I always figured I’d be a natural at panhandling, considering that it’s just asking strangers for money. Most people don’t have the balls. They’re too uncomfortable, or afraid of rejection, or unwilling to debase themselves. Hell, most people don’t have the courage to ask for a date. But I’m the kind of dude who’ll ask anybody for anything, and usually get it. The only reason I never tried panhandling before was motive — nobody begs for money unless they have to, right? Except now I’ve got motive galore. My girlfriend is pregnant, my wallet is empty, and my cellphone service was just suspended for non-payment. The only way Nooshin and I will survive to payday next month is if I panhandle a couple hundred bucks in the meantime.

Like most things in life, panhandling is harder than it looks. Especially in Mexico, where you’re competing with all the Mexican beggars — including some adorably rapacious kids — for the hearts and money of tourists. Since I don’t have a copy of Panhandling for Dummies, I’ve been learning my panhandling lessons in the school of hard knocks.

For starters, you need an elevator pitch. In Mexico you’ve got about 5 seconds to explain why you’re American and asking for money. Otherwise tourists assume the worst — you’re mixed up in all the shit filed under DRUGS, you’ve got federales crawling up your ass, blah blah blah. My elevator pitch is “I’m an American grad student and I got robbed at knifepoint.”

Then you need the right look. It’s kind of tautological — you expect a homeless beggar to look like a homeless beggar, right? And by “look” I’m not just talking about the way you dress, I’m talking about posture, attitude, everything. In my case that means trying to look vulnerable and victimized, which is hard work.

Finally you need the right approach. Do you raise $100 by panhandling $1 from 100 tourists, or $100 from 1 tourist? Mexican beggars prefer the shotgun approach. Partly it’s the law of averages — ask enough tourists for money and somebody will open their wallet or purse for you. But they also know $1 is a small price for a tourist to pay to expatiate their First World guilt. Meanwhile nobody thinks $1 will make a difference to an American, so I’m stuck targeting rich-looking tourists and asking for $10 or $20 or more.

That’s why I’m loping across this Pemex parking lot in the direction of a behemoth RV with Arkansas license plates. It probably cost $200,000 to drive that thing off the dealer’s lot. Wealthy American tourist, dead ahead.

Past the shiny rump of the RV is a man pumping gas. He isn’t the puffy and sunburned retiree I expect. He’s fiftysomething and rawboned and hard-looking in a throwback toughguy way, with a straw fedora pulled down over one gray eye. He’s the only person in tropical Mexico dressed in all black — black polo shirt, black Dockers with a black leather belt, black cowboy boots. His forearms are mottled with pre-cancerous sunspots.

“Excuse me, sir!” I say breathlessly, wearing my friendliest expression. “I’m an American grad student and I got robbed at knifepoint and, and…” I let my voice break with desperation. “…I really need to borrow $20 so I can make it to Mexico City.”

His steely gaze slides from the gas pump gauge to me. “Robbed at knifepoint, hmmm?” he says in a cold drawl. I can’t tell whether it’s a question, or a dismissal, or what.

I’ve been robbed at knifepoint in Mexico before, so it’s easy for me to describe the experience. The man doesn’t even blink, giving me the distinct impression that he’s been on the wrong end of a pointed knife himself. Robbed of shock value, I steer the conversation back to my goal. “So that’s why I need the money. $20 will buy me enough gas to get to Mexico City.”

Silence. A silence so utterly complete I can hear the spinning gauge. We contemplate each other across the oil-stained gravel. His disdainful look is screaming GET LOST, but I can’t. Not without $20 to gas up the Explorer.

Finally he cracks, if you can call it that. “You’re a graduate student, hmmm?” It’s another of his indeterminate statements.

“Yeah. From UCLA.” I fumble a business card out of my jeans pocket. Nick Roberts, Fellow, Department of Latin American Studies, University of California Los Angeles. The embossed logo glints in the sunshine when I reach out my arm.

The man takes the card and considers it stoically. Beside him the gas pump gurgles for a moment, as if sucked dry, then resumes its steady flow.

