I roll over in the musty sagging bed and attempt to piece
together the night before. The dank room I occupied was windowless; graffitied
walls painted pink with the lingering stench of a million Mexican hookers. I
lay naked on an old spotted mattress, itself smelled of mildew and various
indescribable aromas. The bathroom was down the hall. I arose slowly and
staggered to the sink next to the bed and took a piss, washed it with water
from the tap then splashed my stubbled face.
Gravity took over and I slumped uncontrollably back onto the
bed. I lay there dizzy and aching - head pounding as I stared at the naked
light bulb dangling from a wire coming out of a hole cut in the plaster in the
ceiling. Directly above my face, there was a bright yellow spot in the plaster.
That's rat piss, I thought, not water damage. Rats always piss in the same
spot. Humans don't - unsanitary fucks...
My mind throbbed with the kaleidoscope of a million images.
It had to be round nine at night, the bars were in full drive cause the
sidewalks were pregnant - crawling with twinky Mexican fags. They swaggered and
cooed to and fro from one disco to the next - Albatross, Bananas, Riches - all
glaring and giggling at every crotch. The disco and chacha beats thumped as
outside between the clubs agile hustlers lurked in the shadowy shadows to rob the
unwary tourist or desperate old queen with time worn accuracy. We stood outside
Bananas and smoked and laughed until I was invited inside for some much needed
drinks. He said his name was Arturo. Short in stature with a thin build and
black curly hair cut short. I loved his smile - heated me pants every time he
The place was lit, you dig. Wall to wall boys lined up
and jumping to the beat, swirling and dipping and cruising around like aroused
Tom Cats. The sexual tension was thick like only it can in these Mexican gay
Arturo introduced me to his friends - all fine characters
and there was one cutey - a thin twink named Manuel and he really took a liking
to me. And the boy really liked to drink his drink. On that note - beer and tequila began to flow.
Arturo, Manny and I hit the dance floor and boogied until the joint closed down at 2am when the lights snapped on immediately followed by the shrill cries of trannies hiding their melting faces in dispair. The waiters ushered
the entire lot out into the streets where continued the frenzied socializing,
fags, trannies, and lezzies huddled in groups talking and laughing all
wondering where the next party was - a yellow hummer drove by and invited me to
a fiesta in the hills, I refused.
Arturo, Manny and I jolted drunkenly across the street to a
chicken restaurant and devoured delicious chicken tacos and made out in the
booths - where the waiter snarled pinche jotos but we just laughed under the
sneering glare of the fat mamacita that was running the joint - and that's when
Arturo came up with the idea to rent that cheap ass room. First we stopped to
buy a fifth of cheap tequila.
Down dark, trash littered alleys of mangy dogs and bums with
quivering hands reaching out forever, past shady characters glinting eyes under
fedoras twinkle in the moonlight and hissing hookers with silver teeth and
bruised thighs - we stumbled up worn wooden stairwells to a nameless hotel in
an unknown place and slapped down the twenty in front of a fat receptionist
chewing on a cigar so nasty.
With difficulty, Arturo pries the wooden door open, flicks
on the light and the cockroaches scatter. We ritualistically pass the tequila bottle
around - tastes so good going down. I retch. Little Manuel jumps up and down on
the bed - something breaks inside with a muffled boing - we all laugh.
Tongues and fingers probe as clothes were peeled off and
erections exposed. I sat on the bed as Arturo laid me back and began to suck
my cock like a champ and that fucker knew what he was doing. Manny played with
my nipples as he continued to kiss me talking all dirty like in Spanish.
Arturo's fingers found their mark and were slid up in me and I didn't need to
instruct this horny fucker in anything, he puts my feet up over his shoulders,
spits into his palm, lubes his cock and slides in with slow deliberate
movements. Thrusting and lunging, Arturo fucked me as I gasped and grunted
through clenched teeth. Manny jacked me off, kissing and massaging me - talking
oh so dirty. Manny was the first, kneeling over me - he squirted his cum across
my chest...then it was me, with Manny milking it out, I gasped and squirmed in
an intense orgasm. Pounding faster and harder, Arturo pulls his cock out and
squirts his semen all over my stomach, too - falling next to me in a sighing
We lay there talking a bit sharing a delicado cigarette.
Eventually both had to split and they did. They got dressed, we shook hands and
said good night - I finished the bottle of tequila we had purchased and fell
onto the bed.
Okay, here goes: I am not normal and I have never been normal
and I’ll never be normal and please don’t ever say I’m a nice guy because being
a nice guy is the last thing I consider myself. I am a horrible, damaged
monster doing his best to stagger through this shit storm I was born into. I suffer crippling manic
depression and have been diagnosed as borderline schizophrenic. I can almost never
go to sleep. After a childhood and adolescence filled with continual abuse and
violence, I literally feel as if I’m dying when my body does something stupid
like try to rest. I see demon or monster faces when I close my eyes. This is
similar to meth addicts who have stayed awake too long and probably just a
product of my insane insomnia. I am not a person. I do not do things a person
does. I haven’t been a person in years.
I don’t want your pity. I don’t want a fucking thing from
you. I’m not posting shit to look cool. I’m a garbage person attempting to expell through written word what I’ve done with my life. Simply allow me to write and make my jokes. This is
all I have, understand? Ah yes, I forget, you cannot understand.
I have been, and inevitably will always be, trapped alone in this black diving bell at the bottom of a lightless ocean...cables severed...
An age such as ours is the most difficult one of all for an
artist. There is no place for him. At least, that is what one hears on all
sides. Nevertheless, some few artists of our time have made a place for
themselves. Picasso made a place for himself. Joyce made a place for himself.
Matisse made a place for himself. Celine made a place for himself. Should I
rattle off the whole list?
Those who are perpetually talking about the inability to
communicate with the world, have they made every effort? Have they learned how
to be as wise and cunning as the serpent, as well as strong and obstinate as a
bull? Or are they braying like donkeys, whining about some ideal condition in
the ever-receding future when every man will be recognized and rewarded for his
labors? Do they really expect such a day to dawn, these simple souls? I feel
that I have some right to speak about the difficulty of establishing
communication with the world since my books are banned in the only countries
where I can be read in my own tongue. I have enough faith in myself however to
know that I eventually will make myself heard, if not understood. Everything I
write is loaded with the dynamite which will one day destroy the barriers
erected about me. If I fail it will be because I did not put enough dynamite
into my words. And so, while I have the strength and the gusto I will load my
words with dynamite... You want to communicate. All right, communicate! Use any
and every means.
