Chapter 7
Brock Magnus is a seven-foot-tall, three-hundred-pound giant with a square jaw straight out of some superhero comic book. He’s got blond hair that reach his chin in length and, in a way, the whole sight of him makes me think of He-Man.
He also drinks like an Irish pirate.
I had to pull some strings to organize my day, so I ended up inviting him to my wine tasting – killing two birds with one stone. Obviously I should’ve honored animal rights, because this was one of the worst ideas of all time, and now I’m drunk.
Well, first of all, I barely slept because I had to babysit a bunch of idiots who decided to go watch the sunrise on the beach while I tried to clean at least part of the mess they left behind.
So it goes without saying that, when I finally rolled out of bed, my alarm had already spent two hours on snooze, and I was both exhausted and late.
When we finally got to the cellar for the interview, our lunch consisted of artisanal cheeses, fresh bread with olive oil, and a mix of Cosmopolitans and Daiquiris.
(Brock thought the Daiquiris were too sweet and the guests would get nauseous before getting drunk.
Since, for a wedding, it's crucial everyone gets drunk, we went with the Cosmopolitans.) And wine. A shit-ton of wine.
Reds, whites, rosés. Even an Italian green wine with twice the alcohol of a regular one. Then more cheese and more bread, and the interview flowed so naturally we sounded like old friends catching up.
He told me about his first WWE match and how he split his opponent’s eyebrow open with a head-butt so hard he knocked himself unconscious and had no idea how the match ended. He told me about the day he decided to become a wrestler, his first victory, his first defeat.
And suddenly we’re talking about his divorce and how his ex-wife had such a good lawyer he still has to pay her half of everything he makes.
“We didn’t even have kids!” Brock complains for maybe the fifth time, pouring himself a glass of Argentinian Malbec, taking a long sip before announcing, “Not this one. Tastes like cough syrup.”
Which, if you think about it, is much more entertaining than if I were with an actual wine expert talking about oaky notes and balanced aromas – the kind of pretentious crap someone like Jasper would absolutely do.
Brock knows as much about wine as I do, which means we classify them into two categories: “good enough to get drunk on” or “so bad we can’t even finish the glass. ”
We settle on the wines, cocktails, and beers, and by the time we move on to the spirits, I’m totally gone. I cannot taste a single drop of alcohol anymore, but then Paloma, our sales rep, shows up with five different bottles of tequila.
And sure, I know I can’t serve plain José Cuervo to Mila’s fancy guests, and I also know we’re in Mexico, we have to serve tequila, so I agree to taste the three most expensive bottles she has in stock.
Also, I must be truly drunk, because, I swear to you, there is definitely something going on between those two.
Between Paloma. And the seven-foot-tall wrestler. They’re making jokes and laughing, and her brown eyes light up every time he calls her Lomita.
With the tequilas decided, I ask Brock to choose the best vodka and whiskey, because I’m half his size and if I drink one more drop, I’m going to puke everything. Brock says he can take on the hard work for me if I go to the beach with him and Paloma afterward.
It’s painfully obvious I’m drunk enough that I can’t refuse anything, so I agree immediately. And I really hope this is not an invitation to some random threesome, because if it is, I’m screwed.
I add five bottles of 18-year Scotch and twelve bottles of Grey Goose to the list, blowing past my drink budget by eight hundred dollars, but I’m sure the Carnegies won’t complain. After that, we wrap up the tasting. And the interview.
Paloma swaps her uniform for a tiny bikini, and I can’t help thinking how nice it must be to live in Cancún and just casually have a bikini in your bag so you can throw yourself in the ocean after work.
I obviously wasn’t prepared, and the only things I have in my purse are my reporter’s notebook, my iPad with the interview recordings, and my phone, which doesn’t even have data for anything, that was only used today for taking a picture of Brock against the cork wall in the cellar when I realized he was getting way too drunk and I needed at least one decent photo before the end of the interview.
Brock Magnus wasn’t prepared either. He’s wearing tight jeans and a floral button-down shirt, which he peels off without the slightest shame, revealing a broad, sculpted chest, so chunky and huge that if I were a little drunker, I might confuse him with a damn tree.
Then he strips off his jeans just as casually, like he’s getting ready for a shower at home, alone, and not on a public beach in Cancún at sunset.
