God Loves Trailer Trash.

And so, around ten yesterday morning, Richard's parents came and picked us up at the motel.

"How did you get here?" Asked Robert, Richard's plump, bearded father. He looked especially stressed.

"Greyhound." We both said flatly. His mother, Julie, a scrawny dishwater blond with a pinched face, eyed me with the look that something was just not right and answered all my questions with curt short replies.

I was met with coolness and wary distrust. They seemed leery to let me live with them, but since they were God fearing Christians they let me stay anyway. We all piled into their battered SUV and took off to their home.

The O'Herly's live in a town in upstate New York called Oneonta. It's a town in the deep forest of old Indian country that consist of a gas station, a few stores, a Holiday Inn, a Wal-Mart, and hundreds of trailer parks. I do believe the entire population of this town resides in trailers.

The O'Herly's are no exception. Around the skuzzy edges of town, where pine groves and truck gardens bump against roadhouse honky-tonks and low bid developments, there where to be found six or seven house trailers and three or four conventional homes. The O'Herly's trailer lies on the bank of a small, muddy river. We entered the cozy three bedroom mobile home and I was accosted by a barrage of Jesus related objects from every corner! These people are God damned Jesus freaks!!! God peers at you from every empty space and knick-knacks remind you a hundred times that "Jesus loves you." Even in the bedroom where they let me stay; there is this huge poster of Christ staring down at you with such malevolence. It's one of those posters so contrived that the eyes follow you when you move about. At night I'm afraid to masturbate because I thought when I reach down to my privates; sparks would fly out and burn my hands like the Wicked Witch of the West reaching for the ruby slippers.

Well, I settled in and was comforted by the fact that not only that they had a computer with Internet access, which is slower than shit (fucking dial up), but they also had cable. As myself and the Family sat down to a great meal of roasted chicken, steamed broccoli and toasted bread. After saying grace (Creepy), the questions began to fly. What was I doing with Richard? Why was I so far from my home? How did we meet? Where are my parents? Soon the interrogation turned into a screaming match between Father and Son. I slinked back to my room.

I gotta get out of here...and I don't even know where here is. No maps in this place. Staring at some porcelain cat with God Loves Kittens embellished on it. Ech. Perhaps if I can get to New York City I can somehow find transport back to El Paso or Tijuana. First, El Paso, though...my trunk is still there.

Yee haw.

Thelma and Luis.

All right, ya ready? Cause here it goes...

Last weekend I decided to enjoy the tranquility of the small farming community of Norfolk, Nebraska.

Ew.

Norfolk was a little town of mouse holes, lace curtains, Sears catalogs, measles epidemics, baloney sandwiches and men who knew more about the carburetor than they knew about the clitoris.

The song Love Is a Many Splendored Thing was not composed in Norfolk.

There have been cans of dogfood more splendiferous than Norfolk. Land mines more tender.

Norfolk was settled by a race of thin, bony-faced psychopaths. They would sell you anything they had, which was nothing, and kill you over anything they didn't understand, which was everything.

Slackjawed honkies would gaze at you as you walked past their house with animal stupidity. Keith and I took refuge at the house Richard and Todd occupied with that black guy, Cameron. Their shack was in worse disrepair than ours was. The Mexican that lived there drank so much that empty beer cans piled up to the roof in corners. Sunday afternoon a weird occurrence, Cameron got really drunk off of whiskey shots and we were alone in his room. Out of nowhere he asked me to give him head. After he took it out I was very impressed so how could I say no. I can never explain the sheer poetry of having a muscular, handsome, and well endowed black man sitting waving an extremely large penis at you. I slobbered all over that big fucker like a crazed kid in a candystore. What can I say, I love dick. However, I was so paranoid afterwards. I could blow my cover, no pun intended, and get my ass kicked by these country simple assholes.

Anyhoo, during last weekend, The Gang and I meandered around downtown Norfolk. This place resembled all those old photos and t.v. shows of the kind of towns Norman Rockwell would paint. The town really looked rustic. Kind of serene and at peace. It seemed like one of those towns that would never change. On Sunday, we even attended a black gospel service in a small white church with a steeple and a picket fence. Everyone was friendly and said hello. The townsfolk were so whitebread and squeaky clean; even the few paranoid blacks.

In a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant I was lectured about using profanity in public after saying the word fuck in front of a lady. The lady's husband was pretty irate about it Gosh darn it!

"A good Christian doesn't use that language!"

"What? The word fuck?"

"Yes! It's very offensive!"

"Well, fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck!"

We were asked to leave.

I couldn't take it anymore. I told Richard that we had to get out of town, since he quit the same day I did. Being the Alpha Males, we decided to ditch Keith and Todd, so while they were at the Meat Plant we planned our departure from Norfolk. We both returned to the plant on Monday morning and got our measly pay for three days. Richard said if I liked I could come to New York State and live with him and his parents. He assured me that his folks wouldn't mind.

Sure...why not?

Richard and I walked over to the Catholic Services to scam them out of money. In Yuma, Arizona, Richard explained that Todd and himself needed bus fare to get to El Paso. They told Catholic Services that their car ran out of gas and the agency gave them $100.00 for gas. He said the folks were suckers and it was an easy mark. Seemed like a good deal to me.

As the nun sat behind her desk, nodding her head, listening intently at our sad quest. We explained with deep heartfelt anguish our financial woes. Richard and I should have won a fucking Oscar for our performance. Oh, such drama! The Sister didn't buy it, got upset, and had us thrown out of the church.

We stood on the corner, bitter with discontent, staring across the street at Smilin' Pete's Car Farm. Old, out dated cars squatted like ugly toads under the buzzing neon sign and tattered lifeless banners. It was an overcast day and a salesman stood at the door of his office, beaming at us with long yellow horse teeth.

We walked across the street and were greeted with a merry "Howzit goin', fellas?!" The salesman, Chuck, wore a cheap blue suit and sported a bad onion hair cut. He sweated profusely, eyes nervous, with an intense joker smile. He had a deep Midwest accent as thick as Wisconsin cheese.

"Hiya, boys! Looking for a car, eh?" Grin. Nod.

Richard looked around. "Yeah. We work for Beef of America and we were interested in a car for work."