On the dusty sidewalk next to me squat my black duffel bag
overstuffed with clothes, notebooks, and personal items I just couldn’t
A few feet away, the massive silver and mauve bus lay
idling. The passengers - all Mexican citizens - stood silent and pensive
just like me. Mostly elderly - stooped old men wearing tattered yellow Stetsons
and faraway looks clinging to cardboard boxes tied with nylon string. I mulled
over what they were thinking about. New lives? New vistas? The simple fact of
spending their remaining years with loved ones? I envy the dead.
Then it dawned on me what I should have been thinking about
and the thoughts were this - I had wasted a year of my life in a numbing
existence of relatively comfort and normality. A day hadn't passed my mind screamed, "How
can people live like that? Doing the same thing day in and day out - year after
year. The same friends, the same conversations - polite patter over warm
cappuccinos on a frosty morning – languidly walking the boulevard window
shopping for items you could never afford. How can people go on?" Without hesitation
I forced myself out of that early death - Change is Life. Chaos is Change. Live
to experience and not to simply exist. I made the decision to turn this stale
life up a notch. Plan? Eh? A couple of weeks in Tucson, a few in El Paso, maybe
San Antonio via Laredo then onward to New Orleans to finish and settle for a
bit in La Perla, Puerto Rico. No time limit - just travel and write. Sounded
good to me.
At the bus station, I took another long drag from my
cigarette. Glanced at my watch - the bus was running twenty minutes late. I
struck up a conversation with an elderly mother in a faded yellow granny dress
with red wicker purse waiting silently next to me, “I hope this bus gets
Her face wrinkled into a smile - skin the color of a rumpled
paper bag - and nodded, looking out into nothing.
In her tinkling voice she said, “You will get to where you
are going, joven. Not only that, you will come back and then go someplace
The words of a Guardian Angel.
The fat, mustachioed steward poked his head out of the
reception window and announced in Spanish it was time to board and with ten
other passengers, we herded onto the bus. Taking my seat in the middle -
as I always do, right side - pleased in the fact that the bus was not packed
and that all the passengers, including myself, had a seat to themselves. I
stowed my overhead luggage and hunkered down to the long, unknown future.
With a blasting fart of black soot and whining of gears, the
bus shuttered and slowly rolled its way through congested street traffic to the
on ramp of the 5 freeway north.
The sky was illuminated by incandescent blue bursts of electrical
fire. Rain fell hard from tumultuous, darkened clouds, drenching me and the
scrawny hooker tittering on the corner in see-through plastic platform pumps.
She resembled a melting wax figure, like she had acquired some hideous cancer.
She squawks at me and through a rainy haze and the sound of her voice revealed
she was a he. I press on home - streets now had become rivers and sewage
outlets vomit forth a dry winters worth of back up.
I cut the corner to my trap, soaked to the bones, turn the
key and slop my wet shoes into my house. Lights are turned on and I peel my
clothes off like a used condom. Stove burns blue flame, water boils and steams,
and a cuppa hot coffee is made. I hunker down and watch David Lynch’s
Eraserhead just to make sure my life isn't that bad. The credits roll and I
slip into bed. Rain always made me drowsy.
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 fling the covers off and reach for my
pajama bottoms (I always slept naked. Can't have it any other way. Wouldn't
you?) I pull the front door open to find Jose, a teenage kid from the
neighborhood standing on my landing with kind of a glow. Eyes all pupil and sniffing constantly. He went into some tirade about how he was in need of money
and his grandmother was sick and that...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! Slam!!
Had a hard time sleeping after that. Put some Juliee
Cruise on the stereo - she always makes me drift away.
The alarm goes off, reggeaton blares forth; it is 5:20am. I
stagger to the shower and bathe in tepid water, dress and hit the dark streets
- still wet after last night’s storm. I purchase two burritos pulpa from the
plump smiling woman on the side of the road - traffic whizzes past us going toward the United
States - there is black dust in the cracks of her face. I gobble down one
burrito before vaulting the turnstile to the International Bridge. Wait grudgingly in the long line to
be waved through by a red-eyed and bored looking customs officer. Once on the
Other Side, a phone call is made and a coworker picks me up, stopping first at
Starbuck's for a Frappuccino mocha.
Work dragged like a wounded snail and I was nearly comatose
by the time I clocked out. I hitched another ride back to the border and jet
across that long divide. Shriveled, shit covered junkies in rags and grime coated
ponchos, hands outstretched, looking like beat Christ's begging for change down
under the bridge. You can hear their pleaful cries...they go unnoticed, as all
I saw in front of me was an impenetrable wall of bouncing, fat asses en masse as we trudged across that hump.
Stopped by Burrito Row - I ordered a burrito mole with manzana
fresca and shoot the breeze with Beto, the hottie who works at one of the
stalls. I chomp my mess all the while wondering what it will take to nail that
fine ass. I digress...I was still extremely sleepy and decided to make my way
home. Mumbling adios, I walk through the muggy air - the occasional tsk tsk
from the prowling chunky chilango hooker - dodging the kamikaze bus, the
I reach my humble flat and snatch the $150 I stashed
under a beat copy of Edgar Rice Burroughs’s A Princess of Mars. Down stairs, I pay rent to the slightly crazed landlady as her oily son looms silentky in the corner, arms crossed, watching me - the
old haggish bitch counts the money and miscounts twice before agreeing it is the
Back at my place, I languidly sat with a Sol cerveza and switched
channels on my 32inch flat screen telly recently purchased with my tax
return. Nothing but crap. There was a rap at my front door and was surprised to
find Oscar standing in the street.
Inviting Oscar in he 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 brown shaft and he was
squirting gobs of semen into my mouth; clenching the bed covers with one hand
and grabbing the back of my head with the other.
Both of us showered, I gave him one hundred pesos and he
split. Vibrating in meloncholy, I dressed and marched out - the late afternoon streets teeming with
life. Fat fag in pinstriped jeans checks me out as I pass the shoe store;
smells waft of mouthwatering rotisserie chicken displayed in neon blasted
windows with blackened filthy bum pissing on the outside wall. Small Indian
children, snot caked on their copper cherub-like faces, grab my pant leg as I walk by -
moanay! moanay! - a clown, a fucking guy dressed as a circus clown, DJ's in
front of a record shop. Three tattooed toughs slouch under a street lamp - flicking of cigarettes and toothpicks click between teeth - side eye me as I saunter along. My way is clogged by a group of young boys in soccer
outfits - they stand laughing and talking in front of the dusty pane windows of an ice cream parlor, I stare at them with shattered
limitless lust. Shoeshine boys call out to shine me leathers as I stroll past
blue, yellow, pink adobe houses and crumbling buildings erected a hundred years ago. Shop vendors hawk their wares - vying for my attention. The music from
various cantinas is deafening - I cut into a cafe, order a coffee americano, and
scribble these words out...
