DOWN in Mexico

A chapter of desolation

DOWN and below the border

Agua Prittea (dirty water?) near Naco Nogales North Sonora Desert Mexico

 

So Tired and so very far away from home

 

Tucson Arizona

The clear evening is blueing to deep grey

The solitary hill top of Tombstone in the desert flats  is quiet

The last biker outlaws and leather weekend would-be bikers, have chugged off and away

Their coughing echoes are now halfway across the simmering Arizona desert floor.

The good time girls from Annie Oakley`s bar room and are changing and going home

Removing their 19 th century tart rags.

The saloon keeper is brushing the floors

around the remaining cowboy`s tattooed boots

These cowboys are having a quiet drink,

each tired of the days play acting

Wyatt Earp talks to the elder Clancy brother.

Doc holiday removes his Victorian jacket

And strides out to his custom blue and chrome shovel head HD

The large belt buckles that H bought  clang together

and weigh down his jeans pocket

His bag of Wild West bits and Indian jewellery swings

His boots echo down the ancient wooden sidewalk

in the direction the sun is just setting in

Most cars are gone as he unlocks his dove grey and chrome LTD limo

The engine is silent but gives a slight vibration to the wheel

The words of  great tiredness H saves for later

 

H knows the silent limo is working as  he pushes the drive lever

and eases away down main street into a sky now changing purple.

The Indian seller of steer skulls has left,

The chilli fried bread stand is closed and H heads south for Mexico

The cool desert air has a stillness all of its own

He manually winds down the window to feel and smell it all

The cactus, the sage, the yucca the Algarve

The broken dusty road heading down to the boarder again

The country station is playing old bob wills records

And still his fiddle eternally weaves webs of thought

Heading back to the dust and the dead dogs

To the guns and knives

of no man`s land south of the boarder

What price an English rainfall on uncut grass?

 

H follows the route to the old Bisbee mining town

The route that Doc Holiday galloped down last century

Too late for his love, a dying Annie Oakley

Victim of a bullet ricochet

 in a town of turquoise and silver

The carpet of stars above lights up as the silence rolls in

Just the hiss of wind over H`s left shoulder.

The bikers are now on the firm blacktops heading for the interstates

To Tucson and El Paso and further west to California

 

The broken, jagged toothed horizon of far mountains either side

Stand silhouetted against the dusk as if still

regardless of the cruising Crown Victoria LTD

H is so weary and tired

Tired of living away from home

Tired of steel doors

Tired of barred windows

Of desperate men

Of roadside robbers

Of Cripples waiting at border lines

Drooling on car windows

Of carrying a knife that he may need

That may have him put away if he does

Of screams and bangs at night

Of people attacking his front door

Of the wailing sirens

Of the packs of wild dogs

Of the dry dry heat

Of scorpions in his filing system

Of two faced b******s wanting to sack him

Of stern faced army and policemen with automatic rifles

Of awful greasy chilli slush and rice water

Of checking if the guards are around before he get out the car

Of the front door bell rings in the night

Of steel clad doors and heavily barred windows

Of the desperate and wild faces seen through his steel door spy hole

Of being followed by club holding thugs in the supermarket

Of pretending that he is a welding expert

Of dead dogs drying at the roadside like fur mats

Of bad dreams that are only broken by the sirens

Of endless eye pain and endless eye operations

Of seeing in disbelief the desert hell hole jail

Of avoiding border arrest when crossing

Of threatening Diegos Mexican and Spanish

 

Tired tired tired

 

Of holding the cool and walking the line

Of keeping the mouth shut and the clenched fist in pocket

Of disappearing, just disappearing, into the  Mexican Sonora desert

 

 

The skeleton mountains are off to the east

As are the corrugated iron cells of broken men

H has seen the bullet holes in sign

And has heard the tales of men cooking in the desert

 

as H comes down from the mountain to Bisbee

The darkness over the apache hills is now solid

Speckled with diamond stars

The car`s beams cut like knives through the black desert

 

H passes the broken down car without stopping

With the helpless senorita waving at the roadside

H wonders if he should duck, in case of bullets

From the desperate ones  in the shadows

Those he can see hiding behind the car

Will they fire at him or not

H finds a breath again as the miles roll by

 

The lights of Douglas approach

As H cruises across the Sonora desert floor

The wide 1950 streets are empty

He mentally checks the beast

For any arrestable items,

Money is ready for bribes

Teeth ready for his stupid foreigners grin

Wondering what they feed

 to those in the iron cells in the desert

The border guard swaggers and steps in front

His scarred hand on the well-worn black leather holster

Just a spanner in a tool belt to him

H apologise for not stopping at the green light

Never having stopped there before

Poker faced he watches

 the other Diego police admire his own machismo

They preen and pose like actors

Thirty feet more and H is stopped again

by yet another with an automatic rifle

Don’t the b******s realise

They try to get out of Mexico not in!

