Blue Line Blues
art by Mars Tomasetti
I’m looking outside the window of the Blue Line Trolley in San Diego—I’m on my way to San Ysidro and then Mexico. The air is cold, the trolley is practically empty; I pop the collar of my jacket, I sort of hug my backpack, and as I get more or less comfortable, I start feeling melancholy. I space out for a few minutes thinking of nothing concrete, everything seems disjointed and convoluted, so I just sit there, feeling, at times, like I’m coming down with something. I feel awfully cold.
I try sitting up straight, and as my gaze pans from the window to the inside of the car, I see a guy who, from the looks of it, is coming from work at a restaurant. He is sitting six feet away from me, he carries a to-go box with what I assume is his dinner, which he places carefully onto his lap, and then proceeds to pull his phone out of his pocket with his right hand.
He uses only his right thumb, and after several touches on the screen, out comes “Lo Dejaría Todo” by Chayanne. The volume is all the way up, yet nobody seems to care. I mean, there’s only five of us, but he has one lady sitting to his right and another one exactly across from him. He pays no heed to them or me or anybody else. His eyes are nailed to the screen. From what I can make out, he’s either looking at the lyrics so he can sing along or watching the song’s music video. I smile awkwardly towards the window as he starts singing.
He intentado casi todo para convencerte, mientras el mundo se derrumba justo aquí a mis pies…, whispers Chayanne ever so romantically and, without noticing it at first, I start singing along in my head. I realize I know all the words! But, as I start getting into it, my brain does what it wants, and I begin thinking about her. Mientras aprendo de esta soledad que desconozco, me vuelvo a preguntar quizás si sobreviviré…
After almost five years in the U.S., I’m finally on my way to Mexico to be with my family, which technically means that the closer I get to them, the farther away she gets from me. Porque sin ti me he dado cuenta, amor, que no renaceré… She was lovely… But she was taken. I tell myself that even if I had stayed longer she could have never been mine anyways. I still think, however, that I could have loved her more than her husband ever would. But why? How could I? I don’t know, but right now, as both Chayanne and Blue-Line-Jukebox guy sing in unison (¡lo dejaría todo porque te quedaras: mi credo, mi pasado, mi religión!), I feel elated. I feel that I could become unstoppable if only I had her and her love in my life. I suddenly feel an urge to call her and tell her that I’ve fallen for her like a child, but that I will only stay if she and I start our own family. But I don’t do it, I don’t call her, because I know that I mustn’t. I’m not stupid, I know she’s married but… “But”: that damn word full of hope.
She was 26 (I suddenly feel the need to use the past tense when I think about her because the truth is it feels like I will never see her again). She was young and vibrant. Filled with life. For most of our friendship we were coworkers but soon became very good friends which, eventually, led to my falling for her. I don’t know when it happened, or how, but I began to see her through the eyes of a poet.
Abruptly, the marvelous voice of Luis Miguel pulls me back to the present. Si no existieras; hoy te inventaría, pues, sin duda alguna… o tú… o tú o ninguna… We are at the E Street stop. Luis Miguel’s falsettos fill the space while Victrola guy and I mouth the words passionately, silently.
My mind drifts back to her.
She was not short, rather her head was at the perfect height for me to be able to smell her hair when we hugged. Her body was perfect too. But her face… My god! And believe me, this is no exaggeration—her face looked as if chiseled by Rodin. We had to wear face masks at work, so I was only allowed to see so much of it, and thus developed a deep infatuation with her eyes, which were a brown hue that, in the presence of a certain kind of light, turned almost to auburn, like Jolene’s hair. Moreover, due to the constraints of workplace dress-code, the only parts of her skin available to me seemed as white as Galadriel’s silk gown—many times I imagined myself a wrecked ship and her body a sea of milk. I admired her so much that every time we embraced the sensation was akin to touching an art sculpture you knew you were not allowed to put your hands on.
