babalu bebop

For most of the day, I tromped around in 110 degree heat gathering the necessary paperwork to be prepared with my appointment with the housing office this Wednesday. Completing that, It was time to go home. My boots crunching in heated gravel, I wearily approached the large, steel barn-like structure of the shelter. Squatting in the shade of the awning were three or four hobos sweltering on wooden benches and silently puffing on rollies.

It wasn’t three in the afternoon yet, the entry time for the place. I stood there waiting, my shirt clinging to me like a wet condom and craving nothing more than to enter and drink some water. At three, the goober who was working the afternoon shift swung the door open and after a mandatory breathalyzer test, I headed straight to the kitchen for some much needed drinks. Quenched, I resignedly returned to the pungent dimness of the dorm room which held up to a hundred men. I obviously got a new neighbor, for the withered old thing with a walker who slept next to me was replaced by a goofy fat bald guy.

I lay there quietly, but then….he wanted to talk.

He went into an extensive and confounded diatribe on how the government was hunting him down, frozen his bank assets, and caused his life in general a conspiracy laden hell hole. He divulged from a folded swath of Chinese rice paper a little glass pin with some type of electrode on the end.

"You see that?" He breathed breath which smelled like sour mop water. "You see? This is what they pulled out of my ear. For years they could see what I see...they saw through my eyes!"

Enough of that weirdness. I laid down amongst the smell of sour feet and unwashed bodies, doubting my own sanity. Am I all right? Am I losing my mind? What if I am crazy...sane people don't do what I do. I really began doubting my actions the last few weeks.

Then he walked in.

Shaven head, trimmed black goatee, hazel eyes, and baggy street clothes with a boxers build. He brandished a tattoo of a tear drop below his left eye. This short cholo was extremely kind on the eyes. And he was placed in a bunk right next to mine! Right away I introduced myself and he said that his name was Luis Valenzuela and recently released from prison. After he made up his bed, we made our way out to the little smoking patio to talk. I told him my story and he thought it was pretty funny. I said I wasn't worried about my situation that much in lieu I had some money left in the bank.

"For reals?" Luis said. "Let me have thirty dollars." His smile, though both sinister and scheming, a dimpled grin displaying a row of short, white teeth, caused my heart to skip and my mind to travel into places both mischievous and deviant. He continued his spiel regarding these sneakers he wanted.

"What do I get out of it?" I coyly retorted. Nothings for free...learned that from my days in Tijuana.

"What do you want?" He asked.

Without batting an eye, I said, "I want to suck your cock."

Naturally, he looked flabbergasted. I thought he was going to punch my lights out. Then a sly grin crept across his handsome lips. "Okay. But where?"

"Follow me into the restroom."

He followed me into an empty men’s room. We went into the back stall, closing the door behind us, I sat on the toilet and Luis pulled out his erect penis. I sucked that thick uncut cock like my life depended on it. A couple of hobos did enter to use the urinals, but in our position down on the far end of the long, white tiled room, they were unaware that malicious goings on were afoot! Luis was letting out breathy and whispered moans and I was nervous some old hobo might hear us and report us to the facilitators. Finally, when Luis was close, he pulled his glistening cock out of my mouth and sprayed down my hair and right side of my face with gobs of thick cum. As I wiped my face and hair with toilet tissue, he stated that he hadn't cum in three months.

Odale.

After paying my end of the bargain with Luis and his well-earned thirty dollars, I returned to my bunk. Luis decided to go into the T.V. room and watch the football game playing on the communal television. At nine, they shut off the lights, but I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned amid the high decibel snoring and farting. I am so excited about getting that apartment.

At five o'clock in the morning, the lights snapped on and everyone made a mad dash to the restroom sinks to wash up. I felt like shit...like I was hit by a ten ton truck. My throat ached, my back hurt, I was feverish. Luis looked so adorable wrapped up in his blankets. I wanted to reach over and glide my fingers down the happy trail that lead into his blue striped boxers. I invited him to breakfast at a downtown café, but he said he had to meet his cousin for something. He is so goddamn handsome. Who knows? Perhaps something will come of this.

the algebra of melancholy

After an extensive interlude of writer’s block – two years, I believe – I have begun the writing of my next novel. Something I am quite passionate about. It concerns the wayward misfortunes of Ford Davis, a twenty-three year old aspiring writer as he hitchhikes from a small southwest town to San Diego and his quest for more lucrative opportunities and perhaps even the most elusive, love. Occupied by awkward and mundane peoples during Ford's trek and set against the backdrop of a country leaning towards the threat of atomic annihilation by newly elected president, a former game show host/Chicago slum lord named Wink Scottsdale, this new book is a somewhat dystopian tale with marginally homosexual tendencies. The working title: The Algebra of Melancholy. I like it, it fits.

