What girls do.

         Nineteen was a dangerous age for Jen; more vulnerable than infant, toddler or adolescent. She was not a child and not an adult. Jen lacked the caution that can come with youth and also the wisdom of age and experience. She took chances that she thought she was prepared for but was not emotionally and psychologically ready. Jen was a sophomore in college in a southwestern university. She lived in the dorms, completely supported by a scholarship and her parents.

 She had fallen into a group of friends who were smart, physically beautiful, and slightly more financially well-off than she was. The thing they all had in common was a need to party. The group of 15 friends got together at least four times a week to drink and talk.

The group was inclined to spontaneous road trips that usually involved late night, drunken resolutions to climb mountains and skinny dip in the various hot springs that peppered the mountainous region.  Several of the friends decided to embark on a more grand adventure and invited Jen to join them on a road trip to Mexico for Spring Break. The travel team had six women, and two men. They would take an older model, white station wagon and a red, four-door convertible. Jen wasn't attracted to any of the guys.

They spent most of their time, for the first few days, driving on dusty roads in search of water. Jen rode along and paid little attention to the plan. She had never been out of the country because her parents were terrified to leave the safety of the United States. When Jen had informed her parents of her spring break plans, they had threatened to cut off her funds. She lied and told them she was going to spend the break at the country home of one of her flat mates.

Four days in, the caravan finally found a comfortable rest in Ensenada, Mexico – a resort town on the pacific coast. They got one hotel room for six of them and a separate room for the one couple on the trip. The drinking age in Mexico is 18 and the beer was cheap so the group spent the first night in Ensenada club hopping and drinking heavily. The next day Jen’s travel mates were grossly hung over. She awoke early and with a sort of hyper-alertness, bordering on panic, which had been her near constant companion since she was 12.

The hotel room was worse than the dankest place she had ever stayed in the states but vastly greater then the roadside motels they had stayed in the three previous nights.

Six people in one room quickly became seven in Ensenada. Bennett, a rat faced girl with kinky, ashy hair, had found a lover in a local married man. He joined the group on the first night and would stay with them until the moment the college kids departed Ensenada, three days later.

Jen hated Bennett and she didn't understand how anyone could stand to have her around. She drank to the point of black out and would fall – she was constantly making a scene and hitting her head. Jen and Bennett barely spoke, even in close quarters.

Bennett’s guy was a husky Mexican national with average dark features, a thick chin beard, and mustache. He told the group that he had a wife and kids and Jen was nauseous at the thought of being party to such debauchery. Both he and Bennett were evil and unforgivable, she thought.

Aside from her inclination to wired alertness, she woke to the systematic, smooth rocking of the bed she shared with another woman. It took her several minutes to realize, in an otherwise silent room, that Bennett and her fling were enjoying a morning fuck on the floor next to her bed. Jen could taste the bile from her stomach as it rushed to her teeth; an overwhelming disgust at the carnal act occurring next to her.

She quickly threw off the thin hotel blanket and in a single motion leapt from the full-sized bed to the floor, taking great effort to avert her vision. That was not something she wanted to store in her mind’s eye. Both people repulsed her--in appearance and morals.

She looked at the curtain-less shower – just tile and a faucet --and she debated if a shower in Mexico would make her cleaner or dirtier. Mexico's water is notorious for being unsanitary.

Jen had been accustomed, her entire life, to taking a shower, first thing, every morning. That day, though, she was afraid of the water. She realized it would be several hours before anyone she wanted to talk to would be awake. She decided to shower and to curl her hair.

Jen’s hair was straight, fine, and dark brown. If she curled it, her hair could be left unwashed for one or two days, with the help of some hairspray and bobby pins. When it was straight it would oil to her cheekbones by midday-- probably a result of years of over washing.

The water never reached a temperature greater than tepid. She washed up quickly, paying careful care not to get any water into her mouth, ears, or tear ducts. She dried and dressed in the bathroom and then quietly collected a journal, some magazines, and some foam hair curlers from her grossly over packed luggage.

