Summer has Started...

Surf crashed against the shore below the bluffs as up on the roof of the cafe the band tootled and bleated to a hot Caribbean beat. Crowds of exjunkies and alkies breathing out Hepatitis C mingled about drinking and eating and talking. Smoke wafted off of the terrace from both cigarettes and marijuana - and Your Reporter was right in the thick of it.

The sun beat down on this rather pleasant day. It was the 50th Birthday party of expat American writer Robert Smallwood - all the beach folk were present feeding off of traditional New Orleans cuisine prepared by said host like beasts feeding on Animal Planet.

Strange characters waved in and out of my blurred intoxicated vision - a male stripper who wouldn't strip, short black lesbian dwarf dispensing marijuana wares like some freaky Santa Clause, cake fight with the host, downing an entire apple pie with the help of some hottie who wandered up off the street, salsa and meringue music from that band that won't quit, handsome boys fluttered in and out of focus...

I thought I'd be the only faggito in this bunch of hetros - but as the booze began flowing, the fags were leaping out of the woodwork. Phone numbers and emails were exchanged and sly coy comments uttered. The rest of the crowd was pleasantly drunk...so, I didn't interfere.

What a perfect start for the summer, I recollected like a feeble old woman - but, fun never lasts and I returned to my private shade...

Wacha got?