I’m still fully dressed in my pencil skirt and silk blouse, looking prim and proper, because in my head, I was going to an interview, not to whatever bizarre, suspicious beach adventure this is.
And dear God, Brock Magnus just lifted me by the thighs and is about to throw me onto the sand like we’re in a wrestling match.
I really, really hope this is not an invitation to a threesome!
Brock lets out a thunderous laugh as he runs toward the ocean with me in his arms, holding me like I weigh nothing more than a rag doll. The cold water hits my hot skin and shocks me sober for a moment, but soon I’m laughing and screaming with him.
Paloma dives in beside us, and somehow, God knows why, I decide it’s time to take off my wet clothes and fling them onto the sand. Brock does the same (he was already down to his underwear). Paloma does the same (she was already in a bikini!).
My God, this is an invitation to a threesome!
The worst part is I don’t even know if I’ll get sober enough at any point to say no. I certainly couldn’t say no to the sea when it invited me to strip down and let the warm waves wash over me or whatever.
I’m in the Caribbean. I’m drinking with a WWE champion and a slightly wild Mexican woman. I’m in the Caribbean staring at a pink sky and feeling this cool water… How am I supposed to say no to anything?
And that’s exactly what I try to explain to the station chief of the Mexican military police while I sit on a hard bench, soaking wet, inside the drunk tank at the Cancún tourist jail.
Shit!
I got arrested!
I, Julie Sawyer, the pride of my family, the well-behaved, hardworking daughter my parents brag about to everyone back in the tiny town in Ohio where I grew up, just got arrested.
“But senoritas, senor… this is not an amusement park. What were you thinking?” he asks, raising a thick eyebrow.
He’s a short, chubby man with a thick mustache and a dark-green uniform shirt stretched tight over a belly that looks ready to pop a button.
I stammer something, I don’t even know what, because on top of the shame, I’m also shivering uncontrollably. Brock stands up to get closer to the bars. Not the best idea, considering he’s a superhero-sized giant who can easily look like he’s trying to intimidate the chief.
“Did you see how beautiful the sunset was?” Brock asks, shrugging.
Then he makes an innocent, goofy face, the kind you’d expect from a sweet little boy, not a mad man who slams people on the ground for a living.
“It would’ve been an insult to the Mexican sea not to honor that beauty and enjoy everything this country has to offer. ”
The chief sighs deeply, thoroughly unimpressed by Brock’s poetic, absolutely bullshit speech. Then he steps forward, leather boots creaking on the stone floor, until he’s face-to-face with the giant.
The size difference is surreal, but the chief doesn’t flinch. God knows what he’s seen here.
He points to a poster on the wall listing local rules for tourists. One line reads clearly: “No public skinny-dipping.” He flashes a wicked, triumphant smile before asking, “You could have enjoyed all of that with clothes on, could you not, senor?”
Since I have nothing left to lose, I raise my hand like I’m back in school.
“It was just a small misunderstanding, sir. Nobody saw anything!” I look at Paloma and Brock, silently begging them to back me up.
They both nod vigorously, even though my words are a blatant, shameless lie.
Everyone saw everything.
I’m pretty sure Brock was doing a helicopter with his dick to the beat of Eye of the Tiger when the police arrived. And I clearly remember stepping out of the water and coming face-to-face with a senior citizen tour group playing capture the flag on the sand.
The chief shakes his head like he’s questioning every life choice that led him to become a police officer in Cancún.
And honestly, I get it. I really get it.
The tourist station is far from modern or comfortable. The paint is peeling, there’s a persistent smell of mold, the fluorescent light buzzes like it’s developing a nervous tic, and the bench is so hard I can feel my bones pressing against the cold surface.
And the drunk tank… God, I don’t even know where to begin!
Next to me there’s a woman with messy hair and a flower crown, snoring loudly in a faded “Cancún Spring Break 1998” T-shirt.
If I had to guess, I’d say she came here for that Spring Break and never left.
On the other side, there’s a guy with a blue mohawk talking to himself and occasionally gets up to warn us about aliens that tried to abduct him from the beach.
Strangely, all of us, even in our pathetic condition, are trying our best to ignore the shouting from the back of the cell, where a bunch of Australians in kangaroo-print speedos are arguing over a five-gallon water jug that is apparently the “Tequila Trophy” and must be emptied before the end of the day.
