MEX/US border crossing at Otay Mesa.

No paper in the car so I write teeny-tiny on the last blank pages of my Jack Kerouac paperback. We all have to pee real bad—it hurts. I suggest the pink keg cup left over from the party: crouch down behind the passenger’s seat, a beach towel wrapped around and take a leak. So slow we see everything—la línea con los Mexicanos. Vendors sell day old churros, clamatos chakas con pulpo, tejuino, diablitos y bolis de rompope. Horns honk from all directions. Stress levels rising in anguish. We’re all stuck to the seat, right shoulders burning. El Super advertises new skivvies and blow pops. Some abandon their trucks to go shopping. I say keep cool, turn up the jams! with the windows down, no air conditioning—we save gas, breathe fumes.  I pee in that pink plastic cup filling it to the brim with strawberry lemonade—it’s hot!—pour it out the car door crack—blood & urine steaming on to Mexican asphalt.

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