What am I doing with my life? The despairing cry shot out of my deadened substance through a decade of empty locker rooms and bath houses, mildewed hotels, and spectral corridors of oppressive sanitariums, the muttering, hawking, grey dishwater smell of shameful men's shelters, great, dusty warehouses full of old army cots - through broken porticoes and smeared clogged, iron urinals worn paper thin by the piss of a million faggots, deserted weed-grown hovels, musty smells of shit turning back to the soil - the way is broken...time is meaningless…existence has become a dead end…
The fag bar was nearly empty. It was that particular time in the afternoon when everything lagged. Vibrating hum of silence as incandescent yellow blades of a setting winter sun slashed across dirty tile – dust dances in the space. Ordered a beer and took a seat to size up the place. Ratty red leather booths, low dark wood ceiling - the long bar boasted tattered stools and the cantina was tended by a hostile looking, fading old whore. Four other cabrones littered the joint - I sat motionless, smoking a cigarette, ordered another beer.
Went to the W.C., the head, the looloo and as I did my business a fag sided up to me at the urine trough brandishing his big and nasty. He was one ugly motherfucker - had a nice body – but possessed a face that could sink a thousand ships.
Nevertheless - for the sake of international democracy - I accepted the invitation to sit with him and his friend for drinks. His pal wasn´t bad looking. We fell into animated conversations and the beer flowed in so much I didn´t notice the mickey slipped into my bottle.
I blacked out and do not recall anything from three in the afternoon until midnight when I groggily woke up.
I sat up in my bed - well, Miguel´s bed - I was back in the room at St. Jorge Hotel. What the fuck?, I thought. I glanced down - I was wearing just a black t-shirt and nothing else. My ass was sore. I looked over and noticed Miguel lying in the closet glaring at me with hostility - his face wet with tears. He had thrown down a few blankets on the closet floor and formed a makeshift bed. This can´t be good, I thought. I sat on the edge of the bed and tentatively asked what had happened - quite befuddled at this point - and between over-dramatic sobs Miguel let loose a tirade of when he returned from work he found me in bed getting screwed by two ugly guys. Apparently, there was some yelling, some fighting - perhaps some bitch slapping - and they left after taking turns on me. Miguel was so distraught, he explained, he ran to a neighbor’s house - when he returned, the two guys had vanished and I was zonked out on my stomach, wouldn´t wake up no matter how hard Miguel tried.
Still didn’t explain why Miguel was hiding in the closet.
After more sobbing by Miguel - I can´t stand whimpering fags - I got dressed, packed my bag and said adios. When will these fools realize I am not boyfriend material? My life is far too chaotic to retain any type of relationship.
I hailed a taxi and rented a room in a cheap hotel - Hotel Quinta. As I sat on the sagging bed in a foul-smelling room, I thought and I thought some more. I do believe it is time to leave Tijuana...forever.