In further news: Six or seven years ago, I applied for admission into a very modern apartment here in Tucson. Through mischance and various unfortunate events, I thought I had lost it. Well, as I was checking my e-mails yesterday, I received an invitation to rent at the very exclusive complex located in the heart of downtown Tucson. I actually thought years ago the deal was botched, but through a miracle of God (and really, that is exactly how I see it. Wouldn’t you?) I am now attaining the paperwork for the admission interview next Wednesday at 9am. Originally, I was simply passing through Tucson to return to Tijuana and an unknown future. What does this mean? No more travelling, no more living in junky ridden grottos mired in fear and debasement, no more uncertain days of where am I heading or what am I doing.

Do not fret your little head none, Dear Reader, I will certainly maintain this blog. It simply will be different. I will focus more on my writing and thoughts and perhaps – perhaps – a little wayward absurdities here and there.

space force

Fucking idiot.

the weed kid

“No, you see, it holds fifteen clips. You just aim it and…” He performed a gesture of swishing his cocked hand back and forth while making a rattatat sound. “Just spray and pray. I have a huge selections of semi-automatics. I love guns.”

They sat across from me during the slow bus ride downtown. Save for us three, there was no one else on the bus. The gun aficionado was a roly-poly built goober with cascading black hair that reached his ample hips. He looked like the actor/director Tom Savini had really let himself go. Clad in double denim, his nasal voice reverberated throughout the stale air of the bus.

“Just love them. I really, really do.”

“And what kind was that?” Asked his slender companion. He toted a small black terrier on a leash. A yappy and over excitable mongrel who darted about at the tethers length. The scrawny man wore tinted aviator sunglasses and acid was denim jeans with sandals. His chinless face was smooth and pale, he had a small mustache and his hairline receded.

“A Colt .45 automatic. You ever seen it?”

“It’s a pistol?”

“Yeah. You ever seen it?”

“Nah. I don’t really carry guns. I carry knives.” His lanky friend interjected without really hearing the question.

“Have you seen The Expendables? There’s a dude with a Colt .45 automatic…”

The one with the dog retrieved a nasty looking machete hidden in the deep recesses of his acid washed back side. He nonchalantly flashed it toward his friend. A silver and curved blade attached to a black leather handle with light green highlights.

“Woah. That’s sweet. You think that’s a knife? This is a knife!” He nasally repeated in a horrible Aussie accent  as he chuckled.

“Yeah. No one under thirty is going to get that reference. It’s a stupid movie, anyway. I mean, it was okay…but it was bad, too.”

I hit downtown on a tranquil Sunday morning. It already being 11am and everything still closed. On deserted sidewalks, I dodged glistening pools left after the day’s prior monsoon downpour. The most upsetting aspect was the silence…the solitude. Years ago when I was in Tucson, the downtown area, especially around the Public Library, was abundant with homeless people milling about. Where have they gone? With any indication of the over populated shelter, there is no shortage of bored tramps, I find it simply weird there are not as many congregating out on the street. Is the government abducting them and hauling them off to desert concentration camps for liquidation? Have they been swept away by some unknown virus? Aliens? I simply find it odd, that’s all.

Anyways… I made my way through those echoing streets and over toward The Z Mansion. A historically hysterical château of baby blue that stages a hobo brunch every Sunday morning. Passing through ominous spiked iron gates, I entered the back patio covered in shady trees with about one hundred or less people milling about.

As soon as I entered, some crippled slob thrusts a leaking trash bag at me and gruffly orders me to “take out da trash, my leg hurtin’!” He obviously assumed I was a volunteer. Befuddled, I carried the dripping plastic bag out back, leaving a slimy trail in my wake across the hardwood floor of the stately manor. When I tossed the bag into one of three dumpsters in an alley, an ancient and pinch-faced nun poked her head out of a window and said, “Hey! That trash is for plastics and recyclables! Put the bag in the other dumpster!” She sneered and rolled her eyes at me like I was guilty of molesting one of her favorite choir boys. I hollered back up into the window, “Why you looking at me like that? Shit, this ain’t even my job, lady!”

After washing my hands in the co-ed bathroom (opens door to a wrinkled, smiling hag squatting with dingy panties around her ankles on the toilet “Oopsies! Forgot to lock it! Tee hee!” Slam!) I attempted to find a chair at the thirty or so round tables spread throughout the patio. I noticed a handsome young Latino sitting alone. I had seen him before at the shelter. A couple of days ago, he was outside in the fenced smoking area of the shelter toking on weed and ignorantly offered to a shelter staff member. Anyone that stupid should make good conversation.

