I hadn’t seen the road we were on, not even once, but it was rocky.
I thought I had timed the lurching gait of the bus perfectly. But as I pushed down the window to admit the cool night air, the bus lurched again.
My right hand shot out through the opening and the rising bus banged against the outside of my right wrist with the top edge of the window frame. As the bus dropped on the other side of the rock, my wrist rose, then fell and banged again.
I quickly jerked my right hand back to my chest to cradle it in my left.
The old woman next to me offered her opinion with a sorrowful frown and a shake of her head. Both her hands were gripping the back of the seat in front of us. I tried to smile at her, but she had already turned her head back to the front.
The bus lurched again and for a second I was off the seat.
From the new vantage point I noticed that the window beside the man on the seat ahead of me was lowered. Had he banged his wrist too?
Then I remembered he had lowered his window before we left town, when the day was still warm and the road was still smooth.
I looked around the bus. Everyone else had lowered their windows earlier too. Let in a little heat early I guess to get the cool payoff later without getting beat up.
I glanced at the woman again, then mimicked her, clamping my hands firmly onto the back of the seat in front of us as well.
Without looking at me again she nodded.
* * *
Barely an hour earlier, I was in a village with a long name I couldn’t pronounce. How many villages have a name that’s five words long?
I had rushed to get there from the only hotel in town. I was first in line, the scorching sun bearing down through the dust of the late afternoon. I stood alone for two hours beneath a sign I couldn’t read.
But I recognized one word, the name of the town I was trying to get to. That told me this was the right stop.
But was it the right day? When I asked about transportation south, the man at the hotel flashed a toothy, yellow grin and said, “Oh shoor, shoor. Sí, the bus, she comes at times on this day.”
At times? Does it always come on this day but at different times? Or does it sometimes come on this day and sometimes not?
But I didn’t know how to ask for elaboration. When I stepped carefully through his language one word at a time with, “Pero es el dia y el tiempo?” I thought I was asking what day and time it would arrive.
Apparently he thought I was waxing philosophical.
He shrugged and nodded, as if anyone should know that yes, this was the day and this was the time. Finally he said, “Oh sí, es verdad, señor. Yes, truly this is the day and this is the time.”
The day and time for what? But I nodded and retreated to the safety of “Gracias tambien.” I meant “Thank you again,” but I wasn’t sure I got that right. Then I cut my losses. I nodded again, then carried my backpack and my language inadequacy three blocks down and stopped beneath the sign.
During the last half-hour of those two hours, thirteen others joined me. For something to do, I counted them again each time another person showed up. None seemed in a hurry. And each time, I glanced up at the sign to be certain I had read the one word correctly.
Nobody spoke to me or to each other. There was nothing at all, as if the heat was muting any sound.
Then the silent air came to life. The bus growled around the corner, the front end swinging toward the busted curb. The brakes screeched, then hissed angrily as it shuddered to a stop.
I bent to pick up my backpack from its position below the sign. The door hissed more lightly than the brakes, then folded open.
Relieved, I happily stepped from the curb onto the bottom step. And stopped.
The metal plate on the toll machine was marked with several lines. Each listed a destination and an amount in foreign currency.
I recognized the name of my destination and the numerals beside it, but I wasn’t sure of the abbreviation for the method of payment. I touched my finger to it and frowned.
“Ventecinco pesetas,” the man behind me said. He sounded tired and maybe a little annoyed.
I fished two coins from my pocket, certain everyone else had theirs ready in advance, and inserted them into the slot.
The driver glanced up at me.
The dim light from the small, bare bulb above his head cast odd shadows. The bags beneath his eyes were packed full.
Transcending the language barrier, he nodded, then gestured tiredly with one hand.
The nod wasn’t assurance that I had paid enough so much as forgiveness in case I hadn’t. The gesture was the result of impatience. I should find a seat and clear the steps for the other fares.
I tried to smile and said, “Gracias” as my right hip moved past his shoulder.
