The Kings Of Cool

90

Kim walks toward the border check like any number of American teenagers who go to Tijuana for a day of drinking and then come back to San Diego over the pedestrian bridge at the San Ysidro crossing.

Medical tape is wrapped around her rib cage, holding the bags of cocaine firmly under her breasts. Slimmer, smaller packets-still valuable-are taped to the insides of her thighs.

She had stood, humiliated, in her bra and panties inside a house while the Mexican abuelas taped the packets to her body. Mentally, she removed herself from the scene, trying not to feel their hands on her, or the eyes of the drug trafficker who stared at her with undisguised lust.

I am a princess, she told herself, being prepared for a ball

No

I’m a high-fashion model and they are fussing over last-minute details before I go out on the runway, and the man is

A photographer, studying how he can best capture my beauty, my essence for his camera, and finally they were done and she pulled the loose-fitting peasant blouse over her head and slipped back into the jeans and the women stroked and patted her until they were satisfied that the packets could not be seen or even easily felt, and then she put on her tennis shoes and hefted the cheap canvas bag over her shoulder.

Doc told her that most kids might slip a couple of joints or a bag of cheap ditch weed into the bottom of their bags, and that’s what the customs guys will be looking for.

“If they search anything, they’ll search the bag,” Doc said. “When they see that it’s clean, they won’t do a body search.”

Say what you will about Doc, he makes the kids go to school.

The leering drug trafficker drove her out near the border crossing, and now she walks toward the checkpoint and tries to control her fear.

The truth is she’s terrified.

Despite Doc’s reassurances.

“You won’t get caught,” he said, “but if you do, you’ll spend a few weeks-maybe-in juvenile hall.”

Now in the pedestrian line at the checkpoint she balances a few weeks in juvenile hall against the pair of Charles Jourdans and tells herself that she made the right choice, but she’s still frightened and knows that’s a bad thing.

“They look for signs of nerves,” Doc told her. “Sweating, fidgeting. Whatever you do, don’t touch yourself, like, to make sure the packets are still in place. They will be. Keep your hands away from your body. Just act natural.”

(Doc doesn’t know

Kim doesn’t know that she’s spent her entire life so far trying not to act natural.

Nature is a cave

Nature is dirty.)

Now there are only two people in front of her. She shifts her weight onto one hip, posturing a teenager’s impatience.

“If you get caught,” Doc said, “which you won’t, they’ll ask you who gave you the drugs. Just say that some Mexican guys approached you on the street and offered you money and you couldn’t resist the temptation.”

“How much money?” Kim, always pragmatic, asked.

“Five hundred dollars,” Doc said.

They were going to meet you at the trolley stop at the main train station in San Diego. You were going to go into the ladies’ room stall, give the dope to a woman there, and get paid.

Now she rehearses the story in her head.

Some Mexican men came up to me on Avenida Revolucion. One of them was named Miguel. He offered me five hundred dollars. That’s so much money-I’m a waitress. I went into the bathroom of a restaurant with his girlfriend-I think she said her name was Rita-and she taped the drugs to me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ve never done anything like this. I’ll never do it again, I swear. Ever.

Only one person ahead of her now.

She feels her heart race.

She thinks about turning around, going back.

Then the customs agent waves her forward.