Cuba, New Mexico Part III

Read parts I and II here and here.

“I’m just glad that I came by when I did.”   Imelda, the clerk’s sister, came in with a club sandwich and some lentil soup from the place up the road.  She still had her hair cutting kit in her hand when she found Albert in a pool of chunky vomit.  She stripped him down to his new underwear, helped him back into the bathroom and into the tub for the second time that day and ran warm water over him. “My husband run off.  He was a drunk.”  Giving him the stink eye.  “I ain’t a drunk.”  Albert mumbled as the water ran.  His side was throbbing.  His internal organs were over used and he didn’t know why.  She just looked at him with a look that said ‘Yeah right fucker.’  “You want to change your clothes?”  “Yeah.”  “You want me to come back?”  “No, please stay..I’m…trying to feel a little more human.  Thanks for all of your help.”  “Needed to wash your hair again anyway.”  She said.

Al finished washing off the his own vomit, but when it came time to exit the tub his foot still wasn’t working and he nearly went down again.  “What the fuck??!!” he screamed before changing out of the underwear he had neglected to take off before entering the tub.  He changed into fresh clothes; on the bathroom counter were K-Mart track pants and a wife beater.  Imelda directed him to sit backwards on the toilet.  He was so exhausted and ill that he put his head in his hands on the cold porcelain and moaned while she cut his shit-locks down.  ’8 years!’ he thought.  After forty minutes of work and another hair wash, using the shower this time, he looked in the mirror and thought that he could pass for a member of the Eagles.  ‘And only 34.’  Where had his good looks gone? ‘My teeth!  Godammit!  Am I on Meth?’’  He had been awake for a while and didn’t feel the urge to smoke anything.  A cigarette maybe, or a small bowl of weed to settle his stomach. 

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Not The First Mistake (September)

Robert Bennett is in his room at the Eastman Hotel, a single-room occupancy, watching television.  Watching isn’t necessarily the best description, as the screen is frozen in the test pattern, but he seems to be dozing off, more asleep than awake, occasionally jerking his head as he drifts in and out of consciousness.  The sound of the TV is all the way down, so he cannot hear the high pitched whine that accompanies the color bars on the screen, just the low level hum of the old set.  The only other sounds in the room are the constant hiss of the neon lights outside his window, which he leaves permanently cracked, and the occasional rattle and bang of a Night Owl bus, or sanitation truck, thrashing its wheels over the street grate three stories below. 

He is sitting up on the bed, leaning back against the wall, propped on the shitty pillows that he found stuffed under the flea-ridden mattress when he took the room.  His sawed-off Remington shotgun sits on the seat of the chair near the door, with several boxes of ammo near it.  He is still wearing the double shoulder holsters, the left one still holding a .45 semi-auto, and the other empty, with a matching handgun lying next to him on the bed.  There are several extra clips, fully loaded, with more random bullets scattered around him on the bed.  He has been here for a while, though even he isn’t sure how long anymore.  The overflowing ashtrays, empty packs of cigarettes, and nearly dozen empty beer bottles on the table beside his bed serve as a testament to the passing time.  He abruptly wakes from his slumber and sees the test pattern playing on the television.  Irritated by it, he quickly stands and turns it off, then immediately sits back down at the foot of his bed, clutching his skull and regretting his sudden movements.  The last four hours are black in his mind again.  That always unnerves him.

Robert walks up to the Grab N Go just before three a.m.  Outside of the store are four bangers, three Mexican and one White.  They all look the same to him: dumb punks.  He looks the same to him: an old drunk.  He fingers his trusty sawed-off in the left pocket of his greying beige overcoat, the shoulder holsters worn over the charcoal vest and tie, and though he isn’t wearing his suit jacket, they remain hidden by the duster, as he walks into the store.  He walks to the beer cooler, seemingly unaware of the teenager looking suspicious in the candy aisle, and the worn down, middle-aged woman working the counter, halfway through her shift for the night.  She is the type of woman who has obviously had a hard life, and has done little to make it easier on herself.  She sighs at every request made of her at work, and says, “I wish this was over.”  Most people assume she means her shift, but some wonder if she isn’t just talking about her life.

