Forget my usual waking rituals — the lazy eyelid-peeling yawn, the luxurious stretch until vertebrae pop, the groping for Nooshin on her side of the bed. Today I’m jerked forward, slamming into an immovable object. It knocks the wind out of me. A steering wheel, for chrissake. I just took a steering wheel in the solar plexus. Sucking air, I collapse back into the driver’s seat. At least the setting is familiar. I’m surrounded by the cracked dashboard and patched seats of my ancient Ford Explorer, the only handout I ever got from my parents. What’s outside is anybody’s guess. The windows are too fogged up to see.

Hydraulics whine. The truck rocks again, more gently this time. It comes to rest at a pronounced angle. I’m aimed up a launch ramp for takeoff.

Panic should set in, but it doesn’t. I’m too hung over for that. Everything has the sickly reek of cheap tequila, starting with my own breath. In the cupholder is a Diet Coke from Mr. Tost, the Mexican equivalent of Taco Bell. The pop has been adulterated with Sauza Blanco. Its flask-style bottle lies on the passenger seat, so empty that I could almost believe it was never filled. My temples throb harder just looking at it.

I shoulder the door open, wriggling halfway out before its weight pins me. The frame is squishing my face. My left hand scrabbles on metal until it grabs the door handle. One hiking boot dangles in the air, the other scrapes along the floorboards. With a cursing effort I force the door further open — and topple to the ground. Luckily it’s a short drop.

The front end of the Explorer has been hoisted into the cool morning sky. A tow truck in police livery is responsible. The operator spills out of his cab in surprise. So much surprise that he doesn’t say a damn thing, just gapes down at me. Gaping seems to come naturally to him. His slack mouth is framed by a drooping handlebar mustache, and stacked above it a blistered nose and narrow-set rodent eyes. He wears coveralls so greasy they could be declared a strategic petroleum reserve. Blinking into the sunlight, he raises a hand to shade his face — the wrong hand, casting its shadow onto the gravel shoulder next to him. After more blinking he switches hands. At first I pegged him for a standard deviation south on the IQ scale. Now I’m thinking two standard deviations south.

I rise to my feet unsteadily. Because of the hangover, not the fall. “For fuck’s sake, dude. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

The operator looks at me quizzically. My bad. I defaulted to English. I repeat myself in Spanish, adding a couple more vulgarities for emphasis.

That gets a rise out of him. “I tried, senor. I tried! But there was no movement inside, no noise. I think to myself the truck must be abandoned.”

“It’s not abandoned if the windows are fogged up.”

His face goes blank, as if he’s unfamiliar with that causal relationship.

“Come on, you moron. Put my truck down.” I slap the front quarterpanel of the Explorer, causing dust to clang off. “I’m in park anyway. What were you going to do, drag the wheels all the way to the impound lot?”

The operator doesn’t say anything as he lowers the truck. To him I’m just another rich American. I can afford new rear tires — and a lot of other shit besides. Times like this remind me that wealth is relative. Especially in a developing country where most people make $7 a day.

I glance around while he unhooks the towchains. One of only two coal-mining regions in Mexico, Aldama is rife with pocitos — literally “little holes”. These tiny mining operations are cowboy outfits. Just a couple miners working a shaft in the ground. Their locations are betrayed by humble towers of reclaimed i-beams and homemade gusset plates. Every couple minutes the altiplano’s silence is shattered by a muscle car drag race — salvaged 1970s Ford and Dodge and Chevy engines, lifting buckets up and down. Most pocitos only produce 30 tons of coal per day. That translates into a daily wage of $25 for the miners. Enough to risk their lives in a hole with no safety precautions, not even a hardhat.

The tow truck coughs into motion. “Have a nice day, senor!” the operator yells. In the tall sideview mirror he’s gaping at me, then the road, then me again. “And call the jefe! The jefe wants to talk to you!”

The last thing I want to do is call the chief of police. But I still nod and wave goodbye. Aldama’s octogenarian jefe is the buttered side of my bread. I already bribed him for access to the jail’s stash of Korea Textile tax records. What next?

Back in the Explorer I go slick with sweat and almost throw up, suddenly exhausted. The hangover is sinking its meathooks into me. I should’ve bugged the tow truck operator for a bottle of water. I need something to wet the Sahara in my mouth.

Through my dirty windshield lies the outskirts of Aldama, creeping closer to the pocitos and their rickety towers. I don’t remember driving out here last night. In fact I don’t remember last night, period. Did I call Nooshin while shit-faced and hating life? Or did I spare her? I flip open my cellphone to confirm. Thank god — no outgoing calls. But plenty of incoming ones. Nooshin a couple times, last night and this morning. Hercules twice this morning, pissed that I’m ducking him. A strange number with an Iowa area code.

The dashboard clock changes, drawing my attention. It’s 10:37 now. I give myself a minute to recover, waiting until it becomes 10:38. Up and at ‘em, Nick. Time to kick ass like it’s never been kicked before. The clock changes again. 10:39.

I start the truck and roll the windows down, letting fresh air blow through. The Mr. Tost cup and empty Sauza Blanco bottle get tossed outside. It can’t be littering when a whole nation does it. The wind is rustling paper in the backseat. I twist around and discover a spiral-bound notebook, with a bunch of pages torn out and crumpled up. Add “shitty writing” to my list of accomplishments last night.

I unfold the pages and smooth out the wrinkles. They’re practice notes in my bad handwriting. Some are chatty evasions:

Nooshball,Playing hooky from life. I’ll call you later.

Your buddy

Others are more explanatory:

Nooshin,Thanks for putting up with all my shit lately. I need some time and space to think about things. I’ll be gone for a couple days. Call me if something comes up.

Nick

Too bad I can’t remember what the hell I was thinking when I scribbled down this bullshit. Then I open the notebook. My final draft awaits on the top page:

Nooshin,You’re right. I don’t know what I want anymore.

We’re the best thing that ever happened to each other. We’re the worst thing that ever happened to each other.

I’m your boss, you’re my employee. UCLA will crucify me for sleeping with you and there goes my Ph.D. You’re Saman’s wife, I’m the boyfriend you’re cheating with. Your family wishes you were dead and your in-laws threaten to make it happen.

I don’t know how to reconcile who we are with what we are. I have nightmares about it. Not just us falling apart, but our lives too.

I need to be gone for a while. Whatever happens, I love you.

Nick

I can’t decide whether it reads like a romantic confession, a breakup missive, or what. Not that it really matters. Nooshin will never know I wrote any of this. I use the Explorer’s cigarette lighter to torch the notebook and torn-out pages. I throw them out the window onto the gravel, where they shrivel and char.

And blow into the nearby grass. The cindered pieces aren’t as dead as they look. Embers blaze to life, setting fire to the brown tufts. Fucking fuck.

I open the door and stumble around the truck and chase after the baby grassfire. Smoke curls up around me as I stamp out the hotspots. My skull gongs with every heartbeat, the horizon line jumps around. I slow down, trying to keep my balance, and my skin bursts with a cold clammy sweat. A few nearby miners stop and stare — especially when they see me drown the last stubborn flames in vomit.