Comments about my stories are always welcome. Please send your e-mail responses to: Paul S. Stevens: pablosound2010@hotmail.com Friend me on Facebook at: http://www.facebook.com/paul.s.stevens.5

Seaweed and Snake

Chapter #1

The Tijuana Taxi

By Paul S. Stevens

My dad followed the directions that a friend from work had given him and he followed it to the letter. Not only were we leaving our familiar area, we were entering a different country. Shortly after we crossed the Tijuana border into Mexico, we started looking for a street called Avenida Revolucion. After scanning the area, Dad found a pay-by-the-hour parking lot near the corner of Avenida Revolucion and Avenida Negrete and he chose that lot, knowing it would be safe there for the next several hours as we went about our business. Dad left the key with the attendant and all four of us got out of the car and walked to the intersection, leaving our car in their care.

"Okay now," my dad explained. "We are at the corner of Avenida Revolucion and Avenida Negrete. Remember that. You'll want to check out all the stores and shops between here and Calle Secunda. Meet us back here when you're done. You've got four hours!"

Jimbo and I confirmed our understanding as my mom and dad headed off in the opposite direction to have a quick lunch and then get their prescriptions filled at the local farmacia. That gave them an hour to roam around before needing to check-in at their pre-scheduled appointment time at the `Dentista De La Familia' about three blocks away.

"Good luck!" Mom said as we headed apart.

My parents were told that this was the street that had the best deals in the city and virtually anything could be found here on what resembled a mile-long strip mall on steroids. With that in mind, dad figured it was the best place for us to start. This is where Jimbo and I began our adventure.

Even though it was less than two hours away by car, it was our first trip to Tijuana, Mexico and I was being very presumptuous and acting like a typical tourist. I was behaving like every preconceived idea and inaccurate stereotype I'd ever heard about this place was true. Add the fact that, other than a few words and phrases I'd learned from my high school Spanish class, I was facing a serious language barrier. I understood that the people of Tijuana typically spoke Spanish and some passable English that is rolled it up into one barely coherent form of Spanglish. Still, Jimbo and I were totally out of our element and we knew it.

We turned and sauntered down the block which was woven together by dozens of tiny shops and kiosks, all crammed together and spaced apart every twenty feet or so. We were experiencing a mild form of culture shock seeing this odd collection of stores and vendors lined up like this for as far as the eye can see. It was very strange and foreign to us, having grown up in Orange County, California, a mere hundred and ten miles away. I estimated that there probably were about a hundred and fifty to two hundred stores and vendors between here and the end of the plaza on Calle Secunda, not to mention an equal number on the other side of the street. I figured that if these stores were as close together as they were, then it shouldn't take us too long to find what we were looking for. It's not like we were going to have to enter every shop to be sure. We knew what we wanted and we could see into each store from the sidewalk as we passed by. A quick sweeping glance was enough to determine what they had on hand without having to stop as we made our way down the street.

What it was that we were looking for was a good quality guitar. We were told that a suitable guitar could be found here for forty dollars or less. We both had sixty-five dollars in our wallets, fifty dollars for the guitar and fifteen dollars for food and emergencies. The K-mart store near our house wanted ninety-nine dollars for one that was made in China. I wasn't sure if a Mexican crafted guitar would be better or not, so we were on a quest to personally find out.

We passed by countless shops that sold old style records, cassette tapes and rock n' roll posters as well as the more modern CDs. We saw shops that sold tacky oil paintings, painted on black velvet backgrounds. We passed stores selling statuettes of Bulls and Matadors along with watches, jewelry and perfume. There were dealers selling bicycles and motorcycles as well as scooters and skateboards. Some shops had small kitchen appliances and others sold women's clothing, shoes, and make-up.

The sidewalks were extra wide but half of it was taken up by merchandise that seemed to overflow from each store and seemed to spill out all over the walkways like it had been heaved from within. The guy who told my dad that this street had everything under the sun was right, except for guitars that is. After searching the entire street in one direction, we turned around at Calle Secunda and continued our search on the other side of the street.

The traffic was immense and noisy as every driver lacked common courtesy and seemed to ignore the rules of the road. The crowds were equally discourteous as hoards of shoppers and looky-loos darted in every direction, randomly crossing the street without regard for themselves or the cars on the road as they yelled obscenities at the drivers who were bold enough to honk.

