BajaNomad

Sean

Osprey - 6-27-2007 at 06:52 AM

Just Enough
Sean was thinking "It was ringing. It rang every time I called; no recording, no busy signal. So maybe Bobby is still in Cabo, still has that phone, probably just sleepin’ all day at some chick's house, out partyin’ all night. I mean if the phone was turned off, if Bobby had split, I wouldn't get the ring, right? He's there. He just has to be there. By now, after all this time, almost two years, Bobby's probably set up real nice. He'll have a place where I can crash, good dope like before, maybe even better, chicks, even Mexican chicks. Even if he's not there, if I can't find him, if he's gone, I'll still be alright. I'll get along. First thing, I find Bobby, or a place to clean up, lose this scraggly beard, take on the Joe College on a Fling look. I'm gonna need some more cash soon. Wish I had hit the ATM harder with Carol's card but those cameras had me right in the light. I can hustle some tourists, deal some drugs, hang around the marina til I can find some yachties who don't know how to score dope. Most of those yachties think all the Mexican dealers are cops; they're afraid of a "sting", don't know the big dealers are the cops. All those millions, no brains."
Sean Edward Corbin is a modern man, a resourceful man of the new millennium. The MacGyver of the streets, able to adapt and improvise; use whatever is available to get himself lined up and comfy. He figures he can "work through his problems." Like the one with Carol Bristol. Carol, at 42, eleven years older than Sean, part owner of the very profitable and popular Whistler's restaurant/bar in Huntington beach, has kept the young man very comfortable for almost two years.
Sean remembers, looks for loopholes "She was gettin way too serious. I woulda had to leave anyway. It's just that I usually like to plan a move, not be thrown out on my ass. Somebody coulda stole my stuff right off her porch. Comin down here now, in June, in this stinking heat -- I probably would have held off, put up with her silly chit til' maybe October or November. Cabo is always jumpin', any season; rich fat chicks with plastic, on the beach, around the pools, Cabo Wabo, the Roe, all over. I really had no choice. If only Bobby would have answered the damn phone so I could be sure I'd have a place."

