When Night Falls.

"Whataya gonna do?" He asked swigging on his warm beer.

I looked around at the dank bar - brimming with perverts and dikes, and pedophiles, and junkies. Male prostitutes did their stylized ballet around the gray haired smiling old American leaches that preyed on them. A fat cop stood at the entrance waiting to do something.

I flicked a cockroach off the bar like playing finger football - it flew into the ice bin. Took a long drag off my Luckie. Some fat tranny - like Fred Flintstone in drag - stood with her sweaty mole covered back to me, with chubby, clip on nailed fingers, pulled the panties outta her ass.

"I am really tired of Tijuana, ya know. If it wasn't for that asshole father of mine, (I grit my teeth in insidious contempt at muttering the word father) I would be somewhere else."

The music switched on the rockola - a sad lament began to warble out in Spanish. The drag queen harpies - huddled in the corner screeching and gesticulating like fags do - began melodramatically singing atrociously along.

I smooshed my cigarette butt out on the dirty floor with my shoe, "What am I thinking of doing? Seriously? I am going across country - starting in Tucson and staying in every homeless shelter from there to Miami. Really looking forward to San Antonio and New Orleans. Eventually, winding up on the island of Puerto Rico. Then and only then will I have accumulated enough material for my next book."

He spit on the floor - saliva and blood - and took another swig, "What? That's crazy! You live so well now. Nice clean house on the beach. What about all your furniture and stuff - why do you want to do that to yourself?"

"Why not?" I stated blankly - feeling the coldness from my insides get even colder. That dark precipice getting wider and wider. "I can't do it - I can't continue to live in this little comfy cocoon of nothing I have been stuck in since November, you know what I mean? I hate it. Truly, deeply loathe it. The fact of the matter is - and this is the most crucial part I need you to understand - I have even more severe panic attacks and bouts of depression when I am sedentary. I get so antsy. I have to go. Go. Go."

"But, why?"

"It's what I do. It's all I know." Smirking inward. "How do you even attempt to keep a normal, stable life when the thought of it leaves nothing but dread on your tongue like the taste of rotten fruit?"

"Whataya going to do when you get to Puerto Rico?"

"I'll find out when I get there. That's the thrill of it - not knowing."

"But your books are selling well, right?"

I lit another cigarette and ordered another beer.

The hag behind the bar delivered it with hatred and contempt - the attitude of most ignorant locals down here. They really hate Americans.

I squeezed a lime into my bottle - gritty, black dirt on my finger from the bottle. "I don't care. What is the point? What is the point of accumulating all this stuff - money, material possessions - when in the end, it doesn't amount to shit? I don't care. I have said it once and actually I am tired of saying it - this life, my life - I don't want it. I hate it. I am just going through the motions waiting to die."

"Okay" He takes one of my cigarettes, sighs, "So, when are you going?"

"Soon." I said. "Soon. The time is not right, the winds of fate have not started blowing and my sails need the energy."

"Dude, that makes no sense. I still don't know why you are doing this. You are simply crazy and lost."

"You have no fucking idea how right you are." I stated with utmost honesty.

A street band entered - short grungy troupe from Sinaloa - and began wailing a brass tune. Slow and dark and low. Old haggish corpse in frayed green dress slithered and undulated like a rag doll across the bar floor - hands out and clutching at patrons for money. She came to me - rheumy eyes bright and sparkling, rotted teeth far apart, smiling face bunched up in overlapping wrinkles. I dropped coins into her gnarled hands.

I sat on my stool, back to the bar, leaning and thought. They are free. They are totally free and know how to live. No worries about when they are buying that 42 inch flat screen TV or what people think and judge. They live - truly live. They are happy because they are what they are and there is nothing more.

I am ready...ready to finally put that second foot forward and step out of the loop. Thing is - I am so far out now I don't think I can ever come back...

Wind through Dark Trees

I got idea, man...

You take me for a walk

Under the sycamore trees

The dark trees that blow, baby.

In the dark trees

I'll see you and you'll see me...

I'll see you in the branches that blow in the breeze...

I'll see you under the trees.

