The Wiggins Factor.

Woke up before the birds had time to brush their teeth and got ready for work crossed the border and the INS agent makes wise cracks that it is too early to go to work. I know. I know. Asshole. Work drags as all jobs do and I have stress filled time with several characters, all demanding pendejos.

Received a call on the celly from William Wiggins that he indeed did want to spend some time together tonight and that made it all worth while. So, after the clock jumped like a clock will when it is time for your shift to end, I hitched a lift with a fellow employee downtown to the Plaza to meet with said Adonis. Arriving a little early I chatted with old tranny friend Abel, he himself cooing over a current romance.

Well, Wiggins arrives with a girl in tow and introduces her as his bitch. How cute. We have minimal chit chat with the creeping fear that William has invited this cooze along for the ride. But no, my little buddy deemed it was boys night out only and told the bitch to kick rocks.

So, me and the boy cash my check and jump the border into J-Town and I stopped to get my cutey some contact lenses, he being blind as a bat. Caused quite a scene and well over an hour trying to get the Poster Boy to get the lenses in his eyes, him being a contact virgin. Frustrated, the obese optometrist kicked us out not before I gave WW a handjob to calm him down behind closed doors. Perhaps el Blobo knew?

Well, we continue these shenanigans back at my trap and an eternity later, after much Three Stooges slapstick manage to get the damn contacts in Williams eyes. We shoot outta the apartment to El Coyote for chicken enchiladas and theys were toothsome with WW hitting on the curvy waitress. He then goes into explicit detail of his sexcapades with his bitch and it heats me pants to no end. Without missing a beat, he confides in me about his bisex romp the last two days in the queer bars of El Paso. Brings a tear to my eye seeing a guy come out like that. Wonder if he wants me to show the lad the ropes? I will instruct you well, my young padawaan. After that scrumptious meal, we hit the video arcade and played some games and then checked out porn at the Internet cafe.

Hit the Red Zone, or what they call it here a pale ghost compared to the whore district of Tijuana. Anyoo hit the bar El Arbolito for some tasty tequila shots to get the night rolling right and we rolled right across the street into Fausto's, one of the titty bars on the strip of Mariscal Ave. There was about two horny Mexicans sitting in there and some hippopotamus undulating on a stage so we strut down and bounce to several other dives and I tell you this hole is a fucking ghost town on a Thursday night. Irma's: Tired, flabby dancers snoring and leaning against the brass poles. Eduardo's: Watered down drinks that taste like bleach but the kid picked up on the strippers and even shoved a 20 peso note up her cooch. Good times.

More yummy-yummy tequila and we hit the Main Drag and it's a dead museum. Where the fuck is everybody? So the youngster begs the shit outta me for a lapdance and I agree he being a virgin in that aspect but being low on funds we both curtail down the dark and feelthy streets of Centro Juarez to my trap for more money. Not, of course before we were curtailed by needy and crafty whores, disease bags of the night. On the way home, he drunkenly begs with me to purchase one of those petri dishes and I flatly refused and what followed pissed me off. WW degenerated into a greedy possessive animal. How sad.

Well, back at the ranch, had to explain what was what and what for and a pax was made and so it was off for more tequila and then the lapdance-apalooza. We found a place called Virginia's off-off the beaten track which are always the best in my humble opinion. Paid the pretty lookin' hooch and she did the Ubangi Stomp on William's crotch which sent him into a sexual adolescent frenzy like no other.

Knowing a good thing when I see one, I whisked the boy, who was in a highly aroused state back to the crib for a night of homosexual hankipanky. Clothes are flung on the ground, we lept into bed under the covers naked and...

Nothing happened. We talked. Well, he talked. And talked. Talked a lot. Mostly about nothing. But some things that were said were of a strange and dramatic nature. Now, I have said "I love you." to many a man in my day and that was just pillow talk, ya dig. But, this time...from deep down I meant it. And it was thrown back. "I love you, too." And I believe that was said with some deep affection. Well, internally, I freaked. Outside, I was ice cold, but inside I was shaken to the core and I don't know why.

During the evening we have been trying new things out, experimenting sexually, I guess and I know that when people get nervous they tend to blab on and on just to hear themselves for comfort. So, I understand that William must've been very anxious on doing several new experiences for the first time in his life: for the first time lying naked in a bed with a man, kissing a man, getting his salad tossed...ooops too much info, kids, anyway...where was I, getting side tracked...oh,yeah the youngster would not be quiet. And when I'm nervous I get very agitated and well, that just made a bad combination.

William is very attractive, however he has a larger than life ego and more times than not a extremely annoying infantile personality. That is why he has bad luck with relationships. It's all surface flash, but under that great beautiful cover it's not so great. It's a squealing demanding uncontrolled selfish brat. Chicks don't dig that,kiddo.

Neither do I to a certain extent. I had all I could have and words were exchanged and around three in the morning the boy trumped out of the house for stateside in a childish tantrum. A ver. Why do I spend energy on him, I wonder sometimes? I am a glutton for punishment and when this stupidity blows over if he still wants to talk I'll be there.

Of coarse I will. That's what friends do, right? I mean, Gentle Reader, I don't have any problem in the dating department, guys like William are a dime a dozen. I can find more stable and financially and mentally secure relationships elsewhere. But for some reason, deep down in that black cold pit that had my heart, something says he is worth it.

Son cosas de la vida, cabrones.

Flash Forward.

Merry Christmas my Tender Lumplings.

They Call Him Wiggins.

His half-naked, pale torso turned in the flickering cathode rays to switch the channels to view the various porn selections. The random grunts and slurps and groans of the movies filled the three by four video booth that we crammed ourselves into with sounds of random broken passions. I kneeled in front of him. Quivering in silent insect lust. His white hairless body blue from the video, towered above me, I glanced up at his angelic face. Khaki pants down around his knees, white shirt unbuttoned. Though he was twenty one, he had the slender athletic body of a sixteen year old. The personality also, unfortunately. Screechy and impudent. But, so hot. Classic Aryan facial features, he was the type that literary fags would write poems about..."Oh, thou doe eyed pouty-liped Grecian lad..." Except for those fucking ears that stuck out like two radar dishes, but it added to his cuteness, I digress.

So, like I said, I was kneeling like I was in confession preparing for the Second Coming with his seven incher sticking straight out erect and perfect with a little pearl of lubricant forming at the tip and I dove in for the attack. I sucked that pecker like my life depended on it and he got the bestest of the mostest I tell you, brother. The kid's finger kept flicking the dial and the channels switched faster and faster and I pumped and sucked and slid up and down and his knees buckled as his eyes glazed over with that dreamy look and a with a faint groan hot spurts of semen splashed down into my throat. As I wiped sweat from my brow, he collapsed onto the bench adjacent to the semen stained screen, his cock still hard and glistening. We went two more times around before that boy went limp.

