CHAPTER 20

My second rendezvous with my hotel-neighbor's floor is the very next morning, and I've got caramel in my hair just to prove what a good time was had in case I couldn't remember.

I'm wearing only underwear and what must be one of Tommy's discarded shirts.

Rocco is out.

He gets up early despite all the overkill.

Tommy is snoring, naked in the bed, sheet covering his face but somehow exposing his penis.

"Pachanga!" I yell, and he does a little quiver.

Pachanga being my only memory from last night.

CoCo told me it was Mexican for party, and we yelled it together as we danced nipples deep in foam.

One point for me, for the only Spanish word learned since I got here.

Then the memory of brain tacos sends me running to the bathroom.

I use someone's toothpaste to scrub out my mouth.

Then I say "Yes!" out loud when I spot a giant bottle of Scope.

"What's ‘Yes!'?" Tommy asks groggily from the other side of the door.

"Oral hygiene," I say between gargles.

Then I spit in the sink.

My hair is on sideways from so much spraying and teasing.

"I'm using your shower," I yell and take the toothbrush with me into the hot stream.

"Thanks be to God!" Tommy yells back at me from bed.

"You and all your funk have been stinking up my room!" I love the water pressure in Paradise.

I have to remember to tell Claudia before I leave.

I turn off the metal faucet, and it squeaks.

I squeeze the excess scalding water out of my hair, and it runs down my back.

Mozey Cruz, Mozey Cruz, Mo-zey Cru-uz, my scrambled brain starts singing to the tune of London Bridges.

I can't do any more drugs.

I'm just not built for this.

I'm holding onto my sanity like wet cheese cloth in my hands.

My mind has turned to silly putty and not in a pliable way.

More like the crazy way.

In a really, truly, cray-azy way.

"Your phone," Tommy shouts at me from behind the door.

I run out naked to answer it and get knocked in the back with a rather hard decorative pillow.

"Ouch!" I say as I upset everything on the dresser trying to find it.

"Put some flipping clothes on.

For Christ's sake, Lana.

I'm gay."

"Yeah, well then quit checking out my ass," I say and finally spot it.

I grab it and see that I've got fourteen missed calls.

"Fuck!"

"Hey, is that my toothbrush? In your mouth? You are a dirty little cunt!" I toss the pillow back at him.

I frantically push return call, and the phone just rings and rings until a Western Union generic voice mail answers the call.

I scroll back through and see there's another number.

I select that one and a woman's voice answers and says, "Bueno?"

"Huh?"

"Bueno?"

"What?" I'm just breathing like prank phone caller.

I'm sweating and spinning and my knee joints feel like loose teeth.

They might hold me up or they might pop totally out of place.

"Lana?"

"Reme?"

"He picked it up.

8:30 this morning.

A surcursal at Avenida Revolución and the corner of Chula Vista."

"Reme, could you please text that to me? I don't speak any Spanish."

My heart is chug chugging, a steam engine roaring through my chest.

I suddenly have energy that radiates out into my limbs, like thousands of pop-rocks going off simultaneously under my skin.

"He picked up the money!" I shout at Tommy as I tear the sheets off of him.

"Get up! We're going to a surcursal-something-something called Revolucion!"

"Calm down, loca! Just because he picked it up—" Tommy glances down at his watch "—over two hours ago, doesn't mean he's there waiting for you," he says as he scrambles into some boxer briefs.

I find my shorts from yesterday and pull them up commando over my hips.

I'll just wear Tommy's tank top.

I don't need to look pretty.

I'll skip a bra.

Sorry, tits, don't hate me.

"Maybe he's nearby having brunch or a cup of coffee."

This is my optimism speaking.

It paints a highly unlikely picture.

My optimism is delusional.

Tommy slides his thin frame into a pair of skinny jeans and slips on a tank top.

"We've got to leave a note for Rocco.

He's either swimming or jogging."

I jog in place as Tommy scribbles out the note.