My stint south of the border has taught me the fact that nothing is free. Nothing. Not even friendship. Everyone has a price or more correctly, “I don’t care what or how much you have; at least give me something.” Gets to be a bore and a strain on the old ego.
One morning, I walked to Café Central stopping at the Plaza in front of the Cathedral for a smoke and people watch. I was about to walk to Café Central for breakfast, when my friend Javier approached me. We chitchatted about things; work, money, going out, when I invited him for breakfast. After a good meal of juevos rancheros and a taza de café, we walked over to my pad and took no time in getting down and dirty. Several positions later, Javier and I took an afternoon siesta. I mean, a good morning of humping can take the wind outta ya, know what I mean? Waking up around noon, we showered and said our good-byes. Not before Javier hit me up for some dough. All I had on me was sixty pesos and I was chagrined when Javier asked for more.
“You don’t have cien?”
I just escorted him to the door, I mean really.
Later, I was standing out front of the Cathedral enjoying the sun and a fresca. A performance artist dressed as a cowboy and covered in silver paint was doing the old robot routine, drawing quite a crowd; a young, handsome guy stands next to me and starts a conversation on the matter. I glance him over, not bad. He then goes into a yarn about looking for his wife who is possibly in the Plaza with her new boyfriend. I thought this angle was quite droll and laughed it off. Money was brought up, on his part. How broke he was from her. I told him that was too bad and with that he gone into the Cathedral for the Mass that had just begun.
Moments later, said hottie comes out of the church and goes on how sad he was over his ailing mother. How he needed fifty dollars for her medicine. I asked where he worked and he explained the Old Market, which was always crawling with old American tourist and I pointed out his tips must be very good. That shut him up for a bit. Then he mumbled something about going to the International Border to get some money for his friend. I wished him luck.
At this moment, an old friend approached and said hola, it was Oscar. Oscar shook hands and entered the church for Mass. The other guy, who I finally got his name as Antonio, started up on how he needed to get his son some new clothes. I thought, C’mon! If you need some cash, come out with it and cut the corny stories of woe!
Seeing this was going nowhere, Antonio asked what I was doing later that night. I said I would be drinking with some friends.
“Where?”
“Oh, I don’t know the name of the bar…I just know how to get there.”
He smiled and said, “It’s a gay bar, right?”
I looked at him with mock shock, “What? Gay bar? No…it’s…okay, yeah; it’s a fucking queer joint. You have good eyes – though I pegged you too when you started talking to me.”
“I’m not queer, dude.” He said.
Of course - the old I’ll blow you, I’ll fuck you, but I won’t kiss you because I’m not queer line. With that he mumbled something about meeting me that night at 8:00 o’clock to go with my friends and me. I said sure and Antonio took off for the International Border for his rendezvous with the fifty-dollar friend.
I sat on the Cathedral steps smoking a Lucky and watching the eye candy pass and that’s when Oscar approached me.
“Is everything okay between you and God?” I joked.
“I don’t have a problem with God. I think God has a problem with me.” Oscar smiled. “Let’s go to your house…did you get any new porn movies?”
I laughed, “Damn, boy! You just came outta church and you wanna watch porn?” Pause. “Let’s go.”
“Vamanos.” Oscar agreed.
At my pad, as the porn played, I gave Oscar some head. Oscar is great eye candy and love those abs - cock was so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it. After that, I was hit up for one hundred pesos. Sigh, again, can’t we have sex just because it’s fun and not cheapen it into a financial negotiation? I mean, Oscar has a good job with a roof repair company, why does he need money? Paid the little fucker and separated at the front door. Him mentioning going to his house.
Back in front of the Cathedral, the sun was sinking over the dusty mountains and I sat waiting for my friends to go have cocktails. Lo and behold, there was Oscar sitting on a concrete bench eating an ice cream - obviously peddling that ass. He didn’t expect to see me so soon and seemed a bit agitated on talking with me. I explained to him he need not tell me some cockamamie story just to get out of my house; he is free to do what he likes. I was hungry and invited the little shit for some tacos. In which, after I flipped the bill, he hit me up for twenty more pesos. Egads. I just went home, watched some television then fell asleep.
A couple of hours later, I found myself at that dive bar I like oh so very much, Caletilla and not thirty seconds in the door I was hit up for a beer by the local ‘Can you buy me anything’ mooch. Now, this person, who introduced himself as Alejandro, was fantastic eye candy and I was intimidated by his good looks, so I shared my caguama with him. However, four caguamas later, and getting a pretty good buzz on, Alejandro’s cheery demeanor changed sour when the beer was cut off. I mean, c’mon…what a fucking mooch. And I pointed this fact out to him, much to his displeasure. He left in a huff. Ah, fuck ‘em all, squares on both sides.
The sun gone, I waited outside the bar under the sheltering moon for some of my friends to come by. Hit up by ugly trannies and having a sane conversation with the receptionist at the halfway house located next door, I finally was united with Esperanza, Ricardo, and Ignacio. Once back inside the bar, again, a cute shorty came up and started on the mooch.
“I wonder if you can do me a favor?” He meekly asked.
“Uh-oh. Those are dangerous words, handsome.” I quipped.
“I’m thirsty and I’d like a beer.”
“Well, gee” I said, “There’s a whole bar in front of you…why don’t you just order one.”
“That’s the thing.” He smiled. “I haven’t any money.”
“Why would you come to a bar without any money? You are assuming a lot there, kiddo.”
“I understand.” He said, a little wounded. “Could you buy me a beer?”
With that I got onto a bitch roll: “Look, I have been buying people beer for two days straight now. As a matter of fact, I have been living in your country for almost ten years and once, just once, I’d like the tables turned and someone to buy me a beer…just once. But, that doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen, does it? Nope…because as we all well know, Americans are so fucking rich, we got money blowing outta our asses and can buy any and everything, right? I mean, the way you mooches approach me fifty times a day, you’d think I got millions of dollars in the bank. Yeah, I’m so fucking rich…that’s why I live in a Mexican slum and not in a swanky penthouse in El Paso.”
“So, can I have a beer?”
“Buzz off! Go ask those other guys…or is it only Americans you bother with your financial woes?”
It must have hit home, because when I turned from my friends, the little fucker was drinking with some fat old tired queen. My buzz gone, I bid my friends goodnight and left. I stopped for a hamburger; of course some cholo had asked me to buy a burger for him. Sigh. No! I stumbled home and fell asleep.
A nation of mooches. All that it is.

Void

Stood on the corner of 4th and Broadway in downtown San Diego - the skie the gray color of a dead television set. The traffic rumbled past, pedestrians went on their way - my eye fixed on the red light waiting to turn green. The nostalgic stench of alcohol and halitosis attacked my nostrils.

"Hey man...you seem a intelligent and nice guy."

I turned towards the offending sounds and smell. Short, her hair a rats nest even a rat don't want, long dull yellow teeth in a lip less mouth. Her clothes were dirty - shiny over the dirt. Her mouth was gaping open and closed like a carp flopped on shore gasping for air. She went into a long well remembered pitch on the soft touch. Though I stared at her, face with the mask of concerned apathy - I didn't listen. Knew how the story ended. The light switches green and she's not done with her soliloquy.

