Thursday, September 12, 2019

are you there, francisco?


The sky was a mottled grey from the drizzling rain. The wailing of an ambulance below, distant rumble of air hammers, always building and repairing in The City.
I sat naked in the rickety hotel chair and watched the boy sleep. 1:47pm the clock read. Could be wrong, felt later. Lighting a cigarette, I sat transfixed as his erection melted away in the early afternoon. Francisco, he said his name was and looked enough like a Latino Leonardo DiCaprio from Gangs of New York to pass as his brother, floppy light brown hair and scraggy goatee. He lay naked on his back amid rumpled yellow sheets in this ratty hotel embraced in the arms of Morpheus and content as a nodding junky. I took another drag and scoped him out, hairless thin frame, eyes shut, pouty lips parted in sleep breathing.
We met last night at a dive bar on Broadway called Chee Chee's and struck up a conversation amid the thieves and the dykes and the just released cons and Atomic by Blondie blasting over the juke box. Next day had brunch with him at a local Chinese restaurant - afterwards we walked over to a bar. Chit-chat ensued over drinks and then walking drunkenly to the Hotel Pickwick, a flop that by American standards can't get any shittier. Looking at me and smiling, Francisco said he needed to score for some meth and would I front the twenty? Sure, why not? Walking down several alleyways covered in shit, bums, and abandon shopping carts, copping his dope from a slick black with gold caps, we soon entered the dank hotel lobby. Flaming old withered fag with bad purple-tinted permed wig at reception.
"How much for a room?" I croak.
"Two Queens?" The receptionist asked.
"Nah, just two boys that need some sleep." Quipped Francisco. 
I laughed with cigarette between my lips and the warm glow of five whiskey sours in my gut. The room was occupied by large black roaches and bad tattered furniture. Yellowed walls stained by second hand smoke. The pillow casings had the faded tell-tale blood spots of bed bugs. The television got three channels; English, Spanish, and soft core porn.
I lay on the bed and watched Francisco take a shower, water running down his long thin smooth frame, over an ass that was like a peach. He sits naked on the bed and asked if I wanted to try a bang. Nah, not in any condition. Needle clogged twice, thin line of blood from inner elbow to wrist. I look away, always freak me out watching someone probe for a vein. He sighs as it goes in sweet and pure. I sure can pick 'em.
The sex was much needed - hostile, violent, hot - the bed creaked and rattled with our fucking. Your basic crimes against nature. Several nasty positions later, covered in sweat and semen we lay embraced as the rain pounded down outside our fifth floor window.
Like I said, sat there and watched the boy sleep. Finished my cigarette, gargled with what was left of a can of Steel Reserve, got dressed and left twenty dollars on the nightstand. Sweet dreams, kid.
I dart out of the hotel onto wet sidewalks and incandescent lagoons. Shifting through time and The Long Wait. Cigarette smoldered down to a butt - the cries and shouts and hacking of a hundred hobos echo in my mind. I stand and I wait. Waiting for the world to turn.
I am up to speed with the necessities of my quest - that long walk to Nowhere. But I am doing it anyway, you dig? The natives are getting hostile and I am quite drained from their antics - I don't wanna here of your pathetic problems, got my own.
Nothing to write - cause nothing’s going on.

- handwritten journal entry, 
San Diego, September 12, 1993

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Thursday, September 05, 2019

cuidad juárez


My foul smelling hotel room rests on the garbage cliff overlooking the poor Juárez barrio, tin shacks and white roofs of crumbling adobe, crisscrossed in dusty wire cables and television dish aimed up high with little dirty gardens down below bounded by the rusty metal wall and superhighway nightmare 20th century I-10. I stand on my garbage cliff under the setting sun rays of Huītzilōpōchtli and understand I am at the end of Mexico - the longing pulls at me, depression of a million nostalgic images inundate my withering mind.
The town is so noisy – dirty and trash laden, streetfulls of wild boys all night brandishing their erections under chino pants, drunken nacos in yellow Stetsons and sagging pot bellies, vulgar restaurants, nasty whore hotels, musicians, half American stores, jumping beans and tortilla concessions, Chinese Masonic lodges and barbers too. Big halls for hip-hop discos and ranchero music, painted crudely with monolithic donkeys. A portrait of a Chihuahua glares down at me donning Sante Fe style kerchief and bejeweled vaquero hat.
I light up a cigarette and walked through the border at night back to my sad, lonely apartment, a dead silent fairyland of U.S. dusk - deserted ghost streets and sad quiet air-cooled diners with white capped waitresses joking softly and no one on the streets.
A dream. We live inside a dream.

- handwritten jounal entry,
march 3, 1997

Saturday, August 31, 2019

and so it goes



He lives in my neighborhood. You know the type, languidly hangs out in front of the liquor store, bumming smokes, spitting on the sidewalk with another sulky vato or two, doing nothing but dreaming through time. He drops by my place now and again. Mostly when his mother is giving him flack to get his lazy eighteen year old ass out and get a job. A listless loser. But, a sweet kid, too. And so it goes.
He has a girlfriend - a plump little number with the gift of gab who lives with her alcoholic aunt in a shitty, red-brick building over by the dusty warehouses with the occasional cholo shootout. She seems to love him. I'm certain he loves her, too. And so it goes.
I met him a while back coming out of said liquor store - asked for a dollar, said he was hungry. Brought him home, fed him. He likes to lounge on the couch, immobile as a lizard - playing video games or watching movies. He really likes the Bruce Willis and Jackie Chan flicks. Mindless entertainment for one so mindless. Once in a while, we'll sit and talk for hours about stupid shit. He'll sometimes ask to pop in a porn and watch with that frozen, slack, poker face every straight guy displays when watching porn. I blow him when he want to. He asks and seems quite happy to leave it at that. And so it goes.
I gave him the nickname Squirt on account of one afternoon we were on the couch jerking each other off to straight porn and when he came, his semen squirted over his head and splattered the wall. He still laughs about it. I was upset for I had to clean it up later, cursing the virility of a twenty-one year old, cursing my faded years. And so it goes.
Today, I was crossing the street and Squirt and his girlfriend were walking in the opposite direction towards me. He caught my eye and guiltily escorted her quickly in another direction into a shop. The meaning is quite clear, my friend, our worlds can never cross.
And so it goes.

