Neither of them knew much Spanish or had ever been to Mexico, but they poured over the guidebooks. They didn’t want to experience Mexico from first class resorts and restaurants. They wanted to starve a little, hurt a little. What better way to experience the world than through the crystal clarity that a little suffering can bring. Besides, most of their money was already earmarked for their last few years of school.
The trip south had gone great. Seeing the countryside of the central highlands, the colonial towns, the small villages in between. They ate mysterious meats from street-carts, tortillas hand-made by little wrinkled women squatting at the sides of roads. They drank cheap beer and tequila. They wanted to remain lucid, but a slight buzz was better than no buzz at all.
Yet even after all the driving, the hours and hours of driving, they didn’t really know each other. But hell, the sex was great and it seemed to get better the hungrier they were, the dirtier.
They fucked like animals. He buried himself in her, felt the primal force of her heat turn him inside out, like snakes coupling, their limbs twisting about each other, shaping, reshaping.
When the time came to head north again, they were worn out. Almost out of money. Walking the fine line of getting too much of a good thing. Neither of them said it, but both knew that when they got home, they would take a break from each other. Not break up, but cool off. They knew the dangers of flying too close to the flame.
One of the last towns they stayed in was Guanajuato, about four hours north of Mexico City. China turned in early, but Portman wanted to drink up a little more culture. He watched China fall asleep next to him, and then stepped out of their simple motel room. Only two blocks away, he found the tavern—
—“Don’t you dare fucking stop.” Portman struggled to lift the gun. He didn’t want to hurt her, and hoped to God his finger didn’t slip on the sweat-slick trigger. But the truck had been slowing down.
He almost didn’t notice it. Sleep had overcome him, dreams of vibration and the sounds of things sliding wet and slimy over the earth. But when the truck slowed, the hiss of the wind died, and it was the approach of silence that screamed at Portman. He tapped the barrel of the gun on the frame of the cab’s window. “You can’t stop.”
“What’s happened to you?” There was fear and exhaustion and frustration in China’s voice. “I can’t go on forever. I can’t.”
Portman sucked in a mouthful of air. “You have to,” he managed. He touched the gun’s nozzle to her cheek. “’Til morning.”
She barely winced, but the engine roared back to life as she pressed heavily on the gas.
“Good girl,” Portman whispered. He let his hand drop to his side.
The hot, smoky tavern glowed with candlelight reflected off the polished wooden tables, off the mirror and liquor bottles behind the bar. He’d already had one too many shots of tequila and hadn’t paid for a single one.
“Here, friend, have another.” Juan slid a fresh shot across the table. It left a trail of spilled tequila in it’s path. Friends were easy to make when you were the only white guy in a bar full of Mexicans. A novelty.
“Whoa.” Portman leaned back, waving off the tequila in surrender. “No fucking mas.”
Juan laughed. “C’mon. The last one. I promise you.”
Portman exhaled a watery sigh. He wasn’t sure how he’d make it back to his motel room, let alone the flight of steps that led from the tavern to the street below. They’d probably find him the next morning passed out in the zócalo covered with vomit and bird shit.
“Okay.” He picked up the tiny glass. “This is it.” He tilted back his head and swallowed, well past the point of feeling the burn. He decided he better get back to China.
Juan leaned forward in his chair. “I’ll help you down the steps.”
“I can make it.”
Portman started to get up but felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. He squirmed around and saw a pockmarked face staring at Juan.
“I brought the gringo a drink.”
“Leave him alone, Benito.”
Benito’s glazed eyes were crisscrossed with tiny red veins that looked like snakes hungering after his pitch-black pupils. Portman could smell the alcohol on him even over his own potent breath. Benito produced a pint-sized mason jar from a paper sack he held.
“Homemade,” he said. He lifted the jar up so that the golden tavern light shined through it. It was full of a cloudy, amber liquid. “I call it leachaté.”
Juan started to get up. “Leave him alone.”
Benito ignored him. When he tried to smile, his face twisted up into a grimace. “Tequila,” he said.
Portman looked at Juan. Juan shook his head gravely. Portman felt Benito’s fingers burrow deep into his shoulder blade.
“Just a sip,” Benito said.
Portman didn’t want to be the cause of a fight, particularly if he was going to be in the middle of it. “I think I can handle a sip.” He held his hand out for the jar.
Benito pulled it away from Portman’s grasp. “Only if it’s okay with Juan here.”
Juan’s eyes smoldered. “Just a sip,” he said finally. “A small sip.” He sat back down.
Benito swirled the tequila. Something stirred in the bottom of the jar. He grinned at Portman. “Wanna swallow the worm? Can’t say you’ve been to Mexico if you haven’t swallowed the worm.”
“Just a sip,” Juan said once more. “No worm.”
Portman tried to focus on the jar. The residual swirl of the tequila made the worm dance. It was pale white, the size of Portman’s index finger. “I didn’t think they got so big,” he said.
Benito laughed. The small crowd gathering around the table laughed. Juan did not laugh.
And just for a second, as the candlelight glowed through the glass, it glowed through the body of the worm. A trick of the light, of the occlusions in the tequila, perhaps, but it appeared as if a small heart beat in the middle of the worm. Appeared as if the worm had a dozen tiny legs grasping helplessly at its own chest.
“Just a sip,” Juan warned.
“Drink,” the crowd began to chant in Spanish. “Drink. Drink. Drink.”
Drink.
Portman lifted the mason jar to his lips and took a sip. It went down like water. Not bad at all.
“Drink. Drink. Drink.”
The chant was verbal adrenaline. It gave Portman a feeling of power, made him want to show them that even though he was a foreigner — worse, a tourist — that he could join them for a moment. Become one of them.
He ignored Juan’s pleas to stop. He tipped his head back, relaxed the muscles of his throat. The homemade concoction rushed in, flooding his mouth, a few drops spilling out of the corners. But he got it down.
And then there was the worm. Bleached from the tequila. Portman looked down his nose at it as it left the glass. He saw its mouth open just before it entered his own mouth. He gagged as it slid down his throat. Gagged at the feel of it grabbing at his esophagus, trying to latch on, trying to climb its way back out. Portman gritted his teeth and forced it down.
The crowd cheered.
Juan helped Portman back to his motel room. Only two blocks away, but he never would’ve made it without Juan’s help.
Along the way, Juan whispered urgently into his ear, “On your way home, don’t drive at night. You understand? Listen to me. Don’t drive at night. That’s when they come out.”
“Right.” Portman had heard this many times from friends back home. “Federalés. Banditos.”
“No.” Juan squeezed Portman’s wrist painfully so that he felt it. “Listen to me. Do not drive in the countryside at night.”