About That Daily Bread This isn't Kansas. Nose hurts, knees hurt, head aches, the only thing that is certain is that this place is definitely a jail. Five bunks on this wall, straight up, and I'm on the top one. Good thing I didn't fall while I was sleeping. Five more bunks about three feet away on the opposite wall. There are ten of us in this cell which is about 15 feet long and about 9-10 feet wide. Time for a little status change. I climb down to the floor, grab the guy in the bottom bunk, yank him out of the sack and explain to him that he would now be occupying the top, because I'm taking the bottom. Give everybody in the place a nasty look, just in case they think this is a democracy. I'm not sure this is a technique recognized by Andrew Carnegie, but it works. I can't believe that nice high school French teacher could have got me in such a mess. All Romance languages are pretty much the same. Bullshit. That's what the teacher told me when I took French. Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, you know, all pretty much the same. I may have forgotten to mention that it is a Mexican jail. Car wreck, knees hit dash, nose hit steering wheel, hit a parked car at 70 MPH. That would be a car parked right smack in the middle of the highway, cliff up to the right, cliff down to the left, hit the car dead center because it would be useless to turn either way. That's why my parts hurt. I'm trying to explain this to the Mexican policeman, who only speaks Mexican, and it's complete frustration. He doesn't understand a word I say, and vice versa. That's when that damn French teacher's words resurrected themselves in my mind. "All romance languages are the same." I begin explaining in French, next thing I know the cop is all smiles, ushers me into his car and I figure I'm headed for the border. Wrong!! Go straight to jail. Illegal alien from France. Isn't that a helluva predicament for a drunk sailor. Time for breakfast, didn't realize I was so hungry. The guard slides a big tray with soup and bread under the door. The bunk move worked. Nobody goes for the food until I've sat down near the tray and grabbed a bowl and a breadroll. Soup looks good although I'm wondering if the meaty parts are dog or cat or horse or who knows what. Start to bite into the roll and the gent that I yanked out of the bunk grabs my wrist and speaks something unintelligible in Spanish. I yank my arm away and give him a dirty look, and start to bite the roll. Again, this little weasel has me by the wrist. I give a genuine menacing look and I can see his fear, but he still has my wrist. I yank it away again and start to bite the roll. This guy strikes like a rattlesnake, got my wrist again. I'm going to swat him and then I realize that he is cowering and there must be something I don't understand. I fix the gent with a calm gaze and he gently reaches up and takes the breadroll from my hand and starts breaking it in small pieces and now even a "stupid gringo" can see the worms crawling out of the roll. I don't care what they say about your daily bread, I think I'll just have the soup. Who do I owe for enlightening me? Would you believe it's the same weasel I yanked out of his bunk and demoted. Strange world. Definitely not Kansas. The first moments of a glorious three day misadventure which are another story. About That Daily Bread(2) The wormy bread is in the recent past and life goes on. The group that shares this cell with me is a peculiar lot. Jorge is from Ecuador, another from Peru, one from Venezuela, two from El Salvador, a Nicaraguan, a Panamanian, and I can't recall where the others are from, but no one from Mexico or the U.S. That seems a little odd since we're in Mexico. Jorge is the little weasel that kept grabbing my wrist when I was about to eat the wormy bread. As it turns out, he's ok. He speaks a little English and has occupied this cell for 1 year, 3 months and some odd number of days and, excepting me, he has been in this cell for the shortest length of time. There is something a little troubling about this knowledge, but I can't put my finger on it. The jail building is three stories high, all cells on the outside walls of three sides and the other wall looks like concrete block. The central area, about 60 feet wide, 90 feet long, is open to the third floor roof. The cell opposite and slightly to the right has sheet steel covering the bars up to about four feet. The only cell door I can see that is built this way. I spot a US Navy chief petty officer walking by the cell and I yell, "hey chief, are you going to get me out of here?" He looks over and nods agreeably. Good, that's reassuring; I'll be out of here soon. Jorge enjoys talking with me, even if communication is difficult because of our language problems. I'm like a new book in this boring cell and he's reading cover to cover. One of the guards comes by and hands clean, neatly pressed clothes to Jorge through the cell bars. Jorge explains that his girlfriend sends them in. Now the guard uncurls his hand through the bars and reveals a fistful of multicolored pills. That seems like a strange twist. Jorge says they are for sale for recreational use. What a jail; uniformed door-to-door drug salesmen. Not much to do here unless you count watching your fellow inmates take a crap. One big cell, one lonely commode, the entertainment model I presume, enough said. I'm asking Jorge why the one cell is different and he informs me that the cell with the sheet steel door to four feet is for the women. It gives them a little privacy. No women in the cell at this time, but when they are there, if you give the guard two dollars, you spend the night