ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Tijuana This is an account of my exploits on Thurday: 04/03/03, 2:05pm: I�m at another damn Starbucks, a pit stop on the way to the trolley. The girl behind the counter has a sticker of a purple �4� on her forehead. I�m wondering if it�s symbolic. My plan is to go to Mexico, call Jeff, Bo, and Lunchbox, buy a pack of cigarettes and a beer, and then ride back. Fairly well thought out, if you ask me. I�m looking forward to the ride and I�ll write more once I�m on board. All aboard! 04/03/03, 3:37pm: I�m on the trolley, now, with my round-trip ticket valued at $4.50 on the way to Tijuana. It�s not as glamorous as I�d expected with the scowling faces of the other passengers fixed on me as if I�m the only one who looks degenerate. Oh, if I were a well-to-do philanthropist, I�d buy them all mirrors. The intercom voice is just as I expected it would be: distant and incoherent, like a none-to-pleasant dream. It�s not antagonistic in any way, nor is it remotely discernable. If it weren�t for the signs at each depot, I�d have no idea where we are. We�re in downtown, now, and the crowd was waned and been replaced with replicas, only from a foreign manufacturer. I don�t understand anything being said around me, even on the intercom, and I know I�ll bump shoulders with all of these people when we de-board at Tijuana. Except, perhaps, for the Amish Crimeboss, replete with cream-colored suit and matching, menacing fedora, who boarded two stops ago. Eric Stoltz�s mother, Mask-era, is stalking outside at this stop in an anonymous black leather jacket. The wind is brisk today, but, thanks to the sun, it�s one of the hottest that I recall. I�m looking forward to staring at the sea. What an existence I lead! When the northbound trolley passes, I look into the faces of the commuters, as passive and withdrawn as ours. Some squint, even in shade, and I get the impression that they�re struggling to understand what is said over the intercom. Poor sheep. We just passed 12th and Market and I still haven�t been asked to show my ticket. What a gyp! We�re at the main depot, where they park the trains at night. I came here once when it was raining hard and took refuge in one of these cars. That was about a month and a half ago. It seems longer. We passed the new stadium that they�ve been building since before I moved here. It looks the same: skeletal and incongruent. We just passed under Cesar Chavez Bridge and now we�re in the industrial park of town; all blue and white smoke and groaning metal like bitter old men. Harborside seems more like Cranetown; there are four out of the left window and to the right is the Navy gas station where Damey and I fueled the car before heading to Hooter�s and I broke the back-passenger door handle. Good times. The air-conditioner just kicked back on. To our left is a train; stopped and larger than I remember trains being. This experience is turning out to be just as productive as I thought it would be, I realize, as we pull into National City/8th St. So far, it�s the best $4.50 I ever spent and I�m not even halfway returned on my investment, or should I say, the services haven�t even yet been halfway rendered, because the return has come back manifold. At each stop, some get off, some get on, but the capacity never changes. The car is always full of faces that seem receptive and withdrawn at the same time. I realize I�m doing too much writing and not enough looking, but I can�t seem to stop. I don�t trust myself to recollect these things as they are literally and figuratively fluttering by. To my right are mobile homes; my left: water and steel electrical towers past a busy mid-afternoon freeway. In Chula Vista, now, and still no ticket check. I may have spent my money unjustly but far from wasted it. The returning car seems to be peppered with honeys, which I�ll look forward to, as on this trip there are none. Palm trees and graffiti are becoming more prominent now and I can feel (see) that we�re nearing the border. To my right is a softball field where half a dozen people sit at bleachers to watch a game with no players. Four more stops to go until Final Destination. Zero Hour. For some reason that I can easily put my finger on but choose not to, I�m apprehensive. I don�t want to die and I don�t want to get robbed. The piercing eyes at the end of the car that I�m facing don�t encourage me at all and I�m aware that I�m wearing too gentle an expression to dissuade an attack or confrontation. I can look rough, though not very, and that could be beneficial in this