"Oh, you betcha! Ya, Beef of America, eh?" Grin. Nod. Walks over to a midnight blue '73 maverick. "Ya, this is a bute! Only $650.00. It'll getcha to where yer going and then some. Oh, ya, you betcha!"

Richard looked the car over. "Can we take it for a test drive?"

"Oh ya, you betcha. But, let's first clear it with my boss, okidokie?" Grin. Nod. Frown. Grin.

In the office sat Mr. Wychk, an ancient relic with quivering hands who held a napkin up to his mouth to catch the saliva dripping out. He was one of those old white haired buzz cuts that still called black people "colored".

Big fucking grin. "Mr. Wychk, these good boys would like to test drive the blue Maverick. These're good boys, boss, oh ya. Local boys from Beef of America. There's good work in Beef of America. Yep." Grin. Sweat beads down forehead because ol' Chuck really needed to make this fucking sale. With the wife and the little ones and the mortgage, you understand.

Senor Droolcup stood up and gave the two-freshfaced college boys the old once over. "Seems to me like they're all right. Chuck, give them the keys and let them take her for a whirl around the block."

We shook hands. Back outside, Richard and I climbed into the car. It smelt like burnt oil. Chuck handed Richard the keys. Richard handed Chuck a fake I.D. "Okay, Buster. Be easy on the girl and just drive her around the corner. Oh, she's a bute, isn't she?" Grin. Thumbs up.

"You betcha." We both returned the gesture. Two thumbs up.

We slowly drove the car out of the lot, leaving Chuck standing there in that rusty car graveyard with the weeds in the cement cracks. Richard and I drove over to our houses to get our bags and then we drove that fucking car through the night and all of the next day until the engine burned out in the town of Binghamton in the state of New York. Straight through, and I am not making this up. I wish I were. Man, I tell you it was exhilarating. I love breaking rules, especially when you get away with it!

When we finally arrived in Binghamton, it was cold and dark. Electricity hummed in the condenser boxes above us. Grey brick buildings lay against the gloom of the overcast sky as factory stacks billowed black smoke. The dead grass around the Greyhound station, which was the only place open and it was a tomb, was spotted with pools of rancid oil. Richard phoned his parents and told them where he was. He confided in me that he ran away from home about seven months ago and they haven't seen or heard from him since. That's fucking great, I thought.

Well, I stood there staring at the smoking car as Richard told me The Parents said they'd pick us up the next day, so with our last twenty dollars we rented a cheesy room for $17.95. The St. Francis. Real crappy. The Front Desk clerk, who I think is queer, was kind enough to let me pound this shit out on the office computer. Us Front desk agents gotta stick together, reet?

What the fuck next?

Wonders and Woe.

Greetings, Citizens!

As of this writing, I am sitting in the dinky library in downtown Norfolk, Nebraska. Yup! You read right: Norfolk-fucking-Nebraska. And how did I get here? Well, gather 'round kiddos and I will weave you a tale of adventure and misery and heartbreak....

A little over a week ago, rented a small studio apartment and moved in with Juan Holguin under the guise of romantic bliss. But, fate, it seemed, would decree otherwise. On the second day when I returned home from work, Juan had some ditsy blond with pimples and gigantic tits named Sabrina moved in and I had to sleep on the floor. What can I do? He paid for the apartment. That was the last straw. I ranted to Keith, that big fat hick from the Mission and he convinced me to go to Nebraska and work in a slaughterhouse. At the time, since I had a low paying and pathetic job and I was now supporting Juan and Sabrina, it seemed a fantastic idea. So, the next morning bright and early, Keith and I went to the El Paso Unemployment Office, signed up and the following morning we were on a bus to Norfolk, Nebraska.

It seemed Keith had been thrown out of the mission for attacking Big Gay Eddie with a can of Lysol. Big Gay Eddie was in charge of cleaning the dorm. Keith was a gross slob, so Eddie sprayed him down with a can of Lysol and Keith took the can and hit Eddie with it, which in turn, caused Keith to be “eighty-sixed” from the mission property.

So, Kieth revealed where he had been sleeping the last few days; at this little camp under a freeway overpass next to the train tracks. It was a filthy vermin infested area of cardboard shacks and musty sleeping bags inhabited by drug addicts and alcoholics. The mission’s throwaways. The area was nicknamed Fraggle Rock. Keith slept on an old couch that dug the springs into his back. As the day turned into the night I sat there staring into the big bonfire that somebody made out of discarded furniture and Keith went on and on about going to work at this meat processing plant in Nebraska. He really talked me into that stupid scheme of his. So that next morning, Keith, myself and two other guys from under the bridge went and signed up.

One of the young men that went with us was a handsome nineteen-year old Irish kid from New York named Richard O’Herly. He dressed and spoke in the manner of those teen pop boy bands—baggy clothes and ‘Yo yo yo’—a black boy stuck in a lily-white ass. When I first met him he was under a torn and dusty blanket next to Keith’s couch fucking some skanky emaciated Mexican girl. He stopped long enough to say “Hello”. I just nodded and lit a Lucky Strike. From what I gathered he was an aspiring rap artist and a pathological liar. The other younger kid that went with us was a little rat looking hayseed from Illinois named Todd Berch. Basically he was Richards tag along. Along with about forty Mexicans, our little group was interviewed at the unemployment office and then told next morning to be in front of the building at 6:30 a.m. to catch the bus to Nebraska.

I returned home to get my things. Juan was surprised and saddened that I was leaving. I packed my old suitcase, said good bye and left. Asshole.

Of coarse the next morning, the bus didn’t leave until 9:00 or so in the morning. During that time, my new friends and I talked and joked and got to know each other better. Richards estranged girlfriend wanted to go, but they wouldn’t let her. Which was of coarse a blessing, because all she did was whine and complain and my God was she ugly to look at. We also met these two black guys named King and Cameron.

King was an old gray haired man from Alabama, reminded me of Morgan Freeman; Cameron was from Chicago, a young guy with a gold tooth and a muscular build that looked a dead ringer for Mike Tyson and who had a drinking problem. He said he was running from his wife. Right. I had to play it cool with these guys. Most were viciously homophobic, so I had to hide my homosexuality. I accepted the fact that it was going to be a long cold winter, but just concentrated on all the money I was promised by Kieth that I was to make.