The day before, the group had discovered an open staircase that led to the roof adjacent to their hotel room. There were no seats or tables but it served the perfect perch where she could lounge, catch a good amount of the warming April sunlight, and watch the windows and doors to the hotel room for any action.

It took only minutes to wrap her damp hair around 30 foam curlers. She had performed the same act so many times before she didn't need a mirror. She randomly picked a piece of hair and removed any strands that seemed to be from too far off until she had a half-inch section. She pulled the strand straight away from her head, stretched like a tuned guitar string. She placed the powder blue foam curler at the end of the strand and rolled the hair tightly, slowly, smoothly around the soft cylinder until it reached her scalp. The curlers had tiny plastic teeth that would grip her hair when pressed firmly. Now the task of leaving the curlers in until her hair was completely dry – a task she succeeded in only half of the time.

It worked best when she would put the curlers in before bed but many nights the pull of the curlers on her tender scalp, under the weight of her head, would be too much to bear and she would tear the curlers out of moist hair. The result would be limp, half formed curls that would have to be washed away in the morning.

She thumbed through the magazines she had already read but that only occupied a few minutes. She didn't actually enjoy reading magazines but had taken to appearing like she enjoyed them in an attempt to better fit in with her college flat mates. Her first college roommate, Malory, had flunked her first semester because a new magazine began publishing that fall.  Malory would spend every waking hour reading every last word in each issue. She even read the warning labels in ads.

“Olestra causes anal leakage! What the fuck!?” she once shouted after reading the fine print on a potato chip advertisement

Next Jen proceeded to write a daily journal entry. It was largely focused on what a pig Bennett could be and how it affected Jen’s self-confidence that they shared mutual friends. How could they care for someone like Bennett as much as someone like her? And she resented her friends for forcing them to hang out.

Journaling had been a problem for Jen for some time. She would write herself into deep, dark holes that could only be filled with alcohol or the attention of the most handsome boy in the room. She had been journaling since she was a small child under the encouragement of her new age, hippie mother. Jen’s mom spent her days at book groups and psychic fairs; reading every new book that was published on the spiritual life. Writing in a journal was never a port in the storm for Jen like she heard it could be for others.

Journaling was more of a hashing out of her finest self-destructive plans and relentless self-hazing. She would scratch page upon page of the ways she was inadequate and the ways other people unfairly had what she wanted. This journal entry was all about Bennett. Jen wanted Bennett’s freedom to be a worthless psychopath. She envied Bennett’s mess. Jen never felt safe enough, entitled enough to completely fall apart. Bennett lived in pieces and her friends didn't just accept her--they really longed for her company.

Jen wrote for an hour and then the combination of resentment for the circumstances that woke her so early, her growing hatred for Bennett, and the crisp air that bordered on a chill, she decided she couldn't stay on the roof, alone, any longer. She debated for another 20 minutes about trying to go back in and lay down or if she could wake anyone to join her. Her moist hair stressed her. It was taking too long to dry.

Finally, her lack of patience won out and she tore the rollers from her hair. Jen was cautious with the bits of curls she had managed to create. She gently rolled the curls back into shape and turned her body so her hair would get the most direct, warm sunlight.

Again, she only lasted another 15 minutes before she gathered all of her belongings. She made the front of her T-shirt into a basket and it stretched under the weight of the journal and magazines. She slowly opened the door to the hotel room to find complete stillness and silence. The lust birds appeared to have drifted into a post-coital slumber. She took a starched, white button up shirt, black cardigan sweater, and black slacks into the bathroom to change since she had stretched her T-shirt beyond the bounds of fashion when she used it to carry back her stuff from the roof. She sprayed the half curls with hairspray and fluffed her hair and then gathered it up in bobby pins, creating a loose and messy French twist. She slipped on her terribly expensive orthopedic sandals the doctor had been forced her to buy after she had foot surgery a few months prior.

Years of being a dancer had caused the ball of her right foot to rotate outward, flipping her big toe permanently into the fray with her other toes; a bunion. The surgery had left Jen with a 4-inch scar across the top of her big toe. Jen had a friend with the same scar but his was from cutting the side of his foot off, with an ax, when he was chopping firewood in flip-flops. Depending on who was inquiring, in social situations, Jen sometimes stole his version of events as her own.