I toss him the keys as I'm guessing he's more accustomed to driving under the effects of so many drugs.

We race to the address of the Western Union and with how Tommy handles a car it's a miracle we don't get pulled over.

We arrive at a street that looks like a forlorn boardwalk in the dead of winter.

Abandoned, desolate restaurants that have boards nailed up over their windows.

Huge, colorful signs advertising promises that no longer exist.

I moan out loud as we get out and slam the doors of the car.

"Doesn't look like a brunch hot-spot.

But you probably already noticed that," Tommy quips.

There are a few strip clubs and peep shows that look like they've just shut their doors to the after hour crowd at ten in the morning.

A few wavering drunks teeter in the sunlight like disoriented nightclub zombies.

The air smells like piss and vomit and the pissy, vomity smell of spilled beer, now baking in the sun.

"I don't think there is anywhere around here to get coffee," Tommy says, taking in the scene and shaking his head.

"Shut up!" I say, marching toward the Western Union outpost, which itself, has probably seen better days.

The air-conditioning is broken and instead of cool air what greets you is the smell of black mold and cloying wetness—the odor of leaking Freon.

It's a nasty trick, with the vengeance of the Tijuana sun.

"Hello, good morning," I stutter to the man at the desk behind the Plexiglas window.

I hit him with my biggest smile.

I'm sure I look like a drug addict with my blood-shot eyes, insane hair and my way too skinny, skinny jeaned clad, boyfriend.

Tommy looks like a classic junkie, he's standing apprehensively just over my shoulder gnawing his cuticles.

We need cash for medical bills, no really, we do.

The money has been picked up, the description fits to a T.

That's all he can tell me.

No details.

No goodies.

Didn't see what direction he left in or in which he came.

Doesn't know if he arrived by car, on foot or if he flew in on a fucking unicorn-shaped airplane.

The reception guy is not impressed with my story and couldn't care less about our plight.

Oh, a heart broken gringa with her gay, looking for her long lost love—a Mexican, who is picking up her cash.

Please just get out of my face.

Mozey Cruz now has five hundred dollars in cash money.

Four hundred eighty minus the Western Union transfer fees.

This is all I know of the man that I think I'm in love with.

"Where would he go with all of that money?" Tommy says, lifting a leg up onto the bumper of the car and stretching in the lazy heat that is picking up some humidity.

I put my forehead against the car and close my eyes to the sad sight of what is Avenida Revolución, Tijuana.

Tommy is humming and stretching like he's getting ready for ballet class.

"Maybe to the spray paint store or for brunch? Let's think, what would he do? What about drugs? Do you think he would get some?"

"Spray paint lead isn't a bad idea," I say, lifting my head and the door handle at the same time and slumping into the car seat feeling defeated.

Tommy comes around the car and yanks open the door.

He's popping another blister pack and chewing little blue pills for breakfast.

"Want some?"

"What is it?" I ask as I put out my palm.

Tijuana is turning out to be like Vegas, for me at least—anything goes.

Who is this Lana? I don't even know her.

I've never done drugs.

"I'd call you an addict or a known user if I were at work and we were doing an intake."

"Well, we're not at work, are we Ms.

Prissy Pants.

And I'm selfdiagnosed—so I can self-medicate."

"Oh, yeah? What's your affliction, Tommy?"

"Chronic bitch-face is yours."

"Erectile dysfunction," I say, and Tommy play-hits my arm.

"If I were at work and styling your hair, I'd chop a big-ass piece out of the back when you weren't paying attention.

Then I'd fry the rest with a curling iron."

Tommy takes out his Chapstick and moisturizes his lips.

"If I were at work, I'd write emotionally unstable on your chart and flag you as a watch."

"Your game is stupid, Lanabanana.

Let's go get Rocco and get some breakfast."

"Can you just drive around the neighborhood a little bit? To see if, I don't know, maybe he's walking around?"