situation, but I�m enjoying the scenery and experience too much, so my face is wonder and admiration. I�m sure in others it registers as: WEAK. EASY TARGET. Oh well. We�ll see what happens. On page 35 of The Sound and The Fury with one stop to go. It�s getting close now. I�ll file off with all these people that belong here and me, a kid with hopes to explore, in their homeland with no purpose at all. Just to look around and gawk at their homes; their way of life. How will they react? Mountains to the left. It�s pretty here. Trash and broken concrete and another still train to the right. Why did I sit on this side? We�re going very slowly now and I don�t know why. The intercom said something about having return tickets validated? I have no idea what�s going on. I�m in Mexico, now, and everyone is really nice and I�m convinced it�s not just because they want my money. Okay. They want my money. But they are really nice about it. Mexican hawkers rock! They don�t fuck around, either. Taxicab drivers assault you at the border, offering to take you to �pharmacies� and �to see naked bitches�. One claimed that the ocean was forty minutes away by car. Bullshit! After getting off the trolley, I followed a horde of people up many winding ramps and over a long bridge and then through a revolving gate, giving one the impression that entering Mexico is comparable to entering an amusement park. Once inside, it proved to be nothing less, with full-dynamic gyroscopes and a sky-swing. Topless bars are the first thing you see with free tequila shots. Mexico: America�s Playground!!! Mis amigo Nuevo at the Central de Bomberos told me that the direction I was headed was muy peligro, which I knew from my limited Spanish to mean �very dangerous�. He went on to say, as far as I can tell, that there was much violence, gangs, and gunfire. He suggested another route that was asi bien, but I opted to head back towards the Americanized area. I bought a pack of Camel Lights for $1.80, then, realizing the substantial savings, bought another. I used the restroom at a restaurant and witnessed for myself the debilitated state of their water resources. Oh my God! Now I�m sitting on the street while ants crawl up my back. The drugstore had everything: cigarettes, Propecia, Viagra, Valtec, even flies. This place is muy bueno! Now I�m seated at an anonymous restaurant which seems to be called TACOS & BEER having a Corona. Bo wasn�t home to I got the answering machine. Lunchbox was roadside with Stacy and her characteristically broken down car. We spoke briefly. Jeff�s phone disconnected us but he called back and an unpleasant scent wafted to me as we talked. I told him there�s not much to do here and he said he didn�t care, as long as it wasn�t Conroe. I concur. These cigarettes are good but different. White filters a quarter of an inch shorter than their American cousins. My ashtray is a seashell and the bartender is a Neanderthal with really good English. Emphysema in Spanish is �Enfisema Pulmonar�. Cancer is �Cancer�. The ants are in my crotch now and bothersome. It�s getting dark soon and I�ll be damned if I�m still here when it does so. Almost time to go. Stepping onto the trolley, I see a sign that says �Watch Your Step� and beneath it: �Camine con Precaucion�, which, loosely translated, means �go your way with caution�. That�s beautiful. English is quite vulgar when held to the light of other languages. The ride back, at least at this stop, is much less congested, which I find peculiar, because I thought everyone was in a rush to get out of Mexico. Aside from me, there are five other passengers on this car. Customs was a breeze and I saw many people on the way to the Estacion del Tranvia. An American-looking woman with wild blonde hair passed by with a wind-blown face as if she were eternally walking into a brisk gust of wind; eyes squinted, mouth frozen in a sneer. A man passed by me on the platform who was muttering to an imaginary friend, so to the point that he gestured to the Baja Duty Free across the way and mumbled something quietly, as if to say �I tell you, Jessup; I remember when all this was trees and grass before those fucking Americans came and put up that monstrosity.� When entering Mexico, I passed a sign that reminded commuters not to bring any fruits or pets into Mexico. At the bottom of the sign was the slogan �Protect our Agriculture!