Thursday, August 20, 2009

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.

2 comments:

Korean Rum Diary said...

You paint a vivid picture... Is that Cesc Fabregas on the left?

Luis Blasini said...

Fabrewho? Hahahaha!!!