1300 Miles to Mexico

 

The hum of wheels on the road; the whooshing of the wind; the whishing of the street signs zipping by; the slow, soothing voice of the radio DJ.

“Well, it’s the end of my time tonight. Chet Radwell will be up next, giving you an hour of non-stop rock. But, before I sign off, here’s one more chill jam. Here’s Michael Bolton’s ‘You Don’t Want Me Bad Enough.’”

I’ve always hated Michael Bolton, thought Curtis, cranking up the volume.

Curtis had been driving just over two hours, and already the scenery was becoming redundant. Signs were all blurring into one. Big green rectangles that announced exits, landmarks, and sight-seeing destinations.

Then, he saw one that was a little different from the rest. The big green rectangle at the top read:

STATE PRISON

NEXT EXIT

Then underneath, a yellow cautionary sign stating:

DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS

Curtis’ first thought was, Hitchhiker is a weird word. Two H’s in a row.

After Curtis drove down a basically deserted Route 212, his mind began to wander. He really thought this trip would be more exciting. The destination certainly promised adventure.

They never showed Indiana Jones travelling to his adventures, thought Curtis. I guess that would’ve been pretty boring. I get it.

As Curtis drove down the long stretch of highway, speckled with fields of various grains, he found himself paying less and less attention to his surroundings. Thankfully, there seemed to be no other people on the road, in case he swerved. At the same time, swerving into oncoming traffic could’ve saved some time. Suddenly, something brought him out of his revery. Not expecting anything out of the ordinary at all, Curtis suddenly noticed something he had only seen in movies.

A hitchhiker.

Curtis thought back to the sign he had seen. Then quickly disregarded it.

“And here comes another classic… Van Halen’s ‘Where Have All the Good Times Gone!’” announced Chet Radwell over the radio’s speakers.

Curtis slowed to a stop, pulling over to the side of the road, near the hopeful passenger.

He was tall, husky, bearded, and scraggly. He was old enough to be grey, but maybe not that gray. The same could be said of his wrinkles. He wore worn jeans, frayed and holey in the knees. A stained, shabby T-shirt. Gray, possibly white. It was unlikely that he had a haircut in quite some time; if he had, it was probably self-done. He may have bathed recently.

The look on the man’s face as Curtis pulled up to him was one of shock. As if he fully expected any and all cars to drive right by. He wasted no time getting into the car.

And time passed in silence.

Neither of them asked the other a question. Neither spoke of their lives. It was a trip spent in silence that, to an outsider, might be considered companionable.

After a length of time with only the radio for sound, they were forced to interact.

“While I’ve got plenty more rock comin’ your way, I’ve got to interrupt our broadcast. The man wants me to tell everyone that there’s been a breakout at the Minnesota Correctional Facility – Shakopee. Go get ‘im, boys in blue.”

Suddenly, the silence became more pronounced. Curtis wasn’t bothered. He was aware of what he was doing. You wouldn’t pick up a hitchhiker shortly after a sign telling you not to if you actually cared about the fact that they’re probably an escaped convict.

But his passenger’s cheeks clearly clenched. The traveler quickly turned the radio off. Nothing suspicious about that.

“So… where are we going?” asked the pickup, speaking for the first time.

“Mexico,” replied Curtis.

A long hush followed.

“All the way to Mexico? That’s gotta be…”

“About 1,300 miles,” Curtis interjected.

“Why Mexico?” asked the man.

“Why’d you turn off my radio?”

Again, silence. This time, more pronounced. A silence almost palpable. Tension mixed with some fear from the passenger, and a notable apathy from Curtis.

 

“So why are you going to Mexico?”

“Oh, so now you want to get personal?”

“Well, it seems pretty obvious you know what I am. So, I might as well get up in your business.”

The silence this time was much less tense, but it was still notable. A time taken for both men to decide exactly what they wanted to say.

“I’ve always wanted to go,” Curtis allotted, unimpressively.

“Sure. So, you decided to drive there from Minnesota. By yourself. And pick up a hitchhiker shortly after seeing a sign specifically tellin’ you not to pick up hitchhikers. And just where the hell is all your luggage, if yer goin’ all the way down to Mexico?”

“Why’d you go to prison?”

