Into the Beautiful North(25)

“Let’s go downtown,” Tacho said. “Let’s get some food and a Coke and find civilization.”

“Good idea,” Nayeli said.

“There must be a phone booth downtown,” Yolo said.

“Must be,” said Vampi.

“I’ll pay the taxi,” Tacho said.

“Our benefactor,” Yolo said.

They were scared out of their minds.

Vampi tugged on Nayeli’s shirttail.

“Nayeli?” she whispered. “Do you have any Kotex?”

“What?”

“I started my period.”

“Now?”

“On the bus. My Kotex is in my bag. I used toilet paper.”

Nayeli still had her small purse—it had a tampon in it.

“I’ve got this.”

“What’s that?” Vampi said.

“It’s a tampon,” Nayeli said. “No seas simple.”

Vampi stared at it.

“How’s it work?”

“You don’t use these?”

“My grandmother would never let me use that.”

“It’s all I have.”

“It’s kind of small, isn’t it?” La Vampi asked.

Nayeli whispered, “It goes inside.”

The other two were now staring at her.

“I can’t do that!”

“I’m not going to do it, girl, so you better figure it out,” Tacho said.

Vampi made a face.

“We’ll help,” Yolo said.

“You go right ahead, girls,” Tacho said. “I’ll stay right here.”

Vampi started to cry.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s all right,” Nayeli said. She put her arm around her. “You’ll get used to it.”

They hustled to the women’s toilet.

Tacho wondered if he was the only one who knew they were in serious trouble.



Apparently, taxicabs in Tijuana carried as many human bodies as possible. The four of them piled into the backseat of a middle-aged Chevy and were astounded when two more people shoved in on top of them while an old woman with a cane and a bag of groceries got in the front.

“Welcome aboard!” the driver quipped, and they were off on a bone-rattling journey through the unbelievably crowded streets. The driver turned on the radio, and they were amazed to hear a Mexican techno song announce, “Tijuana makes me happy” in English.

“Does Tijuana make you happy?” Tacho asked the driver.

The driver looked at him in the mirror.

“Sure,” he said. “It’s the happiest city on earth.”

He dropped them off outside the jai alai frontón.

As they got out, the old woman in front handed Nayeli an orange.

“Eat fruit,” she advised.

They walked with the restless throngs. The tide of American bodies dragged them down Revolución, the central party artery of Tijuana. Techno and Van Halen boomed from shops and bars and eateries. It was only afternoon, but lurid lights were already blinking and sizzling outside the bars. Hawkers stood in the street, calling to passersby: “Hey, amigo! C’mon, c’mon, amigos! Tequila buena! I got good prices on shoes! For you, two-for-one special! C’mon!” Nayeli almost laughed. Tacho began to strut again. Maybe Tijuana was his kind of city. That made him feel better. He almost forced the Jefe and the bathroom out of his mind; he forced himself to forget the missing bags.

A boy with blue eye makeup called him “guapo.”

“Oh, my God!” Tacho said.

“That boy had eye shadow,” Vampi said. “I like that.”

Donkeys in the street stood stoically before madly painted carts decorated with Aztec and rural scenes in vivid colors. The donkeys were spray-painted white and black to look like zebras. Americanos sat on the carts and giggled with huge sombreros on their heads as bored Mexicans snapped their pictures. Mexican cops kept an eye on the crowd. Tacho noticed soldiers in black body armor on several corners, their evil black machine guns slung low.

Children shined shoes, walked up and down the sidewalks with boxes of Chiclets, or carried poles hung with bracelets and woven chokers. Vampi bought a black cross made of shiny thread. It had a red bead in the center that looked like a drop of blood.

“Gothic Catholics unite,” Tacho said.

They paused in front of an upstairs eatery, and before they knew it, they were swept up into it and seated at a table.

“What can I get you?” the waiter said.

“I’m dying for a cold beer,” Tacho announced.

The waiter nodded.

“Four?”

Yolo and Vampi started to giggle. They had not yet drunk beer. Nayeli smiled up at him. He was quite handsome.

“Sí, por favor,” she said.

“Bring limes,” Tacho said.

“Claro.”

They were fascinated by the passing tourists on the street below. Cholos and surfos cruised by, pickups and low-riders, old work vans and bicycles. They watched cops pull over and shove a drunk American sailor into their car and inch back into traffic. Flocks of schoolgirls in their uniforms hustled along, chattering and laughing. Fat Suburbans with black windows carried cocaine cowboys on their rounds.