At 9:45, the big ass bus finally took off. At first, our spirits were very high. The bus was packed with Mexican migrant workers hoping to make good money to send back to their families. Everyone talked and joked. Myself I just sat back, relaxed and enjoyed the scenery.

As we traveled non-stop through New Mexico and climbed up towards Oklahoma, I was interested in the various small towns and Indian pueblos we passed through. The houses and buildings in one nameless town were all in adobe style architecture. Indian crafts and murals. Young handsome Indian boys stared out at the bus silent and immobile, under black Stetsons. In Oklahoma and Kansas it was the vast rolling prairies. For miles around us there was nothing but flat grassy land. The wind causing ripples in the green brown grass as it would the waters of a vast sea. We eventually stopped in the late afternoon at a Golden Corral Buffet Restaurant somewhere in Kansas. It was all paid for and everybody ate until we all waddled back to the bus and slept like gorged hogs.

The bus lumbered through out the night and I rarely slept. In all my journeys I’ve always had problems sleeping on a moving vehicle. The gringos on board laughed and joked and made such a ruckus late into the night that the bus driver actually stopped the bus and screamed at us in Spanish to shut up.

At the crack of dawn we entered Norfolk, Nebraska. It was about two minutes on the tequila side of sunrise. So early the bluebirds hadn’t even brushed their teeth yet. It was the type of morning that Homer referred in The Odyssey as ‘rosy-fingered dawn.” Homer, who was blind and had no editor, referred over and over again to “rosy-fingered dawn.” Pretty soon, dawn began to think of herself as rosy-fingered: the old doctrine of life imitating art.

The surrounding countryside was cattle farms and flat wheat and cornfields. A few old building sprung up here and there. We drove directly to Beef of America, the meat processing plant that was going to be the place of employment for me in the upcoming months. As I gazed at that smelly steel factory, my hopes swelled like the others at all the money we were going to make. As soon as we passed the security gates of this cold, menacing and foul smelling factory, we were told to disembark and all meet in the intake room.

After signing various paperwork, we were assigned our uniforms and briefed by an instructor. This little mustachioed man was all smiles and jokes and was an excellent motivational speaker. Shameless faker. For some reason he thought I possessed a great deal of strength and assigned me as a “Shanker.” At the time I had no idea what that was but he jovially assured me I would find out tomorrow. After all of us were processed through orientation, we were then told we’d be taken to our housing.

So, loaded back up on another bus, we were issued a card with our house number on it. The house that Keith and I were assigned to was a three-bedroom pre-fab unit and it was already occupied with six other Mexicans. Mexicans that didn’t speak a bit of English. And they were very concerned why gringos decided to work at this very stressful and difficult job.

My roommate was an unfortunate little weasel looking guy while Keith was blessed with the cantankerous old fart. The nights spent there were crazy madness. After work the Mexicans would get shit faced on beer and then fight among themselves. Knocking the crap out of each other and smashing several items until crashing to the floor and falling into a sleeping drunken stupor amid the broken furniture and shards of glass.

After a fitful and freezing night of troubled sleep came the first day on the job. Keith and I got dressed in our gear, we both looked like mad scientist with the long white coats, rubber gloves, rubber boots, and goggles, and walked the two blocks to the factory. It was fucking hell. Ten hours of monotonous boredom. It was the smelliest most disgusting job I have ever had! My job was to slice up the ass part of the cow as it came speeding down the conveyor belt, entrails dangling, and dripping blood.

My supervisor was a white guy named Jeff. He was a Nazi drunk on power. If we didn’t work fast enough he would scream abuse constantly in our ears. If you disagreed in anyway you were written up or fired on the spot. The smell was horrendous. Keith puked twice. Each day I would return home covered in gore and cow’s blood. If a cow fell off the belt it was up to me to pick up the carcass, carry it to the washer, cleanse it and then put it back on the belt without it touching the ground. Could you picture anyone carrying around a beheaded, gutted cow by himself with nothing but hooks to help him. I think not.

After the third day, I had to make an appraisal of the situation. I quit.

So, that was this morning and I have to wait until Monday to get my paycheck. Ugh. It looks as if I will be returning to El Paso sooner than I thought. I am going to check out this town and will write the report manana.

By the way, flushed those insidious mindfuck pills down the toilet back in El Paso. I like the way I am. I suit me just fine, cabrones.

And slowly the world spins...

Time goes.

I have been sitting on this bench without moving for seven hours straight. I try to think how I started today, but my mind is in a think fog and I don't have the abilities nowadays to do anything, much less think. Everything has been burned out...I falter. Five days have passed since I have started...It took a Herculean effort just to go downtown to the library and type this shit. So, I remember five days ago...

I awoke with a start of fear, gasping for air, about an hour before the lights went on in the dorm. I lay there thinking of the nightmare I had until the lights blink on at 5:30. A grating voice booms out over the hacking and farting of the waking men.

Good morning, Rescue Mission. For the guests and clients who slept in the dayroom and the chapel, please strip your mats and place them in the bin provided in the dorm. breakfast will be at 6:00 a.m....

And so on and on it goes. My lithe torso feels as if I had been beaten with a rubber club and my eyes are crusty and tingling with pain. I reach by my bunk and grab my old plastic water bottle and guzzle the liquid greedily. It hurts going down. Grabbing my pajama pants from the end of the bed, I tend to sleep in my boxers and t-shirt, I place my feet into plastic shower shoes and clop through the wooden maze to the men's bathroom. It is already crowded. Stale clothes, dirty backpacks, white tiled floor smeared with water, mud, and shit. The odor is enough to make an ambulance attendant puke. The filthy mirrors over the sink are positioned so you are forced to watch some old dirty bum squatting on the toilet behind you. Loud sound of grunting and farting produces toxic steaming shit. Ker-plop.

I shuffle down the hall to the main office, not hearing the various Good Mornings chirped at me from the natives. Today I start my medications as prescribed by Dr. Guzman. One Welbutrin XL in the morning taken with six Seroquel, beautiful little darlings. I plop them into my mouth and wash them down at the chrome water fountain losing the battle against algae and grime.

