I went out to the parking lot and checked my car. It was dusty, but unharmed; the shotgun and tape deck were still in the trunk. I patted them, for luck, and left them there. I got a box of bullets out of the glove compartment and loaded my .38, slipping a dozen extra into my pocket. I walked toward the beach, feeling less tired as the ocean breeze embraced me. After half a mile or so I reached the stone steps that led down to the water. Signs proclaimed “Estero Beach.” I walked south, away from Ensenada; there would be less chance of running into people in that direction. Energy began to course through me, as I traversed the edge of the tide, the wet sand nestling my footsteps and propelling me forward.
I hadn’t had a drink in over four hours, so technically I was sober. The booze that had permeated and putrefied my system seemed to be lying in abeyance, waiting for me to make the first move. I secured my bottle in a mantle of sand, got down and cranked off twenty pushups. It wasn’t too hard; the slight stiffness as I got to my feet felt good. Maybe it wasn’t too bad, I thought. Maybe you can go back to L.A. as if none of this ever happened. Maybe it was time to get sober and stay sober.
The sound of muffled voices and the strumming of a guitar interrupted my thoughts. I was walking toward people, a late-night seaside gathering. As I crossed a rise in the sand, I saw a fire some hundred yards away and smelled roasting meat. The voices became louder and I could discern that the people were speaking in English. They were directly in my path, so I walked right up to them, feeling, strangely, only the slightest twinge of paranoia which I shrugged off — I was armed and they probably weren’t. The aroma of the roasting meat was getting to me, as was, also strangely, the need to be with people. I reached into my chest and threw a big, booming “Hi!” at the people sitting in the sand — the first word I had spoken in days.
“Friend or foe?” a male voice returned.
“Friend,” I said.
“Pull up a seat, friend,” the voice answered.
I sat down in the sand. There were eight people — five men and three women. They were young — in their twenties, and seemed to be the counter-culture type at first glance. They were sitting on blankets and sleeping bags, knapsacks and backpacks piled in a heap behind them. The slightest trace of marijuana hung in the air.
I opened with what seemed like a warm remark: “You’re the first Americans I’ve seen since I’ve been down here. That’s a gas. My Spanish is lousy.”
“National origin doesn’t mean shit,” a girl said coldly. “National origin is bourgeois pride. True friendship supersedes all that petty jive. True...”
“He doesn’t mean racism,” a bearded man interrupted. “He’s just lonely. Right, man?”
“You could say that,” I said. “I’ve been down here for a while and I don’t know anybody.”
“What’s your name, man?” he asked.
“Fritz,” said. “What’s yours?”
“I’m Brother Lee. Going around to your left we have Brother Mark, Brother Randy, Sister Julie, Sister Carol, Brother Kevin, Sister Kallie, and Brother Bob. Sister Vicky is doing the cooking tonight.” He pointed to a woman tending the fire a few yards away. I squinted to make her out. She was basting a carcass on a spit. I couldn’t place the aroma.
“Are you people a commune?” I asked.
There was general laughter. One of the girls, I think it was Sister Julie, answered me. “Commune is a tired concept, Brother Fritz. We’re together because we love each other and we care about the same things.”
I forced a smile, “You band together to survive, camping out here on the beach, right? You share your food, your shelter, and your possessions, right?” Most of the group was nodding, and as I got accustomed to the orange light from the cooking fire, I could see that they were smiling. “Doesn’t it get cold in the wintertime? What do you do then?”
“Then we move indoors man, what do you think?” This was from Brother Bob. He looked tougher than the rest, a white-trash, low-rider type. Maybe an ex-con. He was easily as big as I.
“Back off there, Brother Bob,” I said. “I’m on your side and just making friendly overtures.”
“You ask a lot of questions, man, and you look like the heat.”
“I’m just curious, that’s all. I’m a big city hick, tied down to a dull job that I have to go back to soon. You people have got a lot of freedom. I envy you.” It was the right thing to say, a superb icebreaker. I proffered my ginger ale bottle. “Here,” I said, “let’s drink to friendship. It’s good Scotch.”
I took a long drink and passed it to Brother Mark, who passed it on to Brother Randy and the others. When it came back to me again it was almost empty. I didn’t care. I had already decided this would be my last night of drinking. I ventured another question. “What’s that you’re cooking? I can’t place the smell.”
This got a big laugh all around. “It’s a dog, Brother Fritz!” Sister Kallie called gleefully, “Come look.”
I couldn’t believe it. These gentle, if somewhat strident young souls looked like dog lovers, not dog eaters. I got up and walked the few yards to the fire. Sister Kallie followed me, presumably to dig the shocked look on the big square’s face. When I checked out the barbecue close up, I started to laugh. I have never laughed as hard, before or since. The shape on the spit was unmistakably canine: a medium-sized, meaty tailwagger with gaping jaws, plucked out eyes and an amputated tail. He smelled delicious. I fell in the sand, convulsed with spasms of mad laughter.
Sister Kallie was jumping up and down, large breasts shaking beneath her peasant blouse, squealing: “He digs it! He digs it! He loves it!”
Finally I got to my feet, wiping tears from my eyes. Two of the men went to work carving up the beast as the rest of us looked on. I stroked the dog’s head, petting it tenderly, as though it were still the loyal family pet. This caused another outbreak of laughter. Two cases of beer were dragged back from the surf in a net and we popped cans and dug into our feast.
I was ravenous. All eyes were on me as I poised my fork above a jumbo slice of dog meat. Finally, casting all trepidation and social conditioning aside, I dug in. It was salty, smoky and gamey, much like a venison steak I had once eaten. I choked on it a little at first, but gradually forced it down, followed by a huge gulp of beer. This brought a rousing cheer from my newfound friends. After that it was easy and I scarfed the rest of my plate greedily. I forewent the bottle of soy sauce that was being passed around: I was a purist.
The city-bred protein entered my system, my first real food in several days, and a sublime elation came over me. It’s going to be all right, I thought. This feeling was quickly engulfed by a wave of sweaty lust — directed at Sister Kallie and her big chi-chi’s. Maybe dog meat was an aphrodisiac.
As I lay sated, staring up at the starry Mexican night, the girls cleaned up and Brother Bob expertly rolled joints. It was party time. Soon the entire group was sitting around the fire, while I remained a few yards away, staring heavenward, wanting to be coaxed. I was. Sister Julie called to me. “Come on, Fritz, join us. It’s sharing time.” So I joined them.
I didn’t want to destroy the moment, but there was a question I had to ask. “Where the hell did you get that delicious dog?” I said. “I want to thank his master.”
Brother Lee answered me, lighting a joint and passing it. “We get our meat from two sources. There’s a guy who runs a bait store down by the pier. He traps dogs and sells them to his cousin, who has a taco stand in T.J. The cheapest, juiciest, meatiest tacos in Baja. All perro meat. We trade him a bag of weed for two juicy hounds. Sometimes we find dead dogs south of here off a bend in the Coast Road. Cars squash them. Wham. Lots of times we have to ignore them, though. Their ribs get all smashed up and embedded in their skin. Too dangerous to eat.”