“Hey…how’s it going?” I casually asked, brushing fallen leaves from plastic and aluminum folding chair.

“All right. This is my second time here.” He smiled taking a sip of lemonade offered by a prowling volunteer. He was elfish in his looks. Thin, aquiline face, a splash of light brown freckles across a thin nose. Jet black hair cut short on the sides and back but moppy on the top.

“Yeah? I recognize you from the shelter. You’re The Weed Kid.”

“The Weed Kid? Ha-ha…I’m now known as The Weed Kid?”

I divulged a humorous and detailed account of the gossip concerning his faux pa.

“Well, I thought…” Slam! A ruddy hand slammed a styrofoam cup of whiskey scented soda onto the table at me left. It was one of those large cups from a convenient store which held cheap fountain sodas or Slurpees.

I glanced up to see a drunk as fuck white man in his fifties towering over me. He stared out into the jostling mob. I turned back to that charming lad, “I thought you knew he was a staff member. The good thing is, nothing dire came of it.”

“Yeah, I got off with a warning.”

“You could had lost your bunk, perhaps…” Slam!

Again, the lanky drunk took a sip and slammed his styrofoam cup down onto the table. He began to wobble away.

I uttered at him, “You can slam that cup down all you want, it’s not going to make the ice any colder.”

“Wut?” He asked cross-eyed.

“Why do you keep slamming that cup down on this table?” I asked slowly and clearly as one who would attempt to confer with a retarded child.

He turned and inebriatingly lumbered back towards me, vainly attempting to appear menacing. “Cuz this is me and muh frens table. We went out ta smoke an we were sittin here first…”

I smirked and stated calmly with my palm out and up, “Man, that’s all you had to say. No need for b-movie dramatics.”

“I thought I told ya that…” Again, he was attempting to test me.

“No. You simply kept slamming your cup down while we were talking.” I said matter of factly.

“Well…anyway, get the fuck up an find anudder seat.” He interjected with a fist and thumb jerking up over his shoulder.

“Okay.” I smiled. “You want your seat?”

“Yeah.” He glared. His breath smelled of stale beer and Cheetos.

I smiled and nonchalantly got up and as soon as I did, I grabbed the plastic and metal chair and hurled it at the miserable fucking drunk. The metal leg and hard plastic back smashed into his chest and chin, causing him to reel back into potted ferns.

“Take it fucking back, then!” I shouted in pent-up fury.

The old drunk floundered akimbo in the plants as all hell broke loose. The Weed Kid faded into the crowd as several nuns raced out of their warrens and ordered me to leave or they would call the cops. I left. Fuck them. Fuck all those bitter, insufferable slobs.

I sat discontent at a nearby bus stop bench under the shadow of an awning. There wasn’t a car or soul on the street. The afternoon sun was bright and beat down through a cloudless blue sky. Next to me, silent and cool as a mannequin, lounged a boney black man in wrap around shades and straw fedora. He seemed very old as his trimmed facial hair had turned white with age. He clasped both ashy, gnarled hands onto the glass orbed handle of an ornate cane made of smooth wood.

I sat and smoked my last cigarette. For I was now broke without anything to my name.

After a bit, he rasped, “You smoke weed?”

“You got any?” I coughed.

“Yeah. Wanna smoke?”

“Sure.”

We sat the remainder of the afternoon at that lonely bench smoking harsh weed and recounting lurid anecdotes of where we had been and where we were going. His name being Steve, explained his recent relocation from Buffalo, New York to Tucson in lieu of him being anemic and constantly being cold. That may be true, but other points of his narratives revealed a nasty crack habit and a mean spirit so I think he was simply escaping to start a new.

But, then again, aren’t we all?

Higher than shit, I thanked Steve for the smoke and, strictly from the case of the munchies, darted into a sandwich shop for a cheap hoagie. Afterwards, I ambled about Old Tucson taking snapshots of adobe structures inhabited by the ghosts of cowboys and indians...

this unholy place

I recognize the life I chose to live is somewhat on the eccentric side; categorized a pariah. Even by my peers. Once heralded as a freethinker, an adventurer, a sexual outlaw. Now, I am hated, despised, spat upon.

In this New Millennium based on paranoia, judgment, hatred, skepticism, and solidarity, I am more than a dying breed. My ilk are considered extinct. Perhaps the only option is to fade into obscurity.

Nope. I will remain diligent. I will not change. As a matter of fact - fuck you. Fuck all of you. Quite frankly, I have grown weary living by your approval, by your boring ass, social accepting, politically correct standards. I will step out of this quivering, frightened flesh in which I have placed myself and abide by my own standards, my rules mired in what you term filth and sexual perversion. I'll revel in it, bath in it, suck the marrow from it.

