Page 36 of The Delivery

“I’d have walked the whole way if you didn’t offer to drive me.”

Reme has me pull over, and I don’t know how she can call it a corner. I can’t even see the driveway she’s talking about, but I do see a patch of clustered lights in the distance. To the left of it the purple aura of Tijuana beckons.

“Think you can figure your way back?” Reme asks as she slides off the seat. Three mangy, shorthaired dogs greet her and jump and whine at her feet.

“I’m just going to plug the Marriot into my GPS,” I say with conviction. If I catch a flat or get pulled over it will probably be the end of me. I’ll become one of those girls who went missing at the border, and Reme has just become the very last person to see me.

But for all my fear and dramatics, it takes me an hour to get back and find the Marriot. The front desk clerk, Mario according to his nametag, is adamant about adhering to the gold card policies. Apparently I can’t check in without Dale’s ID and the hotel could give two fucks if I’m Dale Foster’s long lost lover or just the jerk who stole his wallet. Mario offers to call Dale and verify with verbal permission over the phone. My enthusiastic no earns a smug look as I confirm all of his suspicions.

I take out my phone and stare at it dejectedly and consider calling Dale. I shove it back into my pocket but not before I snap a pic of a gloating Mario. I Instagram it for Lex and caption it “No clean sheets for this Russian princess. What a cocksucker.”

In the lobby, the automatic doors open when you step on the reproduction oriental carpet. The hot, corrupt air swirls in from outside, trying to lap up Mario’s expensive air-conditioning. Since I won’t be able to partake of this luxurious comfort, I’ll stand still on this trigger point and hold the door open just to piss off Mario. Within arms reach is a welcome table covered with brochures. It boasts an obnoxious fake floral arrangement and a white ceramic bowl holding a pyramid of green apples. I pluck the one from the top and take a loud crunchy bite without moving my feet so the doors remain open.

“Fuera!” Mario yelps, and I quickly pocket another apple. I wink at him over my shoulder as I skip out of the Marriot into the hot, sweaty Tijuana night.

Three blocks away I see a decent enough place. The awning has a hole in it but the flower boxes are real and overflowing with a cascade of pink flowers. The hotel looks like someone keeps it up carefully, the shutters are also pink and have been recently painted. It’s a local place, definitely not a chain. It’s called, Paraíso, which I’m guessing probably means paradise. The clerk inside is a pleasant, middle-aged woman who appears to also be the owner. Her front desk is adorned with a giant rainbow sarape and mini potted cactuses all looking spiky and phallic. She sets me up with a room for two nights resulting in a credit card charge of fifty bucks. For a price like that, I’m already imagining shared bathrooms. She hands me a key but comes around the desk, flips the lock on the front door and offers to walk me to my room. The center area of the hotel opens up to the night sky, and it’s full of tropical plants, real dirt and ivy vines crawling up the balconies of the three floors. There’s a bubbling fountain in the middle where a beautiful white parrot is perched.

“He doesn’t fly away?” I ask as we walk around the secret, lush garden

that’s invisible from the outside of the hotel.

“He like paradise too much,” the woman says, smiling as we approach

my door. “Call a desk for more towels. Coke machine and ice first floor

only.”

“This is great! What did you say your name was?”

“Claudia, but lot’s of the boys call me Coco.”

I’m wondering who the boys are when a hand in hand couple brush past

us on the balcony. One man is shaved bald and wearing sunglasses despite

the darkness, and his boyfriend is clad in skintight white jeans and

shimmering butterfly collared blouse. I peer through the paradise jungle to

the second story balcony across the way at the only other people still left at

the hotel. A couple making out. Two men. Hmmm. There is a theme to this

paradise.

“Oh, so this is a gay hotel? Is it okay if I stay?” I ask, suddenly nervous

about being turned away once again.

“Haha!” Coco says and slaps me on the shoulders. “You are welcome

here, love. Paradise is for everyone!”

“Thanks!” I say, taking Coco in again through the dull cast purple

shadow. I don’t think Coco is a lady now that I look a little closer and

maybe peep stubble through her thick coat of tan foundation.

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