Drinks, Drugs and Dreams

Memories of a Winter

2012-01-11T23:55:00.004-06:00

How with my sight my stomach cramped up, with her smell my heart raced and standing there I was no longer cold. The wind would blow ice past my earlobes but all I could feel was the last time my breath was close to hers. My hands obedient; not moving in any way, even if she did, my legs frozen as a soldier to stand his ground, until the last goodbye. Then when the command was given then they would do an about face and march. Into the world, they would march and not look back. When she finally spoke my voice mixed with her’s in unison saying farewell. How my eyes did not blink, how they did not shed a tear, how my body tore my sight from her; I don’t know, nor do I want to know, because I just might cry to know that secret.

The feeling escaped like a water still let unplugged. Every step I took killed her inside me just a little, and the part of her that died inside me took a piece of me with it. Every step I took further away I died a little inside. Yet for a long time she was not gone from me, for a long time she was with me. The events between us, all significant, all beautiful, all worth a story at all of tomorrow’s parties. That would always stay, she would always be alive like I left her. As time would morph us into other people than the young ones we were when we met, she would be alive as I remember her in a moment in time. Eventually that is all she would be is a memory, something I was fond of but out grew, something beautiful that grew in my mom’s garden but one day while I was gone, died and something else replaced it.

One day we are to meet again and all that was a storm of love in my heart would have turned into a smile and a “nice to see you”. Behind it all, you touch your heart where you left her and where once you felt so much it hurt now is numb cold; she lives here no longer. It’s a smile, that’s all you can offer, all you can do now. Time has happened. Somewhere, sometime, something happened and now she is gone except as a memory, which is the same as a fairytale by this point. She was real though, touch your heart once again where you left her and that nothing you feel, cold and numb, that is a scar. She was real…and so was love for the first time.

2012-01-02T16:46:00.001-06:00

Desprecio

2012-01-02T14:17:00.002-06:00

Una vez mas a lo unico que me ama...

La oscuridad...

amaneci en un mundo alterno

donde el incompetente y al que no le importa

es valorado y el que entrega su corazón

es el desprecio,

Una vez mas a la celda

ahí pertenesco,

los animales se encierran,

los monstros se encierran para nunca ser visto

una vez mas a las tinieblas

ahí esta mi corazón...

2011-12-27T17:04:00.001-06:00

recuerdo que me ayudo hacer esta historia...

Roberto Jordan y su Primer Amor

2011-12-06T08:16:00.003-06:00

Para Ambar (ABRS)

(Esperando)

El sabor del cigarro delta que acababa de comprar estaba especialmente rancio y con un sabor distintivo con muestras de sumos de meados, pero ni modo el vicio es jodido y se necesita que disimular, mas en estos días y en este país. La tarde no esta triste pero no es entusiasmo radiante tampoco. La calle esta llena solo por ser esta parte de la ciudad el lugar de la dis que alegría, en pocas palabra el lugar de focos rojos faldas cortas viejas tripudas vendiendo virginidad chafa. Por veces virginidad adulterada en oferta con meados que parecen ser gillette saliendo del pene del cliente. Alegría no, vicio y costumbre sí, cualquier cosa por olvidar la situación, cualquier cosa por no enfrentar la realidad. El delta ahora si sabia a pura mierda y lo tira al suelo. La tarde se empieza de vestir ya de noche y los cheros aun no llegan.

No estamos hablando como que fuera lejos la sede del partido. Solo unas cuadras. Samuel se vino adelante para echarse el rollo y ver cual chupadero prometía menos amenaza de un balazo o cuchillazo. Roberto y Quique lo iban alcanzar para unos tragos que complementaran los cigarros delta con sabor a otro tipo de meados. Los carros pasaban y hacían el atardecer parecer más noche mas rápido por el humo que dejaban. Desde pequeño Samuel escuchaba que les decían las mujeres alegres, o las mujeres públicas. Publicas estaba de acuerdo, pero alegres era debatible, para el no había tal clasificación, eran las putas, los lugares eran los puteríos. Se reconoce el lugar por las casas tristes con el paso del tiempo, los bolos tirados culo arriba y el distintivo olor a meados añejados. Aquí venían a chupar después de las reuniones del partido por ser barato y por que después de unas dos que tres cualquier tripuda se ve buena para una erección.

Esta tarde la reunión en el partido estuvo buena, la verdad siempre esta buena la reunión, ya que cuando se reúnen hombres hablar mierdas a todo volumen de libertad y justicia se levantan los ánimos. Pero solo en la sede se hace esto. Las cosas no han sido igual desde que mataron a Mario. En ese tiempo se creía mas la platica de cambio y justicia para el pueblo. La sede la deben convertir en un chupadero para no tener que llegar aquí, hablar pajas y chupar. Alucinar y quedan de goma el siguiente día, viven engañados pero viven, solo que en un solo sitio sin tener que llegar donde las putas con olor a pescado sin ser noche de mariscos.

Samuel llega a la conclusión que la libertad y justicia es para los gringos y para los ricos que la pueden comprar. Se pone a dudar de por que va a las reuniones para darse paja, el era realista. Pero aun los realistas necesitan paja para convertirla en esperanza, quizás no toda la vida se tiene que comer mierda, sonreír y llamarlo pan dulce. Se tiene que creer en algo para levantarse en la mañana para vivir un día más. Ahorita el cree en que sus camaradas son unos desconsiderados ya que necesita su dosis de cerveza y mirar mujeres feas convertirse en hermosuras con cada baso que termina. Sin saberlo ha encendido otro delta y la noche ha llegado. Por su mente Samuel piensa como va manipular a sus cheros en comprar las primeras rondas por hacerlo esperar tanto tiempo. Mas en esa calle que cualquier tamarindo se te acerca y “MOCOS” te pone la navaja y ahí van tus pesitos para comprarle su droga al maldito mientras vos estas pidiendo un cerveza gratis y un polvo gratis a las putas. Gratis también te pueden dar una vergueada. O te vas a la cantina y esperas un salivazo, y comes sal de la cantina mezclada con las lágrimas y mocos de los bolos perdidos que llegan a llorarle al cantinero. Aquí también te pueden recetar una vergueada gratis. Vale verga piensa Samuel.

Volviendo su pensamiento a la política concluye además que la política es una farsa, derecha, izquierda, centro, solo son direcciones en como te van a joder al pueblo. Las reuniones entusiasmadas y eléctricas, ahí quedan, en puras palabras. Las amenazas de la derecha de que quien no este con ellos es comunista y que el país será la tumba donde los rojos terminaran son puras pajas. Palabras para inflar egos de cerotes que no les dieron de mamar cuando eran niños. Pensando esto esta Samuel cuando pasa un camión de la guardia nacional. Su miedo lo invade como una violación violenta. No dice nada solo esta pensando en política, pero con solo ver el camión de gorilas que parecen la versión latina de la SS calla sus pensamientos. Capaz que puedan leer mentes estos brutos. Se siente una eternidad pero desaparecen de vista. Milagro que no pararon ahí para recetarle una tastasiada por esquinero. Pasan unos minutos y en el suelo Samuel nota que hay unas cuatro cabuyas. Al fin llegan los amigos y a la noche de escapar la realidad puede empezar, las cervezas y putas feas los convertirán en poetas y artistas en noche de fiesta. Hasta la mañana cuando la realidad este frente a ellos, con una goma mata elefantes y pisa bolos. Pisa bolos por descuidados.

Roberto estaciona su chevrolete más viejo que la gonorrea. Es un carro blanco que recuerda tiempos de prosperidad en estados unidos, aun cuando el indio ni siquiera a huelido la frontera con Guatemala. Roberto estaciona su carro mirando para fuera listo para salir. Tendrá sus razones. La leyenda del carro blanco chevy era que una vez en una su zumba de unos quince días Roberto lo andaba lleno de bolos, hasta en el baúl dicen, y que lleno el tanque de gas a pura cerveza y funciono el carro. DICEN. Samuel empieza a notar la música por primera vez, aunque ya tenia casi una hora de esperar, el MERECUMBE, puta sonaba bien, iba ser una noche de regia, barrilito y pilsener, y con un poco de suerte amanecer en la playa. No seria primera vez, Samuel esperaba que no fuera la ultima, estos escapes y alucinaciones eran lo que lo mantenían lejos de ahorcarse o tomarse unas dos que tres mata ratas. Mientras acomoda el carro Roberto nota la sonrisa en el rostro de él y de Quique. Malditos pedos agrios pasaron por la cantina y empezaron sin el, por eso se tardaron los pendejos. Al momento que estos pensamientos le cruzan por la mente Quique le sonríe y levanta una botella de Smirnoff aun no comenzada. Para mas tarde cuando todo este correcto con el mundo y se necesita la segunda ola de energía para cometer mas pendejadas. Que bonito es vivir a verga, pero solo periódicamente. Vivir a verga por ratos y no todo el tiempo en el pavimento durmiendo abrazado de otro bolo entre meados culo arriba. Dicen que hasta culeros se hacen, HUY, eso si que no piensa Samuel.

-¡Puta, ya era hora malditos!- Les dice Samuel empezando la manipulación para salvar unos cuantos pesos en las primeras rondas de la noche.

-Es que pasamos para agarrar refuerzos para más noche y mientras estábamos en Roma pedimos unos cuantos y Adentro Cojutepeque.- Roberto un prieto con sonrisa de caricatura y una corona que resaltaba en la poca luz de la noche. Ya estaban entrados y Samuel se sentía algo enojado por estar atrasado. Con razón, si estas con otros bolos y no están parejos es decir al mismo nivel es pura mierda. No sentís la felicidad de ellos, y la platica de bolos son puras pendejadas que suenan a poesía solo cuando estas a verga.

-Mira, para que no te sintas mal te podes echar un vergazo del la botella para empezar bien- Quique empezó a buscar la botella en el carro. Pero antes de que la encontrara Samuel le dijo que mejor buscaran mesa y salvar la niña para cuando este perra la situación. La música llena el aire, en la distancia se huele carne asando y se escucha la música de otros chupaderos y putas tirando piropos para ganar el sueldo de la noche. Solo de sudar un ratito, y esperar que hombre sea precoz para que entre el siguiente cliente. Así se pasa rápido la noche, unos tragos, unos en cima, unos abajo, y una bañada. Cualquier cosa para olvidar la realidad. Entran al chupadero e puterío, la noche en la capital, en plena guerra civil con una dictadura que para ellos todos eran comunistas, en pleno conflicto, los de derecha, los de izquierda, los del centro, hasta los guerrilleros se rinden a el guaro y las putas.

Nací en un cantón solo con mi mama ya que mi tata decidió irse a establecer más hogares que a posterior los dejaría. Parece que estaba tratando de fundar una franquicia. Cuando llego la guerra a mi pueblo ya tenía mis días sobre la tierra. Nunca había tenido problemas con otro hombre que no involucraba una mujer o que nos pasáramos de tragos. Tampoco había tenido problema que no se podía resolver con un par de trompones o unas dos patadas para saborear la sangre de uno. La guerra trajo un nuevo pleito al pueblo y no involucraba tragos ni putas, ni nada que se podía arreglar con los puños.

Mi nana siempre me dijo que hay que respetar las autoridades, que era por el bien de los demás. Así lo pensé. Así respete. Nunca había comido pericos yo para ser un indio respondón y por lo tanto no creía que iba a ofender a la autoridad. Pero estos brutos que mandan de la capital, coma mierda. Desde que llegaron: vos sos, vos sos, vos sos, sino te pareces, sino ya estuvo. Todos los hombres del pueblo solo aguantar verga. ¿Y que podíamos hacer? Pegaban con las culatas de los fusiles y si abríamos el hocicó le daban vuelta a esa anímala y después uno bien serio en una caja. El indio tiene que ser vivo y no pendejo. Mejor aguantar por nada que ser recordado con una cruz de madera que habla el nombre de uno porque uno ya esta sin poder abrir la trompa.

Nosotros no éramos católicos. Hace mucho tiempo que el último cura se fue de esta villa. Aquí solo hay cristianos. Dicen que los curas se han puesto de acuerdo con los comunistas. Que tarde o temprano nos van a tener a nosotros comiendo niños. A mi no me consta. Yo veo que es la misma canasta que pasan para recoger pisto. Le dan un pedazo de esa galleta salada pero sin sal, y una copita pequeña con vino. Solo que no tiene guaro. Solo es jugo de uva. Era una decepción para los hombres. Pero por lo menos no nos podían decir que éramos comunistas.

Estos brutos les vale verga. Solo a repartir cachimbiadas les enseñan en el cuartel. Y esto es que dicen que los gringos han venido a enseñarles. ¿A que? No lo se. Pero se ve lo mismo que antes. Siempre es un pobre cristiano pijíado por faltar el respeto.

Un noviembre bien tarde me pase con mi compadrito por la cantina para ver si nos calentábamos las orejas. A mi casi no me gusta ir con él a la cantina, ya que cuando se toma un su cachimbazo se hace larga la noche. Este día andaba de humor, y tenía mis días de no agarrarla. Salimos de la cantina quizás como a las nueve de la noche por que muy tarde íbamos a mantener a Mauricio el cantinero con la venta abierta. Mejor le pido una botella el compadre para llevar. No habíamos caminado mucho cuando nos encontramos con unas sombras que parecían gorilas. Nos recetaron una de respeto. Yo no me acuerdo que los mande a la mierda solo vénganos a tu reino.

Nos llevaron a la delegación. No se si era que estaba mas a vergueado que a verga pero se escuchaba muchas cosas ahí. Cosas de pesadillas. Escuchaba un cristiano que gritaba con un dolor que hacia que mis huevos se encogieran. Primero sacaron al compadre para tomar sus datos. A mi no me tomaron datos. Antes que regresara mi compadre a la celda me habían sacado a mí. A otro cuarto, me rompieron la camisa. Y me pusieron un saco en la cabeza para no ver. Cuando sentí tenía las manos amarradas en mi espalda. Después sentí la primer patada en la espalda. Podía distinguir que era patada por como se sentía la bota. Después sentí en la cara un vergazo. Empecé a toser, y los brutos como que no les gusto mucho eso. Eran más de dos cabrones. Después no me acuerdo de mucho.

Cuando sentí me estaban quitando el saco de la cabeza, y miraba la luz del cuarto donde me habían llevado. La cara la sentía como que se me había inflado. El cuerpo lo sentía pura masa en guacal. El sabor simple medio salado y caliente en mi boca era mi sangre que estaba botando a montones. Sentí que me pusieron un mecate en la nuca. En estos momentos me acorde de mi madrecita y sus palabra de respetar la autoridad. No es tanto respetar la autoridad sino que evitarlos. Yo no había abierto la trompa en ningún momento.

Ahí estaba por un momento escuchando a lo lejos lo que hablaban los cabrones pero no podía distinguir. Es mas solo miraba luz pero no hacia figuras los ojos. Quizás eran solo unos cuantos segundos pero se sentía como horas. Ahí estaba hincado amarrado de las manos. Llorando sangre. Echando dientes. Con una soga en la nuca, y aun hasta este momento no me llego la idea que mi iban a matar. Pero eventualmente llego ese pensamiento. Pero a esta altura por la gran paliza no podía llorar. Se me había olvidado como llorar. En ese momento empezaron a jalarme y para arriba iba yo. No me acuerdo de mucho después de eso. Cuando desperté estaba en el suelo saboreando el concreto mezclado con mi sangre. Podía ver unos des mis dientes en el suelo.

El doctor dijo que no iba a volver a ver con mi ojo derecho. Y no tengo el dinero para pagar unas placas ya que esos brutos me dejaron con solo 4 dientes. Hijos de puta según ellos no se necesitan para mascar tortilla las muelas. No hay que tomar venganza pero uno no es Dios y no es santo, uno es humano y ser humano es resentir y es buscar ajustar cuentas. Nunca vi la cara del hijo de sesenta mil putas que decidió recetarme esa paliza para quedar medio choco, ni que el compadre quede en el panteón. Para mi todos esos perros son la misma mierda y tarde o temprano este ojo bueno que tengo va mirar por este fusil y le va sembrar un plomazo en la cabeza. Voy a ser cristiano porque no van a sufrir tanto.

(Sentados)

La mesera era la típica del centro de la ciudad. Tenia sus buenas partes pero era mas para reciclar que para consumir. Después de unas dos que tres quizás se miraba mejor, pero por ahorita los tres amigos la pusieron en el fondo de la mente para encontrarla cuando la casería seria de lagartija para arriba. Se ordeno la primera ronda de cerveza de barrilito preguntando que había de boca. Siempre las mismas chucherias que el bolo se hartaba después de que su lengua sentía todo como miel. Salchichas fritas, costilla salada, queso duro, pedacitos de pizza, todo en primer momento suena como el contenido de un basurero. Samuel pidió la boca de queso, según una tía de él, el queso absorbía más el liqour y no se emborrachaba tan rápido. El local estaba lo suficiente lleno para que se escuchara el rugido de una muchedumbre sobre la rockola que sonaba de viejos tiempos en discos rayados. En el momento se escuchaba el romance en la voz de Julio Iglesias cantando como se le olvido de vivir. Este era un chupadero para los melancólicos, ya que la música en la rockola inspiraba a tomar mas y recordar mejores tiempos si es que existieron o suicidarse. De las dos formas el chupadero ganaba dinero.

