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…]