You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

TIJUANA CROSSING

Towards the end of Winter term at Mexico City College, I saw a note on the student bulletin board. On it was written, “Share gas to San Diego”. I called the phone number on the note to secure a ride. I had no desire to repeat the two-day journey on a 2nd class bus back to the US, and I couldn’t afford anything else. On my last day of classes, I filled my backpack and bid a sad adios to Patra e Chrisanta. I walked up the street to catch the Rocket. After my last class, I made my way to the intersection to meet my ride to San Diego. There, at the same corner, were two 6-year-old boys with a box of baby rabbits. One was especially handsome, with brown, white, and gray fur. While talking with them, I picked up this colorful tiny fuzzball. “Uno Peso,” the boy asked holding out his hand. He wanted only a peso, 12 cents US, for this bunny. I gave the boy a peso and tucked the tiny conejo under my shirt. It was not the first time I had done something stupid because an object was adorable. The bunny seemed to like being in the warm den between my t-shirt and buttoned shirt.

Shortly after I made my ill-advised purchase, a recent model car pulled up to the curb. It was a convertible with the top down. A slightly flaccid-looking young man was at the wheel and two attractive young women were sitting in the back seat. I presumed that we were all Winter term students returning to the US. The driver introduced himself as John. I said, “I’m Tod”. The girls introduced themselves as Samantha and Jessica. I put my backpack in the trunk and sat in the empty front passenger seat. We were off on the two-day trip to San Diego. The girls were friends but did not know either John or myself. John was an outgoing and jovial young man. I concluded that it was going to be a pleasant trip. And perhaps one of the girls would take a liking to me. But from the start, they remained aloof. Once we were out on the highway, I pulled the rabbit out of my shirt. It entertained us by doing back flips on the floorboards of the car. We named it ‘Flipper”.

That evening we had dinner before going to our separate hotel rooms. At dinner, John revealed that he had contracted a rare, drug-resistant, form of gonorrhea and was going to San Diego for medical treatment which he desperately hoped would cure it. Otherwise, he would not be able to have children. His disease put a damper on any hopes of romance on this trip.

After the second day of driving, we reached the border crossing. I tucked Flipper under my shirt. The border guard asked the usual questions after which he started his examination of the vehicle with the trunk. When he was done with the trunk, he went to inspect the passenger compartment. Flipper was moving around under my shirt. I feared my large and active stomach may attract attention so, as I was closing the lid, I slyly tucked Flipper in the back corner of the trunk behind my backpack.

After completing his examination of the passenger compartment, the inspector said, “I would like to have another look in the trunk.” No one knew that I had stuck Flipper in there. The trunk was opened. I was standing behind the inspector. From there, I could plainly see Flipper’s little head and large ears over my backpack. He was motionless except for his little nose, which was twitching as he sniffed the air. The inspector was intent on finding something behind the latch of the trunk. He dug around there, without looking up, for excruciatingly long minutes. Eventually, he stepped back saying “ You may pass through”. He walked away. I reached into the open trunk and returned Flipper to his hiding place under my shirt before closing the trunk.

We drove into the USA. After a bit, I told the others of our close call with Flipper in the trunk. The girls responded with gasps and twitters. John said nothing. His reaction was out of character. When we had driven away from the border into the outskirts of San Diego, I asked why he had suddenly become quiet. He did not answer right away. Then he said “I have a 45 and drugs hidden in this car. If the inspector had seen that damn rabbit he would have carefully examined the car, found my stash, and we all would have wound up in a Mexican jail.” In San Diego, John dropped me off at the bus station.

From San Diego, I took a Greyhound bus to Portland. Flipper made the trip in my shirt. While on that long bus ride, thinking about the trip with John, I was struck by the realization that possibly he was not a student. It seemed more likely that he was a drug smuggler using the two young women and me as cover for safe passage through the border inspection. While on the bus, a middle-aged woman sat in the seat next to me. She frequently glanced at my pulsating stomach. She didn’t ask and I didn’t tell her that it was Flipper not some bizarre disease which convulses ones abdomen.

It was Easter weekend when Flipper and I reached Portland. I presented him to my sister, Julia, and her two small children as an Easter present. Flipper eventually took up residence in a dense tangle of Ivy which covered a stone wall in their back yard. Every evening, one of the children would take rabbit food out on the back porch and call. Flipper would eagerly run up to them for his dinner.