Era un sábado y los obreros les gustaban su cerveza fría acompañada de una sonrisa llena de coronas de las meseras y un poco el tufo a ruda o en su ausencia sobaco. Además de ser un chupadero de melancólicos era un chupadero de obreros, y no de ricos. Los ricos estaban mas arriba en su Zona Rosa con sus cervecitas importadas con una servilleta envuelta. Hablaban de cómo los indios estaban dispuestos a dar la vida por ellos en el ejército mientras sus hijos estrenaban carros deportivos europeos. Los ricos estaban preocupados, también los obreros. Unos por su dinero, los otros por sus vidas y la hartazon de mañana. El guaro siempre curaba para ambos los dolores de cabeza. Escuadrones de la muerte, comunistas encapuchados, viva tu vida momento a momento. Cerveza de buena calidad. La vida social y la política se mezclan de maravilla con el guaro. Poco a poco se llenaba el chupadero pero al fin la mesera llevaba los vasos de cerveza. La noche estaba fresca y había breeza.

-Que verga de reunión. Al fin empezamos a hablar las cosas en concreto.- Quique hace una pausa para jalar el primer trago. –Te digo que estos creen que por matar a uno terminaron con el partido.-

-Puta se te subieron los dos traguitos que nos zampamos. Ya estas hablando mierdas.- Roberto medio sonríe pero se le ve en los ojos el miedo que alguien escucho.

-Mira por favor hablen un poco mas duro no creo que el estado mayor les escucho para que vengan y nos corten los huevos y los zampen en nuestras bocas. Espérenme que quiero alcanzarlos para no tener miedo de hablar semejante pendejada.

-Mira Samuel no tenes unas monedas quiero escuchar algo de los Angeles negros y no traigo suelto.- Quique se empieza a levantar terminando su primer vaso de cerveza. En esos momentos llega la mesera. –Mira mi amor tráenos otras tres o mejor tráenos una jarra.- La mesera deja otros vasos en la mesa del lado recoge otros pedidos. Quique esta en la rockola mirando los discos y sus números.

-Este hijo de puta no puede hablar más mierdas porque no tiene dos culos. Pero la reunión si estuvo buena. Si la gente no tiene miedo, en las próximas les quitamos el parlamento.- Roberto mira a su alrededor, no por miedo pero ahora por lujuria. Samuel ya sabe como es Roberto, media vez se siente cómodo y a buscar nalgas. Era hombre casado y con hijos, pero cada hombre tiene sus faltas. No era mal esposo aparte de las damas, y no era mal padre. Cuando tenia 17 años su padre y el fueron acusados de subversivos por la guardia nacional en el pueblo donde nació y creció. Esos brutos les recetaron una paliza de respeto. Su padre perdió sus muelas y Roberto perdió el sonido en su oreja derecha. Y eso fue el principio. Los metieron en las bartolinas del pueblo chorreando de sangre y más muertos que vivos. A media noche los sacaron y los tiran a un camión de la guardia y se los llevan para la capital. Al castillo donde muchos han llegado a quedarse como abono para el jardín. Por milagro de Dios un teniente que era familia los saco. Sin dinero, sin zapatos, y doliendo a mujer recién parida.

-Ya va tocar- se sienta Quique observando la mesa buscando su segunda cerveza. Samuel ya terminaba su vaso y encendía un Delta. Ya el sabor no era tan mal, la cerveza le cubría con su sabor. Samuel tomo ejemplo de Roberto y empezó a mirar los prospectos. Nada hasta ahorita o la cerveza no había tomado efecto aun. Levanta un pedazo de queso y lo saborea. Se recuerda de sus días en su propio pueblo cuando el queso tenía sabor al cariño de su mama con unos frijolitos y no a amargura de la vida mezclada con cerveza barata y penas caras. Hace mucho tiempo que Samuel dejo de mirar la televisión, ya no le creía ya no ponía sus esperanzas en programas que en la vida real dejaba desilusión. Prefería comerse la realidad con toda su amargura.

-No hay nada nuevo bajo el sol. La reunión de hoy será superada por la de la próxima semana. Y la próxima. Siempre hablando mierdas que no se van a llevar acabo. Castillos en el aire que son muy caros para pagar. Estoy perdiendo la fe.- En ese momento llega la mesera con la segunda ronda y otros pedazos de queso.

-¿Y para que llegas cada semana? Acaso es terapia para vos o que putas pensas? Roberto suena un poco molesto.

-No se, quizás estoy esperando un milagro, estoy esperando que Dios se haga presente. Quique sabe mejor que meterse en este problema y toma un poco de queso y levanta su vaso mirando a su alrededor.

-Para nosotros Dios no se hace presente eso solo pasa en el escalón. Acostúmbrate. Aquí aunque sea con palabras pero nosotros tenemos que hacer las cosas pasar.

(En el fondo de las mentes de los borrachos enojados por no estar a verga)

Puta, para que nací en un país donde es pasatiempo cortarle la cabeza a un indio. Guardias hijos de puta caminan como que son mas que los demás. Malditos mal paridos, cerotes mal cagados, bastardos que mejor hubiesen sido un pedo de la nana en vez de una vida. Nacidos en mierda, y se creen de descendencia de españoles. A lo más que llegan es a ser, son descendientes de los mismos perros que traeron los españoles. A saber que se creen estos malditos. Tarde o temprano van a ver cuando los indios empiecen a tomar cabezas.

Que cara esta la cerveza estos días, es más y más difícil para ver estas putas como hermosas, es difícil olvidar la realidad que soy albañil y alucinar que soy un galán de las novelas de que mira mi mujer. Puta en vez de gastar en cerveza tras cerveza mejor voy al campo y me harto un hongo de mierda de vaca y puedo ver cosas que solo se ven en las caricaturas. Cada día se hace mas difícil ser alcohólico y aguantar la vida mirando en la tele los chelitos del partido en el gobierno como es que viven como en Beverly Hills y nosotros color de mierda vivimos como en el África. No se si en el África hay putas como estas. Dos mundos en el mismo país mierda. Quizás es hora de pasarnos a diesel. Muy cara la suprema, que nos salve el TIC TAC. TIC TAC hasta que me parezca gringo, y una de estas putas parezca una venezolana.

-Puta estas a verga. Si Dios no se hace presente para nosotros y solo para los del escalón por que no cambiamos el nombre del partido. Si Dios no tiene lugar para los pobres o el pueblo, no debemos llamarnos democracia cristiana.- Roberto mira a Samuel sin tener con que ganar el argumento. Mejor busca empinarse su vaso.

La conversación toma un nuevo giro y se olvidan de la política por el momento. Mejor es no mezclar debate de política cuando estas tratando de sentirte en cualquier lugar menos en tu propia situación. Mejor hablar de cosas que no pasan, de más jodarrias, de mujeres buenas y fáciles. Las vergueras son valuables, y por que desperdiciar el buen sentimiento que te da el alcohol antes que cobra sus dividendos con gomas que ponen a cualquier vergonazo a mamar. Escuchar la música, y tomar la cervecita mientras esta fría. Gastar pisto para hacer castillos en el aire y después mearlo en la calle o vomitarlo con el almuerzo después de que no te acordas tu propio nombre.

Para los maestros del engaño… les decimos que el pueblo salvadoreño no esta ciego. Señores de la democracia cristiana no sigan envenenando las mentes de este pueblo trabajador. Pueblo salvadoreño no se engañen por las apariencias… son como sandias… democracia cristiana verde por fuera…Moscú comunista rojo por dentro…Comunistas criminales con instintos de animales, han matado, han violado nuestro país han arruinado… ¡PATRIA SI COMUNISMO NO!

(Entrando por la puerta)

Estos dos sujetos no necesitan introducción, uno rapado con sus rayban puestos a pesar que esta oscuro afuera. Es obvio que no son obreros o por lo menos no trabajan en la corta de café. El otro es un típico indio tratando de hacerse pasar por oligarca, tiene buena ropa pero no le queda bien. Se nota que esta borracho pero aun coordina. No necesitan introducción ya que andan buscando presa para la noche. El Salvador será la tumba donde los rojos, los verdes, los indios, los curas, las monjas, los católicos, los humanos se terminaran. Roberto los ve primero mientras toman un panorama del lugar. Roberto mira hacia su cinturas y sabe que no son de por aquí ya que el revolver en el indio perdido en la política y la escuadra del calvo con los rayban le indica que son entrenados por asesores gringos con las siglas de CIA. La ecuación es simple: machitos militares en disfraz de civil mas tres pendejos medio a verga del partido demócrata cristiano es igual a un para de cadáveres sin cabeza hediendo con moscas en el Playón.

Roberto no habla, pero le hace entender con su mirada a Quique y a Samuel que es lo que acaba de entrar por la puerta. Se pasa por la garganta su dedo gordo y mira hacia la puerta. Uno por uno Samuel y Quique se dan vuelta y confirman. Es en este momento que empieza a tocar la canción de Los Ángeles Negros que había marcado Quique en la rockola. La canción era apropiada para unos hombres que estaban en la sombra de la muerte casi hueliendo sus propios cadáveres sin cabezas. La canción empieza con una melodía sutil y oscura, para, y las primeras palabras salen. La canción es Como Quisiera Decirte. Los tres hombres se miran uno a otro alrededor de la mesa y piensan en otras personas no presentes. A este momento los tres son los únicos seres queridos que tienen cada uno, ya que después de aquí, de este chupadero, de esta verguera no hay nada. No existe el mundo fuera de este lugar. Una vez mas Roberto mira y los matones los han localizado y hace su camino hacia el bar que esta de tras de la mesa de los tres amigos.

Mi padre no era más que un campesino que tuvo que dejar sus tierras para venirse a vivir a la capital. Tuvo que aprender a ser otras cosas, reeducarse para sobrevivir aquí. No había donde sembrar maíz o frijoles o miacio. No sirvió lo que aprendió de mi abuelo, no sirvió lo que mi abuelo trabajo para darles a sus hijos. Al principio me decía que estaba gastando mi tiempo con las charlas que atendía. Es mas me decía que estaba poniendo en peligro a nuestra familia por que iban a decir que éramos comunistas. Comunistas; la palabra la decía mi viejo como que el entendía lo que era. Mi viejo no podía leer ni escribir y no le molestaba esto, ni le molestaba que solo con caytes andaba toda su vida aun después de llegar a San Salvador.

Mi hermano siempre era un gran lobo. No había caperucita que se le escapara. Me imagino que por parte de su vida las cosas eran fáciles. El hecho de enamorar a las cipotas no era cosas exclusivas de ricos, por lo menos en ese entonces. Las hembras siempre lo seguían, y el lo aprovechaba. Yo en cambio nací resentido. Por ser pobre, por tener un tata que me ahuevaba a cada rato por no ser como el, por las mierdas y cagadales de los guardias hijos de sesenta mil putas. En la colonia no había mucho crimen, pero cuando estaban aburridos esos perros llegaban para levantarse el ánimo casi matando a cualquier cristiano a culatazos.

De repente mi hermano cambio. No se por que. Sus razones tuvo. Me dijo que lo acompañara a una reunión. Cuando le pregunte de que era la reunión me dijo que no preguntara tanta mierda y si lo iba acompañar o no. Lo acompañe. Cuando llegamos, era una casa abandonada en el rincón de la colonia. Huelia a meados y mierda. Los bolos la usaban. Habian candelas y habían unos cuantos otros ahí. Chavos de la colonia que conocía de vista por la mayoría y uno que dos que les recete un poco de la ultra violencia en el pasado y ellos hicieron lo mismo con migo. Eran como las 9 de la noche, y esperaba que al salir no nos encontrarnos con los perros. De repente se vieron unas sombras que llegaban. Entraron tres hombres y una mujer. Dos de los hombres traían pistolas visibles una vez que entraron donde estaba la luz. La mujer y el otro hombre sin nada más que unos papeles. Todos tenían un pañuelo sobre la cara. Eran de la nacional me imagino por que estaban algo joven. Los papeles eran volantes para pegar en los postes de la colonia. También traeron una botella. Era la primera vez que de verdad tome guaro. Nos enseñaron unas canciones de protestas.

Fue divertida esa noche e interesante. No mucho después de eso mataron a mi hermano. Guardias hijos de perra. Cuando los rojos se dieron cuenta me hablaron para ver si me quería ajustar cuentas con el guardia hijo de puta. Tenía miedo, no pude. Yo amaba mucho a mi hermano, es decir me llevaba mucho con el, cuando me miraba enojado por cualquier razón siempre me decía una pendejada para hacerme reír. Mi enojo no era su problema pero se preocupo por mí. Su muerte si era mi problema y no tenia los huevos para vengarme. Esto fue el principio de el guaro y la política para mi. No puedo matar como los guerrilleros pero no me puedo quedar callado y por eso me uní a la democracia cristiana.

Los corazones saltaban de sus pechos y sentían la mirada de los matones a sueldo del gobierno. Los tres quisieran hablar pero estaban paralizados ya que no podían decir su plan para engañar los matones y salvarse sus vidas. En ese momento Quique fue presa del pánico y se levanto.

-Tengo que ir a mear. Ya vuelvo.- Samuel y Roberto solo se miraron de tras de sus vasos de cerveza. Samuel que tenia la vista mas clara de los matones le movió los ojos a Roberto hacia el bar y empezó a sacar su dinero. Roberto entendió que era de pagar la cuenta. Si iban a morir aquí iban a morir solventes. Roberto tomo el dinero de Samuel y se levanto para ir a la caja y cancelar. Esto dejo a Samuel a solas con lo último de la jara de cerveza. Lo único era que estaba a más de la mitad. Cuando Samuel pasó la mirada hacia donde estaban los matones miro solo uno de ellos. Puta que pendejo es este Quique hijo de ramera barata. Maldito complico las cosas más de lo que ya estaban. Se tuvieron que mantener juntos. Solo el calvo quedaba en el bar. Sus rayban le daban el sabor a un ex indio que le ha llegado unos cuantos billetes. A los indios les gustan las cosas brillosas. El calvo dirigía su vista hacia la mesa. Tenía 5 cervezas a su lado. Agarro 3 de ellas y se dirigió hacia la mesa.

En la caja Roberto pagaba las rondas. Miraba disimuladamente a su alrededor. El indio perdido en política estaba afuera de la puerta del baño esperando que no se escapara Quique. Miraba a su alrededor para ver la escapada. Hizo su camino hacia la mesa después de recibir su vuelto. Sentía sus pies mas pesados que en una borrachera normal. Pero era el miedo. El miedo paraliza, el miedo hace que te cagues. Se paro Roberto en frente de la mesa y con todo su esfuerzo saco sus palabras. A su vez llega el matón calvo con las tres cervezas.

-Vamonos Samuel sino la vieja se va encabronar conmigo. Además ya gaste mas pisto que tengo.- Roberto siente la presencia del matón. –Y Quique ¿no ha vuelto?

-Puta se van y yo que les iba invitar a una ronda.- El calvo se sienta en la mesa. Cuando esta sentado Samuel y se esta parando y Roberto mira hacia afuera. –Se sientan o aquí quedan, se sientan que vamos a platicar. -

Roberto y Samuel se sientan. El calvo les reparte una cerveza cada uno. Nada de barril, eran cervezas en botella. El calvo se ajustaba en su asiento para mirarlos mejor. En este momento el mundo a su alrededor se sentía aun mas lejos que nunca. Ni una mesera se atravesaba o bolo pasaba. Ahora no era el chupadero, lo único que importaba era lo que pasaba en esta mesa, lo único que importaba eran las balas en la cromada 9 milímetro Jericó que tenia el calvo.

-Que dicen si vamos a dar un aventón a la playa con mi compadre. Conozco un lugar que hacen una verga de sopón y las bichas ahí están socaditas. El calvo da una mirada sínica y toma un trago de su botella.

-Nosotros ya nos íbamos. Hay que descansar hemos tenido un día largo.- Roberto mira al calvo con visible miedo y ganas de esquivar la confrontación.

-Si no nos vamos a tardar. Los tengo aquí antes de las 3 de la mañana.- El calvo tomo un tono levemente mas serio. Si…pensaba Samuel, nos va tener aquí antes de las 3 de la mañana pero en medicina legal como torso sin cabezas. Samuel se sorprendía que no era tanto el miedo sino que la ira que lo tenía atrapado. La cosa buena era que no había enloquecido con la ira sino ya estuvieran muertos. Mucha ira pudo tener pero nada que un plomazo no podía callar. Estos hijos de puta, pensaba Samuel, siempre con sus pistolas. Culeros que no pueden aguantar una pijieada a lo hombre. Culeros.

-No gracias- le decía Roberto al calvo. El calvo se da vuelta a Samuel quien lo esta mirando con cara de pasividad. No tiene ganas de conflicto pero no tiene miedo. Ira es lo que tiene. Samuel saca un Delta y lo enciende.

-¿Tenes algo que queres decir chero?- le pregunta el calvo a Samuel.

-No- le responde Samuel sin dejar de verlo.

-Me imagino que su día fue uno largo y cansado, hablando tanta mierda en la sede del partido.- El calvo toma pausa para tomar otro trago. Ahora la cosa se estaba concretizando aun más. Ya no anda con tanta paja. Todavía daba miedo pero ahora estábamos hablando mas claro.