With that out of my system, let’s move on, shall we? I am in Tucson for the time being sorting out past maladies and insolvencies: paying the piper, so to speak. I had a meet with the shelter’s caseworker and been allotted, beginning July 1^st, an apartment. The program consists of them – the party in the first part – in paying for the deposit and first three month’s rent with me – the party of the second part – forking out 30% of my pay after the third month free and gratis and with them paying the rest. Sounds too good to be true? Probably is. Yet, I am going to hang around Tucson to see how it pans out. If it falls through, I definitly will move on...

Two facts about Tucson come to mind:

It is a lesbian hub. Ambling down 4th Avenue, Tucson's equivalent to Hillcrest or West Hollywood or Castro Street, I was stupefied at the amount of frumpy boot wearing, checkered shirt sporting lesbians who clomped up and down the boulevard. Almost all the cafés, book stores, and vendors were teeming with stubby mulleted denizens. I was filled with a sense of imposing dread. This is definitely a lezbo controlled community.

Second thing. Hopping the bus to and fro, I have observed the general population has no fashion sense what so ever. Over-sized t-shirts (with the never ever cool 70’s band logo on the front), khaki shorts, and Velcro strapped sandals. Almost everyone gives the impression of being a deranged Vietnam vet or perhaps most commonly, a meth addicted hobo who just rolled out of a dumpster. A look that is tre chic, I suppose, for sloppy desert dwellers.

Nearly every city bus line I had taken at least once a drunken Native American had stumbled on and luck would have it, always sat with me.

"I hate fucking white people!" One hissed halitosis and beer into my appalled face.

“How’s that working out for you?” I would say, me unblinkingly meeting his unfocused, squinting gaze.

“Fuck you…” He passes out onto the dirty floor while pissing himself.

“No. It’s obvious you are the one who's fucked.” I mumble as I watch the trickle of pungent urine make its way along the carriage floor until it pooled under the sandal covered foot of some bloated lesbian.

When I first arrived in this town I always felt overdressed and self-concerned. I still do. These people can use some tips on dressing in public. Then again, it is acceptable for these assholes – these fucking proto-hipsters – to walk around a store in their fucking flannel pajamas and slippers.

This society as a whole is doomed….

please stand by

speak quietly and listen

Awoke amid farting, snoring, and coughing at the break of dawn in a surprisingly positive mood. My left leg, which had been giving me so much pain since I fell, seemed better. A little tender when I made sharp turns, but other than that the throbbing ache had subsided.

I was going to remain at my bunk and convalesce, but the obese blob who sleeps next to me was the day prior released from the hospital for some physical malady and spent the entire night and early morning snoring and belching into my face. Well, not to allow that to dampen my mood, as stated, I rose, showered, dressed, ate a couple of bruised bananas from the kitchen and headed out into the blasting golden desert morn.

I stopped at the local convenience store for a small coffee. Most wretched swill I drank in some time. I tell you, the quality in goods in this country has been flushed down the shitter and that toilet has been backed up way too long. Best get some coffee at a café downtown. While waiting for the bus, I gave the full cup of coffee to an elderly bum who shuffled up to me tattered and half blind from the nearby bushes. He sincerely thanked me as we sat at the bus bench chatting over nothing.

Later as I exited a downtown bagel shop with a decent cup of joe and a toasted bagel, I ran into two acquaintances from the shelter. A tall lanky black guy named Mike and his friend, a squat elderly Native American named Marvin. After being asked what was on my agenda and my answer being ultimately nothing, the two invited me to go find a quiet spot and smoke weed and drink. Certainly. Wouldn’t you?

In the dusty mid-morning heat, we found ourselves ambling down garbage strewn alleys and along blackened railroad tracks behind long vacant and decrepit warehouses. Eventually, we came upon a small hobo camp occupied by two others: A sunburnt and withered old white man named Larry and his friend an equally sooty old codger with a man of white hair and beard called Carl.

In the shade of broken factory windows, we sat and rolled fat joints. Marvin took donations and disappeared to return with four bottles of cold 40oz. of liquor. The conversations, stilted at first, became more and more liberal as weed and alcohol passed weary and dirty hands, hands shiny over the dirt.

Long and exuberant tales were spun by the each of us. Stories concerning past travels, past loves, past hopes and let downs. These were free men. Not tied to time schedules, bothered by regulations and political acceptance. These were the last of humanity. If there was hope for mankind, the hope lies in the deeds of like-minded individuals who do not heed to the Doublethink of today’s general population. To go as one pleases, to live as one deems fit. Not concerned with the notion of being held a prisoner in a gilded cage and a slave to debt, as most people are. What I am attempting to say is, I felt completely content with these men.

