Tijuana Journals Vol. 2

BRIEFING:

met an interesting man named Tom who gave me some info on the
pharmacies and how they operate.
Tom
American
38
has lived in TJ for three years
pharmacies are all corupt
choice of going to a farmacia and paying for what you need at street
price...or one can go get a prescription
then go to a pharmacy and they fill it at the pharmacy price.
tough choices...
"let the buyer beware"
-toughs on the street rip off customer blind
-don't trust them
-choose the guys in the bars and clubs and come away with
unknown substance subject to make you sick with no high
-drinks at the hotel caesar in the morning
-bar and meet? 1130-ish
-wait in the booth and he will saddle up to you
-you see him, nod curtly

I met Tom twice to discuss the intracacies of TJ pharmacies, street vendors, and
the workings of the policia. Tom came off as an unconciable drunk and a former
addict. He was marked by the look of H. However, he said, "Nope, morphine...strictly
pharmacy stuff. I don't go for that street shit. Don' know what yr. getting. It's
pricier but worth it."
"Same difference," I replied. "Junk is junk. Don't care where you get it."
"Ahhh, too true in that sense..." he said.
Tom was a valuable tool in navigating the TJ underworld. He had been in the Air Force in
Vietnam. Or so he said. How can one be 38 and served in 'Nam. He was a liar and I
took what he said with an ounce of salt. At that time I was a spring chicken in TJ. Didn't
know much. Much of what he told me came to be true. I found out.
Tom drank at the Hotel Caesar in the mornings. I would see him there whenever I stopped
in to shoot the shit with the waiters and waitresses, get a coke...rest my feet...shoot some
more of my stash deep into my veins right there in the first stall.
Tom was close with the bartender and he would often argue with him in spanish in
a good natured way. One fine July morning I stopped in at the Hotel Caesar. Bright, bold,
beautiful day. Crisp and clear. Smell of clean summer sunshine in the air. Maria was there,
as usual on fridays, and she seated me in my booth. Always the same. Not many people in the
Hotel Caesar in the mornings. Tourists don't start filtering in unitl later. Ususally when I got
up to leave around 12:30 or 1:00 the place would start filling up. That was Tom and I's cue to head on. We made good clean San Diegans, Midwesterners, and Mormons nervous. Tom drunk
harruanging the bartender. Me, on the nod, barely there, languidly sipping a Coke...cigaretee
ash down my shirt. Notebooks sprawled across the table. Chips and lunch barely touched. This
morning was different. After being seated and placing my order I made a dash to the bathroom
to do the rest of my stash. I felt uneasy. Didn't want it on me anymore. I entered the stall and locked it. Fished the tar from my ass. Cooked it down real good in my spoon, took off my belt,
sucked up the poison and shot it home. As I was fixing up the last half of the tar I heard shouting
coming from the restaurant. Tom and and the bartender at it. This time, though, there was
violence/malice in their voices. I heard glasses shattering and so I put down the spoon.
"Don't you try that shit on me Pedro..." Tom said.
And as "Pedro" was spit out of his mouth it hung in the air and was smacked. Sound of metal
caving in meat. The waiter hurried in the bathroom and said I needed to hurry up and go.
"Sorry Patrique...Keechen es closed twodayy."
I finished my tar and washed up. Disposed of evidence. Cleaned the restaurants spoon. I stepped
out into the dining area, mirror and bar along left wall and saw blood on the floor.
"Jesus! Maria, what happened??!"
"Uh, Meester Tom get so angry with Pedro. He threaten him. They argue. He was very drunk. He got a knife and break glasses. The cook sneak up on him and knock him down with this."
The fire extinguisher was standing up on the bar.
"You better leave Patrique...Policia come soon."
"Yeah I better leave. Where did Tom go?"
"They drag him out and he get in taxi to go to hospital"
"Jesus christ. Jesus christ. What the fuck Tom...."
I collected my things, grabbed the can of Coke Maria had left in my absence and left. I thrust
3 dollars into her hand.
"Thank you Patrique."
I walked out onto Revolucion...sun beating down. I put on my Wayfarers to block out the sun and hide my pin prick eyes reflecting all in their doped stupor.
I saw Tom two weeks later at the Caverns, a cafe two blocks down from the Hotel Casesar. His head was shaved in one tiny spot and you could see stiches. He was gesticulating wildly to the
bartender who seemed not to be listening to Tom as he cleaned some glasses with a wet rag on the bar. He saw me but only nodded in a way that told me I would never talk to him again.
He was embarssed. I never saw Tom again.