He searches the boot the car

Examines H`s passport

He tells the clown that he lives Agua Prietta across the border

 in this wonderful hell hole

So does the guard!!

H laughs that his company make electricity for him

He wishes that he could taste the 30000 volts personally

The guard doesn’t check the deep narrow door pocket

The long blade lies low, unprofiled at the bottom

The guard strokes his moustache

he spits on the floor and arrogantly waves his hand

as if H was one of the starving dogs

Dratt en helvette!  you ignorant b*****d! H thinks

He purrs away from the border

Crashing and bouncing through the holes of the would be street

Avoiding the drunken and drugged Diegos

shouting and rolling through drunkenly though the streets

with tramps and w****s and putas

other drunken drivers force their own road rules

the armed and ready police wait for the first shot

H checks again that the doors are locked

Just missing the excited wild dog pack

Shadows in the dark

Stolen pizza and fajitas hanging from their hungry jaws

 

H jumps at the bang not knowing if it is bullet or firework

Concentrating amongst the missing road signs

Crossing the dirt tracks of the bigger and better lit tracks

Ready to not stop never

Relief at recognising his own unmade road

By the broken wrecked Buick

And the pallet made room that houses six

His armed house guard is gone

His headlamps are on

He checks the car park before the lights are switched of

and  reaches for his blade

Knowing that if it comes, it comes fast

 

Before I can clear the car

I breathe deep and quickly  I cross the car park

Always aware of my value and the hate ofthese people

Undoing the three door locks while trying to look around

Entering slamming the heavy door

 

Revolving quickly with swinging blade

as the door crashes again

Hearing the scrabbling at the door

The drunken Esperanto of male voices

 

Maybe  beggars

Maybe robbers

Maybe wet backs

Maybe harmless

 

Who cares

 

the reaction is the same

I place the blade on the table

Ready should they come through the glass

and try forcing the bars

wondering if I would ring the corrupt police

or would I damage the grasping hands

as a colleague did last week

when they came for him

 

secure the extra locks

and check the door to the small enclosed back yard

I find it undone unlocked and lock it quietly

Cursing the  cleaner of the day

Wondering if I am alone

I feel the icy feeling

Calm the fear as the awareness increases

I find myself reaching for the Mexican bone handle

Fourteen inches of razor steel

 

Slipping off my shoes

I silently pad around

Th cool marbled floors

Breathing quiet listening

Checking the utility room the shower

Silently ascending stone stairs in the gloom

Wondering what I would do if I have an intruder

 

Breathless I roll back the clothes cupboard doors

Finding I am alone

sighing with relief

descending the stair,

stopping, straining my one good eye

I  see the large white teeth

in the moonlight by the window

Holding still

but inside the room not out

I feel my taut knuckles as I raise then the huge blade

I look at the jaws

Its flesh-ripping ridge spikes are sparkling in the incoming lamplight

I am again the Basildon boy

standing there taut as a spring

the pig sticker ready

As my petrified brain tries to decipher

What my one good eye can barely see

 

Seconds freeze as hours

I can’t comprehend

My body without thought

goes down the stone  steps

I approach unaware of anything

as a robot

Those stupid woman’s words arise

Still tattooed on my brain

You will die

 such a long long away from home

My one good eye at last focuses

and relief explodes within

The old Indian buffalo head left on the shelf

Shines its jaw bone and large broken teeth

Illuminated by a floodlight outside

I laugh and reach for it to put it away

barely noticing the face watching me

through the open blinds.

I jump

but realise he is outside and I am inside

Closing the blinds

I head back up the echoed hall

 

I curse the cleaner for not locking up

I curse myself for not recognising the skull

I curse my bad eye for not seeing

I curse this goddamn country

I curse these bloody Diegos

I remove the metal screw cap

Slugging back the warm reposada tequila

Feeling the hot burning as it drains down my throat

 

I carefully place the sharpened steel on the bedside cabinet

I set the alarm for the morning and another hot day

I lay exhausted fully clothed

The desert dust pouring from my turned up Levies

I dream of England

 

This isn’t funny

I ignore all the barking dogs

 

This is just too real

I dream of my green green garden

 

I an so very tired of it all

I ignore the screams in the next road

 

Give me peace

I dream of wet concrete roads

I ignore the police sirens

 

This time at least four of them

May they all murder themselves!

 

I drift into dreams of home

Margaret is there and waiting