Friday, November 06, 2009

Dead Wind Blows.

Though middle of the afternoon, the dank little hotel room was dark and smelled of smoke from a thousand hobos. I lay in my bed - head foggy from such a dreadful trip - wondered about what the hell I was exactly doing. I formulated a plan to stay at Primavera Men's shelter and save a few checks, mingle with the local transients, write about it. Yet, when I called, I was told that I needed a bonefied TB test before entry. Well, it's Friday - I am not going to waste my time trying to find some damn clinic and then muddle about the weekend blowing money without the insurance that I could get a bunk there come Monday. So, I just bought a ticket to El Paso and I leave tomorrow.
Hopped a bus to downtown Tucson. It has changed so much. It seemed a city wide ordinance of anti-homelessness is in effect. I sat around in front of the library and watched what little people dashed by. But, feeling them bum kicks cause I know no one here. Ate at a diner I liked called The Grill - walls splashed with 50's ketch served by nice tattooed girl. Probably lesbian.
I strolled over and had a beer at the Iguana Bar. Snaggle-toothed Vietnam vet looking oldster served me a frosty Carona as I sat sizing up the joint. A sprinkle of hustlers, hoods, thieves, junkies - some things never change. Tear In My Beer warbled over the speaker.
Struck up a conversation with a native American - he of the Tohono O'odha m. Scrawny twenty-something in faded well worn jeans, and black t-shirt with straight stringy hair. Face copper with long hooked nose.Not a bad looker - but decided to play it cool. Can't fag out just yet, heap big trouble for white man.
So, several beers later we are walking along dusty train tracks behind dead warehouses and graffitied wooden fences. Seems my new friend, Horace he tells me, is on the lookout to cop some weed. In front of a crumbling liquor store with 1930's sign rusting in the sun, Horace scores for a dimebag from a black kid and we march over more tracks to find a spot to smoke that shit, right?
Next to a sewage outlet under a squat shady tree hidden from the street, we sit on discarted milk crates and light up. And Horace rolls 'em fat. Puffpuffpuff - hitting silly laughing jags and talking of old Heavy Metal bands and how Tijuana (me.) has become a war zone.
Up comes gorilla looking cholo outta no where in baggy football jersey, shorts meeting sox at the knees, skin head type and plops next to us. Horace knows this mooch and introduces him as Vato.
Vato produces a fifth of cheap whiskey from the hidden recesses of his person. We all smoke laugh talk. Unfortunately, Horace can't hang and starts puking chunky stew onto the yellow dead grass. Heaving and coughing. Vato and I laughed reassuringly which just seemed to piss Horace off more. Acting like a little bitch, the Indian stomped off - okay, staggered off - leaving Vato and me alone as that sun set in fiery purple like only a desert sunset can.
Vato took a swig from his bottle, passing it to me. "Hey, white boy - I got some coke. You like to party?"
I was tore up - swerving stooped over staring at the black dirt, "I don't think you party like I party, Vato."
He smiled, his thick lips showing white row of teeth, "Why you say that? How you party?"
And there in front of God and a damn chipmonk I spat, "I wanna do a line of coke offa yer dick."
"Whoa! Dammit!" He hollered leaning back, fist up to mouth. "No you didn't just say that."
"I told you - you don't party like I do. So, don't ask again." I slurred.
Vato got up and walked off down the tracks. He motioned curtly with his head, saying over his shoulder, "C'mon. Let's go, white boy - c'mon."
With a grunt, I stood swayed and followed. We walked a bit to a large red brick warehouse and he huddled into an alcove with shut steel shutter doors rusted from years on nonuse. I stood in front of him, leaning against the red brick.
"My bitch never wants to do shit like that, so now's your chance." He said pulling out a small bag of white powder.
"My chance?" I asked.
"Yeah. But, let me get it hard first." He casually reached down into his jean shorts and started playing in his nether regions.
Long moments pass. "Need help?" I quip, feigning my impatience.
"Nah." Vato breathed. "I got it."
He pulls out his very short but thick penis. I glance down at it in disappointment. Ah, what the hell. Kneel in front, pull the foreskin back (Bitter taste of sweat) and after a few rhythmic movements, he pushes my head back, grabs his erection and spurts globs of semen onto the oil saturated gravel.
"Sorry." He says meekly.
"I didn't get to use the coke."
"Dude, I wasn't gonna waste my coke on that shit." He stated placing his dick back in his shorts.
I quip, "You woulda last longer."
"Hey now..." He says then starts walking towards the main street.
When we both reach the Ronstadt bus station Vato hits me up for twenty bills and I decline. It wasn't worth it, was my reason. We separate with nary a handshake and I return to my hotel to rest for the long ride to El Paso...

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