Summer's End

The queens swirled and cackled and jerked in galvanized movements as faggots often have a tendency to do. Cooing and pawing the waiters who wearily served beverages with sullen apathy.
I sat at my table - sun blaring down under that unrelenting blue Mexican sky - the surf crashed in whispers on the shore not too far away.
Sitting in front of me at this new and swanky gay bar that had been here in La Playa for a relatively short time was the owner, Juan. Stout, wrinkled, jovial. He was a pleasant man, I assume but it was the vomit spewing forth next to him that held my attention. Ken, he sez his name is - a fucking 'merican. Ex-cop. Stateside. So what.
Loud mouth long-winded alpha male faggito that cancer this area like so much garbage. One of those types that have to have all the attention, command every conversation, yell instead of talk, is always right on all subjects of Mexico. A complete and utter bore.
Tired of his drivel, I excused myself - "I ain't done talking to ya, sit down!" - I keep walking.
Stroll along the malecon and dig the serene scene. Families frolic, flavored ice vendors sell their wares, Indians hawk their baubles, sky peppered with darting candy colored kites. A marimba band plays on a patio bar and I stand - okay, was a little drunk, so I wobbled there - and grooved to the music.
Scanning the beach checking out the tanning flesh, eyes met two boys relaxing under a palapa. One smiles and motions me over.
They introduce themselves as Omar and Giovanni - two Mexican tourists visiting from the state of Oaxaca. I mention that I just came up from their and with a twinkling smile was asked to sit and enjoy the afternoon with cerveza and good company.
We three sat and talked and joked as the sun swung down and boiled over the horizon in a blasting kaleidoscope of colors.
Darkness falls and a chill sweeps across the beach. My two new friends bid adios and return to downtown and their hotel. As a fact, a large percent of the beach population made that exodus as that cold shroud covered the night.
Forlorn and deep depression hitting me, I walked the malecon down to the end - where the rusted steel wall separates two cultures. There you will find a small park peppered with the lost immigrants getting the nerve up to cross that abomination.
I sat on a concrete bench and watched as a stout young guy walked from trash can to trash can, digging through and removing the cans. He spots me and smiles.
"Hey, man." He says in perfect English."I just got deported yesterday and I am starving. I was wondering if you can help me out with anything."
I looked him over quickly - with a bath the guy would really be handsome. I thought I could be like your average trolling faggot and seduce him back to my flat and barter with food and a warm bed unmentionable acts against nature. But, I am not like that.
"Man" I said. "That's a tough break. Here." I reach in my wallet and pull out a 200 peso note. "Go get something to eat. And over there, there is a cheap hotel for 100 pesos."
Meekly he took the crisp note, looked up at me and said thanks. I offered a cigarette and we stood there for a few minutes as he wove his tale of woe.
Bidding him goodnight, I walked the few blocks to my house - agitated about my life. I want to leave Tijuana and just GO.

Dark Tweeker Rising

The sun just began crawling over the horizon. Off in the mist a dog barked - a car passed. The depression was hitting me with full force. I had been up for days now and my mind felt like mayonnaise.

The apartment - what was left of it - was a filthy, dank den that smelled of aluminum and farts. The mattress was exposed from messed sheets - stained in sweat, semen, and God knows what else. Without all the furniture I used to have - all sold for crank - the room was empty with long shadows of a prison.

I lay on my bed with a cigarette in my hand staring at the spotted ceiling. I have nothing. Nothing. My family hates me, I cannot, will not fall in love with anyone. But, then again, what was left to love? Every relationship I have attempted since my move to Tijuana has ended in psychotic fights usually instigated by my sick mind.

The loneliness howled over me like a cold black shroud. My mind spun with the few dozen hits that I had throughout the night.

What is wrong with me?, I thought.

I began thinking of all the routes in life I could have taken - staying in Los Angeles, keeping a job, becoming a writer, or even making movies. All these crashed into failure. Everything I attempt runs to ruin. Never any moral support from a vile vindictive family, never any trusting friendship from money-obsessed, conning friends, and I won’t even go into the dope addicts I associate with. All they care for is their drugs and whatever they do got it is never enough - so they will go after yours like a shark to a wounded, bleeding sea creature.

