Signs of Semi-Life on a Sunday

It’s semi-alive out here today,
minor hustle and bustle, but more than a usual Sunday.
The sky is overcast and grey—
with an errant raindrop or two.
I am dressed in black from head to toe,
slightly resembling and Interpol-listening undertaker.
I slink into a café for a coffee
to drink while finishing a mini-novella by Gabriel García-Márquez
(in Spanish, always in Spanish, to be faithful
towards the original language).
Reaching the end, I felt a sense of accomplishment—
due to my mind battling against a crying baby
that couldn’t be placated by her parents.
Off I go again, and the errant raindrops
are becoming more constant.
My feet (and liver) guild me
to my usual watering hole
(where everybody kind of know my name).
Settled in, I place an order—
a pint of Anchor Steam and a shot of Herradura añejo.
Tonight, success tastes like aged tequila.
There was the usual mixture
of power-drinking punks and dead-enders.
A couple soon enters the establishment
and sit to my immediate left.
He gets a Newcastle, she gets a Corona.
Twenty minutes into their round,
her male companion excuses himself
and goes into the bathroom.
“If I wasn’t here with my man,
I would be all up on you,”
said the woman to my left,
in a hushed tone, looking towards the restrooms.
She looked not a day over thirty-five,
with the skin tone of a Latina, or an ethnic white.
Her skin showed some slight wear—
a mixture of time marching on and hard living.
I was slightly amused by her Corona-induced proclamation,
but I gave it as much currency
as a waitress’ casual over-usage of “sweetie” and “hon”.
I say this though she is the only woman here,
which makes her the hottest number around.
Her boyfriend comes back from the bathroom—
he looks like a gangster-turned-biker.
I go back to my Anchor Steam, gulping the last drink,
thinking of what she said.
Those words cling on to my mind like suds on a finished pint glass.
I massage the pulsating veins on my left temple
with my index and middle fingers,
aware that I look like a crude composite
character in a Fante, Bukowski or Bolaño story.
I marvel at how people go about their drinking,
with the fervor of a fatalist in his final moment.
Frantic and twitching, maybe they are trying
to out-hustle their inner-demons,
or, they are trying to stay one step ahead of death,
who must be polishing his scythe somewhere in the back.
We all have our reasons for being here,
and mine… well, it’s all a blur now.

©2010 José-Ariel Cuevas

Comments

[Myra Maines]

Yes, Garcia-Marquez is better in Spanish, and in the rain.

[José-Ariel Cuevas]

Totally, Myra. The original language thing also applies to books orignally written in English. Something gets lost in the translation (provided one is versed in either language.)

[DMZ]

Unlucky for me then as I am proficient in neither.