An old brown Ford bumped and chugged down Highway 1, right in the middle, straddling the center line, dodging pot holes.
"How do they do it? Nobody has air; none of the cars, the houses, the stores -- how in the hell do they stand the incredible heat. I knew damn well that these two big bottles of cold beer would get me a ride south from La Paz -- a lot faster than a thumb or gas money. These people have got to have beer. It must be just enough. No air-conditioning, no clean sheets, freedom from authority, a shot at a good future for themselves and their families -- millions of them, struggling. They're makin’ it, getting’ by, just on the things that sustain, never really satisfy. The things that are just enough. A cold beer once in a while, pumps them up, keeps them going. There's something powerful in that, man. Something sad and at the same time courageous....I can't explain it."
Sean held the liter bottle of Pacifico beer between his legs, cool against the bare skin of his inner thighs just below his walking shorts. He wore his 31 years hard on a face hidden by a sandy, unkempt beard. His lanky six foot one inch frame did not show how badly it had been ravished by the loose life; indestructible genes had been tested by all the poisons he could find, use and abuse. Sprawled on the back seat of the four-door Ford he kept his backpack close, where he could reach it. His Mexican hosts, all dark and small; the driver, his wife and two small children, took up the whole front seat. The driver, drinking the other big bottle of beer, was in good spirits. He was laughing, playing with the kids, chatting with his wife, while weaving all over the road. The hitchhiker had passed up the chance for several rides in the back of pickup trucks, settled on this big car full of laughing, chattering trolls. The back seat floor area was littered with some kind of animal feed that had apparently spilled from a sack, long ago, defied removal efforts. Atop this light brown layer was a layer of empty beer cans, empty food cans, plastic milk cartons, boxes that once held cereal, reconstituted milk products. Sean could see small plastic toys, figures, games scattered about -- the "prizes" from a Mexican "Tony the Tiger" and the questionable value-added promos stuck onto or inside every kind of cereal, bread or snack.
The traveler thought about how Carol's car was always so neat, clean; she was a freak about it -- she would flip if she saw this mess. She had other things to "flip" about. In Sean's backpack were her credit card, ATM card, a Nikon camera he had given her last Christmas. The pack held two changes of clothes, some toilet articles, two ounces of cocaine, $108 dollars, 600 pesos, his travel papers. The car's muffler had rusted away years ago, the untreated exhaust came billowing up, filled the interior of the old Ford. Sean had a choice, sit back, stay in the sweltering, smelly interior of the car or lean out the window, escape the stagnation, exchange the smoke and soiled diaper smell for a blast of hot wind. The car rattled through a world of sand, more sand, dry, brown cactus, buzzards, garbage and unbearable heat.
The car was slowing, pulling to the left. "Desert. Nothing but desert. Were they stopping? Here? There's nothing here. A rest stop for them, the kids? No, there's a dirt road going left, off into the desert."
When the car came to a stop on the shoulder the driver turned to look back at Sean, smiled a crooked grin.
"Yo voy rancho." They had never said they were going all the way from La Paz to Cabo San Lucas but this little dirt road was well north of the "Y", where the main highway splits, going down both east and west coasts of the peninsula, both roads meeting at the end, Cabo San Lucas. The ride had been less than 20 miles. It was still about 80 sweltering miles north of Sean's destination.
He got out, shook the little man's hand, said "Gracias, amigo", ambled off down the dusty shoulder of the highway, muttering to himself about greasers and heat and diapers, backpack over one shoulder, the rest of the warm beer in his hand.
He was almost to the "Y" hoping to get a ride straight south, the shortest of the two routes when he saw a big diesel truck pulling a trailer slow to his plea, his thumb gesture. It had plates that said ALBERTA. Big brute of a truck pulling a fancy fifth-wheel trailer.
The driver said "Cabo?"
Sean nodded, the driver motioned for Sean to get in the back of the truck --- "well, it'll be hotter than hell but it's a sure ride all the way." Sean thought as he climbed in the back, found a place to sit with his back to the cab silently cursing the rich Canadian bastards who didn't trust him enough to let him ride in the jump seat of the truck or in the big comfy fifth-wheel.
Two hot, windy hours later, the big truck pulled into an R.V. Park on the edge of Cabo's central business district. Sean only nodded his thanks to the Canadians, walked into town. Dirty and dehydrated he ambled toward the beach. He thought about a cold iced tea and a cool dip in the surf. At the first beach cafe he downed two glasses of tea, walked to the shore, left his boots, T shirt and backpack on the sand, took a swim. The water was 86 degrees but still gave some small measure of relief. The beach was packed, all the usual Joe Tourists, chicks, Indian vendors, time share hawkers -- like time had stood still during the last two years.
As he trudged back from the beach Sean regretted not wearing his T shirt on the swim. It was now a mess, dripping with sweat, rank and soiled. He walked directly to Bobby's pad on Salvatierra. The place was not in the best neighborhood but the small apartment was on the second floor and had a partial view of the bay -- a nice breeze in the evenings if Sean remembered correctly. Lots of palms, tropical plants gave the place a tropical atmosphere; a bright blue paint over the old plaster completed the Jimmy Buffet Margaritaville look.