It was a hot day and we were getting pretty tired and hungry after all the high intensity walking we'd just done. We were passing by a small café when we smelled something tasty and stopped in. Once we had eaten, we were just about to give up hope of finding anything here when we finally came across a music vendor of musical instruments. We had seen many stereo shops along the way that sold boom-boxes, Karaoke machines, and clock radios, but this was the first music shop we'd encountered.

We entered the small store and discovered it was much larger than it appeared from the outside. Musical instruments of all kinds were displayed all over the floor as well as hung from the walls, all the way up to the ceiling, which was two stories up from the floor. The storekeeper came out from the back room and greeted us in proper Spanish. Neither Jimbo, nor I spoke any Spanish at all, so I simply stated our intensions in plain English.

"My friend and I are looking for a guitar," I said as plainly as possible.

"Si, si señor," he said. "I have perfecto guitarras for you."

He rolled a ladder over to the guitar section, climbed up and pulled down a gorgeous instrument that was encrusted with rhinestones and other jewels, casting points of light all over the store like a dance hall mirror ball, reflected from the warm afternoon sun beaming down from the frosted sunroof overhead.

"You'll like dis one señor," the peddler stated. "You try!"

Since it was me who spoke to him, he placed it squarely in my hands.

Jimbo and I spied a group of wicker chairs across the room in this deceptively large showplace and we both took a seat. I put the flashy Vegas style instrument across my lap and figuratively took it for a test drive. It actually played even better than it looked.

"How much?" I asked.

"Three hoondred," he replied in his Spanglish accent.

"I handed the thing back to him as if it had caught fire.

"Please show me something," and I paused as I flashed back to my Spanish class and tried to pull out what I thought would be the appropriate word. "Más barato."

"Por favor," Jimbo added as the salesman shot us a disturbing look of contempt.

He returned the flashy instrument to its original hanging position high up on the wall and retrieved a more sensible looking traditional one in its place.

"Más barato," the dealer mocked as he handed me this second instrument.

Instantly, I could tell that this guitar had far less workmanship devoted to it. I pulled it into position across my leg and twanged away. This instrument possessed a fair but borderline quality to it that I might consider buying if the price was right.

"How much?" I inquired as I unintentionally held my breath.

"Eighty fy U.S." he firmly answered.

"I only have fifty dollars," I told him, remembering I'd just spent some of my sixty-five dollars for lunch, plus I might need to hold back a little something for duty allowances at the border.

I was now feeling confident that this guitar was about to become mine for fifty dollars. I'd been told by many people that bartering and haggling was not only expected, it was down right mandatory.

"Sevenee fy," he offered.

"Honest, I only have fifty dollars," I retorted.

"Sixee ny. No más!"

I handed the guitar back to the proprietor and Jimbo and I started walking out.

"You not find más barato. Sixee ny, Sixee ny."

He followed us out to the sidewalk spouting sixty-nine as he held the guitar high in the air with his arms stretched out, shouting at us like we were crazy to pass it up.

"I think you went about that all wrong," Jimbo said once we got outside.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You started off with fifty dollars and you never budged," Jimbo said. "You should have started at thirty or something and worked your way up as he worked his way down."

"I don't think that would have made any difference," I disagreed.

"You know, if you really want that guitar, I could loan you what you need and you can pay me back later," Jimbo said. "I don't have to have a new guitar right this minute. I can wait."

"Thanks Jimbo, but I don't think so," I replied.

Jimbo had been uncharacteristically quiet all afternoon but he was soaking everything in, keeping mental notes on everything. He really wanted to see me have that guitar and he was disappointed that I wouldn't accept his cash assistance and to Jimbo, it was looking like we were running out of options.

"Come on, you know you want it," he said. "Even though I didn't try it myself, it sounded pretty good. You won't find a deal nearly as good back home and we're starting to run out of choices here."

"I'll tell you what," I said. "Let's continue the rest of the way down the street and see if there are anymore music stores. If we don't find one, we'll come back. Okay?"

Just then, a man dressed in a suit and tie approached us.

"I heard you having some trouble from that guy over there," the stranger said with passable English. "What is it you're looking to buy?"

"A guitar!" Jimbo blurted out before I could stop him.

I wasn't even going to speak to the man. I wasn't used to having strangers get all up in my business. I was going to thank him for his concern and dismiss him so we could continue down the street as planned. Jimbo's quiet streak had come to an abrupt halt for some reason as he suddenly seemed to catch fire. Now that Jimbo had opened his mouth, the stranger directed all his attention to him, thinking that he spoke for the two of us.

"How much ya' looking to spend, my friend?"

