Monday, February 09, 2009

Dope Head Be Bop

I gaze up from my beer glass to the scummy concrete stairs leading to the street. We are below ground level. The small bar is a hazy dank room - green velvet pool table, wooden bar warped, a row of wobbly stools, faded luche libre pictures curled at the corners are plastered everywhere. The only color is from the string of red Christmas lights sagging at one end over the bar. A huge rubber dildo attached to panties sit in a cubby hole behind the register with a sign that asks, "Are these yours?"
Outside the rain comes down in black shimmering sheets to wash away all the evil and filth - in vain.
Half a cigarette and I peer to my left as some fat old fucker in a faded stetson is gazing at me through squinting blood shot eyes. He salutes, mouth a black toothless hole, "Hola!"
I turn back to my beer - time passes. Flick a small brown cockroach offa the bar into the ice bin holding the beer bottles. Yawn. I take out a crumpled packet of cigarettes - light one - through grey smoke look at the clock. He's late.
Cigarette - cigarette - cigarette...
He slops down the stairs into the bar - shoes squishing leaving slime pools on the dirty muddy floor. Long wet black hair covers his face, black denim jacket, black tshirt and jeans. His brown square jaw juts out from beneath his shiny mane.
We both asks whutsup and he orders a beer. Black eyes glisten past the shock of limp black hair cascading over Aztec Indian features - he takes a puff from one of my cigarettes and asks through silver capped teeth, "You want?"
We go up and out into the black rain torrents of the shit like some Mickey Spillane pulp - illuminated by passing searchlights of kamikaze taxis dash over incandescent pools and muddy rivers of sewage to a windowless adobe building with red iron bar door. We stand in the down pour and as my dark friend puts his thick lips to a small cut in the door, "Coo! Coo!" He repeats it three times.
The door is opened by a thin young fag in a marine fatigue hat - tall and thin in tight jeans and a brown jacket. "Que queres, Mario?"
Mario mumbles something in Spanish and the fag smiles at me, "Pasale."
The long white high ceiling washed landing is dark lit by candles - in the corner sits fat old mamacita in red flowered dress picking through frijoles under a multihued alter of Guadalupe. "Buenas noche." We repeat the greeting and follow the fag down the dank hall smell of mildew and old tortillas to a large room filled with twenty Mexicans. In the dim light they are milling about with plastic cups in hand, a stereo blares ranchero music. The guests are a mix of young and old working class - hipsters to be sure in their dark ragged wet clothes. The din echoes with laughter and conversation.
Mario asks to wait as he slinks into the gloom - I look down as a chicken is pecking by my feet. Two guys approach me holding out an extra cup of beer, "Hey, guedo - what's up?" The tall skinny one asks. He is kinda attractive - shabby clothes and shaved head. The shorter Indian smiles, "Who did you come with?"
I take the beer, "A friend - he's over there." I point into the murk.
"Oh, Mario." The tall one smiles asks for a cigarette. "Are you from San Diego?"
I explain that I live in Mexico - they ask what I do. "I write reports for the citizens of the United States."
"You federale? You look like the FBI."
I get that. A lot.
Mario approaches and we both huddle in a corner, "Tie me up, guedo." I pull up his sleeve and take his belt, tighten it search for a vein with cold white fingers. His skin is copper and smooth. Mario produces a syringe and hands it to me - I slide it under his skin into a vein and push the plunger. I watch with curious morbidity as the junk empties into his body - his eyes slack and he grabs the belt. Leaning against the grey crumbling wall, he hands me the syringe, "You want?"
Two flabby latina girls begin dancing to regeaton in the middle of the room - the crowd claps along. In the darkness on the other side of the room I see the flick flickering of lighters; the red cherries of stems.
"Nah - I'll be right back." I leave Mario to his mess and walk across to a smiling lesbian and a short Indian. They are holding a glass pipe and when they see me they both say, "Buenvenidos." holding their pipe up to me. I say thank you cough and take a hit. The current starts at me spine rushes up across the back of my skull to the forehead. I pull out a crumpled cien peso note and hand it to the girl. "Okay...Okay." She smiles and I smoke my fill.
Pop. Crackle. With galvanized jerks I return to Mario leaning against the wall strung out - one hand holding his pants the other his syringe. I gulp my beer - smoke - inquire where the bano is. Find the old wooden door and open to some girl squatting in front of a pacheco leaning against the sink - she is sucking his big cock. I snap perdonami and close the door to wafts of marijuana smoke.
A few couples have started an obscene mambo routine in the middle of the large smoky room as I try to find another door to take a much needed piss - out back on the muddy patio I notice two guys with their cocks out pissing into the rain and join them. One is the tall pelon from inside, "Hey! The writer!" He smiles as rain drips down his lean face, catching on his moustache.
The other is the fag in the Marine cap. I am soon to find out they were in the middle of sizing up each others penis - in the cold rain - I guess when you have to, you have to. The fag motions us to follow him up iron stairs to a room with withered french doors. The room is bare and lit by candle light - a dresser, cot, nails on the wall for jackets. We sit on the bed and pass around a bottle of Petron and a joint.
The tall pelon leans back on the bed and smiles, "What to do? I am in a room with two fags...what to do?" The fag notices the same thing I do - the growing erection in the guys dark khakis. The fag and I look at each other, smile and he says, "Por que no?" Indeed.
Unzipped, the penis is taken from said khakis and the fag and I take turns on that fat long brown fucker. The pelon sighs, lifts up his black tshirt and globs of white semen spurt onto his flat brown stomach. I sit up and watch as the fag slurps and licks up the goo to the smiling satisfaction of the cholo. The pelon hits me up for fifty pesos - why not? He bolts out the door into the gloom.
The fag and I, Ishmael, he says his name is - sit and talk, smoking weed and finishing the bottle of tequila.
"You like the crystal?" He asks looking into my ping ponging eyes.
"No, not really."
"Then why do you take it. It is so bad."
"I don't know." I really don't - still self destructive, I guess. But, is anything self destructive when done in moderation? I think not. So, fuck you.
Ishmael gets up and plays some somber jazz sax on his radio, sits next to me hand on my leg, "I am so hot, guero. You wanna fuck me?"
Take a puff of cigarette, "Uhm...no - no. You are nice, but I gotta get back downstairs. I came with a friend. My friend is lost without me." I stand up and head to the door.
"You seem pretty lost yourself." He says with a worried look.
I mumble thanks and walk out into the black storm...

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