-Nosotros tenemos que irnos, ya no tenemos mas dinero para gastar.- Roberto omite el comentario y trata que las cosas sean mas pacíficos.

-Si donde los voy a llevar no necesitan pisto, ¿que no los estoy invitando pues?

-Yo se quienes son- dice Samuel entre sus labios. La ira poco a poco se esta tomando control en un acto que Samuel va perder el control. El calvo le vuelve la vista a Samuel. Se sienta recto y pone la botella en la mesa y se quita los rayban.

-Te pregunte si tenías algo que decir cerote. ¿Por que no respondiste cuando te pregunte?- El estaba buscando el pretexto para tomar la actitud de autoridad en este caso.

-Por que no soy un recluta y yo hablo cuando me da la gana.- Samuel le responde. Roberto es color moreno pero mas pálido no se pudo poner en este momento. Rápidamente le quita la atención al matón de Samuel.

-¿Adonde vamos a ir?- le pregunta Roberto.

-A un viaje de muerte.- Le responde Samuel. Ahora estaba como papel Roberto tratando de mantener la atención del matón. El matón se da vuelta y se acerca a Samuel.

-Yo se quienes son ustedes. Que lastima lo que le paso a Mario. Es hijo de puta creía que ya era Moisés a punto de librar a estos indios con toda esa platica de comunista disfrazada de democracia. Ustedes son una mierda que a mi me pagan para limpiar, malditos resentidos sociales, los ricos están contados y ustedes a la fuerza quieren que les den todo. Huevones que no trabajan. Ustedes solo sirven para agitar la gente cuando es mejor tener indios dóciles. Malditos mal….

-Y yo se quienes son ustedes cerote mal cagado.- Samuel se le acerca al calvo. La ira ya con total control de Samuel que en cualquiera otro momento no hubiese hecho esto. – Indio engañado, solo por codearte con ricos crees que sos uno de ellos. Sos un perro esperando que se les caiga algo de la mesa para que te la den pendejo. No sos uno de ellos, nunca serás uno de ellos. Nunca te sentaras en la mesa con ellos como un igual, a lo mas que serás sos el perro guardián de ellos limpiando su mierda. Un cholero, solo de eso trabajas, solo eso aspiras, solo eso serás maldito. Un indio que por tener un par de billetes ya se cree como su amo. Sos la misma mierda que colón encontró al llegar aquí: un indio dispuesto a vender su patria por espejos. Para ustedes los pobres son indios. Los subversivos solo son un vergo de espaldas corriendo en la calle para que saquen sus fusiles y disparen. Si me vas a matar pendejo no va ser con sumisión. - Samuel se le queda mirando en la cara al matón que esta hirviendo de ira. Se acomoda en su respaldo el matón y se calma.

-Terminen sus cervezas y después nos vamos.- Roberto mira cuando el calvo a movido su mano hacia su escuadra. Roberto esta pálido y no cree lo que acaba de pasar. Mira hacia Samuel quien es esta empinando la botella y mira a su alrededor pálido como papel bon. A este momento las líneas de oración en el cielo están algo congestionadas ya que Roberto esta bajando cada santo que su mente media ebria puede acordarse.

(El otro lado del salón)

La mujer sentada con los 4 hombres en el otro lado de donde Roberto estaba reencontrando su fe no era camarera, mucho menos una prostituta que acostumbran llegar a estos lugares. Era una mujer casada, pero con ninguno de los hombres en la mesa que comparten con ella. Esta es una situación que parece tan inocente como cualquier esposa borracha e infiel. Pero lo que no sabe esta mujer es que su esposo que era un hombre considerado, amable, cariñoso, y por que no decirlo un poco sumiso; desde años anda arrastrando un maletazo de problemas de la cabeza que lo atormentan y lo frustran.

La mujer le gusta echarse sus tragos y también sus damos. Su madre le dijo que no se casara con un hombre machista ya que solo aguantando verga la iba a pasar. Por eso se busco uno mansito. Mas de una vez el la había encontrado con hombres y no es que no se enojo pero no era nada que una buena actuación y unas promesas vacías no arreglaran. La onda con la mujer era basilar. No era otra cosa ella le gustaba chupar. La cerveza había sido amable con ella, la pasaba bien y parecía que no se desaparecía su belleza. Es decir no desarrollo tripa a base de Regia. Tenia la figura como siempre. Las gomas habían empezado a molestarla pero no era nada que no podía aguantar. Hombre no es el que no se deja sino el que la aguanta. Bueno así decía.

Los hombres con ella se estaban rifando quien se la iba a llevar esta noche al motel. Sabían que estaba casada y por eso era más atractiva. En cada hombre existe esa maldad de quitarle lo que le pertenece a otro. La cara de mujer después de unas cervezas estaba llena con deseos de sexo. En estos momentos no se acordaba de su niña que tenía ni mucho menos de su esposo. Lo que importaba en este momento era ella. Las ideas pasaban que su mama tenía razón con lo de los machistas pero ella deseaba un hombre galán, alto, guapo pero que no la trate mal. Hoy en día ella sabia que esto casi no se encontraba. Lo que se encontraba con esas calidades costaba caro en palizas y traiciones. Mejor ella iba ser la que abusaba y no la abusada.

Por el momento ella tenia que mirar los 4 prospectos que estaban a su alrededor. Ninguno era lo que ella en realidad deseaba. Pero para eso eran las cervezas. Se tomaba unas cuantas y calificaba. Miraba para juzgar cual se miraba mejor borracha. Al fin de la noche tenia que haber un ganador, claro estaba que no se iba acostar con los 4, no era así ella. Por lo menos aun no. A estas alturas de la verguera no había mucha distinción, los cuarto se iban a los penaltis. Mejor era alzar unas dos que tres más para superar los gustos y bajar las expectativas. De todos modos cualquiera de los 4 era mejor de lo que tenía en la casa. No en calidad de físico, pero en calidad de hombre. En la casa tenia una sirvienta sumisa en cuerpo de hombre. Por lo menos así lo pensaba.

(Desde afuera)

No puedo creer esta pendeja. No eso si lo creo. Lo que no creo es que tan pendejo eh sido yo por creerlo. No considera ni mierda. Voy a esperarla. A ver que putas va hacer. Las mujeres son la misma mierda. Mi nana era la misma mierda. Por el pendejo de mi tata tuve que aguantar tantas mierdas. Hijo de puta más cobarde que no se quedo con nosotros. Solo pensó en el mismo. Maldito si te encuentro un día te voy a dar algo que no podas entender. Te voy a dar todo mi odio en forma material que podas sentir, vos también me las vas a pagar. Es mas hay un vergo de hijos de puta que me las deben. Pero por ahorita hay que empezar con la maldita que me juro amarme para siempre. Con esta empiezo.

Maldita nana que tuve. Solo aguantando todos los maridos hijos de puta que traía a la casa yo. Era solo de aguantar verga. Si un hijo de puta le robaba dinero a mi me tocaba pagar los platos. Si un hijo de puta le montaba verga, yo no comía por unos días. Como que yo era el que tenía la culpa. Cuando un hijo de puta la dejaba por otra ella se ponía a verga y yo aguantaba la ira de sus vergueras. Hasta tuve que aguantar a un hijo de puta pedrastra que ella había llevado a la casa en calidad de marido. Después de una mierda así uno no es igual, uno no queda bien. Hay que cobrar.

Creía que podía vivir en paz con estas mierdas. Y cuando una cipota, la más hermosa que había visto en mi vida me enseño cariño yo decía que iba encontrar paz. El día que le pedí que se casar estaba tan nervioso. No era por decir algo tonto sino que me dijera no. No creo que podía aceptar el rechazo. Pero no me dijo que no. Me dijo que si. Por un tiempo parecía que todo iba estar bien. No tenia que vivir con resentimientos contra mi nana. Pero después empezaron las mierdas. Primero con un cerote medio chaparro con complejo de napoleón. Me dijo que solo era un amigo. Le creo. Ya que no me consta que era mas que una amistad. Después la vi de manos con un maldito en el centro. Baboso joven con cara de mujeriego. Mi peor pesadilla se había realizado, me había casado con mi madre. Varias personas me han dicho que la han visto salir del oso. Maldita. Malditos los hijos de puta que me lo dijeron. Yo se que me hacen burla a mis espaldas por ser tan callado y sumiso. Puta todo esto es culpa mía, por dejarme. Pero eso va cambiar.

Esto empezó a cambiar desde que pase un día por la tienda donde venden armas. Ahí me enamore. Y no de la india que estaba en el mostrador. Era perfecta. Era brillante, cromada, con un mango de hule. .38 revolver. Perfecta. Cuando pregunte el precio me decidí casarme con ella. Una vez que la tuve en mis manos ya no sentía el temor de siempre. Ahora podía cobrar. Ahora podía hacer las cosas cabales. Yo y mi nuevo amor. Solo faltaba una noche como esta y unos cilindros y una media de muñeco. Primero esta ramera que dice ser mi esposa, después mi nana, después mi tata, después…no se. Después no me importa. Hay voy a ir caminando y ajustando. Lo que necesitamos ahorita es otro traguito y quizás un cigarro. Nunca e fumado pero me siento como que es necesario. Con esta empiezo, pero antes un cigarro y un trago.

(Fin de la velada)

La rockola tomo su tiempo pero encontró el próximo disco que marcar. La guitarra gitana comienza con una melodía rápida y luego la voz de Camilo Sesto empieza a enamorar la memoria de una linda mujer desplazada por la situación de su país o tierra, su nombre seria Melina. La noche se manifestaba como cualquier otra en un país lleno de falta de valores, donde el liqour había reemplazado a la fe y realidad, donde para los que saben vivirla la vivirán haciendo mal.

Samuel estaba harto de su puta vida como lo decía en sus propias palabras. Solía decir que el no podía vivir como hombre por lo tanto la muerte siempre lo reconoce como tal, sin importar como vivió. Empino su cerveza que tenia un sabor exageradamente bueno, como la mejor cerveza que sus labios han conocido. Su miedo no existía. Su ira se iba. Su paz al fin llego, por enfrentar su destino y abrazarlo con lujuria, amor y sin reservas. Se sentía bien dejar el molde de indio temeroso y ser, aunque sea por sus últimas par de horas, un hombre como cualquiera. Como nació y como iba a morir.

Roberto termino sus plegarias y se quedo mirando el suelo y de reojo miraba la mano del calvo. Tenía miedo. No pensaba en Quique, solo en lo que le esperaba una vez se levantaba de esta mesa. Miraba las botellas, la de él aun sin un trago tomado. Nunca pensó que así iba terminar por pensar, por ideas. Ni pensó que esa noche iba ser su último trago. Que amargo resulto ser. Igual que la primera vez que se empino una botella de guaro. Si la última vez con su viejo no lo mataron, esta vez estaba difícil que alguien lo salvara.

Mientras las ultimas ideas pasaban por las mentes de los hombres, nadie noto que entra por la puerta un hombre que se ve fuera de lugar, fuera de la alegría aunque sea ficticia pero ni eso tenia. Entra y mira a su alrededor. En el aire Camilo Sesto grita de ojos grises…alza tus manos hacia Dios…el hombre toma el ritmo de la canción y empieza a cantar. Se dirige al bar que esta detrás de la mesa de Roberto y Samuel.

–Dame una pilsener.- le dice a la mujer en el mostrador. Se la sirve y con gusto de sexo el hombre se la empina. Mira hacia el otro lado del salón. Ya sabe para donde se va dirigir. Pero primero un último cigarro. Enciende un delta y medio tose por que es vicio que es aprendiz. Termina la canción en la rockola. No hay sonido de la rockola. No hay más canciones que pidieron. En un momento empezara a tocar una canción al azar para incentivar un bolo con monedas que le hacen estorbo en la bolsa.

El hombre se empina una última vez la cerveza y la pone en el mostrador con peso de su mano. El sonido agarra la atención de algunos cerca de ahí incluyendo al calvo. El hombre con camisa de vestir por fuera se dio vuelta. En la rockola comenzó la melodía de violines y la voz de Roberto Jordán empezaba su ofrenda de sentimientos al amor de estudiante. El hombre empezó a caminar hacia la mesa con la mujer y los 4 hombres. Su mano haciendo camino a su cintura donde su nuevo amor viajaba lista para probar su amor a su amo.

La mujer se empinaba un vaso de cerveza ni noto la figura que hacia su camino hacia la mesa. Entre el humo de cigarros y los alientos a pilsener ella buscaba su candidato de lujuria y poco a poco miro la cara saltar de la oscuridad y el humo. Una cara que mil veces la había visto con puro y completo amor ahora estaba en frente de ella sin piedad y sin miedo a perderla. ¿Como iba apaciguar a su tontito esta vez? ¿Se podía hacer tal cosa esta vez? Era el pero no era el como lo recuerda y como lo dejo esta mañana. Su blusa estaba abierta un poco mas de lo que lo había permitido en frente de el. Sus senos resaltaban. Y ahora las emociones la abandonaban a ella y estaba confundida, tenía miedo y tenia remordimiento. Pero lo que le salio era una pequeña risa de niña mala que la agarran con las manos en la masa.

…Es otoño, los amantes ya se fueron…las hojas de los árboles cubren el campo… sus voces amorosas ya no se escuchan…el verano ya se fue…mi amor de verano… mi primer amor… amor de estudiante… ya se termino…vendrán otros veranos…vendrán otros amores… pero siempre en mi ser vivirá… mi amor de verano mi primer amor…

El hombre se quedo parado mirando la mujer que juro amar en riqueza y en pobreza, para bien, para mal. Las lagrimas empezaban a acumularse pero para esta hora empezaron a ser detenidas por los sentimientos que se encontraban en su mano con la revolver calibre .38 cromada que lentamente se iba alzando. Los 4 hombres en la mesa empezaron hacer su escape y la mujer se quedaba en su puesto. Sus ojos encadenados a los ojos del hombre con la pistola en su mano. El martillo de la pistola le pega a la bala y los senos medio visibles de la mujer explotaban con una lluvia de chispas de sangre. Una y otra vez los disparos alumbraban el salón oscuro mientras el hombre hacia cara de odio y la mujer bailaba con los impactos en su pecho y la sangre bañaba los alrededores. En el fin se quedo el mismo oscuro y la mujer se quedo mirando los ojos de el hombre que la mato y quien ella había jurado amar. El hombre tomo su arma se dio vuelta en el caos que se había armado y empezó su éxodo por donde entro.

…Mi primer amor…

Los balazos hicieron saltar a Roberto que solo miraba la botella en frente de él. No sabia que estaba pasando y por un segundo muy cortó pensó que quizás estaba muerto o herido. Miro a su lado y miro que el calvo estaba sacando su pistola y mirando hacia un hombre parado y de donde la muchedumbre estaba corriendo. Los gritos eran tangibles y hacían los pelos de la espalda levantarse. Samuel estaba parado y con instinto Roberto tomo la cerveza llena que tenia en frente con su mano de modo alrevez. El calvo no vio la botella que termino explotando en la espalda de su cabeza abriendo una fuga de sangre. Roberto en ese momento agarro la segunda botella de donde el calvo estaba tomando y se aseguro el sueño que el matón iba a tener. El calvo callo al suelo medio conciente aun. Roberto tomo la botella de Samuel y abrió camino hacia el baño donde Quique había estado cagando grueso sin duda.

-¡VENITE!- le grito Roberto a Samuel sin miedo que el calvo se iba a levantar. Samuel se bajo al suelo y le dio vuelta al calvo y le quito la escuadra quitándole el cargador. Saco la bala que estaba en la recamara. Y aventó el cargador y la bala al caos que se había armado. Tomo la pistola y empezó a descargar la ira dentro de el. Una y otra vez golpeando el rostro del calvo. De seguro le quito un par de dientes.

Camino al baño Roberto miraba entre el caos y con tiempo encontró al indio perdido en la política. El indio escuadrón de la muerte estaba mirando hacia donde venia un hombre caminando acomodándose su revolver en su cintura. Eso fue lo último que vio ya que Roberto sembró la botella de cerveza que era de Samuel en la cabeza del matón. Callo al suelo sin incidente más. El hombre con camisa de vestir por fuera camino mirando brevemente a Roberto quien lo miro también. Después el hombre con el revolver en su cintura desapareció en el caos y la noche.

Roberto tomo impulso cuando le dio una patada a la puerta del baño y vio a Quique sorprendido por la bulla y el susto de la puerta abriéndose tan abruptamente. Roberto lo miro por un segundo como regaño por dejarlos. Lo tomo del pelo y lo jalo.

-¡CAMINA PEDAZO DE CULERO MAL PARIDO, QUE NOS VAMOS A LA MIERDA!- Le grito Roberto mientras lo jalaba buscando a Samuel. Samuel estaba todavía por la mesa. No podía ver muy bien ya que estaba como arrodillado. Roberto pensó lo peor creia que había recibido un impacto o un cuchillazo. Camino hacia la mesa para luego buscar la salida.

Samuel le estaba sacando mas sangre de la cara al matón que a estas alturas estaba bastante inconciente. Una y otra vez le pegaba con el culo de la pistola en el rostro. Solo que casi no se miraba el rostro por toda la sangre. Quique y Roberto le agarran un brazo cada uno gritándole para que despierte del sueño de ira loca en que estaba.

