Chapter 2
Scott descended the stairs of the plane and stepped into an oven. The air was thick and dusty and carried with it the sickly-sweet smell of the tropics.
The bus bound for the terminal was filled with wide-eyed tourists, crammed like sardines and drunk on the excitement of being on vacation.
Too many straw hats to count, Aloha shirts everywhere, and flip-flops galore.
Scott was still in his dark suit and heavy leather shoes.
Tall and thin, he looked like black licorice in the middle of a fruit salad.
He undid his tie and unbuttoned his collar, then put on a pair of aviator sunglasses.
A little less Men in Black, a little more Tailor of Panama.
“I can’t believe we’re here!” a girl with bleach blonde hair said to her freckle-faced friend live-streaming everything on TikTok. The blonde girl had a nose ring and ripped jeans. An AirPod dangled from one ear. She jumped into her friend’s livestream, stuck out her tongue, and yelled, “Mexico!”
“Tequila!” a group of guys behind them yelled as they took a group picture.
If selfies were sips of margarita, the bus would’ve been as drunk as a frat house on Cinco de Mayo.
Peace signs, tongues out. Click, click, click.
Faces smiling, muscles flexing. Click, click, click.
Laughing, yelling, grinning, jumping. Click, click, click.
The intercom crackled: “Por favor, no jumping on bus.”
They soon arrived at the airport terminal, a steel and glass building with high ceilings and marble floors.
150 tourists spilled out of the buses. Agents in sharp navy-blue suits corralled them into roped lines toward immigration.
Customs agents standing off to the side randomly picked people from the line and searched their bags.
The bottle-necked line moved slowly. Americans fumbled with their phones as they searched for a Wi-Fi signal.
Canadians, many of whom were already sporting shorts and sunburns, moved patiently through the line.
But the calmest of all were the Latin Americans, who were as cool as Coronas, used to the slow but methodical pace of a Central American airport.
“Bringing in any plants or animals?” a customs agent asked Scott. He would’ve been shocked had they not singled him out, dressed as he was.
The customs agent had on high heels and wore hot pink nail polish.
Her hair was pulled back tightly in a bun.
She looked at him suspiciously as she rifled through his suitcase, then sent him to the immigration officer who quickly stamped his passport.
“Welcome to Acapulco, se?or—the Pearl of the Pacific. Next!”
Just beyond customs, a group of drivers held signs with their clients’ names.
As Scott headed for the exit, he saw a small man standing in a cutout in the wall holding pamphlets.
A sombrero adorned his head, and he had more gold in his smile than a Rolex.
He fit so perfectly in the space that Scott figured it must have been made specifically for him.
The little man handed Scott a pamphlet. “Come watch the world-famous cliff divers of Acapulco, Zapatos. You will not believe your eyes! The ocean, the drama, the bravery. They dive every day, even on Christmas. Ever been, Zapatos?” he said.
“Why are you calling me Shoes?”
“Your shiny leather shoes are the first thing I noticed about you. Most gringos wear sandals. Not you, Zapatos. You look like an important man. You even sound like a Mexicano. Listen, my brother runs a margarita stand at the cliff divers. When you get there, tell him Alberto sent you.” Scott smiled and walked away but turned around when the little man snapped his fingers.
He held out his sombrero. “Tips are always appreciated, Zapatos.” Scott dropped five dollars in the hat.