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Nephelokokkygia

We met in a train wreck: her car blocked the tracks. 

She stood there and smoked and watched as it burned, licked her fingers and forked tongue and grinned at my sin while the barbs in my flesh stood in defense. 

I offered her whiskey; she offered her bed, so I laughed at my fate while I drank from the stars and ate of the Earth while Mercury rises and falls to the wind. 

Visions of fireflies in rusted out cars cold sleeping in hayfields still flickered and flashed with the words that she said.  

She paused and she screamed, two fists full of hair, and dropped to her knees as the blood she still wept on ochre stained lips showed how I lost her embrace.

Her eyes were long dead before I flew to the sun, molten wax searing flesh as I stared at the passed and forgotten forlorn who sang us the songs of rebellion and scorn.  

The leaders of violence sent wolves to our lair while she rose with the ashes and I gave in to rust for Gabriel’s cries kept the sirens cold silent. 

The felons and jokers all trembled and wept for her laughter and malice were all we had left as she fell to the earth when my dried blood displayed:  The deal had been done. 

I rock on my heels and curse at the sun for it lashes so cruelly at all I have done; the last of her screams still run down my back, her fingernail traces still glistening red. 

The scars of my scars pretend a defense and begin to shut down the feelings I’ve left while the time ran the night all blistered and burned and full of hindsight.

I cradle her hands as her bones turn to dust and the flames in her eyes burn the cities all down as black holes turn to devils and God trades the phoenix for whiskey and wine. 

Cigarettes are burning regrets of a life that’s fading faster than my memory, and these blue and fading tears will wash away dead flowers and the Ferryman.

She tattoos her soul on the back of my neck with her spike in my arm and her rope at my throat and her lust in my heart and her death on my mind: remorse swallows guilt as I chase down the dragon.

The pinch and the press are forgiving and patient, one at a time the fireflies die and clovers cast off  their seeds to the wind where the children are eaten by butterflies creeping. 

She climbs back to her feet and looks down at my grave, then smiles and whispers:

“I told you I saved.”

Cuba, New Mexico Part II

Click here for Cuba, New Mexico Part I

“Glad to see that shitty motel rooms haven’t changed much.  How long will I have to wait to get out of this dump?” he thought.  The way he looked and smelled he was just grateful that the hotel clerk at the Cuban Lodge had let him use the phone.  The clerk had accepted Jon’s American Express Centurion card over the phone and couldn’t get Albert out of the office fast enough.  When Albert got to his room and looked in the mirror he was surprised that the office manager hadn’t called the cops.  He needed to sit down.  “Sleeping under the overpass isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” He was in bad shape.

“Knock, knock.” ‘Who the fuck could that be?’ Albert thought.  “Care package from your friend.  I sent my wife to go pick up some clothes for you.” Albert tried to get up from the chair.  It hurt to move so he plopped back down. “Just leave it by the door.”  He could hear the little man set it down and then shuffle back towards the Motel’s front office.  After a few minutes he was able to make it to the door (alternately using the table, the dresser and the TV stand as support) to retrieve it. It looked like the basket was full of two of everything that the shitty roadside motel had to offer.  “Typical Jon,” He said.  ‘No food or booze.  Probably couldn’t keep anything down anyway.’ He thought.  All the travel size Advil went down immediately.

He was in another man’s body.  Must be an old man’s he thought.   Albert couldn’t even take stock of his situation.  Every part of his body hurt and it hurt to even think about what could be wrong with him.  “Baths are always good.” He moved in the direction of the bathroom and ended up slumped down on the toilet.  He slowly took off his rags and his talking shoes.  Next he dumped half a dozen body soaps and shampoo bottles into the running bath water, then returned to the toilet while the tub filled up with suds.

