I managed to endure roughly 30 minutes of idiocy before I had could take no more. I proceeded to communicate my disgust with such a lack of intelligence, cultural understanding, and maturity. Needless to say this did not go over well. She threw down money for the bill, offered some words not appropriate for the church-going crowd, and stormed off like a widlerbeast into the night. Finally. Some peace and quiet. I ordered a few more margaritas, finished eating my food, and even had some dessert. After all, it was my birthday dinner.

I walked back to the hotel, and in the time it took I managed to come up with an apology and explanation I actually believed. It is amazing how easily we can trick ourselves if it helps retrace the path of least resistance. We made up, surely credited to the aid of a days worth of drinking, and met some friends we had made down by the pool bar. The plan was to go to a club that they had free passes to get into. We took a cab. Like many clubs in Acapulco it was outside, and on the beach. We all sat together, and ordered our first drinks. In recollecting the situation, largely due to alcohol, and displaced time, I cannot tell you what she said to make me leave the table, but I assure you it was enough, because that was the last of her I saw that night. I specifically remember thinking, “This is my last college spring break trip, there is no way this bitch will ruin it.” So I proceeded to do what all my closest friends know me to do: I wandered. I cycled between the bar, the dance floor, and a nice group of Mexicans on vacation in Mexico, another recurring theme of this story. I was officially in Va-ca mode, not a worry in the world, wasted in a moment of clarity and contention.

Obviously this didn’t last long. It is no secret, when you drink in large quantities, you must drain the receptacle frequently. It may have been my third or fourth trip to el baño, and a sauced Lamb is not a patient Lamb. I had quite enough of the 20 minutes in line it took to relieve myself, so I proceeded to do what we have all done (implying most of my readers have one time or another dabbled in such debauchery): I found a bush on the street and took care of business. This may come as a shocker, but it turns out that was a bad decision. With a smile on my face and a feeling of satisfaction, I zipped up, turned, and was confronted by three federals with AK- 47s in my grill. Oh boy. Talk about a slightly sobering experience (and the mere consideration that I say “slight” suggests to the extent that I lacked sobriety).

“Ven con nosotros. Usted está bajo arresto.”

“Come with us. You’re under arrest.”

I proceeded in my Spanglish ways, asking the officer what I had done. He said that I had urinated on the bush, and must get in the car right now.

“No gracias.”

I pleaded. They insisted.

“Por favor. Lo siento. Estoy en mi honeymoon, con mi amor, ella me necesite!”

“Please. I am sorry. I am on my honeymoon with my love, she needs me!”

They seemed to take this into consideration, and continued to say they would let me go, if I gave them 500 pesos.

“No tengo 500 pesos, solomente tengo 300! Puedes tenerlo!”

They would not accept the 300 pesos, and continued to insist that I must get in the car and be placed under arrest. In this moment I was scared shitless. I was going to be the stupid American that ended up in a Mexican prison, never to be heard from again. My anal cavity would become the safe nestle point for an assorted quantity of burritos, chimichangas, and yes, enchiladas. Despite this overwhelming fear of the once thought impossible, I tried to maintain my cool. The officers proceeded to grab me by the arms (still possessing giant assault rifles that had been previously only been known to me via Golden Eye on N64), and pull me towards the squad car. Fearing I might retaliate against the undersized Mexican people, and find myself full of bullets that probably weren’t Mexican at all, I sat down on the bench next to me and continued to plead my case with an overwhelming,

“NO GRACIAS!”

My theory being, if they were going to take me away, they would have to drag me. I understand the Mexican people are a collarless working class by nature (as opposed to blue/white collar), but my bet was they wanted nothing more to do with one of largest, drunkest, and most persistent gringos they had ever seen. They again persisted that I give them 500 pesos, and I once again replied,

“Solomente tengo 300.”

Remember what I said, everything in Mexico is a negotiation. To this day, I am baffled why they refused the 300, and spoke the following words,

“Eres libre de ir.”

You are free to go.

Holy frickin Toledo. I couldn’t believe it. But I did not take a moment more to question it. Keep in mind, this process took nearly 45 minutes. If you can recall, though I claimed when I left the table it was the last time I saw her that night, what I really meant was that it was the last moment I spent with her that night. For those of you who don’t know, I am very easy to see in a crowd, and vice versa it is very easy for me to see others in the crowd. So naturally through my wandering I saw her in passing, but only to the extent that assured each of us that the other was still in the vicinity. I returned to the club now 45 minutes later, with the sole interest of finding her, and calling it a night, with my anal virginity still in check.

One problem. She was no longer there. I searched the club for almost 30 minutes, considered calling her, only to realize she didn’t have it on her because it cost something like five dollars a minute. Still rushing with excitement/ terror from my bout with the federals, the last thing I wanted was yet another conflict on an already horrid night. I walked back to the hotel, if you do recall it required a cab ride going there, common on this trip, and returned to an empty hotel room sometime near three in the morning. This recollection is not derived from a mental image of the alarm clock on the night stand, rather a logical deduction based on the evening’s course of events. My first thought, as it would be most anyone’s first thought,

“Who’s that whore sleeping with now?”

After a few moments lying in bed, and by a few I mean, one Mississippi, two Miss…. I was out light.

In case you had about enough, this is where the story gets interesting.

You see when I’m drunk — let me rephrase that — when I’m hammered, and passed out, I am an unmovable object. That is not to say that I am without movement, or without words. I have been known to utter some of the most unrecognizable and illogical gibberish known to man. For example, and keep in mind in this example I was awake; in trying to convince my two friends that I was okay to drive, I looked one of them in the eye and said,

“I support 98% of my students, of course I can drive.”

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