"If it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of
everything, don't do it. Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your
mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. If you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for
words, don't do it. If you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. If
you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. If you have to
sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. If it's hard work just
thinking about doing it, don't do it. If you're trying to write like somebody
else, forget about it. If you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait
patiently. If it never does roar out of you, do something else. If you first
have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your
parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. Don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be
dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self-love. The libraries
of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. Don't add to that.
Don't do it. Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still
would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. Unless the sun
inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. When it is truly time, and if you
have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until
you die or it dies in you. There is no other way. And there never was."
The sky was a mottled grey from the drizzling rain. The
wailing of an ambulance below, distant rumble of air hammers, always building
and repairing in The City.
I sat naked in the rickety hotel chair and watched the boy
sleep. 1:47pm the clock read. Could be wrong, felt later. Lighting a
cigarette, I sat transfixed as his erection melted away in the early afternoon.
Francisco, he said his name was and looked enough like a Latino Leonardo DiCaprio
from Gangs of New York to pass as his brother, floppy light brown hair and
scraggy goatee. He lay naked on his back amid rumpled yellow sheets in this
ratty hotel embraced in the arms of Morpheus and content as a nodding junky. I
took another drag and scoped him out, hairless thin frame, eyes shut, pouty
lips parted in sleep breathing.
We met last night at a dive bar on Broadway called Chee
Chee's and struck up a conversation amid the thieves and the dykes and the just
released cons and Atomic by Blondie blasting over the juke box. Next day had brunch
with him at a local Chinese restaurant - afterwards we walked over to a bar.
Chit-chat ensued over drinks and then walking drunkenly to the Hotel
Pickwick, a flop that by American standards can't get any shittier. Looking at
me and smiling, Francisco said he needed to score for some meth and would I
front the twenty? Sure, why not? Walking down several alleyways covered in
shit, bums, and abandon shopping carts, copping his dope from a slick black with
gold caps, we soon entered the dank hotel lobby. Flaming old withered fag with
bad purple-tinted permed wig at reception.
"How much for a room?" I croak.
"Two Queens?" The receptionist asked.
"Nah, just two boys that need some sleep." Quipped
Francisco. I laughed with cigarette between my lips and the warm glow of five
whiskey sours in my gut. The room was occupied by large black roaches and bad
tattered furniture. Yellowed walls stained by second hand smoke. The pillow casings had the faded tell-tale blood spots of bed bugs. The television
got three channels; English, Spanish, and soft core porn.
I lay on the bed and watched Francisco take a shower, water
running down his long thin smooth frame, over an ass that was like a peach. He
sits naked on the bed and asked if I wanted to try a bang. Nah, not in any
condition. Needle clogged twice, thin line of blood from inner elbow to wrist.
I look away, always freak me out watching someone probe for a vein. He sighs as
it goes in sweet and pure. I sure can pick 'em.
The sex was much needed - hostile, violent, hot - the bed
creaked and rattled with our fucking. Your basic crimes against nature. Several
nasty positions later, covered in sweat and semen we lay embraced as the rain
pounded down outside our fifth floor window.
Like I said, sat there and watched the boy sleep. Finished
my cigarette, gargled with what was left of a can of Steel Reserve, got dressed
and left twenty dollars on the nightstand. Sweet dreams, kid.
I dart out of the hotel onto wet sidewalks and incandescent lagoons. Shifting through time and The Long Wait. Cigarette smoldered
down to a butt - the cries and shouts and hacking of a hundred hobos echo in my
mind. I stand and I wait. Waiting for the world to turn.
I am up to speed with the necessities of my quest - that long
walk to Nowhere. But I am doing it anyway, you dig? The natives are getting
hostile and I am quite drained from their antics - I don't wanna here of your
pathetic problems, got my own.
Nothing to write - cause nothing’s going on.
- handwritten journal entry, San Diego, September 12, 1993
My foul smelling hotel room rests on
the garbage cliff overlooking the poor Juárez barrio, tin shacks and white
roofs of crumbling adobe, crisscrossed in dusty wire cables and television dish
aimed up high with little dirty gardens down below bounded by the rusty metal
wall and superhighway nightmare 20th century I-10. I stand on my garbage cliff
under the setting sun rays of Huītzilōpōchtli and understand I am at the end of
Mexico - the longing pulls at me, depression of a million nostalgic images inundate
my withering mind.
The town is so noisy – dirty and
trash laden, streetfulls of wild boys all night brandishing their erections
under chino pants, drunken nacos in yellow Stetsons and sagging pot bellies, vulgar
restaurants, nasty whore hotels, musicians, half American stores, jumping beans
and tortilla concessions, Chinese Masonic lodges and barbers too. Big halls for
hip-hop discos and ranchero music, painted crudely with monolithic donkeys. A
portrait of a Chihuahua glares down at me donning Sante Fe style kerchief and
bejeweled vaquero hat.
I light up a cigarette and walked
through the border at night back to my sad, lonely apartment, a dead silent
fairyland of U.S. dusk - deserted ghost streets and sad quiet air-cooled diners
with white capped waitresses joking softly and no one on the streets.
He lives in my neighborhood. You know the type, languidly hangs out in
front of the liquor store, bumming smokes, spitting on the sidewalk with
another sulky vato or two, doing nothing but dreaming through time. He drops by
my place now and again. Mostly when his mother is giving him flack to get his
lazy eighteen year old ass out and get a job. A listless loser. But, a sweet
kid, too. And so it goes.
He has a girlfriend - a plump little number with the gift of gab who
lives with her alcoholic aunt in a shitty, red-brick building over by the dusty
warehouses with the occasional cholo shootout. She seems to love him. I'm
certain he loves her, too. And so it goes.
I met him a while back coming out of said liquor store - asked for a
dollar, said he was hungry. Brought him home, fed him. He likes to lounge on
the couch, immobile as a lizard - playing video games or watching movies. He
really likes the Bruce Willis and Jackie Chan flicks. Mindless entertainment
for one so mindless. Once in a while, we'll sit and talk for hours about stupid
shit. He'll sometimes ask to pop in a porn and watch with that frozen, slack,
poker face every straight guy displays when watching porn. I blow him when he
want to. He asks and seems quite happy to leave it at that. And so it goes.
