a sharp-nosed
missiles, hitting the water with a precise splash.
I walked about a mile along the beach, then up through the crooked
streets of town to our place. I got in bed just as the sun was getting bright
and hot. I stayed in bed all day with a wicked hangover and the beginnings of
a cold. Around 6:30 I realized there was no way I was going to make it to the
cafe. There was no way for me to get in touch with the guy. I didn't have a
phone, and neither did he. The next day, Andy and I left for Oaxaca.
I felt kind of guilty about standing the guy up. But really, he should have
known better than to trust some random stranger he met in a bar.
A_____ is the pseudonym of a writer
living somewhere in the United States. She is way too paranoid about having
her parents run across Lime Tea.
