Page 34 of The Delivery

The majority of the radio stations coming through are now in Spanish. The advertisements roll by so fast it makes me nauseous. Is that how people are going to speak to me? Because I can tell you right now I won’t understand shit. I’m heading toward an infamously seedy, sin city to try to track down a man using a Western Union tracking code. Sounds really promising, Lana. This is another a great idea of yours.

I pull off the highway to pee at another gas station. In the bathroom mirror, I pile my dark hair on top of my head and secure it with a clip. I brush my teeth then choke on the water and spatter it all over the sink. The one other pee-er in the bathroom looks at me like I’m mad. I grab a paper towel to blow my nose and wipe my watering eyes. I point at my throat and my voice catches as I tell her, “It was already half-way down when I remembered maybe we’re not supposed to drink the water. You know this close to the border.”

She nods at me like I’m an ass, and she didn’t understand a word of my explanation nor does she care. I’m sure she thinks I’m a drug addict who does all of their personal grooming in highway gas station bathrooms. Maybe I will. Hey, lady stick around, I’m about to shave my pits.

“Never mind,” I say, tossing my paper towel and making a basket. “And the crowd goes wild,” I say, putting my arms up in mock cheer. She shakes her head at me and uses the hand dryer. I shove my toothbrush back in its travel case and stick it in my back pocket. At the convenience store, I buy six liters of bottled water, a pack of chewing gum and some pretzels.

“How much farther to Tijuana?” I ask the cashier, trying to sound casual like I drive there every weekend. Deep down I feel like a badass just for saying it, and I couldn’t really be more excited. My first adventure was moving to Los Angeles. This feels like a second.

“Bout an hour out now, give at least twenty at the border, I’d say.” “Cool. Thanks,” I say, chomping down on my tongue. I’ve never really driven across an actual border before unless you count Canada. But growing up in Michigan that isn’t so impressive. My dad used to drive to Canada to buy cigarettes in bulk and resell them out of our car trunk at the Owl’s club Russian meet-up.

The border is just like in the movies and buzzing with action. The signs alone give me chills, and I wonder if I’ll be flagged to pull over. I’m only three cars out from the tollbooth when a border officer with a K-9 patrol begins to sniff my tires. I don’t have anything illegal, just bottled water and granola bars.

A little farther on there’s a plaque in both English and Spanish that reads “Boundary of the United States of America.” I take a deep breath and hold it in my lungs. I’m crossing multiple boundaries right now, and it’s as scary as it is thrilling. I take my phone out and take a picture for Lex.

Even if I don’t find him, I’m still glad that I did this. It’s empowering to step out of the monotony and commit to gigantic and terrifying choices. If I still feel this gravitational pull toward him three years later, it must mean something, right? I’d be stupid to pass it up and let it walk out of my life.

The questions at the border consist of: US Citizen? Are you traveling alone? Business or pleasure? When will you return? How much cash are you carrying?

That’s it. I’m waived through. What if I never come back? The Mexican side is about a hundred million megawatts brighter than San Diego. There are people selling every single object under the sun, from oranges and water to blankets and underwear and packets of chewing gum. The sides of the road are set up with stores, offering every trinket and souvenir in a blizzard of color. There are food stands and small loncherias taking up every little space. The air smells of crackling roast pig, fried onions and plenty of car exhaust.

I buy a bag of oranges from a toothless old man in a poncho while I’m stopped at a light. I’ve got an urge to take his picture, but I stop myself thinking I don’t want to be the worst kind of tourist. I’m not making a documentary. I’m finally living my own life. I turn on the GPS and type in the address for Western Union, and about twenty-five addresses’ come up. My only link in the world to Mozey—the reason why I’m here. The man who makes my whole system hum, now divided by twenty-five possible Western Union pick-up stations.

It only takes me ten minutes to find the first one, and I park on the street and lock the car. The neighborhood seems quiet with a few small restaurants and bodegas dotting the otherwise residential street. The air is hot and dry and everything is covered in a layer of gritty dust. I stretch and turn in a circle taking in everything around me.

The cinderblock and cement houses come right up to the street. Many are painted bright colors, lots of pastels, like a roughed up candy land. In some cases you can easily see into someone’s living room and watch their TV. The vibe is sleepy in the late afternoon haze, and I wonder if it’s nighttime when everyone really misbehaves.

I walk by a portly woman in a flowered housedress sweeping the sidewalk. She’s kicking up orange dust with her broom that appears to be crafted out of dried hay tethered to a long stick. I peek right into her kitchen as I pass by and spy her son or grandson relaxing in a hammock watching a telenovela on a super-sized flat screen. The broom and the television come from two different worlds. I wonder if the people who live here originally came this way to cross, then ended up staying for whatever reason. Living on the border must be like living at the airport.

As I pull open the door to Western Union, I’m hit with cold airconditioned heaven. I remember that most of the Southwestern US used to actually be Mexico and that the inhabitants of Tijuana could have been here for centuries.

The sweet girl behind the plexi-glass does her best to explain to me that Mozey’s transfer could be picked up at one of their five hundred thousand, million, trillion locations. I chide myself for being so dumb. I feel a tiny bit better when she hands me a list of their two hundred Tijuana locations.

She punches in the tracking code as my heart flip-flops in my chest like a fish out of water who just realized how fucked he is. It hasn’t been picked up yet and the transfer went active yesterday. It’s very likely it will be picked up today, so it’s just a matter of waiting. After it’s been collected she can tell which outpost the money was claimed from even though she’s not really supposed to. She’ll make an exception because I do have the tracking number.

I rub my face, nod my head and thank her for her time. I turn to go but then look down at the list and head back to her window.

“If you were me, which one’s would you check. There’s just so many here—I… I don’t know.”

Her face brightens, and she looks at me with some form of endearment and pity.

“Did you meet on vacations?” she asks. Oh God. She thinks I’m one of those.

“No. I’m his social worker. He’s a family friend. My friend. He’s my brother’s best friend. That’s who sent the wire.” I’m rambling. My justifications sound hollow, and I feel like her face is wearing a mask of pleasantry but she knows I’m in love with somebody I shouldn’t be in love with.

“I’m not married,” I bark like a crazed fool out of nowhere.

“It’s fine. Let me show you the most trafficked locations in Tijuana. I think if this one came up first on the device you’re using it would be good to watch here. Chances are, it will come up on his device too.”

“God, you’re good. It’s okay if I lurk? I’ll do it in my car—or is there someplace where I can get coffee?”

My head is pounding with the scope of this task and all the driving and the pretzels and the gas station blue slushie.

“Right across the street. There is a place called, Miramar. You can get —” she glances down at her watch “—you can get comida corrida if they’re still serving. The coffee is good and the place is quiet, especially this time of day.”

I lean down toward the cut out in the Plexiglas, trying to make better eye contact.

“Thanks. You’ve been such a big help. How late are you open?”

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