Mind in Mexico

Jen was a frisky woman, poor as hell but free as the bible. She had long blonde hair that she wrapped in a scarf only because she was too frazzled to fix a whole head. She dressed in Goodwill findings and always wore boots. She made men turn their heads and it riddled her wiring. Her willingness to cause trouble often forced some of her own. Entertaining men became second nature, and robbing them of their time looked best in new shoes. With a full moon and half set of plans, she found her keys and walked into the night.

Jen didn’t know how to say no, so she packed her bags and let the day ride. She found herself in Mexico with a man who’s done some time. She counted when sad and hovered when scared. One man untrusted. Two towels with holes on the side. Three drinks of fruity desperation. Four packs of cigarettes, thrown into the bag. Five minutes of freedom when she locked the door. Six said the dice when she rolled for some luck. Seven-dollar bills in the corner of her bra. Eight hours of calm and fat belly snores. Nine sang the clock when the coffee turned cold. Ten more days of this hotel air.

Jen can never catch a break; the sun is only an echo to the ones trapped in time. She knew it was ok to be sad as long as she wasn’t hungry and it was ok to cry over things that couldn't speak. November was never easy but it was always quiet and sometimes that was enough to keep her out of the way. Her fingers turned to bone and her head turned to the ocean. A crab has gone mad and somewhere between the waves, she believes she may have too. A cracked window is no escape and how could she be so stupid. She is stuck between floors and between this very season- it's ok to be scared as long as she isn’t fragile.

Jen has lost track of the days and still doesn’t know this man’s name. He is temperamental and enjoys beer more than her company. He has a dirty mustache and wears his swim trunks to bed. Mexico looks good on him in the same way it would look good on anyone, roasting under the sun and under the pressure of this very situation. They sit all day on the beach conversing about freedom and the meaning of it all. How could Jen be so free but so confined to this chair and to this man? Glued to this bore, but loose from temptation.

“What do you do for fun anyhow?” he asked.

“Sit around with ugly men like you.” She quickly spat out.

This didn’t go over well and he rose from his lounge and towered her shoulders.

“It’s a fucking joke, loosen up. Do you think I run off to Mexico with just anyone? You are a real bastard, but I happen to like real bastards, it’s the fake ones I’m scared of.”

He took a step back and swigged his can with a half-smile. All was calm and the air sunk- steady.

It was the last day of this darkness and Jen was needed more than before. It's payday again and she swears she will quit this. She closes her eyes and counts to ten once again. One man, still in bed. Tw0 hands on the wheel. Three more hours of this stale desert line. Four more memories rotting in time. Five hundred dollars sealed with a kiss— paradise doesn't exist behind closed doors.

Jen made it back home and the man found his way back to his wife. The season turned bitter and the month sank low. She settled back into her recliner and dead-bolted the door. One sip of soda. Two eyes on the television. Three more phone calls, the rent past due.