Mexico - 7. Chapter 7 of 16

After a while, we did talk. Very slowly at first. Again, about easy stuff.
“Could you check the map?” I asked. “See if we’re still on the right highway?” “Make sure this is the main road?”
It was always branching, often without signs. The day before, I’d made a half-dozen long, wrong turns.
“Couldn’t you get a smaller map?” Mark asked me at one point. He was again unfolding the one I’d bought. It was the size of a small family room. But Triple A didn’t have a compact book of maps, and I’d wanted detail.
We’d gone slightly wrong, and once he got us back on the right highway, we moved to occasional conversation. We’d pass a house or a farm, and he’d ask about it. Of course, neither of us had answers, so sometimes we’d stop to explore.
“Do you want to?” he’d say, and I quickly learned this was his signal for “I’d like to.” Mine was, “It might be interesting.”
I was afraid of chatting aimlessly. It would make Mark’s leaving Anne seem too unimportant. Which I’m sure he knew.
When I pulled over, we’d poke around. Several times, we bought snacks. Once, I bought a newspaper.
“I can’t really read it,” I reminded him. “But it’s good to try.”
I knew better than ask him anything personal. Mostly, I couldn’t forget Anne’s face as we drove away. I’m sure I looked the same to Chris.
And even when Mark did ask something, he was surprisingly private for a guy who’d just jumped into a stranger’s car.
“Were you always from Iowa?” he asked.
“No, I grew up in Ohio.”
“O-hi-a,” he repeated, gently mocking my tiny accent.
“Actually, I was born in Massachusetts. Greenfield. But we only lived there a few months.”
And where you’d normally trade information, Mark volunteered nothing.
“You always live in LA?” I had to ask.
He was leaning back in his seat. It was slanted as far as it could go. His knees were bent, his feet were up on the dashboard, and he’d taken off his socks and shoes.
“You know about Palo Alto,” he said.
“For more than law school?”
He shook his head.
“I went to college in Ohio,” I pushed on. “Northeast of Dayton.”
He didn’t ask for the school’s name.
“Then I went to Michigan. Ann Arbor. For grad school. Both degrees.”
“Not too shabby,” he said.
“But very academic.”
He nodded but again offered nothing. I’m sure he would have answered specific questions, but I’d let time do its job.
“I went to college in Pennsylvania,” he finally offered.
“Penn?” I asked.
“Penn State.”
“Not shabby, either,” I joked. And he smiled.
Later he added, “I grew up in Pennsylvania, too. A small town no one’s heard of. South of Pittsburgh.”
“I’ve got relatives near there,” I mentioned. “On my dad’s side.”
But Mark didn’t volunteer the town’s name. Instead, he asked. “How’d you get to Iowa?”
I laughed. “Luck.”
“What do you mean?”
I had to explain. “The usual way in academics. You apply for a hundred jobs. You get one interview. You don’t screw that up, they give you the job.”
“Iowa City?”
It might have been the only college town he’d heard of in the state. Everyone knew the Hawkeyes.
“Cedar Falls,” I had to admit.
Chris would have liked Iowa City. Hell, I would have liked it. But Cedar Falls was better than Dubuque.
I was just about to tell Mark about Chris. Not the hard stuff. Nothing that would make him start comparisons with Anne. Just to let him know I was gay.
It seemed important, but I didn’t want to make it a big thing. Just wanted to acknowledge it casually.
As I started, Mark saw something along the road. An old adobe house. Abandoned. Without a roof. We stopped and looked around. There were signs of people but more of bugs and animals. I kicked at the dirt, and Mark prodded a wall. Then, soon after we got back in the car, he fell asleep.
He woke abruptly, then said, “Sorry, I really didn’t sleep last night.” Then he was out again.
It was almost noon, and we’d gone less than a hundred and fifty miles. Friends had warned me that you didn’t get very far in Mexico, at least not very quickly. “It’s why cars are always passing you,” they’d cautioned. “Why everyone drives so badly. They all get so frustrated, going nowhere.”
I was always following a line of traffic, even on a four-lane road. There were old trucks. Older cars. Ancient buses. All moving like elephants.
I occasionally glanced at Mark, to see if he was awake. I almost pulled over at one point. Told him to fold down the back seat. Open the mattress. Sleep more comfortably. But I really didn’t want to drive if he was going to doze. What was the point of having an adventure if you were going to sleep right through it?
My plan the first day was to get a couple hundred miles into the country. Past all the places where bands played “Sunrise, Sunset.” I guessed Guaymas wasn’t far enough.
Or maybe it was the exception. A pocket surrounded by the real Mexico. Though what was the real United States? New York? LA? Cedar Falls?
It was harder being gay in Cedar Falls than it had been in Ann Arbor. Though it was easier there than growing up near Dayton. I hadn’t pushed my parents into accepting it in high school, but I’d started seeing guys then. I had sex with a couple of girls, too, mainly to see what that was like. But I dreamed of guys, so who was I kidding?