-¡Samuel! ¡Ya deja esa mierda los quílios ya van a venir y si nos encuentran aquí nos va llevar putas! Quique le grita y peleando con Samuel y su fuerza irosa.

-¿QUERES IR A UN AVENTON HIJO DE TU PUTA MADRE? DECIME COMO SE SIENTE AHÍ HIJO DE PUTA, COMO SE SIENTE EN ESE LUGAR DONDE ESTAS. ¿TENES MIEDO MALDITO?, ¡AHÍ NO ESTA TU PISTOLA PARA SALVARTE PERRO! ¡AHÍ NO ESTA TU QUERIDO MAYOR CULERO DE MIERDA! AHÍ SOLO ESTA LA MUERTE Y EL DIABLO QUE TE ESPERA CON EL INFIERNO MALDITO. ¿¡ COMO SE SIENTE!? . ¿¡ COMO SE SIENTE!? ¡HIJO DE PERRA ESPERO QUE TE HAGAS NIDO DE GUSANO EN EL INFIERNO!- Samuel le grita con la pasión de un hombre loco. A sus lados Roberto y Quique pelean con el para controlarlo y hacer su escape. Samuel le tira una escupida al calvo que esta en el suelo y le cae donde estaba el rostro. En realidad el matón no aguanto los golpes de ira. Estaba muerto. Al fin domaron a Samuel y hicieron camino hacia el chevrolet viejo de Roberto.

(Afuera)

Los tres amigos se metieron al carro en seguida. Roberto tomo las llaves y lo encendió. Con un rugido de un león viejo pero aun vivo y muy orgulloso el carro cobro vida. Gritaron las llantas y el camino se abrió. En la avenida se vio que iban en camino la policía. Ninguno dijo nada estaban callados. Todo el ruido era hecho por el motor y los corazones de cada uno que no paraban de latir con odio. Roberto manejando Quique a su lado y Samuel atrás. Samuel miraba la noche de San Salvador. Se miraba diferente. Se miraba de otro modo. El había recibido lo que pidió.

Quique iba mirando el suelo del carro. Roberto y Samuel vieron que buscaba algo pero nadie tenia el aliento de preguntar ni querían saber. Por lo menos eso pensaba. Al fin Roberto pregunto.

-¿Que putas buscas?- Roberto toma su mirada del camino por un segundo. Después Quique se sienta recto con una sonrisa en su rostro. Y con su mano derecha levanta la botella de smirnoff que temprano habían comprado.

-¡Dame es mierda!- Samuel le quita la botella de la mano a Quique. Lo abre como que fuera la cura del cáncer. Samuel se empina la botella. Roberto extiende su mano y Samuel le da la botella y toma un trago. Quique termina el círculo. Roberto piensa en la mirada del hombre con el revolver. Toma una vez más la botella y se la empina. Dios se hace presente para todos. No solo en el escalón. La mirada del hombre le cruza la mente a Roberto una vez más. Una vez más se empina la botella y se la pasa a Samuel. Sonríe.

Story of a drunk told through a few songs

2009-08-24T16:03:00.000-06:00

(A Well Respected Man…The Kinks)

The lights were bright just like in Vegas. He remembered his trip to Las Vegas, it was just great. Vegas was the first time in his life he paid more attention to other things than drinking, even though the drinks were free. Wow, free drinks, and he didn’t use that to his full potential. Anyways the lights, they were bright. For some reason he just laid there, and looked at these lights. His eyelids were heavy so was his body. He was so tired. He closed his eyes.

It was the good old days again. He was waking up on a Sunday morning with a terrible hangover. He felt someone’s presence. It was his old friend from the high school days. The bastard had gone into the navy and since it was the holidays he was home. What the hell is he doing in my room on a Sunday morning?

“Let’s go man.”

“Dude I just went to bed.” Aramis says.

“I don’t give a damn; I’m only here for 2 weeks. C’mon you’re wasting good drinking time.”

“It’s Sunday morning. I usually wait till Sunday afternoon.” Aramis has the intention to cover himself up.

“Lets go to IHOP and have some breakfast, and then we will see where the day will take us.”

Aramis could feel the half bottle of Smirnoff he had drank the night before coming up on him. It was 9 am and he had gone to be at around 5 am. He was not at his best at this moment. Well it was free breakfast, why not.

“Let me get ready.”

“Hurry up I got Ramiro waiting in the car, he is hung over too.”

What a bastard, Aramis thought. Well he is a friend, a good friend at that, so he might as well make the best of his time before he has to go back to the base.

Before he knew it, it was 9pm and 12 hours had gone by. They had gone to have breakfast at IHOP. Then they made their way to where Navy boy had been partying all night. Then they went downtown to Hooters. For a while it was pitcher after pitcher after pitcher of beer. Then at about 5 pm they made their way back to their neighborhood and went to the Hooters there.

Navy boy was driving his brother’s truck which was pretty cool. The problem is that Navy boy lost track of time. This was not good because his brother was a cop. So by 9 pm when they were stumbling out of Hooters close to their home his older brother was about to put out a APB for a stolen ride. It was 9pm when they dropped Aramis off at his mother’s house.

It felt like it was later, he thought it was at least midnight, but it was only 9:40pm. He regretted this type of thing, stumbling in while someone is awake in the house. The worst scenario would be that his mother should happen to have guest over. No, the worst would be that the guest would be from her church. Aramis’ mother was a kind and forgiving woman, but the people at her church were the typical self-righteous ass holes.

Let’s have a smoke while we deliberate. Should we or should we not go in. Well we can’t stay outside all night in the front yard in the cold, swaying back and forth with no wind.

Aramis gets his wit and goes towards the door. On the first try he lands the key in the key hole. He opens the door, no one in the living room, not this one, but he could hear the noise in the other living room. His mother did have some guests in the house. He quickly made his way towards the kitchen to get a glass of water to take with him; he is going to need it tomorrow or later that night. He gets to the refrigerator door and gets a cup fills it with ice. He goes to the valve that dispenses cold water and puts his cup at an angle. No head he thinks as if it was a tap of beer. He giggles to himself. The cup is at a weird angle and as he fills up the cup with water he also gets sprayed with cold water on his crotch, he doesn’t notice it though.

Aramis was about over flow the cup when he felt the presence of someone behind him. Please let it be Navy boy and not one of his mother’s guests. He slightly turns his head backwards and tries to move his eyes more that his neck allows, or at least more than his drunkenness can allow. He suddenly realizes that he has been singing a song; he is softly mumbling “A well respected man”, just like the typical drunk stumbling home.

He turns around and sees a real pretty girl, he has seen her before when he used to go to church, but he couldn’t place her. She on the other hand had placed her sight on the big wet stain on his crotch. Suddenly Aramis feels the cold wet feeling on his crotch. He turns around and starts to stumble back to the hallway leading to his room. He is heading for the door of his room when he suddenly as if he was not in control of his motor skills, he breaks to the right turns on the light lifts up the toilet lid and promptly pukes his guts out.

Aramis didn’t realize how loud he was hurling until he raised his head from the toilet and wiped his lips with toilet paper as if his face and ass had switched places. He flushed the toilet and struggled to get up. He must have been barfing really loud because when he managed to turn around and wipe the tears from his eyes because of the effort of puking; his eyes focused and he had an audience. The pretty girl still looking at his crotch, her parents looking at his crotch and some particles of puke on his face and his mother who was sad with embarrassment, they were all there to have a look at the perfect picture of the drunk.

Aramis tried to make some words form, and all he could get out was:

“Hey brother Venegas, how is church?”

Aramis didn’t wait for a response and he walked towards his room, they opened a path for his drunken stumble. Brother Venegas’ wife put her arm around Aramis’ mother as if to give her condolences. Aramis swung his door shut and in the dark aimed for his bed as he let himself go.

“Another perfect day”, Aramis says on his way to oblivion. On his way down to his bed he passes out.

It felt like a train had marked its rails across Aramis’ head. His stomach was in pain as well as the rest of his body, but stomach and head what he felt the most. He walked into the kitchen. It was Monday so thank God no one was home. He went for a grape juice. He went back to his room with his body lamenting the activities the day before. He is highly dehydrated and slams the grape juice.

It’s only a few minutes before the stomach does the bureaucracy and rejects the juice, so, déjà vu, Aramis runs into the bathroom again. The dark color drink comes up just as he had sent it down. After that distasteful greeting by his body, Aramis stands there and looks at the bathroom. He seems to remember something but it’s too faint. He can’t really remember.

He goes into his room and lies down. He is wondering off to sleep again, he was tired and it had been three days of drinking, when the phone rings. It was Navy boy’s mom. She was less than happy and asked what had happened the night before. She told Aramis that Steve wanted to talk to him later. This was a real drag. Steve was Navy boy’s older brother, owner of the truck that they had been using and also, and more importantly, a cop. Somehow after Navy boy had come over to his house at 9 am; drug him out of bed, drove him all over town, paid for everything, it was now Aramis’ fault. Now that was typical.

If the day before was another perfect one, this one was really going to suck.

Suddenly there were no more lights. It was dark but he felt he was moving. He was in a car of some sort. He was barely aware of the red lights flashing outside. Then the car came to a stop. Two back doors opened and Aramis could see the night sky. He felt so weak; he could not make his chest inflate. His eyes had gone shut for just a second. He saw the medics pull the gurney and felt the wheels hit the ground.

“Another perfect day” Aramis mumbled as he closed his eyes.

working on it

2008-12-01T12:38:00.002-06:00

walking home
looking for a dose
so unhappy with you
guided away
embracing hate
it's all the same to you

uninvited guest
sporting sunday best
it's a laugh to all of you
somewhere he fits
cut glass, broken heart
somewhere he is loved too

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 5

2008-09-20T23:35:00.000-06:00

(Vicious… By Lou Reed)
The bar was always more alive with her there. It could be a Tuesday night with no one there but if Kellie was there…that was all that was needed. She was so thin, tall elegant and so very beautiful. She had the face of an angel and the heart of a saint. I never really figured out why she hung out with me. I guess it’s because I was more in love with the booze than pussy. I guess she was tired of every guy that she met wanting to get into her pants just because she liked to drink. She was no slut…but she was out of place here in this bar and especially with me. She was the love that I needed. She was the only person other than my mother that felt sorry for me. She was the only love I had these days. That and my draft beer and shot of Jack Daniels was good enough for me.
I love to look at her from a distance. She is like one of those paintings that you just can’t take your eyes off of. I couldn’t stop looking at her when she was at the juke box looking for something bluesy, something that was rotting the pit of my soul and needed to come out of the bar’s speakers. I see her dial the number for the song she thinks is perfect. She knows how much I like David Bowie but she dials something else, more movable…more danceable. The song starts loud and strong with a steady beat. She straightens up and turns my way. I’m polite and wait for her before slamming my Jack Daniels. She starts making her way towards the table where her drink and I await. She moves her skinny model like hips to the beat. She is just so beautiful. Her jeans, her shirt and her hair all made for this perfect scene.
I didn’t know much about her. She didn’t talk too much about her family or her past. She just existed. That was all I needed. A fellow drunk to be with me at the bar. She never asked me about my past or my family…all she wanted was company and not some asshole trying to fuck her. Or maybe she just wanted someone to sit with at the bar so no other guys would be hitting on her. I guess I did the job although im not a tough guy. I’m a drunk with a beautiful girl sitting with him. Beauty and Drink. At the time she sat down she has a smile on her face which is met by my greatest effort not to bum her out. I smirk so she knows I’m good enough for a few drinks.
The day has been long for me even though I woke up around one in the afternoon. It seemed like 8pm would never roll around to get my fix. At around 6 thirty she had called me right when I was going through the last shakes of my hangover. It was a good thing it is winter time. I couldn’t handle this type of hangover during the summer. My back was on fire and my head was throbbing. The cold helps out a lot. About an hour after she called I’m outside the pad waiting for her with a cigarette in my hand. Its cold but man its good for me. I open the door to her Amigo and hop in. She looks at me with a smile that tells me we are going to get wasted. I return the smile.
So here I am at the bar as per usual and she says to me that it was kind of dead. I agree. She tells me that it was a clear night and that maybe in an effort to save some money we should go by the liquor store and buy some forties and head up to the air port and stare at the landing lights as the planes land. I agree with her. So we pay the drinks and take off.
Once in her car she searches her collection of discs and once we are set with some Lou Reed we are on our way. We hit the Centennial and walk out with 4 forties of malt liquor. It was cheap and it did the trick. It was all we needed. All we needed other than our mutual company. I cant stop thinking about the looks I get when I’m in the liquor store. The typical look that says “what tha fuck is she doing with this looser”. If I was super preoccupied with picking up chicks I would take it as a compliment, but im too hung over to care about it. The teller looks at us when we get to the counter with the same look and Kellie makes it worse by putting her arm around me and pulling me close to her. She smells great. If my mind wasn’t so fucked up desperate for the booze I might of got a hard on by her smell.
Once at the air port or really across the street from the runway we park. It is a clear night and the lights shine bright on the runway. The air is cold and very crisp. We open the windows of the car and start with the first forty. We light cigarettes because nothing is better with cheap booze than a nice Marlboro red. In my drunken haze, the toxins from the night before left behind from a bottle of Smirnoff mixing with the new poison from the St. Ides is making for a great potion in my blood stream. At this moment I am totally content. I have my fix. My company, my music and most importantly my booze.
I don’t know why Kellie and I get along so well. Other than music and booze we have nothing in common. I don’t know how she feels about me but I love her. Not in a “I want to get married” sort of way. I love her because she is my friend and she makes me feel like I’m not a total waste. I feel bad for her though. It almost seems like she is being punished by having to hang out with me. I wish I had something more to offer her, but all I can offer her is my friendship. I’m not as good looking as her, and certainly not as tall as her, and I don’t know if I can protect her if we ever got into any trouble. I don’t question the situation, I’m just happy to be around someone so beautiful on the inside as well as the outside.

Aramis talks to his beautiful friend in the car and watch the night and planes go by. They laugh while Lou Reed plays. Aramis doesn’t know it but this will be the last time he is out with Kellie. They laugh at the stupid jokes made by one or the other. They enjoy each others company. A couple of spaces away another car parks. Neither Kellie nor Aramis notice the car or the three men inside.

The night was crisp as well was the aluminum bat that hit me across my back. All I could hear was a bunch of yelling. I could make out the words “Quit IT!” being screamed. It was Kellie’s voice. She was being held back. All I could see was a blur. These bastards really ruined my night. I had just opened my second forty. I try to cover my head from the kicks that are breaking air all around my ears. They somehow seem to hit me everywhere at once. I try to roll around and catch a punch near my right eye, which pushes me into some broken glass from the forty I dropped when they pulled me out of the car. The side of my face is pierced by the glass. Then I catch a boot near my chin and lower lip. I thought I was out at this point but then the last thing I felt was a kick right in the mouth of my stomach. I groan, I cough and spit out some blood. I hear some last words being screamed at me by one of the bastards. Then I’m out.
One of the men from the car was trying to keep Kellies attention on his words. She kept trying to break free from his grip. Her tears ruined her makeup. She was scared that she couldn’t look but at the same time wanted to get the other two men off of Aramis. She screamed many times for them to leave him alone. He wasn’t a big guy and was no match for the two men. Aramis was rolling around trying to cover his head and not take too many hits.
They slammed Aramis’ head on the pavement which by now was stained with his blood. The man holding her and trying to get her to listen to his screaming threats pushed her against the car. Kellie brings one sleeve up to her lips that covered in saliva and tears and wipes. Her eyes set dead on her friend on the ground bleeding. Just then one of the thugs decided he hasn’t had enough and walks over with the bat and rolls Aramis on his back and raises the bat in the air. Kellie reacts and tries to thrust herself to stop him but the other two men hold her. A siren sounds off two chirps and the blue and red lights light up the parking lot. The men make a break towards their car. Kellie makes her way to her knees and puts Aramis head on her lap. She tries to wipe the blood off of his mouth. She caresses his head. He is the closest thing she has come to love in quite some time. Not the kind of love that makes a boyfriend but the kind that cant be explained but you know will last. The police walk up to her and make her put her hands in the air. They frisk her and then check the vitals on Aramis. The three men are burning up the road as they speed away.

A Prayer

2008-09-20T22:55:00.002-06:00

A soldier kneels only before God, his maker, his guide the only one who can forgive him for his sins. The only one who can see and hear him cry. God is his only comfort.