Despite her activity, no one stirred. She paused at the open door and looked back at each of her roommates, just in case someone would save her from this solitude. They were all fast asleep.

When she got out to the front of the hotel, she decided to walk down the main street they had traveled the night before. Ensenada was a frequent stop for American cruise ships. The main street was lined with bars, restaurants, and souvenir shops. Each shop was staffed with people who spoke English. She felt safe to roam the street and wanted to try a rooftop restaurant she had seen the night before.    

When she got into the restaurant, Jen was seated next to a table of three frat boy– types who were quietly talking about nothing that caught her attention. She was not an All American beauty so she was hesitant around farm boys, frat boys, and jocks. She had been called a dyke several times by men who preferred fuller breasts and longer hair.  In the middle of the table the men had an aluminum bucket filled with ice and a dozen bottles of Coronas. They were earnestly working their way through each bottle, slouched in their chairs, quietly mumbling to one another.

Jen wanted that bucket. She wanted those friends. Her friends were back at the hotel fucking random, gross men and were fast asleep while she was at this beautiful place and they could have been sharing a bucket of beer! Was there anything more perfect? The air up there was salty from the ocean breeze and she could hear the soft, far off flapping of the enormous Mexican flag, raised high above the port. The waiter explained that every few years that flag would break away and would cover an entire city block. Jen’s eyes grew wide as she imagined all those bars and shops without power and draped by red, white, and green cloth.

She hated eating alone but she ordered a tortilla soup and one stupid, lonely cerveza. The place wasn't very busy at 10 AM on a Wednesday so she took full advantage of the company of the waiter. He was a slender man of slightly above average height in his early 20s. A Mexican national, he had olive skin, and dark eyes and hair. He was clean-shaven with a closely shaved head. His waiter’s attire was standard – all black, clean, crisp with a white apron. He spoke impeccable English and flashed his bicep tattoo of barbed wire. He said it was his reminder of the US and motivation that someday he would be back in the United States for good. His name was Carlos and nearing the end of her meal he asked if Jen would like to grab a drink after his shift.

"I think that could be nice,” she said, without any hesitation. Jen had a beautiful boyfriend back at school, named Gabriel, but she knew he was waiting to upgrade with another girl. He was restless and had wondering eyes and Jen knew he was too good for her. In preparation for his departure, she never turned down a chance to connect with other men. She wanted to marry Gabriel but he would never even talk about that possibility.

"We are only 19!" he shouted in arguments, as though marriage was akin to a terminal illness.

Gabriel and Jen had a condom break earlier that month and he began to vomit once he realized what had happened. His response was so ridiculous that it broke her heart. He took Jen, first thing in the morning, to the emergency room to get the morning after pill. The thought of having a baby with Jen made him puke. That reaction shattered any loyalty she had to him. She mostly hung onto the relationship because she knew other women were lining up to have a chance at possessing his overwhelming charm and physical beauty. For Jen, his smell had grown rotten and his smile had turned crooked.

She hung around the restaurant, not even debating for a second if she should let her friends know where she was. She had no cell service in Mexico. She had left a note saying she was going to sightsee and not to worry. She didn't know if they were the kind of friends that would worry, though she doubted. She wondered if this was just the kind of thing Jen did so it didn't raise any flags.

When Carlos came down the stairs, he had taken off his crisp black shirt to reveal a plain white T-shirt. She always loved men who dressed in simple clothes. Perhaps that was the lure of waiters for Jen. She would discover, later that year, that she was attracted to waiters at work but when she would see them in their daily fashions she was often turned off. Carlos walked her down the street to a fancy hotel that overlooked the Harbor. The eighth floor boasted a full bar, bustling with an early afternoon drinking crowd. The walls were lined with floor to ceiling windows which were mostly occluded by heavy, grey velvet curtains.

Carlos guided her to a circular table in the corner of the bar.

“My friend is a bartender. I’m going to go get us some free drinks,” he said.

