“¿Es este coche que se envían? ¿Cuál es el nombre del barco?”
“I don’t speak no Spanish,” I say in a wide southern accent. “Hoblas Englisee.”
“You car. It goes on the ship? What is the ship?”
“Well sir, you see, it ain’t my car.” I holler and slur the words as though I was drunk. “It’s my boss’s car, you understand? He told me in no uncertain terms to get my goddamned ass down here ASAP.”
I smile at the guard in a confused, tentative way.
He obviously follows none of this. “What is the ship?” he asks again.