Then the call for breakfast. Burnt grey oatmeal. Try to eat it but the drugs began to take hold. My speech is slurred, my body seems to be made of a hardening plastic. I can't concentrate...like being drunk, but not being drunk. A couple of friends and Juan sit at my table. Juan looks worried, "What's wrong?" I tell him I started my medication today. After chewing on some horrid stale toast, I return to my bunk. Head spinning, legs twitching, terrible cotton mouth.

I fall into a deep, deep sleep.

Woke up with the fear of suffocation. I swing my legs out and sit at my bunk. Staring slack jawed at the dusty brown tile on the floor. It takes me twenty minutes to get up the energy to stand up. What fucking time is it, I thought, swirling my dry tongue around me sticky and gooey mouth. 3:53 p.m. Okay. Need to take a shower. I enter the white tiled shower, tiles covered in orange and green and black fungus. It smells like bleach and shit. Letting the hot water flow over my torso, I stand there swaying. Time goes.

Dressing, I walk as if in a dream through the dayroom, always a chess game and television blaring a football game, and to out doors. The sun burns my eyes and I don my huge Willy Wonkaish sunglasses that I had purchased downtown for three dollars. The Bench is quite full. Old and worn smooth from the rub of a million hobo asses; warped from the elements, it now seats the heroes of the underworld and forgotten. I sit among these fools, smoking my last Lucky Strike, playing chess, staring. The sky is a big bright Texas blue and gives everything a blue hue. A swarm of flies, the quantity of biblical proportions, dance and fuck on us. I sit as immobile as an iguana in the sun, staring at nothing, thinking about nothing. The sun swings across the cloudless sky and time goes.

Trucks arrive with donations. "Attention men in the shelter! We need a few volunteers to help unload these donations. If we don't get any help, the television in the day room will be shut off!" The Voice blares from a loudspeaker. The mission gets all kinds of great donations, but we never see it. Good food is donated, yet we eat crap...where does it all go? Two or three brown nosers rush to help, I sit and let my cigarette smoldering down to my fingers. Time goes.

"Well, you look thoroughly medicated." Quips someone at me beyond my grey screen.

Three four hours pass and I get up to take my afternoon meds. One more seroquel. Plunk a pill into my mouth and down it with water from that foul fountain. Even the water tastes foul. The hallway begins to spin and I return to the bench and listen down into myself. It is time for dinner and not really hungry, I poke through the Victory stew and just eat a bruised apple.

Outside the sun is going down and the sky is so clean you can count the stars. The loudspeaker, that Voice of Big Brother bulldozes through the tranquility. "Attention in the mission! It is time for Chapel services. Everyone is encouraged to attend! The television will be shut off all night if we do not get a big turnout!" The television is apparently shut off. Various men stomp out of the dayroom into fresh air and grumble,"Damn! There's a football game on!" "We can't watch it 'cause they haven church."

I look up, "Yeah, God don't like football."

Time goes. The dog rolls around in the dry grass. The flies swarm and cluster. Up the hill, the I-10 is breathing. Across the Rio Grande, the yellow lights begin flickering in the white shanty houses. Juan comes back from a day at Labor Ready, that temp work joint. He holds my head in his hands and peers into the Nothing.

"Man, they got you fucked up." He mumbles at me. I want to hold him but it is to much an effort to move. "Help me to my bunk", I ask. Like an invalid, I cling to his muscles as I am escorted inside.

"Better to see you on junk, than this shit, babe." Juan whispers as he lays me onto my cot. "I hate seeing you like this. There is nothing in there." He puts gentle hands over my eyes.

Within seconds, I am asleep.

Emotions Emerged.

Last night, Juan and I visited El Paso’s only drive in Porno Theater, Fiesta Drive In. For $300 dollars Juan had aquirred an old clunker and we aimed to celebrate. Far out in the edges of town we parked in the dark and watched the ‘70’s porn flickering in front of us. We shared a bottle of tequila and got really plastered. Juan started kissing me. Very passionately. This was a shock, because he never kissed me before, he thinking that kissing was faggy.

Kissing is mans greatest invention.

All animals copulate, but only humans kiss.

Kissing is the supreme achievement in the Western world.

Orientals, including those who tended the North American continent before the ravagement, rubbed noses, and thousands still do. Yet despite the golden fruit of their millennia—they gave us yoga and gunpowder, Buddha and corn on the cob—they, their multitudes, their saints and sages, never produced a kiss.

The greatest discovery of civilized man is kissing and I do cherish it.

It was fantastic. I had no doubts; Juan cared for me too. All the past relationships, those depressing failures crept through my mind. I was in deepest despair. I have survived the junky sickness and poured a lot of drugs down the old vein to stop the pain. But, I was in love…honest love. If love can’t re-create lovers, what good is it? Love? What is it? The most natural painkiller there is.

LOVE.

The Third Mind.

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Job.

The grating voice of Jim Ross, resident novel writer and alcoholic, whines over the intercom at 5:30 in the morning-every morning- that it was time to wake up and wishing everyone a good day. Juan and I ate breakfast together pretending nothing went on that first night we had met. We had decided that it was time to get off our rusty dusty and find some work. We saw in the local newspaper The El Paso Times that a factory was hiring for merchandise handlers and promised a good salary. Juan and I thought we’d try it out.

Eventually, we found the offices and to our dismay it was actually a job of selling novelty merchandise to local companies: calculators, daily organizers, pens, and the such. Basically, a fucking door to door salesmen. The little pudgy dwarf of a manager, a short Mexican by the name Salvador Revas interviewed us and explained the job. Juan and I were a little skeptic at first, but, Salvador persuaded us to join him for a day of whirlwind excitement in the art of door to door sales and at least give it a chance.

We spent the entire blazingly hot afternoon zipping around in Salvador’s broken down van trying to sell this crap door to door. I hated it and Juan just thought it was funny. Salvador, who insisted on us calling him ‘Juicy’, explained to us the potential of making all of this money. I thought it was a bunch of worthless shite and wound up not selling anything to those assholes we came in contact with. At the end of the day with tired feet, Juan and I said our good-byes to Juicy and returned to the Mish.