I found an empty bench seat six rows back on the right. I slipped in next to the window and set my backpack next to me.
A moment later a little grey-haired lady gestured toward my backpack. She was near the back of the group earlier. She stood quietly with a homemade cage made of one-by-twos and chicken wire. Inside was a live chicken.
Well, I guess there would be no reason to cage a dead one.
Her solid black leather shoes were low-cut and without heels. Her silver hair was pulled up in something resembling a bun and pinned to the back of her head. A black translucent shawl was draped over her head, then crossed beneath her chin. The ends fell to halfway down her back over her shoulders.
A similar shawl, but loosely knitted, was draped over her shoulders and hung to her waist. It contrasted sharply with her bright yellow peasant blouse—I think that’s what those are called—and below that was an ankle-length skirt. It was black too, but imprinted with various kinds of flowers in pretty much every color under the sun. Around her waist was a plain brown leather belt.
I moved my backpack, placing it on the floor in front of me.
She nodded, then sat down. Carefully, she placed the chicken cage in the aisle next to her.
Finally the last two men ascended the steps and dropped their coins into the machine.
The driver worked a handle and the door closed even as he steered the bus to the left and pulled out onto the road south.
The two men moved in jerks and starts as the bus moved. They negotiated the chicken cage and found seats somewhere behind me and my new companion.
Now that we were finally underway, I looked about the bus. The inside was painted with the same pale green as the outside. Only inside there was no rust and the paint was less faded.
There was what looked like a camera in the front corner above the driver. I looked to the right front corner. There was another one there. Wires led from each one through holes roughly drilled in the metal.
Very good. Probably they were required for insurance purposes. Probably it was less expensive to install security cameras in an older bus than to get a newer bus that had them already installed.
Of course, they might be fake cameras too. There was no way to tell as long as the wires were hooked up.
I twisted around, wishing I’d looked more closely as I boarded.
I was surprised to find three more cameras. One was in each back corner. The other was near the top of the sidewall of the bus on my side, a couple of rows ahead of me.
Odd. Definitely fakes.
* * *
Midway through my senior year of high school our advisor frowned at me in his office. “What’s that again?”
“I’m not going on the senior trip.”
The class had decided they would visit Disney World in Orlando. I couldn’t think of anything more lame than that.
“You don’t want to go along with your friends? It might be the last time you get to see some of them. For a trip, I mean.”
“I voted for Cancun.”
He laughed. “We couldn’t do Cancun. That’s in another country, isn’t it? Mexico or something?”
I nodded. “I don’t really care about that either, to be honest. It’s just another tourist trap. Disney World for people with money.”
“I don’t understand.”
No, and he wouldn’t understand what I was about to say next either. “You know what a directed study is, right?”
“You mean in college?”
I nodded. My older brother had a directed study when his school didn’t offer the specific subject he wanted to study. All it required, he said, was to find a professor from among the faculty who was willing to advise him.
“Like that, yeah. I want to do a directed senior trip into Mexico. I’ll get to see part of the country and experience new things. It’s like an immersion. I plan on being gone a week. I think it’ll be a hoot.”
“But there are drug cartels and people traffickers and gun runners. People are fleeing that country to come to—”
“C’mon, Mr. Martin. They have all those things right here in America, but we hardly notice. And most of the people in Mexico are the same, just living their lives. Those are the people I want to be around.
“Everything’s all set up. My folks signed the permission slip for the school and I’ve got my passport from the government. All I really need is an advisor. Mostly that just means the school knows what I’m doing, so I get credit for the senior trip without having to be bored out of my mind.”
He put that “gotcha” look on his face and said, “But how will I determine what you’ve learned?”
I hoped he was kidding, but I had done my homework just in case.
Mr. Martin was an aspiring novelist. Occasionally he taught continuing-ed classes for non-traditional students on Creative Writing at the local junior college.