Cutting her off in mid-sentence, I snap, "Can't help ya sister." And cross the street - with her still babbling her memorized story to an empty audience.

Caught Pelam 123, not a bad action flick - just was told it was a remake. Didn't know. After the movie, returned to the border and as I stood in front of Restaurant Nelson under that millennium arch slashed across the sky - in no less than thirty minutes, I was bummed for cash no less than thirty times.

I stood thinking of my next book, chain smoking cigarette cigarette cigarette. I know it's going to be something - I personally haven't touched meth in over ten years - but, the reaction I have received posting excerpts on my blog has really jazzed me...

So, again - not doing much just writing, hanging out at the cafe, burned out on writing...socializing with anyone who cares to talk, yet even then I am distant....I think after this book a long road trip is in the works...really am bored of the monotony of living in this safe, comfy zone I have put myself into.

But, then again do I want to leave?

Words.

It's a hot sunny day here on the beach - the waves are crashing warmly against yellow sand, locals bask and play and chill, talking, eating flavored ice. Summer is definately here - what a long cold winter...

I stop at the local Office Depot and finally print a hard copy of my new novel Tweeker. It is half done - so much more to write about. The book is so raw, so brutal dealing with that addiction of mine that had faded into fog and nostalgia. That is why I haven't been keeping with this blog - focusing solely on that manuscript.

And what a funk of depression it has caused! Dredging up black memories that I purposefully suppressed - man, mentally I was down and out there for awhile. I thought that trip to Los Angeles would have alleviated it - but, on my end I think I came across as a zombied out bore.

People are recommending that I should go all out with both books and power sell them. Nah, not at this moment. I think I am going to keep Borrowed Flesh an underground wonder and peddle Tweeker as it is the great dark warning on addiction in our society today. Who knows, maybe it will become a college reading staple. Or more than likely passed around at NA meetings.

Well, getting prepared for the Gay Pride Festival here coming up on Saturday....will be a hoot, I'm sure.

Cinetastic!

The ambiguous hippy - we shall call him Fern, cause that's what you call him - stopped plunking on his ukulele long enough to focus on me and pose a request. Outside, past the sleeping geriatric beagle on the sidewalk, past the shifty eyed meth dealers - the moon hung somber and majestic in the navy sky.
The whispering moan of surf crash black sand obscuring shadowy lovers of both sexes as I stood in the doorway of the Aquamarino Cafe - cool breeze blows across thin cotton shirt, snazzy jazz warbles over the speakers.
"Hey." Fern quacks "Manana is movie night here - you have anything you wanna to play? I am tapped out."
"Do I?" I degenerate into spastic geek movie goer mode. Gesticulating maniacally I dive into a long winded spiel on the art film DVD's that I own - Naked Lunch, Mala Noche, Salo:120 Days of Sodom, My Own Private Idaho, Female Trouble, Itchi the Killer and scores of others.
Fern seems to enjoy my quick synopsis of Naked Lunch - being a pot connoisseur, I think he will dig it.
So, the stage is set - the screen is risen and I will educate these locals with the double threat of Cronenberg and Burroughs....

Crashing of Waves.

Sitting, contemplating wondering about past nostalgia as bad dreams infiltrate the few cubits in my head. Wondering about past future events weighing me down like the nagging of people I don't know - that I don't want to know.

The darkness outside crashing of waves on a beach that holds dangerous cancerous junkie running back and forth at supersonic speeds calling out, "Whacha want? Whatcha looking for, gringo?" Fades into the surf like the flashing of the lighthouse.

Old sea hag wobbles by, I suck on that cigarette butt so nasty, "Wanna fuck my pussy, baby?" She smells like rotten ectoplasm. I look the other way. Fucking women disgust me - screeching harpies will tear a man to shreds if you let your guard down. Steer clear of them, lad, that is your only option.

I glare out into the ocean a few meters away. Here - in this godforsaken beach - I wonder how I got here. Why did I let myself fall into this trap - this mind numbing existence of cocoon comfort?

Back in November, I fell into town with the hopes of living the way I like, saying what I like, doing what I like - half assed writing a book I never wanted. I am just happy spilling this shit out in this blog.

