One evening, Juan Pablo invited me out to los jalones. I checked my Spanish-English dictionary and couldn’t find it, so I asked him what they were. He explained a little bit, and I figured it out, “Ah, Nascar.”
We jumped in his Beetle—and when I say “his”, I mean “belonging to whichever customer he was conning”—and drove down Periférico, Mexico City’s beltline, to… somewhere, I wasn’t sure. We pulled off on a side street and looked for a place to park. I glanced around for the stadium. Not there. Then I noticed about three dozen cars and maybe 15 motorcycles all just sitting around us. One of the motorcyclists took off down the empty strip of pavement and popped a wheelie.
That’s when I realized my ne’er-do-well suitor and I would not be cheering from the stands while Riccardo Petty drove his número cuarenta y tres car around a ring. We would be watching drag races.
Well, OK. I mean, not OK, but whatever, fine. I’ll watch some idiots burn down a surface street in hopes of winning a little cash or at least being considered the dude with the biggest dick. When Juan Pablo suggested I take a ride on the back of a motorcycle with his buddy, though, I declined.
People milled around. Guys revved their engines. Girls, midriffs bared, preened. Juan Pablo chatted with his cuates. I just leaned against the car, waiting for something to happen. Two cars finally lined up at an arbitrary spot and seemed to be gearing up. I stood on Juan Pablo’s bumper to get a better look.
That’s the moment when la policía came blazing down on the group.
Juan Pablo yelled, “Get in the car!” I was still pulling out my seat belt when he jerked the wheel over. The whole peloton veered back onto Periferíco and hauled ass. I cursed Juan Pablo loudly and peered in my passenger’s side mirror, wondering how many officers I was going to have to bribe to keep myself out of jail. I pictured myself, awash in tears, emptying the Banco Santander ATM with a line of cops behind me, palms extended. And that was the best-case scenario.
[Continuará…]
This is reading like a screenplay…
Am on the edge of my seat! please continue!
It’s like those old serial stories in magazines! More plz!
Yes, Nelly! Maybe I did this because I’ve been reading (the Cliffs Notes of) Charles Dickens’ major works and learning about how he published several of them serially in magazines… Now is when you say, “I’ve read Charles Dickens. Charles Dickens was a great novelist. Avid Bruxist, you’re no Charles Dickens.”
The truth is, with this being my first week back at work, I’ve been too tired to compose the whole thing. I hope I can construct the rest of it such that the episodes contain a reasonable arc.
Nanamous and Lori F, more anon, after my test tomorrow probably.