My thoughts are interrupted again when a song by the Mexican sister-duo, Ha-Ash, starts playing. I must say, I’m pleasantly surprised by DJ Armin San Dieguuren’s range of taste. I wonder what he will play next. It’s dark outside now; the only thing I can see through the window is my tired reflection. The train suddenly stops at Barrio Logan where Rocío Dúrcal happens to come on. Oh, now we’re going deep! I think. Whenever Rocio Dúrcal plays, you know you’re hurting. I turn to look at this romantic megalomaniac for a moment—I’m looking for any signs of grief, but aside from the sporadic sniff brought about by the cold air, I see none. Me dijiste que jamás podría olvidarte, que después iría a rogarte y a decirte: bésame… Lip-Sync-Battle guy can’t see me seeing him because he is wearing a Dodgers’ hat and keeps looking down at his phone. Nonetheless, I keep singing my heart out because I’m hurting too. I’m not heartbroken, but I’m sad. The thought of her comes with a legend attached in big bold letters that reads: YOU CAN’T HAVE HER. And that wounds me. Yo luché contra el amor que te tenía… y se fue, ahora ya te olvidé.
Although we only worked together for a year, we got to know each other well. She liked me, she cared about me, she would make me gifts from time to time and, more often that I would like to admit, she would ask me not to be disrespectful of her marital status, and of mine as well. We got along amazingly well regardless. We used to argue about languages, relationships, and even canned drinks—I thought she drank too many, though she always claimed she didn’t. Once we got really mad at each other. Since we both wore masks at work, we couldn’t always hear each other very well—she misinterpreted something I said and it made her lash out at me. We didn’t speak to each other for almost a whole day, which was so painful to me as I was already falling for her and thus her silence cut seriously deep.
As any self-respecting Mexican would tell you, the obvious move after Rocío Dúrcal is El Divo de Juárez, Juan Gabriel, and this, Public-Transport-Busker guy knew very well. When Yo Te Recuerdo by Juan Gabriel and Marc Anthony started playing, I thought proudly, this dude really knows his Hispanic singers. By the time we get to the Palomar Street stop, I’ve already forgotten all about how cold I was and how mad I was that I had left my scarf in my friend’s car. I can only think now about how strong my love for her feels and how good music is at amplifying my emotions. Without even realizing it yet, I’m having a cathartic experience on a train on my way to the US-MEX border thanks to a stranger’s music choices and his little to no compliance with societal norms. Cuando la lluvia cae, cuando desaparece, cuando la luna sale, y cuando el sol se mete, yo te recuerdo…
There was no way I could have ever known how she really felt about me. She told me she liked me as a friend, she showed me she cared for me, and I could see in her eyes that it was true. But I often wondered how strong her feelings toward me were in relation to those for the man she had been with for the past six years. In my head, the ratio was staggering in his favor. To my credit, I never dared ask such a stupid question.
Abrázame Muy Fuerte comes on and it’s as if the closer we get to our destination, the more sentimental the songs get. Abrázame que el tiempo pasa y él nunca perdona, ha hecho estragos en mi gente como en mi persona. Abrázame que el tiempo es malo y muy cruel amigo. Abrázame que el tiempo es oro si tú estás conmigo… There isn’t a more romantic, heart-wrenching song than this one, so this is it. At the Beyer Boulevard station, our hearts—mine and the next America’s-Got-Talent guy—are crumbling like a piece of paper in the hands of an angry child. Tú cuando mires para el cielo… por cada estrella que aparezca, amor, es un “te quiero”.
Te quiero, I mutter to myself, te quiero, and I’m going to miss you like crazy. I begin talking to her as if she were sitting next to me: I would love to stay with you. I know you’re with him, but what if I could give you more? What if I could make you feel more? What if…? Before I know it, I hear Ana Gabriel‘s raspy voice: nadie sabe lo que tiene, hasta que lo ve perdido, nunca tú debiste decidirlo, pues creo que eran cosas de los dos, nunca tú debiste decidirlo, pues mira ya aprendiste la lección… I fit the song to my situation to keep the catharsis going.
I sense we’re close, so I check my phone and realize I’m almost at my stop, which is everyone’s stop, the final one. Moments later, the PA system announces our arrival to San Ysidro. The train stops and Trolley-Karaoke guy stops his music too, puts his phone back in his pocket, checks his hat, stands up, and it’s then that he catches my eye. He nods at me, and I nod back. We both know what we’re feeling. He steps out into the cold night of this border town, and I follow suit.
I start walking towards the border crossing and soon enough I see a sign: “To México,” it says in big, blue bold letters. I stop thinking about her and begin thinking about the family that I haven’t seen in years. My wife, my two kids, my parents, and my brother. Focus on the present, you idiot, stop thinking nonsense, I tell myself. I take a deep breath and quicken my pace.