"My father, I come to you alone,
As you brought me into this world,
My soul and heart belong only to you
As you are my father, my maker
I surrender my sword and loyalty only to you

" On this battle's eve
I seek your guidence and love
Your protection,
Your hand to sheild me

"Walk with me into battle
Be by my side,
Let my eyes see no fear
Let my heart feel only victory

"Guide my steps foward
Never into retreat
Show me my destiny
Let me not fear it

"Let me not lament the blood spilled
Be it my enemy's
Be it mine
Let my sword strike true
Until my enemy's heart beats no more

"Be I alive at the end of battle
Let me not fight another
Be I dead,
Give me peace and forgivness
Wash the blood stained on my soul

"Remember your son
Save your servant
Bless him now and in Darkness
Embrace him at your gates
Dry his tears and heal his sorrow

"In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit
AMEN"

Bad things happen in April

2008-04-05T17:09:00.000-06:00

April, its no surprise…
Abandonment, no surprise
Tears for you, while Im alone
Not the person you said to be
Not the person I thought

Wake now, and see reality
Today, your free, you’re free
Make up, and dress up
Before your tears betray you
Before you see hell unleash

Sing, for all of us
A song on your birthday to smile
Sadness is around in the cold
You can tell yourself
“I can live through this”
I hope your wisdom helps you believe

Who is that talking
Who is that crying…
Keep your back turned
It’s not worth your wild…It’s not worth your fire
Take your pieces, laugh and run
You havnt seen it all, little girls first

I say come back, keep your life on track
I’m not scared to melt and burn this way
Been here before, going there again,
This is really gonna happen, it’s happening now
Take your love and run
Your tears are falling for wasted time
Take your life and run…

2008-03-27T02:25:00.004-06:00

Mad Laughs and Clown Hats
The room is cold but I’m not aware
I’m falling down a mole hole and having tea on the way
I don’t bother to look around
Everywhere clowns in top hats laughing
All the way down it’s so bright it might as well be dark
At the end salted seas of rabid teeth wait
The room is cold, but I’m not here
I’ve been talked to but I can’t find to understand
If I’m sick I don’t know it
If I’m in love I don’t feel it
If I crossed the line and I’m here
Which is there, I bid you farewell
It makes no difference to me
Come out and play
Regain your faith
Come a little farther to see some pain
Don’t be scared of top hats and mad laughs
Feeling what you imagine tastes like grapes
Through the looking glass and maybe back
With help or not
The room is cold but I don’t care
I’m lost in darkness so bright I’ve lost my eyes
I’ve burned to stone and melted into fire
No one finds a use for me
I close my eyes as the clowns sing lullabies of the grave
When I wake they will laugh again
I will still be falling
I will still not be here
And I will have some tea

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 4

2008-03-11T14:57:00.002-06:00

(Long Long Long…By George Harrison)

In the haze of the vodka, and the perfectly still apartment Aramis sat alone on his couch. His apartment looking pathetic, a perfect reflection on his life. This is all that ever became of the money he spent on the booze. A drunken haze, not knowing what is real and what is not.
The White Album by the Beatles, it was a way to travel to a time he didn’t live in but believed he knew what it was all about. Stale music to sooth his soul. It was hell to be in this place, just when alcohol gets you numb you understand that you don’t want to be numb. The room seems far away and through his mind he can make out the words sung by George Harrison. It’s such a soft song but yet it hurts so much. A lost love found again, but the fact that it was lost for so long makes the mood become overwhelm by sadness. He looks at his at his apartment as a reflection of his life.

A rummy? Every kid dreams of living like this.

In his mind he can see pictures of the old country, family that he has, looking at him with sincerity. Looking at him with compassion. He opens his eyes and it seems that from the curtins he can see someone staring at him with somewhat disgust. His head wobbles and it dosent look like he is going to make it off this couch not right now anyway and certainly not on his own. It seems like it has been 12:44 in the am for a long time. Things are going so slow. Aramis doesnt remember this song being so long, despite the name it has. It was alright though he liked it.
His eyes close once again. The life in the old country comes to him in flashes of a childhood. Two parents that had all the right intentions of making a family in the traditional sense. Something went wrong with the plan, and now he was cursed. He tries to open his eyes and sees a little boy in front of him there in the apartment, looking at him with icy eyes of wonder. He looks so familiar. His breathing has slowed down considerably. He opens his eyes and there is no boy. He must be dozing off. The boy was never there, he thinks, as he looks on, the face is back at the curtains.
Someone is fighting outside. The yelling is getting awful loud but he is unmoved. Aramis can’t move his body, its way too heavy. To anyone else this would be alarming, but he had been here before. Many times he had been here. He wanted so bad not to be drunk, but to be a child again and be in the arms of his mother, warm and safe. He missed the loving touch of a mothers hand. He missed all the things he was denied. A family, the ability to love, a life. The boy is back and between the curtiains he sees a face turning into blood but he can’t be afraid. It’s too tiring. The face is melting into blood slush and he can hear the pounding on the window. Some one is really fighting outside.

He wasn't joking when he said that he wasnt going to get up by himself from this couch. Things have gone too far. He wasnt expecting this when he signed on, but it was in the contract.

Now Aramis had his eyes closed and they werent opening yet he could see himself laying on the couch. He was in front of himself looking, and next to him the little boy who now was crying. He didnt wimper but the tears would not stop flowing. A splash of blood on the window between the curtians and the pounding was now on the door. Then there he was looking from the couch again at the little boy looking at him. His eyes shifted and he saw his older brother sitting indian style next to the coffee table looking down at some CDs. On the coffee table the gun sat. Aramis wanted to move, but couldnt. The boy staring at him. His eyes filled with sadness. The boy looked down at the Aramis’ side. The vomit was yellow and all over the couch. There was a bottle of pills open and bunch of blue pills spilled on the couch with the vomit, some on the floor. His brother now was still, sitting there Indian style looking at the floor with his head bowed. Then the blood started to flow out of his mouth. It wouldn’t stop. He could hear the sirens now, and the pounding at the door finally broke. He slumped over with the dead weight and closed his eyes laying on the vomit. In his right hand the phone with no dial tone.
The guitars crescendo and the sirens end the song.

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 3

2008-03-11T14:44:00.002-06:00

(Babylon…Don Mclean version)

(The banjo starts to play in his head, the song is Babylon the Don Mclean version off the American Pie album.)

Aramis stood there in his drunken haze. The night was not helping his mood. He took out his Zippo and as he swayed in his drunken state he lit his cigarette. He put away the Zippo into his shirt pocket. He let out a big sigh which could not be distinguished between being drunk or a memory that haunted him, giving him no rest. He bent down and picked up the bottle of bourbon that he had picked out only an hour ago. He stood there in the dark and he looked down towards the grave marker. On the marker the name of his older brother the memory that never lets him get on with his life. The eternal sorrow, the everlasting reason to cry. He swigged back a drink of the bourbon. His face fixed on the stone with the expression of ‘what are we going to do now?’
-Why do we always come here? Do you know this person or what? The shadow behind Aramis asked and lit a cigarette. His voice was frustrated. It was obviously not his idea of a night out and having a few drinks. Who does that at a graveyard?
-You wanted to drink didn’t you? Well here have a drink and shut the fuck up. He passed his bottle to the figure behind him. We come here cause I’m fucking tired of them trendy New York wannabe bars. I’m tired of all them ass holes that go there. You know me I can’t stand fucking yuppies. The figure has taken a swig and passes back the bottle. Aramis takes the bottle and swigs it. He takes a long drag of his smoke. All of them fuckers going to the fucking bar to talk up their lives to bimbos. All of them wearing the same fucking Texas A and M cap. I’m tired of that shit. He pauses. Yeah, I know this person. He points at the marker and takes another swig.

-What this fucker doesn’t know is that this is where my brother is buried. I’m really not liking the current bar scene. The girls are good to look at and maybe take back to the apartment but its hell talking to those no brain bitches. I hate this place as well. I don’t know why I come here. I just end up here. I’m always called back here by something. I just can’t seem to forget that whole ordeal. I was young. I miss him terribly. I miss my mom as well but I can’t go to her in this state. Just like him before he ended up here. None of this was suppose to happen, but it did, and I can’t find the way out.

Life was a tedious torture for Aramis. When your fourteen you’re not wanting to go to church and be under the watch of your mother, no matter how nice of a lady she is. That’s what makes things harder, and you think your mom is nice to you so you will feel like a total ass when you do some bad shit. It’s all part of her plan to fill you with remorse for the evil stuff you do.
His brother was another story. He was 21 and he knew it. Aramis wanted desperately to live that life. Girls, nightlife, a few drinks all that stuff. Jr. High was another pain in the ass. Everyone telling you what you can’t do. Aramis really was getting scared that life was going to turn out to be a bunch of rules of things you couldn’t do.
It was one night that Aramis got to go out with one of his friends when it all went to hell. Being fourteen was hell, but it was about to get worse. When he got home he got into the shower. When he came out his mother and his then step father where putting on their shirts and making their way out the door. The words were:
-Your brother has been hurt in an accident take care of your sister.
He didn’t think much of this. A broken leg maybe. Within the next 24 hours he found himself looking at his mother in front of his brother’s casket with her face in her hands. It hurt him to see his mother like that. It hurt and scared him to look at his dead brother in the casket. He slowly began to break within. Everything that meant being fourteen didn’t matter now. This was going to be for the rest of his life and he knew that.
The older brother had been drinking for two days straight. He had made his way to his aunt’s house to where he had a key. Aramis mother would get angry when her older son would come home drunk. Her sister Oti had given Aramis’ older brother a key to the house. The house was alone when he arrived that afternoon. They say that he was way over the legal drunk limit. He placed a neatly written letter on the kitchen table and sat down on the couch which was near the stereo. He put on his favorite songs. He drank his last drinks. Some hours later he stood in the middle of the room and blew his brains out. It was almost 3 hours later when Oti came home and heard from outside the sounds of her nephew’s music. A smile came to her face that was quickly erased.
She came to the front door and saw the blood seeping out from the bottom. The bags she had in her hands fell to the ground. She opened the door and screamed when she saw her nephew on the floor with blood pouring out of his mouth. He looked as if he had tried to look for a comfortable position to sleep but didn’t quite find it. The CDs on the floor covered in blood. The booze on the coffee table neatly capped off. The gun just out of his reach on the floor also drenched in blood, his shirt covered as well.
Oti fell to the floor and stared ghastly at the scene. She crawled towards him to see if he was still with life. As soon as she touched him she saw he was cold. She picked up his head and more blood spurted out. The screams finally got the attention of the neighbors. Then the sirens came. When the paramedics pulled her away from her nephew which she loved like her own son, Aramis’ mother was on her way. Oti was drenched in blood and in shock.

-My mom had left the Catholic Church when she left the old country. She became a southern protestant Christian. I remember when they brought that box into the church that my brother had never set foot in when he was alive. All I could remember was the song that they sang. “By the waters of Babylon we lay down and wept for the, Zion.” I don’t know if they meant Zion as a land, a nation, an ideal, or what.
For me the waters have become tears mixed with booze. Tears of me, mom, Oti, my brother. All that blood and there was no life. All that and there was no answer to why he did it. There were blames between my uncles. They all blamed my mom. I didn’t. I blamed myself. I was caught up in my shitty little world, only thinking of myself and not thinking of anything else. I was complaining over bullshit, my hair, my social life, not having the clothes that I wanted. I don’t know what his problem was, but it must have been bad. Zion, or what I wept for was the idea of my older brother and having a family.
This is where I come to lay down and weep for my Zion. I have my booze, and here I weep when no one can see me. At this grave at night I weep for my Zion.

Aramis looks out towards the night and darkness, nothing there, nothing in him but a lot of booze, a void inside a void. The song ends and he throws the cigarette and makes his way towards his car. The friend in the shadows follows puffing on his smoke. Time to erase this; for the millionth time.

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 2

2008-02-09T23:06:00.000-06:00

(REM What's the Frequency Kenneth?)

If the walk to the car was bad, then the car itself was the last level of hell. All he could see in his mind was a glass of water and some nice pieces of ice. He could see his hand going to one of them fancy refrigerators with the stainless steel doors and that hole where ice and cold water are dispensed. His Honda accord would take a while before it would produce the nice cold air conditioning that his chest, back and head longed for. In fact it would punish him first with a blast of stale hot air accumulated all morning. It wasn't till this point that he noticed that he had walked out of the house in his sandals. As he looked down the sweat was beading up on his forehead. A whole bottle of vodka and all that beer before hand, now how had that happened? Just then the air conditioner started to give hints of crisp cold air. The radio starts up with the electric guitar and the voice of Michael Stipes asking Kenneth about the frequency.
The drive was that of a typical shitty day. Every red light between the apartment and the beer store was caught by our hurting subject. The only solace was that the AC was good, he could wait. Once at the store he remembered it was Saturday so obviously every fucker turning 21 on this day or having a get together at his house was buying his imports. Corona, Heineken, Dos Equis, Guinness. This just made the super-lifers existence, like Aramis, a real plump painful pimple on the ass. He was there to get what he needed, not what he needed to impress some guest. Of course he wasn't at the liquor store yet he was at his first red light out of 6, but already he was getting agitated. He wasn't really like this; all he needed was a nice cold vodka on the rocks to cool him down. Just thinking of the nice drink calmed down the agitation in his mind and butterflies started in his stomach. It was almost like falling in love for the first time. The fix would save him from the collections agency from last night that pretty soon would be knocking on his forehead in the form of a vengeful hangover.
His worst fears are true when he pulls into the parking lot. There seems to be a lot of cars, more than during the week. He hated going into the beer store like this. He knew how he looked. He looked like a boozer who needed a drink. He only imagined how he smelled to the people present. When liquor is consumed in vast quantities it sort of starts to become a part of your scent. Your pours start to recycle liquor.
-Fucking yuppies.
Aramis couldn't stand them. All of them look exactly the same or they try to look exactly the same. They try to look as if they are a typical beer commercial. All of them walking around with their fake bakes, with their Gucci sun glasses and gap shirts made for the weekend wear. It made him sick to his stomach and in the current condition he could not afford additional pain to his body that longed for the true, sweet, loving and sincere lies of alcohol. It would cure it all away and these yuppies would not be pissing him off so much, in fact they would not matter.
His moves and turns were automatic. Fourth isle on the right side second shelf was where they kept the vodka. Nice, clear and inviting. Then it was a short trip a couple of isles down to where the ice was. He usually didn't buy ice but he imagined that last night he used it all up. Of course with his luck he found himself waiting for a pair of yuppie chicks to make up their mind on how many bags of ice they would take. Geeze, they are fine as hell but this pisses him off. Aramis turns around and goes to where the tall boys are kept and picks up a six pack. He comes back and as if by art of magic the beautiful and stupid girls are gone. He grabs his ice and makes a dash for the counter.
Outside it's the same summer day with the sun beating down but now it's not so bad. Things are looking up. It was back to the apartment to think about what to do with this beautiful Saturday afternoon, alone or who to invite. Maybe he would invite some friends to entertain, just like the yuppies. Aramis was the son of a well off woman. So he couldn't hate the yuppies as much as he made out. His mom was a successful immigrant that wanted a better life for her son. She was as Christian as you can get; not the burn in hell godless heathen type, but the actual type, the ones that forgave to be forgiven. Aramis loved his mom, but loved his lifestyle more…
-Again! Why do you have to bring up old shit?
He knows what he was doing to his mom, and he couldn't stand to see her heart break, but he wanted to live on his own terms. His mom kept on giving him money after he had left home. After he quit calling she kept depositing money in his bank account. He drank more liquor to drown out that feeling of being an ungrateful bastard. At the last red light and he was already feeling sorry for himself and was thinking twice about drinking up a storm this afternoon and into the night. Thoughts of his mother always hurt him. There is a lot of love mixed in with resentments and hate. It's a subject that he has put off for so long that he is not about to sit down right now with pen and paper and try to sort it out. There was no question about it, of course some day he would have to face these problems, but for now he was going to have some drinks and forget everything. It would be a night alone. The thoughts of his mother have shot down his social ability for the night. He needed a shower and a nice tall boy to ease him in for the remainder of the afternoon. Last night would not be paid for in puke and head aches today, maybe the next morning. Maybe. That depended on if he would go and do the same ordeal as today.
-Mr. sandman …bring me a dream…make her the cutest I have ever seen …I don't know about that lots of wavy hair like Liberace line. Kinda gay, won't sing that part.
The song had returned in a different tone to his mind. Indeed the sandman had returned and there was a dream to pass out tonight. There would be a dream, alcohol induced.

