I Went Down to Mexico

I will tell you this one thing.

One Sunday a while back, my pet elephant Nosehair and I were sitting around, watching football—the usual, nothing special, I think it was Pats vs. Jets (Pats had the early lead)—and suddenly Nosehair looked up from his tablet and said, “We’re going to Mexico.”

Nosehair has been reading a lot about brain chemistry. He thinks he suffers from a serotonin deficiency. He thinks you’re born with good brain chemical balance, but as you go through life and experience various stressors and consume various things, your neurotransmitters get out of balance. Low serotonin, GABA, dopamine, things like that, just from the rigors of life.

He’s been all over the Internet and he’s convinced the medical industry knows how to fix this kind of brain chemical imbalance, but they have an economic incentive to keep people sick, so they won’t fix it for you; they’ll just prescribe stuff that you have to keep taking. Treatment, not cure.

“You know, you did this to me,” he tells me. “How?” I ask. But he just flails his trunk dismissively and walks off, because he doesn’t know.

But lately, he’s read about a kind of naturally occurring hot spring that exists in various parts of the world that supposedly resets your brain chemical balance if you sit in it for a couple of hours. There’s one place in Mexico, conveniently close to the U.S. border. Nosehair pointed at the website and told me he wanted to go there.

I said, “Are you crazy? Mexico is crazy. Cartel thugs everywhere… We’ll get gunned down the minute we get there. You’ll be skinned and have your tusks cut off.”

I mean, I’d been down to Mexico when I bought Nosehair, but that was a while back; it wasn’t so violent then. Or maybe—probably—I was just more carefree then. I like the peace and comfort of my life now in the good old U.S.A.

He didn’t care about the risks. He was at the end of his rope, he said. I thought he just wanted to return to his home, old Mexico. But he said he’d been questioning the reason for going on. That he fantasized about jumping off the balcony and taking one last rumble through the woods, then out to the highway until Animal Control puts him down.

I could see he was desperate. I said ok.

Declare a Firearm

So we got to the airport early that day. I’d made a deal with Nosehair that we’d fly to San Diego and ride across the border down to the place. The reason being, I wanted to be armed while I was in that country. I could bring my gun on a domestic flight, and it would be easy to get it into Mexico.

So I had to go to the ticketing counter and say I was declaring a firearm. The agent, Sheila, seemed nervous. She told me she had to bring out a manager.

I waited around, watching the passengers work the kiosks and put their tags on. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a flash of gold. A tall, big, weathered, wise and gray looking TSA supervisor had appeared through a door and slowly walked down the lane toward Sheila. His badge was ultra-shiny.

Sheila saw him and nodded toward me.

“How you doin’?” he asked me. “I understand you’re declaring? Mind if I take a look?” I opened my bag and then unlocked the hard case, revealing my Smith & Wesson M&P Shield, unloaded, with the magazine in a separate container. All by the book.

Frank, the TSA guy, seemed to admire the Shield. He asked me why I was bringing the gun to San Diego. Well, because I can, I wanted to say. Second Amendment. But I figured I’d avoid confrontation. I said, “In case I need to keep this guy in line,” gesturing towards Nosehair.

Frank squinted over at Nosehair. “Oh, you got a pachyderm, eh?” He chuckled lightly.

“Sometimes he’s just hopeless.”

Frank took his glasses off and rubbed the lenses clean with a cloth from his pocket. “You know, if he gets out of hand on the plane… gun’s gonna be down in cargo. You won’t have it on board.”

“Oh, I know how to get down there. I saw that Jodie Foster movie.”

Frank chuckled some more. He knew I was kidding. I think. Sometimes, over the years, I’ve been a little too edgy with my humor. I’ve dialed it back in recent years, but sometimes I can’t resist. You should probably resist at TSA.

But Frank wasn’t out to bust me. “Well,”—he put his glasses back on—”let’s hope you have a nice and peaceful time down there in San Diego.” He was looking at me in a kind of knowing manner. He indicated I could lock up the case. “San Diego sure is a nice place. Nice place. A little bit close to… old Mexico, though.” He kept staring knowingly at me. “I used to be DEA, back in the Nineties. Worked the border down there.”

