Page 43 of The Delivery

I put my forehead against the car and close my eyes to the sad sight of what is Avenida Revolución, Tijuana. Tommy is humming and stretching like he’s getting ready for ballet class.

“Maybe to the spray paint store or for brunch? Let’s think, what would he do? What about drugs? Do you think he would get some?”

“Spray paint lead isn’t a bad idea,” I say, lifting my head and the door handle at the same time and slumping into the car seat feeling defeated.

Tommy comes around the car and yanks open the door. He’s popping another blister pack and chewing little blue pills for breakfast.

“Want some?”

“What is it?” I ask as I put out my palm. Tijuana is turning out to be like Vegas, for me at least—anything goes. Who is this Lana? I don’t even know her. I’ve never done drugs.

“I’d call you an addict or a known user if I were at work and we were doing an intake.”

“Well, we’re not at work, are we Ms. Prissy Pants. And I’m selfdiagnosed—so I can self-medicate.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s your affliction, Tommy?”

“Chronic bitch-face is yours.”

“Erectile dysfunction,” I say, and Tommy play-hits my arm.

“If I were at work and styling your hair, I’d chop a big-ass piece out of the back when you weren’t paying attention. Then I’d fry the rest with a curling iron.” Tommy takes out his Chapstick and moisturizes his lips.

“If I were at work, I’d write emotionally unstable on your chart and flag you as a watch.”

“Your game is stupid, Lanabanana. Let’s go get Rocco and get some breakfast.”

“Can you just drive around the neighborhood a little bit? To see if, I don’t know, maybe he’s walking around?”

Our drive around the neighborhood is the saddest little drive in all of human history. There’s no one around at this hour except for some seriously deranged and desperate people. It makes me feel like it’s the end of the world, and the Adderall Tommy gave me is kicking in and my eyesight is pixelating.

“Beam me up, Scotty,” I say.

“I will. In a minute,” Tommy responds without so much as a flinch, as he palms the steering wheel hand after hand taking a slow corner. I guess if you do the same drugs, you pretty much ride the same wavelength.

At a traffic light, we stop and there are beggar children dressed as clowns. It’s doubly tragic because there is nothing remotely funny about being a child and having to beg. I buy some chiclets from them, and then after taking one, I give the gum back. Tommy is tapping the steering wheel to the Spanish song on the radio, and we’re halfway through the intersection when he slams on the brakes and yells.

“Hey, Lana, what’s that?”

It’s a painting on the side of a building that advertises Peep Shows and Live, Nude Girls. The piece is done in black and not much shading, just stark contour lines. It could have been done hastily but is, nevertheless, a stunning work of art.

A wall divides the four characters in the piece, on one side are two children, a little boy holding a baby. They are cold and huddling together in fear. The baby’s face is twisted in a cry and the small boy looks down at it helplessly. On the other side of the wall is their mother, lying spread eagle on a mattress, while a sloppy, overweight brute guzzles at bottle labeled XXX as he fastens his pants. The signature is Mozey’s, and I don’t need him to be here to tell me that this particular piece is autobiographical.

“God, he’s good.” Tommy breathes as we take it in together. He squeezes my hand. “She doesn’t want to do it, but she’s got no choice to feed her kids.”

“I think that’s supposed to be him. He’s holding his little sister that they lost at the border.”

“What an incredible drawing. The owners of that establishment are going to be pissed. Looks like you’ve got yourself a brazen activist, girl. Isn’t that dead sexy?”

“Huh?” I say, pointing to the artwork. “I don’t think sexy aptly describes this.”

“Not the painting, obvi. I meant your boyfriend, you’re in love with. Is he a Dibujero?”

“Hey, how do you know about them?”

Tommy looks at me, rolls his eyes and then shrugs.

I put my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and turn in a circle kicking up the dirt in frustration. I’m just behind Mozey, like he’s within reach, but I’m always arriving a minute too late. I pull on my lip with my teeth and bite the dry skin until it bleeds. I keep kicking in the dirt and squinting back up at his artwork. Then I yank my hands out of my pockets and slap them on my thighs and simply growl at the painting.

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