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Thoughts Arrive Like Butterflies...

I used to sleep in a bed made of the finest padding available, framed in mahogany with silk drapes cascading down between the posts. I used to sleep under a heavy down blanket that matched my pillows and both were wrapped in the same silk that wrapped my bed.  I used to sleep with women of all races and ages, our bodies intertwined as we both gently snored in the heavy, satisfied sleep of those who have just indulged in the hedonistic and lustful pleasures of the flesh.  I used to sleep indoors, where the walls of my bedroom were inside the walls of my house and I remained insulated from the cold exhaust filled air and noise of the city streets.

I used to do laundry by throwing my dirty clothes in a hamper that a service would take once a week and sort out the regular wash from the dry clean only and return it to me neatly folded and wrapped.  I used to keep my clothes in a dresser and a closet where the folded articles stayed folded in their appropriate drawers and my suits stayed finely pressed in the plastic wrap of the dry cleaners until the day of the week when I felt they deserved to be worn.

I used to shower every morning in hot water that cascaded off of my body and down the drain in the middle of my tile shower.  I used to shave every other day in order to maintain my professional appearance, yet not irritate my skin and cause unsightly discoloration or blemishes like ingrown hairs.

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DJ Dojo Presents: The Future: At The Blank Club

The Blank Club interior: Night
1st Friday, Once a month club night: The Future

Welcome to The Future!

“Paranoiattack” – The Faint

No! I’m not playing any mash-ups tonight! Get the fuck out of the booth!

“The Devil” – The Rapture

Tell Craigy I need Jesus Christ (Jack and Coke)!

“Daft Punk Is Playing At My House” – LCD Soundsystem

Sorry. Short set tonight. Just go dance.

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Cuba, New Mexico

He awoke. “Why is it so bright?” He thought. The next thought was, “Who beat me up?" He felt like shit.

A big rig goes by on the overpass above. Looking down the slope of the grade through crusted eyes he can only see the dry creek bed. “How did I get here?”

“Ahhh!” He rolled over on his left side to searing agony in his ribs. He tried again. He slithered into the shade of mid-morning, no more than 15 feet from where he started. “Where am I?” he thought as he looked out over the desert scrub of the southwest. He resolved to make it to the top of the rise. The crawl to the top was agony on his ribs and he couldn't quite feel his left foot.

There seemed to be some sort of stripmall about a mile up the road. Walking was difficult. He had two shoes on but one was talking to him, the sole was separated. The limp didn’t help either. It felt like his chest, shoulder and abdomen were on fire. He reached a sign on the road, “Cuba, New Mexico, Population 590.”

The first building that he could make out was some type of food establishment. It had some pay phones out front and they each had some writing on the side and some sort of lightning graphic. “Verizon. What the fuck is that?” He thought. Before he could make it that far he had to stop to wretch for several minutes. Nothing recognizable came up.

He finally dialed ‘0’ for operator. “Operator,” She said. Why are they always female? “I need to make a collect call.” “What number please?”, "415-666-0112, ask for Jonathan Moore” “Who may I say is calling?” “Albert Palmer.” “Hold please.”

He noticed a bracelet on his wrist. Peak Psychiatric Hospital. "That can't be good."

Some more coughing. “Jeez..[ccccccchhhhhwwweepp]… “What is that?” He thought as the phlegm-mixed-with-bile hit his big toe through the talking shoe. “I have him for you sir.” “Who is this? I haven’t got time for games.” “Jon it’s me, Albert.” Silence. “It can’t be…,” Said Jon. "I hardly believe it myself. I'm just glad you kept the same mobile phone number."

The Eastman Hotel

I know where I am but I'm not sure why I am here. I just knew that I had to escape Bakersfield.