I gave him the nickname Squirt on account of one afternoon we were on
the couch jerking each other off to straight porn and when he came, his semen
squirted over his head and splattered the wall. He still laughs about it. I was
upset for I had to clean it up later, cursing the virility of a twenty-one year
old, cursing my faded years. And so it goes.
Today, I was crossing the street and Squirt and his girlfriend were
walking in the opposite direction towards me. He caught my eye and guiltily
escorted her quickly in another direction into a shop. The meaning is quite
clear, my friend, our worlds can never cross.
It was bitterly cold and we stood in a circle under silver clouds
passing beneath a dark navy sky full of stars. Two trains roared on either
sides - great monsters of steam and metal - one going to Tucson, the other
towards San Antone. Our stomachs were warm from the thin potato soup that was
just served for chow. Near our shivering forms, huddled in knots, men stood in
dirty coats - collars turned up in a vain attempt to thwart the vile wind -
smoking, spitting, coughing, talking. All black shadows in the dim lamps of the
Switch frequencies fzzt!
Sitting in the bright ass Texan sun with a hangover struggling to patch
together the kaleidoscope of images from last night. I squat on a low brick
wall in an alley downtown - Camel Wide in one hand, tall boy in the other - the
small menudo for breakfast gurgling in my stomach. Lying nearby, Robert snores
in the shade of a saguaro bush. I lean over - bleeech! I stare down at my
steaming vomit. Oh yeah, now I remember...
Switch frequencies fzzt!
Went to Juarez yesterday. Old boy had changed. It was kind of like
once, long ago, when you scored a sexy lover - had a lot of good kicks, you
separate and after a few years you meet up again and seeing that the person had
degenerated into a disgusting, obese slob hard on the eyes. Well, crossed the
bridge spanning the Rio and first thing noticed was the bomberos missing (The
old fire station - use to stand and watch the hot firemen play soccer) walked
down Juarez Ave. Military soldiers stood four deep; AK-47 strapped to the hip on
every corner - looked like Nazi occupied France. Not one taxi asked me for a
lift, not one vendor beckoned me to enter their shop - it was...weird. The
streets were teeming with pedestrians - life was continuing, however the
tension was there - fear was there.
Switch frequencies fzzt!
Woke up at 3am amid farting and snoring of one hundred sleeping hobos.
I slipped my feet into my plastic shower shoes and put on my coat and shuffled
outside to smoke a non-filtered Camel. The sky - the sky was fulla stars!
Beautiful! Finished, shivered and came back inside.
Switch frequencies fzzt!
Gasping up from troubling, insidious nightmare. Suffocating in a black
steel box. Charred walls of my iron tomb pitted with pock marks and scratches.
Woke with the putrid taste of metal on my tongue. Put me straight into a funk.
I roll out of my bug infested bunk and shuffle bleary eyed into the mensroom.
Already occupied with seven or eight terminally addicted hobos washing,
shitting, pissing. The room smelled of farts and soiled socks as I stood in a pool of piss at the urinal taking a piss. Showered, dressed and ate a nameless slop
served for breakfast under the glare of the snarling kitchen staff. Even the
Victory Coffee tasted especially rancid this morning.
Switch frequencies fzzt!
How many cigarettes does it take to wait? How many cups of coffee? I
sit in the dead end diner with napkin firmly under coffee cup - I was told in
that style, you can tell when someone is waiting - watching nothing out of the
big dust streaked pane window. Long shadows stretched across the gray tiled floor like the bars of a prison. It was the exact moment between melancholy tunes
on the cafes radio - that hushed quiet. Outside, it was cold and colorless.
Gritty wind whips eddies of trash down a lonely street. A long cry from the
sunny, warm surf crashing against the beach only two weeks ago. Here the sky
was a harsh cold blue - though dazzling bright, gave no warmth - only a bitter
cold; you can feel it in your marrow. I sip more coffee, took another drag.
Switch frequencies fzzt!
Diego and I cut out of the bar into a humid Tijuana street and swing next door to a $5 a night
hotel. Pay the fat mamacita behind the black bars and dash up warped wooden
stairs to a room with an overpowering effluvia of mildew. The yellowed, tobacco
stained walls were a multicolored kaleidoscope of scrabbled graffiti of both marker and
spray paint and, plopped in a corner, was a tired, slutty mattress sprawled onto the floor. Diego
smiles and whispers some dirty shit as we peel off our duds and flop onto the
mattress - bedbugs and all. Diego - this short shit - flings my legs up over
his shoulders, spits on his palm, lubes his erection and whammo - begins rutting
like his sad poor beat life depended on it. After a bit, he squirts and I
giggle 'Again!' and he does with me flopped around lying on my stomach.
Afterwards, forementioned Diego confides his fantasy was to screw a gringo and I was
his first. Awwww, I smile inward.
Switch frequencies fzzt!
The fat taxi driver sat wordless - hating me (the foreigner) or his
life in general as we hurtled over the hills toward the ocean. The cold wind
blew in my face and whiped my hair as I sat deep in the back chair and I thought, Fuck - I'm not
going anywhere...I live in the coolest place in the world!
The sun slowly crawled
over the horizon. Off in the mist, a dog barked - a car passed. The depression
hit me full force. I had been up for days now and my mind felt like
The apartment – what’s
left of it - was a filthy, dank den smelling of burnt metal and musty farts.
The mattress lay exposed from messed sheets - stained in sweat, semen, and God
knows what else. Without all the furniture I used to possess - all sold for dope - the cramped room had become empty harboring the long shadows of a prison.
I lay on my bed with a
cigarette in moist hand staring at the spotted ceiling. I had nothing. Nothing.
My family hated me. I could not, would not, fall in love with anyone. Yet, then
again, what was left to love? Every relationship I attempted since my move to
Tijuana ended in psychotic fights usually instigated by my own sick mind.
The loneliness draped
over me like a cold, black shroud. My mind spun with the few dozen hits of dope I took throughout the night.
What is wrong with me?
I began reflecting on the myriad of routes in life I could had taken - remaining in Los Angeles, keeping a menial
job, becoming a writer, or perhaps making movies. All those nostalgic plans in due
course collapsed into failure. Everything I attempted ran to ruin. Never any
moral support from a vile and vindictive family, never any trusting friendship
from money-obsessed, conning friends, and I won’t even go into an explanation
of the dope addicts I associate with. All they cared for was their drugs and
whatever they do have, it was never enough (As for me, it was never enough -
ever) – so, they would hone in after my supply like a shark to a wounded,
bleeding sea creature.