Tuesday, August 27, 2019

melancholy memories


Maybe when our story's over
We'll go where it's always spring
The band is playing our song again
All the world is green

- Tom Waits

It was bitterly cold and we stood in a circle under silver clouds passing beneath a dark navy sky full of stars. Two trains roared on either sides - great monsters of steam and metal - one going to Tucson, the other towards San Antone. Our stomachs were warm from the thin potato soup that was just served for chow. Near our shivering forms, huddled in knots, men stood in dirty coats - collars turned up in a vain attempt to thwart the vile wind - smoking, spitting, coughing, talking. All black shadows in the dim lamps of the shelter.

Switch frequencies fzzt!

Sitting in the bright ass Texan sun with a hangover struggling to patch together the kaleidoscope of images from last night. I squat on a low brick wall in an alley downtown - Camel Wide in one hand, tall boy in the other - the small menudo for breakfast gurgling in my stomach. Lying nearby, Robert snores in the shade of a saguaro bush. I lean over - bleeech! I stare down at my steaming vomit. Oh yeah, now I remember...

Switch frequencies fzzt!

Went to Juarez yesterday. Old boy had changed. It was kind of like once, long ago, when you scored a sexy lover - had a lot of good kicks, you separate and after a few years you meet up again and seeing that the person had degenerated into a disgusting, obese slob hard on the eyes. Well, crossed the bridge spanning the Rio and first thing noticed was the bomberos missing (The old fire station - use to stand and watch the hot firemen play soccer) walked down Juarez Ave. Military soldiers stood four deep; AK-47 strapped to the hip on every corner - looked like Nazi occupied France. Not one taxi asked me for a lift, not one vendor beckoned me to enter their shop - it was...weird. The streets were teeming with pedestrians - life was continuing, however the tension was there - fear was there.

Switch frequencies fzzt!

Woke up at 3am amid farting and snoring of one hundred sleeping hobos. I slipped my feet into my plastic shower shoes and put on my coat and shuffled outside to smoke a non-filtered Camel. The sky - the sky was fulla stars! Beautiful! Finished, shivered and came back inside.

Switch frequencies fzzt!

Gasping up from troubling, insidious nightmare. Suffocating in a black steel box. Charred walls of my iron tomb pitted with pock marks and scratches. Woke with the putrid taste of metal on my tongue. Put me straight into a funk. I roll out of my bug infested bunk and shuffle bleary eyed into the mensroom. Already occupied with seven or eight terminally addicted hobos washing, shitting, pissing. The room smelled of farts and soiled socks as I stood in a pool of piss at the urinal taking a piss. Showered, dressed and ate a nameless slop served for breakfast under the glare of the snarling kitchen staff. Even the Victory Coffee tasted especially rancid this morning.

Switch frequencies fzzt!

How many cigarettes does it take to wait? How many cups of coffee? I sit in the dead end diner with napkin firmly under coffee cup - I was told in that style, you can tell when someone is waiting - watching nothing out of the big dust streaked pane window. Long shadows stretched across the gray tiled floor like the bars of a prison. It was the exact moment between melancholy tunes on the cafes radio - that hushed quiet. Outside, it was cold and colorless. Gritty wind whips eddies of trash down a lonely street. A long cry from the sunny, warm surf crashing against the beach only two weeks ago. Here the sky was a harsh cold blue - though dazzling bright, gave no warmth - only a bitter cold; you can feel it in your marrow. I sip more coffee, took another drag.

Switch frequencies fzzt!

Diego and I cut out of the bar into a humid Tijuana street and swing next door to a $5 a night hotel. Pay the fat mamacita behind the black bars and dash up warped wooden stairs to a room with an overpowering effluvia of mildew. The yellowed, tobacco stained walls were a multicolored kaleidoscope of scrabbled graffiti of both marker and spray paint and, plopped in a corner, was a tired, slutty mattress sprawled onto the floor. Diego smiles and whispers some dirty shit as we peel off our duds and flop onto the mattress - bedbugs and all. Diego - this short shit - flings my legs up over his shoulders, spits on his palm, lubes his erection and whammo - begins rutting like his sad poor beat life depended on it. After a bit, he squirts and I giggle 'Again!' and he does with me flopped around lying on my stomach. Afterwards, forementioned Diego confides his fantasy was to screw a gringo and I was his first. Awwww, I smile inward.

Switch frequencies fzzt!

The fat taxi driver sat wordless - hating me (the foreigner) or his life in general as we hurtled over the hills toward the ocean. The cold wind blew in my face and whiped my hair as I sat deep in the back chair and I thought, Fuck - I'm not going anywhere...I live in the coolest place in the world!

power cut. end transmission...

