I could not believe my predicament, but at least there was that 20-something hottie from San Fernando

In August 1996, I returned to the University of Southern California two weeks prior to classes starting in order to get a head start on the raucous debauchery that the impending Fall semester would bring. Upon arrival to Los Angeles from my home in Maryland I got settled into my apartment and cruised down to my fraternity to see what was going on. Lo and behold I ran into my good friend Craig. Craig is a sure thing when seeking a drinking buddy. And on this day, he was willing to share his case of beer with me. After several hours of Beer Die and Foosball we were completely shit-housed. In the midst of our drunken euphoria we devised an ingenious idea of flying down to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico for a couple days.

Let me digress; Cabo San Lucas is a beautiful resort town in Mexico where the beer is cheap and the women are easy. Convient it is the preferred vacation spot for USC students on Spring Break. During our previous trip to Cabo the previous March, our entire fraternity had an incredible time. We had the benefit of a really generous alumnus who let us crash at his palatial mansion about 12 miles north of Cabo--this place was fu**ing ridiculous. It easily accommodated 45 people, was right on the ocean, had multiple pools, had multiple bars and to top it all off, every fridge was stocked with beer.

It was decided. We would fly down and crash at the palatial mansion for a couple days. This generous alumnus offered us the use of his house “anytime.”

The following morning I was pretty sure that all our talk last night had been drunken rhetoric. To my amazement Craig showed up bright and early with two other buddies, Jerry and Randy. I threw some clothes and flip-flops in a carry-on and we made our way out to the airport. On the car ride there I contemplated faking injury or even death in order to get out of the trip, but, after several shots of tequila (which Randy so graciously brought with him) I started feeling all right. Once we arrived at LAX and purchased our extremely costly airplane tickets, we boarded the plane and continued drinking. To me it felt as though we had never stopped drinking from the previous night. After an uneventful flight, we hailed a cab and made our way out to the mansion where we continued drinking. By this time I was feeling no pain and really getting into the party mood. It must have been about 7pm when we started making preparations for going into town. Jerry and Randy were ready to go as I struggled to put on my clothes. Nothing too flashy, just new Adidas Gazelles, khaki shorts and a nice new t-shirt. Sadly, Craig was drunker than a skunk on Christmas and would not budge. We left him passed out right on the lawn and the three of us hopped in one of the Suburbans (this guy owns a fleet of them for use by his houseguests).

After the 20-minute ride we rolled into town. Where was everybody? Unfortunately we learned first hand that in August the town is full of elderly (and I mean elderly) people, families on vacation and cruise ship riders in town only for the day. Our dismay didn’t last long once we hit El Squid Row.

By this time (close to 10pm), I was flat out drunk. Out of nowhere I ran into some high school schmuck from LA who was down with his parents. Why the fuck I even talked to this guy is beyond me. Usually I wouldn’t go drinking with random high schoolers in Mexico – Honest! This guy did have money though and was willing to buy all the beer, which was key. So, not being one to turn away free drinks I started telling him all about my college exploits. Well it became painfully obvious that the night was going nowhere at Squid Row so we headed over to Cabo Wabo to see about the action there. Not much better but the tequila tasted incredible.

Sometime around 1:00, I decided I needed to go find Randy and Jerry for the ride back to the house. I had ditched them at Squid Row. Fortunately, I remembered where the Suburban was. I made the 5-minute walk in about 20 minutes of staggering and found it where we left it. Completely satisfied and content with my drunken stupor, I sat my ass on the curb and decided to wait for the guys to return. Unfortunately I chose to pass out on the street. The next thing I know, I’m being led into the police station in handcuffs, completely sure that I will be brutally ass raped in no time. I do a quick check for my wallet, watch, and gold necklace with cross and find that the wallet and watch are gone. Alas, the corrupt asshole police are religious and didn’t take my necklace.

