Saturday, November 28, 2009

We Do It Sometimes Because It Is What It Is.

Gasping up from troubling, insidious nightmare. Suffocating in a black steel box. The charred walls of my iron tomb were pitted with pock marks and scratches. Woke with the putrid taste of metal on my tongue. Put me straight into a funk.
I roll out of my bug infested bunk and shuffle bleary eyed to the mensroom. Already full with seven or eight terminally addicted hobos washing, shitting, pissing. The room smelled of farts and soiled socks as I stood in piss at the urinal taking a piss.
Showered, dressed and ate a nameless slop served for breakfast under the glare of the snarling kitchen staff. Even the Victory Coffee tasted especially rancid this morning.
Gulped that down, walked out back into the early morning chill - and holy fuck was it bitingly cold. Amid coughing and hacking tramps - those dark beat Angels of The World - I chatted and smoked my first of many cigarettes of the day. I look down and the cracked asphalt is glistening with phlegm blossoms. Old Mikey smiles and hits me up for a coupla bucks for a Hurricane.
I tell him, "I'm broke, Mikey."
He shuffles off smiling and mumbling stumbling fumbling back to his hole.
I cut this depressing shit and take a stroll downtown. Walking across the ridge of Sunset Heights - rustic urban area of the El Paso snooty - looking out across a panorama of the city - colorless buildings claw a bright blue sky silhouetted from a dazzling white sun.
Our eyes met as we passed. He was thin, long brown hair combed back in greaser style, black wrinkled dusty clothes over a scrawny stooped frame. His big puffy Dallas Cowboys jacket too large for his size. His face was hawk like with copper skin and piercingly intense green eyes.
Was uttered by both parties, our breathe wafting in the cold and bitter air. He started walking down the hill towards centro. I followed at a distance. He stops and I catch up to him.
He asks in the most dead, toneless voice, "You wanna party?"
Sure. Why not?
I follow him down a dead alley and behind a dumpster - above thick black powerlines buzz and pop - he stands and pulls out his erection. It pulses and bobs as I grab it and it is hard - thick, short, uncircumcised. Two strokes and I look down and notice - and feel - his penis is peppered in white course protruding warts. I yank my hand away.
"You don't want to?" He asks, obviously use to this response.
I turn and walk away leaving that disease carrying hood alone on that hard black ground shivering in the early morning frost. Poor angel - poor, lost, lost angel...
I buy a cheap cup of coffee from Cafe Tejas and sit at The Park in front of the alligator statue. I think and stare at the pigeons and early morning old monsters trolling for borrowed flesh for a couple of hours. I read a discarded newspaper.
Too dull, I say to my self. I hit the Tap Bar and sit sipping a beer with three other losers as Free As A Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd wails from the jukebox.
After four more quick beers with a mescal chaser, I head back to the mission for some rest - but my bunky won't have it. As soon as I doze off, the junky bastard goes into some sort of spastic convulsions and flops around on the floor like short circuited robot. I apathetically console him as an ambulance is called and said scumbag is carted away by a few good men - a couple of the medics were down right sexified!
Then, not twenty minutes later - a pungent smell of pine fills the room. The fucking director of the mission - that goddamn Jesus freak - barges into the dorm wearing a black business suit with red tie and a gas mask. He is holding some kind of 1950's science fiction like insecticide canon and promptly starts gassing the whole fucking dorm for bedbugs. I jump up and careen down the hall - looking back and see an impenetrable fog issuing out of the dorm - the silhouettes of gagging hobos and elderly on walkers attempting escape clutching their throats within the thick cloud of pesticide - and all this right before dinner.

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