Sunday, May 26, 2019

a junkies journal


The sun slowly crawled over the horizon. Off in the mist, a dog barked - a car passed. The depression hit me full force. I had been up for days now and my mind felt like mayonnaise.
The apartment – what’s left of it - was a filthy, dank den smelling of burnt metal and musty farts. The mattress lay exposed from messed sheets - stained in sweat, semen, and God knows what else. Without all the furniture I used to possess - all sold for dope - the cramped room had become empty harboring the long shadows of a prison.
I lay on my bed with a cigarette in moist hand staring at the spotted ceiling. I had nothing. Nothing. My family hated me. I could not, would not, fall in love with anyone. Yet, then again, what was left to love? Every relationship I attempted since my move to Tijuana ended in psychotic fights usually instigated by my own sick mind.
The loneliness draped over me like a cold, black shroud. My mind spun with the few dozen hits of dope I took throughout the night.
What is wrong with me? I thought.
I began reflecting on the myriad of routes in life I could had taken - remaining in Los Angeles, keeping a menial job, becoming a writer, or perhaps making movies. All those nostalgic plans in due course collapsed into failure. Everything I attempted ran to ruin. Never any moral support from a vile and vindictive family, never any trusting friendship from money-obsessed, conning friends, and I won’t even go into an explanation of the dope addicts I associate with. All they cared for was their drugs and whatever they do have, it was never enough (As for me, it was never enough - ever) – so, they would hone in after my supply like a shark to a wounded, bleeding sea creature.
I wanted to sink deeper into the mattress. I just wanted to go away - get out.
I attempted to focus on the future.
One time, long ago, I harbored great plans. Living in some posh house in the Hollywood Hills with a handsome young lover, famous from my literary achievements, attending parties, television spots on celebrity talk shows, getting written up in the papers - all faded into mist. I had no future.
Over the years, I apparently acquired a mental state of such downward bleakness, whenever I did deliberate of that hopeful future, I was confronted instead with a dark, cold abyss in my mind’s eye.
The depression sunk me lower on those spinning memories. I never felt as sad, alone, and hopeless as I did at that moment. What was the point of going on when there was no point? I should simply die. It struck me as quite logical. Who would miss me? I would miss no one. I wouldn’t have to worry about jobs, rent, my shit being stolen by these damn naco junkies.
My face wrinkled into worry and melancholy. I glanced over to my end table - scorch marks, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty meth bags strewn across it.
I picked up my only meth pipe, held it between thumb and forefinger. Inspected its charred glass sides - precious residue hid in some streaks along the shaft, behind black char. My rage blossomed. It was this shits fault. All the blame of this fucking addiction I acquired. God, how it controlled me! In anger, I flung the pipe across the room and shattered it against the white-washed concrete wall.
I yelped and leapt out of bed toward the shards lying on the dirty carpet. I picked up two big chunks, cradling those precious pieces. What have I done? Oh jeez! Now I have to go buy another one from some bitch I couldn’t stand. I examined the pieces and felt an emotional pity for the broken parts. I felt a dismayed, kindred spirit toward the little fucker and I just killed it!
Feeling so sad, so sad. Especially at the stupidity of the situation, it coursed over me. There was nothing. I had nothing.
Nothing.
I rose and stumbled into the kitchen and, removing a butcher knife out of the drawer, I knew what I wanted to do. Why not? What reason was there for me to continue like this? Nothing. Who would care if I was still around? Nothing. My friends would had forgotten me in a week. Nothing. My parents didn’t give a shit, so why should I? Nothing, nothing, nothing…
I stood grasping the knife, clutched it in my right hand. I balled my left fist and raised my left arm. The steel felt cold against my skin as I made that first slice. A trickle of blood formed and streamed a thin line down to the elbow.
Suddenly, I was terrified. What the fuck was I doing?! I threw the knife into the sink and grabbed a ragged towel to stop the bleeding. Then the tingling pain began to throb. I was embarrassed more than anything - mortified at the foolish attempt I had committed.
I dashed into the bathroom and grabbed a wet towel - it seemed I didn’t cut that deep.
I went to the corner farmacia and purchased a roll of bandages from an unconcerned clerk; returned home to wrap my arm.
Shortly afterwards, I sat in a nearby park. Kids jovially played, vendors sold balloons and frozen flavored ice, couples strolled in love, the sky a bright, cloudless blue. Around me the ever present heartbeat of life.
I sat there; a disgusting stain on this idyllic painting - a vulgar mark on the world. Such a depression.
Trembling, I held my head, cigarette dangling from my chapped lips - what a failure I am. Such a failure. I have failed at so many attempts to better my life and today I failed at ending it.
Composing myself, I stood up and walked over toward Coahuila Avenue to buy some more junk and get a new pipe.

- Tijuana, 1992

Friday, May 24, 2019

all tomorrows darlings



We’re all rocked by the waves of struggle when it comes down to those circumstances that change us from within. Whether you’re hurt, angry, jealous, or longing from afar, they prompt you to keep on fighting.
You’re carried on such currents from somewhere that was once near-perfect in a moment, and permanently tattoos every moved thought and emotion that traverses through the delicate fibers of which you are composed. Your downfalls are brought about by the hesitance to loosen the grip and let things be as they may. Returning to an existence that is uninspired is feared, and so you try to run from it by holding on to that short time when reality seemingly dissolved away.
You do whatever we can to chase down a fond memory, and in doing so, you bring out the worst in yourself. Your own emotions dig craters that go bone deep, and you’re left as cold and hollow as a winter’s night lacking even the slightest breeze. You begin to loathe time itself and the cavernous distance it creates between the past and present.
The moment you realize that it will only continue you corrode you from the inside out is the moment when you stop putting up a fight. Like even the best of times, the worst can be carried off with every stroke of the second hand as long as you make amends with what is, here and now.
The fondest moments will always bring longing bubbling to the surface, but loosening ties with it and accepting where you are is the only way to keep being and moving on up. Perhaps if time is on your side, such moments will reoccur.
Only the rise and fall of the passing days hold that answer.

Sunday, May 19, 2019

rockets red glare


I think a lot about Holocaust victims who neatly packed their suitcases, took their children by the hands and boarded the trains, believing as long as they listened, as long as they complied, everything would be okay. The lies compound until, by the time you realize what’s going on, it’s too late.
“We’re just moving you to another town.”
“We’re just taking your children for a bath.”
Authoritarians count on our trust and us believing it’ll be easier to comply than resist. The fight ahead is going to be hard, but we can never give in to our better nature and compromise with monsters.
You do not appease authoritarians. You destroy them.
I apologize that this entry isn't "funny" or dripping in sexual skirmishes. But things have been getting way out of hand for this Nation.

