Game Time; Nuevo Progreso, Mexico

The palmetto trees at the airport want you to believe you've reached a lush tropical destination. You know better; you're in a desert, plain and simple. You walk out to the curb, pull out a cigarette and get ready to light up. Across the street, a cab driver opens his door, steps out and turns his head your way. “Where ya headed today?”. He can handle himself, alright, but he doesn't look mean. “Nuevo Progreso”. You pull out your precious orange plastic disposable lighter. Nice to have. “I can take you” he says. You look up and down the block, and then back at him. No one else is around, whats the rush? “How much?” you ask him. He looks at the horizon, tests the wind, and cocks his head your way. “Fifty” he declares, with the certainty that comes from knowing you may be the only customer but he's got the only cab. You play it out a bit, just for fun: “Let me smoke a cigarette first.” He's got you, and he knows it. But you don't have to let him know you know it. Life's a game today. “You can smoke in the car” he says. Done - just stroll on over and hop in. He asks you where your luggage is. “Day trip”: nice and simple, you snap your lighter and check the first box on your list.

You leave Harlingen, Texas behind you and head west on the freeway. It doesn't take long to get to the cutoff, and you're moving south towards the border. You pass by ranches and little settlements, dry and flat with a few stunted mesquite trees. The traffic starts to pick up on the little two lane road, and a tree line appears in the distance. Everyone's slowing down now, so you point to the silver metal buildings coming up on the right. “Over there in the driveway will be fine” you tell him. The wind is picking up; brown dust swirls up from the parking lots along the border, and goes out in all directions. You get out, pay him his fare - and a little extra. Check.

You merge in with the general movement towards the international bridge. You drift up onto the bridge alongside people of different varieties: American teenagers and young adults in sunglasses, tank tops and baggy shorts. Older American couples with thick glasses and thinning hair. Mexicans coming back from work, relaxation, shopping or visits to relatives. But there aren't too many serious looking, seriously-casually dressed Late Boomers, with Alligator shirts and neatly pressed Dockers. You're standing out in the crowd just a bit, so you work your way to the side where you may draw less attention.

Out on the bridge, you buy a token and pass through a turnstile. You're in Mexico now, my friend, and there are some Guys in Black that are going to want to have a look at you. You walk past the Federales as they stand around their sandbagged positions, dark glasses covering their busy eyes, Heckler and Koch automatics at the ready. You resist the temptation to take a peek at the positions of their safeties. And as you pass by, you check another box on your mental list.

Avenida Benito Juarez continues south with canopies over the sidewalks, and people selling all the little things you eventually end up throwing away if you buy them. You work your way along the sidewalk, passing by the hawkers, the beggars, and the open front restaurants until you arrive at your destination. You sense the eyes on you, not just from the street, but from the second stories of the buildings that surround you. You press the handle and push open the door. You are entering the Hot Zone. The lady behind the desk recognizes you and takes you back to the cool, dark, stone rooms that lie within. An hour later, you return to the streets with your merchandise. Check.

You are so clever aren't you. They will never know, not in a million years. It's perfect. You pass a big Arts and Crafts store, noticing a nice piece of pottery in the display window. Black, white and red lizards with splayed arms and legs follow each other across the glazed surface. Behind the pot, a tall thin man with short brown hair, a graying goatee and green eyes returns your gaze from the other side of a mirror. You permit yourself a little smile - just a bit of a northward turn at the corners of the mouth.

The Federales seem to have lost interest in you as you pass them again on your way back. Now it is the Customs and Immigration Service that wishes to be entertained. You stand in a quick moving line that brings you before a young man in a neat uniform. Behind him, mirrored windows hide the rooms where more serious questions might be asked. Don't go there. You show the agent your identification and look him straight in the eye. This is it. This is beautiful. It's so obvious and he doesn't even know it. He asks you where you're from, and you give him a wide smile. “American Citizen”, you tell him, showing off your handsome new porcelain veneers. Made in an American lab and installed in Mexico - for one third of the price. Life's a game today, come out and play.