He said it was just an ordinary burrito, he said we would be friends, and we would be equals, he said nothing would change, but nothing remained the same.  It all started in the seventh grade, when I got back from Mexico, only to find that a strange new kid had recently joined the seventh grade class of 1988.  His name was Rodriguez Morgado.  He was short and skinny, his nose bent in a cruel form, his dark blue eyes staring into the depths of my soul.  No one in the class dared to look at him, and when they did, it was as if an aura of rage was circulating around his body and making everyone else in the class feel small, and unwanted.  My name is Pyez Rafael Gerardo, and that day marked the start of the most dangerous journey of my life.

It wasn’t until the end of high school that Rodriguez and I decided that we could make it in the world on our own.  Rodriguez had become my brother from another mother, and acted as if we had known each other since birth.  After high school we opened up a taco stand in Tijuana called TJ Tacos.  I liked selling tacos to the public, and we were pretty successful for a couple of teenagers.  But Rodriguez had something else in mind, something that would get us in just a bit of trouble with the FBI and the rest of the world security organizations.  I didn’t like it, but he was confident that we would be fine.  Then he did something unexpected.  He pulled a match out of his pocket and set fire to the taco stand that we had spent most of our twenties using for shelter and hiding places for gangs.  “We don’t need to sell regular tacos anymore Pyez,” he said with that creepy look that he first gave me in the seventh grade, “We are starting a new business that is a lot more profitable than selling tacos in Tijuana, we are going to sell drugs.”

I couldn’t do it.  That would compromise everything we’ve ever worked for.  It was too big of a change.  So I shoved him to the ground, told him he was crazy, and literally ran away. He shouted at me that I was a wimp and that he would see me again, but when we were older.  I joined the army after that.  It was the only way I could take my anger out.  He betrayed me after all we’ve been through.  Four years later, I quit the army and went back to Tijuana to settle down by the coast.  The days passed slower than usual, having nothing to do but relax in my cozy home next to the west coast of Mexico.  Spending most of my time on the beach I thought of Rodriguez and where he was now.  But my question would be answered sooner than I wanted it to be.

Twenty years had passed since I shunned Rodriguez.  Pondering if I would ever see him again, which I didn’t want to, I strolled outside in the rain to collect my mail.  I skimmed through the letters, until I stumbled upon a peculiar letter with no return address.  The letter itself was bulging from whatever was in it. I pressed my ear against the seal of the letter to check for a bomb ticking noise.  Nothing.  I slowly brought the letter in my house and sat on the couch.  I tore open the top of the letter and pulled out what was a sixty page letter from a man called Escobido.  But his crude penmanship made it obvious that it was Rodriguez.  I had never seen him write that much in my whole life.  Not even in all of our school years had I seen him write this much.  As much as I wanted to burn it and forget about Rodriguez, the first two words were, “Mi culpa,” (It’s all my fault in English).  He told me in the letter that he was sorry and he made a huge mistake and if I didn’t                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       want to forgive him that was OK but he really wanted me back.  He still wanted to sell drugs in burritos and tacos and quesadillas.  And if I wanted back in, to meet him at the gate of the Russian embassy in Mexico and we would have a little chat about what he expected from me as a member of the team.  The last two sentences were, “Y si tu estuves preguntando, no me necesitas llamar me Rodriguez no mas.  Me nobre es Escobido.”