M3x1(0

By Duncan MacLeod

During the 1988 financial crisis in Mexico, even a mentally ill homeless American kid could live like a king. Book Three of the Psychotic Break Series takes Ethan south to Mexico. At the same time that Ethan is healing from his recent trauma, he is sowing the seeds of another disaster. The deeper into Mexico he journeys, the more he learns about who he is, what he likes, where he belongs, and what makes him feel better. Discarding psychiatric medicine, he self-medicates through the many types of alcohol, legal and illegal drugs he finds on his journey. Along his path, he meets Tae Kwan Do surfers, salary men, a shaman, several well-connected witches, a neurotic boxer and a romantically challenging clairaudient rich kid with a penchant for causing trouble.

Ethan grows and gains a more mature understanding of his own sexual identity and the crippling fear that prevents him from expressing it fully. Like any classic picaresque novel, he returns from his journey a changed man. M3X1(0 peels away the layers of shame and fear that shrouded Ethan in San Francisco,. He is free from one demon, only to meet a new and more dangerous one in a banana-flavored bottle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duncan MacLeod
• Release date: Mar 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370788880

Duncan MacLeod

I write adventure, magical realism, humor, LGBTQ and medical fiction to comfort the broken-hearted and help them laugh in the face of adversity.I’m the author of the Psychotic Break Series and the Agnes Series. I live in Southern California with my husband and our dog, Pepper.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE - 7H3 (R0551N9

I’m finally here! Mexico.

Across the threshold, I enter a long narrow passageway, emerging into an iron bar tunnel lined with tiny hands reaching and grasping for my pocket change, crying out Please mister! Quarter! Nickel! Penny! I am Catherine Deneuve in Repulsion. I expect more people to join me in this labyrinth, but I am the only one. Walking to Mexico is lonely.

At the end of the beggar’s maze, I enter a low-ceilinged fluorescent box of a station, where Mexican border police ignore me while they finish their conversation. It’s too fast for me to understand, but I hear some swear words and body parts. It’s a joke. Humor is the hardest to learn in a foreign language.

When they erupt in laughter, one bearded guy glances my way and motions me over. He asks, Where are you going in México? He pronounces it MEH-hee-Ko, which, I realize, is the correct pronunciation.

Palenque, to see the tomb of Pakal.

May I have your Driver’s License

He takes a grey form the size of a parking ticket and the texture of an index card from a stack in front of him, filling it in with the necessary information off my license. He returns it to me politely.

What is the purpose of your visit?

To see the tomb of Pakal.

He frowns at my answer, then says Tourist.

Do you have a permanent address where you will be staying?

Before I can say no he asks

What hotel will you be staying at?

I’m not sure yet. It’s true. I’m not sure.

Hilton Hotel, Zona Rosa, México, D.F. he says and winks at me before continuing, How long do you plan to stay?

Four weeks.

Okay, señor, that is the maximum, he says. Don’t stay past four weeks or there will be trouble on the way back.

Got it.

I am curious, so I ask, What do you guys do if I stay longer than 4 weeks?

What does México do? We don’t do anything. It is your great free country that will give you many problems on the way back.

I sense his sarcasm, stay quiet, nodding.

He stamps and initials the index card in two places before handing it to me

Señor, this is your tourist card, he says, Do not lose it.

I’m a scatterbrain, and I know it, so I ask, Let’s just say I DO lose it, what should I do?

You will need to go to the nearest immigration office and replace it.

I stuff the tourist card in an interior zippered compartment next to one of my cash stashes.

Anything else? I ask.

No. Have a good time. Stay out of trouble, there will be no problemas.

Oh, how do I get to the train station from here?

You missed the fast train. You should wait until morning.

I don’t think I can wait.

He sighs. You can take the burro at midnight, then. There is no first class, and it goes very slow. All the cars are marked second class, but they are third class, if you know what I mean.

Is it the same price?

He chuckles. No, it costs very little.

That’s my kind of train. How do I get there?

There are taxis waiting right out front. Take any one.

I didn’t realize Mexico has taxis. I don’t know why they wouldn’t; I have never seen one. They are a lot like San Francisco taxis, but grubbier.

A man in a polyester pantsuit with a turquoise pendant and a straw cowboy hat is the first taxi driver to reach me. His English is rehearsed.

Come this way, my friend. Where to?

To the train station, please. There is a brief pause, so I repeat myself in Spanish. A la estación ferrocarril, por favor.

My good Spanish surprises him a little. He switches to Spanish right away, relieved.

¿Toma el Burro?