I tried to sink deeper into the mattress. I just wanted to go away - get out.

I tried to focus onto the future. One time, long ago, I had great plans. Living in some posh house in the Hollywood Hills with a handsome young guy, famous from my literary achievements, attending parties, television spots on celebrity talk shows, getting written up in the papers - all which faded into mist. I had no future. Over the years I have acquired the mental state of such downward bleakness that when I ever did think of that hopeful future, I was met with a dark cold abyss in my mind’s eye instead.

The depression sunk me lower on these spinning memories. I never felt as sad, alone, and hopeless as I did at that moment. What was the point of going on when there is no point? It struck me as quite logical. Who would miss me? I would miss no one. I wouldn’t have to worry about jobs, rent, my shit being stolen from these damn naco junkies.

My face wrinkled into worry and saddness. I looked over to my end table - scorch marks, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty meth bags strewn across it.

I picked up a meth pipe, held it between thumb and forefinger. Looked at its charred glass sides - precious residue hid in some streaks along the shaft, behind black char. It was this shits fault. All the fault of this fucking addiction I acquired. God, how it controlled me! In anger, I flung the pipe across the room and shattering it against the concrete wall.

I yelped and leapt out of bed to the shards lying on the dirty carpet. I picked up two big chunks, cradling those precious pieces. What have I done? Oh jeez! I have to go buy another one from some bitch I can’t stand. I looked at the pieces and felt an emotional pity for the broken parts. I felt a kindred spirit to the little fucker and I just killed it!

Feeling so sad, so sad. Especially at the stupidity of the situation, it coursed over me. There was nothing. I had nothing. Nothing.

I stood up and went into the kitchen and pulled a small knife out of the drawer. I knew what I wanted to do. Why not? What reason was there for me to continue like this? Nothing. Who would care if I was still around? Nothing. My friends would have forgotten me in a week. Nothing. My parents don’t give a shit, so why should I? Nothing, nothing, nothing…

I stood grasping the knife, clutching it in my right hand. I balled my left fist and raised my left arm. The steel was cold against my skin as I made that first slice. A trickle of blood formed and streamed a thin line down to the elbow. Suddenly, I was terrified. What the fuck am I doing?! I threw the knife into the sink and grabbed a towel to stop the bleeding. Then the tingling pain started to come. I was scared more than anything - scared at the foolish attempt that I had just committed.

I walked into the bathroom and grabbed a wet towel - it seemed I didn’t cut that deep.

I went to the corner farmacia to buy some bandages. I sat in a nearby park. Kids played, men sold balloons, frozen flavored ice, couple strolled in love. Around me the beat of life. I sat there like a stain on this idyllic painting - a vulgar mark on the world. Such a depression. I held my head, cigarette dangling from my lips - what a failure I am. Such a failure. I have failed at so many attempts to better my life…hell, I even failed at ending it.

Stood up and walked over to Cahuilla Avenue to buy some more junk and get a new pipe.

Ghost of Future Past

Clacking down the rail on the southbound trolley and i hit San Ysidro. Glancing out the window I saw a phantom perched in the blazing afternoon sun squatting on the steps of the local Jack in the Box. It was Dan Cockenour. No mistaking that visage.

You long term readers will remember him as the lad I went to New York with years ago. I had seen him maybe twice since then. Once at Vinnies and once strutting around the corner of 2nd and Revo in TJ - again, that was years ago.

I jolted off the train to give the boy the glad hand - as I approached his visage! The broken withered Angel hipster that stooped there! Frail thin, wasting away - ragged clothes and skin leathery and burned. His face held in a mask of inner anger and hatred - the face of the terminally insane.

A few steps to go and I was ready to converse - but, he shot up and walked arrogantly past. Just enough time for me to ask, "Dan?"

I wasn't sure this wreck was him. I mean, a few years living like we did can tax a person both mentally and physically. He was in such dire shape.

Well, that didn't go so good, so I just lit a Lucky and crossed over back home.

