Return of the Jed (6 page)

The van bumped a cone with a large red sign with white letters saying
Alto Aqui
.

“Stop here,” Dad translated, reading my mind.

Luke shoved my seat. “Have you noticed most people have gone right through? And that the only other people pulled over are those bikers, and that tanker covered in ‘Danger, Hazardous Materials’ stickers?”

“Maybe it has something to do with having too much awesomeness,” I said.

“Hey, that’s what I was thinking, too,” Luke said. “I wasn’t sure you’d buy it.”

“It has nothing to do with your awesomeness and everything to do with your attitude.”

“You mean my Luke-itude? Don’t blame me if that guy’s stick up his butt has a stick up its butt. Seriously, does he think we’re drug smugglers? In a van so yellow it glows at night? We’d be less noticeable if we had a bumper sticker that said, ‘Thugs With Drugs.’”

He had a point. We had a pretty low OQ (outlaw quotient), somewhere between ladies going on a shopping spree and teens hoping to score cheap tequila. Yet, here we were in the
Alto Aqui
lane, where people do not pass “Go” on the way to Mexican jail.

Ooze began to puddle in my armpits and in the hollows of my knees. I was about to have a limb drop off. I could feel it.

“Keep it together, literally,” Dad said, sensing my anxiety. “My guess is that these folks have very little zombie-based experience, and losing an arm could lead to unwanted attention.”

“Or jail time,” Luke chimed in. “Maybe they have laws against it. ‘Your honor, the defendant knowingly and willingly dumped a limb right in front of law enforcement officials, attempting to hide the unlawful act with duct tape and staples.’ Then the whole zombie community would be up in arms, so to speak, leading to equal rights for the undead. You could be a hero!”

“Shut up, Luke,” I said, folding my arms on my lap for support as I felt my shoulder joints loosen. “You’re not making it any better.”

I knew I was being irrational. We were three fairly nice people looking to spend a few months in a country that we knew very little about, save for trips to Mexican restaurants, (though I was sure no one in Mexico celebrated birthdays with sparklers stuck in a plate of
nachos grandes
presented by a parade of singing servers). What were they going to do, tell us Mexico was closed, and please return during regular business hours?

“He’s coming back,” Dad said, his eyes focused on the side-view mirror. “Everyone relax and let me do the talking.”

I shot Luke a glance that said, “If you open your mouth, I will risk arrest by removing my left leg and slapping you upside the head with it.”

He shot back with a look that said, “You are the uptightest dead dude I’ve ever known.”

“OK, everything checks out fine,” Officer Calderon said, handing the passports to Dad. “I hope you enjoy your stay in our country.”

“I’m sure we will,” Dad said, handing me the passports. I opened the glove box and threw them in.

“Drive safely,
señor
. And you …”

Officer Calderon thrust his head into the van and eyed Luke. “You will find our country is far more awesome than you think.”

He shifted his head slightly, his gaze landing on something that was not Luke.

“Excuse me, but what is that?” he said.

“What?” Dad said, twisting his seat. “Where?”

“That plastic box back there. Is that a carrier? A kennel?”

“Uh, well, yes, you see, we didn’t want him out, he’s much safer in that.”

“Who’s much safer?”

“Tread.”

“Tread? What is a Tread?”

“Our dog,” I interrupted. “My dog. Tread.”

Calderon pushed away from the door and crossed in front of the Man Van, bumping the red
Alto Aqui
sign, which rocked like a metronome threatening to fall over. Once on my side of the van, Calderon tapped the window with his meaty fingers.

I rolled down the window, very slowly as I felt my shoulder slipping, losing its hold on my left arm. I could only imagine what he would do if it dropped off right then and there.

Calderon put his hands on his hips, waiting. Waiting.

The window slid out of sight. He placed his right hand on the window frame and looked squarely at me.

“I thought you had nothing to declare?” he said.