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs

2008-02-09T23:03:00.000-06:00

(Mr. Sandman The Cordettes)

-The guy who is all serious and with his eyes closed, that's me. I always remembered that song from the fifties. The Cordettes. I must have heard it while flipping through the radio. I was into the Beatles, but only the Beatles. The song was catchy but it was not anything I would admit to listening to while my friends were around. Regardless of what I thought it was not a simple pine box that they would put me in. It was more than I expected. I finally got that dream that I asked the sandman for. This dream won't ever end. Just how I wanted it. No one crying, no one making a big drama of it. I look more pale than usual but that's ok. My cheeks are rosy and the nose looks like I could be the head reindeer on Santa's sled. Of course my nose is red. I was the conductor on the RED NOSE EXPRESS. You got to be a drunk to laugh at that one. One final dream with a catchy tune and few folks to say good bye. Im so at piece, I'm serene. This is all I really wanted. Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream.
The Paul bearers carry the casket to the display area. In the casket is the drunk who bought the farm. They gently stop and open the casket and people start to walk by and take a look. People are not so much there to pay respect; they are there to make sure this pest is really dead; to look at a dead body, to be a tourist. It is not so much a funeral as much as a meeting place. They meet to discuss the pain, not of the departed but of the ass hole that made their lives a little more miserable than it should have been. Somehow there is pain that there won't be anymore pain. In the back room of this funeral home the secretary of the business has her clock radio playing softly the jumpy and bubbly tune of the Cordettes. No one seems to hear it. No one alive, that is. People look at the cadaver sit and chit chat about the everyday business. The dead has already been talked about during his life. During his ever present dieing life. Never living, just little by little dying.
-Don't bring that shit up…
The Cordettes finish the song and the attention is placed by all in the room towards a clock radio that does not play anything else. The music has stopped and now it is time to wake up. The sandman dream is over, and the hang over starts here.
Aramis looks up. There are a lot of shadows in his room. It's probably around mid day. Yep it is one in the PM. Good thing his AC hasn't died on him. The summer can be horrible at this time of the day. Especially if the night before assorted amounts of rot gut were part of the intake. The other thing that summer was brutal with was the light that shined through his bedroom window. In the summer the sunlight came right through the window and hit him dead in the face. During the winter there wasn't so much light since it was mostly overcast. To counter the dreaded sunlight some heavy winter blankets that are not used during summer are carefully placed over the window. No light just a bunch of shadows.
-Dreaming. Stupid song.
Aramis doesn't try to remember the night before. Its better not to. People get their feelings hurt when they find out they acted like total dumb ass. Pride can be a difficult father. A difficult dictator. Its better not to ask, not your self not anyone else. If he had made a complete ass of himself he would get the memo soon enough. Friends are nice to have until they start making fun of you or trying to control your life. They are friends, so you gotta deal with them.
There was no moral hangover up to this point maybe it was a night at home. This was getting frequent now. More and more just staying home, cheaper boos, no getting your ass kicked by fuckers you didn't know. Aramis was comfortable with this. The less he spent on other people the cheaper drinking got with him. It was a bitch ending up the night half buzzed and not having enough to close in the proper way. Proper closing consisted of having cab fare, having at least half a bottle but preferably a full one of vodka. A pack of smokes is essential and a well maintained Zippo lighter.
Cab fare is needed so you won't have to drive. The worst thing you want to do is drive when you're drunk. Not cause some dip shit might get hurt but because you don't want to get pulled over and wake up the next day in the drunk tank with some ass holes puke all over you. Worst of all with out a bottle of vodka to calm the shakes down. That is pain.
A full bottle of vodka is necessary preferably with that pouring spout. Usually when you want to close properly you want to have enough of the stuff and that's because when you get hammered your coordination gets thrown off. It's a professional hazard you know. So you are prone to spill a lot. You have some to spill and you have the spout that will prevent too much spillage. It is obvious that you're not going to chug the whole bottle so you don't want to spill the rest once you pass out. The rest will come in handy the next morning. Cigarettes are a must. Even if you don't smoke when you're sober. Keeps you moving and helps you hang in a little longer. The Zippo is not a fancy detail. You loose coordination so you want to have something that will light on the first strike IE the "well maintained Zippo" line.
-If only all the aspects of drinking were this easy to plan. There are other things such as the next morning. The next morning and having to face your pathetic life that you thought you had shed after a few shots at the same fucking bar you always go to. You would think that you would know that your setting yourself up for another illusion. But that's not my problem now. My problem right now is that I don't feel a moral hangover and I don't feel the physical one either. Which means more than likely that I am still more drunk than hung over. Hangovers don't just stop coming. They always come. They always collect. I don't feel the lousy heavy stomach, I don't feel the hot burning sensation in my bones, I haven't started to shake, but make no mistake…last night wont be forgiven. My problem right now is to find that bottle and hope to God that I didn't leave it on the floor pouring itself out. If I did then that means I gotta get out in that sun and go buy my fix. That is an ordeal in itself. My problem at the moment is getting a drink in my belly and taking a shower.
-The worst is when you get delirious and start to hear things and get all fucking jumpy and paranoid. People confuse you with a crack head, but my crack is legal, it's commonly called rot gut. All I can hear is that bullshit song MR. Sandman. It's in my head. Stupid fucking dream. Stupid song. What the fuck?
Someday I'm going to quit. Not today though. Not today. I'll be fine. All I need is a drink and a shower.
Aramis must be becoming a pro because the bottle is neatly on the table with the cap on top. Closed tight. There is a spur of hope for the situation at hand in the mind of Aramis. Then his eyes move slightly down. Yes the bottle is standing neatly on the table, the cap on it tightly closed but the bottle is empty. Maybe a full bottle is not enough, you might need two to close the night properly.
-Damn. Just my fucking luck. Now I gotta get down to the store and buy another bottle to cure myself. I hate the fucking store. FUCK.
Aramis puts on a light shirt and his jeans. He checks for his wallet and the sweat is already building up at his neck soon it will spread. He checks his pockets for some loose cash. It must have been a night in; he had quite a few dollars. More than enough for his fix. He finds his sunglasses and his keys and out he goes. The sun beats down like only in the south. It's not helping his state.

Hang Over and a Jog

2007-12-29T02:00:00.000-06:00

"It was saturday morning I can remember that. I remember it was saturday morning because I felt like shit. So that meant the night before was friday and I got my freak on, whatever that means. The thing was that I got lit the night before so it had to been friday because when I woke up I felt like shit which meant it was saturday morning.
"I wouldnt say that the hangover or the binge was one for the books but it really put a dent in me and as I tried to get my muscles mobil again and trying to keep my stomach from puking up whatever it was that I ate or drank, I actually made a promise there while my body was in total pain. I promised that I would not drink for the rest of...the month. Who am I kidding the liquor thing has me licked.
"I eventually get up and into the shower and things start to look up a little seeing as there is cold water running down my body. Just what this hang over needed some cold water outside the body and inside as well. After Getting out of the shower things seemed to get better and I thought to myself...'It's not such a bad hangover' I mean even my stomach was calming down by this time.
"I head downstairs of my very overly priced cheap imitation of a luxury town house and go into the kitchen. Since things after the cold shower were picking up I thought to myself...'I'll skip the alkaseltzer' so I went ahead and got some eggs out and some sausage to make breakfast. I turned on the stove and put in some butter and cooked the eggs. I had not realized how hot the kitchen got when you turned on the stove. I cooked the sausage next and the sweat started to beed at my forehead and on my back. After the sausage was done I put some bread in the toaster and for all my effort went to the fridge and poured myself a nice glass of orange juice.
"For a moment I wondered if I had any vodka to make the orange juice into a screw driver but as soon as the thought crossed my head my stomach turned a little. The message was very clear 'Dont you dare throw more of that shit down here', so I put the thought out of my head and avoided looking like a pregnant woman, throwing up in the morning and all. I took my sip and waited for my toast as my eggs and sausage lay neatly in a plate.
"The toast comes up. I butter it and pick up my plate and drink and head for the table. I sit down and start to eat. I sudenly notice how much I'm sweating. Its awful hot, after all it is summer. I wonder if the air conditioning is not on. Then I feel a tug in my stomach and something racing up my throat. I get up and run to the rest room. I should have taken the alkaseltzer.
"After a few dry heaves I felt pretty sure that the demon was out of me. I got up feeling a little dizzy. For about half a second I thought about finishing my breakfast, but apparently the stomach was closed for business. I could still taste the little bit of orange juice that I had just drank, and then I thought I was going to throw up all over again. I got it under control though. I got some cold water and got the alkaseltzer. Who was I kidding, I wasnt a 17 year old waking up from his first night out drinking.
"I went to the living room and sat in a spot that I knew that the air conditioning would hit my face. I drank the seltzer there. I felt like getting in the shower again but that was just a temporary fix. I didnt want to have a little hair of the dog that bit me and putting anything in my stomach was out of the question. So I sat thinking which is not an easy thing when all of your insides want to burst out of your body because of what you put into it the night before.
"Suddenly I had a thought. On a previous ocasion in which I was begging for death in exchange for the hangover, I got so desprate that I went to the modern god that has all the answers...the internet. Surely the net would have a cure for a hangover. I went to this page that gave several solutions many of them so repulsive that I would take the hangover. There was one that said that Native Americans in previous centuries when confronted with a hangover situation would run a distance and sweat it all out and then lick the sweat off their arms. At that moment it seemed to be the right thing...the running not licking the sweat off my arms.
"Next thing I know I'm in my shorts and at the comunity college campus where they have a running path all around the campus. I was there with my soccer shoes a white shirt and torquios shorts and my sunglasses. It was a hot day and in the distance you could hear the locust sounding off. There were some people getting into their cars with their dogs. This was a popular place to walk your dog and to run. I adjusted my sunglasses and started off.
"Right off the bat I started sweating and I could smell the liquor gushing out of my pores. I tried to remember who much I had drank the night before. Im trying to keep a good pace not too fast and not like I'm dieing on my feet. My white shirt was really getting soaked with the hangover sweat...I just hoped that the run would not provoke me to hurl.
"I was turning a corner and saw a long straight stretch. On my right side there were some bushes that had grown to eye level. Then through my sunglasses driping with sweat from my forehead in the distance I saw a fine specimen comming towards me. She was really good looking even at the distance that I saw her. She had on black tight running pants and a orange color tank top. I kept my sight up because with every step her breasts bounced. They were not too big but they were noticeable. She had great hair as well that bounced with her speed.
"I kept my sight up as we ran at each other and noticed that she was wearing sunglasses. I was surprised I hadn't tripped over a rock or something at this point. I inflated my chest out to look like a bad ass and made more confident strides. As she got closer you could tell she wasnt out here curing a hangover, she was a healthy person. She wasnt a faker like me. Well Im not a total faker there was a time when I was in shape. I started to wonder if I should just smile at her or say hello or something else.
"She got closer and I started to panic that I would not take an accurate shot at her. I was trying to think of a line. Things were so much easier in High school. Damn she is almost right in front of me and she looks so good and I can't even find the sylables in my mouth to say 'Hello'.
"At that moment I felt a twitching near my right eye. It all happened much faster than how Im talking. The twitch suddenly turned into a little tickle near my eye. Then I realized that a bee or a yellow jacket was trapped inside my sunglasses. I started to loose the coordination in my strides. I started to sway back and forth while I ran. Then I felt a great pain in my upper right cheek near my eye. HOLY GEEZE, that really hurt. I screamed in pain and fell into the bushes and grabed at my face in hysterics trying to get the bee or whatever off my face. I was rolling in pain as the beautiful girl jogged by just looking at me like some weirdo.
"I noticed that there was a hornets nest in the bushes and got up and went to the other side of track. My right eye area was swelling up. This sucked. I waited for the girl to get a real ways off and put my sunglasses on again and headed to my car. I looked around with my left eye in the hopes that no one else but the most beautiful girl on earth saw me.
"I finally get in my car and look at the hidious deformation on my face. The swell of my face actually made my sunglasses all lopsided. I started my car and checked the money in my wallet. I had enough. I peeled out and headed in a familiar direction.
"A bad hangover that had not passed with the run, the puking session and the most beautiful girl on earth just running by you when your on the floor screaming bloody murder and leaving you to suffer...I think I deserved a drink. This is what I really should have done in the first place instead of fucking with the routine that I know works.
"I got a twelve pack of beer really icey cold. I walked to the check out and people are looking at my face by this time with my lopsided glasses a sweaty ass shirt, soccer shoes smelling like ass mixed with vodka. The clerk looks at me all wierd; like he wants to say something and some yuppy looking chicks behind me are giggling and I think they are having a laugh on me. I pay the clerk who I can feel staring at me as I walk out of the store.
"Im finally home and I get in the shower. It feels good all over my body except my face. I get out and dry off. The afternoon is setting in and I notice that there are a few messages on my machine. All the messages are from friends inviting me out. Not this weekend...the Thing has to rest, reflect and drink. Rest becuase a hangover like a night of drinking, it takes a lot out of you. Reflect, to try to see where things went wrong not only today but in life in general. Drink, to forget about it all and start to feel good again. I sit down in my chair, kick back and open a cold beer, one of many.
"I wonder what tomorrow morning is going to be like?"

Hielo Sobre Una Estatua

2007-12-29T01:58:00.000-06:00

Desde lejos extiendo mi angustia
Busco alcanzar sueños
Despierto en el descontento de la media noche
Hace frio en la soledad
La luna me señala con su luz
Solitario en la oscuridad
Esto es mi condena

Soledad, soledad brutal
Soledad que comprenden las estatuas
Miedo en la noche
Indiferencia a la luz del día
Cien años de sueños negados
Ahora cierro los ojos
Con la vana intención de volver a soñar

El hielo afuera
La nieve cae en la ciudad
En la calle estoy parado analizando mi camino
Mientras a mí alrededor pasa la gente y la vida
Indiferencia de millones
Únicamente para mí
Todo el frío solo para mis huesos

No existe lugar calido en este invierno
Refugio esta escaso
Lejos como el ayer
Aquí estoy
Tratando de alcanzar sueños
Brazos extendidos
Aquí esta mi angustia

The Fence

2007-12-29T01:57:00.000-06:00

Haven't seen the sky like this in a long time
We were only kids then
You from one side
Me from another
Together at the fence
Just looking and smiling

It was cold then
Your jacket
My skimpy sweater
Songs and friends
Booze and parties
Cars down the same street

In that dream I lost you
I didn't wake up for a long time
When I awoke I was far away
Or was it you
Too far to reach
I walked my own way

I saw you again the other day
The sky was like when we were kids
At the fence once again
On different sides
Laughing at what we once were
Smiling at what we are

We both ran a long way
Going in different directions
Chasing dreams
Holding memories
Some day we will be at the fence again
Maybe on the same side this time.