The following day, Juan talked me into going to this old wood and concrete factory across from the Rescue Mission. He heard that they were hiring and since he enjoyed hard labor it was right up his alley. The owner was a crusty cantankerous old man named Jenkins. He disliked me from the start. Jenkins would talk to Juan but stared at me with his one good eye like I just finger fucked his virgin daughter. He had Juan and I doing all sorts of menial jobs to test our endurance.

Out back Jenkins had us picking up shards of tile and placing them in this wooden bin. After about five minutes of this, I quit and walked away. An hour later, Office Depot called and hired me. I had put in an application a few days ago and after the interview they gave me the copier position. That was fine with me.

Ah, yes. Office Depot. My first day there I had made a bad impression on the orientation director, a screaming swishy fag named Dale Torres. I would constantly rib him about his sissy acting nature. He didn’t like it. And the fact he was popular with the rest of the crew, they didn’t like it either. When I started working my regular shift, my schedule Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. Though the days were short, the pay was good. I guess.

The drugs that Dr. Guzman prescribed to me, in my opinion, were not working. They make me acutely agitated. I would become unusually hostile and yell and throw things for no apparent reason. Guzman assured me that it was just my systems way of adjusting to the balancing effect of the Prozac. I told him to go fuck himself and I stopped my sessions with him. I came to the conclusion that nothing was wrong with me. Why, I’m the sanest guy I know.

The time I spent with Juan Holguin was becoming somewhat of a romance. This young dark skinned straight acting cholo seems to have taken a liking to me. We take romantic strolls out behind the cement factory at night and I would blow him. He is a good companion; caring, smart, and has a great sense of humor. My attraction with Juan is growing. We went and saw The Brothers Grimm (Kitty puree!) and had lunch together and sat at a bar downtown and over beers and tequila shots talked of intimate things. We even had sex a couple of times at the mission. That being both scary and exciting in the fact that we might get caught and be asked to leave.

I think when I move into my apartment I will invite Juan to live with me.

The Wild Boys.

I was working the intake desk at The Mish. I glanced at the clock, it said ten o’clock. Thirty more minutes and I can close up the desk and go to bed. There was a crackle over the intercom. Sergio Herreras voice bleated, “Oh, ****…could you come to the front desk please?” There was a pause, “NOW!”

I got up and stomped down the hallway to the front desk, “Man, what the hell do you want?”

Whoa.

Standing at the front desk was a young handsome Mexican boy. He wore a white T-shirt, blue jeans and a black baseball cap. He had high cheekbones and a round full mouth. Thick black eyelashes framed his brown eyes. He was very good looking with a hint of orient in his face. He was tall, lean, his shoulders wider than his waist, with good natural muscletone. No body fat. The young man smiled and said, “Hi.”

“Mr. ****…this is Juan Holguin, he just came across the border." Grinned Sergio and with a wide theatrical sweep with his arm, pointed to the dorm. "Would you mind giving him a bed?”

“Sure.” I chirped. “I’d be happy to. Follow me.”

Juan walked in front of me as we went down the hall to the intake room. I glanced at Sergio and mouthed, “Look at that ass!” Sergio just cackled like a bitter queen as I ran after Juan and sat back at my desk. I gave Juan a goofy grin. “Hi. Have you ever been here before?”

“Um…no. Not for a long time.”

I looked down at his hands, the boy was missing several fingers and his forearms were a mass of scars.

Wow, what happened?

“What’s your name again…I’m sorry.” I asked.

“Juan Holguin.”

I wrote it down on the intake sheet saying it slowly as I wrote. “J-u-a-n-H-o-l-g-u-in. Can I ask you a question if you don’t mind?”

“My hands? People ask about them all the time. Well, you see this scar?” Juan circled his left wrist with a finger showing a jagged scar that went all around the circumference of the wrist. “I was fishing down in Puerto Villarta and my hand was bitten off by a shark. They managed to get the hand back and sew it on. I was reaching into the sharks mouth and that’s how I lost these fingers here.” He showed me his hands and on his left hand was missing the two middle fingers and part of the pinkie. The right hand was pretty much intact but the fingers were slightly deformed. “It’s no big deal.”

You’re still pretty hot, I thought.

I stared into his handsome brown eyes. There was a spark there; a mutual understanding that this person thought on the same wavelength. It wasn’t love at first sight. I knew it wasn’t something that petty, but an understanding that I may have found that person that you look for all your life. It is a thing that goes beyond love or friendship. An almost telepathic symbiosis. You can’t explain it you just know when it happens.

“Here is your ticket for your bed, Juan.” I told him about the shower before bed. When the boy left for the dormitory, I sat there very puzzled. My emotions were running wild. I hadn’t felt like this towards anybody in years, never this quick. There was something special about this person…I didn’t know what and that is what confused me.

Ah, what am I thinking? He’s just another piece of trash that’s staying here…Wait! He may need shampoo!

I got up, grabbed the bottle of shampoo off of the desk and walked briskly to the showers. Luckily there was nobody in there except Juan. He stood there lathering up his body. I studied his smooth hairless torso. He wasn’t dark, but he had a good tan. I noticed the tattoos on his chest and back. His body was very tight and muscular. His penis was fat and uncircumcised with black shiny pubic hairs. With his cap off, I saw that Juan had long wavy hair.

Juan saw me standing there and didn’t react. I held the bottle out for him. “Here. I know they’re out of shampoo…you can use some of mine.”

“Hey, thanks.” Juan said taking the bottle. I glanced at Juan’s hairless ass…very nice.

I returned to the intake room and switched the television off informing the men in there it was time to go to bed. I closed up my desk and went into the dormitory to go to sleep. Within the next five minutes or so they would be shutting the lights out for the night. Since I was the one that made the bed selections for the clients, I took care in putting Juan in a bunk right in front of mine. And there the boy lay when I got to my bed, wearing only a pair of red briefs. A lump rose in my throat.

“Well, it seems you’re all ready turned in for the night.” I said to Juan.

“I don’t think I’ll be getting any sleep. I have trouble sleeping in a strange place.”

I shook my head. “I know what you mean. All the farting, stinky feet and all night masturbating. I tell the guy next to me if he don’t like the way I am he can get a hotel.”