Indeed, I write - I write unpublishable atrocities. And it's not for your garden variety traveller or homosexual - but it is what it is. And this existence has taken a terrible hold on the old mental state. I have few contacts with the world now - the expats here, self proclaimed writers - all drunken misplaced longwinded - tell me what I should do. I smile, agree - the churro vendor strains past with his wobbly, splintered cart with wares that will kill a cat two hours later. But, I don't give a rat's ass what their boring opinions are.

Who are these people? Who are they? Why are they the fountain of virtue and righteousness? They live in shanty adobes lining the malecon row upon row of concrete chicken dwellings like rotted teeth - all under the glare of that bright baneful moon - and yet they feel it necessary to judge?

One drunken character approaches - American - and whacks me hard across the temple, guffawing "We are the crazies! We are all the crazies here." I glare at him in hostile hatred and stand hearing his apology for his uncouth actions for the next thirty minutes. I hate this place - my loathing burns like a solar flare to an uncaring world of hateful phantoms.

Trudge to a cafe, clinking of cups, pale chatter and false laughter of forced gaiety. Mexican kid blocks my way in the door.

"You that writer?" He smiles the queerest smile leering.

I blankly glare down at the dirty tiled floor, mumble, "Yeah."

Nothing, my psyche screams, I want nothing! Cooley passing him sitting at a table with my laptop. I check my messages - scores of them condemning a so called meth addiction that I supposed to have acquired. Enough, I thought, enough - and I start the long arduous texting of the previous drug posts on this blog are excerpts from forthcoming novel dealing with an addiction ten years in the past.

But, why should I care. I don't care what these ghosts think - and why should I? I spent six months of my life knocking out a novel apparently no one wants to read all because these same individuals, these nameless assholes asked me to write.

I keep telling myself I want to stop. But, stop what? Why should I live under prudent regulations of people I do not even know?

Yes, it is time to stop - stop placating these vicious over opinionated people...ya don't like it? Go somewhere else...I don't write for you.

Routine Expedition

Buzzer blaps at 6:30am and I drag myself out of my cocoon of comfort. Shower, shave, drag a comb through my hair and dress. Hop the clanking old 50's style school bus to the border and cross - waiting an hour behind fat naco lady sneezing and snorting all kinds of viruses everywhere. Passed the customs under the bloodshot hateful glare of the inspector and jump that trolley to San Diego.

I decided to cut the crap and travel to Los Angeles - an ominously dark memory from my past that I had avoided for nearly two decades - with the sole purpose of visiting a friend, more of an acquaintance really - that had been a fan of this here blog from almost the beginning.

I sighed as the suburbs whooshed by - why am I doing this? Nothing but desperate finality and clash of bitter egos will ensue. Millions of images of undetasteful acts of swirling lisping fairies whirled in my head - just another Hollywood arrogant uppity queen that I guess I'll placate for a day. Just bite it, Luis and leave with a smile, I pondered. Another contact that is bound to go down the tubes.

So, I buy the ticket after waiting for the quivering old ticket clerk on training and stand outside to call this character - doesn't answer the phone. Great. What the fuck? Okay, maybe he's still asleep after a long night of God knows what...

With a loud squeal of gears and and fart of black smoke, the Greyhound rumbles northward through landscapes of jagged hills and brush, past vast shopping malls big enough to hold some Mexican adobe villages, past oil refineries, and rest stops of horny truckers and hostile surfers, towards that great ominous concrete defecation that I had avoided with black nostalgia for so long. Grey tumulus clouds swirled with menace just over the city - bright blue everywhere else on the horizon - dark clouds that my paranoia took as a preminition to come.

Depart the bus in LA - the smell, the downright stench was over powering, smog so thick you could chew it, skyscraprers clawing out of the soot up into a sky the color of a dead television channel. Shriveled hip blacks shuffled down cracked filthy sidewalks between dilapidated warehouses and low rent flop houses. Traffic traffic traffic - millions of cars congested the simmering asphalt as I stood on the corner outside the terminal and decided to give this guy a call. Nope - just the answering machine. No big whoop, I thought a little disappointed - I'll just make my way to Hollywood, play tourist for a day and then return to Tijuana later in the evening.

Hunger hit, so as I was marching towards the faded golden arches in the distance - cellphone rings. It is Victor Perez - the reason behind this trip. Stilted dialogue, salutations. I mean, what can I say? Decided to be overtly cordial with the chap and mumbled something to the effect that I need a guide in this ominous metropolis. Luckily, the kid only lived a few blocks away and asked to meet on a corner.

