The sky was illuminated by blue bursts of electrical fire. Rain fell hard, drenching me and the scrawny hooker that tittered on the corner in her see through, plastic pumps. She resembled a melting wax figure, as if fermenting some hideous cancer.
“Psst…psst! Hey, honey, wanna suckey-suckey?” She squawked at me through the rainy haze, the sound of her voice revealed that she was a he.
I pressed on home - streets now had become rivers and sewage outlets spewed forth a dry winters worth of back up.
I cut the corner to my trap, soaked to the bones, turned the key and slopped my wet shoes into my house.
Lights were switched on and I peeled my clothes off like a used condom. Stove burned a blue flame, water boiled and steamed, and a cup of hot coffee was made. I hunkered down and watched David Lynch’s Eraserhead just to make sure my life wasn’t that bad. After the final credits rolled, I slipped into my bed. Rain always made me drowsy.
I had a headache, me, and took a handful of aspirin before knocking off for the night.
Poom! Poom! Poom! Somebody was knocking at my door. The clock read 2:36am. Poom! Poom! Poom!
I flung the blanket off and reached for my pajama bottoms. (I had always slept naked. Couldn’t have it any other way. Wouldn’t you?)
I yanked the front door open to find Jose, a teenage kid from the neighborhood, standing on my landing with kind of a glow. His eyes were all pupil and he sniffed constantly.
“Oye, guero…look…I was wondering if you can spare one dollar. My grandmother is sick. She is very ill. I need some money for medicina. Could you…”
For a beat, I glared at his gangly frame as the junk in his system caused his body to droop and sway.
I roared, “Basta! Can’t you tell how late it is!? I was sleeping! Some of us hafta work for a living instead of staying up all night taking dope! Don’t bother me again!”
Had a hard time sleeping after that. Put on some Juliee Cruise – she had always made me drift away.
The alarm went off, reggeaton blared forth from the little radio; it was 5:20am. I staggered to the shower and bathed in lukewarm water, dressed and hit the dark streets - still damp and glistening after the previous night’s storm.
I bought two burritos pulpa from the plump smiling woman on the side of the main drag as traffic whizzed by to the United States - there was black dust in the cracks of her face.
I gobbled down one burrito before I passed through the turnstile to the International Bridge. The pedestrian line to cross was insidious - a half a mile long of petulant faced locals and ending with the obligatory, arrogant custom inspector.
Once on American soil, a phone call was made and a coworker happily picked me up. Work dragged like a wounded snail and I was nearly comatose by the time I got off. I hitched another ride back to the border and jet across that long divide.
Crossed the bridge - shriveled, shit-covered junkies in rags and ponchos with gnarled hands outstretched, looking like beat Christ’s - begged for change down under the bridge. You could hear their pleaful cries - “Oye! Pesos, por favor! Money! Money!” - they go unnoticed, as all I saw were the fat asses of the local women that bounced ahead of me. An impenetrable wall of flesh.
Stopped by Burrito Row - I ordered a burrito mole with manzana fresca and shot the shit with Beto, a young and very attractive Mexican that worked at one of the stalls. I chomped my mess all the while wondered what it would take to nail that fine ass.
But, I digress - I was still extremely groggy and decided to make my way home. Saying adios, I walked through the muggy air - the occasional tsk tsk from the prowling hooker - dodging the kamikaze bus, the suicide taxi.
I reached my humble flat and snatched the $120 I stashed under a ratty copy of Edgar Rice Burroughs’s A Princess of Mars.
Down stairs, I paid the rent to my slightly crazed landlady as her oily son watched over me, making damn sure I paid and paid right.
He lurked in the corner. A tall, wiry, lizard looking Mexican with a pencil thin mustache and face that glistened in a fine layer of grease - the old haggish bitch counted the money and drunkenly miscounted twice before agreeing that it was the correct rent.
Heh - crazy ass bitch, I smirked, inward.
Back at my place, I sat with a Sol cerveza and surfed channels on the television I had just purchased with my tax return. Nothing but crap.
There was a series of taps at my front door and I was surprised to find Oscar standing in the street.
“Hi, Oscar!” I smiled. “How are you?”
“Muy bueno.” He grinned back. “Are you alone?”
“Yes. Please, come in.” I said, as I swung the door open for him.
Once inside, Oscar began bleating the same old, same old and needed cash and, well, one thing led to another and I found myself sucking that cock - not ten slurps up and down his stiff organ – he clenched the bed covers with one hand and grabbed the back of my head with the other, Oscar squirmed and grunted as he nutted a mouthful.
What can I say, I’m a natural.
We both showered together. I offered him one hundred pesos and he split.
I sat in the dim coolness of my apartment and pondered my emotions for this character. Our friendship began so well. He would come over simply to visit. To say hi and see how I was doing. Just talking, laughing, watching television.
Lately, however - it seemed he only visited to see how much money he could squeeze out of me. Staying no more than a few minutes at a time and then as soon as the bills hit his hand, he was out the door. It made me both angry and depressed.
I dressed and wandered out - the late afternoon streets teemed with life. Fat fag in pinstriped jeans checked me out as I passed the shoe store; smells wafting from mouthwatering, rotisserie chicken that were displayed in neon blasted, dusty windows with a bum that stood and pissed onto the outside wall. Small, Indian children, snot caked black on their faces, grabbed my pant leg as I walked by - moanay! moanay! - a clown, a guy costumed as a fucking circus clown, operated a turntable in front of a record shop.
My way was clogged by a group of young boys in bright, multicolored soccer outfits - they stood laughing, talking - I gawked at them with fractured limitless lust. Shoeshine boys called out to shine my leathers as I strolled past blue, yellow, pink adobe houses and buildings erected a hundred years ago. The store vendors hawked their wares - vying for my attention. The banda music from various shops blasted at deafening volume - I cut into a cafe, ordered a black coffee, and scribbled these words out...