I said, “I’ll take copious notes. I might even write a story or two about it.” I shrugged. “Maybe even a novel. Who knows?”
He nodded sagely. Then he said, “But I don’t have to go or anything, right?”
“No sir, you don’t have to go. Just like with directed study, you don’t even have to teach a class. You just grade the work.”
He glanced at his watch—lunchtime was fast approaching—then stood and extended his hand. As we shook, he said, “All right, son, you’ve got yourself an advisor.” He paused, awkwardly, his gaze flicking to the clock on the wall above his door. “So anyway, if there’s nothing else then….”
“Thanks, Mr. Martin.” I practically ricocheted off the wall getting out of there.
I hope he had a good lunch. Word was he was seeing Miss Prather from English pretty much every day at lunch. Hey, old guys gotta dance too.
* * *
It was sometime after dark when things got a little scary. According to the route map I’d been visualizing in my mind—well, that and the changes in terrain and elevation—we were somewhere in the mountains southwest of Zacatecas.
As if on an arthritic roller coaster, we had been climbing, turning and descending, climbing, turning and descending for a little over an hour. The bus had established a rhythm as we ascended the range, with the climbing turns considerably longer than the descents.
Then the rhythm was harshly interrupted as we topped over a rise and began a long descent.
I looked across the aisle and forward at the driver. At times he seemed almost standing on the brake, even after he had shifted into a lower gear.
Finally we slowed, then slowed some more, and swept into a broad curve to the right.
Then the driver encountered something he wasn’t expecting.
He slammed on the brakes and everyone was thrown forward in their seats. The bus shuddered to a stop, and from the driver’s side came, “Abre la puerta! Open the door! Ahora!”
The familiar ratcheting sound came as the door folded open.
Three armed men came on the bus.
All three were wearing jeans, heavy boots and stained tan t-shirts. Each one had a red bandana tied around his head. Each bandanna was folded so it was maybe two inches tall in the front, and then tapered back to the knot at the back of the head.
The third bandito who boarded was a stocky man with broad shoulders and mean eyes. Otherwise he had sharp, handsome features. His face was streaked with sweat and his moustache was thick and black. It draped over the corners of his mouth almost to his chin. With a sombrero, he would resemble old-west photos I had seen of Pancho Villa. He remained near the driver.
His rifle looked like an M-16, but with a wooden stock and forestock. He held it near his waist, suspended by a strap over his right shoulder. He pointed it toward the back of the bus and slowly swept the barrel from one side to the other and back.
I got the sense he was waiting for someone to move or say something, anything, he didn’t like.
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
The other two, the first two who boarded, started toward the back of the bus, one behind the other and offset.
The front one was thin and short. I think he might have been younger than I am, but he looked very angry. His eyebrows were pinched almost together in a frown. His eyes were very round and wide. His cheeks and neck glistened brown with sweat, but he had no facial hair. It surprised me that he was allowed a gun although he wasn’t old enough yet to shave.
The other man was also shorter than the one near the driver, but heavyset. He looked to be in his mid to late twenties. His cheeks and neck were puffy, and covered with sweat. It trickled through what looked like tw0-day old stubble. He had a moustache, but it was neatly squared off above the corners of his mouth. He also had a soul patch beneath his bottom lip.
Two rows ahead of us and across the aisle, a man had ridden the whole way with his right foot in the aisle. On his lap was a small child, perhaps two years old. Next to him was a young woman, probably his wife. His foot in the aisle helped balance himself and the child when the bus jostled.
The lead bandito saw the man’s foot as an opportunity. With the toe of his boot, he kicked the man’s leg hard on the inside of the calf, though I didn’t hear a snap.
The man gripped the arm of the seat and groaned.
The woman quickly took the child, and the man reached down for his leg.
Without looking, the second bandito swung the butt of his rifle across and down, striking the man on the right side of the head.
He crumpled into the space between his seat and the seat in front of him.