The group were quite fascinated by my tales; especially my stint in Mexico. I of course omitted the faggish parts, but then again, I do not think it would had mattered. When I stated that my intentions were to continue to Cambodia, the general query was why?

“Why not?” Was my only reply.

Why not, indeed? What am I living for if not to go where I want, do what I want, and say what I want. I realize this aspect pisses a large number of individuals off. Fuck them. Apart from a select handful of friends, I never cared to placate the sulky, whining shits who I mostly come in contact with. They don’t approve of me or how I live? Too bad. The best part is they are never in any position to do anything about it.

As time passed and the weed and booze were eventually depleted, I bid my farewell. Old Carl was already curled up snoring beside a concrete parapet and Larry was happily incoherent, singing old rockabilly tunes to himself as he rolled cigarettes in which he delicately placed in a dented aluminum case with nimble fingers. Mike and Marvin stated something to the fact about getting cheap pizza. I wanted to be by myself, as I often do, and think.

In the blistering afternoon sun under a bright blue sky of 105 degree heat, I shuffled through downtown scoping out the small shops. I darted in as smooth and inconspicuous as possible into Johnny Gibson’s market and purchased a roast beef sandwich with a side of tots. Sitting in the cool shade of the back patio, I chomped my sandwich as, through the back entrance, blew in an attractive young Latino man. He was higher than shit incoherently mumbling and bumping into furniture. I silently watched his lithe yet jerky movement like a lizard watching the path a delicious insect. He made his way to a row of sofas against the wall and began undressing. A tattoo covered, copper colored torso was offered to anyone who cared to ogle. My eyes, slowly and lasciviously, followed the row of six pack muscles of his abdomen to the jet black happy trail which disappeared down the front of dirty, sagging chinos. He, of course, continued his undress oblivious to the silent abhor of the other lunchers. Fuck them. Snooty assholes. The moment he pulled his chinos down (boxers were candy striped and grimy) to change into black track pants, the manager or some apprehensive employee burst from the sliding glass door of the store and shooed him away. Laughing and shirtless, the young Latino swaggered out of the patio and disappeared down the back alley.

Returning to the heated streets, I took the bus back to the shelter. Before walking down that dusty unpaved road toward its entrance, I found a stump under a poplar tree and lit a cigarette. I thought of current events…what I have done since myself exile from Tijuana. Do I hold any regrets? Nope. Not one. If anything, it has cleared my thoughts. Fresh and clear as a spring morning. I have never been more coherent or positive in far too many months. I was filled with…hope.

In contrast to my satisfying vibes, I returned to the stale unpleasant air of the shelter and once again lay in my bunk, listening and not listening to the empty patter of the 100 or so hobos around me…

culture trip

The bar wasn’t particularly busy. At this late mid-day hour, the Tucson heat was brutal. I stepped in with my shirt clinging to my body like a wet condom. I stood a moment in the dim coolness, sponging the ever present beads of sweat off my forehead, tossing the damp napkin into the waste bin, allowing the minute for my eyes to adjust to the murk. A sports game blared from the small television mounted to the wall, a bloated middle aged couple took up a booth as a gang of five or six students from the local University occupied the far end of the long counter. I sat at a stool close to them.

“Whatcha havin’?” Asked the bartender, a scrawny and withered woman with a scowl that wouldn’t quit. I am certain she offed a few husbands in her day.

“What do you have in Mexican beers?”

Eye roll in an attempt to think, “We got Teecatee, Carona, and Es Oh El.”

“Es Oh El? You mean Sol?”

“Whatever you call it. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“It’s Spanish for sun. It’s on the logo.” I smiled.

“You want one or not?” She sighed.

“Yeah.”

After begging for a salt shaker and a lime slice, I sat and sipped my beer. The cold liquid felt good going down. It made me nostalgic for other times…better days. The group of students were in a heated debate over the new theory of the earth being flat. This idea came into fruition a year or so ago, was all over the internet.

One of the snap-back wearing jocks glanced at me, “You believe that, mister?” He pointed to the pinch-faced red headed girl who sat in the group. “She actually believes the world is flat? That retarded or what?”

I took a sip and asked the girl, “I wouldn’t say retarded…but let’s look at it logically. You believe all the planets in the solar system….the moons, the asteroids, the sun and the stars…all the 1500 plus other worlds located by astronomers….they are all round?”

“Yes.” She stated.

“And yet, the earth is the only flat one?” I asked.

“Well, they all revolve around the earth. The earth is the center of the universe.”

I paused, looking at her and stated as if speaking to someone possessing a mental deficiency, “Everything you just said is wrong. I understand it’s acceptable in your generation to say the first thing that pops into your head for the vain attempt in garnering attention…no matter how ludicrous. However, I assure you, this rock you’re sitting on is round and is not at the center of everything.”

