by JeffSo it was pretty much exactly how he described it. We walked across the border, go a few blocks passing dozens of pharmacies and hundreds of reasons to never breed with an Indian. Go around a corner and there it is, a pet supply place right across the street from a restaurant. We go to the restaurant first to eat some "beef" tacos. The waiter takes our food order, then asks us if we will be needing any Oxycontin, Viagra, or Vicodin with our meal. I decline, but thank him for the offer.

The tacos are pretty good, but I really wish I hadn't seen the kitchen they came from. The we head over to the pet shop. We circle around the backside of it and when we enter the owner greets us like sons returning from war. Apparently I came in with a very frequent customer.

They chatter on for a while, mostly in English, but not completely. Out comes the shopping list and he starts pulling boxes of the shelves. This is when I realize that this is just a steroid store. Aside from two puppies in a cage and some flea medication the ENTIRE wall of product is steroids-- most with either a picture of a horse or dog them. It takes a while to add it all up. To say that he's buying in bulk is an understatement, not to mention it's all going in his underwear. Thank god this shit is supposed to shrink your balls.

Once my order is put together I go into the bathroom to pack. Duct tape and baggies are there for the taking. No toilet paper.

Everything more or less fits in place. Unfortunately I don't have enough crotch space for the full cycle which means I have to come back. Not happy about it, but I made up my mind to do this thing. As soon as I go to leave the bathroom I realize the problem. I can't walk right. I've got a bowed gait that makes me look like I came down here for a different kind of injection. I'm not the only one who notices. The owner laughs at me and says something in Spanish that makes my companion laugh.

As we walk back I start to sweat profusely. It's warm but that has nothing to do with it. There are cops all over the place, like they just spawned from the ground. They all eye me suspiciously and as we get to the line (there is a line to get into the US, not out of it) I'm sweating more. My palms are clamy so I wipe them on my pants.

"Don't do that," he says.

"What?"

"Wipe your hands. Dude, no one can see your hands are sweaty, but they know they are if you keep wiping them on your pants. Just convince yourself that you're down here for an hour or two to have some tacos and beers. We did have tacos and beers, right?"

"Yeah."

"So when the guy at the desk takes your ID you tell him that and you believe it. And when he asks if you're bringing anything into Mexico you say 'yes.'"

I'm confused by this. "Excuse me?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot. You should always stop by the duty free store. When we're in line we'll pass it. Get some alcohol there for like ten bucks. Some good shit too. It's cheap and give you something to declare so you don't have to lie. Not really anyway."

Makes sense. I end up picking up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold Label for nearly half off which makes this almost tolerable. The wait in line is ridiculous. Like an hour.

"I've never seen the line this long. Guess they're taking long to process people."

I thought I couldn't get more uncomfortable. I was wrong.

So we sweat it out in the Tijuana sun with the hundreds in line and I fight the urger to adjust my package every thirty seconds. The air stinks. All of it. Like a cloud that won't leave, the smell follows the crowd. The people are gross. As we crawl along we pass musicians and beggars, all with missing limbs or large swaths of skin removed. They don't have land mines laying around.

Christ, this isn't Yemen, so I can only attribute these mutilations to their stupidity. There is a reason these people are willing to work a field or dig a hole for the same wages we pay our prisoners.

An hour later and we we get to the checkpoints. There are a dozen of them arranged within a large and comfortable air-conditioned building. This is how WE do it. I want to turn back to the beggars out in the sun and start chanting "USA! USA!" I don't, but the thought makes me smile for the first time since I got here.

I get to the front of the line. There is an older looking guy working my booth. His glasses and graying hair make him look wise. Scrutinizing. I should have picked a different booth.

He points to me and motions me over with a slow curve of his finger.

"Sir, what is your purpose in Mexico?"

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Posted by Jeff at 2:16 PM

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