I traveled to Juarez, Mexico on Saturday, May 29, 2010 in search of the clinic where actor Steve McQueen died from cancer. I was successful, thanks to Pedro, my taxi driver and advisor. I spent over an hour with Steve's doctor, Cesar Santos Vargas. Flushed with success, I had Pedro drive me to a good bar where I downed three shots of rum accompanied by three Dos Equis.
Feeling pretty darn good, I hit the streets, bought three Marlboro cigarettes, conversed with Pedro, sat down in an alley and meditated for about 20 minutes, became obsessed with a brown pigeon, which led me into a car lot, which introduced me to an old woman named Micaelo with whom I became entranced (at one point I'm sitting on the sidewalk with Micaelo, holding a plastic cup pretending to be blind, and we're laughing and hugging each other and that's when I snapped the closeup of the two of us and I felt bad that no one put money in her cup so as I said goodbye I dropped a twenty on her).
Walking across the bridge to El Paso I smoked my last Marlboro, found my car behind which was an 18-wheeler parked in a no parking zone. I drove back to Las Cruces tired but satisfied.