Woke up with a jolting start - a feeling of putrescent angst. Stumbled to the shower and as hot water careened over me and the steam swirled - black sordid images of the night before popped in my mind like the flash of an old camera.
Wanted to leisurely spend the afternoon in the porno theater, understand? Guess not. I forget, you cannot understand. Anyway, plunked my sixty pesos at the window and entered.
On the soiled screen some blond skank was getting banged in the back seat of a convertible by a grunting jock as they careened down a Southern California freeway. Contemporary porno certainly is scratching the bottom of the barrel if it has to succumb to such cheap thrills. Speaking of cheap thrills - sat in the back row like a good fag when a mid-twenties Mexican dressed in denim plopped next to me, whipped out a glass pipe and with a small blow torch, promptly began smoking meth without reservations. Listening to the crackle and pop of the drugs mixed with the shrieking of the she bitch onscreen, the aroma of said dope began to activate tired old junk cells deep within.
The Mexican – asymmetrical face shimmering in a fine layer of sweat - handed over the pipe, "Hey, man, want some."
"Nah." I croaked. "Nah, I don't do that shit anymore."
"Don't do it anymore?" He grinned mechanically. "What do you do now?"
"I write. (Cough.) I'm a writer."
"Really?" He takes another long, obscene drag. "What do you write?"
I stated without emotion, "Garbage…apparently."
Ah, fuck it, I thought. I looked over to him, reaching, "May I?"
"Sure, man...heh, it's only dope."
click - fffft - wheeeeeee!
Small white sparks explode behind my closed eyelids - my torso felt that surging 60 watt current. "Damn." I quivered. Haven't felt this good since way back when...
After several more hits, I was a clicking, teeth grinding, jittery mess. I needed a beer. I stepped out of Cinema Latino and the walk down Avenue Constitution devolved into an excruciating ordeal - everything was sharply in focus and amplified. A trio of American tourists were being exceptionally loud and all I wanted was to kill them. But I digress, I am not a psychopath...instead, made my way through coursing masses of locals and bewildered tourists – brown, bloodshot eyes scrutinize my every move as I shot down through Plaza Santa Cecilia and entered Bar Villa Garcia.
The dank cantina was packed wall to wall with screeching, gesticulating fags. I stomped up to the second floor and ordered a beer. Taking a table, it was only a matter of seconds before being accosted by the 'buy me a beer, meester' boys. Amscray! - let me enjoy my beverage. One of three outwardly mortally wounded. Great act, pal. Go try that routine on someone else.
Ignacio enters the stage and joins me. We sit for a full five minutes without saying a word. I ultimately croak, "You holdin’?"
Under the table he slips me a paper and I hand him cien pesos. I walk into the bathroom - a den of penis peepers, cock suckers, and pervs. I enter the empty middle stall - close the door - next to me I hear the tell-tale indication of sniffing and the other side the slurping of some miate making rent. The effluvia of shit, piss, and chlorine hanging thick in the air, I empty my package onto the empty toilet paper dispenser - chop out three lines with my bank card - thank god it now has a purpose. Roll up a 20 peso note into a tight cylinder and snort-wheeee!snort-whooo!!
I lean back up and ask myself, Why?
Any addict will tell you it is a well-known fact, a tired long winded fact that addiction comes from inward pain and insidious anxiety. I scratch my nose - check for residue. I have not touched the stuff in years. Why now? Then it dawns on me: I have no goal or plan in my life and that substantially worries me. My life is so fitfully alone. I can't seem to connect with this human species. I should be happy. But, I am not. The subject matter has depressed me - all the trauma and degradation I purposefully put myself through the last 20 years. I don't know. The feeling is so strong now, to simply walk into an alleyway, lie down and stop breathing. My desire to die burns in my heart. There is simply nothing else...
I return to my table and finish three quick beers. Ignacio has gratefully disappeared. I strike up a conversation with an attractive bespectacled lad named Javier and he being quite literary. Well read. We sit and chat over authors - Kerouac, Shelby, Bukowski, Hemingway. After a bit, his friends arrive and I am left alone. I get up and leave, return to my sordid trap.
In the chilled shadows of my room, I lay in my borrowed flesh thinking.... thinking... thinking... smoking... smoking... smoking far too many cigarettes my lungs ache. Later, in the middle of the night, I find myself alone in a 24hr coffee shop mired in depression gazing out the dusty plate glass at the taxi cars rolling by. An old bum, blackened gray by the sooty dirt of the Metropolis staggers by on the opposite side of the street - he painfully slouches and catatonically stumbles on, dirtied hand, shiny over the dirt, leaves a grimy trail on the office windows...that is my future…