Clipped
Tequila Sunrise
It hasn't been the same since that trip. It's always said that there's a moment when your parents regard you as an adult. A line is drawn in the sand, and one day, Mom stops calling you "Bean" and Dad loses the playfully patronizing tone in his voice when he talks to you. You are seen as a conversational equal, not a recipient. My line formed in the sand on the sunny beaches of Cancun, Mexico.
It was an annual tradition at my school. Every spring, a goodly portion of the senior class would ship off to the bastion of debauchery that is Cancun. The week would pass in normal time for all of us non-seniors and then we'd arrive back in school on Monday, a veritable buzz of post-Cancun afterglow crackling through the sterile halls.
Girls came back with braided hair and cancer-be-damned-three-shades-darker-than-what-you-could-call tans. The guys came back with stories of conquest and freshly scabbed tats. Occasionally, some poor soul would have a new piercing that would require clothing removal to show off. No one could shut up about the craziness of the trip.
In spite of all this, getting my parents to sign off was actually fairly easy. I've been a good kid, and my parents have a lot of trust in me as a result. The good kid thing was mostly because I was a late social bloomer, and I continued to play it up — always letting them know where I was going, with who, and I'd call when I got where I was going, and then on the way home. They only wanted me to keep in touch, even as I started going out more. Good people, they are.
So I brought up the trip, and told my Mom that it was a thing for the seniors every year, and that I had a ton of friends going. She said she'd talk to dad.
The next day, dad said, "So you wanna go to Mexico for spring break, huh?"
I said, "Yea. It's like an unofficial senior trip."
"Sounds cool. Who's paying?"
"Hmmm … I was hoping you would know."
"We'll see …"
Of course, I had left out a few of the specifics of the trip. Like what we would be doing with all the time we had on our hands — going clubbing and getting piss drunk. Details, details …
My mom came home the next day and wanted to talk to me. So when I saw her come in the door, I sat up on the couch and muted the tv.
"What's up?"
"Hey kid!" she said, walking on to the kitchen. "Gimme a sec."
"Aight." Mtv regained its hold on my attention. Until I got hungry. I walked into the kitchen. Mom was sorting through the mail. She had yet to remove her coat.
"Anything for me?"
"Yea, two college letters and a Sports Illustrated."
"Good stuff," I said. Triscuits in hand, I went over and peered over her shoulder. She held up my stuff against her shoulder. I grabbed it, and twirled it over as I walked over to the table. Basketball preview ish — good stuff.
"Thanks, ma."
Mom dropped off her pocketbook in the office, and then went over to the closet to put away her coat. I started flipping through the SI. An article caught my eye.
"So Bean, I talked to Andrea at work today."
"Oh? She complaining about fantasy baseball again?"
"Nope. She and Mike just got back from their vacation. In Cancun."
I turned the page, cocking an eyebrow
"Eh? Good time?"
"Yea? But she said it was wild."
I had to go through three pages of ads before I found the NBA preview. My mom continued on.
"She said that a lot of crazy stuff went on."
Like our good friends at SI saying that the Knicks were the team to beat in the East. Crazy bastards.
"Oh yea? Like what?"
"Just a lot of teenagers not thinking about their parents back home. So tell me, who?s going with you guys, teachers or what?"
I responded without thinking: "Nah. The trip's not school sponsored."
Mom shifted up. I immediately wanted a do over.
"Oh?" she asked. "Why's that?"
I closed the magazine, my forefinger marking the page.
"Mostly because it'd take a lot of effort to organize and teachers would have to give up their spring break to chaperone the trip. Not to mention the whole liability issue?"
"So what goes on there that the school doesn?t want to be responsible for?"
I flipped back to my page in the magazine.
"I dunno. Stupid teen stuff, I guess. People do dumb things when their parents aren't around."
My mom locked her fingers, and leaned forward on her elbows. Her voice had just the slightest tinge of amusement in it.
"So tell me again why you want to go."
"It's tradition, Ma. It's like a reward for putting up with Stuy for four years. Besides, I"ll have Rich and Chris, not to mention my set of morals to keep me in check."
Mom shifted back in her seat, a low "Hmmm …" escaping from between pressed lips.
"I'll talk it over with your father."
That night, after I had packed in and was ready for bed, there was a knock on the door.
"Come in," I said.
I sat up on the bed. My dad opened the door. He and Mom stayed in the doorway.
"What's up?"