My first serious relationship, in college, was with a teacher. He was my freshman English prof, after I’d finished the course. He was cute. Way too intense. A little short. But I made sure to bring him home for Easter. After that, I was always bringing guys home. And maybe all those short relationships my parents never entirely understood made it easier for Chris.
Everyone liked Chris. He couldn’t have been friendlier. He even went to church with my parents, which was more than I did, at least willingly.
It was strange going to church with Chris. “What are you?” he’d asked, soon after we met. “Not Catholic.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“You’ve got all the wrong reflexes.”
“I’m not anything, really. A Christmas Christian.”
It was an old joke, but he didn’t buy it. “What church do your parents go to?” he’d asked.
“Lutheran. That’s what I was brought up.”
“Methodist,” he offered in exchange. Though in Ann Arbor we went to a gay church.
I didn’t go a lot. Again, mainly at holidays. And for parties -- I liked the people. And I liked never having to explain I was gay.
I hadn’t done that for a long time. I’d just drop Chris into a conversation, and when somebody asked, “Who’s that?” I’d say, “My partner.” They knew what it meant.
But now there was no Chris. No ring on my finger.
And maybe we should have broken up sooner, but it had all been so easy. In undergrad and grad school, we were fine. Always busy, and not having to date was a relief. But when we hit Iowa, Chris was less busy, and that’s when he wandered.
“Should we move somewhere else?” I’d asked, trying to keep us together.
“No. I’m fine here,” he’d said. “I like my job.”
It wasn’t Iowa Chris wanted to leave. It was me. “We started too young, Phil.”
“I thought we were lucky.”
“Maybe. But no one we know has stayed together. Not this long. Gay or straight.”
I couldn’t deny that. And it wasn’t just different sex he wanted. If I’d walked into the house that day, found him, pulled off my own clothes, and joined the fun, he still would have wanted out.
“Why?” I’d asked.
He couldn’t explain. Which only seemed selfish. He was usually good with words.
I hated the fighting after that. And the solemn discussions. The negotiations.
“This won’t work,” he’d finally say.
“Why?”
“Oh, come on.”
Chris was a psychologist and good about feelings, too. He was a helper, but he wasn’t helping me.
A truck woke Mark. It pulled past us, screeched its brakes, and cut behind us again, seconds before hitting another car.
“Have I missed a lot?” Mark asked.
“A couple of near deaths.”
He laughed. “I’m better off sleeping.”
I grinned but wasn’t sure I meant it.
“How long have I been out?” he went on.
“I wasn’t keeping track. I took off my watch the day I left Iowa.”
He looked at his own watch. It was expensive, and I guessed it might have been a gift. For graduation? Law school? From his parents? Anne?
“We should stop,” he suggested. “You hungry?”
“Some.”
He seemed to be feeling better. Though even as I watched, he was suddenly staring out the windshield again. “You want to go back?” I almost asked.
Instead, he asked me, “You ever been married?”
This was the perfect time to talk about Chris. But I knew that wasn’t where Mark was headed.
“I’ve been engaged for two months,” he went on. “I know you asked that before, and I wouldn’t say. But it’s been too hard. And the last month’s been out of a soap.”
“What?”
“You know. TV.”
“I hate that stuff.”
“So do I, mostly. And so does Anne. You’ll hardly see us near a set, not even to watch movies. But it’s the only comparison I can make.”
“Why?”
“It’s been so extreme.”
I thought for a moment and wanted to say something useful. But I could only ask another question. “Did something change?”
Before he could answer, a car honked behind us. Repeatedly. Then the horn was held down. I slowed to let the guy pass, but he slowed, too, so I sped up. He hit the horn again.
“Someone’s crazy,” Mark mentioned.
We were both watching the guy in our mirrors. His car suddenly pulled alongside us, way too close to the one just ahead. Then he screamed, “Pull over! Moron!” And he slipped behind us again.
“Good English,” Mark commented.
And I pulled off the road. Maybe I’d been driving too cautiously because the car immediately sped ahead. As quickly, I remembered last night’s “dream,” and wondered why that guy -- clearly Mexican -- knew instinctively to speak English.
“He’ll get himself killed,” Mark told me after we’d stopped. He was opening the passenger door and getting out. Other cars zipped past us, several hands giving us fingers through separate windows. It made us laugh.
“Must be the American plates.”
Mark walked a short distance into the field. There wasn’t even a tree for him to stand behind. But facing away from me, he pissed.
I would never have done that. I would have stood close to my car, letting it half block me from view. When Mark finished, he turned and walked toward me, still confidently zipping up.
“Your turn,” he said. But I wasn’t about to piss in front of him. So I walked into the field, unzipped, and never felt so exposed. Of course, nothing happened. And when I came back too quickly, he laughed, knowing exactly why.
The rest of the afternoon, we drove lazily south. Passing through villages. Going by farms and houses and churches and markets. At one point, all traffic on a major north-south route was stopped by cows. Mark leaned out the window and mooed.
“Nice,” I said, laughing.
He grinned. “Thought it would make you feel at home.”
He was looser, but his moods could quickly change. On moment, he’d be smiling; the next, he was running his hands through his hair again, obviously thinking about Anne.