Wednesday, May 01, 2019

into each life some rain must fall



It was an hour after sunrise in Park Ingerente Guerrero. The ftt-ftt-ftt of sprinklers momentarily shut off and the grass glistened from early morning dew. The sky was an overcast gray common to early summer months in Tijuana, which carried with it the lingering chill from a brisk night. Glimmering palm trees – their trunks painted white - swayed slowly in a slight breeze.
The old queer lit a cigarette. A faro – spitting the flecks of tobacco from a moistened mouth. He stood on the corner - the sidewalk damp from the lifting fog - pulling his beige sweater tighter around a potato-shaped frame. He casually waited to see if any of the young rentboys were still around. Many did stay up all night and eventually filter toward the park in search of a free breakfast from kindly gentlemen such as himself and perhaps some quick cash for a room to sleep in lieu an all-night romp of disreputable debauchery.
With rheumy eyes, the old queer scanned the vast park. No one. No one worth his attention, for that matter. He took another drag off his cigarette and glanced over to a crazed, ancient Chinaman selecting a greasy slice of half-eaten bologna out of a cascading garbage can; washing it off with a discarded bottle of water.
The Chinaman cackled to himself, mumbled something in a squeaking pitch, and began to nibble. The old queer looked wearily away. Blew smoke out into the brisk air. Off in the distance, a dog barked.
The park was occupied with about thirteen, ratty immigrantes - darkly clad phantoms, their  grimy collars turned up to ward off the night's chill, slouched over on the cold, metal benches, snoring loudly. The misty, early morning air was a light blue with overcast dew, the sharp tang of stale urine wafted past him.
The old queer curiously peeked back as he witnessed the scrawny Chinaman rummage through something behind a bush - watched as the demented hobo hooted and shoved objects into the pockets of his bulging, tattered jacket, shiny over the grime. The Chinaman’s head popped up like an animal sensing danger, quickly looked around, and then scrambled off into the post-dawn mist.
The old queer casually, curiously ambled over to where the Chinaman was previously hunched behind dirty bushes. He stopped in his tracks, a gasp of disgust jerked out of his throat, hissing through stained dentures.
A body of a twenty-two year old man lay akimbo in the slimy muck under the shade of a dusty bush. His pockets turned inside out - the white cloth of the front pant pockets poked up like obscene tongues. Both shoes missing; one foot had a dirty, white sock, the other bare. The young man’s lank, shiny, black hair cascaded into a pool of sprinkler mud, urine and old, dog feces. His thick, chapped lips were bluish-white, the look of astonished horror frozen on his inert, handsome face - scattered near his torso was a syringe, trash, a few old condoms. His attractive and masculine face, the color of a brown paper bag was mottled with splotches of blue, discolored white around the open, grimacing mouth. His dirty shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a lifeless tattooed torso.
The old queer flashbulbed the image of the youth’s face into his brain, a look of shocked, unmitigated horror frozen on that young, cold face. He recognized the boy: a popular hustler who prowled Plaza Santa Cecilia hooking the drunk old men and bloated American tourists who frequented the bars and cafés.
The old queer pursed his lips in disgust. Oh, dear! What did you see the moment before you died, sweetie? Whatever did you see?
The old queer glanced toward a pay phone on the corner – a fleeting thought of calling the police.
He faltered, then casually strolled toward the Plaza, decided to score for a boy, instead. He was certain the rentboys would be working the breakfast crowd at the cafés. Possibly young Cesar would be there. Cesar always knew how to make a drab day turn exciting…

rest in peace Juan Carlos, tijuana 1992

Saturday, April 27, 2019

other things not pertaining to things



Suddenly, a bit away, Kyle hears something moving in the brush. A beast the size of a Shetland pony but resembling a palpitating, white grub worm on six crab legs and sporting a nasty scorpion-like stinger drops onto the branch stalking Kyle. Behind the thing, two more of the same beasts creep into view. They emit a piercing shriek as they lurk forward to attack. Without any weapons, Kyle turns to run when the first thing springs through the air and lands onto his back. He can feel the hot saliva from the thing dripping on the nape of his neck as he is pinned down by powerful claws. Suddenly, he senses intense heat and then smells burning flesh as the thing falls off him. Glancing back, he witnesses the second monster leaping at him, but in mid-air, an almost invisible ray of white light fires from out of the fog and kills the beasts. The last monster screams and charges only to be torched by a second burst of the mysterious heat ray.
A group of ten men appear in bizarre body suits and using herbs found in the jungle, revive Thark. They leave before Thark awakens from his venomous coma. Thark explains that the mysterious men were Kzinti and live scattered out in the Great Wasteland. The suits they wear protect them from the harsh climate and residual radiation from fallout. He explains he sent an ambassador, his best Commander named Aris Eddor to speak with them seven years ago. Aris never returned. The Kzinti, also known as tek-hunters, scour the wastes scavenging for tech and machines to barter for food at settlements. They are generally mistrusted and despised by the citizens of the settlements and mostly keep to themselves.

 - Excerpt from the 19 page draft summary of novel in process, Across the Galactic Lens

Inspiration reveals itself in a myriad of forms and will lead to a great many good things. It being from life trauma, reading a book, or simply laying in the grass and staring up into a vast, blue cloudless sky. The stories I have penned which eventually wound up in novels, magazines, online writer markets – they are all well and good, I suppose, but for the longest time I have wanted to author a science fiction story. One of epic scale. Inspired by Edgar Rice Burroughs A Princess of Mars and Buck Rogers, I jotted down a decade ago a one page story outline about a United States Marine fighting in the Gulf War of the mid-90’s suddenly transported to a distant and savage planet. The planet, blasted and cratered from decades of atomic war had it all: spired palaces, exotic beasts, silver and sleek rocket ships, swords and laser guns. I first mentioned this early idea in Tweeker about blond space fairing heroes battling sentient black octopi from Orion or some other silly idea.
Eventually, this one page idea morphed into nineteen pages of a world rich in irradiated and mutated life, religion, customs, factions, all revolving around political deceit and conquest. I have completed three chapters. I say completed but they are far from done. I am penning the first version of the novel extremely bare bones – some description and dialog. I will, of course, go back when all is done and re-write each chapter fleshing out the described locales, actions and what not…I daresay, when completed, it will be as thick as War and Peace or Lord of the Rings. (I really do dispise the editing process)
I am finding writing this novel more of a challenge. Previously, my writing was simply dictating what transpired in my life to simple words for others to read. I write beer bottle and the reader sees a beer bottle. But with this made up work; I have to describe in detail, the blaster guns, the smells, the colors, the furniture, the clothing, the rocks, the trees, the sky. And, I am enjoying it every step. Literally a ball. John Carter was Edgar Rice Burroughs, Den was Richard Corben, and Kyle Foster is myself (or who I wish I could be)
I sat and watched the video below last night. I hadn’t seen the cartoon since I was seven or eight years old. But, I remember, it inspired me to draw from that came photography from that to direct movies to that to write…inspiration is seldom linear and always emanates in various forms and will inevitably lead to a great many things.