"Not much, son," Dad replied. "We've thought about this Cancun trip. And if you decide that going to Cancun unsupervised for a week is something you want to do, we'll let you go — as long as you pay for it."
I tried to keep monotone. Teenage guys don't show emotion.
"Aight. You know where I could get a job?"
Mom smiled at me.
"We'll figure that out," she said. "I may know about an opening or two."
"Goodnight, son," Dad said, closing the door.
"Night, pops … mom."
Point and match for me, folks — I was going to Mexico.
I ended up getting a job with the Brooklyn Academy of Music, where mother happened to be General Manager and Executive Vice-President- like she said, she knew about a job opening or two. A paid internship for the GM department — eight bucks an hour, three hours a day, four days a week. With the trip five months away, I had to work 10 weeks to pay it off. Anything after that was gravy.
I think it was around the beginning of that fifth month that my mother realized what she had gotten herself into. Her baby was going to Cancun. And there was no turning back. My dad was settled in the "whatever" camp. He figured I was paying for it, it?s my choice. "Just be responsible and safe," he said. He bought me condoms before I left. Mom, however, started to bug.
"What are you going to do there?" she'd ask.
"Go clubbing and lie on the beach."
"Isn't the drinking age in Mexico lower?"
"Yea. I'll be with Rich and Chris. We're gonna be fine. I wouldn't be going if I couldn't stay with people I trust."
"Don't be stupid. No means no."
"Ma, I know that. You've raised me well. I'm not that kinda guy."
"Honey …"
"Ease up, Ma. You're just making yourself worried. It's a vacation. I'll be with my friends. You know the guys I'm staying with. We?re good people."
"It's just …"
"Look, I'm gonna be on my own for the next four years at college. You don't learn to trust me now, you'll be dead in the water come fall. Just look at this as an exercise in faith."
"Ok …"
I think we had that conversation 17 times before I left.
Cancun was a crazy place. Lots of teenagers with no parents, a lot of spending money, and freely flowing liquor. Lessons I learned:
- When I get really drunk, I speak ebonics.
- No matter what one of my friends may argue, our hotel was the Melia Turquesa, NOT the Melia Tequila.
- Girls will do a damn lot for beads on Mardi Gras night.
- Weedheads are some of the most creative people on the face of the earth — give them a Pepsi bottle and a test tube shot glass and then sit back and watch the show.
- Trying to get play can sometimes result in broken feet. (Damn the Mexican police!)
- Snorkels are made for breathing air, not Kahlúa.
Details, you ask? You know the rule, my good man — What goes on in Cancun, stays in Cancun.
Dad picked me up from the airport. It was early morn. I had been waiting for five minutes when I saw him coming in from the snow. There hadn't been much snow in Cancun this past week.
He put out his cigarette in one of the standing ashtrays. I walked over and said, "Hey."
"Son … How are ya?" he asked, grabbing my heavier bag.
"Aight, pops. You got that?"
He turned towards the parking lot and gave a brisk nod of the head.
"You have fun?"
"Yea. I had a good time. 'Twas a much needed break from school and work."
"That's good, son."
We walked the rest of the way to the car in silence. Dad opened the trunk, and I dropped in my stuff. I took shotgun. We pulled out.
"What happened in sports?" I asked. "Knicks aight? Mets start well?"
"The Knicks are the Knicks. The Mets aren't so hot."
"Oh …"
I turned on the radio. I tried to find a station playing music. Mine didn't have any, so I put it to the classical station for Dad. I pulled out a book. I read until my eyes went out of focus from lack of sleep. I marked the page.
"So what did you guys do this week?" I asked.
"Not much. I worked on the house and my lesson plans. Mom was at work. Evan loafed around."
"Fun."
"What was Cancun like?"
"It was crazy. People do some weird stuff when their parents aren't around."
"Drink a lot?"
"Yea. There was free liquor at every club."
"Not beer?"
"Nope. Tequila and stuff. We were careful though. No one in our room puked the whole week. Or got sunburned."
"So you're a drinker now, huh?"
That wasn't cool.
"Uhmm … Yeah, I guess."
The rest of the car ride was silent, save for the orchestral arrangements of Aaron Copland.
Mom was still sleeping when we got in. I stopped in on the way to my room. I leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. She groggily half opened her eyes.
" … Hi honey."
"Hey, Ma. I'm back."
" …I'm glad."
She gave me a tight-lipped, squinty-eyed smile and then shifted back into the pillow. I kissed her lightly, walked down the hall to my room, and fell asleep.