The Man Who Stole My Taxi

Chapter 1: Traffic Jam

By the time she arrived, Jorge had stopped looking at the door.

For the first twenty minutes, he had checked it whenever someone entered. Each time, a gust of cool night air slipped inside the crowded venue, followed by another group of teenagers dressed in dark shirts, worn jeans, and heavy boots.

None of them was her.

After forty minutes, he began pretending that he had never been waiting for anyone.

After an hour, he decided the whole thing had been a bad idea.

It was 1994 in Tijuana, and Jorge was still in high school. The venue was packed with young people who had come to see Tijuana No!, a local band he loved. The room felt too small for the noise inside it. Guitars screamed through tired speakers. The floor trembled beneath dozens of jumping feet. Sweat, smoke, and anticipation hung in the air.

Somewhere in that crowd was supposed to be a girl he had never met.

His friends had called it a blind date. Jorge thought the phrase sounded unnecessarily dramatic. He was not searching for true love. He simply expected to meet someone, watch the concert, talk for a while, and perhaps share an awkward goodbye outside.

He had arrived early.

She had not.