Routine Expedition

Buzzer blaps at 6:30am and I drag myself out of my cocoon of comfort. Shower, shave, drag a comb through my hair and dress. Hop the clanking old 50's style school bus to the border and cross - waiting an hour behind fat naco lady sneezing and snorting all kinds of viruses everywhere. Passed the customs under the bloodshot hateful glare of the inspector and jump that trolley to San Diego.

I decided to cut the crap and travel to Los Angeles - an ominously dark memory from my past that I had avoided for nearly two decades - with the sole purpose of visiting a friend, more of an acquaintance really - that had been a fan of this here blog from almost the beginning.

I sighed as the suburbs whooshed by - why am I doing this? Nothing but desperate finality and clash of bitter egos will ensue. Millions of images of undetasteful acts of swirling lisping fairies whirled in my head - just another Hollywood arrogant uppity queen that I guess I'll placate for a day. Just bite it, Luis and leave with a smile, I pondered. Another contact that is bound to go down the tubes.

So, I buy the ticket after waiting for the quivering old ticket clerk on training and stand outside to call this character - doesn't answer the phone. Great. What the fuck? Okay, maybe he's still asleep after a long night of God knows what...

With a loud squeal of gears and and fart of black smoke, the Greyhound rumbles northward through landscapes of jagged hills and brush, past vast shopping malls big enough to hold some Mexican adobe villages, past oil refineries, and rest stops of horny truckers and hostile surfers, towards that great ominous concrete defecation that I had avoided with black nostalgia for so long. Grey tumulus clouds swirled with menace just over the city - bright blue everywhere else on the horizon - dark clouds that my paranoia took as a preminition to come.

Depart the bus in LA - the smell, the downright stench was over powering, smog so thick you could chew it, skyscraprers clawing out of the soot up into a sky the color of a dead television channel. Shriveled hip blacks shuffled down cracked filthy sidewalks between dilapidated warehouses and low rent flop houses. Traffic traffic traffic - millions of cars congested the simmering asphalt as I stood on the corner outside the terminal and decided to give this guy a call. Nope - just the answering machine. No big whoop, I thought a little disappointed - I'll just make my way to Hollywood, play tourist for a day and then return to Tijuana later in the evening.

Hunger hit, so as I was marching towards the faded golden arches in the distance - cellphone rings. It is Victor Perez - the reason behind this trip. Stilted dialogue, salutations. I mean, what can I say? Decided to be overtly cordial with the chap and mumbled something to the effect that I need a guide in this ominous metropolis. Luckily, the kid only lived a few blocks away and asked to meet on a corner.

Stood on the corner of 7th and Spring smoking smoking smoking - paranoia crescented as I waited next to two black crack junkies on the con. I look up to see a handsome Mexican in black t-shirt and khaki shorts grinning maniacally at me across the street. With leaps and bounds he bounces across the fairway and greets me with a bear hug.

I think he was under the impression of seeing a shriveled, filthy junky tottering there - I had to explain that my writing is one thing, the real me a different entity all together. Sometimes.

He invited me to Cole's Restaurant - a dive that had been in Los Angeles since the forties and as we sat there gobbling French Dip sandwiches and guzzling beer under the fay raised eyebrow of a knowing patron, all previous speculations of this character melted. Victor was not only surprisingly pleasant but his trivial knowledge of film rivaled my own. He seemed so real and down to earth that it actually came as a shock - albeit a relief that it wasn't going to be a day with a simpering, swishing queen. And he was ruggedly handsome to boot - the internet pictures not doing justice - no manpurse on this lad, bet he doesn't even own a hairdryer. He looked as if you could actually take a camping trip with him and nary a bitch from him as to where to plug his curling iron.

For a couple of hours we sat - blabbed about film, writing, screenplays, special interests - cascading out of our mouths the most trivial of things and actually taking interest in what each other had to say. No pretense - no falstities...so real.

I croaked I'd like to visit Hollywood and take a few pictures. So, paying the tab we whooshed via subway to the Boulevard of Broken Balls and emerged in a sea of petulant tourists! I wasn't in the mood to take any pictures anyway - on the outside I was keeping myself reserved, but inward I was soaking up every syllable, every word that Victor uttered, enjoying just being in his presence sent a thrill more than any hack dressed as a faded star could ever give. I really started liking this guy.

I mentioned that Land of the Lost opened today and we briskly strode over the Hollywood Walk of Fame down to Sunset to the Cinedome. It came as a shock that now it was converted into a multiplex - but a haughty one at that. You actually pick your seat while purchasing your ticket - a far cry from Mexican cinemas where you are herded like cattle and rush - literally trampled trying to find a seat. And the Cinedome serves beer! I smiled inward, a long time since I have visited such a technological mecha - felt like such a rube!.

After spotting Scott Bakula in the concessions line, Victor and I sat and yukked it up for two hours as Land of the Lost flickered across screen. Funny movie - and the experience even better with a cool friend.

Walking out of the theater, Victor spun into a funk as I confided that I need to get back to Tijuana. He suggested that if he flipped the bill for a hotel will I stay? "Just get a couple of beers, some grub and kick it, ya know - sex doesn't have to be obligatory." Victor smiled. Sure - wouldn't you?

Somehow, we ended up at some bar called Akbar's "It's a trap!" (Return of the Jedi reference - google it!) - however, I was shocked at that two beers ran 17 dollars - damn, that's near the total amount I bring with me on a nights escursion in Tijuana - and after stopping at his job for a paycheck, Victor and I found a moderately priced Travelodge on Sunset. Grabbing beer from a corner liquor store and a couple of burgers from Fatburger, we settled in to a relaxing evening.

Indeed.

We sat on the couch in our room, watching American Dad, eating drinking, smoking, Victor coyly snuggling up against me. He looks deep in my eyes and says, "See - isn't this cool? Just kicking it, drinking, talking - and we don't hafta have sex if you don't wanna."

All during the last half of that sentence I stood up and mechanically took off my jeans and shirt. Silently, Victor lies on the bed next to me where I flopped and...and I will not debase that experience by writing it the same way with those Rent boys and hoods in Mexico. I have too much respect for Victor. I'll just say it was quite satisfying.

We fall asleep in each others arms - myself in that cold comfort of being, outside keeping it cool and restrained - inside I felt at such peace, so in tune with myself. I hadn't felt like this with anyone in years.

The next morning, after doing each other again - and again - Victor falls asleep in my arms and I lay there thinking about possibilities that my time in Mexico needs to come to an end. I need to move on and experience different kicks - to really put this writing experiment to the test. As I lay there in the still of the post dawn room, feeling the warmth of Victor in my arms - his torso slowly contracting with each breathe - I decided to pop a question to him, a suggestion of moving to San Francisco and renting a place there together. At first a two room trap and then go from there. Slowly, I thought, no need to gush all out with this guy - ruin it and wind up hurt again.

After Victor awoke - we showered and then rushed over to a local Denny's to Grand Slam it before he had to go to work. We reminisced the past day - and both confided how wonderful it was finally meeting each other after all these years - and I really meant it.

Back in downtown LA, the time was to say our goodbyes - heartfelt and stilted as they were - we parted on 7th and Spring, exactly were we met and I trudged back to the Greyhound and the long trip back to grunge of the Mexican Border...