Tacos and bullets.

I have found that the south side of Tucson is quite the gangland. Decided to visit a shabby one-dollar movie theater that was hip enough to screen The Motorcycle Diaries. This particular cinematic opus has eluded me for some time and I decided it was time for me to check it out.
The southside of Tucson is a rotting museum of 1930s concrete blockhouses and rows of bars that cater to drunken Indians that stumble out waving away the phantoms of bygone cowboys. Cholo boys in Fubu and Dickies pimp walk side by side whistling at the fifteen-year-old mothers that float from dollar store to dollar store with the sad look of a wounded gazelle. Bloated Mexican migrant workers gobble mouthwatering tacos prepared from homespun shops shaded by phallic-shaped cacti under the blazing glare of the afternoon sun.
Walking from the Laos Bus terminal, home of hip hustlers and frazzled soldiers of Vietnam, red diseased eyes squint and follow me like lazy predators following the course of their prey.
Gotta light? Got change? Do you have the time? I walk silently with the sounds vibrating around in my skull, ignoring the outstretched palms. Young Mexican Fag crosses my path with cell phone to his ear, his eyes burn into my own with silent screams of broken lust.
I find said movie house and spend the next two hours in dark bliss. The movie is pure genius. The direction, the cinematography, and the acting; are all perfect. I leave saddened...it makes me homesick for Mexico. Exiting the theater, the twilight stars are beginning to twinkle in the swath of navy blue desert sky. Have not stopped to watch the stars in eons. I find a park with concrete benches and I rest, looking toward the heavens. God is so cool to create so much beauty.
Across the park, teenage boys play futbol, not football mind you, but what the yanks call soccer. I watch, dreaming of joining them. There is one kid, has to be sixteen, or seventeen, with dark curly hair draped across savage wild dog eyes, fantasizing of asking him to a hotel. Lean brown torso turns to light a cigarette as my pale hand glides across his ribs in the shabby twenty-dollar rented room. Enough of this!, I think, and I walk over to a taco stand and order three carne asada's with a Dr. Pepper.
Tough brute with blue-inked words covering shaved head; 13, 69, Tucson, others I can't make out asks if the tacos are any good. Muscle-bloated arms hang from a dirty wife-beater, track marks and prison tattoos crisscross rock-hard torso. Gold Guadalupe hangs from a thick chest.
"Yes," I say, looking up into his brown eyes that have seen a lot of death and tragedy. There were sparks in those dark eyes; far down and deep.
We stand by his green Toyota truck and have a casual conversation about crime, prison, and drugs. He much amused at my tales from Mexico. He showed me the bullet holes in the side of his truck from police chase a week prior. Seemed to pistol-whipped a former friend in front of his house, said friend was caught in fellatio with his novia, cops didn't take to well to his action of justice. Guess it's wrong to eat your buddy's pussy, in certain circles.
After joking about masturbating in front of his C.O. and three more tacos, he announces that he has to go home to the "Lady" and gives me his cell phone number. "Yeah." He says flopping into his truck. "Gimme a call and we can hook up sometime." Smiles. Thick pierced tongue glides across bottom lip. The grind of gravel and I watch as he pulls away.
I walk through the cooling darkness and return to Primavera.