Sí, el Burro.

Es mejor quedarse aquí por la noche y tomar el rápido en la mañana. Mi tío tiene un buen hotel donde puede pasar la noche. His uncle has a hotel. Great. I don’t want to go to the hotel, so I pretend I didn’t understand him and make my Spanish sound off a bit.

Ser gringo, no comprender. He switches back to English.

Don’t take the Burro, my friend. Stay tonight and catch the fast train tomorrow.

No, I am taking the Burro. I have to meet my friend Julia there. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to make up a friend.

Oh, she can stay too. You and your girlfriend won’t be happy on the Burro.

While this conversation drags on, I can see the lights of the railway station ahead.

Tengo diarrea. ¿Cuanto? Faking diarrhea is the only way out.

600 pesos. I calculate this is 17 cents. I give him 1,000. Keep the change.

I run down the street towards the railway station, holding my ass like I need to keep the diarrhea inside. Once I round the bend, I take my hand away and walk to the ticket counter.

One ticket to Guadalajara. The ticket vendor is not good with English.

To Guadalajara? Tomorrow morning, yes?

No, tonight.

The Burro?

What is it with these people and the Burro? ¡Sí! The Burro, por favor.

¿Seguro? He doesn’t want me to take the Burro.

Seguro. Un billete a Guadalajara, por favor.

He shakes his head and issues the ticket. 50,000 pesos, Señor.

I stagger at the price. 50,000?! Wait, I calculate in my head. That’s sixteen dollars.

I pull out five 10,000-peso notes and pay the man. He gives me the ticket. Midnight.

CHAPTER TWO - 7H3 8URR0

Long before midnight, a dark green train pulls into the station, expelling its passengers. There are a hundred people waiting to board. I join the throng and ask a nice lady if this is the Burro. She nods and points to the train.

The Burro is a dusty ramshackle affair. Each car is painted with the words Segunda Clase, reminding passengers they are all second-class citizens. In a movie theater, you wait until the popcorn is swept up before you enter and sit down. Not so on the Burro. Apparently, Mexicali doesn’t have the budget or the facilities to perform any cleaning operations. All the windows are open. The panes of glass are opaque with dirt and grime.

I marvel at the crowd climbing aboard. I see a Chinese family carrying their bags on poles slung across their shoulders like they were water buckets. An ancient woman and her wrinkled companion carry a cage full of chickens. Several Jehovah’s Witnesses join to carry an unwieldy literature rack. Mexicans here don’t look much like Mexicans up North. I don’t see any lowriders or cholos. No gangs here, I guess.

Most of the passengers wear handmade clothing, simple, but elegant. The grown men wear hats without exception. Most are straw cowboy hats, but some older guys have felt fedoras or gaucho style hats. I have no hat; nobody cares. My jeans look out of place among the lightweight linen and cotton drawstring pants. Yeah, I’m a gringo, and I know it.

Many women wear white sackcloth dresses embroidered at the neckline with spectacular colored designs reminiscent of a 1960’s psychedelic music poster. Huaraches are the shoe du jour. Fashion and haute couture have no place on the burro. Very few women wear makeup. I am a single marshmallow in a giant cup of hot cocoa.

The crowd follows a set of unwritten rules about how to enter the train. Lines form; gentlemen allow ladies to enter first. No one pushes, no one shoves. There is respect for one another and a calmness that is noticeably absent from buses and trains in San Francisco, where everyone wants to be first.

Once I step on board, I see dozens of empty seats facing randomly front or back. The seats are wide benches upholstered in red vinyl the color of oxblood. I watch as one cowboy pulls on the back of the bench, and it rises, then falls facing the opposite direction. These are convertible seats. We had these on the Boston-Concord line. The cowboy’s family can now sit facing one another.

To my surprise, they lift an ironing board-like plank hinged to the wall of the compartment and secure the single leg. They now have a table. That was not an option on the Concord train.

Travelling alone, I take a solo seat in a group of forward facing seats. I practice lying on my side to see how sleep will be. It’s not comfortable, but it beats the benches at the Greyhound depot. Checking my Hello Kitty watch, I see it’s still only 11:30, Mexicali time. Before I forget, I change it ahead to Mountain time. I have a while to get my bearings. Sleep tugs at my skirts, and I put my head against the compartment wall to catch a cat-nap.

I wake up when the train starts to roll. Sitting across from me is another white guy playing solitaire on a table. He grins and says, Dude, you were out cold. I hope you don’t mind. He’s excusing himself for converting my solo bench into a conversation nook. The compartment has filled up and there are no spare seats.