“I had no—”

“You do not have to declare clothes or toothpaste. You do not have to declare your happiness at visiting the most amazing country on Earth. You do not even have to declare your best friend is a smart-ass. But you know what you do have to declare?”

“I—”

“Something that can bring any number of germs and bacteria. Something that is a ticking time bomb of infection.”

“But—”

“Like a dog. You did not think a dog is something to declare? Were you trying to sneak it in, to use it to bring down our canine population? Are you a bioterrorist or something?”

“He’s no—”

“Step out of the van,” Officer Calderon said, opening the door. “Now. You will show me this dog.”

I scooted to the right and leaned away from the door, should Officer Calderon try to grab me.

“Dad, what’s going on?” I said, but Dad was already out the driver’s side and walking around the back of the van.

Luke leaned forward and whispered, “I told you the stick up his butt had a stick up its butt.”

“
Señor
, please, out of the vehicle,” I heard Officer Calderon say, feeling his hand on my shoulder.

“Go, it will be all right,” Luke said. “They’re not allowed to dognap anything they want to.”

It wasn’t so much the concrete floor or stifling heat that reminded me of the locker room at Pine Hollow Middle School, the scene of one of my most humiliating experiences less than a year ago. It was the smell.

“Luke, does this room bring back any memories?” I asked, squirming in one of the dozens of plastic molded chairs bolted to metal racks that shook every time you moved.

“Not really,” Luke said. “This place is pretty much one of a kind, if you ask me.”

“Don’t think of the room itself,” I said, leaning closer to Luke, my shifting weight jolting the other seven chairs sharing this particular rack. “The smell.”

Luke tilted his head back and sniffed, then closed his eyes.

“Ah yes, the aroma reminds me of the only place on this Earth only slightly worse than this one,” he said. “All that’s missing are half-naked guys wielding towels as weapons.” He opened his eyes. “The delicate scent of the locker room, a fresh vintage, just last year. I know it well.”

I closed my eyes as well, and those memories of towel-wielding bullies came back.

Most people think “pound of flesh” is nothing more than a Shakespearean saying. But that’s exactly what was taken from me early in seventh-grade. When wet towels take on undead skin, towels win, and pretty handily. Darn their absorbency!

Too many bad thoughts. I opened my eyes and focused on where we were and why.

Officer Calderon had led us to this depressing place, which he called Mexico’s waiting room. It was the customs office. Well, at least somewhere beyond the olive-green door set in the middle of a brick wall hidden under who knows how many coats of beige paint. Drips of paint, frozen in time, clung to some bricks.

Dad asked why we were being detained, and Officer Calderon said something about smuggling in a chupacabra, and violating rules as they pertained to beasts once thought mythological. He refused to say anything else and ordered us to take a seat.

Luke, Dad, and I were among thirty or so people in the waiting room. Every now and then the door swung open with a groan, revealing a customs agent holding a clipboard. A name was announced, people stood and accompanied the officer out of the room. I imagined a line of holding cells filled with people apologizing for trying to sneak fruits, vegetables, and an array of healthy snacks into the country.

If Disneyland was the Happiest Place on Earth, this was the anti-Disneyland, the most miserable place on Earth. I expected to see posters of Mr. Toad’s Agonizing Ride, or for the Life-Doesn’t-Matterhorn and its Plunging-Into-the-Depths-of-Depression Bobsleds.

It anyone were tweeting here, the last of every 140 words was #killmenow. This was where joy went to die.

“Dad, are they really allowed to take Tread like that?” I asked. Officer Calderon had ordered us out of the van and didn’t say another word as he slid open the back door and took out Tread’s crate, placing it on the ground.

He raised his arm and whistled, and another, heftier officer appeared a few seconds later, lifting Tread as if dog and crate weighed no more than a Chihuahua in a dainty purse. I watched as they disappeared behind a squat gray windowless building that had been built by the world’s gloomiest architect.

