Old people. Old people looking for the perfect 'out' in the streets of Mexico. They weren't really old. They were middle-aged, some even younger. But they wanted out of the American dream. Or, rather, they wanted out of the dream articulated by The Idiot.
It was a a good day, though none of us felt like we should celebrate, at least not at the start. Early in the day, The Idiot had vomited his stupid platitudes and had promised that the American dream was on the cusp of fulfillment. By day's end, though, The Idiot was sitting on the side of a gritty Mexican street; he looked like someone had fed him drugs or alcohol, but it was he who had done it to himself. People passing by could have offered to help, but brief hesitations were all he got. He was the bastard who took their future. Angry old people have very, very sharp claws. It was obvious to the viejos what had to be done; decapitate the bastard and launch a celebration! But they had to be careful. No one could know where he died, because the others would start to explore the place and then...it would be over. It was bad enough what he did. It would have been worse if the others knew.
Up at 5 a.m. the next day, the Geezers, as they called themselves, transported his lifeless body through the dark streets of the tiny Mexican village. No one was the wiser, not even the old Mexican servants who lived there. The old woman leaning on the lightpole, sleeping intermittently, heard them pass, but she didn't bother to acknowledge them or to call attention to their presence. They were, after all, people with money, and they shared their money with her. She didn't notice that the Geezers were transporting a body, or what could be a body, and she didn't care. Through the old iron gates of a compound off the main road, the body in its ugly makeshift coffin was passed from one van to another, as knowing glances were exchanged by the old men whose vans had been placed into service that night. The body reached its final domestic destination and the other American took over. He would drive the van into the U.S. and take the body to Dallas and beyond.
The American pulled his seatbelts tight, slipped the Greg Brown disk into the CD player, and started his trek north. The night was empty, the highway was emptier still. He had to stay awake, so he lowered the window and put his left arm out to the side of the car, directing the crisp breeze with his hands to blow into his face.
Hours later, the border was in sight. U.S. Immigration and the Customs Service can both spell the end of the line for the American. One wrong move, one mispoken word here could end the odyssey. It's imperative; do not act nervous, but don't attempt to act too nonchalant. The dogs, the men in their sharp pressed uniforms, even the men selling flavored shaved ice, all of them, they can smell fear and nerves. The dogs will smell your fear, they always do, but it won't matter. They will know only that you are afraid, as everyone crossing the border is, but they won't know you are transporting The Idiot.
Once you cross the border, you mmove quickly toward San Antonio, then north toward Dallas. You want coffee, but there will bed no stopping this trip. Never stop, because that can be the end of you; the body in the trunk can mean a murder rap for you, no matter that The Idiot died from choking on his own vomit and no matter that you didn't decapitate the bastard. It doesn't matter, if they catch you, you are to blame.
You pull into the parking lot of an abandoned K-Mart store just after 2:00 am and shut off your engine. The new driver knows the body is there, waiting, but he hesitates, wondering why you drove so long, so far, to bring it back.
As the driver takes The Idiot from your trunk into his van, he asks what happened. "What do you think? The asshole drank himself to death. He was just lying to us about himself. We should have known better."
The American left the body and the new driver and found a bar. The patrons were bikers who echoed the attitudes of The Idiot, but they tried their best to present themselves as smart. Geezers know, though, so the American gave the bikers the finger and found another place, this one a folk music pub that served a variety of ales and lots of liquor. The American Geezer threw down a few drinks, then tried his hand at beating the locals with pool cues. Geezers can be stupid. Locals can be unforgiving. It had been his last trip.
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