“That’s your antiquated belief.” She began, “You see, obviously it was your generation and the one’s before that screwed it for us all. This planet is polluted, over populated…this planet is dying. And we have you old folks to thank for that.”

“That may be true. But, at least we were never ignorant enough to claim the earth was flat merely for attention. On the opinion this planet is dying, I agree in most of what you are saying. I am a writer and an extensive traveler. I have experienced much in my time. There is no more originality. No more ingenuity.  Everything is a copy of a copy of a copy. I don’t blame you for grasping at what you may deem as an original idea to feed your lifeless ego…but this flat earth nonsense, it was proven wrong centuries prior and it will be proven wrong again.”

The guy with the snap back chimed, “You a writer?”

“Yeah.” I croaked. His friends turned their attention toward the red head and continued their empty debate.

“What do you write?”

“Garbage, apparently.” I looked at his perplexed face. “Novels. Published.”

“I’m studying journalism at U of A. You have any tips?”

I slowly took a sip of my beer, “Tips? Tips…you best be comfortable sitting for eight hours staring at a blank page on your monitor. Never force it. It will come out as crap. However, when the muse does hit, write it all out – raw, unedited, savage. Let your thoughts and ideas flow. When you are done and you have told the story you want to tell, put it away. Forget about it for a few days. Then go back and read it as if you are a reader. Then you edit, see what fits, what to add, what to dismiss. The first draft, you write with the heart. The second and continuing edited versions, you write with the head.”

In response, I received befuddled silence.

“Indeed.” I finally said. “Well, I’m stepping out for a smoke.”

“Mind if join you.” He stated with the enthusiasm of youth.

"It's a free country," I said sliding off my stool. "Or at least it used to be..."

Out back of the bar, the air was stagnate and hellishly hot. True, it was a welcomed reprieve from the bone chilling climate I endured up in Flagstaff, but still there are limits. I fished a cigarette from my pocket, placed it in my mouth, lit up.

He teetered from hill to toe with hands in his jean pockets, with an almost coy smile he ask, “Hey, can I get a smoke off you?”

“Uh…yeah. Sure.” I handed him a smoke.

“You from Tucson?” He asked, blowing grey fumes to the dry and dusty alley pavement.

“No. As a fact, before a previous month’s stint in Flagstaff, I was staying in Tijuana.”

“Tijuana? In Mexico?”

“Is there another one?”

“Nah, it’s just…isn’t it dangerous down there?”

“Not at all. In fact, I feel safer walking down the streets of TJ at three in the morning than I would in any major city here in the states. Americans are a vicious. They scare me.”

“You don’t like the United States?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s that I don’t particularly agree with the direction it seems to be heading. Too Orwellian.”

“Orwellian?”

“Read George Orwell’s 1984. Good book. Kinda wish I never had. Everything will be explained within those pages. And A Brave New World by Aldous Huxley.”

“I really don’t read that much.”

“What?! How can you not read books when you want to be a writer? That’s ignorantly pointless. Read, kid. Read everything.”

“Well, I want to be a journalist…not really write novels. No one really reads books anymore.”

My heart sank. In a way, he was right. The only thing people read nowadays are tweets, and Facebook posts. If it is more than 250 characters, it is too long. I felt like a useless dinosaur.

We finished our cigarette and returned to the bar. The afternoon turned into evening as the college group remained and drank. I sat staring at the silent television screen nursing one beer after another. My eyes relentlessly bombarded by one media atrocity via news cast ticker tape and subtitles after another.

I turned to the snap back kid next to me, “Hey…what did you say your name was again?”

His eyes were slightly crimson and he smiled, “Johnathan.”

“Johnathan,” I said pointing toward the screen. “Is that what you want to write? News journalism?”

“Hell yeah!” He stated, breathing stale beer across the counter, “Working for a big media company! That would be sweet!”

I gave him a sincere glance, “Just make it count, man…make a difference. Use your common sense and none of this fake news shit.”

“Ha! Fuck that! They pay good, I’ll write whatever they want me to write!”

I am a dinosaur. Extinct. I glanced at the red head who found a tall, lanky Latino to cling onto. She was right. We are doomed. This is our future in front of me. We are the dead, Winston.

Eventually, with my drink, I found myself up on the roof patio smoking on a cigarette and feeling melancholy. There was no one up there and it felt good to be alone. I glanced toward the navy sky. Born too late to explore the world, too early to travel to the stars.

Suddenly the door swung open and Johnathan, with drink in hand, stumbled out. He was obviously inebriated. “Hey, man, can I bum another smoke off you?”

I handed him a cigarette. He stumbled and stepped across the alley. “Shit. Think I drank enough.”

