Page 37 of The Delivery

“Tommy and Rocco are next to you in case you run into trouble. They

come every weekend. They from San Diego.”

“Thanks again, Coco. Tommy and Rocco next door. Soda on the first

floor. I think I’m good. I’m so tired. Thank you, really, really. Thank you.” I’m talking fast and trying to get her to back off because my stomach is

staging the first signs of a revolt. Down dragons, down devil peanuts and

so, so much salsa. I’m not sure if I need a toilet or an Alka Seltzer or

another beer to tame the roar. Welcome to Mexico where they serve up free

hellfire with chips and a beer.

Coco flicks on the light, revealing a tidy room with a traditionally

Mexican, woven bedspread. Not what I expected. Much, much better than I

could have imagined.

“Careful if you go out. Stick to the main clubs. Don’t take a street taxi.” “I think I’m just going to sleep,” I say as I put my backpack on the foot

of the bed. “Anyway, I left my car in the Marriot parking lot.” “That’s what they all say, mi vida, but Tijuana turns us into night

creatures.” With that she closes the door, and I lie back on the bed.

CHAPTER 18

Iawake to the rioting club beat of “Rhythm is a Dancer” thumping my wall. I groan, roll over and pull the pillow over my head. There is giggling, the shifting of furniture and the hotel door opening and closing. I sit up, rub my eyes and stretch my arms over my head.

I turn on the lamp by the bed, unpack my toiletries and head to the bathroom for a hot shower. The water pressure is amazing, and I use the hotel provided bar soap to scrub away the drive, the dust and the afternoon happy hour.

After I’ve effectively turned the bathroom into a steam room, I come out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around my head I pull on sweats and a well-worn t-shirt circa high school that reads “Let’s GO Giants.” I grab a comb and pull it through my freshly conditioned, wet hair and step out on the balcony to get a view of Paradise at night. My neighbors must be listening to Hot Nightclub Mix 1992 because “Ace of Base” is currently shaking their whole room. I knock on their door with the back of my hand, not yet knowing if I’m knocking to ask them to turn down the music or to let me join their fun.

The door opens without an answer, and a shirtless hunk stands and takes me in with a dusting of coke on the tip of his nose.

“You are the new neighbor?” he asks, grabbing my arm and pulling me in. “Look, Rocco, she woke up,” he says, pushing me over to the petit blond man folded up onto the bed, propped up an elbow and engrossed in a Reader’s Digest.

“Oh hi Cher, we thought you’d never wake up. She looks like brunette Betty Davis, Tommy. CoCo was right, something in her eyes, don’t you think.”

“I was hoping you could turn the music down,” I say to Rocco and then turn back to Tommy for emphasis. I want to turn their names around in my head because Rocco is blond and Tommy is brunet.

“You’re not going out? You plan to just stay in all night? Fancy some blow?” Tommy says as he turns down the music. Their room doesn’t look like a hotel room. It looks like they live in it. They’ve got lace and tapestries covering the walls and what looks to be a hand painted portrait of the two of them over the bed. It’s not very well done—the whole thing looks one-dimensional and actually kind of scary.

“Do you live here?” I ask, confused by their permanency.

“On the weekends,” Rocco says, looking me over. “Sometimes for short vacations.”

“For long ones we head overseas. France or Greece, sometimes Italy,” Tommy says as he feels my hair between his thumb and forefinger. “Want me to blow it out? If you sleep like this, it’s going to look horrible.”

“Wha?” I say, feeling like I’ve disconnected from reality. The birds of paradise are squawking and something—human or not—is most definitely screeching down below.

“He’s talking about a blow-dryer. Tommy is a stylist. Are you sure you don’t want some coke? How about a joint? I’ve got some Acapulco Gold around here somewhere,” Rocco offers, lifting up the duvet and searching under the covers.

“Oh, I don’t really do drugs. Just booze it up sometimes,” I say, shrugging and feeling somehow inadequate. “My hair is fine, really. I usually let it air dry.”

“In that case… Tommy says as he opens a dresser drawer pulling out multiple bottles of product. Let’s make it wavy-messy, like you just don’t have time to care because you’re so busy and your talents are so sought after. Like “I don’t care about my hair, but even better!”

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