Outside, we walked in the cold wind towards downtown Hell Pisso and smoked Lucky Strikes and joked and he screeched and yelled and jumped like a sixteen year old. Real fun cat, you dig. If yer into that thing, right? He wants to join the Job Corps, he says and become an upstanding citizen. What the fuck is that, I ask? He don't know. We cut into Bobo's China and chomp down on some Chinese buffet cuisine and he hits on the fifty year old Chinese woman that owns the place. Horny kid. Fuck anything. She giggles and teaches him some basic chink and he says he gets hot and I just roll my eyes and slurp my noodles. Pay the bill and cut.

We stroll through centro and I stare at him as he stares at all the chicks with their perky titties all pointing north with asses so fine. It turns me on to watch him cruise them girls, boys. "I got game." He keeps telling me. "My friend Chris, he don't got no game with girls. But, me, I got game." Strutting like a rooster for the girls that look back and giggle and I feel good walking with this stud. Whatchawannado comes up so we hit Juarez for kicks and since the funds are low we go to the Virgin Guadalupe festival at the Cathedral that my tranny friend Abel informed us about.

Cross the frontera and down the main drag, no don't want no taxi. Walked about and digged the scene. Fat whores, fat and nasty, smile with silver teeth under buzzing neon, fags giggle at us like devil fairies (The True Night's Heroes) as they stroll by, Aztec warriors dance the dance of ghosts and the cry of the Vatos fill the air. Girls eye the brown haired gringo that I'm with and he smiles back, he is really digging the scene. He goes ape shit over some broads big and shapely ass in some green jeans, she got the hint, but she ain't playing. After the fireworks, he complains of stomach cramps and I escort him back to the International Bridge. Stopping in a public pissoir he informs me that blood is spilling out fore and aft. Produces a blood soaked napkin as proof. Woah. We hurry across through customs and my white angel is looking pastier than usual. Coughing and holding his stomach, heartbeating a mile a minute. An ambulance is called and amid swirling red lights and choking yellow dust he is whisked away.

Goodbye, William Wiggins. It was fun.

Twilights last Gleaming

Once again, a ticket was bought, a bus was boarded, and a long journey was taken. Tony and I, after the events of random stupidity, sat on opposite ends of the bus, I was so tired, I slept the entire nights journey. Didn´t care of the dead landscape that drifted past, didn´t care of the adobe or the honky hating Indians, staring out from under black Stetsons, eyes burning with hepatitis.

The fiery sun split the night as we rolled into The Great Desert. With a squeal of breaks, we arrived in El Paso, that dead dog Tex-Mex town and I headed straight to the Rescue Mission for I knew that there was a check waiting for me. I get a small trust fund check monthly from my parents. Again, with the help of my check, I was going to stay at the mission, get a job, an apartment and my life back on track. But, seeing the current clients there made me gag, so I decided to rent a room at a hotel in Juarez and bust my bleeding ass finding work and an apartment. Goodbye Tony, you dumbass!

However, Tony talked me into letting him stay with me because he also didn’t care too much for that mission either. But,what about your fucking family!? Man, this goofball is nuttier than squirrel shit. I stood outside the mission and stared at him...so cute...I stupidly agreed and off we went and rented a room at Hotel Chingadera. Actually, that was my name for the hotel. It didn’t have a marquee. The entrance was a metal door that said “Hotel” above it in splashed paint and you reach the reception desk by a flight of well-worn wooden stairs. The receptionist was a fat toothless stinkbomb that sat behind a grated window. The room only consisted of a couple of mattresses on a dirty floor and that was it. The door had no lock. At least we had a door. A luxury some guests did not possess. This fleabag hotel charged twenty dollars a week and had a public bathroom.

Tony confided in me that the reason that he could not go home, now get this, was that car that his brother gave him, well it was actually stolen. From his brother. Why does that not surprise me? Sigh. After settling in, Tony and I decided to go for drinks and toast to our success the next day at finding work. We visited a few bars and got a little drunk. Okay, we got shit-faced. In my intoxication, I guess my true feelings for that boy started to come out. But, when he started coming on to these hideous drag queens at Bar Nebraska, I exploded and belted him across the back of the head. A scuffle ensued between us just outside the bar, okay a drop down fight of WWF Smackdown magnitude. I mean a real roll in the street slugfest. I staggered, bloody and drunk up to my room, threw his clothes out of the third floor window into on coming traffic below and screamed for him to get the fuck outta my life. Tony stormed off into the darkness, leaving his meager belongings in the trash littered street. I was so furious. I hate him. I hate drag queens. I hate this stupid desert town. I sat on the window pane, sobbing, holding a bloody towel to my head, realizing how much of a drama queen I can really be. I gazed out into the vast urban waste.

In the evening, lights from an ever-increasing number of television sets inflict a misleading frostiness to the air. It is said that true albinos produce light of a similar luminescence when they move their bowels.

I sat there and thought of Tony. I know, I’m such an idiot. When it comes to love, I’m such a sloppy romantic. I checked into Hotel Chingadera for three days and spent most of my money on booze and boys. I paid for a dirty room that opened into a companionway that never got any sunlight. The wallpaper in the hall was flaking off because the radiator leaked steam when there was any steam to leak. I had the windows sealed shut against the cold with a caulking of newspapers. The place was full of roaches and occasionally I killed a bedbug. When finally I did arrive at the mission, the manager Juana Ortega was not pleased and put the finger on me to get a job and fast. I landed a waitering gig at the Airport Hilton Hotel and did a pretty good job at making tips.

But, yesterday, Tony paid me a visit. We sat on a steel bench and talked in a cold park nearby under a hideously bright blue Texan sky.. The ground was black and hard, dead leaves blew in the chilled wind. I found it ludicrous sitting there talking to that boy. There was still a lot of hate in my heart, but there was love, too. He asked me why did I come back to El Paso, I could have gone to any city that I wanted. Why El Paso? I meekly admitted that I returned because of him. He sat silent for a minute and answered that with, “Could you buy me a beer?”

What?

Huacala! Those last two hours pretty much killed my affections for that boy and we parted ways.

Anyway, I'm enjoying the stint with the Hilton and with the help of David Shelly, also known as Gordo Bastardo; a disgustingly obese man from Milwaukee that was thrown out of the mission for God knows what, I've acquired a descent apartment in Juarez for $100.00 a month in my old building! He didn't want to rent my apartment so my landlady is going to rent it to me again.

