Spring Break (Or, How I Left Mexico With All of My Internal Organs)

Spring Break Season is upon us. As I have abandoned formal schooling long ago, I no longer have the luxury of a spring break, but this has not been true for my entire life. I did, at one point, begrudgingly attend school. Here’s a humorous tale of one of my spring break adventures:

Okay. Here goes… The cast of characters is as follows: me, the Cheese Baron, the Don, and Colby.

Having already thoroughly defiled several locations in Florida on previous spring break endeavors, several of my best mates and I decided to shift our focus to Texas for our Spring Break Odyssey 2002. Specifically, we set our beer goggles on South Padre Island.

My friend and former dorm roommate, Colby, happened to be turning 21 right in the midst of this fabled voyage, and as it happens, South Padre Island is situated a mere minutes from the Mexican border. So, on the day Colby was to be accepted amongst those of legal drinking age, the Cheese Baron decided (and the rest of us readily acquiesced) to celebrate the occasion by getting him a killer lap dance in a Mexican strip club. Because that would be awesome and hilarious.

At the time, it just seemed like the right thing to do. As to where this Mexican strip club was located, exactly, we had no idea. But we’d stumble across one, we were sure of it.

So there we were. Four gringos wandering down the main drag of some Mexican border town after dealing with a slew of very apathetic border patrol officers.

“So, what do we do now?” I asked, after walking several blocks. “It’s occurring to me that we don’t have any idea where a strip club is. Or if there even is one in this town.”

“There’s gotta be one,” the Cheese Baron retorted. “We’ve just gotta ask somebody.”

“Who the fuck’s gonna ‘ask’ somebody?” Colby, the birthday boy, piped in. “None of us speak Spanish.”

The Cheese Baron assured us that he would do the talking.

“But you only speak Italian,” I pointed out. “And you speak it real shitty.”

“Don’t worry about it,” assured the Cheese Baron. “It’s basically the same as Spanish.”

“Oh dear lord.”

It was becoming increasingly more evident that we hadn’t really thought this endeavor through very well. Or at all.

“Maybe we should just stop and get a beer somewhere?” offered the Don.

“In Mexico, it’s called ‘cerveza,'” corrected the Cheese Baron.

“In English I say, ‘lick my balls,’ jackass.”

“Duly noted.”

About a block further down the road, a man who was seated in a lawn chair outside of a hacienda called to us from across the street, “Hey, my friends, you need ride? I have cab!”

“Si,” shouted back the Cheese Baron in perfect Spanish.

“Where you want to go, my friends?” asked our newly-aquired chauffeur.

Through various cupped hand gestures and poorly executed language, we were able to get our point across fairly quickly.

“Ah, mamacitas!” clapped the Mexican cabbie, deciphering our jumbled code almost at once. “Okay, my friends!”

We piled into the car, and off we went to our strip club. The blocks sped past, and pretty soon we had left the town behind us. At this point, the lot of us (excepting the cabbie) were beginning to shift uncomfortably in our seats.

Onwards we drove into the black abyss of night. It was around the time we turned left onto a gravel road that I really become concerned. This could be the dumbest fucking thing we’ve ever done in a long line of dumb fucking things, I remember thinking to myself as the gravel crunched beneath the four tires of the rusty vehicle in which we rode.

There was literally no sign of civilization.

Suddenly, up ahead appeared a compound-looking structure complete with a perimeter of cement walls that were roughly fifteen feet tall. Mean-looking barbed wire adorned the top of said walls.

“Well, it’s been a nice run,” Colby whispered.

“Happy birthday,” said the Don.

Our car paused at the gated entrance to this rundown compound so the driver could exchange a few words with a chino-clad man who had a gun of some sort strapped across his chest.

“Did that guy have a gun?” asked the Don as we moved past the gate.

“Yup,” I gulped. “That man was definitely in possession of a firearm.”

Our car pulled up to a ramshackle building, and our cabdriver invited us to get out with what appeared to be a genuinely welcoming smile. So, we reluctantly exited the vehicle and followed him through the door of the mystery establishment.

Happily, I did not have a black hood thrown over my head immediately upon entering the room; I figured we’d all be dragged off to separate bathtubs to have our organs harvested and our genitals removed. Instead, the four of us were greeted by a surly, mustachioed man (who kind of looked like Danny Trejo) and a tray of tequila shots. A round of beer quickly followed.

The cabbie had the right idea, bless his heart, but instead of the desired strip club, he had brought us to a miserable-looking brothel, which housed some of the most used-up women I have ever seen in my life. His mistake, considering our substantial language barrier, was forgivable. Nevertheless, I still feared for my life. Not to mention my wallet and the other various personal affects I had on me at the time.

A flock of the aforementioned prostitutes descended upon our group as soon as the drinks were served. One of the women promptly sat on my lap and began running her nicotine-stained fingers through my hair while whispering things into my ear that I could not begin to comprehend. By now, I made it my goal to drink my fucking beer as fast as humanly possible, pray the tequila shot wasn’t roofied or poisoned, and somehow get myself out of this situation.

Fortunately, my three friends took the same initiative. Aside from my friend, Dogg Pound (who was not present, but can pound a beer in literally seven seconds), I have never seen men drink so fast.

One might say we were literally drinking like our lives depended on it, if you will.

Lucky for our continued existence on this planet, the cab driver had stayed, and was perched on a barstool nearby, chatting happily with some other dude. If that man had left, I don’t know what the hell we would have done. We explained that we’d made a mistake and that we needed to go. He said okay, we paid our tab, left an exorbitant tip as further incentive to not kill us and steal all of our shit, and beelined for the automobile before we were further defiled by whores or otherwise.

“Oh my sweet holy god,” I gasped, once more in the backseat of the car. “Did that really just happen?”

“I can’t believe we’re not dead,” said Colby.

“Maybe we are, and this is hell,” put in the Cheese Baron.

A moment later, the cabbie was back in the driver’s seat, and we were off, the compound shrinking behind us. I think the four of us idiots all let out a simultaneous sigh of relief while checking our pockets once more for lost or stolen items.

“Thank you again,” we all said to the driver once we were back in front of the hacienda where we first met him, handing him a significant wad of cash in appreciation for not allowing us to die in a foreign shit hole whorehouse.

“No problemo, my friends,” he smiled, waving goodbye and counting his money.

Once safely back across the border in the wonderful U.S. of A., we spent a few minutes deliberating on how to spend the remainder of our evening. The four of us unanimously decided to do what we probably should have done in the first place, which was to patronize the strip joint that was situated RIGHT NEXT DOOR to the hotel where we were spending the week.

And we did. We saw boobs. It was glorious.