Our drive around the neighborhood is the saddest little drive in all of human history.

There's no one around at this hour except for some seriously deranged and desperate people.

It makes me feel like it's the end of the world, and the Adderall Tommy gave me is kicking in and my eyesight is pixelating.

"Beam me up, Scotty," I say.

"I will.

In a minute," Tommy responds without so much as a flinch, as he palms the steering wheel hand after hand taking a slow corner.

I guess if you do the same drugs, you pretty much ride the same wavelength.

At a traffic light, we stop and there are beggar children dressed as clowns.

It's doubly tragic because there is nothing remotely funny about being a child and having to beg.

I buy some chiclets from them, and then after taking one, I give the gum back.

Tommy is tapping the steering wheel to the Spanish song on the radio, and we're halfway through the intersection when he slams on the brakes and yells.

"Hey, Lana, what's that?" It's a painting on the side of a building that advertises Peep Shows and Live, Nude Girls.

The piece is done in black and not much shading, just stark contour lines.

It could have been done hastily but is, nevertheless, a stunning work of art.

A wall divides the four characters in the piece, on one side are two children, a little boy holding a baby.

They are cold and huddling together in fear.

The baby's face is twisted in a cry and the small boy looks down at it helplessly.

On the other side of the wall is their mother, lying spread eagle on a mattress, while a sloppy, overweight brute guzzles at bottle labeled XXX as he fastens his pants.

The signature is Mozey's, and I don't need him to be here to tell me that this particular piece is autobiographical.

"God, he's good."

Tommy breathes as we take it in together.

He squeezes my hand.

"She doesn't want to do it, but she's got no choice to feed her kids."

"I think that's supposed to be him.

He's holding his little sister that they lost at the border."

"What an incredible drawing.

The owners of that establishment are going to be pissed.

Looks like you've got yourself a brazen activist, girl.

Isn't that dead sexy?"

"Huh?" I say, pointing to the artwork.

"I don't think sexy aptly describes this."

"Not the painting, obvi.

I meant your boyfriend, you're in love with.

Is he a Dibujero?"

"Hey, how do you know about them?" Tommy looks at me, rolls his eyes and then shrugs.

I put my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and turn in a circle kicking up the dirt in frustration.

I'm just behind Mozey, like he's within reach, but I'm always arriving a minute too late.

I pull on my lip with my teeth and bite the dry skin until it bleeds.

I keep kicking in the dirt and squinting back up at his artwork.

Then I yank my hands out of my pockets and slap them on my thighs and simply growl at the painting.

When I look over at Tommy, he's done taking pictures with his phone and has resumed popping more pills into his palm.

He's got a whole pharmacy in his Luis Vuitton fanny pack that I'd make fun of him for if I were halfway in the mood.

"Stop flipping out.

Rocco and I don't have to go back today.

We can take a day or two off and help you find him."

"Thank you! And FYI, I'm not flipping out, technically.

I'm just emoting and that's okay.

Healthy, actually."

"You're sooooo healthy.

That's what I think of when I see you.

The epitome of health."

"Ha.

Ha.

You look great too, like you got run over by a dump truck.

So how the hell do we find him?"

"You graffiti him back.

Or tag him or whatever they call it.

You send your message back to him via street art.

I've seen it before in movies.

We just have to get to a paint store."

"Holy shit! You're a genius! We've got to get to a paint store and talk to the people that work there.

They might know where to find him! How many stores can there be?" Wait, didn't we already have this conversation? How long have we been standing here turning in circles? "A shit ton, that's how many.

It would probably only work if we happened to run into him while he was buying some paint.

But we'll try that, and if it doesn't work, we'll tag him back."

We get back in the car and Tommy texts Rocco the updates while I lower the window and stare at the painting.

I can see his pain in it, almost smell the terror of the young boy.

It's something that might scare me if I didn't also see his blazing conviction and the strength that it holds.

I look at his self-portrait, and I fall in love with him a little bit more.