A Bridge in Tijuana

Mark Howard

 

Just south of the border crossing a pedestrian bridge spans the dry bed of the river. Every day thousands pour across the bridge to and from their jobs in San Diego. At each end they must walk up or down a ramp with a switchback. During peak hours, in the morning and late afternoon, vendors position themselves here.

The churro stand is almost always located at the top of the west ramp, where it can be wheeled into downtown between the two rush hours. The vendor’s greasy T-shirt displays his obesity. If there is no line, he fries the churros to order and rolls them in coarse sugar before breaking them in half and handing them to the customer in a small white paper bag. During the busiest hours he fries churros continuously and keeps several bags ready, because the customers don’t want to wait, and they taste almost as good. A bag costs twelve pesos. Broken ends and bits that he can’t sell he gives to the children that sell gum.

An evangelical preacher divides his time between the two ramps, the west ramp in the morning and the east ramp in the evening. He favours the height of the crunch, when the mass of people completely fills the passageway. Pressed against the concrete wall, holding his bible aloft in one hand, he gesticulates with the other, proclaiming “Jesucristo solamente!” at the people shuffling past on their way to or from work.

On a breathless September night a beggar appears. He lowers himself to the pavement not far from the churro stand. The churro vendor hardly notices him until, holding a cup out to passersby, he intones, “Los santos en la iglesia son cosas del diablo! Los dios antiguos mejicanos son los verdados!” The old man repeats this like an impassioned rosary, holding the cup out as if its truth is sure to win him alms. Some ignore him or shake their heads and keep walking. Others stop. They stand, staring down at him as if something must be done. A woman in high heels steps forward, bends over, and spits into the cup. The old man doesn’t react. She goes on her way. Someone applauds.

The churro vendor leaves his stand. He doesn’t like bad things happening on his bridge. As he joins the others he recognizes the look in the beggar’s eyes. “Es loco,” he assures them, “He’s crazy.” Everyone agrees. They move on, but the beggar keeps up his chant and more stop.

Someone tells the preacher. He comes hurrying across the bridge. He takes up position about five meters along the wall from the beggar and starts thundering against the Antichrist. For several minutes he drowns the beggar out, but he can’t keep it up, and few of the people around the old man come over to him. He stops, glaring at the beggar, then launches forth again.

A man in the crowd ostentatiously opens his wallet and holds out a hundred-peso bill. Grinning, he folds it into the cup. Another man snatches it out, wads it up, and tosses it to the ground. The two men argue. “Can’t you see he’s crazy?” “Then why are you encouraging him?” “He has to eat too—or not?” The old man intones, sonorous with despair, “son los verdados.”

A man holds up a phone. He wants to get the whole mantra on video. The crowd noise irritates him. He snaps at everyone to be quiet.

A girl kneels beside the old man and takes a selfie.

Youths come dribbling a soccer ball up the ramp. They hear the beggar, stop, and burst out laughing. One of them drives the ball against the wall, seeing how close he can come to the old man. The crowd moves back. The youths are gang members or brothers of gang members. They skirmish with the ball. It flies out and hits the old man in the head.

The preacher senses his moment. He proclaims, “The Lord enjoins that we shall love our enemies!”

The biggest youth grins. “Right, grandpa, that’s why we love everyone.” He jerks the old man’s head up. “How can we help, señores? We can heave him over the side, or—” He takes out a cigarette lighter.

Somewhere cars honk.

The youth stares around in contempt. He lets go of the old man, kicks the ball down the bridge, and runs after it. The others follow, shouting and laughing as if nothing has happened.

People turn off the cameras on their phones. The old man tries to resume his chant, but his voice is slurred.

The churro vendor closes up early. He locks down the lid of the frying vat and folds up the sides of the stand. His T-shirt sticks to his belly.

The preacher hesitates. He starts to go up to the old man, then turns away. He must concentrate on the few who can be saved.

The churro vendor’s prayer is answered. The old man doesn’t appear on the bridge again. In one of the pics uploaded to the internet, he is transparent, ghost-like. It’s been photoshopped.

 

Mark Howard is a retired architectural technician. He grew up in San Diego, across the border from Tijuana, and now resides in Burnaby, British Columbia (on the other border). Mark has published stories in several literary journals. He has a special interest in the social impact of technology.