“Their country, their rules,” Dad said. “Don’t worry about it, Jed, this will all work out. I’m sure once they realize Tread only looks like a chupacabra, they’ll release him.”

Dad ruffled my hair, coming away with a clump of my scalp, rubbing it on his pants. “Sorry, sport, that should grow back just fine. Maybe if you smooth it a little this way—”

I slapped his hand from my head. “It’s fine, it doesn’t matter, OK?”

After they took Tread, Officer Calderon led us to the Customs Office, a squat gray building right next to another squat gray building. There were another half-dozen such buildings scattered about. The copy machine evidently played a major role in construction.

As soon as we were inside, Officer Calderon broke his silence. “Wait here, someone will be with you momentarily.”

“Any idea how long that might be?” Dad said. By the time he finished his sentence, he was talking to an empty space formerly occupied by Officer Calderon. Dad shook his head. “How does he do that?”

We took seats and waited. And waited. And waited. The clock ticked as if measuring days, not minutes.

“Is time different in Mexico?” Luke said.

“Yes, Luke, time is different in Mexico,” I said. “It’s measured in pesos instead of dollars. So there are six minutes in Mexico for every one minute in the U.S.”

I shook my head.

“Wait, that means time should move faster here.” Luke looked at his wrist, not remembering he never wore a watch. “So we’ve been here, what, three hours? That’s twenty-one hours in Mexico. Crap, we’ve lost a whole day almost!”

Luke leaned and gave my shoulder a light bump, flashing that sly smile of his.

“That was pretty good,” I said. “I almost thought you were that stupid.”

“Thanks, that’s nice to hear.”

Both of us turned toward the door when we heard the familiar creak. Please be for us, please be for us, please be—

“Rivers,” the head poking through said. “
Venga aqui, por favor
.”

“Rivers, that’s us,” Luke said. “But what did he say after that?”

I wasn’t sure, but underneath the head was an index finger, curling in a “Come here” gesture.

Dad stood up. “Let’s go, boys, and get this thing settled once and for all.”

Envious stares followed us to the door. I wondered why the others were here. And if any of them had been caught with creatures suspected of being mythical.

I followed the officer and Dad down a dank concrete hallway. The only sound was the echo of the agent’s heels clicking loudly, just like in movies where the heroes are headed toward a nasty fate.

We passed a door on the left, one to the right, another to the left, again on the right. We stopped in front of the next one, a heavy metal door the same as the others. The officer twisted the knob and pushed. We followed him inside.

Suddenly there was a light, cool breeze. I stepped through the doorway onto carpet. Soft, thick carpet. A fan hummed in the far corner. To the left was a large wooden desk inlaid with marble, and behind it a plush leather chair, into which the officer settled himself with a satisfied sigh.

“Please, have a seat.” He gestured toward the couch, and the two comfy-looking chairs placed on either side. A large watercolor of a lovely beach scene was centered above the couch. On another wall, photos of desert vistas, smiling faces and pastel-colored street scenes competed for attention. A comforting light-blue hue colored the wall.

It was all so—refreshing—and not just because it was at least twenty degrees cooler in here. I felt as if we had just stepped into Opposite Land. And there was an intriguing scent. I sniffed the air again. Was that the scent of hope?

“Lavender,” the officer said, noticing my reaction. “Very calming. I change out the deodorizer every few weeks to keep everything smelling fresh.”

“This is pretty surprising,” Dad said, easing into the chair as Luke and I stretched out on the couch. “I was almost expecting, I don’t know. Not this.”

“A cell, perhaps?” the officer smiled. “Metal table, handcuffs, two-way mirror?”

Absolutely
, I thought.
With chains on the wall, and a device with alligator clips and a crank to send jolts of electricity through the many vegetable smugglers until they confessed to attempting to bring down the government with foods rich in vitamins and minerals
.

“No, not really,” Dad said. “Just something a little sparser than this.”