To call the place I live, The Eastman Hotel, a “Hotel” is a joke. It has no reviews, nor stars on Yelp. It is on the same block as the 16th street BART, which always smells like urine. Always. There's a Johnny Cash cover singer at the station some days and he's the only street performer I give money to. Every night I have to avoid the thieves, dealers, pimps and hookers to get to my room. Room 402. As I'm writing this a hooker is dropped off by a john driving a black Toyota truck with a camper. She walks into the alley to give the cash to her pimp. Yes, he's black. There's no liquor store on this block. If there was it would probably just get robbed all the time. There is a Mexican church in a retail space. I wonder what they make of all this. Outside the security gate of the Eastman someone is passed out in the hallway again. Hopefully he puked on the street before making his bed in the entrance, unlike last week.

My local bar is called something ironic of course. This is the Mission after all. If I ever had a drink of choice I don’t remember it. I sit at the bar, as opposed to a table, because I don’t know anyone and I like it that way. Wednesday night I watched a cute girl pick up some floor drugs. This bar is where the dude-bros slumming it bring the good shit and it's probably ok. She saw that I was watching her and came over. “Ten for half.” It sounded more like a question. I looked her over. The scars on her body marked her as a habitual cutter. “No chance. But if you throw in a fuck I’ll consider twenty.” “OK” she said. We made our way to the bathroom.

At the Eastman my neighbors are mostly meth hookers. I met a high-class hooker in Hawaii once. Six-foot-two blonde speaking Japanese. I can still remember her heels as she got into the limo, red on the bottom. The local Mission breed are as far removed from high class as you can get. You’ve seen them though you try to forget them. You think that they must be 50 years old but the meth just got them early. Their teeth, or lack of teeth, is always a dead giveaway.

On my way back from the bar last night I saw a man wearing only a bathrobe. He wretched into one of his shoes, the other was on. He swayed for a while, as if considering whether he gave a fuck, put his shoe on and stumbled down the alley. Squish…squish…squish…

One of my neighbors has been stabbed in the face. He has the scar and the slur to prove it. He hangs out front of the Eastman with a rotating group of miscreants. Their behavior reminds me of teenagers. Yelling, or in McStabby's case, mumbling after women. Good people, hurrying home from work. Glad that it is still light.

There were a couple cops circling on black Treks outside the bar tonight for some reason. ‘Dykes on bikes’ I like to think to myself. Almost as bad as the fixies. “Denver blows and I want to move back. I don’t remember all the cops. Want to hit this blunt?” Some asshole is speaking in my general direction as his girl takes a picture of me. "Hmph" I snort. "It’s the Mission. The cops will probably light it for you.” Two guys got robbed at knife-point the night before. Explains the cops.

Walking back to the Eastman I see three gorgeous Asian girls, dressed for the evenings debauchery, get out of a cab. They are followed by two fat guys clearly out of their league. Apparently their wallets make up the difference. I wonder how much an Asian girl costs the evening and if the two douche-bags got the third girl for a discount.

In room 402 I lie awake smoking one of the eight cigarettes I have left, staring at the flies on the wall. How I could have ended up here? I know that I will never leave.

October's Gone (and leaves continue to fall)

A week later, I returned to Daniel’s, but he wasn’t there. I shut the door, and set the grocery bag on the table. His bed had its usual just-vacated look to it, but the half-empty glass of water and the two full ashtrays on the table were the only other signs that anyone had been in the apartment in the last twenty or so years.

I moved the grocery bag over to the stove, threw some ham and a loaf of bread in the fridge and put three bottles of whiskey in the cupboard over the sink. I threw a carton of cigarettes on the table, dumped out the two ashtrays into the empty paper bag, and set it next to the fridge where it seemed a trash can should be. I picked up the guitar off his bed and sat at the table, looking around for a note, or any hint as to where he had gone and when he would be back, finding none, as I had expected. I picked at the guitar for a few minutes and tried to think of anything but Anne. Failing at that; I said fuck it, poured myself a glass of whiskey, and lit a cigarette.