"Fifty dollars!" Jimbo answered, ignoring his own advice about starting lower and slowly working up.

I gave Jimbo a subtle nudge in the ribs to shut him up. He cringed slightly and then gave me a look like I was passing up a once in a lifetime opportunity.

"I know of a place near here that sells the best guitars in all of Me-he-co," the stranger continued. "I can get you a better guitar than that guy was trying to sell you for your fifty dollars. How does that sound?"

"That's great! Thanks Mister," Jimbo said. "Where is this place?"

"I'll tell you what I'll do," the stranger offered. "I'm so sure you're going to like my friend's guitars that... I'll take you to his shop!"

Before we could decline his offer, he stepped to the curb and stretched out his arm and gave out a loud whistle, hailing a taxi cab that was lingering near the curb about fifty yards down the street. The car was bright green and yellow and it looked like it had just been rolled off the showroom floor. It sported the name `Tijuana Taxi' right on the license plate as well as on the rooftop `available' dome light. The cab screeched over to us and the stranger flung the rear door open and waved us in. I was momentarily stunned. Everything suddenly started happening so fast that, against our better judgment, we found ourselves inside this genuine looking Tijuana Taxi. Once we were in, the stranger got in with us in the back seat, shut the door and barked some orders to the driver in Spanish. The driver nodded his head in acknowledgment and stepped on the gas, thereby beginning our unscheduled rollercoaster ride through the streets of Tijuana. The whole thing was so utterly unbelievable. It was like we both lost our minds simultaneously.

"I know this guy I'm bringing you to," the stranger began. "If I bring him some customers, I get... how you say in English? Commission? Kickback? You know... we all win. Besides, I like you. I want to see you happy. I am ambassador of good will!"

The more this guy talked, the more I started to feel that we were being hustled. It was as if he was trying to keep us occupied and distracted so we would lose track of where we were. Jimbo was having a ball, but I was beginning to get a little concerned. We had already been taken too far away from where we were. We had already spent close to two hours shopping. If we weren't going to be offered the same cab ride back to Avenida Revolucion and Avenida Negrete and had to walk back, we couldn't possibly make it back on time to meet our four-hour rendezvous time with my mom and dad. I was starting to get a knot in my stomach.

Soon, we were away from all the tourist areas and the cab driver started going down smaller and narrower streets until he stopped in, what I would consider to be a kind of run down, low income residential area. He kicked up a cloud of dirt and dust as he pulled off the paved road and into the dirt shoulder where a sidewalk and curb would normally be. Even Jimbo started to get the idea that things were not what they appeared to be. The stranger handed something to the driver and then he suddenly ordered us out.

"All right you American pigs," he ordered. "Get out!"

"What?" Jimbo exclaimed. "What happened? I don't understand. Where's the music store?"

"Don't you get it you dope?" I whispered. "We've been had."

Just as we were getting out of the cab, a black car with heavily tinted windows raced up behind us, kicking up even more dirt and dust than the cab had, engulfing the area in a thick, choking cloud of debris.

My heart started racing a mile a minute and in all the muck and confusion, I made a rash decision and grabbed Jimbo's hand, making a break for it. Once Jimbo understood that I had committed the both of us to flee, I let go of his hand so he could follow my lead unencumbered. I ran into the yard of the house we had stopped in front of and headed for their backyard. The dust cloud had given us the brief diversion we so desperately needed. As we were disappearing from sight, I heard the sound of two gunshots go off.

"Holy Shit, they've got guns! Why do they have guns? Why are they shooting at us?" Jimbo screamed between heavy breaths.

My heart leapt out of my chest and I was running too fast to see if my best friend had been shot or not. As I jumped the fence to enter another backyard belonging to a house on the next block, I heard what I was pretty sure was the Black Mariah, squealing its wheels in pursuit. As I flung my body over the fence, I was relieved to see Jimbo appear about five paces behind me. I was shaken to the core again as I heard another single gunshot ring out.

As I briefly looked back, what I saw was the stranger, hot on our heels, jumping the fence we had just cleared. He took one last ditch effort to stop us before he got the fabric of his pant leg caught on the top of the fence. We heard his pants rip as he lost his balance, falling face down on the dirt, reluctantly giving up his chase as he hobbled back to the cab to pursue us by car around to the next block. As we ran through this second backyard, we had to leap and jump over tons of junk and garbage like an obstacle course which ended up slowing us down considerably. As we swung around to the front of that house, we ran through their front yard and out to the street. As I habitually looked both ways before crossing the street, I saw both cars coming at us from opposite directions, still a good distance away. The black monster was racing down the unkempt road on my left. It was still a good half a block away, swerving to miss some children playing in the street. The green and yellow Tijuana Taxi was barreling towards us from the opposite direction about the same distance away.