Not wanting to appear rude, I reply Of course not. while I take in the guy, his stuff, and the rest of the compartment.

Mario. He extends his hand and I shake.

Ethan.

Ethan? Cool name. I got a surfing buddy named Ethan. His accent and his smile are both very San Diego. You can tell because he pronounces the word cool as kill.

Mario leans forward and whispers, Dude, do you speak Spanish?

I nod my head and he punches the air above his head and cries Yes!

I ask, Do you?

Not a fucking word, bro. There is a momentary silence and then he adds, Well like grácias and burrito and taco and por favor, but that’s pretty much it. Oh, and cerveza and ‘donde está el baño?’

I chuckle, and he smiles, pleased that I liked his joke.

The train has picked up its pace, but it is still going turtle slow. There is only the hint of a breeze coming in the window. I could jump off, run ahead a mile, and wait to jump back on again.

I am curious about my newly imposed traveling companion. I look at him and judge the cover of his book. He wears white khakis and a Kennington terry cloth shirt. His nails are clean, and his blond hair is long but well-maintained. His face is not ugly, nor is it very handsome. He has deep-set blue eyes and a bit of a pug nose. Still, based on recent events, I am aware he might not be real. I haven’t worked out a reliable test for that, so who cares? I want to learn more about him.

Mario, how far are you going? Guadalajara?

He shakes his head, Nope, going to Mazatlán. Gotta bro there who rents out surfboards. Staying with him.

Mario, what do you do in San Diego?

Whoa, dude, I didn’t tell you I was from San Diego. How did you know?

I’m psychic. And you have a San Diego accent. So, what do you do?

I’m a Tae Kwon Do instructor. Red belt.

So almost a black belt. Wow.

Yup. What about you, Ethan?

I was dreading this question. Mario seems like he wouldn’t care, so I lay it on him.

I just ran away from the mental health system in San Francisco and I’m on welfare.

Mario shrugs. Yeah, but what do you do?

His response surprises and delights me, but I don’t have an answer. I shake my head and shrug.

Still working it out, huh? Maybe this trip will help you. Hey, you’re a psychic right? Can you read me?

Maybe tomorrow. My psyche is worn out right now. Plus, I didn’t bring my cards.

No problem. I can wait.

I look at his deck of Bicycle playing cards. I suppose I could read those when I feel better.

Playing cards? That’s some dank gypsy shit.

In San Diego, ‘dank’ no longer describes a mildewy basement; it means ‘cool’ there.

The conductor walks by carrying a tray of ice cold beer bottles.

Mario taps him and says Cerveza. to the conductor. Then asks me How do you say I want two beers?

Dos cervezas por favor. The conductor picks up two bottles, then places the top of the first bottle under the bottom the second. He twists, and the cap comes off. Then he does the reverse before handing them to us. Dos mil pesos.

Mario looks helpless. What did he say?

Two thousand pesos.

Mario fumbles in his wallet and pulls out two 1,000-peso notes which he gives to the conductor, along with a 500-peso coin from his bag. The conductor hands back the coin and shakes his head to indicate he can’t accept tips, then continues down the corridor, shouting ¡Cerveza!

Mario picks up one bottle and checks the underside. He shows it to me. It has an indentation shaped like a beer cap.

Cool, a built-in bottle opener.

Cool? That’s fucking ingenious! He picks up the second bottle and hands it to me. I don’t have time to protest before he holds up his bottle and says, Cheers. To a fantastic journey. We clink bottles and I guzzle the ice-cold beer, allowing it to mix with the remnants of my Cogentin and the last of my lithium. By the fourth sip, I feel quite a buzz. You’re not supposed to mix meds with alcohol, but who gives a fuck? I feel great.

Mario orders two more beers the next time the conductor walks by. I can’t have another, so he drinks them both. He gets into a happy drunk haze.

Ethan, dude, you’re fuckin’ cool. I’m proud of you for walking away from all the psychiatric bullshit. This is all the therapy you need right here.

I’m buzzed enough to join him in drunken ramblings.

And what about you, Mario? Coming to a country where you don’t even speak the fucking language and taking a train. And kicking ass with Tae Kwon Do? Fucking excellent.

Mario appreciates the compliment.

I have an idea. Hey, Mario. Don’t judge me or think I’m weird, but could I touch your face?

Why?

I promise it will only be a second. I just need to check my hand. It sounds absurd, but Mario shrugs and nods his assent.

I reach across the ironing board table and pinch his cheek. It’s real. Mario exists. He’s not my type or anything, but he’s real, which is good.