I tried to continue to play the guitar while I replayed our last conversation over in my head. I just didn’t understand why she didn’t want to see me again. Was it something I said, or did? Everything seemed to be fine when she left my apartment only a few days earlier. I sighed, swallowed the rest of the glass in one shot, and put the guitar back on Daniel’s bed. I poured myself another glass, lit another cigarette, and decided to go over all of it from the beginning.

About a month ago I had run into her at a party. I had met her a while back, but I hadn’t seen her in a year or so. She had just gotten out of a long term relationship, which, unknown to her, he had been out of for a while. The connection I thought we had when we first met was still there, but it was disjointed and inconsistent, as were all of her thoughts that night. We stayed up talking till almost dawn, when nearly the entire party was asleep or gone, and then she suddenly left. I figured that was the end, and went to bed frustrated. Surprisingly, however, she called me a few days later.

She came over for dinner and distractions she said. I wasn’t sure what that entailed, but I damn sure was willing to try and provide both. I waited far too long, but once I finally kissed her, all my suspicions were confirmed. The physical chemistry was there. The sex was amazing. She spent the night and we alternated between sex, sleep and cigarettes until she left the next day.

I dropped my cigarette because it was burning my fingers. I picked up the butt and stubbed it out in one of the ashtrays. I took another swallow of whiskey and lit another cigarette. Smoke got in my eyes and I bitched about it to no one for a few seconds until the tearing stopped.

A week went by before she came over again. We talked sporadically, but it was fun. Everything was going well. Neither one of us was looking to fall in love, or have any ties to anyone. When she was there we had a great time talking about anything and everything, from past relationships to drug use to the absurdity of our friends to books and music. We didn’t agree on everything and didn’t need to. As before, the sex was incredible. She had a sex drive that I hadn’t experienced in a while. It was so nice to have a girl that actually initiated it for a change. We spent another two days just hanging out, fucking, smoking, and comparing our tastes in girls. She left to go see her best friend and left me with a kiss.

I thought I heard something, so I got up to check the door, but before I opened it I became aware that it was just the sound of the neighbors having another violent argument. One of them was beating the other pretty badly from the sounds of it, though I could never tell which it was. I started to refill the ice in my glass, but then decided to have a shot first. I was starting to get a little warm from the whiskey, but from where I was standing, that seemed like a perfectly good thing. I poured a two finger shot that was more like four, and grimaced terribly after slamming it down. I lit another smoke, got more ice, refilled the glass, and let my mind wander again.

I was bitter. I figured she had just gotten back together with her piece-of-shit boyfriend. He never treated her well, stealing from her, cheating on her, and lying to her, but that seemed to always be the way to keep a girl around; especially one who was too smart to fall for that, and one who deserved so much more. Well, what the hell did I care anyway? She wasn’t my girlfriend. I wasn’t in love with her. I didn’t think we ever would be in love, or even date for that matter. I just couldn’t get over her suddenly saying she didn’t want to see me again.

As I kept drinking, my mood slowly improved. Well, it may not have improved, but it was definitely pacified. The anger abated, the resentment faded, and a Zen-like calm began to wash over me. My mind wandered more lackadaisically and I sang parts of various songs to myself intermittent with thoughts of her.

What the hell, I realized; I had been looking at this all wrong! She didn’t say she didn’t want to see me again because of some worthless ex… she said that because she was falling for me! That’s the ticket! That must be it! She knows that she isn’t ready to commit her emotions to someone else. She knows that she can’t take the chance of getting hurt again. She simply liked me too much to see me again.

Thinking that made me feel better as I finished another glass. I ignored the feeling that I was lying to myself. I realized I had killed more than half of one of the bottles by this point. I lit another cigarette and realized I had smoked nearly a pack while sitting there. I looked out the window and noticed that the sun had come out. Daniel still hadn’t returned from God-knows-where. I decided to call it a night. I would stop by again next week.

Quand le ciel bas et lourd...

