Son of Chico wants to intervene, if–and only if–Dad is indeed a drug mule
Don’t get me wrong: I love my dad…but I think he might be a drug-mule.
I first had my suspicions when dad came home from work, four hours past his curfew, reeking of hashish and Old English. He insisted that I call him “Chico,” then passed out in the guest bathroom. Half an hour later, there was a knock at the door. Immersed in a marathon stretch of “Dancing with the Stars,” suffice it to say, I was in no mood to abandon my spot.
The man at the door was six-foot-four and hirsute. He demanded to speak to my father.
“You mean, Chico?” I asked. Within seconds, the man had me in a choke-hold and started pummeling me. He threatened me in Spanish, or at least I think it was Spanish. My two years of French in high school did not facilitate the negotiation process.
He bound me to the armoire–a sensation that I found not altogether unpleasant–then asked for my father again. I’m not sure what followed in our conversation…was it a coded initiation into a life of crime? Harmless banter about 1970’s prime-time television?
“Estrada. Qui, Eric est tres macho.”
“Oye tio! No es un amigo mio. Y te papi?”
“Dans le salles de bannes.”
“Ah, si. Tatoo. The Plane, the plane.”
A few minutes later, dad limped out of the bathroom, where he’d been busy retrieving the goods. The man shrugged. All was business as usual: just another simple transaction with a card-carrying member of AARP who wedged half-a-kilo inside his body cavity.
But still…something doesn’t sit well inside of me. I’m not 100 percent certain, but something tells me that Chico just might be a drug mule. It’s possible, of course, that I’m reading too much into this. He is retired, afterall. And those AARP trips sure mean a lot to him.