Sigh. Things are back in alignment. For now.

Gentle Reader...The lyrics pretty much sums up the year...

Schizopop

Well, here I am. Filthy, tired, and frazzled. Sitting in the library at the Community College on Park and "C" Street starring at this screen. What a fucking night. But let me back up a few days, what happened? Where did I leave off? Ah, yes...at the house of Chuey's brother, Noel. Nice guy. Crappy house.

The next day, after a cold night of fitful sleep and after receiving a ticket on the red trolley by the police for not paying for the ride, Tony and I arrived early and still did not receive a fucking bed. Tony and I talked with some of the estranged locals. There was this ugly little Mexican in a dirty black trench coat, shiny over the dirt. He would pull moldy pastry from hidden pockets and eat them with rotted teeth. The little Mexican explained to Tony that he should go and apply for social security benefits. Tony could claim that he is disabled and the state would award him eight hundred dollars a month.

Tony looked at him, said with mixed pride and hate, “What the hell are you talking about, man?! I’m not fucking handicapped!”

Tony turned and walked away; steaming mad.

Lying on the sidewalk, wrapped in the arms of a fat Puerto Rican with a perm, I was surprised to see The Head. This freak Dan Cokenour would torment at the mission in El Paso several years back. I looked down at these two and asked why they where lying in the dirt. They looked like two spandex clad pigs basking in the sun. They were waiting for a bus ticket to be wired from New York City. The both of them were to live with the Puerto Rican’s mother. I wished them luck.

Tony and I struck up a conversation with this one young handsome black guy named James. He had run away from Virginia to start a new life in San Diego. He was having the same trouble as we were in getting a bed. He said that he had been sneaking into the train yards, the yards for the trolley system, and sleeping on the empty trolleys.

Since we did not have enough money to rent a room in Tijuana, or ride the train to Chuey’s brother’s house, the only alternative was to rough it for one night out on the Embarcadar marina. For I knew the following day my food card would be activated and after selling it I would have efficient funds to return to El Paso. Yeah, I thought, fuck it...I'll go back to El Paso, at least I still have an apartment to get to when I go back. I hope.

The night was filled with crazy madness. First it started off pretty calm. With the few bills Tony had made washing cars, James, Tony, and I dined on food bought at the local dollar store. Famished, it was the best crackers, tuna fish, potato chips and Dr. Pepper I have ever had! It was Tony’s birthday so he wanted to go to the pier nearby and fish. Using a tin can, some discarded wire and hook, Tony fished with borrowed bait from neighboring fishermen. He even caught a few small fish. He had never seen the sea before, so he was happy as a little kid.

I, myself was drowning in doubt and despair. As I sat on a bench watching the navy ships enter and exit the harbor I reflected on the last few years of my life. What had I done? And how come I ended up here, in full circle with nothing to show for it. I had lost everything. I had nowhere to go. I wanted to stay in San Diego, but I couldn't because I was wanted for past crimes. Was I doomed to a life of running and fear and poverty? I looked out at the pier as my friend continued fishing, not a care in the world. What a simple animal. How could one live a life without goals or accomplishments? Here I was suffering, on the verge of a mental breakdown and the only thing Tony was worried about was if his line was going to entangle in others fishing lines.

The night fell and it was beginning to get cold. Really cold. Tony was talking to some speed freak on the pier as I tried to sleep on the bench. Is that what we came out here for? To get addicted to that evil stuff. I knew from first hand what that crap could do to your life and I vowed I wouldn’t go down like that again. When I saw Tony and that speed freak walk off into the parking lot I just snapped. I mean, I don't know if it was the stress of what was going on or what but I really lost it and really freaked. A darkness opened and a black wind issued and The Ugly Spirit came forth at that moment I saw Tony for what he really was a fucking sponge. Using me for everything I had. And now that I had nothing he couldn’t have cared less about me. All this time I showed him compassion and decent friendship and all I got back was “Go fuck yourself after you give me your money.” I was through with this asshole. I verbally attacked him when he got back and made quite a scene. I didn’t care. I was in this state all because of him. He was a scoundrel…a low life fourth rate hustler. He cared for no one but himself. I tolerated enough. The police patrol arrived to clear the park around three and I was completely through. After the cops got involved, they asked us to leave the park. I stomped off by myself. I stayed in an alcove in an alleyway to await dawn. Even there I couldn’t be alone. Two black junkies sat by me smoking crack and joking with each other. I was filled with anger and self-loathing. I promised myself I would never sink to staying on the streets, but here I was. Among crack addicts!

As dawn came, I made my way over to St. Vincent de Paul’s. I noticed Tony and James waiting in line. I ignored them, stood there seething, until James approached me and struck up a conversation. He wanted to know why I was so upset. I spilled my emotions out about Tony, good and bad. I was almost in tears. Tony put in his two cents, about how he can't really go on being a faggot-blah-blah-blah and it was so pathetically moronic I exploded again and smashed the camera I had of all the photos I had took of this trip.

Once inside, I talked to the guy in charge of travelers’ aid and arranged for a ticket at half price to El Paso. However, I needed a residence so the only person to vouch for me was Juana Ortega back at the Rescue Mission. And, after listening to my story she wouldn’t do that unless I brought Tony home, too.

Fine, I said. I purchased the ticket and stormed off to the City College where I am now awaiting the Greyhound Bus, leaving Tony back at the Traveler's Aid Office. The bus leaves tonight and man that slanty-eyed midget bastard better not fuck with me on the way home. Oh, how do I hate him!

We are here because of you.

This morning, it was more of the same. No room at Vinnies. I told Tony that we needed to go and apply for food stamps and sell them so we would have money for rent tonight. Since our social security numbers were different, we had to apply at two different offices. After that long wait, I was accepted but the food card would not kick in until two more days. I met Tony back at the shelter for dinner around 5:30 and explained to him what happened. He advised me that he didn’t even go, that instead he had stolen a bucket and went around washing cars for a few dollars.

Okay, I blinked.

Luckily he did make enough for that nights rent. Eleven dollars. This old black guy named Carl shared some weed with us and we stood in a soup line down on 13th and Island Ave. The filth of the world. This fat drunk Mexican was intimidating a white guy ahead of me, the timid asshole didn't even fight back. El Macho turned on me, I picked up a brick and said I'll knock the muthuh fuck oucha and his tune change quick. He tried to save face and wanted to shake hands I told the puto to go fuck himself. We were degenerating into animals among the yellow bonfires and screams of phantoms in rags and junkies quivering in someone else's over coats. Shiny over the dirt. Cut.