She is sitting on the sand just to my right looking over her shoulder at me. I can tell by the way she bites her lip that she has a question, and I can tell by the smile creeping at the corners of her mouth that she already knows the answer. I have played this game before with her and know that I am going to lose. No matter what trepidation I feel about that, the sparkle in her eyes make me still want to play. “Why do you always look at me like that?” she asks playfully.

“Like what?” I reply, as innocently as a man on death row.

“Like you have something to say,” she says, “but you always remain silent.”

I do remain silent as I think about what she has asked me and continue to look into her eyes because they are what attract me so; they are what enthrall me completely. In her eyes I can see universes being born and destroyed. I always find myself lost within her eyes.

“I don't know what you mean” I say, while still considering an answer. I know that there is an answer to her question and know that she deserves it but I do not know quite how to express it yet.

“I think you do know what I mean,” she says. “I think you know exactly what you're doing and why you do it. I just want you to tell me.”

I smile and break my stare away from her eyes, and glancing down the sand instead, listen to the waves crash. “I always want to tell you how beautiful you are, but I know you won’t believe me.” It isn't completely true but it is close enough and I know that it will make her drop the issue.

She laughs and calls me an idiot before pinning me to the ground the ground with a kiss. It is a dream I hope I never forget.

I awake in a crimson haze, remembering only laughter. The events of my life are faded in memory, and I know nothing for certain. I know not who I am, or what has happened. The leaves and dirt stay stuck to my clothes and skin as I stand up, and I stumble slightly at the sudden pain in my side. I try to lift my shirt to see what the cause is, but it's held to my flesh by the blade that still protrudes from me. I clench down tightly on the nearest branch and pull the knife from my body, tearing open the wound anew, and coursing pain through my nerves, like the blood in my veins. I begin to apply pressure when the memory of laughter strikes me as sharply as the pain in my side. I stand up fast and look around as if it had come from somewhere else. There is nothing to see but trees, and nothing to hear but birds and insects. I don't know where I am or how I got here, but I know I cannot stay. The sun is still high in the sky, so I began to walk west. Maybe by nightfall I will escape from this forest. Then I can begin to find out what happened. Then I can understand the laughter.

Dementia leads me down a hall of heads to an unmarked chamber behind a non-descript door. She holds my hand in hers, gently, as though mine are the stained glass windows at Notre Dame, fragile and beautiful. Without a word I am directed to the only chair in the room, a simple stool lacking any emblem or defining marks. Without asking I know that I am to sit in that chair and wait. She smiles softly at me, a smile expressing unrequited love and sorrow, as she backs out of the room and closes the door behind her. The moment I hear the latch I know it will never open on any room that contains her again. I am left sitting, alone, in the center of the room, with just the dim pink light of dusk glowing from some indeterminable location. Silence leads to fear, fear to anger, anger to resignation, resignation to sadness, sadness to calm, and calm to peace. It is when I smile for a love that no soul can bear alone that the walls do disappear.

I am the bearer of light. I am the heir to the throne of heaven. I am the leader of the Seraphim on the final day. I am the trumpet calling for eternity. I am the brightest star in the dim gray of dusk. I am an apocalyptic revelation. I am immanentizing the eschaton. The future that I foresee is yours to behold. My will is your desire. My heart is your hope. My eyes show you fire. My words teach you to drown. I am the one who frees you from your chains in your cave. Your soul once arisen may never return to the mortal shell. You will be my student. I will place the universe in your mind. In your hand time will preserve every moment. And you will love me.

Eris, I beseech you, stay your hand, tarry a moment! Allow me this one simple taste of perfection! Prove wrong my cynical predictions. Prove wrong my future fears and experienced insecurities. Hold back the apple and preserve this moment in the eyes of Pallas. Allow me this once, for a lifetime of mockery have you dealt me. Too long has your will decided my fate! Too often have you been the guide of my arrow. Release me from your bonds, allow me to see the light of truth and beauty. If you will not release me to Athena, banish me to the blue depths instead, so as Neptune may decide my fate!