Burning Through IV - Stone Face, Toothy and Chicano

Burning Through


Some time around 9:00 am I am awoken by commotion. I have fallen asleep sitting on my pack, head in hands. I stand up and look to the bus counter.

There is a young confident bus ticket man issuing transfer tickets, he has a ticket writing female assistant. I watch his eyes. Do they reveal anything? I can’t recall such stone face confidence before. The twitch below his eye indicates there is emotional life inside, but other than that, he could be playing poker, and likely is with us. He is half Ricky Martin cute and half Al Pacino tough. Mid 30’s, early 40’s at best.

There is a crush of people at the counter and remarkably he is immune to the pressure. Desperate travelers like myself, everybody dependant on him to grant us a ticket. A desperate crush and he stands stone faced. Later on I will recognize the agenda. He serves the bus company and only wants to fill seats with pre purchased tickets to the furthest destinations - Guadalajara and Mexico City.

I am now at the counter, edging forward after two young women and their family, my early morning translators, get their tickets to Guadalajara. They are the second group to get their tickets.
I stand now, totally at the mercy of Stone Face; ocationally I receive a gesture that which indicates my Greyhound adventure will continue. These subtle nods are enough to keep me standing at the counter for hours. Too many hours.

I look around and see some of my LA bus terminal companions, several Mexicans I have had wordless communication with. Behind me, the beautiful grandfather, his tan olive skin and perfect teeth. I appreciated his conciliatory smiles when we were in LA, agreeing about bus terminal madness. Now we are in Tijuana, in line together again.

There are 2 young men. One Chicano, with shaved head, ball cap visor turned to the side, earrings on both sides with a black shadowed face. He and his road friend are trying to get to Mazatlan. They are going on a Christmas beach holiday.

Every time Stone Face swings through the door, Chicano desperately repeats ‘Mazatlan, Mazatlan.’ The door represents liberation, behind it is the escape zone. It’s where those who are granted tickets slip away from the crowds and crying babies. Beyond the door, each of us has a personal heaven, our ticket destination.

Chicano’s friend, a large guy, shaven head and a big toothy smile is leaning up against another bus ticket counter. He is keen on the young attendent. Perfect black hair, and dark suit, with tight black stockings, heavily massacred eyes cover the face of a 20 year old at most. Toothy is spending his idle time entertaining her. This makes his eyes happy. There is some kind of deal he and Chicano have worked out. Chicano is waiting in the line with me pleading his case, while Toothy spends his time exerting his Latino testosterone.

Chicano pulls a trick, his pleading tips a favor from Stone Face. He is now on his way to Mazatlan and Toothy has to drop the attendant and stand in line for himself. His toothy smile drops. This is not the scenario he worked out in his mind. Now he is a poor pleading campesino, like the rest of us. We wait. My resolve is weakening.