It’s hard to try to hold the upper hand when met with a question like that. The man went through a range of emotions, Curtis saw. He didn’t know what the final answer would be, or if he’d even get one. However, whatever he may have expected, it wasn’t what he got.

“Drugs,” said the stranger.

Alright, thought Curtis. I mean, that tracks and everything. But it’s gotta be pretty major drugs. That’s not a minor prison.

“Go on,” said Curtis. That was one of the boldest moments of his life.

The transient thought for a second, then replied, “It was a different time. I got busted coming back from Canada with… a bit of cannabis.”

“What exactly is ‘a bit’?”

“Give or take… two… or three… hundred… pounds.”

What else could Curtis do? He sat there, aghast. Thankfully, they were still driving down a straight highway, with no hills, no curves, and nobody else. Otherwise, his mindless lane-shifting may well have proved fatal. To only the disdain of one in the car.

Finally, Curtis was able to muster: “Impressive.”

“Obviously not,” replied the passenger. “Otherwise, I wouldn’ta gotten busted.”

“Touché,” responded Curtis.

The air in the car felt less solid this time, as the two went back to their reveries. There wasn’t the buzz of anxiety that had been present in that car for the last several tens-of-miles. Just wordlessness. Until…

“How long you get locked up for that much weed back in the… ‘70s? ‘60s?”

“’60s?! How old do you think I am, exactly?”

Curtis allowed himself a chuckle. “I’m sorry… I guess it doesn’t matter when it was.”

“Life. I got life.”

That… was not what Curtis expected.

“For pot?”

“For trying to smuggle hundreds of pounds of pot across country borders.”

“OK, yeah, that’s… pretty bad. But it’s just pot.”

“That’s a pretty recent mindset.”

Curtis thought about that for a second. And it seemed correct. He then decided it might do well to quell the conversation for now. Not only to save his passenger the need to explain anything more, but, also, to hopefully not have to explain himself.

After another pause in their delightful conversation, “So what’s yer name?”

Curtis was shocked by the sudden personal question.

“Uh… Curtis… Jackson.”

“Were those options, or a full name? You had a weird gap there.”

“Ha, uh… full name. First, Curtis. Last, Jackson.”

The man didn’t respond right away. Curtis didn’t care.

“Roy,” said the escaped convict. “Roy Bevins.”

Curtis nodded. Roy responded.

And again, the two fell into silence. But this wasn’t the same semi-companionable silence that seemed to be developing. This was palpable, like at the beginning of their trip together. Suddenly, knowing this much about each other made the two very uncomfortable. They did even more to avoid eye contact. Neither had any idea what to say, nor did they feel any compulsion to say anything.

Until…

“OK, I gotta know… why we goin’ to Mexico?”

“We?” Curtis responded.

“Well, again, you ain’t got no luggage or nothin’. So you goin’ to Mexico with just the clothes on yer back. It don’t look like no vacation, and so it would appear you ain’t got a passport. So if you got no passport, and I very clearly don’t have a passport… it seems we’re goin’ together.”

Curtis faltered. He had no idea what the endgame of his decision to pick Roy up was. It was a whim borne purely in the moment.

Would it be more difficult to get across with him? Could it be easier? The thoughts raced across Curtis’ mind. But he really had no meaningful dissent.

“Well, I’m going to Mexico to… uh… fulfill my destiny. I don’t know or care why you’re going.”

That’s good, thought Curtis. Let him know that I don’t care about him.

“Probably fer the best,” said Roy. “You don’t seem like much of a companion type.”

The conversation lapsed once more. However, this time Curtis noticed something different. It didn’t seem like Roy was bursting to talk or anything, but it was clear that he had something to say. Curtis wasn’t about to indulge him, but he was pretty sure of what was about to come.

 

It had been almost three days that the two had travelled together. Beginning the trip in Minnesota, traversing through the bland Midwest, until finally reaching Texas. The border was on the horizon. They passed a sign announcing 30 miles until what would be their biggest obstacle. Much of the American government had been trying very hard to keep people from coming in from Mexico. The Mexican government seemed much less opposed. Curtis hoped that was true.

Curtis had done research. He had reached out to people who had any knowledge of Border Patrol at the southern border. He had an idea of which people to talk to; which people might be willing to, ahem, look the other way.