Friday, April 26, 2019

all the world is green


I stumbled out into the dim, predawn grey with a head full of coke and a stomach full of semen. My jaw still ached from the punch I received in the theater. My side throbbed with a dull pain. The silver-blue of a rising sun was on the horizon not yet clearing the silent dark of the skyscrapers which caste long prison shadows across the few catatonic forms of proto humans shuffling down the black spotted sidewalk. I quickly made a bee line to 3rd and Spring to catch the MTA back to the shelter. Paranoid my absence would be noticed.
No. Let’s go back seven hours. I was residing at the Salvation Army in Bell, California. They held special rooms for students and the employed, four to a room, set aside from the three hundred army cots of snoring, festering hobos in the main dormitory and since I was attending a cable installation class simply to stall for time and relative comfort as comfortable as a bed bug infested warehouse would allow, I was allotted a rickety, metal bed in one room. The staff were ignorant. Abusive and derogatory, but ignorant. After the ten o’clock bed check and the main lights were switched off, I slipped out the open bay doors and into the night to feed my insidious urge. The aching in my loins; the burning lust of the sexually deviant. Recently, I had found in my wanderings of downtown Los Angeles a 24 hour adult theater. Not one with booths, mind you, but a full on, decaying theater from the Golden Age of cinema. I jumped a bus line, transferred to the light rail, and made a connection to skid row Los Angeles.
My adrenaline was pumping, not from the anticipation of sexual escapades I anxiously looked forward to, but the fact if my absence was noticed, I would be tossed out into the street. Fuck it, I thought. You only live once. Yolo before yolo was an axiom.
At five to midnight, I quickly walked down Spring Street passed watchful stares of pushers and the addicted, vendors of vices with faces changing in neon flashes of liquor stores, pawn shops, dive bars. Blacks howled into the night, helicopters swooped and patrolled, sirens wailed, fires burned. I approached the seemingly vacant box office of the theater. The marquee was lifeless and gritty from decades of abandonment. The only sign advertising the business was a crudely painted sign adjacent the entrance. I rapped on the cracked glass window of the box office. From below, a huge hand slapped onto the wooden shelf on the other side of the glass. With straining effort, and obese man of fifty or so, with greying beard and long locks of greasy grey hair pulled himself up into my view. Wheezing from years of a pack a day, he snatched up my five dollars and buzzed me in.
The lobby, its faded red carpet spotted black with grime, vomit, and nameless substance stank of mildew and bleach. There was a concessions counter, unattended and bare of stock. Neglected for decades. The faded, red neon strip behind fluttered and buzzed. Apart from the muted moaning of the movie issuing from the theater proper, it was vacant and somber as a mausoleum. I parted the thick, dark purple velvet curtains and entered the cinema.
It being already night, I needn’t wait for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The theater was huge. It could easily accommodate five hundred patrons. I slid into a chair to take in my surroundings. The chair was ratty, crimson upholstery frayed. The auditorium stank of cleaning chemicals, vomit, and dried semen. There were ten shadowy figures spread throughout, staring blankly at the screen, sleeping, smoking dope, or languidly jacking off. On the creased and sullied screen, some blond coked out bitch screamed and moaned as a middle aged gym bunny mechanically rutted without an iota of passion, his face blank and unreadable, both glistened in a fine film of sweat. The bleating soundtrack blasted from static spewing speakers hidden up in the black curtained rafters. On each far wall, worn gilded frescoes offered winged cherubs who, in the darkness, grimaced down onto the current audience in judgement and pained dismay.
I sat there for a half an hour, waiting. Listening to the buzzer of the entrance go off several times, realizing full well that meant even more were entering the cinema. The first was a lanky man in his early thirties wearing spandex bike shorts, a thin jacket, and baseball cap. He sat in the row in front of me down on the opposite end. In the meager yellow glow of the dimmed lights in the theater, I had an unobstructed view as he slid his shorts off, tossing them into the chair next to him, and began to slowly masturbate a long and thick, uncircumcised cock. With eyes focused on the screen, with his free hand, he fished out of his jacket pocket a glass pipe and, holding it between two fingers like a cigarette, casually lit up and began smoking crack. His other boney hand slowly stroking his impressive erection and blowing great plumes up into the dark, never averting his gaze from the screen.
A few minutes later, a fit, college type character quickly marched down the sloping aisle towards the front row. He seemed so out of place, as if he’d be more comfortable in some frat house drinking beer with his football buddies on the UCLA campus. Well-groomed and dressed, he swaggered past me followed by a short, rotund and dumpy man with a balding head and thick glasses. The college guy plopped into a seat as immediately the dumpy man kneeled down between the youth’s legs. I made out a silhouette of a pudgy hand pass something to the college guy. As the pudgy man unzipped the front of the youths khaki pants and slurped and bobbed on his stiffening prize, the youth lit up a crack pipe and began smoking. The wisps of smoke swirling between me and the twelve foot erection sliding in and out of a glistening vagina the length of a station wagon. As I sat mired in voyeuristic fascination, ever so often the pudgy man would place more dope in the boy’s palm and it eagerly smoked up.
Feeling the cold burn in my loins, it was time to satiate my own sordid addiction. Behind me, at the entrance, there was a darkened, modest area without seats. It was there, I fully was aware common to all porno theaters of the world, were ill acts against cultural norms were carried out in anonymous fervor. As I approached, I already saw a tall, brawny man of white hair leaning against the wall as a black youth was down on his knees sucking on the white man’s stunted erection.  An even older codger, stooped and ashen with time, stood next to them furiously beating his meat as he watched. Two others lurked in the corner, obscured in shadows, the cherry of a glass pipe ignited on and off like a siren of a brothel. At arm’s length, I posted against the wall on the opposite side of the two getting it on. Immediately, a hand squeezed my flaccid cock. I glanced over to see a smiling and perspiring fat man. I pushed his hand away. No one at the moment deserving of my attention. Then, the main door buzzed and a twenty-something Mexican man swaggered through the curtains. Stocky with a shaved head and black goatee, he wore the striped shirt and baggy khakis uniform of urban Latino youths. Now, that was more like it.
I scoped out where he sat. The back row. Sidled two seats over from him. My ass wasn’t in the chair two seconds before he whipped out his hard and nasty. I slid next to him, grasping his full erection in my sweating palm. I leaned over, pulled the foreskin back, and began sucking and swirling my mouth up and down the shaft. His hand caressed my back as he squirmed and breathed heavily through flaring nostrils. Eventually, the head of his penis puffed-up and I felt the acrid taste of his semen spurting in my mouth. I leaned over and spat the matter with a loud plop onto the bare concrete floor. He stood and shoved his still erect penis back into his pants. He towered over me, unmoving.