Stood on the corner of 7th and Spring smoking smoking smoking - paranoia crescented as I waited next to two black crack junkies on the con. I look up to see a handsome Mexican in black t-shirt and khaki shorts grinning maniacally at me across the street. With leaps and bounds he bounces across the fairway and greets me with a bear hug.

I think he was under the impression of seeing a shriveled, filthy junky tottering there - I had to explain that my writing is one thing, the real me a different entity all together. Sometimes.

He invited me to Cole's Restaurant - a dive that had been in Los Angeles since the forties and as we sat there gobbling French Dip sandwiches and guzzling beer under the fay raised eyebrow of a knowing patron, all previous speculations of this character melted. Victor was not only surprisingly pleasant but his trivial knowledge of film rivaled my own. He seemed so real and down to earth that it actually came as a shock - albeit a relief that it wasn't going to be a day with a simpering, swishing queen. And he was ruggedly handsome to boot - the internet pictures not doing justice - no manpurse on this lad, bet he doesn't even own a hairdryer. He looked as if you could actually take a camping trip with him and nary a bitch from him as to where to plug his curling iron.

For a couple of hours we sat - blabbed about film, writing, screenplays, special interests - cascading out of our mouths the most trivial of things and actually taking interest in what each other had to say. No pretense - no falstities...so real.

I croaked I'd like to visit Hollywood and take a few pictures. So, paying the tab we whooshed via subway to the Boulevard of Broken Balls and emerged in a sea of petulant tourists! I wasn't in the mood to take any pictures anyway - on the outside I was keeping myself reserved, but inward I was soaking up every syllable, every word that Victor uttered, enjoying just being in his presence sent a thrill more than any hack dressed as a faded star could ever give. I really started liking this guy.

I mentioned that Land of the Lost opened today and we briskly strode over the Hollywood Walk of Fame down to Sunset to the Cinedome. It came as a shock that now it was converted into a multiplex - but a haughty one at that. You actually pick your seat while purchasing your ticket - a far cry from Mexican cinemas where you are herded like cattle and rush - literally trampled trying to find a seat. And the Cinedome serves beer! I smiled inward, a long time since I have visited such a technological mecha - felt like such a rube!.

After spotting Scott Bakula in the concessions line, Victor and I sat and yukked it up for two hours as Land of the Lost flickered across screen. Funny movie - and the experience even better with a cool friend.

Walking out of the theater, Victor spun into a funk as I confided that I need to get back to Tijuana. He suggested that if he flipped the bill for a hotel will I stay? "Just get a couple of beers, some grub and kick it, ya know - sex doesn't have to be obligatory." Victor smiled. Sure - wouldn't you?

Somehow, we ended up at some bar called Akbar's "It's a trap!" (Return of the Jedi reference - google it!) - however, I was shocked at that two beers ran 17 dollars - damn, that's near the total amount I bring with me on a nights escursion in Tijuana - and after stopping at his job for a paycheck, Victor and I found a moderately priced Travelodge on Sunset. Grabbing beer from a corner liquor store and a couple of burgers from Fatburger, we settled in to a relaxing evening.

Indeed.

We sat on the couch in our room, watching American Dad, eating drinking, smoking, Victor coyly snuggling up against me. He looks deep in my eyes and says, "See - isn't this cool? Just kicking it, drinking, talking - and we don't hafta have sex if you don't wanna."

All during the last half of that sentence I stood up and mechanically took off my jeans and shirt. Silently, Victor lies on the bed next to me where I flopped and...and I will not debase that experience by writing it the same way with those Rent boys and hoods in Mexico. I have too much respect for Victor. I'll just say it was quite satisfying.

We fall asleep in each others arms - myself in that cold comfort of being, outside keeping it cool and restrained - inside I felt at such peace, so in tune with myself. I hadn't felt like this with anyone in years.

The next morning, after doing each other again - and again - Victor falls asleep in my arms and I lay there thinking about possibilities that my time in Mexico needs to come to an end. I need to move on and experience different kicks - to really put this writing experiment to the test. As I lay there in the still of the post dawn room, feeling the warmth of Victor in my arms - his torso slowly contracting with each breathe - I decided to pop a question to him, a suggestion of moving to San Francisco and renting a place there together. At first a two room trap and then go from there. Slowly, I thought, no need to gush all out with this guy - ruin it and wind up hurt again.