Thanks, bro. I won’t bother you again.

Mario smiles and says, It’s chill.

My eyes grow heavy and before I know it, I’m sound asleep.

CHAPTER THREE - P4N1(

I awake with a gasp. Sunlight is pouring into the cabin. I was having a bad dream where I was fighting a giant squid in the Gulf of California, and it turned out to be my mom. Fuck fuck fuck! I forgot to call her, and I was supposed to go see Grandma Joan with her yesterday. I envision pandemonium, screaming, gnashing of teeth. Counselors have to call police to haul her away. And that’s the best-case scenario.

A conductor passes by and I ask him when the next stop will be.

Puerto Peñasco.

¿Hay teléfono a Puerto Peñasco?

No señor. El próximo teléfono sería a la estación de Hermosillo.

Okay, so the next train station with a pay phone is going to be Hermosillo. I don’t have much change, but Mario has a ton of coins which I offer to buy from him.

No sweat dude, you can have all my coinage if you read my cards. He plops down the playing cards in front of me. I agree to give him a reading when my head is clear, and he hands me a half pound of coins in various sizes and denominations. He got them on various trips to Tijuana.

I need to look at the map to see where we are. I am overcome with a sense of dread when I see how little progress we made. There’s still Heróica Caborca before Hermosillo.

The conductor passes by again. I buy us a couple of beers and ask him when we should arrive in Hermosillo.

He shrugs and tells me this is the Burro, so it won’t be on time.

Si, pero ¿a que hora piensa Ud. que llegue? I used the subjunctive there, but I’m not sure that was correct. Grammar works best when you let it flow through you without stopping to worry.

En mi estimación, a las siete de la noche. Pero puede ser mucho más tarde.

So, he thinks it will be 7pm. I take huge gulps from my beer. I need to calm down. I pop a Cogentin and wash it down with beer.

Mario looks at me askance and grins.

Dude, chill out. Your mom won’t be any more pissed off at 7pm than she is right now.

I pop a second Cogentin and order another round of beers.

The panic subsides, so now I can concentrate on the reading. I search through the deck and pull out the Jack of Diamonds. I place him aside. I begin with the standard divination question, Do you have a question?

Mario nods in the affirmative.

Do you want to share the question with me, or do you prefer to keep it private?

Will it still work if I don’t tell you?

Yes. What I don’t tell him is that his reluctance to share the question makes the reading easier. Before I start, I need you to promise me something.

What’s that?

I have the gift of second sight, which is cool. But it can freak people out or cause a lot of emotions to surface. So please promise to remember I am the messenger, not the message. Say it.

You’re the messenger, not the message.

Great. Thank you, Mario. Please concentrate on your question while I get the reading laid out.

I pick up the pack and shuffle the way my Great Uncle Al taught me, a riffle with the cascade finish. Mario is impressed. Dude, you are a pro.

Cards run in my family. After seven riffle/cascades, I randomize a bit further with two overhand shuffles. Then I slap the deck down in front of Mario and ask him to cut it into three piles, using his dominant hand. He’s right handed. That gives me a ton of extra information about how he thinks and views the world, but a magician never reveals his secrets, at least not while he’s performing his parlor tricks.

I hold my hand over each of the three stacks, then choose the first stack, which gave off the most energy. Tarot is a combination of parlor tricks and real psychic intuition. It’s not real, but neither is it bullshit.

I don’t have the energy for a full Celtic cross, not after two Cogentin. So, I’ll give him a three card. Less is usually more anyway.

The Jack of Diamonds is a physically adept young man. Mario is a red belt, so the card matches his energy. I place the Jack in the center of the table and say, This is you, the person asking the question.

Why the Jack?

You’re young. And Diamonds are for athletic guys.

The court cards work great as significators. During the reading, I prefer the numbered cards. The court cards landing in a spread can get ugly if you choose to treat them as a person. You spend half the time trying to guess who it could be. The numbers are straightforward and get to the heart of the matter. I lay three cards face down, the middle card covering the Jack.

The first card is the recent past and its influence on your current surroundings, I say, turning over the three of spades. Interesting.

Why? What does it mean?

Not until they are all upright. The second card is the present, all the influences surrounding you both above and below, and there’s the four of hearts. Bingo. I lay the card back down on top of the Jack. This last card is the future. Fuck, it’s a queen of clubs. I hate that card.

To buy a little time, I say, Okay, this is good. Let me concentrate so I can pick up on the subtle energies influencing the reading. I close