“I need some money, homes.” He stated.
“Money?” I repeated, sitting back whipping saliva off my lips.
“Yeah, man, gimme some money.”
“I don’t have any money on me…”
He roughly grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me up into a standing position. Then began aggressively digging through the front pockets of my jeans. My hand was gripping my back pocket that held my wallet.
Finding nothing, his face scowled. “You need to come up with some fucking money, man. You think what you just did was free?”
“Well…yeah.” I said.
His face leaned into mine. The stench of alcohol on his breath. “I’m keeping my eye on you. You find some fucking cash or I’m kicking your ass. You try to leave, I’ll follow you out and kick your fucking ass.” With that, he pushed me aside and strode into the lobby towards the mensroom.
“Damn. You gunna let him treat you like that?”
I glanced over to the opposite side and sitting on a folded metal chair at the second entrance of the theater was a tall black man in his early thirties. He sat hunched over, elbows on knees, fingers touching in steeple.
He stated, “How can you do that? Just walk up to someone and start sucking their dick?”
I nonchalantly approached him. Not bad looking. “Well, I’m not giving that fucker anything.” And then asked half incredulously, “Is this your first time in one of these places?”
His name was Thomas and a couple of hours prior he’d been released from County Jail which was a couple of blocks away from the theater. With nowhere to go, and this place being opened all night, seemed a logical place to lay low until morning before moving on. Seemed legit to me. He offered me a seat and I removed another metal chair from the lobby.
He glanced at the screen, then down toward the college guy still smoking, still getting sucked. “They don’t mind folks doing dope here, huh?”
“Obviously not.” I replied.
“Or doing that gay shit.”
I smiled, “You don’t like getting your dicked sucked?”
“Not from a dude.” He said.
“Fair enough.”
“Hey,” He began. “You do coke?”
I grinned. Bad ideas are seldom boring. “Yeah.” I said.
He reached into his shirt and pulled out a small, plastic ziploc of cocaine. “Cool. Do some shit with me. Been locked up so long, I’m bored of being alone.”
For the next hour or so, Thomas and I snorted lines off our wrists with the aid of a rolled up dollar bill and chatted of things. The coke was good. Activating all pleasure senses, my mind was incandescently alert. Every sound, every detail in the theater was amplified and came across crystal clear as glycerin. We talked and laughed, swapping tales of our times spent in the Los Angeles County lockup, the pros, the cons (mostly cons). Relating the brutality of the guards, the comradery of the inmates, on how it seemed (to me) homosexuality ran rampant – openly performed in cells when the lights went out for the night. (Not for me. I kept to myself, though more than one penis was wagged in my direction. But, that is another story…)
“That’s what my right hand was for.” He wisecracked, holding an open palm up to me.
His fingers were long and sinewy. Palm massive. The image of his allegedly huge dick burned in my mind. But, I kept it cool. Shaking and the lust mounting, I excused myself to take a piss.
Head full of coke, I entered the mensroom and stood in front of the backed up urinal and relieved myself. The Mexican was nowhere to be seen. I guessed he must had left. More bark than bite, I supposed. Turning to leave, I noticed a short white guy about twenty with a Flock of Seagulls haircut standing at one of the stalls waving a full erection at me. He was doped to the gills, obviously, blue eyes large and pupils dilated. He wore a white tank top and cargo shorts. Wordlessly, I approached, smiled while stroking his erection. In ritual silence, I dropped to my knees and began to go to work.
As I was getting into it, a hand touched my shoulder from behind. I was expecting to see the angry Mexican standing there, but instead it was a skinny black youth waving his overtly long and floppy member at me. In a room reeking of shit and piss, kneeling on a filthy tiled floor covered in grime, wadded toilet paper and smashed cigarette butts, I took turns sucking them both as they stood and kissed each other, probing one another’s mouths with saliva lubricated tongues. The young black guy was first to climax. I swallowed all of it. The white guy then roughly grabbed me by the side of the head and with furious, drug fueled passion, face fucked me. He shoved my face into his blond pubes as his pulsating erection deposited gobs of semen into the back of my throat. With watering eyes and gagging gasps, I gulped it all down.
Composing myself, I returned to sit with Thomas.
“Where you been?” He asked. He noticed my flushed face, the wet spots of saliva soiling the front of my shirt. “Oh. Never mind.”
I took a seat next to Thomas and the sweet baggie (now nearly depleted) offered once again. We got laughing jags as I spun into a routine about Hitler who was still alive and working in a donut shop in Florida. Won’t get into it now, but believe me when I say it’s a hilarious riot!
“What’s this fucking shit, homie?” Snapped a voice out from the fetid shadows. It was the Mexican thug. “You got money for blow from this nigger, but not me?”
“Dude, you need to chill.” Thomas warned.
The thug quickly strode up to me, yanked me from the chair and popped me across the chops so hard, I slammed violently back against the wall. Thomas sprang up like a jack-in-the-box (Taller than I thought!) and planted a right hook dead into the thugs left eye which ensued a slug fest. As Thomas and the thug scuffled, I leapt up and grabbed one of the folded chairs and slammed it across the thug’s upper back and head. He fell over in turn allowing Thomas and I to violently stomp him.
As he writhed dodging our kicks, we heard a raspy, “What the fucks going on in there? Stop that shit or I call the cops!” Yelled the box office attendant.
In coke fueled rage, I screamed crimson faced, “Get the fuck out of here!”
The Mexican, face bloody and covered in scratches and filth, hobbled defeated and beaten out the entrance issuing a steady stream of obscenities in his wake.
The obese attendant snapped open the various locks to the door of the box office and wobbled with labored breathing over to us. He smelled like a stale ashtray and his breath stank even worse. “What the fuck was that all about?”
“That motherfucker tried to rob me!” I stated in a coke frenzy.
He let out a deep, wheezing sigh and turned back to the safety and seclusion of the box office, “I say it alla time, you boys gotta be careful in here. All type a assholes will try to take anything.”
Thomas sat back in his chair and asked for a cigarette. I passed him one, he lit up. Noticing the time, I thanked Thomas for the dope, the help, and mumbled something or another I had to go in lieu of curfew. Saying goodbye, I made a dash to the mensroom to clean up. Three men stood at the urinals beating off as a young Asian guy was getting fucked in the stall by a hefty, middle-aged black man with bulging eyes as yellow as urine. I cleaned up the best I could contesting the urge to suck one last cock, feel one last piece of borrowed flesh.
I made my way weary and in pain back to the shelter and, sneaking quickly in, fell into my cot an hour before the lights snapped on to the symphony of hacking and coughing from three hundred hobos. The following weekend, I packed my gear and moved to Tijuana…

