NON-FICTION

HAIR OF THE DOG
COLUMN 4, MID-80s

by
Caucus de Bourbon

VITO THE MEX had him no legs. He had him a cane, though, forged from the tusk of some slain beast in a far away land. It'd been carved ornately and measured a length of twenty-two inches. Being of orgulous pedigree, Vito the Mex liked to wag the staff often, often in tempo with his own garrulity, which could be incessant and articulate and of uncomfortably high pitch. Preferring English to his native Spanish tongue, he insisted on keeping in practice.

As for the garishly clad women we often procured for him along E Street, what debauchery and mischief he administered with his modest staff, I don't want to think.

And I like to think a lot.

Just so happens thinking is what I was up to when I deposited one grumbling old fare at the San Ysidro border crossing; thinking about the I.N.S. jump buggies whining past me full-throttle over a ravine in pursuit of a fleeing van; about the truckload of sullen-faced migrant workers spilling from a bus; about spotlamp enfilade sweeping fiery-white across the night; 'bout gunshots on Otay Mesa and choppers overhead; 'bout distant screams and orders barked; 'bout disorder, desperation and fear.

I turned my cab back toward the freeway and Vito the Mex flagged me down.

"My old friend!" cried Vito, carried in the arms of a thick Mexican man, shaped like a keg. I braked as they trudged over from a cover of deep shadow. Vito was obviously working. The Mexican, panting, lowered his grinning burden to the open window.

A wet load north. We had to hurry. As a rule I generally refused picking up illegals directly from the border because of the high risk of being caught--made an exception only when I spotted some who happened to be heading that way.

Vito slid in next to me as his Mexican lorry waved the others from darkness. They rushed forward, hunkered low, most piling into the back seat, filling the cab with rank, earthy odor.

"There's too many, Vito."

Vito shook his head as the doors slam shut. "No less than is needed is all, my friend."

A quick head count gave me nine, not including myself.

"I would have to suggest we proceed swiftly if we are to reach our destination." Vito jabbed his cane at the windshield, beckoning us flight. "Indeed," he continued, "that is the only sure way of getting there."

I threw the flag and tapped the accelerator and landed us on I-5. A Border Patrol helicopter swept suddenly over it, headed our way. Spot beam blast strafed the lanes, color vanquished by blue-white glare, approaching steadily. Of the impending detection and the consequences such detection would bring, Vito was oblivious.

"I really marvel at those steel wasps," he said, reverent, admiring the approaching chopper.

Delicious obscenities came to mind. To Vito they were fed. I held the wheel firm, crushed down on the peddle.

"The way they move."

"Almost there..." I gritted.

"The way they sing."

The glaring shaft was about to swallow us.

"I wish that I, too, could fly," said Vito.

"Come on!"

Blackout--beneath a freeway overpass for only an instant, it is instant enough for its concrete span to shield us from detection as we race northward and the chopper above continues south.

Having dropped the illegals off by a fragrant Riverside County wood in which they'd labor the season, Vito the Mex and I returned to the city a couple hours later, deep into the night. Though the pickings were slim, after a brief and undiscriminating search, the legless man found what he sought and was giddily lifted into the welcoming arms of an abdominous whore with whom he no doubt spent a uproariously decadent evening.

As for me, I capped off the night in my usual manner, with a smoke, a rewrite, and a gleeful toast to inebriate jubilee.