� What�s the fucking emergency? Is there a fear that if I give an orange to an innocent-looking little hijo that he�ll harvest the seeds, plant them and grow a crop of oranges that will threaten America�s monopoly on the export? What the hell? More people are boarding at the frequent stops and the sky is growing steadily a darker shade of blue. I�ve timed it perfectly. This trip is considerably bumpier, so my penmanship is suffering. I just had a conversation with a really cool Hispanic guy who gave me a short, though detailed story of his parents� lives. The youngest of eight, his father, from Austin, died when he was seven from diabetes. The father left the family a sizable plot of land in Tijuana where the mother lives today. He said she did a great job of keeping the family together though she resents him, personally, because he looks like his father. His twin brother, he says, looks like their mother. He assured me that, at the rate I�m going, I will succeed as a writer. I hope he�s right. He also told me that schizophrenics and the homeless often go to Tijuana at night to sleep on the streets, as they are not bothered there as they are in San Diego. It�s now completely dark and, with the bright track lighting in here and the slightly contoured glass windows, I can�t see a fucking thing aside from the street lamps. When I try, I see the reflections of the people across the aisle; dismal and worn-out. They look defeated, as if their day was infinitely larger than they were and, subsequently, conquered them. It�s sad, really. Not because I�ve never experienced that sort of loathing of one�s own existence, but because I have. Eight stops to go before an insanely long walk home. I�d entertained the notion of singing Karaoke at The Lamplighter, voted Best Karaoke in San Diego and three blocks from the trolley station, but now I�m not so sure. My throat has become scratchy the past two days and I think I may be coming down with something. Also, I don�t want to blow my voice before the �Downsized� performance tomorrow. I�ve given up on looking out the window because now all I can see is myself. There are no honeys on this trip as I�d hoped there would be. Dammit! A page was just issued forth that passengers on the first car should move to the back. Since I boarded, like, twelve stops ago, I have no idea which car I�m in. The stop announcements, now intelligible, are obviously pre-recorded, as made apparent in contrast to that last barking order. They are soft and pleasant, whereas the driver�s voice is loud and overtly �angry, middle-aged white man.� I just now thought to think that I may not entirely remember the way home as I took many turns and ask directions many times. The girls across from me are discussing their love lives and lack thereof. Mostly recollections of the past and lamentations regarding the present. I think there�s only one stop left but I�m too intimidated by the nearby conversation to lift my head. My right foot is falling asleep, but I�m avoiding big movements. The walk home was pleasant yet chilly. I picked up a copy of The Gay & Lesbian Times to see if my response to the �on the street� question posed to me on Wednesday at Starbuck�s was printed. Much to my dismay, it was. The question was �Do you think that forming support groups for the partners of gays and lesbians serving in the war with Iraq will help draw attention to the problems with �Don�t ask, don�t tell� and the difficulties gay service members and their partners face?� After brief consideration, I said, �Absolutely, if they are heard� But that�s like preaching to the choir. It really needs to be publicized; it needs to be heard and it needs to be known.� Not a bad answer, in itself, but as I walked away it occurred to me that the answer, though logically sound, was morally wrong. In fact, the question itself is morally wrong. Starting support groups with the intent of opening the world�s eyes to their suffering is bastardizing their attempt at consolation. It wouldn�t be a bad thing if it did help draw a bigger picture, but that shouldn�t be its reason for coming into being. Of course, not to tolerate being misquoted, I�m drafting a letter to the Editor to that effect. After doing so, I�ll watch The Crimson Rivers and go to sleep. This trolley experiment was such a huge success that I�m planning a similar bus expedition for next Thursday. [I�m thinking my destination will be Oceanside. It�s plenty far away and possesses a beautiful and inspiring pier, which was actually the birthplace of my earlier journal entries, �The Pier 1 & 2�, which were originally one huge piece but were split in two to ease readability.] 2:18 p.m. - 2003-04-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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