Tuesday, January 22, 2019

shattered but whole



I briskly walked down calle Insurgentes towards centro, a squat row of crumbling houses cast long and foreboding shadows across the shattered sidewalk. Dull yellow lamplight buzzed overhead as the crunching of my shoes on loose gravel was the only sound in this still slumbering town. My breath puffed out into frozen air as I made my way across Park Independencia – under dead and leafless trees, several concrete benches occupied by snoring immigrants waiting for their chance to cross the border. This city was depressing the hell out of me – I cannot connect with anyone. And for that matter, what was left to connect with? I am dead inside. As dead as the rotting houses which surround me. I bitterly glanced around. Why does this city attain the appearance of the aftermath of a bombed-out war zone? Ah, I forget…it is the aftermath of a bombed-out war zone. Who am I to judge?
Ding! I sling open the door to Café Central and took a seat at the long counter. Order coffee from the tired looking waitress in the grease splotched uniform and as I stired the sugar into my cracked mug, once again the question slaps me across the face: What the fuck am I doing here in Juárez?
I recall I stated that exact question the evening prior toward two intoxicated cohorts as we sat and drank caguamas at Bar Olympico. The statement fell on deaf ears, unfortunately. They did not care for my personal woes, they were more interested in the rentboy who slinked up at us slurping on his free beer.
“For a hundred pesos, he’ll let you suck his dick.” My friend confided. He pronounces it deek.
I eyed the hustler with obvious contempt. Oh. Of course. The solitary gringo in the joint and this doe-eyed waif decided I was an easy mark. Little did he realize I am one jaded homosexual and at that exact moment and time really wasn’t in the mood for any of his shit.
“Wait a minute.” I began, pointing toward the well-formed pecs hidden under the rentboys tight, flannel shirt. “You want me,” I point back at myself, “…me…to give you one hundred pesos so you can have an orgasm?”
“Yes.” He curtly nodded, with hip hooked in that universal stance of Hustlers of the World.
“And what about me? You gunna get me off? Suck me off? Anything?” I asked.
“No, man, I’m not no faggot. I don’t do that shit.”
“Don’t do that shit? What shit? What fucking shit don’t you do?” I barked. He glared at me in consternation, slowly realizing I was not the typical weak spirited tourist he usually employs. I leaned on my stool toward him, “Again, you expect me to pay you to come?”
“That’s the way it works, yeah.” He said morosely.
“Get the fuck out my face.” I retorted and slumped into my beer. The hustler casually shrugged and decided to lurk in the cantina's doorway and await more promising prey.
One of my two friends refilled my glass from my bottle, “Why were you so mean to him? He’s a nice boy.”
I paused. Lit a cigarette and watched the plume of carcinogens swirl up into the water damaged rafters, I said, “I think my time in Mexico has come to a close. My adventure here has grown stale. Nothing interests me. I have done it all. There is nothing else. It’s time I lay tracks toward a more civilized locale.”
My words, again, fell on deaf ears as yet another macho fuck sauntered across the dirty tile floor and distracted the two queens with a smile and a coy nod.
In the coffee shop, I sat bitterly. A lonesome Mexican ballad crooned over the speakers as I scrutinized my ravaged, tired face in the mirror attached to the wall across from the counter. Except for myself and the three servers, the only other occupant was a wrinkled old fuck slumped in a booth wearing shades. Probably asleep. The half-eaten fried eggs coagulating on a large plate in front of him. Gnawed chicken bones scattered about the formica. The thought of returning to my house, collecting my things and leaving screamed in my skull. And, I did.

Thursday, January 17, 2019

but why though?



The restaurant has wooden floors and mirrors behind the bar. It’s full, but politely so. We sit at the bar and I ask why we never sit in a booth. Hector says this is easier. He orders something minty to drink and I ask for gin and vermouth. Why is there a baseball game on? I’d like to drop my face on the bar and let the blood slowly draw away from my nose, down to the other patrons, drip some and pool to a puddle below my stool. I grab the menu. I shake my head. Snails and gizzards and cracklings and what the fuck is a date and why is it wrapped in bacon and stuffed with bleu cheese? Do you have ranch dressing? Of course not. Every place Hector wants to go to is too good to have ranch dressing or salt n pepper and let’s talk about sex. Fuck me. From behind.
Our drinks come and his is manlier than mine. I try it and cough a little. What is that? Martini? Yeah. I’m hungry. Why do you like me? Because you’re fucking weird. I like you. I know. Hector asks me to go to Los Angeles with him and I stretch my lips across my face like a smile and say maybe. The bartender takes our food order and I get the only thing I recognize and he gets the steamed escargot. When it comes, Hector asks me to try it. I say no. Please? No. This continues and I get frustrated. I want to leave. I want to drop my face on the bar and break my teeth, force them into my gums and pucker my nose in on itself, piercing my brain. Hector says if I don’t eat one then he’ll never be mine. I laugh and say we’re now officially wasting each other’s time.
I catch myself in the mirror, where two panes come together, and I look crooked, deformed, demonic, and utterly suave. Black leather jacket. Grey button-up shirt. Black herringbone tie. Stubble. How could he not want me? He cuts a snail in half and says to try that much. I tell him splitting it apart doesn’t help. I think about leaving and I start thinking about what I’m gonna say, ‘cause I have to say something. Or would it be better to walk out without saying anything? Not even a glance at him. Leave, man. Get up.
The bald man in the cowboy suit next to me leans in and says something about the game. I say something back to prove I am a man and I know sports and stuff. Then Hector and the bald man talk with me in the middle feeling suddenly awkward, but watching this scene in the mirror. Hector likes the bald man’s ambition and his watch and how he speaks four languages. I notice his discolored teeth and beady little eyes. Hector says he’s moving to Los Angeles, the bald man asks when, Hector says March, the bald man says he should be out there then. I say we should get goin’. I finish my drink and don’t take another. Look at Hector, look at the bald man, the game, the condensation ring, the mirror, me. What the hell happened? Heavy sigh, noticeable. Hector leans to my ear, You gonna fuck me when we get home? You gonna leave your clothes on? If you want. Maybe. You wanna go? Yeah.
I pay and in the taxi, Hector asks if I want road-head and I say no and ask the taxi driver to turn the radio up. I’m hard but we’re almost home. Up the stairs, to the bedroom, push the blankets aside. I fuck Hector bent over and I pull and push into him, using his hips like handles. Hector moans and sighs and whimpers and tells me to lie on my back. Tells me not to move. He fucks hard, twists and grinding but changes his mind and bends over in front of me, ass spread. Fuck me ‘til you come. I tease then give it then take it then give it deeper, taking Hector to the furthest until I have to pull out and empty onto him, weakened as steam in cold night air. I like you. I know. I mean, I like you a lot. I like you too. But why, though?