We made a mad dash across the street only to have to repeat our last escape strategy and head across to yet another set of backyards and fences. When the drivers of the two vehicles in our pursuit saw that they were still too far away, they squealed to a stop and made a U-turn to attempt to catch us on the next block.

I was too far out of breath to ask Jimbo how he was doing. I knew that I was running out of steam and wasn't going to be able to keep up this pace for much longer. Jimbo and I were already tired from two hours of shopping in the heat of the afternoon and it was catching up to both of us fast. We began to move toward our third house when I saw the gate to one of the houses further down the road was open, beckoning us towards it. If we went there, we could gain an edge and save the time of having to jump another fence. Since I was in the lead, I started to move diagonally across the street towards the house with the open fence. We quickly slipped into that backyard and were immediately surprised by a teenage boy standing directly in our path, looking like he had been waiting for us.

I didn't know what to do and I'm sure Jimbo and I looked like a couple of deer that had just gotten caught in the headlights.

"Quickly, come with me," the boy said in a trusting voice. He lifted up a double hinged door and pointed downward, leading to an underground shelter that had been converted into a cozy basement bedroom.

At this point, I had to make an instant decision and it was really difficult for me to trust anyone. It was my buddy Jimbo that took the leap of faith and scampered down the stairs ahead of me. I apprehensively followed Jimbo down and our rescuer calmly closed and secured his backyard gate that he'd held open for us and looked around to see that the coast was clear before he followed behind us.

What ever it was that was in store for us at that moment had been decided. Our fate had just been sealed because Jimbo and I were a package deal. I was going to do anything and everything I could to keep us together until we were out of this. My commitment to my friend was unwavering and I was certain that Jimbo felt the same way about me.

Jimbo and I have known each other since the seventh grade. Now that we were both sixteen years old, we pretty much knew that we would be friends for life. On the first day that we introduced ourselves to each other, Jimbo was wearing a green and blue Hawaiian style shirt adorned with dolphins frolicking through a coral reef, and I was wearing an armadillo skin belt on my pants that my dad had bought for me during our family vacation in New Mexico. We'd seen each other around school and even had two classes together. While our casual relationship developed, we were embarrassed that we didn't know each other's names. Before we had a chance to introduce ourselves officially and learn each other's real names, I randomly called him Seaweed. I had mistakenly thought I saw the dolphins on his shirt swimming through a kelp garden and Seaweed was the first thing that came to mind. He then did the same thing to me and randomly called me Snake as he mistook my armadillo skin belt for snakeskin. The both of us thought that was so funny that it stuck. From that day forward, every time we would see each other for the first time that day, we would always greet each other by our catchy, yet appropriate nicknames.

"I'll hide you down here until those guys give up looking for you," our rescuer said as he locked and secured the double hinged doors that led to our downstairs haven.

"You speak English perfectly," Jimbo said as we both tried to catch our breath.

"Yeah, I was born in San Diego," he explained. "I'm American. I'm guessing you guys are too. My parents are divorced. My mom lives in San Diego and my dad lives here. I go back and forth between them."

"Oh, cool!" Jimbo said. "Don't get me wrong, but why are you helping us?"

"Yeah, good question," I added. "Why?"

"Those are super bad guys," he answered. "When I heard those gunshots ring-out from a couple of blocks away, I came running out to see what was happening. I know that was a stupid thing to do, but I like to help guys in trouble when I can. I saw you two running towards my house from across the street. I opened my backyard gate and waited. I knew that if you saw the open gate from across the street, you'd choose my backyard to run through to save time. Sure enough, here you are! You needed help, right?"

"We don't want to put you in any danger," I said. "Maybe we should go. Those guys are going to be looking for us."

"No, don't go," he pleaded as he reached for our hands and pulled us around the corner.

As Jimbo and I were pulled around the corner, we were surprised to see the deceptively spacious looking oasis. From the perspective of the rundown neighborhood outside, it was a well constructed little piece of heaven. The room was furnished with wall to wall carpeting, a king size bed, a couch, a dresser, a closet and a small bathroom. The bathroom was perfectly suitable for one and had a single occupant shower, toilet and sink. The rest of the room was outfitted with a modest sized flat screen TV, stereo and home computer system.