Juan chuckled, then went quiet. “Is it hard to get a job around here?”

“Not really…you just have to go out and find one. Maybe tomorrow we can go together to the employment office and find some work. You wanna go?”

“Sure, that’ll be cool.”

At that moment the lights went out.

“Well, guess the party’s over.” I said leaping into my bunk. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see ya.” Juan said.

I laid there in the dark. The snoring of the other transients started. I looked over to Juan and could make out his silhouette against the soft red light of the exit sign. Time passed. I rolled in my bunk overtaken by savage lust. Time crawled and I couldn’t sleep. I glanced back at Juan’s shadow. At the crotch, under the covers, there was a rhythmic movement.

Oh, shit! He’s jacking off! Gotta think fast!

I jumped out of bed and motioned Juan to follow me into the bathroom. I whispered, “Dude, I can’t sleep. Let’s go into the bathroom and talk.”

Juan got out of bed and followed me into the restroom. In the shower area there was an old fungus covered wooden bench and we both sat on it. People kept coming in and out of the restroom to use the toilet. The sound of pissing and shitting was mixed with the whirring of the huge antique fan in the wall of the showers and that drowned out our conversation to anyone who was in the dorm.

“So, tell me…how did you wind up in El Paso?” I asked. It was a good a question as any.

As Juan talked, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of those alien looking hands. “I was living in Tucson before I wound up in Mexico. They have several shelters in Tucson and I managed to get kicked out of all of them.” He brushed a hand across his smooth muscular chest. “I met this one black guy there and we became friends. He was a cool guy, like you, and he helped me out with a lot of stuff. But, he kept asking for sex in return.”

Nothings for free, kid.

“At first I used to charge him and he’d pay me money to suck my dick, they always pay.” He flashed me a knowing look. “But, when I moved in and we lived in an apartment together he became possessive and I left. I moved in with this one couple where the husband liked to watch me fuck his wife. I should have charged him too.” He smiled at that.

I knew it! The boy’s a prostitute!

I gave Juan a devilish grin and then said presently, “You know, Juan. I saw you jacking off in your bunk.”

“Yeah? ...I’m really horny.”

I glanced at his growing crotch in his red briefs. “So…um…you wanna jack off?”

“Sure.” Juan said and pulled out his stiff organ and started slowly to stroke it.

I was very excited. This was just what I needed. This boy was incredible and I was going to enjoy every moment. The moment was right, all things seem to fit into space. I pulled out my own penis, but as soon as Juan said, “How much you gonna give me?” I sprayed my semen all over the moldy tile floor of the shower. I was so embarrassed that I stood up, mumbled a few unintelligent syllables and left the shower with Juan sitting there still holding his erection.

I got to my bunk and fell asleep. Troubled by my emotions for this boy and the fumble that just happened, how would I face this Juan tomorrow.

Cognoscenti.

If little else, the brain is an educational toy. While it may be a frustrating plaything---whose finer points recede just when you think you are mastering them---it is nonetheless perpetually fascinating, frequently surprising, occasionally rewarding, and it comes already assembled; you don’t have to put it together on Christmas morning.

The problem with possessing such an engaging toy is that other people want to play with it, too. Sometimes they’d rather play with yours than theirs. Or they object if you play with yours in a different manner from the way they play with theirs. The result is, a few games out of a toy department of possibilities are universally and endlessly repeated. If you don’t play some people’s game, they say that you have “lost your marbles”, not recognizing that, while Chinese checkers is indeed a fine pastime, a person may also play dominoes, chess, strip poker, tiddlywinks, drop the soap or Russian roulette with his brain.

One brain game that is widely, if poorly, played is a gimmick called “rational thought”. And like the games in grade school, I was last to be picked for the winning team.

I also had Klaus as my caseworker again and I explained the recent events in my life. He suggested that maybe I should schedule to see the psychoanalyst that visits and treats several of the cases at the mission. Klaus assured me that he didn’t think I was crazy, but having a check up couldn’t hurt.

The following day, I was to see the psyche-doctor at three. Klaus explained to me it would only take about twenty minutes. I said hello to Dr. Guzman. He wanted to ask me a few questions. Guzman and I sat alone in Klaus’s office. Dr. Guzman was a thin Mexican with round gray eyes, speckled with flaws and opaque spots like damaged marbles.

“This will be brief. From talking with you in the hall…I doubt if anything is wrong.” Guzman noted.

The session went on for two hours. Guzman recently graduated from the psychiatric department at the City College and I started to wonder at his medical modis operandi.

When I complained of a lack of purpose in life, Dr. Guzman had yelled, “Purpose! Purposes are for animals with a hell of a lot more dignity than the human race! Just hop on that strange torpedo and ride it to wherever it’s going.”

When I had expressed a wish to overcome my alleged irresponsibility, Dr. Guzman had said, “The man who considers himself ‘responsible’ has not honestly examined his motives.”

When I expressed outrage, Dr. Guzman shouted, “Don’t be outraged, be outrageous!”

When I told him I thought I was a failure, he stared at me and sneered: “So you think that you’re a failure, do you? Well, you probably are. What’s wrong with that? In the first place, if you had any sense at all you must have learned by now that we pay dearly for our triumphs as we do our defeats. Go ahead and fail. But fail with wit, fail with grace, fail with style. A mediocre failure is as insufferable as mediocre success. Embrace failure! Seek it out. Learn to love it. That may be the only way any of us will be free.”

Dr. Guzman was all right. And after all this he diagnosed me as manic-depressive schizophrenic II. Whatever the hell that is. And prescribed me on Prozac and a whole galaxy of other mood depressors.

So, I am confined to the mission and fill my time with intaking new clients. After a couple of filthy intakes, a thin Indian looking boy with a large hooked nose sat at the desk dressed in surfer shorts and a red tank top. I studied the way his nipple poked out of his shirt; I always did have a thing for nipples.

“Can I help you?”

“I need to get a bed for the night.”

“Have you been here before?”

“No.”

I reached in my desk and took out another intake form.

“Name?”

“Santiago Sienz.”

“Have you talked with the guy up at the front desk?”

Santiago made a pattern over his face with his hands. “The one with the scars? He’s helping out my wife.”