Jump that fucking train to Mexico quick. Tired and dirty. Clik-clak-clik-clak.

I decided to take up my friend Chuey’s invitation and stay in an extra room in his brother’s house up in the old colonias. The room was small and consisted of nothing more than a couch, in which I slept on. Tony got the floor. The house was without running water so a hot shower or any type of shower was out of the question. The night was filled with bitter sadness. As Tony snored on the ratty carpeted floor wrapped in a old Mexican blanket, I stood out in the cold under fierce stars and smoked my last Lucky Strike. Thinking. A year ago. Where was I? What have I been doing? Why do I continue to live like this? Reaching in my pocket I pulled out a five peso coin walked to the corner cafe Internet, kids stand spitting on the sidewalk under naked bulb, and jotted this for the fuck of it.

Times up, senor. Good night.

Cry of the vatos.

Blech.

After settling in, I showed Tony the sights in Tijuana. We visited some of the bars I hung out at, got drunk, and in El Ranchero I talked with some old friends. Again, the whispers were that I was in jail, another was that I was dead from AIDS. Why is it when I disappear I always hafta be dead from AIDS? Gossipy queers. Well, Tony and I and a few friends got pretty ripped and partied in the Red Zone. Nothing like dancing the night away with skanky heroin addicted trannies. Anyway, the worst thing that happened was that Tony and I were coming out of Bar Kin-Kle and we were rolled by the motherfucking cops! They took all our money! All of it! The only cash we had was about thirty dollars that was left back at the hotel room. Black winds of darkness were blowing I tell you, Dear Reader.

Tony and I were so upset that that night in our rented room, we made so much noise fucking the next day the Landlord kept looking at us with evil glances and sour looks as we used the sink and shower in the hall.

We crossed the frontera and arrived early at St. Vincent’s but even though we were sixth and seventh in line, there still weren’t any beds available. Though we were pissed off, we spent the day digging San Diego. I showed Tony Balboa Park and The Gaslamp District and we walked around Hillcrest. We met this one hip black guy and he gave us some coke. Snort! Wheeee! That was nice of him. Last night we enjoyed ourselves in our room in Tijuana. But, I informed Tony that it was the last night. I had no more money.

I had no idea what I was going to do. The most savage and bitter thing was that I had no where to store my black footlocker that had all my personal stuff in. I had packed my footlocker with all my personal books, writing, photos, CD's, and DVD collection before I left Juarez City and hauled it along. At the Greyhound, they would hold it only for two days, after that they would charge me for storage or throw it away. In a fit of panic, I was forced to keep only my photo album and a couple of journals in my backpack, the rest I resigned to let go. Tony convinced me to sell my CD and DVD collection at a pawnshop and that cash gave us food and rent and some weed for the night. In that little room, on that squeaky bed, I snapped. I began to sob uncontrollably. I realized I had just lost all the things dear to me.

Things look pretty bleak. I went downstairs and next to the laundromat in Hotel Colisio is a dinky Cafe Internet and I spent twenty pesos just to type this out and gotta cut short. Tomorrow will try to secure a place in Vinnies again, if not. If not....shit.

It is Necessary to Travel

As of this writing, Dear Reader, Your Reporter is sitting in the 24hr Internet Cafe on 2nd street between Constitution Avenue and Revolucion Avenue in downtown Tijuana. How did I get here, you ask? I will relate the past two days two you, Dear Reader...

Flashback: I was lounging in my apartment in Juarez City sipping a whiskey sour and finishing that fierce chapter of Tralala in Shelbey's Last Exit to Brooklyn when there was a knock on my door. I answered and it was my boy, Tony. He asked me to come down stairs because he had a surprise for me. Down the concrete stairs and into the dank alley and what I saw was a banged up powder blue 1989 Ford Mustang. I asked where he got the car and he said his uncle gave it to him. That was good enough for me. After a booze fueled trip around the city, we parked up on a ravine over looking the city and in a tender and romantic moment watching the sun set over the Franklin Mountains, Tony cam up with the idea of moving to San Diego and starting a brand knew life together there. I confided in him that jobs were better, living conditions were better, just everything was better. So, the agreement was made and before we could change our minds our bags were packed and we were crossing the international bridge to El Paso.

We were both high off of quite a bit of tea when we crossed to the customs officer, but by a miracle, he glanced over our identifications and just waved us on. Wow.

After a brief breakfast at McDonalds in Las Cruces, N.M., the morning drive on the I-10 was pretty uneventful. I dozed off as Tony drove. We heard this loud pop and steam began boiling from under the hood. We pulled over, and as Tony checked the engine he finally realized that the motor had blown its gasket. Well, we didn’t have an extra one, so there we were searching among the shrubbery for some damn metal stopper. Once found, Tony screwed the thing back in and off we went. Not thirty miles down the road the damn thing blew out again. Finding it in the bushes, once again Tony asserted it in its place and we drove on. About twenty miles down, it blew out again and I nearly lost my mind. There was a truck stop nearby in a town called Deming in southern New Mexico; we drove the smoldering car there to the garage. The inbred grease monkeys that were somehow employed at the service station stated that they could replace the gasket with a new one. I said fine and that set me back for about seventy dollars. Tony and I ate lunch in the diner surrounded by surly truckers waiting the hour or so to replace an object that Tony screwed in under a matter of minutes.

About two hundred miles west of Demming, the spanking brand new seventy-dollar gasket blew out and rolled into the middle of the interstate. During a dust storm, Tony and I searched for the piece of shit, found it and drove up to a motel/rest area in the middle of the New Mexico desert. We inquired about a mechanic and were told that “Chief” was gone but would be reached on his cell phone. We were asked to go wait in the bar next to the little motel; we would be notified when “Chief” would arrive.

And so, in a dark bar, sprinkled with Indians and red necks, Tony and I downed a Coors waiting for “Chief”. There was this old coot telling a story to two scrawny blond haired farm boys. At my feet sat the biggest damn dog I’d ever seen. It looked like a cross between a rottweiler and a Dalmatian. It slobbered profusely.

I sat listening to the story the old wrinkled cowboy was telling the farmhands over a couple of beers: “My partner was going through the joint. The guy was sleeping, and I was standing over him with a three-foot length of pipe I found in the bathroom. The pipe had a faucet on the end of it, see? All of a sudden he comes up and jumps straight out off the bed, running. I let him have it with the faucet end, and he goes running right out into the other room, the blood spurting out of his head ten feet every time his heart beat.” He made a pumping motion with his hand. “You could see the brain there and the blood coming out of it.” The old man began to laugh uncontrollably. “My girl was waiting out in the car. She called me—ha ha---she called me---ha ha---a cold blooded killer!” He laughed until his face was purple.

