Came into acquaintance with several young hipster train jumpers loitering down at a local coffee house near the tracks. I wanted to size up some local citizens, get real, and write. Along a tattered, wooden counter were a sprinkle of prostitutes displaying itchy scabs and violet scars of purposeful addictions, convicts sat hunched spitting nervous furtive glances, and drab hobos sat dunking pound cake emitting a bouquet of sour feet and unwashed genitals which permeated the dusty, high ceiling room. Faded Sante Fe art hung on paint peeled walls. Good taste in music. Johnny Cash.
I meet this one cat, Billy he says – sandy blond hair, skin crimson and toughened and wrinkled from years of exposure from the elements, not an old guy...but handsome in his early thirties. Whiff of locker rooms and flop houses. I found him in the mensroom shooting up with an old, flabby Indian and asked “Wanna bang?”
He stands next to the grimy sink and casually offers the syringe to me in long, dirty fingers.
“Naw. Cut that crap eons ago.”
Pinpoints sparkle in his eyes and he slumps against the wall, shoulder slowly descending against white grimy tile, t-shirt clinging to a skinny torso. Dragged down by the pull of junk. The Indian, toothless old woman smile, takes the spike and jabs it into brown, rigid flesh. The Indian, he is down for the count. I stood there with the cooler system clacking in a foul smelling bathroom, slowly toking my joint as I watched Billy and the Indian go on the nod pervaded with dreamful nostalgia.
Ted, tall and could be a model with raven hair and jagged looks, enters in swishing of long black trench coat and searches through Billy’s pockets for the stash.
He looks up towards me with steel blue eyes, “That greedy fucker shot it all?”
I shrug, watching a large cockroach skitter across a drain pipe. Beer got warm and strictly from boredom I return to the bar. Savage Charlie, a man of the grossest dimensions, sidles up to me and puts down the faggot patter. Compliments. Free booze.
“I gots lots of cash.” He grins with a cherub smile.
Lose 150lbs. and we’ll talk. Silence between us after that. Song changes. Sunday Morning, by Pat Boone. What asshole played that? Oh, yeah...me.
An Indian from the Rez enters the fray. Tall and lean and a face so smooth and pure. Jet black hair and warm brown eyes. Torn black jeans and black t-shirt with a white wolf emblazoned on it. Goes by the moniker Lester. Guess you can’t win them all. Still striking and lovely at the same time for a guy of twenty one.
“You new here?” He asks, ordering his Bud Lite.
I drank Corona. I go into my spiel and we jibber-jabber of Mexico, the Rez (Indian reservation, for you uneducated.), and the glories of marijuana.
“You like good weed? I got some back at the Rez. We can take my car.”
I see where this is leading.
Flop into his brown Hyundai, rattling fender and coughing muffler, we shoot south to Injun territory. He lives with his uncle and little brother in a disintegrating trailer surrounded by dirt and dusty cactus and old rusted cars. Out back of the blue and white mobile home, we sit next to a shed on crates and scrap and smoke the sweetest herb I had ever enjoyed.
Discussing literature and the decline of Western Civilization, the sun set crimson behind jagged mountains in a glorious blast of fury. As the stars twinkle in a dark navy Tucson sky, Lester steals a kiss and it doesn’t go farther than that. We talk more and giggle and joke and toke. Chatter concerning science fiction and homosexuality. He discloses he likes white boys and if I would like to “do it”.
In the shed, fumble, kiss, casually masturbate. Blowing Lester, penis was short and circumcised, he quickly ejaculates in great hot spurts and timidly apologizes. Don’t worry, handsome, I smile. Long ride back to town, we share a hamburger and fries I buy from a roadside stall. Just Breathe croons Melissa Etheridge from the car stereo, and I do.
- excerpt from novel in process Borrowed Flesh, chapter three Pigs in the weeds