Eight And A Half Stories High

Somebody told me I would die at a young age. For the death of me, I can’t remember who that was. I began the trek there mentally, eyes closed and the sound of crashing waves moan on and moan on; the roar plushes through time to reach me, seagulls kite above, the glare of the sun hits the right side of my nose as I look down banefully through Marcelloesque Ray Bans and I’m eight and a half stories high. Children giggle in the haze of a distant nowhere. Grunting third world buses inch along coughing up cruel amounts of pollution.

“What’s it like up there?!”

I exhale and point at a spot in the sand where a woman’s leg wiggles its way out. “Mother, is that you?”

“Mi Bambino! Where have you been?”

“Mother, is it really you?”

“Who else could have legs like your mother, foolish child?”

“You said you would never leave me nor forsake me.”

“That was a different liar.”

 

“Sir, would you like to buy some gum? It is real tasty, Señor. I have all flavors in world. You will love all my flavors. Nobody carries the flavors like Paco does, Señor. Guaranteed or your handshake back.”

“I don’t need any gum, kid, thanks.”

“Well, I didn’t want to wake you, Señor, but those men over there in the leather vests kept staring at you ass and talking in low boys.”

“Those assholes over there?”

“Jess, the ones with the big radio. Man, that double-cassette is the chorro!”

“Chorro?”

“Chorro means the runs in espanol, Señor.”

“I need a different kind of flavor, kid. ”

“Sheet, like what, Mister?”

“El Slowdive.”

“Awww, you want to snort or shoot?”

“Stab.”

“My uncle Jesus has the best in town. And his spikes are all clean, swear.”

“Take me to him.”

 

The house sat silent and planted perfectly amid a cemetery of automobiles once driven with delight circa phone home. Jesus slept on the couch as we walked in and chickens almost ripped my face off as they blurred past me at eye level; his long dark-brown hair laced his eyelids and left side his face. Shirtless and corduroyd. He smiled in his slumber.

“Should we–”

“What do you wan?”

“Hey, uncle this pendejo wants that new droga all the gringos want.”

“I see,” he said as he stood up and yawned. He froze mid yawn as a cigarette levitated and reversed slowly to his lips. “You been listening to all that crazy music, too?”

“What music?”

“Don’t fuck me, Holmes. That skinny whiteboy, goofy noisy pretty shit from the other side of the pond.”

“Okay, maybe a little,” I replied staring at my shoes.

“How much you got?”

“Not much, it took a lot just to get here.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“How about this?”

“Fuck is that?”

“You know what it is.”

“Yes, but it’s still pumping!”

“How else would it be?”

“Shit, holmes, I can’t do anything with that. Come back when it’s no longer beating.”

∞