Wednesday, August 08, 2012

Rock and Roll Hoods

Rock and roll hoods stood on the corner chewing on toothpicks and flicking switchblades. Baggy clothes fluttered in the black wind - ghastly clothes colors of almond, peach, florescent blue. “You lookin’?” One jerked his head up at me - I walked on under black, cold stares.
Trash lined streets crawled with obscene prostitutes of both sexes - the women especially nasty under the blue neon on a dark crumbling adobe night. Banda music and hawkers - purveyors of insidious filth - beckoned me to enter their traps. I clutched my wallet and moved on. Squeezed past the nasty whores shining silver capped teeth and undulating udders and made my way over to Bar Kin-kle. I entered the hazy, smoky den. The cantina was crowded with Zona Norte’s finest.
Took a table occupied by an old vato. We sat at a dented, red metal table with white, plastic lawn chairs - he smiled and nodded at me - we say nothing to each other. As a midget cholo and his skank obscenely danced in the middle of the room to Jailhouse Rock that thumped from the jukebox, I lit a cigarette and gazed around the room.
Long, small bar - rusted, aluminum stools lined the cantina, tables against the wall. Boxes of beer stacked against back wall next to the rockola - that’s jukebox to you ignorant pansies that don’t speeky Spanish.
Mario walked in, strung out on his own shit and plopped next to me a greasy, giggling mess. I said howdy, he said hi. He ordered a caguama after finishing one of my cigarettes.
“How’s the book coming along?” He asked.
“Fine.” I took a swig from my caguama bottle, that cold, charcoal taste filtering down my pipes. “I already began plotting my next book - about my meth addiction. I’m calling it Speed Queen.”
Mario rolled his eyes over at me, “You would. Speaking of…”
He stood up and walked into the mensroom. Stale smell of beer, piss, and shit mixed with odorous bleach.
I waited a cigarette and Mario returned.
“Hurry up”, he said. “I left something in there for you.”
I stomped into the toilet - short, squat Indian stood there holding the ugliest mop in the world, he motioned to the metal encased stall. “Go in, guero - it’s for you.”
I entered and lying on the empty toilet paper dispenser were three lines of that sweet, white powdery stuff.
God bless you, Mario.
Mechanically, I whipped out a peso note; rolled it into a cylinder, bent over and snortsnortsnort!! I jolted up, snuffing and hawking. Pop! Crackle! Pow! Staggered out of the stall, Boy Scout saluted mop guy and returned to the table.
Plopped into my seat and Mario took another cigarette.
I gazed at him with sparkly eyes and smiled, “You’re so good to me. I love you.”
He smirked downward, “I know.”
Handsome Indian sat across from us, swaggering and leaning in his seat. Eyes unfocused and dribbled saliva from his handsome mouth.
He put two fingers up to his lips, asked in a thick accent “One cigarette?”
I smiled and handed him one.
I asked in Spanish, “You wanna beer?”
He nodded. I ordered a cup. When the waiter left after serving the plastic cup, we three salud each other from a fresh caguama bottle.
The waft of stainky, unwashed pussy assaulted my nostrils. I looked in the direction of the offending odor and standing there was a short hag - I’ve seen her about, living in the streets, rummaging through trash bins for scraps of food.
She stood smiling. “Meester, one cigarette?”
Jesus, I thought, What am I - The Borrachos Benevolence Society?
Gave her one anyway. So, she proceeded to plop next to our new and plastered hottie and they went at it like overheated hogs, kissing and sucking each other’s lips loudly. Mario and I looked on in disgust as the drunk, handsome man’s tongue devoured her rancid, toothless hole.
“Mario, let’s cut.”
Outside, we stood under an awning as the rain began to come down in a hopeless attempt to wash away the filth of The City.
Indians and cholos and terrified tourists dashed past us in the wet night. We stood in that neon labyrinth, speechless, feeling the dope and smoking my last cigarette. We both popped and jerked in stylized, mechanical movements as the meth began to take its full effect.
A cigarette between us goes by and Mario placed his thin hand on my back. “Guero, let’s get a room.”
I followed my Dark Knight - jumping over incandescent pools and dodging kamikaze taxis to Hotel Coliseo. Plunked down the pesos and we staggered up the old, wooden stairs to the third floor - hallway smelt of mildew and stale feces.
Room was just a mattress on the floor and antique brown dresser. I took a piss in the dingy, white-tiled bathroom and returned to find Mario shivering naked under a thin, pink blanket – the room was muted in long, dark shadows.
Undressed and laid next to him - hands glide over bodies, tongues probed, organs stiffened. I’ll never get tired of Mario - always up for kicks. Our passion peaked as Mario placed my feet up on his shoulders, spat into his palm and glided his long penis into me. The horny fucker rutted for half an hour, rapidly lunging and thrusting. Eventually, he yanked out and splattered his semen onto my heaving chest. We fell into each other’s arms until our breathing subsided.
Later, we stood outside in the enveloping fog. Mario hit me up for 100 pesos before I hailed a cab back to my trap. He slid a small paper folded into a square into my palm as we shook hands goodnight.
Slouched in the back seat, I smiled inward as the taxi pulled away - Mario always knew how to make a drab night delightful...

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