After Victor awoke - we showered and then rushed over to a local Denny's to Grand Slam it before he had to go to work. We reminisced the past day - and both confided how wonderful it was finally meeting each other after all these years - and I really meant it.

Back in downtown LA, the time was to say our goodbyes - heartfelt and stilted as they were - we parted on 7th and Spring, exactly were we met and I trudged back to the Greyhound and the long trip back to grunge of the Mexican Border...

Borrowed Flesh in a Nutshell.

I have published the revised and extended version of my book. Be kind and pick up a copy - the link is to your right. Or click below and be transfered to Amazon.com. I am very interested in hearing your feedback.

http://www.amazon.com/Borrowed-Flesh-Luis-Blasini/dp/1442165030/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244085767&sr=8-2

Ugly American

All the streets of the city slope down between deepening canyons to a vast, triangle-shaped plaza full of darkness. Walls of street and plaza are perforated by crumbling dwelling cubicles and cafes, some a few feet deep, others extending out of sight in a network of rooms and corridors, hidden by mist and steam - smells of beans, seared meat, mota, and shit. Catatonic emaciated whores stand gray and withered in the doorless diseased cubicles of Death – beckoning with flashes of silver teeth. Salsa music wails – cops stand with ominous sneer and truckload of them rumbles by kicking up dust with the screams of the prey wail in anguish – drunk loud Americans stumble groped by transsexual deviants of all sorts - Americans need it special. Squatting on old bones and excrement and rusty iron, in a white blaze of heat, a panorama of naked idiots stretches to the horizon.
Oh there’s tequila and vomiting in the streets and the groans under heaven, spattered angel wings covered with pale blue dirt of heaven – angels in hell we, our wings huge in the dark. Entering an apartment building dark and sinister like you don't know, we travel down feces ranked hallways - the green walls flake like sclerosis. We come into a garden in the middle of the building with an opening to the sky. Then I see ten, maybe eight other people all milling around the corners with spoons and matches – all of them junkies, that rugged tenderness, those rough and suffering features covered gray sick slick – the eyes alert, the mouth alert, hat, suit, watch, spoon, heroin, working swiftly at shots. Everybody is shooting up.

Around 2am I exit the and start home. Pass up a dark block and light a cigarette. Transvestite hooker leaps out of a doorway of Hotel Leon and quacks in broken English, “Hey, baby - one cigarette for me?”
Why not? I stop and I’m pulling out my package - sounds kinda dirty, don’t it? A pelon cholo pops up and asks for one, too. She shoots out, “No, no - just give it to him!”
Why not? He’s cute anyway. My defenses on full alert - seemed like a set up for some random thievery on my part. Cholo lights up and mumbles gracias and walks on.
I start on my way and the drag clops after me laying a scrawny hand on my arm, “Hey, baby, hey! Wait - you wanna fuck my pussy?” She sneers behind silver teeth.
“Ew!” I snarl and walk on.
My shoes echo down the broken sidewalk - it is late and cool and quiet. I walk briskly in the hopes of dodging the patrols - those thieving bastards. Street light red and I cross anyways and notice an obvious rentboy on opposite corner. Not in the mood so I jaywalk a bit to avoid him.
“Hello?” He says in English. Then “Hola?” I pretend not to hear but the pssk pssk! makes his intentions clear. I stop with a dramatic turn as a rat the size of a cat bonzai’s for a sewer grate.
I size up this character - nice body, tight white button down v-neck sweater exposing flat stomach, tight khaki Capri’s with long fat cock running down left leg. And them pants were real tight.
“Yes?” I ask imperiously.
I notice in the half light his face is blotchy and red. What the fuck is with his face? Acne?, I thought. Then I noticed the blood splattered on his shoulders and the blood soaked rag in his hand. He steps into the light of the street lamp and his face is all beaten up.
He meekly starts talking in pieces, “Mieda (Look.) - the motherfuckers - I have no money - they took - mieda…” He pulls out a silver chain that once was attached to a wallet. I half turned away.
“Ayuda - help…” He pleads, hands up and outward.
I start to walk - my face a frozen mask of no compassion. I say dryly, “Bueno suerte.” (Good luck.) I continue to my apartment leaving that Fallen Angel under the cold yellow light of a street lamp.