Suddenly, the door of the bar flung open and standing in the blinding light was an ancient Indian wearing boots, tattered jeans, a colorful southwestern shirt and black Stetson. The man was drunk off his ass.

“Which one of you motherfuckers need a goddamn gasket?!” He bellowed, swaying in his alligator boots. Obviously, this was “Chief”.

“Uh.” I stood up with a little wave. “We do.”

He stared at me hard. Looked at Tony, with his vaguely Indian face and smiled, “Well, boys. Let’s go check on your car.”

I explained our trip to Chief as he checked under the hood. He mumbled something and then stood up straight. “Okay. That’ll be two dollars for the gasket and twenty dollars for the service.

It’ll take me about an hour to go to my garage and get the gasket, return, and put it in. Is that fine with you?”

We both smiled. I said, “Where the hell were you in Demming.”

“Yeah, there are a lot of dumb ass crooks around.” Chief smiled a toothless old woman grin; “We’re all in this together, right?”

After a few beers, Tony and I were on our way again happily guzzling Pepsi’s and sucking on beef jerkies. As we were coming into Wilcox, Arizona there was a loud pop and the engine began to steam and then issue black smoke. Tony checked and said it was the gasket. We searched for hours and we couldn’t find it.

Finally, we drove the car into Wilcox and decided to stay the night. Wilcox was a flat town of sage bushes and wind blistered one story houses, a gas station, a hotel, and a bar. I checked us into a cheap hotel and after we showered we walked next door to the only restaurant and had dinner amid three polyester clad geriatrics. We knew that the car was not going to make it to San Diego and so, Tony decided to sell it. I encouraged him in the fact that when he got to San Diego, attained a job, he would easily be able to buy a new one.

After much needed nights sleep and after taking care of each others morning erections, (Tony fucks like a godamn pornstar) we packed our things and headed out to a Ford dealer to see how much we could get for the car. The Ford dealership didn’t want it. We drove over to the junkyard and “Smitty”, the knuckle dragging white eyebrowed red faced junk man priced it at fifty dollars. Disgruntled, we found a used car lot at the edge of town. The owner was a tall skinny older woman with a blond beehive. She looked like Flo from Alice. She wanted the car for one hundred dollars. We both stood there with our mouths agape. This old cunt really knew how to take advantage of a situation. Tired and weary, Tony agreed. As he filled out the paperwork, I made cordial conversation with the owner.

I mentioned. “This town is pretty small. What is you import/export? What keeps this town alive?”

Without missing a beat, she smiled, eyeing Tony. “Oh, we have a lot of sex.” She sneered at me staring at my Willy Wonka sunglasses. "Are those womens glasses?"

I have to get out of here.

We chuckled that off and after Tony finished signing off the title we went to the car to get our things.

There was a young Mexican checking the burned out parts. He stated that it would be cheaper to buy another car than replace the engine. I jokingly repeated the remark that his boss said about the sexual nature of the town.

“She’s right. There’s a lot of goats around here.”

The mechanic gave us a ride to the Greyhound station, which was actually part of a souvenir shop. We purchased our tickets and were told that the bus would not arrive until seven o’clock that evening. Well, since we had ten hours to kill, Tony and I set out to explore the teeming metropolis of Wilcox, AZ.

Tony wanted to find a cool bar and get out of the sun so we wondered into a little cantina on the main strip. It was made out of a log cabin and had all kinds of farmer stuff on the walls. Tony and I drank beer and sampled several tequilas as we played pool. I kept playing These Dreams by Roy Orbison over and over again to irritate the old farmers that huddled over their drinks at the end of the dusty bar, eying us with distrust. Tony’s pick was Hotel California by the Eagles ecstatically playing air guitar with a pool stick, so we alternated between the two. One thing about Tony is that he’s not a barfly as that he is uncomfortable drinking in public places. So, four hours before our bus arrived I bought three forty ouncers of beer and some beef jerky and we sat behind a warehouse next to some railroad tracks to drink and talk.

The conversation pretty much centered on our friendship. I love him so much and he says the same. You know that a couple of forties can really bring out the truth in a relationship. We both became drunk and by time our bus arrived we were sloshed.

The bus was packed and we were forced to stand until we reached Tucson. Tony looked like he was going to puke. The ride there was uneventful. During the night as we came into Los Angeles, there was a gang of loud black women that kept everyone awake with their antics.

“Oh shit! My boyfriend’s got the biggest dick! When we fuck, I be screamin’ so fuckin’ loud the neighbors be yellin’ to shut the fuck up!”

“I knows it! My baby loves it when I be suckin’ his big dick! ‘Suck it, baby, oh shit, suck it!’”

“My baby be fuckin’ my booty all night! I be bouncin’ on that shit an’ we both be moanin’ an’ shit!”

They would all bust out into raucous laughter.

By dawn we had reached the downtown bus terminal in San Diego. It was a very weird feeling. It was cold and drizzling as Tony and I rushed over to St. Vincent de Paul’s to sign up for a bed. Once we arrived, there was a long line. We found out that the shelter was packed because of winter and the rain. There were some people that were the first in line and had been waiting for a week for a bed. That was not good news.

I told Tony not to worry; we’ll just try again tomorrow. We took the red trolley down to the Mexican border in an attempt to check into a cheap hotel. Ah, Tijuana! The hustle and bustle of that crazy town. Nothing had changed. Tony and I took up a room in Hotel Colisio and now live vicariously. As I said, I am up here typing and Tony is downstairs at Nortenos drinking coffee with an American friend.

I hope I can pull us out of this one.

The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I'll Get.

Everyday is Like Sunday.

Through the sunless cobblestone streets of The Market. Whores, fat and nasty, sit and wait forever. Old vatos cry out selling razors and socks, lottery tickets and batteries. Teeming with a mass of people doing their Sunday shopping. Tony and I stop for chicken tacos, slop on a plate, down aquas tamarinos then through Avenida Mariscal, evil glances from pushers spit on the side walk as we dodge junk buses and hurtling taxi cabs air so dirty that it clogs your pores.

Up to Burrito Row. Ten corrugated iron shacks in a row that cater to puta, junky, and fag alike, they don't discriminate. Crazy lady sits in shit and filth and babbles as a mongrel looks on speculatively under that big blue Mexican sky. Pimp eyes me and nods, I nod back, he takes toothpick out of his mouth examines it, his shades turn the other way. Some doormen at a titty bar across the street catches sight of my gringo ass and starts the hustle:

"No cover!"