I wanted to sink deeper
into the mattress. I just wanted to go away - get out.
I attempted to focus on the
One time, long ago, I
harbored great plans. Living in some posh house in the Hollywood Hills with a
handsome young lover, famous from my literary achievements, attending parties,
television spots on celebrity talk shows, getting written up in the papers -
all faded into mist. I had no future.
Over the years, I apparently
acquired a mental state of such downward bleakness, whenever I did deliberate of
that hopeful future, I was confronted instead with a dark, cold abyss in my mind’s eye.
The depression sunk me
lower on those spinning memories. I never felt as sad, alone, and hopeless as I
did at that moment. What was the point of going on when there was no point? I
should simply die. It struck me as quite logical. Who would miss me? I would
miss no one. I wouldn’t have to worry about jobs, rent, my shit being stolen by
these damn naco junkies.
My face wrinkled into
worry and melancholy. I glanced over to my end table - scorch marks, candy
wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty meth bags strewn across it.
I picked up my only
meth pipe, held it between thumb and forefinger. Inspected its charred glass
sides - precious residue hid in some streaks along the shaft, behind black
char. My rage blossomed. It was this shits fault. All the blame of this
fucking addiction I acquired. God, how it controlled me! In anger, I flung
the pipe across the room and shattered it against the white-washed concrete
I yelped and leapt out
of bed toward the shards lying on the dirty carpet. I picked up two big chunks,
cradling those precious pieces. What have I done? Oh jeez! Now I have to go buy
another one from some bitch I couldn’t stand. I examined the pieces and felt an
emotional pity for the broken parts. I felt a dismayed, kindred spirit toward
the little fucker and I just killed it!
Feeling so sad, so sad.
Especially at the stupidity of the situation, it coursed over me. There was
nothing. I had nothing.
I rose and stumbled into
the kitchen and, removing a butcher knife out of the drawer, I knew what I wanted
to do. Why not? What reason was there for me to continue like this? Nothing.
Who would care if I was still around? Nothing. My friends would had forgotten me in
a week. Nothing. My parents didn’t give a shit, so why should I? Nothing,
I stood grasping the
knife, clutched it in my right hand. I balled my left fist and raised my left
arm. The steel felt cold against my skin as I made that first slice. A trickle of
blood formed and streamed a thin line down to the elbow.
Suddenly, I was
terrified. What the fuck was I doing?! I threw the knife into the sink and
grabbed a ragged towel to stop the bleeding. Then the tingling pain began to
throb. I was embarrassed more than anything - mortified at the foolish attempt
I had committed.
I dashed into the
bathroom and grabbed a wet towel - it seemed I didn’t cut that deep.
I went to the corner
farmacia and purchased a roll of bandages from an unconcerned clerk; returned
home to wrap my arm.
Shortly afterwards, I
sat in a nearby park. Kids jovially played, vendors sold balloons and frozen flavored
ice, couples strolled in love, the sky a bright, cloudless blue. Around me the ever
present heartbeat of life.
I sat there; a
disgusting stain on this idyllic painting - a vulgar mark on the world. Such a
Trembling, I held my head,
cigarette dangling from my chapped lips - what a failure I am. Such a failure. I have
failed at so many attempts to better my life and today I failed at ending
Composing myself, I stood up and walked
over toward Coahuila Avenue to buy some more junk and get a new pipe.
We’re all rocked by the
waves of struggle when it comes down to those circumstances that change us from
within. Whether you’re hurt, angry, jealous, or longing from afar, they prompt
you to keep on fighting.
You’re carried on such
currents from somewhere that was once near-perfect in a moment, and permanently
tattoos every moved thought and emotion that traverses through the delicate
fibers of which you are composed. Your downfalls are brought about by the hesitance
to loosen the grip and let things be as they may. Returning to an existence
that is uninspired is feared, and so you try to run from it by holding on to
that short time when reality seemingly dissolved away.
You do whatever we can
to chase down a fond memory, and in doing so, you bring out the worst in
yourself. Your own emotions dig craters that go bone deep, and you’re left as
cold and hollow as a winter’s night lacking even the slightest breeze. You
begin to loathe time itself and the cavernous distance it creates between the
past and present.
The moment you realize
that it will only continue you corrode you from the inside out is the moment
when you stop putting up a fight. Like even the best of times, the worst can be
carried off with every stroke of the second hand as long as you make amends
with what is, here and now.
The fondest moments
will always bring longing bubbling to the surface, but loosening ties with it
and accepting where you are is the only way to keep being and moving on up.
Perhaps if time is on your side, such moments will reoccur.
Only the rise and fall
of the passing days hold that answer.
I think a lot about Holocaust victims who neatly packed
their suitcases, took their children by the hands and boarded the trains,
believing as long as they listened, as long as they complied, everything would
be okay. The lies compound until, by the time you realize what’s going on, it’s
“We’re just moving you to another town.”
“We’re just taking your children for a bath.”
Authoritarians count on our trust and us believing it’ll be
easier to comply than resist. The fight ahead is going to be hard, but we can
never give in to our better nature and compromise with monsters.
You do not appease authoritarians. You destroy them.
I apologize that this entry isn't "funny" or dripping in
sexual skirmishes. But things have been getting way out of hand for this
It was an hour after
sunrise in Park Ingerente Guerrero. The ftt-ftt-ftt of sprinklers momentarily
shut off and the grass glistened from early morning dew. The sky was an
overcast gray common to early summer months in Tijuana, which carried with it the lingering chill from a brisk night. Glimmering palm trees – their trunks painted
white - swayed slowly in a slight breeze.
The old queer lit a
cigarette. A faro – spitting the flecks of tobacco from a moistened mouth. He
stood on the corner - the sidewalk damp from the lifting fog - pulling his
beige sweater tighter around a potato-shaped frame. He casually waited to see
if any of the young rentboys were still around. Many did stay up all night and
eventually filter toward the park in search of a free breakfast from kindly
gentlemen such as himself and perhaps some quick cash for a room to sleep in
lieu an all-night romp of disreputable debauchery.
With rheumy eyes, the
old queer scanned the vast park. No one. No one worth his attention, for that
matter. He took another drag off his cigarette and glanced over to a crazed,
ancient Chinaman selecting a greasy slice of half-eaten bologna out of a cascading garbage can; washing it off with a discarded bottle of water.
The Chinaman cackled to
himself, mumbled something in a squeaking pitch, and began to nibble. The old
queer looked wearily away. Blew smoke out into the brisk air. Off in the distance, a dog barked.