“Yep…he’s a real bitch.” I quipped.

Sienz bent forward lowered his voice, and said jokingly, “He is a queen, huh?”

“Yeah, he’s just bitter because somebody dropped a house on his sister."

We both laughed. I continued with the standard questions, using my wit along the way. Except for that big nose…he’s kinda cute.

I handed Santiago his ticket and told him about the showers. At one last joke, I referred to the bag of tacos that Santiago was holding and said pointing at the bag. “You gonna eat that?”

“No.” Santiago said placing the bag on the desk. “Go ahead and take them.” And with that he walked off into the dorm.

Monty, who was sitting and watching television whirled around and cocked his head, “You are a roguish tramp! Took the mans last tacos and him with a wife!”

The people nearest started to laugh, I turned red. “I was only kidding! Here you want them?”

Monty put up a hand, “No, child! It was your greedy ass that asked for them…you eat them!”

“I was only kidding!” I said in defense. Later I gave them to an old man that looked like he hadn’t eaten for days.

The City of Dead Roads.

And then reality reared its ugly head. This morning I woke up and Vincent was gone. Now there is nothing strange about that, people come and go here so quickly that there is a certain unwritten rule that you should not get attached or involved in their plights. But, I did and I was saddened by the fact that Vincent didn’t say goodbye. I really did like him.

Well, my life did go on. I was attempting to locate an apartment in Juarez with the help of Keith and this old hobo named Andy. The old man wore a smelly blue suit that was blotched with stains on the knees and crotch. Andy had an old dirty jacket, shiny over the dirt. He had no socks; his feet were covered in tattered shoes. His greasy silver hair was slicked back over a pink forehead. The old slob always looked slack jawed and incoherent. We found Andy living under a bridge near the mission. He was collecting social security so he had money. He was Irish and used to be a boxer when he was younger. Now he was just old and feeble. One in Juarez and with the advice from a friendly old taxi driver, Andy found an apartment and moved in immediately. I didn’t see any apartments I liked or the rent was too high.

Keith and I hung around some bars but it started to rain. All the streets in downtown Juarez were flooded. We both were drunk beyond belief. To get back to the bridge that crossed to El Paso, we had to wade through hip deep polluted water with the chance of electrocution from downed power lines. It made for a funny situation. Kept asking taxi drivers if they rented canoes. Through that crazy night drizzle streets like Hong Kong we waded slowly through market ways and we come out on the whore street district and get off behind the fruity fruitstands and tortilla beans and taco shacks with fixed wood benches---it's the poor district of Rome. There is no describing the awfulness of that gloom above the adobe rooftops. Rain is blearing down--pretty boys are dashing over gutters full of pools--dogs bark at rushing cars, the drizzle empties eerily into holes of festering sewage...

Once back in El Paso, ate at a Chinese restaurant warmed up to hot tea and returned to The Mish.

Heavy Metal Fluid.

There are opportunities in life for gathering knowledge and experience. In order to do this, one must take a risk.

Vincent brought me cocaine when he could score for it. Good coke is hard to find in Mexico. I had never used good coke before. Coke is pure kick. It lifts you straight up, a mechanical lift that starts leaving you as soon as you feel it. I don't know anything like cocaine for a lift, but the high only lasts ten minutes or so. Then you want another snoot.

There is no tolerance with cocaine and not much margin between a regular and toxic dose. Which is not the same as heroin. With H, I sometimes got too much and everything went black and my heart began turning over. Never that problem with coke.

You, see, junk is a biological necessity when you have a habit, an invisible mouth. When you take a shot of junk, you are satisfied, just like you ate a big meal. You don't want another shot right away. But using cocaine, you want another bump as soon as the effect wears off. If you got coke in the house, you will not go out to a movie or go out at all until the cocaine is all gone. One snort creates an urgent desire for another line to maintain the high. But once the coke is out of your system, you forget about it.

There is no habit to coke, cabrones.

Dues Ex Machina, What?

"Oh fuckin' yeah! That feels so fuckin' good!" I moaned as I rode on top of Vincents bucking torso. We had rented a twenty dollar a night room at The Gateway Hotel and the bed springs were squeaking overtime. The air conditioner didn't work and our bodies were soaked. I had my palms on the pink walls as Vincent held my hips thrusting himself upward into me. The bed thumped and boinged loudly. Grunts and moans permeated the room.

Bending down, I sucked his thick tongue as he banged harder and faster. I straightened up and smiling I looked up to the ceiling seeing stars and without any assistance I shot hot spurts of jissom across his dark stomach and chest. "Fuck, that's hot", he breathed. I looked down and saw the glaze in his amber eyes, he was about there.

"Here it comes!" He grunted, face contorted in orgasm. I could feel his penis growing in me, ready to shoot. His thick brown hands clutched my hips and with three viscous thrusts he emptied his hot semen inside of me.

With a fluid plop, we fell onto each other, kissing until our heavy breathing subsided. We laughed at each other as we both looked sopping wet like we just emerged from a swimming pool, the sheets were soaked. Vincent slid out from under me to take a piss. I lay on my stomach, asshole throbbing, hugging a pillow, staring at nothing. I grinned, "Baybeeee...I want more!" I kicked my legs like a little kid.

Vincent stood at the door to the bathroom, drying with a ragged towel his short muscular body wet from sweat. His penis pointed downward, that long brown uncut fucker still semi-erect and glistening from cum and lube, "No can do, baby...we hafta get cleaned up and go meet Charlie."

As Vincent took a shower, I crawled over to the nightstand and lit a Lucky Strike. There was a highball glass there and a bottle of Jose Cuervo which I filled the glass. As I lay there watching the old ceiling fan spin, the warmth from the liquor began to take hold and I remembered the reason we were here. Both of us were broke, so Vincent talked me into going with him to get Food Stamps and then selling them. Of coarse, being homeless we both were approved. Since it would take several hours to activate the two cards, we decided to rent a room to romp and play while waiting for the cards to activate. Vincent got on the phone and called an old friend that would sell our cards for us.

Through Vincent I met a man by the name of Fat Charlie. He was this extremely obese nut case that had his fingers in several dubious and illegal affairs. He always seemed to be smiling, even when he was mad. And that shoulder length permed hair just made that six-foot tall behemoth even more disturbed looking.