“Yeah, I’ll stay away from all of that,” I said. “We’re just going to hang out in La Jolla. Look at some art, go to the beach.” Of course, in reality, I was taking my elephant to a brain chemical reset place and smuggling a weapon in to protect us against drug lords.

“Well,” he cocked his head. “Godspeed, son,” he said without blinking, and shook my hand.

One actor’s trick is not to blink. I think they take some kind of eye drops. Watch a really dramatic scene… actor won’t blink for forever.

We got on the plane to San Diego.

* * *

When we touched down, we got an Uber. They don’t check anybody at the border going that way.

Our destination was Las Manantiales Cálidas del Equilibrio. We showed the map to our driver Johnny. He said he could take us about halfway there, but it is a remote place, so we’d need to figure out how to get the rest of the way. He said there are buses that go down some of the highways.

As we drove down the coast, the landscape looked increasingly alien. Ratty looking shacks and shops, strip clubs, houses and hotels with cinder block construction, barren hillsides, and the endless blue Pacific down below the cliffs.

At one point, Johnny took a left turn and headed through a dry, desolate canyon. The car was right on the edge of the hill on a dirt road, going slowly through hairpin turns. I was feeling ill. After a few miles, we started going downhill. Eventually, the terrain leveled out and the road ended.

We got out of the car and looked out over a vast expanse of nothingness.

“The place you want is through here.” Johnny pointed. “Valle de los Esperanzados.” I tipped Johnny and we studied our printed map. “Vaya con Dios,” Johnny said, crossing himself, and left. I press checked my Shield and put it back in my inside-the-waistband holster, and climbed up in the saddle. We started across the valley.

After an hour or so, we came to another dirt road. Checking the map, the resort seemed to be along this road, so we turned and went down it.

After another hour or so, we heard a sound behind us. Squinting back through mirages, we saw a ratty old bus approaching. We signaled for the driver to stop, and asked him, por favor, we’re going to Las Manantiales Cálidas del Equilibrio. The driver looked confused. He asked the other passengers if they knew of this place. An old woman said, sí, sí, it’s by the motel.

We got on the bus, heading south through the afternoon glare. As dusk fell, I had a sense of foreboding. It wasn’t long before that sense proved true.

Take Me to Your Jefe

We went around a turn and in the road stood two men holding rifles. I think they may have been “assault style” rifles, but honestly, I’m not sure what the definition of that is. The driver slammed on the brakes and the bus came to a slow stop in front of the men. I furtively pulled my gun out of the holster and put it between my legs. Nosehair looked nervously at me.

The men got on the bus, one in the front door and one in the back. Up ahead, we could see a third guy, also armed, smoking a cigarette, standing by a car. At three against one, surrounded, and my having only eight rounds, I didn’t like the odds.

The two guys on the bus had lights attached to their guns and shone them in the passengers’ faces. The one in front fixed his light on me. I was a gringo. He raised his rifle to look through the sights at me and signaled to the other guy, who also pointed his gun at me. The guy in back apparently didn’t like how I had my hand in my lap and told me to raise my hands. I considered my next move until he clocked me in the head and I momentarily lost equilibrium and my gun fell on the floor.

The guy in front picked it up and looked at it admiringly. He looked at me. “You have a gun, and an elephant, señor? You bring these things to our peaceful country?”

“What do you guys want?” I asked. The bus driver told me they were cartel. They check trucks and buses for goods that have gone missing.

“Oh, yeah?” I said, and looked at the guy in front. “Well, you know what? You guys wouldn’t be so tough if the United States had sensible drug laws.”

Both thugs laughed. “You sound like a reformist!” said front guy. “You want to legalize these terrible drugs that do so much damage to your people?”

Back guy, in Spanish, told front guy that they should take me to their boss. Front guy looked at me. “Sí, sí, you know, amigo, our jefe, he likes deep thinkers like you. Maybe you can work for us!” They both laughed as they made us get off the bus and into the car. We sat there a while as they shook down the bus passengers until they were satisfied nobody had any goods.

We watched the bus drive away into the night.

* * *

I woke up with a giant pain in my head. I had zip tie handcuffs on. I got off the floor and took a wizz in the filthy toilet in my filthy room. I didn’t know where Nosehair might be.