in the ladies cell. Ladies may be an exaggeration in this circumstance. I reached for my wallet thinking I might partake of this particular entertainment option if the opportunity prevails. No wallet. Nothing in my pockets, they took everything when I came in. It's dark now and although I'm wondering why the Navy hasn't rescued me, everything is going ok. No worms in the bread at supper and the suspicious soup didn't taste too bad, even acknowledging it could have been made from the last place finisher at the horse track, or maybe a stray dog. Lot's of activity in the entry area. Wow, they're bringing in some talent to occupy the ladies cell. Three lovely floozies with dyed hair, too much lipstick and makeup, and some diaphanous black outfits have been marched into view. Bar girls, hookers, basic entrepreneurs caught plying their trade. I tell Jorge that they've brought in some lovelies. He yells through the bars to everybody and the whole jail is laughing. Kind of wish I spoke Spanish, because I know I've missed a good joke. Two guards are pulling what appears to be a 2 inch fire hose with a huge brass handle and valve out from the wall and two more guards are ushering the lovely ladies up against the concrete block wall. Holy shit, they're going to spray these ladies with the two inch fire hose. I tell Jorge, look what these assholes are doing, they're going to f--- up the f---ing. Somebody stop them. Jorge yells in Spanish and everybody in the jail is again convulsed with laughter. I'm aware that Jorge can really tell a good joke and again wish I could understand the language and I'm equally awestruck by the total lack of sympathy being shown for the plight of the damsels in distress about to be hammered by water from a two inch fire hose. The two guards are holding tight onto the hose and they're really going to do it. PHOOSH! The water flies, spins the women around, knocks them down, I can't believe it, they're nuts, but now the wigs are flying, the clothes are ripping off, and they're men who had been dressed as women. That's against the law, it's ok to be a hooker, but it's not ok to impersonate a hooker. They're stealing the bar girls business. They get GI's to buy them Tijuana tea and then cash in the tea tickets. Stealing from honest, hard working hookers and bar girls. They're trash, no damn wonder everybody was laughing. They were laughing at me because they had seen this all before and I was the only one in the joint that thought these scumbags were ladies. Stupid gringo. Now, it's even funny to me. I'm glad everyone had a good laugh. It's late, I'm tired, might as well hit the sack. What happened to that Navy chief? Why am I still in here, anyway? I think I feel something slipping, but it'll be another issue before I get to that. About that daily bread (3) Been here three days. Mexican jail near Tijuana, I'm beginning to feel like something is slipping. The reality here is worms in the bread, hosed down drag queens, guards selling drugs from cell door to cell door. Coed hooker cells and other benefit packages notwithstanding, this place is beginning to look like home. That is because I can't figure out how to get out. Drunken sailor, car wreck, that's simple enough if you're alone, but it is a felony in Mexico if anyone is with you. That'd be my buddy Curt. I don't know what they did with him. He was bleeding pretty good, so I think the hospital, I hope. I woke up here, three days ago. One hell of a jail, they don't make TV shows that could compare with this zoo, but even with all the excitement and radical visual stimuli, I'm wanting out. My Spanish sucks, so that won't be getting me out. I'm in the US Navy and I saw a Navy Chief Petty Officer the first day I was here and I yelled to him. "Hey Chief, you gonna get me out of here." He said, "sure." That was three days ago. I've gotten real good at breaking the bread up to make sure I don't get any extra protein (worms). I only needed to see those worms slither out of the bread once to get the wake up call. There is one troubling thought. The nine guys in this cell with me have been here quite a long time. Jorge, from Ecuador, is the short timer, only been here one year, three months, and some odd number of days. Everybody else been here longer and none of them are from Mexico. I'm not from Mexico either, so it really doesn't seem too peculiar that we're all foreigners. Holy shit, I see a Navy First Class Petty Officer. I yelled, probably at the top of my lungs, "hey Navy, I thought you were gonna get me out of here." Not the same guy that was here before, but the same Navy. He was across the jail, and turned and looked at me and then says, "Are you Fagan?" "Hell, yes." Says I." "What the hell you doing in that cell?'' Says Navy. "It's a jail, not a hotel, you don't get a choice of rooms." Say I. He says, "That's the immigration cell. You should be in the drunken sailor cell. That cell is for foreigners." "Well, for chrissakes, I am a foreigner." Say I. He explained that the Navy Chief I hailed the first day I was here would have figured I was just a foreigner who spoke good English because I'm not in the drunken sailor cell, just somebody pulling his chain. "OK, I'm not angry at anybody, just get me out of here." Say I. "No problem, I'll be right back." Says Navy. Talk about relief; I feel great. A couple of hours have passed since I talked to the Navy guy. Seems a long time. Here he comes now, and he's not looking pleased. Navy says. "They've got you down as an illegal alien from France. That's why you're in this cell." Now, a light dawns, after the wreck, the cop didn't speak English, I didn't speak Spanish and I remembered