"So, you're not gonna let Lalo stay with you?" He asked. The cold air enveloped us under that fucking bright Texan sun.
I took a drag from my cigarette - looked off to Juarez twinkling on the horizon. "Nah. He's survived 30 years without my help - he can go 30 more, I reckon. Plus, it will force him to get his shit together on his own."
Earlier, I latched the key to my door and pushed it open with my shoulder placing the plastic bags of purchased sundries onto the tiled floor. My new apartment was small - studio, kitchenette, bathroom with side french doors opening to a vista of Juarez City choked in smog and random gunfire. I took off my shoes and laid on my queensize as a few rounds popped off across the border. I took a nap in the comfort of once again my own place and without the bother of 100 hobos mucking up the place.
I awoke at dusk and headed to the local cafe for coffee. Walked by that shit hole Santa Fe Bar and noticed the Indian Gabriel through cracked and dusty windows stooped up against the bar. Walked in and was met with smiles, back slapping and good cheer. Lalo was with him. A lanky Mexican we had known from the mish - a good looking guy but acted like a fucking twelve year old when left to his own devices. Both were already lit. I ordered a mug of brew and hunkered down to shoot the shit with them.
The place was relatively empty - save for a couple of alcoholic old regulars and a little hottie on the far end.
Us three spent the time talking, laughing and playing goofy tunes on the jukebox. The drunker Lalo became the more touchy-feely the bastard became - goosing me at once right there in front of this hard nosed straight clientele and God. Had to spat to cut that crap out. As a fact - after I had played Star Wars by Mecco, that tacky 70's disco ear sore for kicks - for some reason we were told that the bar was closed and we given the boot - and it only 9:30!
No prob, we stumbled the two blocks over to that equally shitty shit hole dive called Po-po's. passing a ragged hobo dumpster diving with mean quips by Lalo. Fuck, some people just got no tact, know what I mean?
So, at said bar - we sit with our long necks and I bum the shit outta all and sundry by finding and playing Sycamore Trees by The Pointy Shoe Factory over the internet juckbox. That'll teach them Ranchero lovin' locals!
Across from us on the rectangular shaped bar was a drunken construction worker uttering drunken nothings to anyone who cared and for some weird reason Gabriel got on the warpath with this fucker and started glaring and insulting him. I mentioned that he needs to calm the fuck down and the red face took a Goddamn swing at me! Fuck these drunks, I thought and walked out the door and back home - drunk and irate.
Why did I stay in this fucked up town. Let me tell you the sad truth about these El Pasokins - they hate anything they can't understand, which is everything, and want to destroy everything they hate. Ignorant fucks. But, I guess that's moot since Gabriel just came from Chicago and all. Oh well - I was pissed. So, I storm down the darkened streets with Lalo bounding after me screaming "What's wrong? Whya leavin'?" I just walked on until he fell away.
Stopped at a store and bought a packet of smokes being eyed lasciviously by a young Mexican tramp shivering in a huge tattered overcoat sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup - yes, thought of inviting him back to my trap, but wasn't really up for it.
Next morning, I get a call not seconds outta the shower from Lalo that he and Gabriel were spit tested at the mish and given the boot. Lalo pleaded to stay at my apartment crackling empathy over the phone. Nah - don't think so. Sure, he's sexy nekkid and got some wang on him, but he too much a wild card for my taste.
Afterwards, I had met Gabriel in a cafe looking well beat and hungover - we discussed Lalo and his plans. Gabriel will return to Chicago - maybe - and that was that. We shook hands on a corner and said goodbye.
So, now I am stuck flat on my ass in a town I really don't like and my only two friends are lost out in the cold streets.
I really think I am just going to finish these two novels (It seems that the only inspiration I get to write these horrid prose is when I am suffering - if I become too comfortable, I don't write. Just wanna drink and masturbate.) and set my sights to Puerto Rico via New Orleans like I had originally planned.
The future seems so fukkin dark right now - so fukkin depressed....