"Nice lady!"

"Pussy girls! Titty women!"

I wave them on with a poker face through my Willy Wonka glasses, coz I means business and they sulk away only to pounce on two other American assholes. A ver.

Tony can't score here, so we jet across the corner to the pool hall. Smokey and the air filled with blaring Pink Floyd. Fat Mexican with a mullet shakes head, sneers through silver caped teeth, "No got."

So, we walk hafa block over to el Arbolito, one of the oldest bars in Juarez City. We swing through the metal door and slide up to the bar. All action stops in the little cantina and all eyes fall on us. With a loud scrape of stools we plunk down and both order double tequilas each. The owner, ancient and obese, scrutinizes us with glassy eyes crouching in the dim corner like a khaki Buddha.

With a flashbulb of urgency, I take in this trap...small, three booths, three metal tables with chairs, a piss trough at the bar, and a goddamn huge mahogany bar warped to Dr. Suessian contortions. I ask the owners son about the warped bar, to break the ice unnerstand, and he relates that it is due to the constant flooding of the Rio Bravo...that's the Rio Grande to you pinche gabachos. The sprinkling of working stiffs sat indifferently around the cantina chatting with each other, laughing, drinking, ignoring us. The atmosphere was very relaxed.

Tony and I ordered another tequila with a cold cerveza chaser. As I lit a Lucky Strike and drank, Tony and the owner's son were in an animated conversation then Tony handed him some crumpled pesos, which were placed under the till, a small packet of wax paper was placed in Tony's hand and we walked out the door; both saying, "Gracias."

"Gracias", Everyone said back.

The sky was a clear blue, the air clean and pure. The pedestrians happy and carefree. an old man smiles toothlessly at a joke from a young friend, a cop bends down to hand an ice cream to a child, two lovers stroll embraced down the avenue.

We cut across Juarez Avenue, winding through cars of tourists bitching to get back to the U.S. of A. goddammit, and down my dead end street paved in blackened beer bottle caps, clang through the metal door, up the green concrete stairs, unlock the deadbolt - ah, home!

Clothes are flung off and a snort or two offa the dresser - wheeeee! - fall onto the bed naked, clinging to each other, kissing passionately. Fingers, tongues, and cocks are sucked. Rolled onto my stomach and lubricant is applied, Tony slides himself in so long and nasty. With quick thrusts he pounds my ass for a good hafa hour more or less - bed springs boinging and pinging - his muscular brown hips smacking against my smooth and tenders - smack-smack-smack-smack-smack-smack-smack-smack! Grinds his cock up in my ass so hot and savage whispers into my ear, "I'm almost there, baby, where you wanit?"

"You kidding?" I groan. "On my face!"

He yanks himself outa me and flips me onto my back. Sitting on my chest, he masturbates wildly. "GODAMGODAM!" I feel hot licks splatter across my face. He rubs his erection across my lips, my tongue licks the head. I look up at him. Pause. Laughter. "Let me get a towel, baby." He says and goes into the bathroom, cock semihard and glistening, swinging free.

After I clean up, we lay side by side and share a joint. Tony lays on his back with his arm folded back under his head. My head is propped up by a pillow by his side. Silence. "Everyday is Like Sunday" by The Smiths warbles over the radio. Tony takes the joint from his mouth and places it in my lips. I stare up at the ceiling fan whirling slowly. He is the one, I think, he is the one. If not, the prototype. I think I am in love...again.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Do You Love Me?

3:45a.m. Lo que paso, paso by Daddy Yankee bops over the hi-fi. Only the fluttering light from two scented candles and the orange flame of the gas heater lights the dark room. Shadows jiggle and dance. We lay naked in messed sheets, with drained scrotum, embraced. Tony lies on his back and I lay on my side propped up on one elbow. My thumb brushes gently across his thick black eyebrows. I look deep into his brown eyes, distant sparks deep inside. My finger glides down the bridge of his nose, notice the light freckles, to his thick lips, he kisses my finger. No words are uttered.

What if he is just playing me? He sees a lot of girls, what if he just is using me? Or worse, fucking some other guy behind my back. The pain surges in my heart, I can't control the rush of blood to my face and I blush. When he leaves my apartment, does he go to lay in someone elses bed?

I kiss his lips, so sweet, a peck on his chin, a smooch on his neck. Mmmm, God, he smells so good. Slowly, up and down his neck. I nibble his earlobe, my nose brushes against his neck. My hand brushes across his pecks, down across the rib cage, the hard brown stomach.

Is he just after my money? Does he plan to steal my things? My CD's? My DVD's? My cell phone? If I gave him the key to my apartment, who else would he fuck on my bed when I am at work? Would his friends help him carry out my television...my stereo? Steal my clothes? Sell it all for junk?

With his hand he holds my chin and reaches up and kisses me, his thick tongue flicks in my mouth and we exchange saliva. Sweet and warm. He pulls away and lays his head deep into the pillow. He stares into my eyes, my soul. There is admiration and serenity in his face as he stares at me. His thumb caresses gently across my lips. His other hand strokes my back and it feels so good. It makes me feel so comfortable, so at calm. I lay my head on his chest and I hear his heart beating, beating, beating. So warm. So smooth. So smooth. No words are spoken.

Does he shoot up like his brother? Is he infected with diseases? AIDS? Hepatitis C? Will he kill me with his virus?

Presently, his breathing goes calm and regular and I notice he has fallen asleep in my embrace and I cradle him in my arms. I casually stroke his shaved head before I drift off into sleep. All is well in the universe at this moment.

Do you love me? Like I love you?

Junkies and a Drag Queen.

I sat back on the squeaking bed in my hotel room and took a long drag off of my cigarette. I had checked in two friends who were visiting me from Los Angeles at the Gateway Hotel on San Antonio St., a cheap and run down building a few blocks from the international border. The hotel had to date back to the beginning of the twentieth century and it showed. My two friends who so graciously decided to fly out here was Edison Diego, a very intense fellow filmmaker, though straight, he is gay friendly because he had brought Lola La Chata with him, a four hundred pound Filipino drag queen with down syndrome. What a pair. Edison went to the corner market for more booze and I was in his room and waited.

I inhaled another toke, staring at the dusty fan slowly revolving up on the high ceiling. The pink walls were shedding and the toilet leaked constantly, the bottle of Jose Cuervo on the end table was almost empty, and somewhere down the hall the two stout housemaids were blabbing away in Spanish. Rings of Fire by Johnny Cash crackled over the FM station from the radio on the dresser.

At that moment, someone gently knocked at the door.

“Yeah?! It’s open.” I knew who it was.

