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"You want me to hire a girl? Then I will be all right?"

"You have certain anti-anxiety drugs. The municipales will want you to give them some money. You have money?"

I see now that it is William H. Macy, but it was another actor a moment ago. Behind him is Mickey Rourke in drag, pointing a gun at me.

I get up, push past the guard, now dissolving in an anti-anxiety-cloaking haze into another actor. He calls after me as I leap down the stairwell, two steps at a time. "Scarface! Scarface!" He's laughing his ass off, and it's a real guy. Pipe smoke is billowing from my room, and three Mexican men, associated in various ways with the hotel, are laughing with him. Rourke pulls the trigger and the 9mm shot is echoed by thunder over the Tijuana River levee.

"Key and remote are on the bed. Lo siento. Mi español...."

The rain wakes me in the pedestrian line. I stare up at the huge television advertisement screens and realize that I am as awake as Lorazepam will allow and that I have all along been on the set for the film Bladerunner. Surely Ridley Scott meant Tijuana and not Los Angeles or wherever that was supposed to be.

At customs, Harrison Ford asks what I brought with me from Mexico. "Prescription drugs. I have San Diego and Tijuana prescriptions for them."

He removes the Protonix, says, "Too many." Confiscated. "How much have you had to drink?"

"None. Nothing. Do I appear drunk?"

"It's just the hour. Didn't want a margarita, some shooters?"

"Want them? Ah, no. No. Didn't have to."

"Yeah, gets pretty crazy, I know what you mean."

It took me some miles along the trolley to understand, unlike Harrison Ford, who seemed to know immediately what it was that I had meant when I said, "I didn't have to."

Pulling out my cell phone and dialing my roommate, I announce, "I'm home, son. Feels good."

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