Devine Justice

Digital art collage by Stella Kalaw

On the eve of my leaving home at the age of eighteen, my father said to me: “You can do whatever you want—just don’t get thrown in jail.” He was a forbearing man who had experienced youthful folly, and he had learned from it. But he was never thrown in jail. I appreciated his confidence that I, too, would find my own way. But alas, I did not surmount the low bar of staying out of the crowbar hotel.

I was thrown in jail in Devine, Texas—that’s “de,” not “di”—and the circumstances, while memorable in themselves, are only the backstory to how my friend Nelson and I joined a circus.

It’s hard to pinpoint where it all started, but let’s say San Cristóbal de las Casas, Mexico. It was 1973, and my high-school friend Nelson and I had spent the previous few months rambling across Canada, the U.S. and Mexico, rather aimlessly because that was how you did it at the time. Our transport was my 1961 Plymouth, which we had driven from Flin Flon, Manitoba. My father had bought me the car when I turned sixteen because he didn’t want me driving his wheels. As I said, he had experienced youthful folly and learned from it.

“That car will never make it to Winnipeg,” he said when I told him of the plan to drive south. There he was wrong.

The Plymouth was white with a cherry-red interior, and because of its powerful 383-cubic-inch engine was affectionately nicknamed “the Beast.” Cars were simpler in those days (and more polluting, but gas was cheap), and Nelson, who was a dab hand at keeping engines running, did just that as we made our way through mountain ranges, deserts and jungles.

But by the time we reached San Cristóbal, not far from the Guatemala border, it felt time to give the Beast a rest. We found a garage to stow the car and made our way into Central America, where we split up. After so many weeks together, Nelson and I were sick of each other’s company. The time he tried to strangle me—I probably deserved it—was a tipoff. We agreed to meet in San Cristóbal on an appointed day in a few weeks.

I made it back in time, but Nelson didn’t. After hanging around a few days, I decided to head north. I found a couple of companions, including an appealing young American woman, to accompany me. Rides such as the Beast was able to provide produced a lot of engaging company.

We zig-zagged across southern Mexico searching for magic mushrooms, which we never found—the Internet or AI would have been helpful had they existed. I left notes for Nelson at post offices along the way (who remembers poste restante?) so that he might catch up.

As I drove, it was clear something was wrong with the Beast. It wasn’t just suddenly sluggish—it was falling apart. First it dropped high gear—not a problem because the big engine could cruise 70 mph just fine in second, not that you could go that fast in Mexico. But when the car gave up reverse, it was more serious. Now it had to be pointed north, the direction I wanted to go, every time I stopped for the day. I suspected funny business—the switching out of parts at the garage in San Cristóbal, but whatever. It also didn’t help that we had lost the key to the trunk, which meant the bothersome need to remove the back seat to access our stuff there.

Such was the state of affairs when we reached San Miguel de Allende, the town a magnet for gringos, as it still is. The young woman abandoned me for more desirable company, and I was left idling, not sure what to do next. Then, a couple of days later, there he was, loping down the street, tall and alien-looking in a Guatemalan serape and wide-brimmed straw hat—Nelson.

He had faithfully followed my notes left in the various no-account towns I had passed through, and it had paid off. It was another sign that it was time to go home.

The next day we were driving to the border, having carefully scoured the Beast for any traces of illicit substances that might have been carried or consumed within.

At the Texas border town of Laredo, a couple of dogs were set loose on the car, the back seat having been removed. The shepherds seemed excited by the many odours they encountered, but our cleanup had been thorough. We were home free in the land of the brave!

Our giddiness was short-lived. A couple of miles later, cops in Boy Scout hats pulled us over to search the car again. “We want to make sure you didn’t meet someone backpacking something across the river,” one of them said. Out came the back seat. Nothing.

By time we were underway it was near sundown, and it seemed a good idea to pull off the interstate. We saw a sign that pointed to Devine. No need to bother the citizens. Sleeping in a car as big as the Beast, equipped with bench seats, was something we often did.

We were no sooner off the highway than the cops were on us again. This time two cars’ worth, the local sheriff and several deputies.

Our explanations for having dropped in left them unimpressed. They searched. Nothing.

“Open the trunk,” the sheriff said. We explained the dilemma of the lost key.

“Open it,” he said.

Nelson dutifully removed the back seat.

“Now don’t come up with anything shiny,” the sheriff said, his hand on his sidearm. The humid darkness lent an unease to the scene.

Nothing, of course. We had told him that.

“Well,” the sheriff said. “I think I’ll put you boys in jail anyways. Just in case.”

His reasoning seemed flimsy, but it gained plausibility when the iron door of the Devine jail clanged shut. It occurred to me that if the sheriff could throw us in jail for no reason, he didn’t need one to let us out.

But let us out he did, the next morning, with a cup of coffee into the bargain.

“I don’t want to see you around here again,” he said.

Not a chance of that. But a cup of coffee and a get-out-of-town-free card was a better deal than some of the hotels we had stayed in—and cheaper. I suppose it helped that, even if scruffy, we were white.

I marvel now at how innocent we and the times were. Such a stunt as we had pulled would today be a one-way ticket to Alligator Alcatraz or South Sudan. How utterly terrifying it must be for those who are being rounded up. And, yes, they are not white.

Instead, for us another adventure awaited. The keys to the Beast were handed over—I wondered what the deputy who had driven it to the jail thought—and, still pointed north, we limped past San Antonio and into Austin.

A sensible thought entered our heads: we had better divest ourselves of the vehicle that had become more albatross than flying carpet. Goodbye faithful companion. Sad to let you go. But we got $20 for it, I don’t quite remember how, and headed for the bus depot. We bought tickets for the long trek to Winnipeg.

As we waited, we noticed two men. One was tall and gaunt, the other short and roundish. Neither were elegantly dressed, more like Mutt and Jeff escaped from a Sam Beckett play. They seemed to be interviewing the young Black men in the station, who, like us, were looking for a way to leave Austin.

The odd couple saw us and came over. “How would you boys like to come join our circus?” one of them said. Of course, we said. Who wouldn’t?

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To be continued here on Bryan’s Substack Life Sentences.