Walking through the crowded Plaza in front of the decayed Cathedral…the sun hot beating down on my pasty skin, anonymous eyes follow full of lusty tension; meet and elude contact. Everyday tolerate a little, it takes up time…jack off aficionados whisper hot into the ear…Fuck your way to freedom. The sun languidly creeps across the vast and cloudless sky. I stop for a cold drink…some fruity concoction. Attempt to locate a bit of shade, but all spots are occupied with bloated and wrinkled fucks gasping in the heat. A spectral junky sits grey and immobile with needle poised to the wordless communiqué of need and the old hustler palpitates the Mark with fingers of putrid ectoplasm…
A boy of eleven, thick black eyelashes and rosy cheeks sits in front of the trickling fountain admiring the sculpture of some damn sulky saint as an obese pedophile lurks nearby, bloodshot eyes burn behind black shades. The sweaty child fucker clutches his sad and tiny cock in sexual frustration as he unabashedly regards the object of his secret desires.
I discover a gap on the long concrete bench between two geriatrics and sit under a spreading palm tree and light up. Legs crossed, Wonka shades, black cotton button down summer shirt, black chinos, black Doc Martin chukkas; I am feeling it. I sit there puffing on a Lucky Strike with American Imperialism. Two young Mexican guys in their early twenties sit opposite me and size me up. I check them out through dark shades and they both are quite the lookers. Poorer class, shabby clothes, dirty shoes, but still hot…who am I to judge? The two purchase frozen fruit bars from a vendor and make a spectacle of sucking them so nasty.
The sun veers into mid afternoon and the boy parade hits full force. For the leisure of the knots of loud American turistas, the faux Aztecs have begun their daily extravaganza in front of the Cathedral, dancing amid the tribal thumping and drumming of native muse. As I sit waving away an army of shoeshine boys and candy vendors, this old humpback gash drops her bag between my feet and pulls out a small, plastic bottle of water. In Spanish, I tell her I don’t want any which then causes her to wave the bottle in my face. “Okay,” I sigh in Spanish, “How much?” In which she replies one dollar. I explain to her she must be outta her fuckin mind, because I can go into any shop and get a bottle of water for a quarter. She began looking around helplessly and bleating, “No intiendo!” (I don’t understand him!) a random cholo hottie glided from the churning mass of people to translate in which the price was negotiated to fifty cents and when I handed the old cunt a ten-peso piece of course the old gash didn’t have change. Withered old bitch. Cunt wobbled off cackling.
Fine. Got me for five pesos. Hope she sleeps better tonight. I crack open the bottle – it being so small – I finish it in three gulps. I retrieve a notebook and pen from my book satchel. My mind is awash with a million images and words splash across my eyes like a kaleidoscope of fireworks on a summer night. The only recourse is to write my way out of this insidious depression which I battle on a daily basis. I sit and I scribble notes on a new novel. No title as yet. It is still in its larval state. However, it will be gritty and raw and harsh. I will not hold back anything. I plan to puke it out onto a page and then smear that mess into some sort of coherent prose.
I pause from scribbling out three pages and stare out into that chaotic vista in front of me in deep contemplation. Am I living the dream or have I thrust myself into another fractured nightmare? I think the paranoia is I still hadn't adjusted to this change. Or it is the tidal wave of nostalgia from previous Tijuana episodes. Have I changed that much? Has my age finally caught up with me? Do I crave the tranquil stability which I had spat at for so many decades? Only last night, I lay in my room pondering the idea at the first of next month packing my shit and returning to El Paso. Why? Hell if I know. My true desire, as you may or may not know nor care, is my passion to venture to Asia. But, I have my doubts on that now when only three months prior, I was completely gung-ho for.
Charles Bukowski once wrote, “If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery - isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is.”
Oh, how I envy writers who possess the ability to transform their misery into beautiful flowers. That is the goal I am attempting to reach with my writing. To expunge all the melancholy and despondency and letdowns and depression from my body and mind onto paper. But then again, there seems so much. A vast, dusty hall of memories piled to the high, dark roof in uncategorized, dirty, and soiled boxes echoing with the low hum of absolute solidarity. Unmistakably, it seems I have my work cut out for me.