I have been hitting my new novel with full steam and it is coming out fantastic. Also, been hunting for an agent. All this aside - Tijuana has become a slow bore. Sure, the tranquility of my lifestyle now is great in the fact that I am getting a lot of writing done, but, I am not happy. My wandering eye has been looking towards the barrio La Perla on the island of Puerto Rico. Why not?

Beaten but not Out

Was standing in Plaza Santa Cecilia enjoying the hot day. It was near mid-afternoon and the sun beat down in shimmering heat upon the concrete thoroughfare. The stalls were an arabesesque of multihues selling all types of candy colored curious. The air wafted with smells of spoiled garbage, automobile exhaust, and seared taco meat as local families strolled with their giggling children, bewildered tourists gawked, rent boys prowled and stood in cooling shadows as a band tootled and twanged music indigenous to Sinaloa on the stage under the Millennium Arch.
Like I said, standing there taking it all in when a young man hobbled on crutches up to me all smiles. It was Edgar - a Tijuana native I had known for some years. An all right guy, never looked for trouble, held a steady job at a local farmacia. Just another local jumping through the tough myriad hoops of Tijuana life.
“Hey, Edgar!” I grinned, looking him up and down. “What happened, man? What’s with the crutches?”
His face grimaced into pain and mumbled something about having a hard time standing. I invited him over to a table at The Boys Café and we both ordered a coke.
Again, I lightheartedly inquired what was wrong with his legs. He stared at the passing throng, took a sip of his soda for dramatic effect, and began his tale of woe.
With a determined look deep into my eyes he said, “I was walking home from work two days ago - you know, out by Tiente Guerro Park. A squad car pulled up and two officers started harassing me. They had me sit on the curb as they began going through my backpack. I had nothing in there but my uniform, right? They asked for my ID - which I had, it was current - but, this one pendejo accused it as being fake.” He took another sip of his soda. “They started all kinds of shit that I looked like some runner for the cartel that they had been looking for and right in front of me cut my ID up with a knife. Then they threw me into the back of the squad car.”
“Damn. What happened next?” I asked.
His eyes became misty, “They drove me out to the middle of nowhere, man. Still cuffed they dragged me out behind this building and had me take my shoes off. I was sitting in the dirt when they took their batons and began beating my feet.”
He lifted one pant leg and his skin was mottled with large purple and blue bruises. His tan skin ashy from scratch marks.
I scowled. “Goddam!”
Edgar rolled his pants back down and continued, “They threw me in the back of the car again and drove me to my neighborhood and dumped me about six blocks from my house.”
With the utmost contempt peppered with fear, Edgar eyed two police patrols meandering through the Plaza - one hulking apish looking man and a stone faced dumpy woman. I actually talk with these two and they seem like good people, but at that moment I could not help feeling Edgar’s emotions. I loathed them, too.
“Wow…that’s tough.” I mumbled. I mean, what could I say?
“That’s not all of it.” He spat, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “As I was walking home - the best I could - another patrol car cruises up and they start their shit. I explained what happened, right? They laughed, accused me of not having an ID after I had told them what happened - threw me in the back of the car and drove me around awhile - all along not saying a word. Once at a substation, they put me in a cell and beat my legs as other prisoners silently looked on. It was horrible!”
As tears began to stream down his brown cheeks, I asked, “Then what did they do?”
“They let me go.” He stated flatly. “They drove me a block to my place and let me go.”
He sat there for a moment - I am sure reminiscing about that terrible ordeal. He gulped another mouthful of coke, “The next day - I told my neighbor and she gave me these crutches. I took a taxi over to the police station on 8th and tried to explain what happened. The receptionist just said that it was my word against the cops. And that they would believe the cops - since I had no ID. After that I went to the Human Rights building and told them - but, I got the same response. Man, I tell you amigo - you gringos have no idea how fucked up it is for us here.”
Indeed.

Tijuana Regresso...

Slingshot out of the steaming jungles - grasping my backpack and landing feet first, cabrones!! Just got back from Tikal, Guatemala - partied and drank mind altering mixes with brujos and screaming monkeys in ruined pyramids all under a Mayan moon! Now back in boring Tijuana...drunk and screaming into the crotches of burrachos...