Crazy for the Storm by Norman Ollestad

I said.
    We danced together after you went to sleep, he said. Her perfume must’ve got on me.
    Where was her husband?
    He danced too.
    Yeah sure, I thought.
     
    The next morning we disembarked in Mazatlán and the sage was gone, replaced by jungle. The jungle crawled across the hills and was deep green and smelled of wet earth. This is Mexico, I thought.
    We took the highway south and drove out to the first point we came to. A blond surfer, clearly an American, was waxing up his board.
    Guard the truck, said my dad and jogged across the beach and spoke to him.
    When my dad returned he looked excited.
    The guy thinks the waves will get good today from a hurricane off the coast. What do you say we drive for a couple hours and then surf?
    Is it going to get big?
    Maybe. But we’ll surf a point. Just stay on the inside.
    At the last point break there was no inside section where I could ride the smaller waves. I brought this to my dad’s attention.
    That was unique, he said.
    He patted my leg and shut my door and went around to the driver’s side.
    The road veered inland and I anticipated it veering back toward the coast. I moved to the edge of the seat, waiting for the moment when we’d see the big waves, not wanting them to catch me by surprise. My dad whistled a tune I had heard him play on his guitar and he told me it was Merle Haggard. He jiggled his shoulders and lifted his voice. It was out of sync with the forlorn lyrics and it seemed like maybe he was trying to hide sadness. Or maybe he was fine. There was no way to read him. He was walled off in his own world. I hated not knowing what he was feeling, not having a barometer to look to. Unable toexpress my aloneness, I felt tied up, and I sat there picking the scab on my elbow.
     
    My dad reached across my body and braked hard, his skin peeling off the vinyl as I banged against the passenger’s door. Next to a roadblock made of sandbags and a two-by-four stood a young man in a military uniform that was several sizes too big for him. He waved a white flag.
    Shit, said my dad.
    What?
    Nothing. It’s cool. Federales .
    My dad eased the truck up to the two-by-four that was about hood high. I wanted him to stop farther back. From under a makeshift lean-to of palms appeared three more young men in uniform. The soldiers had rifles over their shoulders, barrels pointed forward and swinging, as they approached us.
    Hola , said my dad. Que paso ?
    The teenager with the flag stepped aside and a guy wearing a billed cap took the lead. He was a teenager too. His eyes were small and swollen like Nick’s on a Saturday morning. He didn’t respond to my dad. The other two guys with rifles circled the truck and glared at me. How could teenagers have guns already? I thought.
    I peeked around my dad’s body. The leader rested his hand on the nose of the rifle, which was lazily pointed toward my dad’s head.
    Pasaporte , he said.
    My dad reached for the glove compartment and the teenager on my side raised his rifle. The barrel was inches from my face. My dad spoke to the leader in Spanish and pointed to the glove compartment. The barrel dropped and I peed in my pants. I heldmy breath so I wouldn’t cry. I didn’t move and the piss ran down my leg.
    The leader asked my dad about the washing machine. My dad showed him the Sears receipt. My dad and the leader seemed to argue.
    The leader grabbed the door handle and I gasped. The teenagers laughed at me. The leader opened the driver’s door and looked behind the bench seat. He yelled to the guy on my side, who opened my door and rummaged through the glove compartment, scattering papers onto the floor and the road. One of them grabbed my dad’s guitar. The guy holding the flag made kissing gestures to me. My dad put his hand over my hand and I stared at the black floor mat and the papers.
    The soldiers took money from my dad’s pockets, then one of them threw the guitar case into the truck bed and a sound rose from my dad’s gut.