Our host guided us to the bed and held out his arm, "Here, sit."

We welcomed the chance to sit and catch our breath for a minute even though our minds and bodies were still on high alert.

"This is my bedroom," he told us. "I like it. It's quiet and peaceful and most of all, private. Those guys won't find you here. To them, you've just vanished from the face of the earth. Since they are not the police, they won't be conducting any door to door searches."

"Do you often take in strangers who are running for their lives through your backyard?" I asked.

"Actually, you won't believe this, but you're not the first ones," he admitted. "Those guys you were running from have been using this neighborhood lately as a `drop & switch'."

"Drop & switch?" Jimbo asked.

"Yeah," he clarified. "Did you get brought here in like, a green and yellow taxi?"

"Well, yeah," Jimbo answered.

"The real Tijuana Taxies here in Mexico are white with a red stripe. This green and yellow taxi is a phony. They bring their victims here in that hideous thing from a couple of miles away. Then they transfer their passengers to an unmarked car so they can't be tracked."

"Why don't the police nail these guys?" I asked.

"The police here are paid to ignore them," our benefactor explained. "They are nothing like the police in the U.S."

"Well, what did they want with us?" I asked.

"Think about it you guys," he began. "How old are you guys anyway, fourteen, fifteen?"

"We just turned sixteen," Jimbo answered.

"Wow, they're picking them older and older these days," he said in amazement. "They usually pick boys around eleven to fourteen. They're worth more and are easier to control. They lost control of you guys because you are older and braver than the younger kids they're used to dealing with. Even if I didn't help you, you probably would have still gotten away. You're both sixteen. You're good looking, handsome, white, long haired, blue eyed, all American boys. You're sexy and hot and are probably packing some nice hangers."

"Hangers?" I wondered aloud.

"Hangers! You know, testicles, eggs, balls, huevos. Cojones!"

"You mean to say that they tried to kidnap us for our nuts?" Jimbo asked.

"Boy, you guys are really clueless, aren't you?" he laughed. "They were going to sell you guys as sex slaves to some Middle Eastern oil sheik or something like that. Even though you two guys are older, you're still probably worth around a hundred thousand dollars on the black market. Each! By the way, I'm Miguel."

"I'm Seaweed and he's Snake," Jimbo answered for both of us. "How old are you Miguel?"

"Me, I just turned fifteen."

"You're pretty brave for someone who just turned fifteen," Jimbo said. "We could have been the bad guys running from the police."

"Not likely," he said. "The police here don't do a lot of chasing. If you're too hard to apprehend, they'll just give up unless they can profit from it. Anyway, my dad says I'm a good judge of character. You two look like my kind of guys. You should stay here for about an hour or so to make sure those guys who are looking for you have given up completely. They'll search for you for a while and go up and down the street looking for clues. When they finally realize they've lost you for good, they'll just give up and go back to where they found you and look for someone easier to handle. Someone they can control easier than you two. I'm surprised they took on the two of you. They're usually not that bold. They must have a special need for your type or they're just plain desperate.

"Well, we really do appreciate your help Miguel," I said. "What can we do to repay our debt to you?"

"Well... actually... while we're waiting for those guys to go away, you two can show me those... `cojones' of yours that those bad guys were so interested in."

Jimbo and I looked at each other for a moment. Then we looked back at Miguel, whose cute, boyish face was turning red with embarrassment.

"Or not," he joked, and then smiled timidly.

Miguel suddenly realized that his open and trusting motto of being a, `good judge of character', that he had just attested to a minute ago, may have failed him miserably. We didn't answer right away as his request caught us off guard. Our delay in acknowledging his unusual request made Miguel jump to conclusions. He briefly thought we were about to take offence at his overtly gay request and take some sort of violent action. Thinking he may have made a huge mistake in trusting us so early on, Miguel's eyes filled with fear. The real possibility that Jimbo and I might be gay bashers crossed his mind as he flew into a panic.

"Um, forget what I just said, guys," Miguel said as his voice cracked and trembled. "I was only kidding!"

"No! You said it," Jimbo stated firmly. "There's no taking it back!"

Miguel was even more convinced now that he'd blown it and prepared himself to be on the receiving end of some kind of nasty consequences.

End of Chapter #1

Comments about my stories are always welcome. Please send your e-mail responses to: Paul S. Stevens: pablosound2010@hotmail.com Friend me on Facebook at: http://www.facebook.com/paul.s.stevens.5

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