my French teacher's words, "all romance languages are the same, French, Italian, Spanish, etc." I began explaining in French; the cop was all smiles so I figured it was working. I think I'm getting a ride to the border in the police car. I didn't realize the cop was a genius and he didn't understand French, but he knew I was speaking French and that made me an illegal alien. Go directly to jail. Illegal alien and felony auto because there was a passenger in my car. It's OK to have a wreck in Mexico if you are alone though. How could that nice French teacher have got me in such a mess? I explained the whole story to Navy, who was beginning to see the amusement value in this. Navy says, "I'll go talk to them again." Another hour or so, here comes Navy again, and he's looking like he's trying to swallow a turd. This doesn't look good. Navy says, "They've got you mixed up with some other guy from New York that assaulted two officers and escaped from custody. You're not from Wellsville, New York, are you?" "As a matter of fact, I am." Say I. "If you are, you are a wanted man in Mexico. The cops say they chased this guy in his car across the dry river bed at 200 kilometers per hour, and when they finally caught him, he assaulted them and escaped." The 200 kilometers per hour was the key here. "Yeah, that was me, but that is not what happened," chickens coming home to roost, however. "This is what happened. Say I. "As I was driving towards Tijuana some months ago, I observed that people used the dry river bed as a short cut and I turned into the river bed. I'm thinking it's not a highway, so I can go as fast as I want. I'm driving my Jaguar XK120 that I bought about a week ago. There is a brass plaque on the dash that says the car was factory tested at 131 miles per hour top speed. I just gotta check this so my foot is on the floor and the dust trail in the mirror has to be a quarter mile wide and a mile long, and sure enough, the cars peaks out at 130 mile per hour. I slowed down, went to my favorite bar, and me and my buddy and two lovely senoritas are getting down to building a hangover with some Tequila. About 15 minutes later, into the bar walk two of the scroungiest, dirtiest cops you've ever seen. Their faces are caked with dust and they're hostile and according to the senoritas are looking for the people with the little sports car. That's us. We haven't done anything wrong so I told them it was my car. You're under arrest. What for? This is another incident where the language barrier made enormous difficulties. After considerable discussion, I have resolved that these two dirtballs were in the dust cloud in the wake of the Jaguar and couldn't catch us, but did manage to catch most of the dust in their eyes, ears, nose, hair and uniforms. They must have been sweating and it stuck like glue. I, truthfully, had no idea anyone was chasing us. They drove around Tijuana until they found the Jaguar. It's common knowledge that you don't want to get thrown in a Mexican jail, so I'm thinking of the merits of a bribe at this point. I've been told that the bribes are the cop's actual pay, so they're usually willing to negotiate. Negotiations are successful and they will accept $20 American as the on-the-spot fine. Another small problem crops up. My buddy and I have $4 between us. What the hell we going to do? More negotiation with the cops. How about I drive back to San Diego and get the money and bring it back? No way. What if I leave collateral? What kind of collateral? I told them that I would let them hold my New York driver's license until I returned. They don't like the idea, but it's going to get them $20, which is a princely sum in Mexico, so they say OK. At that time New York licenses had a renewal stub attached to the license that looked just like the license. I hand the cop the renewal stub and he accepts it, and he feels pretty secure. I told him we'll be back in less than an hour, and he tells me not to hurry. OK. I'm thinking that the dumb shit crooked cop had better not be holding his hand over his bunghole while he's waiting or he'll be holding a handful. Well, we never came back to pay the bribe so he apparently reports that the man whose license he holds assaulted he and his compadre after they had pursued us several miles down the dry river bed at 200 kilometers per hour. Now that I have told the whole story to Navy, he explains that the cop's story has more validity in the eyes of the Mexicans and that I am standing in deep doodoo. The cop got his revenge and I deserved it. Navy goes to see what he can do. Comes back with a long face and explains that they're really pissed. They don't even want to negotiate. I asked him if he tried to bribe them. He said, "No." I told him that I was pretty sure that bribes are standard operating procedure in the country and it was time to try. Navy is off again to try the bribe, and it's so long before he gets back that I'm really beginning to see the seriousness of the situation. He's back and they want a $100 fine, a $100 cash bribe for El Jefe (Police Chief), and $100 cash bribe for the Judge, and my wrecked car and everything inside it, and I must sign papers acknowledging that I am persona non grata in the country of Mexico at the request of the Mexican government, forever. Signed, sealed and delivered, I agree. So, I'm not in Mexico as often as I used to be. My buddy Curt was all right. They took him to the hospital and one of the nurses told him they were going to take him to jail later, so he jumped out the window when nobody was looking and hitchhiked back to the border. Remind me to tell you the story of the machine gun, sometime.