Tijuana Tank

The Great Writers Tournament

This was the winning entry in the first round of the First Great Writers Tournament.

Instructions:

You have gone to Tijuana, Mexico for the weekend and while there was arrested and thrown into jail. You have only a piece of gum, two dollars and a half bottle of Tequila. How do you convince the rum soaked jailer to let you out?

Entry:

The Tijuana Tank

The cell I was in had several Mexicans, who had also been drinking, but as they began to sober and awake, the jailer let them leave one by one. Finally, I was the only one left.

“Amigo,” I called, “Hablar Ingles?”

“Poco,” he grunted, what meant he understood more than he wanted me to believe.

I began, “Why all the Mexicans leave and I’m still here?”

“Que?”

“Mexicans, hombres, mucho tequila, gone, vamoosed. Me, Americano, still here. Why? Uh, por que?” I asked gesturing with my hands.

“I understand jyou O-Kay. Hombres, dey, have joobs. I know theem. Drink too much tequila, but dey have family. I know dey live. No run away. Dey come back, pay dey fine. But, jyou, go back California, forget about Pablo and jyou fine.”

“But if you keep me, I can’t pay. I got 2 dollars, that’s all. Me, same as hombres; I got a job. I need go home, work, then pay,” I explained.

“Si, Si. You like all Americano, dey money at, uh, asilo, uh, jyou house, in the bank. But, you no come back to pay.”

“Look, I can send you a check. Just give me the address and how much and I send it, I promise,” I begged.

“No, no. Jyou call wife, or jyou padre, brother and dey send jyou money, then jyou leave,” he said. “Pablo not loco.”

“There ain’t nobody to send the money, I’m telling you. I live in Fremont and my family is in Georgia. I don’t have a wife. Only me to get the money! If you don’t let me out, I’ll die here before any money arrives,” I explained.

“Excusa, uh, sorry. No money, jyou can’t leave,” he said with finality and leaned back in his rickety old chair for a nap.

What do I do? Then it hit me. Standing up, I shouted at the empty cell, “Will you get oudda the way! I don’t care who you are, you can’t have my food!”

“What jyou doing?” Pablo asked.

“What am I doing?” I shouted, “It’s not me it’s him!” I took a swing at the air. “You brought this food to me, didn’t you? Well! DIDN”T YOU?” I shouted.

“No, no, Amigo, jyou be calm down,” he soothed.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, BE CALM. THIS JERK IS TRYING TO TAKE MY LAST TACO!” I shouted gesturing the air.

I could see he was a little worried, so I grabbed my head and slammed it into the bars. It hurt, but I had to be convincing. I picked myself up and threw my body across the cell, slamming into the bars. Regaining my feet, I kicked and swung at the imaginary foe, my eyes bulging and breathing like a bull in heat.

Pablo opened the cell, pulling me outside. I grabbed his shirt under the throat and in back, “Thank you for saving, me! Please don’t put me back! I’m afraid he’ll kill me!”

“No worry. Jyou go home and jyou see doctor. I think jyou sick man. Jyou go now and send Pablo de fine. Jyou going be OK.”

It sure was good to go home again.