This month we’re talking about my 40th birthday. There was no party, no plane ride, but it was memorable for a different reason. At that time I had a wife, a couple of kids, a mortgage, two car payments, a crappy day job in a factory, and a tight, four-piece country band. I had everything I needed for a head-on collision with reality, and it did not disappoint.
Cue sad music.
The reality was that I had placed my love of the band and playing music ahead of a career that could pay the bills and raise two boys to responsible, independent manhood. With the possibility of college expenses looming, it was clear to me that I needed a higher income.
While the band was fun — therapeutic even — I had to admit to myself that I didn’t have the talent, time, resources, friends or luck needed for a career in the music industry. Now at the middle age of 40, I knew I had to do better. I put away my guitars and, for the next 30-plus years, I opened a guitar case only once.
Fade sad music.
Ten years later, we were living in El Cajon, California, and I was commuting across the Mexican border daily to oversee the construction of a new manufacturing facility on the southern outskirts of Tijuana. Shown on a graph, I went from a straight line with a downward trend to a rising line — a bell curve rising steadily to the point where I was getting robbed and shot at in Mexico, then falling precipitously with my retirement after a second cancer bout.
After more than 60 years, I found myself right back in Harpswell where I started. That is partly thanks to the Mexican policemen who focused on their more lucrative side hustle: shaking me down most Friday afternoons on my way home across the southern border.
It was regular as clockwork, always on a Friday and always an allegation that I had not stopped at an imaginary stop sign two or three intersections back. It worked because claiming I didn’t know that “alto” means “stop” was no excuse, and neither was the fact that this crime was based on a total fabrication. It went something like the following, but you have to imagine the telltale accents, both Baja Mexican English and gringo Spanish.
“Good evening, señor. May I ask what is your hurry?” the grinning policeman asked when he got to my truck.
“Good afternoon, señor. Hurry? I don’t know what you mean. I was not speeding, as you could easily see.”
Policia: “That is true, señor, but you did not stop for the stop sign back there.”
Me: “The stop sign? What stop sign? There are only traffic lights here. I saw no stop sign.”
Policia: “Si, señor, that is our problem. Now you will be good enough to come with me to the police station.”
I had learned quickly that these shakedowns were always late on a Friday. The officials who acted as traffic court judges in the city were said to be gone for the weekend, so we always heard, “Lo siento, señor, but you will be our guest for the weekend until the judge returns on Monday.”
Five minutes in a Tijuana jail would be stomach-turning difficult. Three nights and two days was unthinkable.
“I appreciate your kind hospitality,” I said, “but that is a problem for me. Tell me, how much do you think the fine will be?”
The officer flashed a slight smile and I knew I’d be home for supper.
“Probably 500 pesos,” he said as he eased closer to the window, standing tiptoed to see over the door frame.
“That seems too much for a stop sign, and I was traveling slowly,” I said. “Perhaps, under the circumstances” — I gave him a knowing look — “the fine would be more like 400 pesos.”
“Si, señor. It is possible. He is a fair man.”
Closing the deal, I said, “How about this: I could give you money for the fine and you can give it to the judge on Monday when he is back in his office.”
“Oh, si, señor, that is a service we often provide when a minor traffic mistake is made by guests in our country. But I have no receipts today.”
From the driver’s seat in my truck, I looked down at him and said, “You look like an honest, hardworking policeman. If you will promise to give it to the judge, I will give you money for the fine. This way I will have paid for this small mistake, you will look good for the court judge, and the city will have a little extra money for the department picnic. Agreed?”
“Yes, señor,” he said. “With so many foreigners in our city, this is common.”
“So I have heard,” I replied, as I reached into the overhead console for the $40 kept there for just this purpose. As I moved to give him the two $20 bills, he got as tall as he could get. Leaning onto the window, he snatched the bills and, with a smooth motion, secreted them into his shirt pocket.
What in the world does any of this have to do with my 40th birthday? It turns out that, according to my new best friend, AI, “studies suggest that after 40, people often face high-stakes decisions like changing careers, starting a business, or moving, often feeling that it is their last chance to make a ‘meaningful change.'”
My advice for you soon-to-be-middle-aged decision makers is this: When in Rome, do as the Romans. When in Tijuana, be sure to have a few $20 bills on hand.