Among his research, there was one man who stuck out in his mind. He seemed too perfect to be an actual professional. Like a Homer Simpson who actually existed. As they approached the gates, Curtis put in great effort in locating exactly which lane he wanted to be in. Needed to be in. He found it. It was longer than any other line, in some instances by a long shot. But he chose it anyways.

After about half an hour waiting, seeing cars that had gotten there after them get through before them, Roy had no choice but to bring it up again.

“OK, we’re sittin’ here in a long ass line, when we coulda gone to any of those other lines and already been through. There’s somethin’ goin’ on here.”

Curtis remained silent for a moment. It seemed he was hoping that magically, this long, slower-than-any-other line would somehow wrap up before he had to answer. After several stationary seconds, he decided to respond.

“I’ve always really liked Mexico. The history, the culture, the language. It’s always seemed beautiful. The sombreros, the ponchos, the…”

“Holy shit! Is that really what you think about Mexico? You gotta be kiddin’ me!”

“What? What’s wrong with that?”

“That’s old as shit. I been in the slammer fer near three decades, and even I know you’ve got one old ass, backwards view. You gonna get there and see they’re way more advanced than you want ‘em to be. It’s not gonna be some mariachi, flamenco—”

“I’m going to kill myself,” Curtis unexpectedly said.

After a moment, “That makes sense.”

“You’re not going to talk me out of it?” Curtis asked.

“Why would I? You picked up an escaped convict and was willin’ to drive me to Mexico. Ain’t gonna tell you how to live yer life… or, I guess, not live it. Ha!” Roy laughed. It was the only actual moment of levity the two had experienced in their thousand miles, several days trip. “But why drive all the damn way to Mexico to do it?”

“Think about it,” said Curtis. “I go blow my brains out in my apartment, what happens? Cops show up, there’s an investigation, I’m easily ID’d, and all my friends and family know what happened in short time. Sounds awful. On the other hand, I sneak into Mexico and do it… well, I get discovered by Mexican cops, they don’t give a fuck about a random gringo dead in their town, not when they can just toss my body and not have to worry anymore about it. So, yeah, Mexico just seems easier.”

“That’s real fuckin’ gross, man. But whatever, it’s your life… Ha!” Another burst of laughter.

Finally, the car reached the front of the line. The oversized, bald, mustachioed guard asked for passports.

“Uh… are you Sammy?” asked Curtis.

The guard looked back, a mixture of disdain and empathy on his face. “I’m agent Pearson.”

“Uh… sure. Do you know a Madeline Cleary?”

The look on agent Pearson’s face revealed everything Curtis needed to know.

“She said you might be able to help me. You see, I don’t necessarily have a—”

“Show me the money,” Pearson said.

Curtis pulled out a rather puffy envelope and handed it to the man. The border guard turned away, his actions blocked off. But, whatever he did, it seemed to satisfy him.

“Please proceed, sir.”

Off they drove, Curtis and Roy. They drove until they found what appeared to be a decent sized town. They found the first hotel they could. Curtis suddenly realized that, despite his lifelong love of Mexico, its culture and heritage, he had never actually bothered to learn Spanish, but thankfully Roy knew enough and got them a room.

Upon their arrival in the room, the situation once again became very awkward. The two returned to the tense silence that marked most of their trip, but had recently been somewhat disrupted. Finally, Roy spoke up.

“So, uh… what’s the plan?”

“Well, I guess I’m about done here so I guess… Here.”

Curtis pulled out yet another, even larger puffy envelope. He handed it to Roy.

“Take this. I pulled out all my money, and I don’t really need it. Use it to start a new life.”

Roy took the envelope readily. He pulled it open and looked inside. There was a whole lot of money in there.

“Er, now if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to, er, you know… finish my plan.”

“Oh, right… yeah,” said Roy. “Well… it was awful nice of yeh to get me here. So, uh… yeah… thanks.”

The two gave a lackluster handshake and parted ways.

Roy had just left the hotel room when he suddenly turned back.

“Hey… I mean… I don’t need all this… I can get by alright.” He handed about half the money from the envelope back to Curtis.

Curtis hesitated, not knowing exactly what to do. What did he need this money for? And yet, he couldn’t help but accept it.

“Thanks,” Curtis said. “It’s been nice getting to know you… kinda.”

“Same,” said Roy. “Best o’ luck to yeh.”

Roy walked out of the hotel room again, then out of sight. Curtis held on to the money, staring out the window.