Mid-afternoon, we’d stopped and bought food from another local stand. As we ate, I talked indirectly about Chris.
“I kind of settled down too early, too,” I said. “I was only nineteen.”
Mark seemed curious but didn’t say anything.
“Of course, we weren’t really married. That’s kind of illegal. But we were still together.”
“How long?” he asked.
I told him.
“I might have lasted six years,” he admitted. “If there hadn’t been this pressure.”
“Anne want a big wedding?” I joked.
“That wasn’t the problem.” He looked at me, but hesitated. “The problem... the thing we talked about most… the thing we were never able to solve… was how soon she wanted to have kids.”
Fortunately, that wasn’t an issue with Chris and me. We talked about children. We wanted some and probably would have adopted eventually. But not for a while.
“Anne’s folks had theirs young,” Mark continued. “Mine, too -- and I’m the fourth of five. I’ve got endless nieces and nephews. So there were these expectations...”
“You feel too young to be a father?”
“Some days, I feel too young to dress myself.”
I laughed at that. But he just looked tense.
“I know what you mean.” I tried to sympathize. “And maybe I’m leaving things out… About my marriage…”
“What? That you’re gay?”
He just set it out there, and I knew I’d gotten through. Though it seemed the dumbest thing to have to mention.
“It’s no big thing,” he went on. Then he sighed, and I knew he wasn’t thinking about me. “I’m so fucked up,” he insisted.
I didn’t know what to say to that. I really didn’t know him. So soon, we were driving again.
Mark left his shoes off. He’d rolled his sleeves past his elbows and opened his shirt more as the day got warmer. He wasn’t wearing a T-shirt, and it was fun to glance at his chest. He seemed most relaxed when he was sleeping. He’d take off his sunglasses, carefully put them in the glove compartment, stretch back in his seat, and curl towards me, eyes closed. He’d almost be smiling.
After we ate, he slept again, and the next time he woke, he asked where we were.
“You’ll have to check the map,” I answered.
He tried. But town names were sometimes as hard to find as road signs. And we never really knew when we were in a village, or if we’d just passed a gathering of houses.
“How many miles have we gone?” he asked.
I was tracking that in both miles and kilometers. I wrote it down every time I got gas. Though we hadn’t needed any for a while.
I told him how far we’d gone, from Guaymas, but he still couldn’t find where we were on the map.
“It doesn’t matter,” I pointed out. “Since we aren’t going any place particular.”
He seemed comfortable with that. He folded the map, cleaned his sunglasses, pushed his feet up onto the dash, and asked, “You want to tell me about your partner?”
I laughed. I was being open, and he was being private, so it was easy for him to ask questions. Still, for him, the break-up had been recent.
“I met Chris in college,” I said. “We were working on some dumb committee, like something for homecoming. I was already out, but he wasn’t, and I guess I was very friendly. He liked that.”
Mark waited for me to go on.
“After that, I started seeing him. Around campus. In town. Sometimes, I just went looking for him. He wasn’t hard to find. The school wasn’t very large and soon, we were messing around. The first summer, Chris went to Italy, and I went home to work. But sophomore year, we shared an apartment.”
Mark laughed. “Yeah, I got off campus as soon as I could, too.”
“That’s from when we count the six years. We didn’t at first, but then one of our friends asked our anniversary, and we had to figure out something. Junior year, that summer, we went to London.”
“You like to travel.”
“Chris did. And it was cheap, as part of school. Though I still have the college loans.”
“Me, too. Every month, I write that check.”
“You pay for law school yourself?”
“Only a third. And I worked a lot, too. Did a lot of internships. That’s how I met Anne.”
They’d been living together for their two years in LA.
“We just hit it off,” he explained. “Laughing at the politics. The bureaucracy. There’s so much self-importance in law. But my folks were thrilled when I went to Stanford. Even when I got in. That’s what I was always aiming for.”
“Anne go to school there, too?”
“Nah. Wesleyan and Harvard. She wanted the East Coast to balance growing up in Los Angeles.”
I had to laugh. “You couldn’t be more different.”
Mark sighed. “Maybe. Then he asked. “What’s Chris like? Where’s he from?”
“New Jersey. New York. The suburbs. It may as well have been the city. He was always there.”
“And you had sophisticated Dayton.”
We both laughed at that, and then somehow figured out that we both wanted to stop. I’d told him a little about Chris. He’d told me more about Anne. How far did we need to go?
He took off his sunglasses, looked at me for a moment, then closed his eyes. I’m not sure he went back to sleep, but it was a while before he spoke again. I measured it in kilos.
“Looks like we’re losing the light,” he mentioned. “I know we’ve got some time, but shouldn’t we be looking for a place to stay?”
I had been looking but didn’t know what kind of hotel we needed. I hadn’t seen anything like the one in Guaymas, if that’s what he expected.
“What should I be looking for?” I finally asked.
He grinned. “Nothing special. One step up from a dump. I’m no longer a rich man.”
I smiled. “Great.”
“But let’s wait for a decent sized town,” he added on. “I really want to get drunk tonight.”