The Phone Call

2007-12-29T01:56:00.001-06:00

So there I was just minding my own business. Actually I had problems with my sleep pattern, which has now developed into insomnia. So let's start there. As I was saying I was just passed out sleeping after coming home from school; 10th grade to be exact. I was big shit now, no longer a freshman, but a sophomore with sleeping problems.
For sometime now I had my own phone line in my room. You see I was blessed with having a stepfather and the sack of shit tried to start trouble with me for anything I did. Thank God the air we breathe is free otherwise I wasn't chipping in or pulling my weight with the air I breathed. Anyway, the phone had become my Gettysburg with him. People called me, I was 16 at the time and he was always bitching that I was always on the phone. So I would get off the fucking phone and guess what, no one called for him.
So I'm sleeping, my after school nap and the phone, or my private phone line rings. (Gotta make this sound good) I'm half asleep when I hear a voice, this chick is asking for me to get my cousin Myra on the phone. Did I wake up in another universe or house? So it went something like this:
"Hello"
"Hello, is Myra home?"
"Myra?"
"Who is this?"
"You called me, who is this?"
"I'm M……….Erika Smith. (Not the actual name of the girl who called me. The smith part gives it away I think.)
"Okay. I'm Luis. (That's my actual name.) You got the wrong number. Myra is my cousin however, and her phone number is a lot like mine. You dialed 446-1740 and her number is 466-4017.
"Luis right? What school do you go to?
"I go to Turner."
"What year are you?"
"Sophomore."
"You might know my sister. Her name is L…Mandy Smith."
"Yeah, I know her." Then I had a confession, I was sleepy and when in that state I will say just about anything stupid. "I'm kind of into her."
"Oh so you're the Luis she mentions?"
"She talks about me?"
"Not much. But she has mentioned you."
"Oh."
"Well I'm going to call Myra. Thanks for the number."
Click. Click.
I thought that was the end of that. The fact was that I was into her sister. I thought that her sister was into me as well, but as in the case of alcohol, that was not for me. I would call asking for Mandy and every once in a while I ended up talking to Erika.
Mandy and Erika have teacher parents. Parents that are teachers for the school district, so Erika was a little younger than me and she was a great person to converse with, she was very smart, so I liked talking to her. She eventually started calling me and we became good friends over the phone. I felt really close to her. Even though I had never met her in person, I thought she was just about the greatest thing going.
The phone thing went on for about a month and then an opportunity to meet in person came up at this party. So I went with my friend Emilio. As chance would have it, Emilio's girlfriend was friends with Erika. I was pretty excited to finally meet with this person who by chance I met over the phone. By the time I met her we had established a special friendship and based on what we spoke about. I was interested and I really didn't care about her looks, or what ever she turned out to look like.
So here I am, in the car with my friend Emilio, and we pull up to the house where the party is at. It was cold that night as I remember. We walked in, and Emilio's girl just jumped on him, she really was into him. They were in front of me, and I was trying to get them out of my way so I could see this mystery person and at least shake her hand. Being that we were at that teen age, teenage, they had set up the party with something like a red light in the primary room.
I looked around and I don't remember what she was wearing, but I do remember seeing curls. Curls, nothing but curls, heaven had dropped to the earth in the form of curls, her oval face and her smile. Yeah, it was at that moment that I fell in Love. Not only fell in Love, but in Love for the first time. I hadn't really tried booze up to that point, just a swig or something you know, but I felt drunk just standing there looking at her as she got up and walked towards me. I guess I was frozen in place, so when I wouldn't move she got up and came up to me, which was great. Well actually it kind of sucked that she came up to me because I saw she was slightly taller than me. What was nice, was that she hugged me.
So we talked and I think it was at this party that she asked me to stand up in a 15th with her. That means I was going to be her escort when one of her friends has her 15th birthday which is a big deal in the Latin culture. It might have been that she had already asked me but the thing is that I said yes. I don't remember too much about what we talked about that night, but I do remember that I asked her to go outside with me. We were outside alone and she was talking away and that's when I just dived. I kissed her and she kissed me back. It sounds corny now but, that was it. I don't know if to stop the story here because after this, some things happened that are not worth mentioning. Or I could skip that and get to another part.
Anyway we were interested, me more than her. She saw it as another guy I think, and I saw it like, this was it. I think the age difference came into play there. It didn't come to a relationship at all; she lost interest as a boyfriend pretty quick, but not as friends. So we kind of made things that we were friends, although I wanted to be more. The 15th she asked me to came and went. That night I she told me she wanted to get with one of my best friends which was extremely heart breaking. I told her that she could do what she wanted and but not to parade in front of me. Well at the reception she paraded with my best friend. Okay let's fast forward a little.
She asked me, after parading with my friend in front of me, if I could give her a ride home. Yes, there were other girls there. Yes, they were beautiful and yes I told her "yes" I would give her a ride home. You see I was devastated and all those other girls didn't matter, it was her I wanted and I couldn't have, and I knew my best friend would not see all that I saw and would not appreciate her.
Now that I think of it there was this beautiful girl that was there that night, and she was really throwing her panties at me that night, but I was caught up in something else. I hardly paid attention to her. For the rest of the night I really didn't speak. I didn't have words. I wanted to be alone but yet there I was at a party with dozens of people. See, that's life for you, you want something and it gives you the exact opposite.
That night when the time came Erika asked me if could take her home so I did. On the way home she tried to start up a conversation, but I wasn't there. I was somewhere else. When we got to her house I said something to her but I can't really remember what it was. It wasn't anything nasty it was something about say hi to your parents for me or something. I drove home and that was it.
When ever I tell this story to someone they always ask me, "That's it?" "You never spoke to her again?" Of course I spoke to her again. After the 15th I shut myself off from the rest of the world. Erika could do whatever she wanted, I wasn't going to watch. It was hard enough to accept the situation. I dreaded that fucking phone line I had which got this story rolling. It was about 2 months I think that Erika and I didn't speak. Every once in a while I would call her house and hang up when she would pick up. I missed her terribly.
It was summer now and I wasn't at school. I was out with a lot of time on my hands to think about how I would never be happy. Of course this wasn't true; I came to be happy again when I really discovered booze. So there I am, asleep again and the phone rings. Now, back then the big thing was three way, not the sex thing, the phone thing. So you were like the bomb if you had three way. Your the bomb if youve done the three way sex thing too. A friend of mine calls me up, it went something like this:
"Hello"
"Hey man, what's up?"
CLICK
"Hello? Hello?"
"Yeah man I'm still here, dammit, let me call you back."
"Who was on your three way?"
"No one man just let me call you back."
So I hang up. I was still kind of sleepy so I laid down. The phone rings again and it's this friend, by the way his name is Saudi, and he starts talking to me:
"Hello?"
"Hey man, what's up?"
"What was all that shit about? Who was on three way and hung up?"
"It was Erika."
"What?"
"Yeah she has been calling me and telling me how she wants to talk to you?"
"About what?"
"Well man, I know you've been feeling like shit since the 15th. So I thought it was a good Idea to call you. I didn't tell Erika that I was calling you, so when she heard your voice pick up she hung up?"
"Doesn't sound like she really wants to talk to me then."
"Man she wants to talk to you, but she thinks that you hate her, and I know that ain't true."
"I don't hate her."
"Well call her. Wait, you're not going to tell her to fuck off or anything right?"
"I don't know man. Doesn't sound like a good idea."
"It's her birthday today."
"Okay, I'll call her. She ain't going to hang up on me is she?"
"Dude no. She wants to talk."
"Okay, I'll call her now."
"Cool."
"Later."
"Later."
Click. Click.
So I call her and it was kind of weird. It wasn't too long before we were talking like the first time. Then she told me it was her birthday and that she was alone. I thought that was weird, why would she be alone? She sounded sad. In the two months that we didn't talk she told me she would call my phone to hear me and then hang up. I confessed the same thing. We talked about other things. Then eventually she asked me if I could come over. I wasn't going to say no to that. So I got my mom's car and went off to her house. She was waiting for me outside. I got out of the car. Now this sounds really corny but it happened. I got out of the car and she started walking towards me and we hugged on her front lawn.
We sat there in her front lawn for a long time talking. I told her what I felt hadn't changed, and she told me that she cared a great deal for me, but it wasn't in a boyfriend kind of way. She didn't budge neither did I. We kept on talking and we established the ground rules that we were friends. My thinking was that it was better to have her in my life as a friend than not at all.
There is really nothing more to tell about this. I carried the torch for her for a long, long time. I threw a lot of booze on that fire and it grew more and more. I wanted to burn in it so I wouldn't feel that pain.
A lot has changed since then. I fell in love the second time. Same thing again, but not as painful as the first time though. That one isn't worth writing about. That came and went. Since then I haven't fallen in love again. Since then I have taken some opportunities that were kind of like jobs. I have risked my life for ideals. I have been shot at. Some friends have died. Some friends have killed themselves. I drank a great deal. I drank and almost got my head shot off for my political affiliation. I got sober, 4 years now, and fixing to be 5 in November. A whole lot of pain, but all of it put together didn't match that first time.
Some of the things that have caused me pain I wouldn't do again, but if I could go back in time and know that when the phone rang it was going to be Erika on the other line, I would pick it up in a heartbeat. Even if I had to go through all that pain again, I would gladly pick up the phone.
I didn't use Erika's real name because it's not anybodies business you know, her identity. I write this with no regret at all. I still correspond with her. She lives very far from me, and I live in the third world. I haven't seen her in 10 years or more I think. I hope if she reads this, that she is not offended and can smile like I am smiling now. My Favorite Mistake.

The Basement

2007-12-29T01:53:00.000-06:00

Every once in a while as I walk by the door of the basement I stop and search my gut to see if I have what it takes to go down there and satisfy my curiosity. I think it was a Tuesday when I was walking by with a can of mineral water or club soda depending if you're at a country club. There must have been a breeze or something. What ever it was I don't think it was just chance that I got a whiff of the mildew smell that the ground has.
I stopped, looking to my side, and there was the wooden door. Once painted white and now with the stale off white of time and things that have passed. I searched my gut and there was nothing there, so I turned my body towards the door that seemed to be cracked. I was invited in and there was no fear in my gut to stop me, all I needed to do was open the cracked door and move my feet.
I clicked on the light and made my way into the mildew smell. Underground everything was a neat a button. In the middle of the room was an old lazy boy that seemed to be put there for me many years ago just for me. All around me there were boxes with labels. Winter blankets…Winter clothes…Goodwill box… our clothes from when we were children. Then there was the box with nothing written on it. In my gut something started poking at me. It was in a corner. The box had been placed so that you couldn't see it if you just walked into the room. Something that was meant to be forgotten but could never be thrown out. In faint volume I could hear outside the children play in the late summer afternoon.
The basement was well kept no water filtrated in it was dry but the smell of moist was evident. I found myself in front of the standing there with my gut poking a little harder by then. I pulled the box close to the lazy boy. I opened the top and there was an album with old photographs. Photos I hadn't seen in a long time. I love the way humans make things in such a way that by looking at the object you can tell the time frame when it was made. I looked at the photos I came across the one of two boys. One was about nine years old and the other maybe three years old. The older boy was holding the baby in his arms. A great big smile was on the profile of his face while the child had a sleepy look to his face sort of looking down. The photo was obviously taken in the 1970's.
Looking through the box I found other things that I hadn't seen in a long time. Clothes mostly. While I was looking my club soda was getting warm. In my chest I felt that swelling that you feel with great emotions. I could almost feel him standing behind me looking on to the things that I was taking out of the box. I could feel his sadness because he felt mine. The swelling was getting to be bigger than what my chest could handle. I thought about putting everything back and running back up stairs but instead I just kept working my way down the box. It seemed as if it would never end. Towards the end I didn't even pay attention to the objects that I was pulling out. A pair of binoculars…Guns n Roses tapes… a pair of sunglasses. All things that I respected as being his property.
Then my curiosity was satisfied. At the end of it all was what made me stop. His shirt, a belt, some socks all stained with old blood. The swelling in my chest finally burst. He stood behind me and cried because he has made me feel this terrible. I sat there with his shirt in my face washing blood with tears, not because he was dead, but because my mom and I had left him down here as if he was a dirty secret to be ashamed of. After I calmed down, I slowly and carefully put his things back into the box and closed it. I looked around and found a black magic marker. On the front of the box I wrote his name followed by what I felt needed to be there, the words "My Brother". I dragged the lazy boy back toward the hidden corner where the box with no label had been. Next to the other boxes of our clothes as children I set my brother's box. After that he was gone. I walked towards the stairs clicked the light off and walked back upstairs, my mineral water was pretty warm by then.

Lunch

2007-12-29T01:51:00.000-06:00

I was about to foam at the mouth with rage when I saw these freshmen making fun of the handicapped kids. The cafeteria was full and it was the first day of school. I hadn't found one of my friends who had the same lunch as I had, so I was sitting alone and across the way the special kids were sitting down not bothering a soul trying to have their lunch with dignity. Just then there was a tap on my shoulder and it was a friend of mine that who was in my same situation; first day of the semester and didn't know anyone in that particular lunch period. He smiled and I extended my hand to shake his. He sat down.
So there we were and a little bit down from us was a table full of freshmen. The freshmen were looking over to the table where the handicapped kids sat, making faces and acting spastic ridiculing them. I sat there looking at them, letting my blood boil and seeing if there was going to be an explosion. I had that gut feeling that someone was going to get hurt and I was the one who was going to do the hurting.
On my right was Omar smiling and asking how it was hanging, what was up and all that jazz. Omar was a nice guy always joking around and trying to make his friends smile. It was hard to smile when you went to a school in the south. We are not talking 1960's. It was the 90's but being a minority, and in particular being a Latino meant that your were a dope dealer, a gang member or a future correctional institute inmate. They, as in the staff of the school expected the worst from the Latinos. There were exceptions.
We were Latinos. I am a Latino, and at that point I was about to make the staff's expectations come true. Omar was throwing his best material at me to get a laugh out of me but my face was dead set on the white freshmen peckerwoods that were mocking the disabled kids. I kept repeating in my mind that it wasn't their fault for their disabilities. Then I felt that Omar caught on. He saw that I would look towards the freshmen and then towards the disability kids.
So he asked me what the problem was. I told him to look at how the freshmen were making fun of the handicap kids. He saw how it bothered me. I told him my outrage and he said a few words that I went along with.
"Well let's do something about it." He got one of his napkins and rolled it into a ball and threw it at the freshmen. It hit one of them and they turned towards us as if they were going to do something. The good thing about being a Latino is that people walked on egg shells for you. We had a reputation of being a bit violent. Omar stared at them and so did I. I asked them:
"What?"
Omar took all his food off his plastic tray and got up. Lets stop right there.
When I was a child about 4 years old my mother and I were prisoners to and alcoholic father. He was a military man and felt he was a real man when he would beat my mother. He would put his nine millimeter gun to her head when he was drunk.
One weekend my father's younger brother had come to the house to stay with us. My uncle, my father's brother's name is Alfredo which I'm named after. Alfredo was handicapped. He could not speak only make sounds, he was not a mute. His right arm was twisted and could not walk straight. He was the best playmate I had in those days, he never grew up you know, in his mind. His left arm was good and strong.
This in particular weekend like most my father got home drunk and felt like taking out his frustration of being a total loser out on my mother. He came home and Alfredo knew what was going on. My father immediately found a reason to start a fight with my mom. Before we knew it he had hit her across the face. He hit her in front of me and Alfredo in the living room of this small house we lived in. It was a house mostly paid for by my mother seeing as my dad spent his money on whores and booze.
My mother went down after that first hit. Holding her hands in her face where she had worn the punch my dad had dealt her. I was so little and helpless. I began to cry and so did Alfredo. Alfredo with all the strength he could gather got up from the couch and tried to get in the middle of the fight and stop my father from going any farther. He caught a punch in the stomach and fell to his knees crying. He cried in such a way that broke my heart in such a way that has not been repaired to this day.
With the most dignity I have seen anyone have he got up and wobbled over to where I was. With his good left arm he grabbed me as I was crying hysterically. >My mother was taking kicks in her stomach. My father got down on one knee and pulled her hair and screamed so many things to her that I don't remember.
Alfredo picked me up and took me wobbling towards the kitchen where the pain in his stomach defeated him and he kneeled down careful not to hurt me. Both of us were crying and he held me and said things to me that I couldn't understand since he couldn't really talk. He kissed my head and with his good arm would stroke my hair as if to say that everything was going to be alright.
I don't remember how that night ended. I guess I blocked it out of my mind, all except for what Alfredo did. My dear sweet uncle Alfredo, I will always love him, he was my savior. He was my comfort. I think this is the moment that I learned that there are weak and those who believe that they are strong. Alfredo was the strong one and my father was the weak one believing he was the strong one beating my mother within an inch of her death. This was my first moment of rage. Rage towards those who want to abuse those who are defenseless. This is the moment that would define my purpose in my life.
Soon after that my mother and I left that house and that tyrant behind. I didn't see Alfredo for many years after that but I always remembered him.
At the moment that Omar picked up his empty tray I did the same. I remembered my dear uncle. It wasn't his fault he was afflicted. I remembered this incident and my rage awoke with a vengeance after being dormant for so long. Those freshmen were going to pay a bill that was long over due.

We walked over. Omar took one side of the table and I took the other side. There were four freshmen and only two of us. When they saw us come over they got really quiet. It seemed as if their pulse went flat line. I raised my tray and swung and hit this peckerwood over the head and nearly broke the plastic tray.
When I looked Omar had one out of his chair on the floor and the peckerwood was trying to protect his head. I didn't know Omar had it in him, you know being a joker as he was. He backed me up. The other two peckerwoods ran off and of course got their white teacher protectors.
When they pulled me off the white kid I was tenderizing I think I was foaming at the mouth. All I could remember was my uncle Alfredo, how I loved him and how those handicapped kids never hurt anyone and were trying to have their lunch with dignity. In them I saw Alfredo with his good arm telling me that everything was going to be alright.
They separated Omar and me when they interrogated us. I sat in the dean's office waiting for the white man to come in and say what a bad kid I was, starting trouble for nothing. I felt no remorse. I still don't. He came in and sat down with his cocky attitude and looked at me. He gave me that look like it was nothing new, another Latin kid in trouble. He probably thought I was going to look at the ground in shame or something, but I didn't. I sat there arrogant as he was and I looked at him in the eye.
"Let me understand", he said.
"You can't ever understand I told him", I said.
"Try me", he said. I looked at him with the rage still raw in my eyes.
"Those peckerwoods were mocking the disabled kids who weren't bothering anyone. I guess you allow that here at your school. Just like when we (Latinos) take the blame for everything that has gone wrong and you can't explain. Other than that there is nothing to explain." I sat back and waited for his answer and sentence. He looked at me.
"That's no excuse for violence." He said as if he was a priest.
"You can't understand. Ever." After that I didn't say a word. I didn't need to explain to this old peckerwood why I had to bust one of his younger peckerwood's head. He wasn't worthy of even knowing the story of Alfredo. Alfredo was above him and those peckerwoods. I got a week of solitary detention, a prison within the school, as well as Omar did.
I'm eternal thankful to Omar for backing me in that fight. He could have ratted me out but he didn't. We were friends till our lives parted ways. After that incident I didn't stand by doing nothing when I saw injustice, till this day I don't stay quiet. Till this day I fight for what I think is right, and will continue to do this until I'm dead.
Last time I saw Alfredo I hugged him, and being who I am now it took all my strength to hold back the tears. He is still at that age, the age when his brother hit him and beat my mother in front of us. With my father, there a bill over due as well and sooner or later I'm going to collect that bill.

