Subterranean

Been feeling that slow burn bore that usually comes along when I have grown weary of a locale. I just want to go - regretting my decision not to high-tail it overseas earlier. The group of 'friends' that I have accumulated have become a pack of judgmental, self-important bores. All artists of the most dreary, flat productions produced for the sole purpose of self-congratulatory attention.

One of these - the alpha-male of the group - actually spat that I talk to much. I am a man of words, you fucking neanderthal! I guess if I don't chat of the mundane topics of young pussy and football, that makes me a verbal pest? How tiresome...

Time to move on.

There is an artistic couple that I thought I'd try to warm up too to give the cultural wasteland of El Paso one last try. A couple that roosts in their vast, high rise flat that I can see from my dusty closet studio. I need to connect with someone on my level. And you better believe my expectations are high.

I grabbed a copy of Dark is the Night and shuffled down through the heat of a late afternoon to give a gift to the female of the couple - indeed, they are hetro-domestic- named Melissa, she being the other half of Cesar I., local painter celeb. Cool cat with some interesting visual ideas. I dig his work...a lot.

So, downstairs, I buzz in, take the rumbling lift to the seventh floor and am greeted by Melissa who was in the middle of cleaning the entire loft. Which is a feat - being jammed with every kind of kitche memento conceivable - from mountains of books to painted mannequins and odd odds and ends dating back several decades. After pat pleasantries, I whip out my shit - I mean my book - and gift her with a signed copy. Pleasant women, she, and quite literary - would love just to spend an afternoon chatting away about books with her.

Melissa suggests for me to meet her at the Tap Bar downstairs so as she can wash, fluff and fold for the evening. Five minutes later, I find myself sitting in a dark bar sipping on Sol cervezas that I can't afford waiting a full hour until she makes her grand entrance with Cesar in tow.

It was a pleasant sit - mostly chatting and joking and drinking - all the while me fighting off the wave of anxiety and depression from the fucking turmoil of the previous week. Perhaps I was being a drag - as Cesar pointed out several times - but, this wave was really strong. Though I wanted to be sociable and go out and communicate - I wanted to go home, undress and crawl into a darkened bed and just lay there and think of nothing in that cool silence of my room.

Melissa was flipping the bill - I was appreciative, always am, but also felt like a fucking mooch. It wasn't until I had returned to the States that I have been living in such goddamn poverty - both financially and emotionally. Eventually, Melissa suggested that we - myself, Cesar, an old queen and his alcoholic trick - should return to their pad and party up on the roof.

Sure, why not?

We never made it to the roof, instead - after a drunken beer run with a highly intoxicated Cesar behind the wheel - we all sat at the kitchen table, talking about literature, smoking, impromptu dancing. Several other people from the building showed up and somehow we all filtered back to the Tap Bar - not before Cesar invited me into the bathroom for a snoot or two of much needed coke. Thank you, Cesar.

The Gang siphoned into a booth at the bar - again beer was ordered as I held my head down in destitute shame - and as the local band wailed rock, we talked and some danced. Melissa introduced two fellas that sat in a booth behind us, both raging queers - but the hefty one was very interested in writing.

I forgot his name, but after buying me a beer and during two shots of tequila, he went into an animated story of his current life: He was just released from prison - for God knows what - and he confessed presently of running a whorehouse over in Juarez. And, he wants to write about it.

When the bar closed, for some reason the Gang ditched me - I mean, really, I wouldn't hang out with me, either - and I found my drunken ass standing outside the bar lighting a cigarette in the humidity pondering what's next. I shrugged and started home but for some fucking reason, I turned around, walked back to the loft - up the elevator and was knocking on that door.

The Gang was at the kitchen table yapping, the music was blaring and it seemed that they had picked up two pretty boys in the process. My anxiety and depression flared. I just put on my mask and headed in. The two new boys - Bert and Ernie, respectfully - were as queer as the next and I sat at first in silence waiting to hear the insidious screeching of gay double entadre fly.

I can't stand American queers - their arrogant, holier than thou, snippy, girlish attitude. Melissa screeched more than once that evening at me, "What kind of queer are you?" I definitely am not the swishy, snapping, pinch-faced fags of this fair land, sweety. You want Truman Capote? Read his fucking books. (I actually do not care much for his work.) I am a man that likes men. Not a girl in a limp, fey body swooning for compassion at every wink. Jeezzz...

We all finally did wind up on the roof. Under the splash of stars and glow of city lights, Bert - an extremely attractive boy - that was until he opens his mouth. Why are there so many like that infesting this great nation?! He attempted to talk about my work and when I tried to explain Tweeker, he devolved into an alpha-male asshole. Why do his type think childish attempts on being arrogant is on the same level as being cool? I think he was confused that I wasn't really interested in him on all levels. You know the type, the Greek God walks into the room and all eyes fall on him as every queen and female coos and gushes at his every move. To him it is an aphrodisiac and it boggles his mind if only one person is not showing awe by his mere presence. The fact was, I just didn't give a shit and I think that put him off. He even had the audacity to screech at random using an acusational finger, "Face it, man, you know you secretly like me!" I sat there thinking, "What a fucking asshole. How sad."

The night progressed - Maus, a neighbor and local musician showed up - did an impromptu strip tease, no one cared - so, he left. Eventually, Melissa showed up with that Get The Fuck Out look on her face and we all disbanded at five in the morning. I said my good nights and thanks and as I strolled the few blocks to my house - the sun dragging it's lazy ass over the horizon - I thought how nice Colombia will be when I get there...