The door creaked open and Lola LaChata entered the room. She was dressed in a tube dress of black and gray horizontal stripes with red pumps and a bouffant black wig.

I grinned through bloodshot eyes, “Shit, girl! You look like a big fat Mexican whore.”

“Thanks.” Lola said faking a big showgirl smile. She walked over and picked up the bottle of tequila. “I see you’ve been fucking with your buddy Jose Cuervo?” She studied my body sprawled out on his bed. “You’re drunk again, I see.”

“Don’t get any of them queer ideas.” I said sarcastically and tried to get up.

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweets. Anyway, we have to go get Edison.” Lola extended her chunky hand to assist me. I grabbed her forearm and pulled myself off of the bed. “It’s almost time to meet Fat Charlie at the restaurant.”

“Let’s go then.” I said fumbling through my pockets for the car keys. Edison had rented a Sudan, from the airport and I was the designated driver. I had a massive headache and made a mental note to take the Tylenol that I had in the glove compartment.

“Are you okay to drive?” Lola said as she watched me wobble.

“Yeah. Sure…I’m fine.” I said, belching into my fist. I was lying. I was feeling a little sick. It had been at least forty-eight hours since I had taken a hit of cocaine and my muscles ached. It didn’t matter, in a few hours I would make a beautiful score, a veritable mother load, and I would be smoothed out.

“I have a bad feeling.” Lola moaned. “We shouldn’t do this. This doesn’t feel right. I've never been to Mexico and they say this city is really dangerous”

“Oh, stop your whining and let’s go.” I stepped out into the hall and grinned. “Don’t worry, Big Mama, you’re with me.”

“That’s comforting.” Lola said as she closed the door behind her and followed me to the elevator.

We ran into Edison in the hallway, he looks like a thin Jack Nicholson, 40ish and a junky. He wore an olive blazer with a black knit shirt and black slacks. Thinning brown hair slicked back. "Ready, kid?" He said as we came out of the elevator.

"Let's go." I smiled.

We stopped to pick up Fat Charlie, you regular readers will remember he is the guy I sold my Food Stamps to when I was dating Vincent Guzman, before I went to Nebraska.

We met Fat Charlie at the border on the El Paso side. Fat Charlie wanted to go to Juarez City and score for some good coke. Why not? We passed over the International Bridge and drove down to Ave. 16 de Septembre, I had problems finding a parking spot; the traffic was horrible. I parked the car next to the old Guadalupe cathedral; a pile of ancient stone dating back a couple of centuries. From what I remembered, Juarez sprang up around the cathedral like growing fungus, spreading outward. Waiting by the bronze statue on Tin-Tan was Tony, exactly on time and looking grrr-jss in his cholo street clothes. We said hello to each other and the world seemed a little bit better know that I was with him.

The sidewalk was bustling with people; all dashing to and fro in their various affairs. As our group got out of the car we were swarmed over by ten taxi drivers all on the hustle:

“Downtown, Meester?”

“Pussy women? Titty girl?"

“Donkey Show?”

“Best pussy…no like pussy? I got boys…twelve years old!”

Oh God, Edison thought. “I gotta get some smokes.”

He noticed a couple of boys selling cigarettes at the base of the missions’ steps. Good ol’ Mexico, I thought. I looked around; the area favored nothing stateside for sheer filth and poverty. Among the indifferent mass of pedestrians, people shit all over the street and then lie down and sleep in it with flies crawling in and out of their mouths. Entrepreneurs built fires in the street and cooked up hideous, stinking nameless messes of food that they dispense to passers by. Hot and dry like a Turkish Bath, and vultures eating a dead pig off a side street and everywhere you look there is some baboso scratching his balls. Yep, good ol’ Mexico.

At that moment, three little children, two boys and one girl, dressed in rags and dirty bare feet approached Lola and put out their hands and smiled.

“Oh” Lola cooed. “How adorable! Here you go.” Lola smiled, giving each kid a dollar.

“I wouldn’t do that.” I said.

And as if on cue, dozens of kids and men approached her with palms outstretched.

Tony yelled, waving his hands, “Oye! Vete de aqui ya!” (Hey! Get out of here, now!)

The group moved solemnly away.

A few feet away there was a public telephone. Without saying anything, Tony walked up and plugged a few pesos into the machine. He started talking to someone in Spanish.

An old man in a gray dirty jacket, shiny over the dirt, approached Edison with a cardboard box that was full of different brands of cigarettes. Edison pointed at a pack of Lucky Strikes and asked the street vender. “How much?”

“Vente pesos.” The man said.

“What’s that…two dollars?” Edison asked.

“Yeah. More or less.” I interjected.

“Si. Dos dolares.” The old man smiled and took the two crumpled bills. “Gracias.”

“Yeah…grashiass…Hey, Tony, where’s this friend of yours?” Edison asked, ripping open the package of cigarettes. Edison, Fat Charlie, and myself was to buy some cocaine from some shady friend of Tony's.

“I told him to meet us here. We’ll wait in a bar.” Tony said.

“There is one real good one just around the corner. See that row of shoe shine booths? It’s right around there.” I beamed.

Tony continued for a couple of minutes on the phone in Spanish and then hung up the receiver. “Okay, I told him to meet us at Buen Tiempo. It’ll be about thirty minutes. Let’s go.”

We crossed the busy plaza in front of the church, I new this place well. On weekends the plaza was packed with hustlers cruising for a few bucks. This was the meeting place for all the local men who wanted an afternoon diversion. Under the blazing sun, the teeming flesh eyed one another with unbridled macho lust. After the sun went down, the hustlers were a bit seasoned and more professional.

I looked at a young Mexican boy that looked back and smiled, I confided in Edison, “You know, when I moved to Juarez, the thought of paying for sex appalled me. My attitude was that I was looking for love and not sex. Guys should love me for who I am and not for what I have. This is a vulgar lie. In this gay life, there is no love…only sex. And for the most part that’s a disappointment. So, over the years I have come to look at the sex act as a commodity of necessity that can be purchased like a pair of shoes or a pack of cigarettes.”

“I wish you knew my old lady.” Edison said, taking a drag off of his cigarette.

Next to the gazebo in the middle of the plaza a group of performers dressed as Aztec Indians danced to a tribal beat. They were surrounded by locals and a scattering of curious tourists.

“Oh, why didn’t I bring my camera?” Lola moaned.

Across the plaza at the corner, the group led by me came upon a pair of old swinging wooden doors painted yellow.

I stopped and turned to the bunch, palm outward, “Well, here it is! Bar Buen Tiempo!”