The door opened and the two thugs from last night motioned for me to come with them.

We went down a long hallway… it seemed to be underground. We came to another section of the building that looked considerably nicer. We walked up a marble staircase, down another hallway with photos on the walls, and into an office. They had me sit down on a leather sofa. They went outside and stood by the door.

The boss was sitting behind a desk, looking the other way at some papers and a computer screen. Eventually he turned around to look at me. He looked sophisticated, with a jacket, a well-trimmed beard and haircut.

“Señor, I must apologize. My employees, they brought you here, but I do not know why. Do you know why you are here, amigo?”

I just stared at him.

He laughed. “Ah, ha ha ha. It is not a philosophical question, no? I can see you have the questioning eyes.”

He got up and walked around to the front of his desk, to look at me closer. “You can tell a lot about a man by looking in his eyes.”

He leaned over and raised his index finger. “I will tell you this one thing, señor. Yes, yes, I will tell you this one thing.”

He squinted off in the distance sideways, looked back at me and laughed a little.

“Yes… I will tell you this one thing. And when I have told you this one thing… then. Then.” Shaking his finger. “Then you will know… this one thing that I have told you.”

“We’re just trying to get to a magical hot springs place. My elephant thinks he has a serotonin deficiency.”

He squinted thoughtfully for a minute. Then he walked over to a bar and poured a glass of whiskey. “Would you like a drink, señor? Hm? No? How about your elephant? He seemed very nervous.”

“We don’t care about your business. We’re just going to the hot springs.”

“Ah, but my employee says you would put us out of business, if you had the chance.” He took a drink.

“He hit me in the head. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

He laughed uproariously. “I like you, amigo. Marco said you were a funny guy.” He put his glass down and clapped his hands. “I will tell you what! I will have Marco and Richie drive you and your pet to this hot springs. And you can sit in these springs and eat kale and whatever and see if your brains improve.” He pulled out a business card with only his email address and Facebook and Twitter on it. “Then, please, tweet me up how it went. Marco!”

* * *

We sat in the back of Marco and Richie’s convertible and rode a few miles down the road. We drove by more ratty looking buildings and kept consulting the map.

“It should be around the next corner,” I told Marco. We made the turn and Marco stopped the car in front of a modest building with palm trees. Nosehair and I looked at each other, uncertain. The place had a sign—“Motel de los Desesperados.”

“Here you are, my friend,” said Richie.

* * *

We checked into our rooms. The hot springs session would be tomorrow. Nosehair had stoked my interest in brain chemistry, so I had brought a couple of books on the subject. I started reading. I could hear Nosehair snoring lightly through the wall. I thought he must have been at peace. I hoped the hot springs would work for him.

The next morning, we met up with a small group of guests, and Jay, the director. He led us through a wooded area that was somewhat difficult to navigate. Eventually, we came to an open area where the springs were. Steam rose peacefully from the waters. Jay assured us that they were not too hot.

Nosehair and I got into one of the springs with a couple from Nebraska, Bill and Nancy. We settled down and let the water cover us. The warmth felt wonderful. Jay put on some mystical sounding Far East music.

Nancy told me Bill had PTSD and had tried everything. Then one night she saw this place on a YouTube.

Our session lasted a couple of hours. Jay had us dunk our heads and make sure we got the water all over. Splash it around, have fun. I looked over at my buddy. He looked hopeful. He smiled at me.

What Happened

A few miles of riding and another Uber. Long line at the border. I didn’t have to declare anything this time.

On the plane, something was bothering me. One of the books I was reading posited the idea that a lot of what happens in the brain is affected by a person’s social standing. That your brain will actually produce more serotonin and dopamine just by having a high place in a social hierarchy. Or call it “having a support system,” etc. Of course, I’d kept Nosehair alone in the house all these years, because that’s what people do to pets. But he knew I loved him, right? Isn’t that enough?

We touched down, got in the car and drove home.

Nosehair didn’t feel like watching videos that night. It’s been a long ordeal, he explained, and now it’s over. Let’s just let it sink in.

He wandered back into his room and picked up a few things, cleaning up. He looked out the window at the familiar greenbelt, saw his familiar reflection. He walked back into the living room and looked at me.

“I kind of feel the same,” he said.