She ordered a long island iced tea, which seemed to be the sort of thing a lady in this situation would ask for.

She tried not to stare but watched Carlos and his bartender friend as they laughed, spending equal time looking at each other and looking at Jen.

She felt uncomfortable but had grown accustomed to feeling wrong most of the time. She hoped that a stiff drink and some fun conversation would make her feel better in a short amount of time.

Carlos said there was a new club opening that night and he thought he could get her friends in. She was excited at the prospect of getting into the VIP event. She felt like she would impress her friends. She wanted an advantage over Bennett.

She wondered why their drinks were the same but hers had a lime wedge on the rim and his didn't. She wondered if she was just tired or hungry because the drink was hitting her hard. She felt warm and sleepy and began to yawn uncontrollably. Everything Carlos said started to get very slow.

An hour passed and they agreed to go back to his apartment so he could change for the club and then they would go to the hotel to get her friend, who are surely up and moving at the sun was starting to set. The streets were growing much busier than it had been that morning. The walk was a blur but the weight of his warm arm on her shoulder was comforting. She felt safe, like she could cuddle up and drift away to sleep in a matter of seconds. She looked forward to his apartment.

"Man that must've been a stiff drink! One of the benefits of getting hooked up by a bartender!" she said.

Carlos's apartment was shocking. It was a plywood shack with a twin mattress on the floor, no sheets, and a faded, brownish blanket. There was an old restaurant chair with torn and tattered upholstery in a sickening brownish red tone that served as a stand to an ancient yellow television. The TV had tinfoil holding the antenna together. She tried not to act disgusted but she could feel her face grow red with embarrassment for him. She felt like she had been lied to by his waiter appearance.

She wanted to leave almost immediately but wanted to be a VIP even more. Carlos invited her to sit on his bed by patting firmly on the dingy blanket and she obliged. There was no place else to sit. He started to tell Jen about all the strange 1980s American films he had seen on the old television. She was bored and overwhelmed with fatigue. He offered a back rub and she accepted because she loved to be touched. She rolled onto her stomach and he moved to sit on her legs. He balanced his weight over her bottom and his legs. He started to rub her shoulders with firm pressure and it felt good.  She felt she could slip off into sleep at any second. After a few moments he asked her to sit up and started to unbutton her shirt so he could “make her more comfortable.”

The parting of her blouse revealed a hot pink push-up bra and her young, muscular, dancer’s physique. For a moment she felt aroused, excited that great pleasure might abound. She panted with anticipation. She wondered what would come next--a hand in her pants, a mouth on her nipple, a firm tug on her hair, maybe a tongue in her mouth. Jen never went home with a man if she didn’t want to fuck him. It was her rule.

But, he didn't move to kiss her. He didn't feel her breasts. Instead he pushed her face down with just enough force that for the first time Jen realized how vulnerable she was. He began again to rub her bare back but it didn't feel good anymore. In fact it made her skin itch and her heart began to race; She was scared.

He fumbled to undo her bra strap and continue to move his hands over her smooth back. Jen felt herself overcome by the need to sleep. Her eyelids were heavy and a few times she felt herself fall asleep. She started to wonder why he was working so hard to put her to sleep.

In one of those moments of fighting to stay awake, she heard a very quiet, calm version of herself, in her head.

"You have been drugged. I need you not to panic. I need you to stay awake. No matter what I need you to stay calm. I need you to play the “stupid American”. Say you are ready to go and get dressed up for tonight. Stay calm. Stay awake."

She wasn't sure what was happening but she began to wriggle under the weight of his body, giggling as she labored her way to her back. She paused and smiled through cloudy eyes. She reached up and gently caressed his chin and cheek with both hands and gazed at his face. She pulled his face to hers and softly kissed his lips. He seemed ill prepared for her participation in this exchange and he only lightly kissed her back. She slipped the tip of her tongue between his lips and then firmly turned his head to the side. She dragged her moist tongue from the base of his neck, upward, ending with a nibble on his ear lobe. This was a move she had executed time and time again with random boys. She considered it her opening move, as if sex was chess.