The door was open, somewhere inside a swamp cooler was trying to move some cool air around; a stretch at 70 plus percent humidity. Sean knocked on the door frame "Bobby, Bobby. You here? Bobby? It's me, Sean."
From inside the dark living room came "Just, just a minute. Who is it? Bobby's not here. Just a minute."
Finally a young man dressed only in black shorts came out of the darkness, hair disheveled as if just awakened from sleep. "Bobby's gone. If I were you, man, I'd keep it low key. Bobby's in jail, got popped for dealin, about two weeks ago."
"I'm Sean Corbin, a friend of Bobby's from Seal Beach. Where are they holding him, here in Cabo?" asked the traveler.
The sleepy one says "Maybe here, maybe in La Paz; most of the gringos they send to La Paz."
Sean put down his backpack, sweat dripping now from his beard, nose; his hair was soaked. "I just got in, from the states. I usually stay here with Bobby. Two years ago I stayed here for almost four months. I'm on short money this trip. I really need a place to crash, shower, sleep, that's all."
Sleepy said "Well, man, this is not Bobby's pad. There's three of us that pay rent on the place. Sorry, man, but we're full up."
"I wonder, could I just, at least...." an older, much taller man in shorts and T shirt stepped out of the gloom.
"Might be cool if you just moved on Vato. Like he said, we're full up." tall dude mutters.
The weary traveler had to walk seven sweaty blocks back down to the marina before he found an air-conditioned restaurant/bar, the Mar Y Sol. At two thirty in the afternoon the place was not crowded; he fit right in -- this was Cabo, wet swim suits and tank tops the uniform of the day. He was not surprised by the $2.50 price for the cheapest Mexican beer, he didn't plan to stay long - just long enough to cool down, make a plan. Through the big windows, open to the Cabo Marina, Sean could see his prey, the yachties -- shinning the brightwork of their sleek crafts, pretty millionaire's toys, Gelcoated hulls, glistening in the afternoon sun, riding high and handsome above the murky waters of the bay. While Sean was boat-watching, he was being observed.
Two uniformed policemen walked up to Sean, began asking him questions. The police ordered Sean to settle up with the bartender, quietly ushered him outside. While Sean sweated bullets, now standing in front of the police car, a small crowd began to gather. Groups of tourists slowed to find out what was so interesting just down the street, pushed together, spilled from the sidewalk into the street. When the police found the coke and cards they cuffed the scruffy felon, put Sean in the car, dispersed the crowd with a shout and a quick howl of the siren.
This was not a time for Sean to be surprised. This was a time for quiet suffering. Time to wonder would come days or weeks later in his cell. He would finally find out, through the jailhouse grapevine that the credit card he used was in Carol's name but was a Corporate Card for Whistler's Bar and Restaurant. The "Grand Theft" charge and the "Foreign Flight" along with a good photo of the young man taken one glorious day in Idylwild (with Sean's gift camera) got the wheels turning. Ms. Bristol's report that he might be armed and could be in possession of one or more kilos of cocaine from Columbia got them spinning faster.
As the police car pulled away from the curb Sean turned to the officer in the back seat with him.
"I don't suppose you have air, in the can, air conditioning? Do you guys know Bobby Williams? A little shorter than me, kinda red hair, a little goatee?" Sean could see his reflection in the cop's Raybans, could even see the sweat dripping off his own nose.
He served his full time. When Sean was released he was no longer lanky but down-right lean, skinny. The Mexican jail in La Paz was better than most, or so he heard, bunks up off the deck, more yard time. The meals were meager; rice, beans, tortillas, soup, once in a while some scraps of meat. The food did not satisfy, it sustained. It was just enough. In nine long months Sean Corbin began to learn about the material deprivation he had perceived as "something sad" -- he would never know about the indomitable will and spirit of the Mexican people which he had called "courage".
Sean's mother died in 1992. His father had been disused and disappointed by his son so many times and in so many ways that Sean did not even bother to contact him from prison. He wrote to his uncle Don in Barstow. The fourth letter earned an answer. Later his uncle was able to send him $240. The prisoner still had almost $108 of it in his pocket when he was released. He hit the sunny streets of La Paz with the money and a 30 day visitor's visa given him by the prison authorities. No long-range plans.

"The first thing? A cold beer. A big one."

Diver - 6-27-2007 at 07:12 AM

OK birdman; the gig is up.
Under what currently successful pen name do you distribute your works ?
After reading this one I am positive that you have either made your living as a darn good writer or that you have been silly not to.

Wonderful tale !!! Thanks again !!!

.

CaboRon - 6-27-2007 at 07:51 AM

Quote:
Originally posted by Diver
OK birdman; the gig is up.
Under what currently successful pen name do you distribute your works ?
After reading this one I am positive that you have either made your living as a darn good writer or that you have been silly not to.

Wonderful tale !!! Thanks again !!!

.
Osprey, Two great stories in one morning ! :bounce: Thank you again, CaboRon :bounce: :tumble::tumble::tumble:

amir - 6-28-2007 at 02:13 PM

Good one!
Thanks...

Cypress - 6-28-2007 at 03:07 PM

Osprey, You're gifted. :spingrin: Thanks for another great story.:D