Butterfly Boy: Memories of a Chicano Mariposa

Now Leaving Mexicali, Baja California, Norte

19 The Mexicali bus station is bustling with people, some dragging their luggage across the floor by a strap like a pet on a leash, others sitting as they fan themselves to cool off, their suitcases prone like coffins at their feet. The grainy voice over the speakers announces gate numbers, schedule changes, arrivals, and departures in a flat, disinterested tone that seems to ridicule the level of anxiety in the lobby. Armed policemen walk about with a sense of purpose though visibly bored, and the taxi drivers accost anyone with a packed bag. “Taxi, amigos?” a man in a yellow guayabera asks us as we stand at the entrance of the station, trying to figure out where to go. My father waves him away. “Where are you headed?” the taxi driver insists. “I’ll make you a good deal.” “Michoacán,” my father says. The driver quickly turns to a couple with a child in tow passing by. “Taxi, amigos?” he asks them. “First class is in the other lobby,” I point out. My shirt is sticky on my skin. For some reason I decided to wear white and I’m dismayed I’ve already collected grime on the brief car ride to the station. The blue Mustang will stay parked at my aunt’s old house, though I doubt it will remain unused. I can already picture my cousins joyriding into the sleepiest hours of the night. When they dropped 6 Now Leaving Mexicali, Baja California, Norte us off at the bus station I detected that mischievous glint in their eyes. “I don’t have enough money for first class, you,” my father informs me. My body spasms, giving me a clear signal that this is the start to another bad ending. “Well, I don’t want to take a bus that’s going to break down halfway to Michoacán,” I say. “But first class is a waste,” he argues. “What are you paying for, a can of soda? Some stale peanuts?” “No, I’m paying for a working toilet and air-conditioning.” “But I can’t afford first class,” he says. “I can,” I say. “So you’re going to pay for a first-class ticket when second class is half the price?” “Absolutely,” I insist. “You could buy two tickets with that money.” “Look,” I say, exasperated. “I can let you borrow some money for your ticket as well, just make sure you get good seats.” “Give me the money, then,” he says. I hand over the money because I don’t want to hassle with the lines. I’m already hot and uncomfortable, and the constant flow of people has begun to make me edgy. Engentarse, my grandmother calls this claustrophobia that comes from getting swallowed up by a flood of people. I stand over our bags like a chicken roosting over a nest. My father returns fifteen minutes later. “You bought second-class tickets!” I complain as soon as I look at the flimsy paper stubs. “You said you were going to pay for my ticket. And I’m going second class, so I bought one for you as well. Aren’t we traveling together ? Here, I saved you some money. Can I borrow it until we get to Michoacán?” Unbelievable, I think as I shake my head. My father has done it to me again. But I let it go. It’ll be my give to his take this time. We’ve had plenty of practice this past week: I took the photograph and he 20 smarting points, starting points 21 NowLeavingMexicali,BajaCalifornia,Norte didn’t protest; he asked for gas money for the ride from Indio to Mexicali and I opened my wallet; I told him I didn’t want to talk during the one-and-a-half-hour car ride to the border and he kept his mouth shut. We make our way to the gate, nonrefundable tickets in hand. The run-down bus waits at the end of the station, edged out like the runt of the litter by the newer buses. I suspect our bus will stop at every town with a station en route from Baja California to Michoac án to load and unload passengers. At that pace, the trip will take over three days, maybe four. Incensed, I make my father take the aisle seat. I want the advantage of the window...