“Ahh…booze.” Edison said stepping in the door, removing his shades. The rest filtered in after him.

The interior was a dark low ceiling room. There where but a few patrons in the cantina; solemnly hunched over their beers, not saying anything. On one side was a long bar tended by two tough lesbians. On the other side of the bar were old booths where sex and drugs were bought over the table. There was a big jukebox that played the same tunes over and over again. And in the middle, the main floor where two hustlers stood and posed gazing out with probing insect lust.

We all filtered to the back of the bar and sat on stools. One of the ladies that tended the bar approached them was a heavily made up old woman with short blond hair. She looked far younger than her actual years and came to Tony with an outstretched palm and a smile. They greeted each other in Spanish; each with a peck on the cheek.

“Oh,” Lola complimented, “She is so pretty. I love her shoes. Are those cha-cha heels?”

Tony looked at everyone and said, “This is Sylvia. She wants to know what you want to drink.”

“Just order five caguamas.” I suggested.

“What’s a caguama?”, asked Edison.

“See those big bottles that look like forty-ouncers?” I said pointing at the other patrons’ large brown bottles around the bar. “Those are called caguamas. It’s what you want to drink if you want to save money. Single beers cost about the same. The locals order them to save money.”

“And trust, we all look like tourists.” Lola twittered.

Edison watched nervously at the door. The door swung open and an old man in black tattered clothing shuffled into the cantina. He wobbled while he walked, obviously intoxicated. As he passed Lola, he gave her a wink and a toothless smile. Though he stank of putrid urine, Lola smiled and said, “Hi.”

The old man continued shuffling on into the men’s room that was adjacent to where the group sat.

The bartender named Sylvia returned with our bottles and glasses. Serving them with lemons and salt.

“Hmm, I feel right at home.” I said with a perk. “This is my old stomping ground. I used to come here and pick up all the time. This place can get pretty festive. I just love the romance of Mexico.” Like the others, I began pouring his beer into his glass.

Edison glanced over to the men’s room. From his vantage point he could see right into the restroom with an unobstructed view of the urinal trough. "Typical gay bar set up", mumbled Edison. "Freakin’ penis peepers."

The old drunken street tramp smiled his toothless smile, a black hole surrounded by a wild mane of frizzy white hair. His grin fixed on Edison; in one motion the drunk pulled down his trousers and loudly and abundantly plopped a big shit in the urinal trough.

“Lovely.” Edison said, face blank as a poker dealers. He took a big gulp of his beer.

Ignoring the crap show that Edison was witnessing, I spoke to both Lola and Fat Charlie, but loud enough for Edison to pick up what I was saying. “Yeah. The people down here are so cool…I’ve never had a problem with them. Unlike Americans. You know, I have so many friends in Juarez…and I mean friends for life! Americans themselves are a defensive culture…Mexicans I think are more open and friendly.”

“Speakin’ of friendly,” Fat Charlie smiled at me and said, “Follow me into the restroom, young man. I want to talk to you.”

I new exactly what this conversation was going to be about. I followed Fat Charlie into the men’s room. The old tramp wobbled out, patting me on the shoulder on the way, cackling. The room smelled unbelievably foul.

Fat Charlie entered the only stall, “Just a minute, young man, I’ll be right out.”

I waited outside the metal stall for a minute. I heard the distinct sniffing and snorting from Fat Charlie that could only mean one thing. I shifted from one foot to another as my junk cells snapped into overdrive. I glanced down at the urinal trough that lined the opposite wall with the mound of feces piled in the middle; a putrid brown stream flowing down to the drain trap at the end. The steel door to the stall swung open with a resounding clang.

As Fat Charlie exited the metal cubical, he winked at me, his face distorted in a silly grin, said: “Please, step in my office, senor. First…do I have anything showing?” He lifted his head so I could see full view of his hairy nostrils; they were caked in meth and dried mucus.

“No,” I said. “You can’t tell anything.”

“Righty-oh!” Fat Charlie breathed.

As Fat Charlie returned to the bar, I entered the stall and noticed that there were two extremely fat lines of white crystal methedrine lying across the top of the graffitied toilet paper dispenser. With one fluid motion, I whipped out a single twenty peso bill from my wallet, rolled it into a tube and sniffed the meth up. I stood straight up and habitually leaned my head back and snorted the drug into my sinuses. I wiped the residue off of the dispenser with my index finger and casually massaged it across my gums. The junk circuits in my mind began to pop and crackle to life as the drug began to take hold. With twitching galvanized movements I returned to the bar.

Lola and Fat Charlie where whispering secrets to each other and giggling as I took his seat. I looked at the two, croaked, “What?”

Edison lit another cigarette and turned to me, ignoring Tony, who was having an animated conversation with the bartender, Sylvia. Edison said looking around, “You know, I bet it wouldn’t cost us that much to open a bar here. How much do you think? Three? Four thou?”

“Would it be a gay bar?” I said, tensely.

“Ah fuck no! I’d make it a swanky joint and fill it full of slot machines and teenage hookers! Ya know, fifteen, sixteen years old. Of coarse they’d all have to sleep with me to get the job.” Edison took a puff from his cigarette.

“You’d have to pay the cops off. Especially for something that crooked.” I said and grabbed a lemon and squeezed a few drops into his beer. Lola and Charlie started laughing and both got up and went into the restroom.

At that moment two men entered the cantina. The obvious leader of the twosome was in his early fifties. He was tall with salt and pepper hair. The thick mustache was also gray. He was in good health and handsome for his age; not a wrinkle on his solid masculine latino face with black slits for eyes. He was well groomed and dressed, sporting a mustard suit with a white t-shirt under the buttoned blazer. He wore a solid gold chain around his muscular neck that read Hector. His black shiny boots clacked as he walked with confident deliberation flanked by his lackey; a short stocky Mexican in a white tank top and dark brown chinos. His body was a mass of scars and tattoos. These were Tony's friends and our connections.

Tony introduced the older guy as Hector and I forgot his name. Hector asked edison into the men's room and a deal was made. Momentarily, Hector and his lackey left. For the next six hours it was a pi-snorting good time of a drunken coke fueled party. My two friends, along with Fat Charlie had a good time. As the hours passed the small bar began to fill with a multitude of local fags. They went nuts over Lola. We all got pretty ripped. La Tortura by Shakira blared and an old man in a cowboy suit and silver teeth danced alone to the reggaeton that blared. At two, we crawled across the border, smuggling the dope with us without a hitch. The following morning, I went to the El Paso airport and saw them off. Taking the bus back to the border, I thought of the possibility of maybe returning to Los Angeles.

Nah.