His woman didn’t flinch. She just pulled the baby closer.
I glanced at the old woman, suddenly wishing she had taken the window seat.
She appeared to be unconcerned.
With his left foot, the lead bandito kicked the cage that held her chicken, like a place kicker might kick a field goal.
The chicken squawked as the cage flew up the aisle and slammed hard against the back of the bus.
The old woman showed no sign that she even had noticed.
I looked down, suddenly more concerned with the condition of the floor more than anything else.
As he was about to pass, the second bandito stopped. He took a half-step back.
I felt his gaze on me, so I looked up.
“Usted es un norteamericano?”
His voice sounded like gravel over asphalt. Like he hadn’t had water for awhile and was sorely in need of a drink.
Too petrified to speak, I only nodded.
He looked down at the old woman and laughed. “Y tu, abuelita? And you, little grandmother? Usted es una norteamericana tambien?”
Still looking straight forward, she resolutely shook her head.
“No? Pero por qué no? Está sentado con el gringo. You are sitting with the gringo.”
“Soy una Mexicana. I am a Mexicana,” she said. Then she slowly rotated her head back and up to look at him. “Soy una Mexicana, joven y dulce. I am a Mexican, young and sweet.” Then she laughed.
He continued to look at her for a moment, and his eyes narrowed. Then he turned away and moved on down the aisle.
I quietly exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, then faced front again. My hands lay still on my thighs, palms down.
The woman reached over with her right hand and patted my left.
When I looked up, she smiled slightly and nodded. Oddly, I felt comforted.
For what seemed like an hour but probably was only a few minutes, from behind us came a flurry of harsh, angry questions and brief, timid responses. Of course, the exchange was in Spanish.
Each question and many responses were accompanied with muffled thumps and shrill cries as passengers were poked with rifle barrels or hit with butt stocks or fists.
I got the impression the banditos didn’t want to derive information as much as they wanted to intimidate and harrass these poor people. I continued to face the front of the bus, albeit with my head bowed.
The two thugs worked their way back toward the front of the bus.
I tensed, expecting to feel the butt of a rifle against my right temple.
It didn’t come, and as the men passed, I found myself hoping they would leave the bus.
The bandito at the front turned slightly to let the other two pass.
The bus shifted a bit as the thin man and the heavy one stepped down.
The last bandito turned again to look over the passengers, then turned to the driver. He said something quietly, then paused. Then more loudly he said, “Entiendes? Understand?”
The driver nodded almost frantically.
And the last bandito, after glaring at the passengers a final time, stepped down from the bus.
The driver quickly closed the door and ground the gearshift lever into first gear. The bus lurched again, then rolled smoothly forward.
After a long moment during which nobody said anything, “What the hell was that?” came from across the aisle a few rows behind me.
I frowned, then raised up in my seat, turned and looked. It was another American. I hadn’t realized there was another one on the bus. And she was cute.
About my age, she had long black hair. Her skin was the color of light coral. She was wearing a peasant blouse, with sleeves that only covered her shoulders. I couldn’t see below that, but in my mind she was wearing either a colorful Mexican skirt with a turquois concho belt or jeans. Also with a turquoise concho belt. And leather thong sandals. Tan. And painted toenails.
She was beautiful.
Someone interrupted my reverie with “Guerillas.”
I looked at Grandmother and frowned. “What? Those men were hunting gorillas?”
Everyone in the bus burst out laughing.
Even Grandmother. She laughed, then shook her head. “No, no, mijo. Those men were guerillas.”
My eyes grew wide so quickly that even I felt them. “You speak English?”
She nodded, laughter still in her eyes. “We do in Chicago, though some people don’t think so.” Then she tilted her head back. “Roscoe, are we still rolling?”
From the back of the bus came, “Nah, we got what we needed.” He laughed. “That’s a wrap, everyone. Enjoy your evening in Zacatecas and we’ll see you at the pavilion tomorrow.”
* * * * * * *