“You can never have enough.”

Johnathan flopped onto a large concrete seat. I leaned against the roofs guard wall adjacent to him.

“Hey,” He slurred. “If I was to move to Tijuana, what advice can you give me?”

I took a puff of my smoke and said, “Well, assimilate the culture the best you can, learn the language, and never refuse a blow job.”

He nervously laughed, “Never refuse a blow job?”

“Indeed. The best outcome of never refusing a blow job is…well, you’ll always get a blow job.”

“Damn. Wish I had some bitch here now to suck me off.” His hand nonchalantly slid across his crotch. “Wonder if I can get Megan to do it.”

“Megan? The red head?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I think that Latino guy’s plowing that field tonight. What about the other girl?”

“I think she’s a lesbian…or she got the hots for David.” He sipped his drink. “Well, I’m shit out of luck either way.”

My shadow slowly and nefariously creeped over his prone form, obscuring all light. He glanced up and saw nothing but the pinpoints of my eyes staring down at him from under the obsidian shade of the brim of my grey straw cubavera hat. Eyes both predatory and dead. Long ghostly fingers trailed out and stroked his flaccid crotch. He vehemently pushed the dead cold hand from his rapidly stiffening organ.

“Hey, man…fuck off! I’m not no faggot.”

“I never assumed you were. However, that dick is solid as stone. It’s had gay trists before…”

“Well, yeah…once I was drunk and this faggot sucked it and…”

Those ghostly fingers slid across the protruding member in his jeans again, the erection leapt up to great the advancing degeneracy. He remained immobile and stoic as the concrete he sat upon.

“And now your cock wants it again. Stand up.”

He slowly stood as I traded places with him on the concrete seat. He stood in front of me as I unzipped his jeans and pulled out a short, thick and circumcised erection. His pubic hair had been buzzed short. As the cars one story below passed with the sound of soft breathing, the jukebox in the bar mutely thumped out a rhythm, my moist lips clamped around his shaft, my tongue rapidly and mechanically slid up and down the rigid flesh of the intoxicated boy. Within a few short minutes, Johnathan began breathing heavily through his nostrils as he arched up onto his tip-toes and unleashed gobs of semen down my gullet.

Silently, he replaced his glistening erection back in his pants and mumbled something to the matter of returning to his friends. I remained up on the roof. Alone and pensive as gargoyle statuary. I smoked another cigarette and finished my drink. Below in the streets, Johnathan and his group exited the bar in good spirits – a cacophony of laughter and cheer as they made their way to the train and back to the relative safety of the university dorms.

running from the shadows in these golden years

And now begins the long wait. Hurdling through the myriad of Kafkian hoops concerning paperwork and certified documents to reside at the shelter, I finally had solidified the deal. Good news is, their rapid rehousing program opens in July. What is that, you ask? For the sullied and impoverished, it is a program where you locate a modest apartment and the Primavera Organization ponies up the first three months’ rent. This fits my plan just fine. I will utilize it to take care of some old business and attain whatever papers and financing I require to fling my desperate ass overseas.

So, as I mentioned previously, it will be an arduously long wait. The tramps of Flagstaff had spoiled me. Relatively clean and projecting a sociable demeanor despite their financial woes, in contrast the ilk of Tucson are generally mean, angry, selfish, overtly arrogant and all seem to possess the hygienic habits of recently rolling out of a dumpster. That applies to many homeless across this fair land, I assume, but the hobos of Tucson seem to take it to the extreme.

While I am here, keeping my eye out for two people: Kyle Powers and Caleb Kruse. A couple of free thinkers who, though they would happily drag their lithe and supple frames over coals for some good old fashioned pussy, on the down low, they hold no qualms of dispensing dick at a moment’s notice to a weary and desperate faggot. I had the pleasure of sampling their forbidden fruit during previous visits to the Sun City. Kyle, a rather short in height, blond hustler, though a little on the rough side, was gifted with a powerful nine inch circumcised penis and hispanic Caleb’s claim to fame, though thin and awkward, was the boy could maintain an full erection for hours while dispensing up to five or six ejaculations in one session…

Anyway...Tucson....at one time I wished to live here, nonetheless currently I see it for what it is. In my humble opinion, it entertains merit in some aspects, mostly it is a dusty desert town. I had forgotten how burned out and "crispy" everyone looks here. Like leftovers from an atomic catastrophe...I’m not judging, though.

lost stars

A spot of bother. For two days I attempted to acquire a bunk at that homeless shelter here in Tucson. No deal. Spent my time languishing around on a lonely Saturday. I at least rented a self-storage unit for my things. They will be safe.