As her teeth squeezed his lobe, he let out a soft breath of pleasure and she could feel his hips move in a repressed circular motion. She knew she had his attention.

"I'm ready to go back to the hotel to get ready for tonight,” she moaned.

She could feel him hesitate so she writhed as she rubbed his thighs and licked her lips.

"I'm going to look so hot for you tonight," she said, trying to remain calm. She was terrified he wasn’t going to get off of her. He was heavy on her pelvis and her legs were falling asleep.

Carlos paused again, as a look of disappointment moved across his face. He rolled off of her and walked over to a pile of clothes in the corner of the shanty. He began to rummage through until he found a cobalt blue, button up shirt and shook it out in front of him. Jen sat up slowly, fastened her bra, and began to button up her shirt.

"Stay calm; stay awake," she heard her head say again. She wanted to sleep. She didn't understand what was happening and she didn't know how she was going to get back to her hotel.

Carlos changed his shirt and said he had to run to the bathroom before they left. He seemed annoyed with Jen. He walked her out of his second-story room to a flight of wooden stairs that she didn’t remember climbing in the first place.

The restroom was a shared water closet on the first floor. She watched Carlos walk down the stairs and out of sight until the light turned on, in the pure darkness, with a click. She could see the silhouette of his head in the window to her left. She felt herself sway back-and-forth as though she was being tossed about on a boat. She barely had the energy to wonder why she felt so strange. She looked into the darkness and as she turned away from the light from the bathroom her eyes began to adjust.  In an instant she could see that there was a high, metal gate at the bottom of the stairs. Before she could take another breath that quiet, calm voice in her head erupted into pure panic.

"Run! Run! Run!"

She mustered the strength from some unknown reserve and before she knew it her legs were up and over that high gate. She flopped to the ground, barely landing on her feet.

"Run! Run now!" said the voice in her head. There was no time to think or look around.

She heard dogs barking visiously as her heavy feet slapped the pavement. She didn't know if they could get to her but she glimpsed their shadows in the corner of her eye. They were only slightly removed from biting her by a thin sheet of chicken wire.

"Run! Up and over!" said the voice as she came to a second high gate. With a single leap, her right foot caught hold of a doorknob, allowing her leverage to get her hands and left knee to the very top. As she toppled over and landed with both feet, two chubby Mexican women halted-- startled by her sudden appearance. They giggled as she gasped for air.

"Keep going!" said the voice as she ran up the busy street. She spotted a cab and jumped in.

"Drive! Drive!" she screamed as she pounded on the back of the passenger seat, looking back to see if Carlos was following.

"Where?! Where?!" Yelled the older man, with a thick, Mexican accent

"Just go!!!" And she began to make frantic hand gestures to the left.

She had no idea where she was and she couldn't remember the name of the hotel. It was night so she couldn't see the giant flag she had previously used to navigate. The driver spoke no English. Jen spoke no Spanish. But, through some twist of fate, they found their way to the hotel.

"There! There!" she pointed to the bright yellow sign at the hotel entrance. They both howled with joy that they had, somehow, found the way.

She paid the taxi driver and staggered from the cab, her legs weak from the burst of intense activity. As she took a step she heard a sudden burst of cheers above her. Jen looked to the roof to see her friends, beers in hand and dressed for the nightlife, shouting and whistling.

"There you are! Just in time!"

She gave a weak, half wave as she labored over to the staircase. She climbed the first flight with growing difficulty. As she rounded the second flight of stairs she felt the lights go out with a tingle in her scalp.

She awoke 14 hours later in her dim hotel room. She had no recollection of how she got there, still clothed in her white shirt and black pants. Her shoulder and knee hurt from breaking her fall on the stairs.

Later that morning her friends told her they had found her unconscious in the stairwell. They said they debated taking her to a hospital but they said she seemed to be breathing fine and smelled like she had been drinking. They figured Jen had too much to drink and just passed out. They put her in bed on her left side, incase she puked, and then they went out all night drinking without her. For years after that trip, Jen would brag about the time she went to Mexico and someone tried to kidnap and drug her.

“…but they underestimated me.”