Suddenly the side door of the RV bangs open. “Honeypie? Carl, honey?” drawls a prissy ash-blonde woman dressed like this is Santa Fe, New Mexico. She descends on spike-heeled cowboy boots, kicking up her fringed jeanskirt. Her peasant blouse is untucked, but pinched by a silver belt with turquoise pendants. “Oh! Who’s this?”

“Nick Roberts, ma’am.” I lean past Carl to extend my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet y’all, too.” Her eyes are muddy and unfocused, and gin wafts on her breath. “I’m Amy-Ann, and this here’s…whoops, you already met Carl!” She lays a tanned hand on his shoulder, more for stability than intimacy.

“I was just telling Carl about how I was robbed at knifepoint,” I say, and segue into my increasingly well-worn fiction.

Amy-Ann holds a theatrical pose — leaning slightly forward, a hand cupped over the “O” of her mouth, eyes wide. “Lordy!” she gasps from time to time. Carl seems to harden a little more with her every utterance.

“…and that’s why I’m troubling you and Carl for $20, if you can spare it.” I roll my shoulders in an abject shrug. “My fiancee and I need gas money to make it to Mexico City.” I’m half-winging it, half-deliberately choosing to say fiancee instead of girlfriend or research assistant.

Amy-Ann leans even farther forward, taking the bait the way only a middle-aged woman with no ring on her finger can. “Y’all are…engaged?”

I try for a smile that’s coy but proud. “Yeah. We’re getting married this fall.” Then inspiration strikes. “October 22,” I say, repurposing Nooshin’s due date. “It’s her dad’s birthday.”

The moment is perfect — Carl glowering at me from beneath his straw fedora, Amy-Ann melting into drunken romantic sympathy — until we’re interrupted by the CHA-THUNK of the gas pump shutting off. The dials are frozen in an obscene combination. 6,293 pesos. That’s about $585.

I spin on a hiking boot heel, the jungle landscape whirling around me. “I’ll find somebody else with $20 to spare.”

Behind me Amy-Ann’s turquoise jewelry is clinking. She’s in slow and unsteady pursuit. “Wait, hon. Don’t go leaving now. We aim to help y’all out. Ain’t that right, Carl? Carl?” When he doesn’t reply, she drops her voice an octave. “Carl, do the right thing by these folks. I ain’t telling you twice.”

I don’t know whether that’s an implicit threat to withhold sex or money or whatever, but it works. Carl is a transformed man. “Aw, hell. Nick, come on back here. I can’t let you walk off with only $20. That just wouldn’t be right.”

I retrace my steps to the RV, where he’s fumbling open his wallet while Amy-Ann beams in approval. “Sir, I really can’t — ”

“Here. You take it. Go ahead, take it..” He’s brandishing a fistful of money. The multicolored pesos and green dollars add up to something more than $100. A fortune in Mexico, if you know how to stretch it.

“Thanks so much. God bless the both of you,” I nod gratefully. And I don’t have to fake the grateful part. I retreat across the sun-scorched asphalt, waving goodbye to Carl and Amy-Ann and their black hole for fossil fuels.

Nooshin has been observing the entire exchange from the passenger seat of the Explorer, tucked beneath a cupola of palm trees at the far end of the parking lot. Through the windshield she watches my approach tensely. I can see tendons standing out like piano wires in her neck. The stakes are that high.

“Well?” is her nervous greeting, twisting toward me. “Did you get anything?”

I slide behind the steering wheel and slam the door shut. “Check it out!” I laugh, holding up the money. “Fuck Mexico City! We can make it all the way to Guadalajara on this much!”

Nooshin’s big mocha eyes widen, staring at our salvation. Then they widen even more. “Nick! That’s, like…$100!”

Past the upraised arc of the bills I see her beautiful face, every delicate feature aligned in relief. She’s perfectly kissable, and that’s what I do…until her right orb peels away, wandering toward the highway and its steady blur of traffic. That’s where our journey is taking us — through the rainforest and across the altiplano and into Mexico City, the second-largest city in the world. I have friends there. Well okay, acquaintances. Or just…fuck it. I know people in Mexico City. And hopefully they still want to know me.