I have no idea what time it was when I was thrown in the jail cell but I’m guessing it was near 2 am. The jail was setup with a reception desk and three cells (at least as much as I can tell). There was one large cell (which I was in) and two smaller cells. People in the small cells could easily talk to people in the large cell through the bars. Besides being thrown into a Mexican Jail, the Old Man upstairs was smiling down on me, as there were no other people in the large cell with me. However there was one person in one of the smaller holding cells. At this point I figured I needed to sit down and figure out what the hell I was going to do. Having never been in this situation but heard of other people’s similar predicaments with Mexican Law, I was worried. Oh, and I fortuitously took six year of French instead of Spanish! After about 30 minutes of pondering on my most nefarious situation, I asked the compadre in the small holding cell if he spoke any English. Holy shitballs – to my amazing luck the guy could have been a fucking English teacher for the love of God. We exchange stories like long lost friends and, I shit you not, find out his name is Santana and he is in the clink for murder!

After I shat all over myself and come to the realization that we’re separated by two sets of bars and furthermore, he was a nice guy, we got to talking. Turns out he had been sent up for a murder he didn’t commit (like everyone else in prison) and was being transferred to the regional jail in La Paz the next day. Quickly realizing that he is my only key to translating anything to the bastard cops I make a deal with him. I tell him I’ll give him my brand new clothes and shoes in exchange for him negotiating my way out of jail. He tells me he’ll do it for the clothes and two cartons of cigarettes. DEAL! Santana goes to town on the cops. Our basic argument was that they already had my 500-dollar Citizen Divemaster watch and my wallet. Well, the fine was like $2,000 dollars. (That seems like a completely fair price to pay for sleeping on the sidewalk.) Turns out they won’t release me until I pay it. So I spout off the rich alumni’s name (who will remain nameless for his sake) and tell the cops that I’m staying at a palatial mansion up the road and that I can get him any amount of money he wants. After a good hour of tense negotiation, Santana is able to get the bastard cops to capitulate and agree to drive me up the road to the mansion where I will pay off the rest of my fine.

Ahhhhhhh! Sweet freedom. The cops open up the cell and I quickly make for the door. However not before Santana reminds me of the deal for the clothes. Quickly I disrobe and hand him my t-shirt, shorts, shoes and socks. Imagine me, naked in a Mexican prison wearing nothing but boxer shorts. Santana, being the kind and generous man that he is hands me his clothes. For a shirt, I get a sweaty dank pink tank top, size XXXL. For shorts I get nasty blue jeans shorts, waist size 28 (I wear a 34). For shoes I get a pair of pink Converse Chuck Taylor’s, Size 9 (I wear a 13). Holding my vomit for how disgusted I am, I thank Santana and tell him that I’ll return the next day with his cigarettes. On the way out they turn back my wallet, all money missing but credit card and driver’s license present. They do not, however, return my fucking watch.

We get in the dilapidated cop car (late 1970’s Ford Mustang), which is decorated with shit everywhere, including the Virgin Mary on the dashboard. I’m not making this shit up. I think the car belonged to the cop who was being the kind gentleman to drive me to the house so I could pay him off. I was wearing clothes that hadn’t been washed in years and the only thing I wanted to do is get the f**k out of Mexico and back to LA. After the short 12-mile drive, we arrived at the mansion. I somehow remember the security code to get in. I race into the house and search frantically for Craig. After the 5th or 6th bedroom I find him passed out. As luck would have it, Craig speaks fluent Spanish. I wake him up violently and tell him the story from the night making sure to let him know there is a corrupt asshole Mexican Cop waiting outside for bribe money. Craig being the good friend is infuriated. He runs out into the drive and starts jabbering off Spanish, yelling at the cop. Next thing you know the cop is hightailing it out of the driveway getting the fuck out of dodge. I triumphantly hug Craig and pick him up bear hug style. He is not amused, especially considering the clothes I was wearing. Being hungover and tired he tells me we’ll talk about it in the morning and goes to sleep. I however have to bathe immediately.

I strip down in the foyer and leave the clothes in a smelly heap. I take a shower for an hour. I wash my body 5 times. I leave no stone left unturned. If there had been a bottle of bleach at my disposal, I would have used it. By this time the sun is rising in the East over the Sea of Cortez and I pass out.

The next afternoon I awake and find Craig, Randy and Jerry drinking beer and laughing at my situation. I tell them the entire story in full detail and crack open a cold Pacifico determined to make my vacation worth it. That night in town I take it easy, keep my eye out for the police and to my good fortune end up hooking up with a 20-something year old chick from the San Fernando Valley. The brief sojourn ended up turning out all right after all.