SPEEDY

I glance at the clock as I exit El Bravo: 3:15. The afternoon, begging for a Gulf breeze to work its magic, is hot and heavy. The sky is filled with clouds but none of them black enough to yield rain. I follow the same route I took when I lunched earlier in the day except I stop at the plaza. The pedestrian traffic has slowed as the city's residents seek refuge from the elements. I punch Estanislao's number. "What's up, big guy?" "It's too suffocating to do anything. I'm watching Audie Murphy in a cowboy movie. He was a better actor than he was given credit." "He was one of the greats. I don't know why he didn't become president like Reagan. I guess he drank too much. I'm in the plaza munching on corn, ready to board a pesera and return to the border. I'm dying for a beer, but I'd rather kick your ass on the tennis court and celebrate my victory with a cold one afterwards." "I thought you said winning and losing was for small minds?" "That's true unless you're playing a small mind." "Firing me up. What time do you expect to be at the club?" "I'm shooting for an hour. I want to get there before the after-work rush so we can get a court. Why don't you reserve one at 4:15?" "I'll be there." The pesesa speeds through Matamoros' narrow streets, loading and unloading passengers, weaving in and out of lanes, careening around corners until squealing to a sudden stop near the new bridge. Anyone who earned his stripes in the old days traveling Mexican buses through mountains and along shoulderless two-lane highways, when a passenger said a prayer for a safe arrival and willed himself to sleep rather than observe the madman at the wheel who felt compelled by machismo and a Grand Prix mentality to arrive at his destination in record time while treating his passengers to a rollercoaster ride, partakes of these quick rides through Matamoros with a certain nostalgia. As long as I don't feel the centrifugal force in my stomach, I am confident the driver has his vehicle under control. I descend the pesera and start across the bridge. Brownsville's unpretentious skyline rises on the left as I stop midway to peer over the rails and into the river's swirling and muddy waters. I don't know this for a fact, and it would make for an intriguing feature story in the future, but I'm convinced the Rio Grande claims more lives than any other river in the United States. Among the millions who have slid down its muddy banks and into the U.S., there have been myriads of Mexicans who couldn't swim and the dreams that swept them northward swept them to their deaths. I study at the grimy buildings in the distance that retain the fading glamour of an aging movie star. Brownsville is without visionaries. I write every year that Brownsville should reclaim its former distinction as the New Orleans of the Rio Grande with a downtown more diverse than the French Quarter. But like my charges of corruption falling on deaf ears for more than two decades, nobody wants to create an entertainment district with clubs, restaurants, bars, theatres, bookshops, coffee houses and a massage parlor or two a la Sixth Street in Austin. It isn't without its charm, though. From both sides of the border the workingclass congregate in downtown Brownsville to shop at the second-hand stores and the dollar outlets. The Jews once ruled downtown, but the Koreans have usurped power. Despite the changes, there are greasy-food restaurants and dark cantinas where the food is authentic and the beer is cold. It has to be because the dilapidated bars can't count on the air-conditioners, huge fans in place as backups. I take a second glance into the river. Twenty miles as the crow flies, the river meanders many more miles before it empties its pestilential waters into the gulf. An old man with a heavy sack on his back couldn't be more burdened than this abused river, the gutter of the Americas. It carries all humanity's detritus, sometimes humanity itself. On rare occasions the pedestrian traffic stalls as everyone peers below and follows a body floating to the east. I enter customs. The air is freezing. "Are you an American citizen, sir?" "Yes, sir." "May I see your driver's license?" "Yes, sir." "Where have you been?" "I work for the Herald in Matamoros. I'm returning home after a day's work." "Do you have anything to declare?" "No, sir." "You may go, sir." "Thank-you, sir." I shudder to think that the 25-year-old kid who has been interrogating me is the first line of defense against the terrorists. While I have never spit on any of the pictures of the presidents and vice-presidents that line the walls, I haven't been the most cooperating patriot when dealing with these uniformed robots. "American citizen?" "Sí." "Do you have any identification?" "Sí." I hand him my Texas driver's license. He looks at it and then at me. "You're from Brownsville." "Sí." "Then why aren't you speaking English with me?" "No tengo ganas." He writes a note and sends me inside where I'm interrogated and strip-searched. "I speak English better than you," I tell them in Spanish, "but is there a law that requires that I communicate with you in English?" Not all the officials have been so infantile. Estanislao and I were in Matamoros barhopping in the Zona Rosa, clubs rather than prostitutes making it less lubricious than the Zona Roja. Nonetheless, a good time could always be had. We met two girls from Tampico who had taken a bus to the border on a lark with the intention of crossing to Brownsville in order to shop. They hadn't given the final leg of their journey any serious thinking, perferring to paint the Zona Rosa red before deciding on a strategy the next day. The four of us hit it off. We convinced them that they could stay with us in Brownsville and we would drive to the other side in Estanislao's car. We also informed them that we would be stopped at customs and an officer would ask them two questions: "Are you an American citizen?" and "Where were you born?" to which they would answer "Yes" and "Brownsville". Over drinks we honed their English skills until we thought there would be a sufficient line of revelers returning from a night in Mexico that the agents would be hurrying to wave the vehicles through and we would be lost in the rush. "Are you American citizens?" we practiced. "Yes." "Where were you born?" "Brownsville." "Are you sure you can handle this?" we asked. "Sí." "One more time. Are you American citizens?" "Yes." "Where were you born?" "Brownsville." We inched our way forward confident that these gals could meet the challenge. After creeping along in our car for twenty minutes, we arrived at the booth where an officer was waiting. "Are you American citizens?" he mechanically questioned us. "Yes." "And you girls?" "Brownsville." "And where were you girls born?" "Yes." He looked at Estanislao behind the wheel and ordered that we pull into one of the stalls for an inspection. The supervisor called us, including the girls, into his office. "We could arrest you fellows for transporting illegal aliens, but let me make myself perfectly clear: If you boys pull this stunt again, there will be serious consequences." "Yes, sir. We won't do it again. We didn't know that these ladies weren't American citizens. We would never intentionally break the law." "I'm sure you wouldn't, but before I change my mind, you better get your asses back to Mexico." "Yes, sir!" We returned to Mexico, rented rooms at a cheap hotel and commenced a long relationship with Fanny and Chela. We returned the visit in Tampico. When we were departing from the bus station in Tampico, we were hugging and kissing them when Estanislao and I decided to switch them in mid-tongue. The girls were unhinged by the abrupt change, but they adjusted. Through the girls we made Speedy's acquaintance. He was undernourished with a long nose and rotten teeth, but he was fearless. He received his nickname because he exceeded the speed limit by 20 to 40 miles depending on whether he was in the city or the country, but he would mend his ways when he was in the United States. He explained that in the U.S. officers enforced the law while in Mexico he could be driving the speed limit and the officer would stop him and demand a bribe from him. He had decided to give the corrupt officers a reason to stop him since they were going to stop him anyway. "In this country you respect the law because those in charge of enforcing the law respect the law." At least he was willing to pay lip service to the U.S. because he earned his living transporting small amounts of marijuana to this country. He would pact 15 to 20 pounds of dope inside the doors of his Volkswagen and drive across the border. He was never busted on this side. He did meet his end when their suppliers in Oaxaca decapitated him and Fanny. While he might have fatally shortchanged his connection, he never shortchanged us during his time in Brownsville. Once he crossed the border, he played by the rules.