The park was occupied
with about thirteen, ratty immigrantes - darkly clad phantoms, their grimy collars turned up to ward off the night's chill, slouched over on the cold, metal
benches, snoring loudly. The misty, early morning air was a light blue with
overcast dew, the sharp tang of stale urine wafted past him.
The old queer curiously
peeked back as he witnessed the scrawny Chinaman rummage through something behind a
bush - watched as the demented hobo hooted and shoved objects into the pockets
of his bulging, tattered jacket, shiny over the grime. The Chinaman’s head
popped up like an animal sensing danger, quickly looked around, and then scrambled off into the post-dawn mist.
The old queer casually,
curiously ambled over to where the Chinaman was previously hunched behind dirty
bushes. He stopped in his tracks, a gasp of disgust jerked out of his throat,
hissing through stained dentures.
A body of a twenty-two
year old man lay akimbo in the slimy muck under the shade of a dusty
bush. His pockets turned inside out - the white cloth of the front pant pockets
poked up like obscene tongues. Both shoes missing; one foot had a dirty, white
sock, the other bare. The young man’s lank, shiny, black hair cascaded into a
pool of sprinkler mud, urine and old, dog feces. His thick, chapped lips were
bluish-white, the look of astonished horror frozen on his inert, handsome face
- scattered near his torso was a syringe, trash, a few old condoms. His attractive and masculine face, the color of a brown paper bag was mottled with splotches of blue, discolored white around the open, grimacing mouth. His dirty shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a lifeless tattooed torso.
The old queer
flashbulbed the image of the youth’s face into his brain, a look of shocked,
unmitigated horror frozen on that young, cold face. He recognized the boy: a
popular hustler who prowled Plaza Santa Cecilia hooking the drunk old men and
bloated American tourists who frequented the bars and cafés.
The old queer pursed
his lips in disgust. Oh, dear! What did you see the moment before you died,
sweetie? Whatever did you see?
The old queer glanced
toward a pay phone on the corner – a fleeting thought of calling the police.
He faltered, then casually strolled toward the Plaza, decided to score for a boy, instead. He was
certain the rentboys would be working the breakfast crowd at the cafés.
Possibly young Cesar would be there. Cesar always knew how to make a drab day
Suddenly, a bit away,
Kyle hears something moving in the brush. A beast the size of a Shetland pony but
resembling a palpitating, white grub worm on six crab legs and sporting a nasty
scorpion-like stinger drops onto the branch stalking Kyle. Behind the thing,
two more of the same beasts creep into view. They emit a piercing shriek as
they lurk forward to attack. Without any weapons, Kyle turns to run when the
first thing springs through the air and lands onto his back. He can feel the
hot saliva from the thing dripping on the nape of his neck as he is pinned down
by powerful claws. Suddenly, he senses intense heat and then smells burning
flesh as the thing falls off him. Glancing back, he witnesses the second
monster leaping at him, but in mid-air, an almost invisible ray of
white light fires from out of the fog and kills the beasts. The last monster
screams and charges only to be torched by a second burst of the mysterious heat
A group of ten men
appear in bizarre body suits and using herbs found in the jungle, revive Thark.
They leave before Thark awakens from his venomous coma. Thark explains that the mysterious men were Kzinti and live
scattered out in the Great Wasteland. The suits they wear protect them from the
harsh climate and residual radiation from fallout. He explains he sent an
ambassador, his best Commander named Aris Eddor to speak with them seven years
ago. Aris never returned. The Kzinti, also known as tek-hunters, scour the
wastes scavenging for tech and machines to barter for food at settlements. They
are generally mistrusted and despised by the citizens of the settlements and
mostly keep to themselves.
- Excerpt from the 19
page draft summary of novel in process, Across the Galactic Lens
Inspiration reveals itself in a myriad of forms and will lead to a great many good things. It being from life trauma,
reading a book, or simply laying in the grass and staring up into a vast, blue
cloudless sky. The stories I have penned which eventually wound up in novels,
magazines, online writer markets – they are all well and good, I suppose, but
for the longest time I have wanted to author a science fiction story. One of
epic scale. Inspired by Edgar Rice Burroughs A Princess of Mars and Buck Rogers,
I jotted down a decade ago a one page story outline about a United States
Marine fighting in the Gulf War of the mid-90’s suddenly transported to a
distant and savage planet. The planet, blasted and cratered from decades of
atomic war had it all: spired palaces, exotic beasts, silver and sleek rocket
ships, swords and laser guns. I first mentioned this early idea in Tweeker
about blond space fairing heroes battling sentient black octopi from Orion or
some other silly idea.
Eventually, this one
page idea morphed into nineteen pages of a world rich in irradiated and mutated
life, religion, customs, factions, all revolving around political deceit and
conquest. I have completed three chapters. I say completed but they are far
from done. I am penning the first version of the novel extremely bare bones – some
description and dialog. I will, of course, go back when all is done and re-write each
chapter fleshing out the described locales, actions and what not…I daresay,
when completed, it will be as thick as War and Peace or Lord of the Rings. (I really do dispise the editing process)
I am finding writing
this novel more of a challenge. Previously, my writing was simply dictating what
transpired in my life to simple words for others to read. I write beer bottle
and the reader sees a beer bottle. But with this made up work; I have to
describe in detail, the blaster guns, the smells, the colors, the furniture,
the clothing, the rocks, the trees, the sky. And, I am enjoying it every step.
Literally a ball. John Carter was Edgar Rice Burroughs, Den was Richard Corben,
and Kyle Foster is myself (or who I wish I could be)
I sat and watched the
video below last night. I hadn’t seen the cartoon since I was seven or eight
years old. But, I remember, it inspired me to draw from that came photography
from that to direct movies to that to write…inspiration is seldom linear and
always emanates in various forms and will inevitably lead to a great many
I stumbled out into the dim,
predawn grey with a head full of coke and a stomach full of semen. My jaw still
ached from the punch I received in the theater. My side throbbed with a dull pain. The silver-blue
of a rising sun was on the horizon not yet clearing the silent dark of the
skyscrapers which caste long prison shadows across the few catatonic forms of
proto humans shuffling down the black spotted sidewalk. I quickly made a bee
line to 3rd and Spring to catch the MTA back to the shelter.
Paranoid my absence would be noticed.
