I can’t be that upset about the Indios; I knew they were going to lose, same as everybody else. I’ve enjoyed one last day at the beach. And now I get to again see my supercool new dog, who was being watched by a friend. I get to sleep in my own bed, too. “It’s funny how you miss this place when you’ve been gone,” the bass player of an El Paso rock band said one night when I was clubbing with Paco Ibarra; the band had just returned from a California swing. The sentiment’s the same on the Juárez side. Even after five days in Cancún, I’m jazzed to be back on my home turf, in such high spirits that I walk with my luggage from the Free Bridge all the way back to my apartment, maybe two miles. A choking dust floats in the air. I pass abandoned buildings and junker cars and I walk on roads bruised with potholes. None of this bothers me. When I step into my neighborhood, I hear little kids playing in their front yards. They look like animals caged behind iron bars, yes, but they are still little kids, and they are still playing.
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