Sunday morning I was more successful. Voice on the phone stated they indeed did have bunks and I needed to be at the shelter by 11am. Cool beans, I thought. Though I had paid for three nights at the shittiest hotel in Tucson, I grabbed my gear, called a cab, and checked out at 9:30. However, fate deemed to task me. When I arrived at the storage unit, it being a Sunday, the office was closed and wasn’t to open until 11am and to make matters worse, my pin did not open the gate. The taxi driver was patient as I frantically called the emergency number posted on the fence. The lady on the other line attempted to contact the manager, however he would not answer his phone. In near hysterics – at the thought of losing my spot at the shelter in lieu of time – I sent the cab away and waited.

In desperation, I called the shelter to inform them on what was going on and the voice graciously extended my intake until noon. I fumed in utter contempt in the searing morning heat as I waited and waited…and waited.

At length, a utility truck approached and opened the gate. I quickly scurried to my storage unit, dropped my suitcase and laptop inside only to have the dented door askew in such a way it would not allow my lock to shut properly. I lost it. After months of let downs and mischance, I lost my usual cool disposition and became a howling, raving lunatic. Cursing at the top of my lungs, my screams echoed out into an uncaring and hate filled town.

Some guy on the other side of the wall in a residence yelled, “Shut up!”

“Fuck you!!!” I roared.

I stomped toward the exit only to find that there was no way to open the gate from the inside. I began hollering and kicking the metal fence in frustration when a tenant drove up and opened the gate from the outside. She quickly drove past that hunched, crimson faced, sweat drenched madman who stood hyperventilating through gritted teeth and fist clenched at the entrance. Once outside, I called a cab with hopes to make it to my intake deadline. At that moment, the obese slob of a manager drove up and asked if there was anything wrong.

I truthfully hate displaying my emotions in public. Especially if uncontrolled anger and hostility. I simply muttered to him briefly what was up and stated that I’d return the following day to take care of the matter.

Long story short: I made my intake. Once again I am residing in this place filled with burnt-out tweekers, the babbling insane, and grey and ancient phantoms who lost hope decades ago. In matters of triviality, I was issued a top bunk. Not a problem, but it is literally a pain to climb since I took that fall up in Flagstaff. My knee gave out a throbbing, piercing ache by the end of the day.

On a lighter note, the caseworker I was issued offered me housing and a 90 stay. Yet, already I am setting my sights on other locals…other vistas…only this morning I was checking out plane fares from Tucson to Phnom Pehn…nobody out there got $410 laying around? Nah? Didn’t think so. Fuck it…I’ll do it myself…

tucson

Enduring enough of Flagstaff's local hillbilly shit and hostile drunken Indians, I awoke early and grabbed my gear; hightailing it to the Greyhound. Bitter and despondent, I awaited in the chilled wind swatting off tweekers mooching for smokes. The long ride was uneventful, even though the damn bus to Phoenix reeked of stale piss.

As the pine trees turned to brush then to organ pipe cactus, I wondered as I wandered: What’s next? Well, I was on my way to Tucson to while away a few months saving money and attempt to get my head in order. Both, at this time seems an impracticality.

I rolled into Tucson at nine at night and to my dismay the city fathers had relocated the Greyhound station onto the other side of town. The taxi I took seemed to give me the scenic tour, as taxis are prone to do. I rented three nights at the La Siesta Hotel on Oracle. Now, allow me indulge you: as you well realize, I have stayed at some shitty places before, even in 3^rd world countries, but this! THIS! Where to begin…opening the door, the room smelled like fermented cheese. The floor was dirty as if it hadn’t been swept for some time. The internet (which is offered as free) is non-existent. There were no towels in the bathroom…the bathroom itself was a biological horror. A used piece of soap still lay in the shower, the bathtub was stained in some blue tint. The sheets had not been changed. When I pulled the comforter off, the “white” sheets had questionable stains and blood and small bits of debris and hair. They hadn’t even bothered to change them! When I had to call from the note taped to the office door with a phone number scribbled on it (obviously their main office where everyone hung out was a block down the street at another hotel) I called for some towels and waited two cigarettes later to retrieve them as tweekers and transvestite hookers clomped in front of me on the sidewalk. Worst hotel ever, to say the least.

After a fitful sleep, I awoke early to locate a coffee shop with wifi so I could place a call at the men’s shelter here. Their M.O. is that one needs to call every morning at 9am to inquire about a bunk. I revisited my favorite coffee shop, Shot in the Dark. However, at the stroke of nine, their wifi became seriously wonky and I missed my opportunity. By the time I walked the few blocks to a Brugger’s Bagels they had no more bunks for the night. Will try again tomorrow.

Never the less, I have two more days at Motel Hell. This afternoon, I will rent a public storage unit for my things. It seems this hobo journey is just beginning…