No. Let’s go back seven
hours. I was residing at the Salvation Army in Bell, California. They held
special rooms for students and the employed, four to a room, set aside from the
three hundred army cots of snoring, festering hobos in the main dormitory and
since I was attending a cable installation class simply to stall for time and
relative comfort as comfortable as a bed bug infested warehouse would allow, I
was allotted a rickety, metal bed in one room. The staff were ignorant. Abusive
and derogatory, but ignorant. After the ten o’clock bed check and the main
lights were switched off, I slipped out the open bay doors and into the night
to feed my insidious urge. The aching in my loins; the burning lust of the sexually
deviant. Recently, I had found in my wanderings of downtown Los Angeles a 24
hour adult theater. Not one with booths, mind you, but a full on, decaying
theater from the Golden Age of cinema. I jumped a bus line, transferred to the
light rail, and made a connection to skid row Los Angeles.
My adrenaline was
pumping, not from the anticipation of sexual escapades I anxiously looked
forward to, but the fact if my absence was noticed, I would be tossed out into
the street. Fuck it, I thought. You only live once. Yolo before yolo was an
At five to midnight, I
quickly walked down Spring Street passed watchful stares of pushers and the
addicted, vendors of vices with faces changing in neon flashes of liquor
stores, pawn shops, dive bars. Blacks howled into the night, helicopters swooped
and patrolled, sirens wailed, fires burned. I approached the seemingly vacant
box office of the theater. The marquee was lifeless and gritty from decades of
abandonment. The only sign advertising the business was a crudely painted sign
adjacent the entrance. I rapped on the cracked glass window of the box office.
From below, a huge hand slapped onto the wooden shelf on the other side of the
glass. With straining effort, and obese man of fifty or so, with greying beard
and long locks of greasy grey hair pulled himself up into my view. Wheezing
from years of a pack a day, he snatched up my five dollars and buzzed me in.
The lobby, its faded
red carpet spotted black with grime, vomit, and nameless substance stank of
mildew and bleach. There was a concessions counter, unattended and bare of
stock. Neglected for decades. The faded, red neon strip behind fluttered and
buzzed. Apart from the muted moaning of the movie issuing from the theater
proper, it was vacant and somber as a mausoleum. I parted the thick, dark
purple velvet curtains and entered the cinema.
It being already night,
I needn’t wait for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The theater was huge. It
could easily accommodate five hundred patrons. I slid into a chair to take in
my surroundings. The chair was ratty, crimson upholstery frayed. The auditorium
stank of cleaning chemicals, vomit, and dried semen. There were ten shadowy
figures spread throughout, staring blankly at the screen, sleeping, smoking
dope, or languidly jacking off. On the creased and sullied screen, some blond
coked out bitch screamed and moaned as a middle aged gym bunny mechanically
rutted without an iota of passion, his face blank and unreadable, both
glistened in a fine film of sweat. The bleating soundtrack blasted from static
spewing speakers hidden up in the black curtained rafters. On each far wall, worn
gilded frescoes offered winged cherubs who, in the darkness, grimaced down onto
the current audience in judgement and pained dismay.
I sat there for a half
an hour, waiting. Listening to the buzzer of the entrance go off several times,
realizing full well that meant even more were entering the cinema. The first
was a lanky man in his early thirties wearing spandex bike shorts, a thin
jacket, and baseball cap. He sat in the row in front of me down on the opposite
end. In the meager yellow glow of the dimmed lights in the theater, I had an
unobstructed view as he slid his shorts off, tossing them into the chair next
to him, and began to slowly masturbate a long and thick, uncircumcised cock.
With eyes focused on the screen, with his free hand, he fished out of his
jacket pocket a glass pipe and, holding it between two fingers like a
cigarette, casually lit up and began smoking crack. His other boney hand slowly
stroking his impressive erection and blowing great plumes up into the dark,
never averting his gaze from the screen.
A few minutes later, a fit,
college type character quickly marched down the sloping aisle towards the front
row. He seemed so out of place, as if he’d be more comfortable in some frat
house drinking beer with his football buddies on the UCLA campus. Well-groomed
and dressed, he swaggered past me followed by a short, rotund and dumpy man
with a balding head and thick glasses. The college guy plopped into a seat as
immediately the dumpy man kneeled down between the youth’s legs. I made out a
silhouette of a pudgy hand pass something to the college guy. As the pudgy man
unzipped the front of the youths khaki pants and slurped and bobbed on his stiffening
prize, the youth lit up a crack pipe and began smoking. The wisps of smoke
swirling between me and the twelve foot erection sliding in and out of a
glistening vagina the length of a station wagon. As I sat mired in voyeuristic
fascination, ever so often the pudgy man would place more dope in the boy’s
palm and it eagerly smoked up.
Feeling the cold burn
in my loins, it was time to satiate my own sordid addiction. Behind me, at the
entrance, there was a darkened, modest area without seats. It was there, I
fully was aware common to all porno theaters of the world, were ill acts
against cultural norms were carried out in anonymous fervor. As I approached, I
already saw a tall, brawny man of white hair leaning against the wall as a
black youth was down on his knees sucking on the white man’s stunted
erection.An even older codger, stooped
and ashen with time, stood next to them furiously beating his meat as he
watched. Two others lurked in the corner, obscured in shadows, the cherry of a
glass pipe ignited on and off like a siren of a brothel. At arm’s length, I
posted against the wall on the opposite side of the two getting it on.
Immediately, a hand squeezed my flaccid cock. I glanced over to see a smiling
and perspiring fat man. I pushed his hand away. No one at the moment deserving
of my attention. Then, the main door buzzed and a twenty-something Mexican man
swaggered through the curtains. Stocky with a shaved head and black goatee, he
wore the striped shirt and baggy khakis uniform of urban Latino youths. Now,
that was more like it.
I scoped out where he
sat. The back row. Sidled two seats over from him. My ass wasn’t in the chair
two seconds before he whipped out his hard and nasty. I slid next to him,
grasping his full erection in my sweating palm. I leaned over, pulled the
foreskin back, and began sucking and swirling my mouth up and down the shaft.
His hand caressed my back as he squirmed and breathed heavily through flaring
nostrils. Eventually, the head of his penis puffed-up and I felt the acrid
taste of his semen spurting in my mouth. I leaned over and spat the matter with
a loud plop onto the bare concrete floor. He stood and shoved his still erect
penis back into his pants. He towered over me, unmoving.
“I need some money,
homes.” He stated.
“Money?” I repeated,
sitting back whipping saliva off my lips.
“Yeah, man, gimme some
“I don’t have any money
He roughly grabbed me
by the shirt and pulled me up into a standing position. Then began aggressively
digging through the front pockets of my jeans. My hand was gripping my back
pocket that held my wallet.