“A small misunderstanding that had you swimming with the waves…” the chief continues, copying Brock’s poetic tone while dripping with sarcasm, “in front of the busiest resort in the city. A small misunderstanding that el gigante walked out of the water without underwear and decided to dry his junk in the wind spinning it like a washing machine.”
“It was a helicopter,” Brock corrects.
I lower my head, trying to hide my shame. And mostly trying to block out the memory. But it’s stronger than me, and now the mental replay of the helicockter (or whatever that is Brock called it at first) comes complete with the horrified faces of nice old ladies and crying children.
Brock Magnus is an absolute maniac!
“And las senoritas… las senoritas did not act muy diferente, claro que no! You had no bikinis, verdad?”
Well, Paloma had one. Which must’ve washed away at some point.
“Have you ever tried swimming in a pencil skirt and a silk blouse, sir? It’s not the most practical– ” I begin, but the second I realize it’s the alcohol talking, my voice gets higher and higher until the last word comes out like a terrified whisper, “–thing.”
The chief ignores me completely and scribbles something on his notepad.
The Australians reach some kind of agreement, and one of them starts clapping.
The blue-mohawk guy claps back to the beat of We Will Rock You.
The flower-crown woman wakes up and starts singing.
Brock looks at Paloma with a smile full of lust and mischief.
Then the two of them start making out like there’s nobody around.
Holy Mother of God.
I look at the chief with an unprecedented level of desperation.
His watch says it’s close to midnight. We’ve been here for hours under the pretense that we need to sober up.
I texted Mila using the cellar’s Wi-Fi before we left. All I wrote was: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. HEADING TO THE BEACH WITH brOCK MAGNUS, THE DESTROYER.
She has no idea about Paloma. No idea about the arrest. She probably thinks I’m having sex with a WWE wrestler right now.
“Is there a chance,” I ask the chief, wearing my best sad-puppy expression, “we could get out of here tonight?”
“You sober already, chiquitita?” he asks.
“Totally sober,” I lie.
“You can call your abogado if you’re sober.”
Call my what?
Shit.
“My lawyer?” I don’t have a lawyer. “But we were just–” I try again.
Flashes of Brock’s helicockter hit my brain and I shut up immediately.
“You need to sign the papers and pay la fianza, corazón.”
I glance at Brock – with his tongue halfway down Paloma’s throat.
“Them too?”
“No, chiquitita. El abogado del luchador is already outside trying to distract the press before getting him out.”
Shit!
“And her?” I ask, pointing at the little bit of Paloma’s face visible under Brock’s giant hand.
“Ah, Lomita!” the chief laughs dismissively. “Lomita is always around. She has the best tequilas in all of Cancún.”
He has a point. She’s beautiful, carefree, and has a warehouse of alcohol at her disposal. Nobody wants to arrest Lomita. But then… shit.
“So it’s just me?” I ask, still not believing it.
“Just you, chiquitita!”
I’m in Cancún. Drunk. Soaking wet. About to spend the night in jail if I don’t figure something out.
Logic gives me a quick, practical solution. Emotion refuses to accept it.
No. I’m not doing this. I can’t.
My last hope is that Brock’s lawyer might get me out too, but when the man finally walks in – impeccable suit, watch worth more than my entire house – I know I’m screwed.
I probably don’t even have enough money for the bail! Definitely do not have money to pay a guy like that.
Paloma plants a loud kiss on my mouth to say goodbye and steps aside so Brock can come in for a bear hug, telling me how much fun he had today and how we should do it again sometime.
He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Doesn’t ask if I need help getting out. I guess it doesn’t cross the mind of a millionaire wrestler that not everyone has lawyers on standby, waiting to fly in at a moment’s notice, to fix things for you.
I sigh, exhausted, and sink back onto the hard bench. The Australians start arguing again.
I’m not gonna do it.
The blue-mohawk guy gets up and walks toward me.
“The moon licks the wind, and in the chest, a lament!” he proclaims dramatically, index finger raised like he’s giving a lecture.
I’m not gonna do it.
“The bubbles listen, the sand writes, the fish whisper… but the sea, the sea never lies. It paints the destiny with the water of the currents. Destiny? Destiny is a comma in the poem of the tide, naked girl.”
I sigh again.
Rub my eyes, completely exhausted.
Shit. I’m gonna do it, aren’t I?