The night rider

You ride, ride, ride out through the city in the back of a station wagon and Christ is on the hilltop, peering and leering down on you and La Hedonista. There's the idea, floating in the middle of your mind that you are about to get the fuck hit out of you, maybe something dark, long and sharp threatened at your arse before they take your safety net of visa, passport, cash, bag. Then you don't really need it to live, you might actually feel free.

But in Tijuana they don't commit crime in day light. Vice is saved the dark.

So we waited for hour, hour, hour at Tijuana's bus terminal and then a big bus that did not look big enough rolls in and you figure, climb aboard. You watch slums and strip malls form one long chain, calling out for each other to have a meaningful relationship of cheap tiquila and child prostitution.

I slept, slept for some time and woke to a machine gun at my window. A babies face holding a machine gun and looking through the luggage underneath. Speed humps and harsh white light and then back in to the boiling black of night. I saw giant cactus, two-storey tall and with birds perched above them and eyes glowing back at me.

An apple and an orange cost me 7 pesos, I smiled and climb back on. Tried to sleep and watch out the window at the same time.