Finding nothing, his
face scowled. “You need to come up with some fucking money, man. You think what
you just did was free?”
“Well…yeah.” I said.
His face leaned into
mine. The stench of alcohol on his breath. “I’m keeping my eye on you. You find
some fucking cash or I’m kicking your ass. You try to leave, I’ll follow you
out and kick your fucking ass.” With that, he pushed me aside and strode into
the lobby towards the mensroom.
“Damn. You gunna let
him treat you like that?”
I glanced over to the
opposite side and sitting on a folded metal chair at the second entrance of the
theater was a tall black man in his early thirties. He sat hunched over, elbows
on knees, fingers touching in steeple.
He stated, “How can you
do that? Just walk up to someone and start sucking their dick?”
approached him. Not bad looking. “Well, I’m not giving that fucker anything.”
And then asked half incredulously, “Is this your first time in one of these
His name was Thomas and
a couple of hours prior he’d been released from County Jail which was a couple
of blocks away from the theater. With nowhere to go, and this place being
opened all night, seemed a logical place to lay low until morning before moving
on. Seemed legit to me. He offered me a seat and I removed another metal chair
from the lobby.
He glanced at the
screen, then down toward the college guy still smoking, still getting sucked.
“They don’t mind folks doing dope here, huh?”
“Obviously not.” I
“Or doing that gay
I smiled, “You don’t
like getting your dicked sucked?”
“Not from a dude.” He
“Hey,” He began. “You
I grinned. Bad ideas
are seldom boring. “Yeah.” I said.
He reached into his
shirt and pulled out a small, plastic ziploc of cocaine. “Cool. Do some shit
with me. Been locked up so long, I’m bored of being alone.”
For the next hour or
so, Thomas and I snorted lines off our wrists with the aid of a rolled up
dollar bill and chatted of things. The coke was good. Activating all pleasure senses,
my mind was incandescently alert. Every sound, every detail in the theater was
amplified and came across crystal clear as glycerin. We talked and laughed,
swapping tales of our times spent in the Los Angeles County lockup, the pros,
the cons (mostly cons). Relating the brutality of the guards, the comradery of
the inmates, on how it seemed (to me) homosexuality ran rampant – openly
performed in cells when the lights went out for the night. (Not for me. I kept
to myself, though more than one penis was wagged in my direction. But, that is
“That’s what my right
hand was for.” He wisecracked, holding an open palm up to me.
His fingers were long
and sinewy. Palm massive. The image of his allegedly huge dick burned in my
mind. But, I kept it cool. Shaking and the lust mounting, I excused myself to
take a piss.
Head full of coke, I
entered the mensroom and stood in front of the backed up urinal and relieved
myself. The Mexican was nowhere to be seen. I guessed he must had left. More
bark than bite, I supposed. Turning to leave, I noticed a short white guy about
twenty with a Flock of Seagulls haircut standing at one of the stalls waving a
full erection at me. He was doped to the gills, obviously, blue eyes large and
pupils dilated. He wore a white tank top and cargo shorts. Wordlessly, I
approached, smiled while stroking his erection. In ritual silence, I dropped to
my knees and began to go to work.
As I was getting into
it, a hand touched my shoulder from behind. I was expecting to see the angry
Mexican standing there, but instead it was a skinny black youth waving his
overtly long and floppy member at me. In a room reeking of shit and piss,
kneeling on a filthy tiled floor covered in grime, wadded toilet paper and
smashed cigarette butts, I took turns sucking them both as they stood and
kissed each other, probing one another’s mouths with saliva lubricated tongues.
The young black guy was first to climax. I swallowed all of it. The white guy
then roughly grabbed me by the side of the head and with furious, drug fueled
passion, face fucked me. He shoved my face into his blond pubes as his
pulsating erection deposited gobs of semen into the back of my throat. With
watering eyes and gagging gasps, I gulped it all down.
Composing myself, I
returned to sit with Thomas.
“Where you been?” He
asked. He noticed my flushed face, the wet spots of saliva soiling the front of
my shirt. “Oh. Never mind.”
I took a seat next to
Thomas and the sweet baggie (now nearly depleted) offered once again. We got
laughing jags as I spun into a routine about Hitler who was still alive and
working in a donut shop in Florida. Won’t get into it now, but believe me when
I say it’s a hilarious riot!
“What’s this fucking
shit, homie?” Snapped a voice out from the fetid shadows. It was the Mexican
thug. “You got money for blow from this nigger, but not me?”
“Dude, you need to
chill.” Thomas warned.
The thug quickly strode
up to me, yanked me from the chair and popped me across the chops so hard, I slammed
violently back against the wall. Thomas sprang up like a jack-in-the-box
(Taller than I thought!) and planted a right hook dead into the thugs left eye which
ensued a slug fest. As Thomas and the thug scuffled, I leapt up and grabbed one
of the folded chairs and slammed it across the thug’s upper back and head. He
fell over in turn allowing Thomas and I to violently stomp him.
As he writhed dodging
our kicks, we heard a raspy, “What the fucks going on in there? Stop that shit
or I call the cops!” Yelled the box office attendant.
In coke fueled rage, I
screamed crimson faced, “Get the fuck out of here!”
The Mexican, face bloody
and covered in scratches and filth, hobbled defeated and beaten out the
entrance issuing a steady stream of obscenities in his wake.
The obese attendant
snapped open the various locks to the door of the box office and wobbled with
labored breathing over to us. He smelled like a stale ashtray and his breath stank
even worse. “What the fuck was that all about?”
tried to rob me!” I stated in a coke frenzy.
He let out a deep,
wheezing sigh and turned back to the safety and seclusion of the box office, “I
say it alla time, you boys gotta be careful in here. All type a assholes will
try to take anything.”
Thomas sat back in his
chair and asked for a cigarette. I passed him one, he lit up. Noticing the
time, I thanked Thomas for the dope, the help, and mumbled something or another
I had to go in lieu of curfew. Saying goodbye, I made a dash to the mensroom to
clean up. Three men stood at the urinals beating off as a young Asian guy was
getting fucked in the stall by a hefty, middle-aged black man with bulging eyes
as yellow as urine. I cleaned up the best I could contesting the urge to suck
one last cock, feel one last piece of borrowed flesh.
I made my way weary and
in pain back to the shelter and, sneaking quickly in, fell into my cot an hour
before the lights snapped on to the symphony of hacking and coughing from three
hundred hobos. The following weekend, I packed my gear and moved to Tijuana…