He agreed to take us to a guy named Savage Henry who was willing to buy our food cards for sixty cents on the dollar. However, Savage Henry was on the other side of town. For a kickback of, say maybe, twenty percent, Fat Charlie agreed to take us there.

And there Vincent and I were, flying down the freeway in a broken-down Ford truck, Johnny Cash blaring Rings of Fire over the 8-track tape player and Fat Charlie screaming along to the music.

When we arrived at Savage Henry’s apartment, we were met at the door by a bitchy old Mexican queen named Ruffo. Waves of hostility flowed out from his large brown eyes like some sort of television broadcast. The effect was almost like a physical impact. His mouth was drawn down at the corners in a grimace of petulant annoyance. Savage Henry was a scraggy old fag chain-smoking in an old armchair full of holes. His fingers were yellow from nicotine. His faded striped shirt was marked here and there with cigarette holes. Fat Charlie tipped his old torn white cowboy hat.

“Well, howdy, Henry. I need to make that business deal I explained to you on the phone. Would you like to purchase two food cards off of these fine young men?” He watched the ash spiral down from the end of the cigarette; it hit the floor in a puff of gray dust.

Savage Henry’s voice sounded like an ungreased machine. “How much is on them?”

“Oh, they have $150.00 on them both.” Fat Charlie’s face wrinkled into a cherub smile. Front tooth missing.

Savage Henry looked us over with cold dead fish eyes. A white tongue flicked across chapped lips. Ruffo stared at us with contempt and hatred. I thought he was going to pull out a gun. Then Savage Henry wheezed, “Sure. I’ll take ‘em. Standard price. You both sure are pretty boys.” He casually stroked a finger across my cheek.

Selling the cards was a piece of cake, so after paying off Fat Charlie we were returned to the mission. We both had about two hundred dollars between us. It's always good to have a little pocket change, right?

Steers and Queers.

Yesterday, as I was sitting outside the mission swatting flies, up the dusty road walked Vincent Guzman. A beautiful sight for my sore gay eyes. The young man of eighteen was handsome in a rough kind of way. He had jet-black hair, hazel eyes; shiny black hairs hung limply over his full lips. He had one of those Chicano Indian faces and his skin was very dark. There was a sad look in his eyes. A look both alive and beat. I noticed that his hands were ashy and had calluses.

Perhaps a field worker…I like a man good with his hands.

Since I have some time on my hands with the therapy I am receiving, the powers at the mission gave me the job of intaking new clients. It was a thankless job but it had its advantages. I was intaking clients that day and decided to process him.

“What’s your name, my friend?”

“Vincent Guzman.” The boy said softly, almost coy.

I read off the questions and Vincent answered with a timid shyness that was almost too cute. He knew the game. Cat and mouse. This kid was an old time hustler. In his dirty faded jeans and red plaid shirt that smelled of endless truckstops, flop houses, bus station restrooms, and cheap hotels. Freely giving his sex up until he needed something. The boy preyed on cockjunkies. He knew how to smooth talk, give generously, and then take until there was nothing else. Vincent knew the score and so did I.

“You can get a bunk after you take a shower."

“I’ll do anything you say.” He said softly, and yes there was a glint in his eye.

I bet you will.

I put his folder away and said, “Go to the dormitory. The man at the desk will give you a towel and some soap. Do you have any shampoo? No? Okay, I’ll lend you some of mine. Take this ticket, it has your bed number on it. Give it to the dorm clerk, you’ll get it back after you shower. That’s when he’ll issue a pillow, sheet, and a blanket.”

Vincent took the ticket, “Thank you.”

The boy gathered his small plastic shopping bag that contained a few dingy belongings and walked out of the room to the dorm next door. My eyes followed him like a lizard following the coarse of an ant.

I rushed into the dorm and to my bunk, took out a bottle of my shampoo. I kept my personal items and clothes in milk crates under my bed. Waiting a few minutes at my desk tapping my fingers and sipping on my Dr. Pepper, I entered the bathroom and the shower was sending steam in great swirls around the room. I entered the shower area and Vincent was lathering up his dark torso with the coarse yellow soap supplied by the shelter. I stared at his muscular body, the flat stomach, the hairy chest, the dark hairy legs, and his long penis. It seemed to me he was concentrating a lot on cleaning that part of his torso. I watched for long seconds as he rubbed and stroked his pubic hair and penis into a big cloud of bubbly white lather.

“Uh…here’s your shampoo.” I finally said. I held it out.

“Thanks.” Vincent said walking over for the bottle; his cock swinging and my eyes were transfixed on it.

Walking back under the water, Vincent dabbed some shampoo onto his head and worked it into his hair.

“If you need anything, just ask. Okay?” I said stupidly.

Vincent stared at me with a serious look. “I’d like to finish my shower. I’ll talk to you outside.”

“Oh…of course.” I strode out of the bathroom.

I returned to my desk with the memory of Vincent’s torso still burning in my mind; lust flickering like heat lightning. For a whole week I’ve been surrounded by a bunch of unfortunate looking faggots and in walked this breath of fresh air. We immediately became friends. His uplifting attitude got me out of my rut.

The last two hot summer nights were spent joking with my friends next to the mission and now talking to Vincent under that big black starry sky. Sitting under the rusted water tower, staring at the lights of Mexico just across the Rio Grande, listening to the highway breathing and the buzzing of the cicadas in the trees, Vincent put his arm around my waist and stole an innocent kiss on my cheek. "I like you", he whispered into my ear. But, we were interrupted by a the call for curfew.

All in all, these are fun times. We were all piss poor, but we all have each other. I know it sounds corny, but it is so peaceful and carefree. So, different from the stressed out time I had in Tijuana and Los Angeles. With homeless people there is this sort of bonding blatant camaraderie. These people are so much friendlier, so much more real than those fake and plastic bitches back west.

Well, onto business. I saw my psychiatrist today and have started the long process into fixing my head. The only fear I have is that these drugs that they will prescribe will make me lose all what I am...this wild spirit, this uncontrolled artistic lover of life and spontaneity.

Is it all worth it?