Sunday, January 13, 2019

the ballad of roland gerodias



Cerritos, California.
Somewhere during the late ‘80’s.
Saturday.
11:38pm

I flopped down on my back sickly ill from too many Boone’s Farm wine coolers. A ghastly feeling. Like you want to vomit but you can’t. The couch was one of those big, neutral colored, over-stuffed affairs, u-shaped, and took up most of the cavernous living room. In the darkened house, the party was ebbing away and most of the teenaged guests had departed. The house itself being a cookie-cutter two-story stucco monstrosity which infest every neighborhood in predominantly white suburbs of Los Angeles. It rested in a cul-de-sac, an exact copy of every other house on the block, except this one was somewhat more a bit unkempt.
On the couch, I complained about how my stomach felt woozy. The only other person with me was Roland Gerodias, a friend from my high school. We didn’t attend any classes together, barely associated through mutual friends.  The casual association primarily through Janet Tarrish, a fellow classmate and whose house we were currently sleeping over in. As I said, I was lying on this couch with Roland, the tops of our heads almost touching with our bodies sprawled in opposite directions. The couch was that big.
Roland was a third generation Filipino who lived with his parents in a one-story stucco house on the low end of the neighborhood. Soft-spoken, we met each other while playing Dungeons and Dragons after school at a friend’s house. We hit it off immediately and rapidly became friends.
Out of the half dark, he mentioned something about getting one’s fingers sucked took your mind off the ill feeling. Snickering with naiveté, I agreed and offered up my hand, in which he performed the remedy with slow, precise movements. That, of course, led to us making out, both fearing either Janet or the old grandpa who lived in the den and spent his waning years watching the Playboy Channel in soiled, blue stripped pajamas would walk in and catch us in this uncouth homosexual experimentation.
Up to that point, I had never kissed a boy, nor made out like two lovers on the lips as Roland and I did in the still of the night. Nonetheless, I liked it. I liked it a lot. It stimulated dormant passions in me I never dreamed existed. After an hour or so of fumbling and whispered giggling, we both fell asleep.
The following morning, at the crack of dawn, I rose and went to the restroom to relieve myself. Glancing in the mirror, my neck was a constellation of hickies. I examined them in my reflection, gliding a finger over the brown and purple splotches. In guilt and mortification, I left the house without a word and returned home, quickly darting over puddles of incandescent water created by automatic lawn sprinklers.
Later that afternoon as I was in the kitchen preparing a sandwich, my mother caught sight of the marks and hissed, “What are those on your neck?”
“I…uh…” I faltered in confused guilt. She, at this point, was completely oblivious of my homosexual tendencies.
My mother stated in hushed tones, her face disdainfully puckered as if she just sucked a lemon, “Only Mexicans give each other those.”
The way she said Mexicans was laced in contempt.
Several days passed and I never saw Roland on campus. Though during each boring class, I sat brooding with the images and emotions of what we had done burned into my mind. It was my first contact with another of the same sex in that way (apart from a fumbling quick blow job or mutual masturbation sessions of very, very few in the past) My mind reeled in teenage obsession yet with the unrefuted fact the act could never be repeated or spoken of in lieu of classmates catching on. And then again, why would occur again? A spontaneous thing ensued, nothing more. So, I kept quiet, tolerating the smirking jabs of humor by schoolmates of having a girlfriend or quips of “finally getting some pussy” over the prior weekend.
One afternoon, as I was in my room at my desk drawing horridly melancholy and surreal comics, my mother said I had a phone call. It was Roland. When I heard his voice it was like the air was snatched from my lungs. He asked if I wanted to hang out. I said sure.
At that time, my mother allowed me drive her ’74 powder-blue Maverick around. I came up some excuse to use the car and off I went. It was a horrible junker. The engine chugged so loud and low, you could hear it blocks away announcing your arrival. I had nick-named it “Das Boot”. I picked up Roland at his house and we drove around Los Angeles joking, talking, and having a casual time as friends often do; eventually making our way up to Griffith Observatory. The sun had already set and grey shadows stretched across an empty parking lot. Not too empty, there was a darkened car on the other side of the lot, windows steamed and slowly rocking. I noticed a pudgy, balding man in a track suit hunched in the bushes watching, his round face gleamed in a film of sweat.
Before we parked, Roland and I stopped and scored a bottle of wine from some hobo who we talked into purchasing for us at a liquor store. We sat in the car and talked about nothing until the event at Janet’s house was brought up. Roland asked if I liked guys. I stated timidly I did, never had an experience with a girl, I added and held no desire to acquire one. Roland stated he loved girls and looked forward to having a wife and children one day. My heart sank. While he confessed this to me, he viewed in interest the muddled shadows in the adjacent car and its rhythmic movements. He unbuttoned his pants, pulling them down to his knees; brandished his erection. Looking at me, he took my head in his hands and we again began kissing passionately. He took out my erection and began masturbating both of us. His copper-colored body was lithe and hairless. I truly believe it was this initial encounter which paved the way for my preference of the darkly exotic sort. I had never been driven to seek the embrace of men with fair skin or abundance of body hair. I truly believe it was Roland’s influence. We slid into the backseat and did what most deemed unnatural. Four times.
When I dropped him off at his house at 2am, I watched as he said “Check ya later…” and disappeared into the quiet darkness of his home. I was overbearingly smitten. Throughout the rest of the year and onward into first term of community college, Roland and I remained close friends. During that period, he was my solitary sexual outlet, much to my dismay. I was madly in love with him and he knew it and patiently tolerated it, I suppose. I would become insanely jealous, not when he chased after girls, but when other guys hit on him. Out right dramatically infuriated. It was during the final year of our friendship the entire ordeal crashed and burned. I became overtly possessive and went out of my way to take up all his free time. Free time spent either in the back seat of my car or some cheaply rented hotel room humping like rabbits. Over a period of a few months in lieu of attending different colleges and work schedules we stopped associating with one another. When I finally sought him out, he’d since moved out of his parents’ house and shacked up knee deep in a torrid love affair with a dumpy, fat girl with large, thick glasses and bad acne. I attempted to speak with him (alone, but the girl wouldn’t have it) eventually I was asked to leave and never come around again. I never saw Roland again after that.
A block away I sat in my car ugly sobbing, my heart crushed. Unaware future events would allocate far more insidiously emotional heart aches and disappointments. Ah, the ignorance of youth!