The Apartment

2007-12-29T01:48:00.000-06:00

Hopes are something you carry in your heart when you flee from one place to another. Once you get to where you're going things kind of just fade away. When you're a kid taken from the world you were born into and put into another one you hold on to dreams that some day you will see the ones you love once again. You come to a point in your life when things look really dim. This happened to me.
I was six years old living in a new country, fleeing from the old one for reasons that are not worth mentioning. Apart from my mother the only other woman I had loved up to that point was my grandmother; my dad's mom. I missed her deeply, at the same time I knew it was going to be quite a while before I would see happy days. In fact it was all blue Mondays for a while.
The thing was or is, is that humans have to have some kind of hope to keep their hearts going. As far as I knew I was human. I needed something to hold onto, something to keep me going.
As most immigrants of the time we lived in what can be called a common apartment. This roughly translates into a small apartment shared by way too many people. Most immigrants of the time were men. Women hardly left the home country; the journey was too long and too dangerous. Some how my mother and I had made it to the great Babylon as one of my friends says.
We shared an apartment with many men. My mother and I claimed the living room as our living quarters, which sucked. I slept on a real crappy couch and my mom slept on the floor. I didn't know any better back then, so I didn't consider these conditions as bad. Innocence saves you from feeling sorry for your self.
The thing about those days I regretted in those days was that I only saw my mother once a day for a couple of hours. She had to work so much and she was so tired I had no one to really spend time with. There were no other children. I would come home from school and the house was empty…my mom at work...all the men at work. It was quite lonesome. I learned to adapt though.
I don't know if it was funny or tragic but the weekends the apartment was full, and it was full of drunks. Like I said most of the people who we shared the apartment with were men. Men from my country tend to drink. Men from my country who are home sick tend to drink a lot. They would buy card decks and make circles and gamble. My memories of those days have a clear picture of what the old can of Miller Lite used to look like. They loved that stuff.
These guys who had claimed one of the bed rooms in the apartment would make their powwows there. It wasn't all laughs because sometimes they would end up fighting. Guys would come flying out of the bedrooms swinging. I don't think it was the typical thing that any kid is supposed to see in any culture growing up. Eventually my mom got so scared of the week end beer fests that when Friday morning would come around she would hide the kitchen knives before she went to work. She didn't want anyone with a third corn chute.
So being surrounded by this type of atmosphere I was not looking forward to too much of a future. Little by little I began to see that we were not in the best conditions. I was quite in school which didn't win me too many friends. Quite kids tend to be the ones picked on. So there was not much to brighten the day.
Thank God for drunks. Every once in a while on the weekends the apartment was so full of people that some drank and socialized in the living room where my mother and I had our bed room, if you want to call it that. One thing that every culture has is drunks. The other thing is that in most cultures where there are drunks there of course is music. The apartment was no exception. The guys had a little jam box. They would sit on the floor and open their beers. They would take out their collection of tapes and play the music.
Most of the music they played was stuff that I really didn't care for. I am surprised of how easily I could sleep in those days. There was a bunch of drunks jamming some real annoying Spanish music and I was out like a light. They would party like that all weekend and when Monday came around I would find this jam box with all these tapes thrown about. Once again, thank God for drunks.
One Monday after school I was bored and since no one was around I started messing with these tapes I found and the jam box. I would put one in and of course I didn't like what I heard so I would take it out. I would put another one in and so on.
Well eventually I came across this white tape with the letters somewhat faded on it. It didn't matter I couldn't read anyways. I popped this tape in. A song that I now know by heart started playing. I couldn't understand because it was in english but, man did it sound great.
I don't know which of the many drunks that visited the apartment on the weekends was a Beatle fan but he never found that Beatle tape again. I would listen to it constantly until it just wore out. My mother bought me another one. Eventually I would get all kinds of Beatle stuff.
Like I said, for a long time it was all blue Mondays. For a long time I stayed quiet. I didn't really have any friends. When I would get home the first thing I would do is crank up the Beatle music. Tape or long play, and all of the sudden after a day of having no friends at school, at home I had four friends from Liverpool, England. I sang along with them even though my English sucked. It got better though.
Eventually my mother and I moved out of that apartment. My mother met up with whom would be my step father. Things got worse for me. I didn't get along with this man and to avoid conflict with him I stayed in my room. I ate in my room. I only left the room for school and for the bathroom. It wasn't a big deal. I adapted. I had a record player, I had a tape player. I would sing "Please Please Me", "From Me To You" and "Love Me Do" to keep my spirits up. That music kept me going. It kept me from going insane.
For those who know me, those closest to me, when they hear the Beatles, they think of me. Why? This is because the Beatles are a part of me, my personality, my life. I've had arguments and fights with people who tell me that the Beatles aren't that great. To me they are more than just the greatest pop group of all time, they are saviors. After the first notes hit my ears, I knew that there was more than just a bunch of drunks to life. There was more. The music gave this unspoken message that life is out there, you just got to look for it. Even in the bad times I could count on listening to the Beatles to lift my spirits, something I'm sure has happened to millions of people.
Many years have passed since I wore out that first Beatle tape. In fact the apartment complex where all this happened burned down. I saw the whole thing go up in flames. It had been condemned for some time when the blaze happened. I was out one night with a friend and we saw the streets blocked off and the great bright flames go into the night sky. We parked so we could watch as the fire department tried to put out the fire. I looked through my tapes and popped in one of my Beatle tapes in. I watched it all burn down while listening to some songs from the album "Let It Be". How appropriate. My heart broke a little that night.
Some people might think that this is just an exaggerated rambling of a fan, and that might be true. This is what happened to me. I'm sure similar experiences happened to other people, but this is my story.

Getting Pushed

2007-12-29T01:47:00.001-06:00

I've often said that when they were passing out stepfathers I must have been out taking a wiz because the one I got was a real bum deal. From the earliest moments that I was forced to live with this bastard it was constant conflict. Obviously he had never been a kid so he didn't know how to treat children. His family followed suit. I could easily see where he got his degree of being an ass hole.
I was about 8 years old when this took place. We lived in these apartments called Valwood Village. It wasn't too bad. I lived close to some friends from school. In fact this was the only time I remember playing outside. At this point in my life I still thought that I had a right to be outside of my room. I thought I had the liberty to be in the living room for example. I would be there and so would Grendel. We didn't talk much as you might have guessed.
It was New Year's Day so he was not working that day and I didn't have school. My mother on the other hand had to work. She was a house keeper and one of the rich people for whom she cleaned houses for needed a maid for a New Year's Day party or something. My mom took any job she could. She not only had to feed and clothe me but she also had to feed and clothe the family back in the old country.
From my room I heard a knock at the door and my step dad opened the door. It was one of his cousins. This guy's name was Tony. What a douche bag. He knew a little English and he thought he was hot shit. He was also a pervert. He walked in and began to speak to my step dad.
Its about mid morning and I'm getting hungry so I went to the kitchen to make a sandwich. There were no butter knives available so I took what was handy. What was handy was a long pointy knife, the kind found only in B horror films. I stood at the kitchen table making my sandwich trying not to be noticed by this prick Tony or my step dad. I didn't want to end up making sandwiches for the bastards.
My step dad's family thought it was their mission to fuck with me until they made me cry or till I got into trouble. Things they both accomplished. That's why I was trying to be invisible at that particular moment. I was concentrated. Some mayo, some ham, a slice of ham and some more mayo to top off with some white bread. Wonder Bread. I don't know why but the wonder bread design grossed me out. I don't have the slightest clue how to explain that.
The plate with two sandwiches cut into four pieces. I thought it looked fancy. Some chips to go along with the New Year's meal. Almost home now, all I have to do is put up the wonder bread, the ham, the mayo and the cheese. Just when I thought I was home free there he stood with his car salesman smile. A smirk found on ass hole, pricks, bullies, pieces of shit and the like all over the world. Then and there I knew that later that day I was going to regret what was about to happen.
My step dad is watching the television and is not paying much attention. The bastard Tony has decided to go to the kitchen to get himself something to drink. There he is standing in my way. He is standing in my way of having a peaceful day with no problems with my step dad or my mom.
Right off the bat he starts with the subject he best knows, or he thinks he knows. He starts talking about women. Really he starts talking about sex. He is talking about sex to an 8 year old boy. He is not talking about the birds and bees; he is talking hardcore pornography type stuff. I don't know if this is correct or not, I don't have children nor do I associate much with children, but talking pornographic scenarios with an 8 year old boy I think that can land you in jail.
His one sided conversation about fucking women in all sorts of ways goes on for about 15 minutes. Meanwhile my step dad was in la la land watching the TV. Even if he heard what Tony was talking about he wouldn't step in to correct the situation. So there I am alone. It was obvious that Tony aimed to make me uncomfortable and get a reaction from me. He either wanted me to cry or for me to cuss him out. I stayed quiet. I swayed one way to try and get around him to put up the ham and mayo. He kept his sight on me and the conversation straight towards me.
I went back to the table to pick up my plate and make a break for my room and lock myself in when I noticed that I had left the knife out. I dreaded looking at that knife because it meant that I had to go back to where the sink was and would have to listen to this guy and the words "pussy" "clit" and so on.
I was picking up the knife to take it to the sink trying to block out all the things he was saying to make me uncomfortable when I heard two things from his filthy mouth:
"You don't like pussy man? Are you a fag?"
Tony, needles to say was a stupid man, a very, very stupid man. The words he said were "are you a fag". I heard "you're a fag". I had the knife in my hand. In those days when I was in this type of situation of being uncomfortable I would look down. I never raised my head. To this day when I walk I look down, I don't lift my eyesight much. I looked down at the table. My hand there with this shiny knife and in my mind I could see his face with that dip shit smirk as he said the word "fag".
I raised my head and at the same time I grabbed the knife with rage in my hand. I turned around and looked at him. I think that was the first time he actually saw my eyes. Sure enough he had that smirk as if he thought he was joking around with a life long friend. The thing was I knew him for what seemed a life time, but we were not friends. His smirk slowly but surly faded away as I raised that knife and placed the tip of the blade to his chest. His faced looked like some had just told him his mother had just died. I pressed the blade just a little into his chest. Any more pressure and this cocksucker was going to bleed.
It seemed like it was hours of silence as I stared into his eyes and for the first time I saw horror in the eyes of another. I didn't have his respect, but I had his fear and his complete attention. If it wasn't respect I took what I could get. He finally got breath in his lungs to whimper out my step dad's name.
My step dad yelled at me to put the knife down and all kinds of other curses. I brought the knife down walked around Tony who was about to shit his pants and put the knife in the sink. I got my sandwiches went to my room. I closed the door and I could still hear my step dad yelling things at me. Needless to say when my mom got home I got my punishment. I wasn't allowed to give my side of the story. I felt it was unfair, but at the same time I also felt it was totally worth it. Soon after that my mom stopped giving me spankings; eventually I stopped crying when she would hit me.
Tony, never spoke to me again when he would visit. In fact I don't remember him coming around much after that. Many years later when we had moved into a house and I was about 17 I was home alone. By this time I had long hair back in a pony tail and I also grew a thick goatee. I looked like one of those guys off of Americas Most Wanted. Anyway, I was home alone and the door bell rung. I went opened the door and then the screen door. There was this small guy standing there. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn't place him. He asked for my step dad. I told him that he wasn't in but that if he wanted he could come in and wait for him. He quickly told me that he would come back later and walked quickly off the porch.
I closed the door still trying to place who this guy was. Then it hit me. I should have known him from the moment I opened the door, he still had that stupid fucked up smirk on his face. When he recognized who I was that smirk faded away quickly. Tony. I should have insisted in him coming into the house, maybe he would have soiled himself. Tony; what a stupid man, he never thought the kid who he fucked with would one day grow up. He never thought that he would grow old.

The water still

2007-12-29T01:45:00.001-06:00

When I think about it now I doubt that it really happened. I think maybe it was a figment of a child's imagination. I guess that's the way some people block out traumas of their life, simply by telling themselves subconsciously that what you saw you didn't see. I can't say that I had nightmares about it or that it deeply affected my personality. Maybe it did and I just don't know all the angles to my inner mind. I must admit though that when I look back at that vague memory, my legs freeze up, my spine turns cold and I feel my throat being compressed.
I was about 5 years of age, very young and not aware of all the hidden things that people hide in the everyday life of a society. Back then I've been told that I spent most of my time being looked after by my grandmother. My parents during the week would work and my grand mother was the one who would baby sit. For some reason or another my father hadn't taken me to her house, it must have been a Monday. Even though he hadn't taken me my grandmother's brother, great uncle Alfonso, had come to pick me up at the house. He got my things and picked me up and we were on our way to take the bus to momma's house.
Uncle Alfonso I remember to be a big man, tall and thick. He had a thick mustache and dark eyes black hair that never seemed to have any other color around it. Black hair like you see in a black and white photograph. In my memory he was a black and white photograph. This tall man brother to my grandmother had an awful reputation as a drunk. In fact all I can remember about him was that he was always drunk. This Monday morning he wasn't drunk; maybe hung over but not drunk. When I close my eyes I can still remember the smell of vodka on his breath, but he was not falling all over himself like I was accustomed to see.
I don't remember his voice and even if I could I could not describe it to you. When he was sober he was a man of few words. He didn't talk and I didn't talk. The day was like most dry season days in Central America. It wasn't muggy or anything. It was a sunny day but with a fresh breeze that didn't let the sun get a hold of your back. When I think back I think of it as the perfect day to go out on a ride. It was like a day that is described in a fairytale. It would have been the perfect day to go to the beach.
From the barrio where my parents lived to the house where my grandmother lived we had to board two buses. So we got on one at the corner of the street where my parents lived and we were off. I don't remember much about the ride. Just the beautiful day. When we got to down town we had to get off the first bus and walk a few blocks to take the second bus that would take us to the other side of town.
We get off the bus and we start walking to the other bus stop. We had maybe gone half way when Uncle Alfonso stopped. There was an abandoned building or a building that was crumbling I don't know and he was staring at it. I turned to look around and saw a big crowd of people there looking inside. I thought we were going to keep going when to my surprise Uncle Alfonso squatted down to my level and told me to stay put right where I was that he would be right back. He was a tall man, a thick man, a dark haired man, a drunk and now at this moment I found out that he was an irresponsible man and a nosey man.
Who in their right mind leaves a 5 year old child on the sidewalk of a busy street for one minute in a downtown area of a big capitol city like San Salvador? When he squatted down and told me to stay put, I was scared and at the same time pissed off that I had to humor his nosey impulse. So I stood there. While I'm standing there people are walking past me going to towards the remains of the building that once stood. So you can imagine this little boy with his corduroy pants and his De LaCost polo shirt tucked in with his arms crossed and poutty face not knowing weather to cry or get pissed off. At this point that my uncle was gone maybe 2 minutes (felt more like 20 to me at the time) I made the decision to go and have a look see for myself.
I turned toward the crowd and started walking and as soon as I entered the mass of the crowd I imagine that my uncle was making his way out of the same mass so he didn't see me. I made my way through the crowd. Each person I passed I made my way into the darker ruins of the building. I finally came to a clearing where the people had stood back. In the middle of the circle was a pila. A pila was a water still where people keep water in Latin American countries to have when the water service goes out.
I stood there and thought for a second that this couldn't be the big attraction. So I went that one step further. I went that one mile further in my life. In that second I went far into being mature. I tipped toed over the ruble around the still which was enough to give the elevation to see inside. The rest are just flashes in my mind. I remember seeing a ripped sky blue shirt. I remember seeing the flesh separated. Inside the water still were the pieces of a man. He had been placed in the still or killed there I don't know. Each member had been hacked off by a machete. Neatly, his arm was detached from his shoulder, his head from his neck, his lower legs from their knees. Everything stood still for me. I couldn't even hear the crowd roar behind me. For that moment it was me and the pieces of a man that I would never know even his name. The sky blue shirt was sprayed with brownish spots that without doubt were dried blood. For that moment I was presented to and shook hands with death for the first time. I was so afraid I couldn't react. In that silence I stood, nothing in the universe but me and the still and all was quiet.
I could of stood their for centuries just staring of what use to be life; then as if to rescue me from some deep coma someone grabbed me. Just for a half a second I thought that the severed hand of this man had come to life and wanted to pull me down into the still with him. My heart raced blood going to all parts of my body just as I imagined the blood coming out from all parts of the dead man's body. Who ever it was he was strong. I was dragged away from the still, my eyes concentrated on the side of cement that I looked over. It almost seemed a thousand years ago when I got back to the sidewalk and saw who had dragged me away. Uncle Alfonso was pretty pissed at me he yelled at me a couple of things that I don't remember to this day exactly what he said. The word cabron must have been part of the speech. With that scolding I came out of the fear enough to cry. Then I was able to cry.
At the time all I could understand was that someone had killed him. For what, I don't know. Then things started to become evident to me, things that were there but I didn't see. The war, the politics, the crimes of the authorities. I didn't understand all this but now it was all visible.

Morir Heroe

2007-12-29T01:41:00.000-06:00

Caminos, caminos oscuros
Como deseo caminar con ellos
Con los que mueren héroes

Eh pasado mi vida desde afuera
Y nada quizás compara con ser lo verdadero
Me acuerdo de mis primeros pasos
Con el miedo que hacia mis manos temblar
Y todo en lo que pensaba me hacia lagrimas.

Con tiempo se te van los caprichos
Con tiempo se te olvida tu madre y tu padre
Se te olvida que sos niño y te haces el grande
Allí se empieza a ganar la batalla.

Balas se entierran, fusiles caen
El miedo, dolor, y lágrimas son temporales
La victoria, el triunfo es para siempre
Todo en un minuto, una hora, un día, pero...
...pero ese momento es para siempre

Caminos, caminos oscuros
Ahora camino con ellos
Con los que mueren héroes
Tratare de morir de la misma manera;
Porque son los héroes que mueren
Y los miserables que tienen que aguantar la vida.

One Sided Story (war on terrorism)

2007-12-29T01:40:00.000-06:00

Just recently in Irak there was a salvadoran soldier killed. His body came home today and the persident´s staff was on hand to receive the body and act as if this truly moved them. My country is run by the extreme right winged ARENA party, which is allied with the extreme right wing of the Republican party of the United States which George W. Bush belongs to. I myself was born in El Salvador, immigrated to the United States and became a citizen and now live back here, so there is two sides to my structure as a person. Unfortunately history is written by those who triumph or in some cases those who hang heroes and this is the case on how I see things. History, or actuality that one day will be history is seen as those who are in power want the majority to see it. People see whats shown to them and believe it, see things for themselves and see the truth and believe what is told to them rather than what they see, they see for themselves and believe what they see and are not fooled by those in power; I think I have been all three types of these people over the years.
One of the reasons that I left salvador when I was a small child with my mother was because of the civil war. It was during the eighties and Ronald Reagan had declared war on the comunist in central america. I grew up in the US in Texas. I went to public schools. During the eighties in the public schools they taught us that marxism or a more popular name, comunism, was bad; that all Russians were comunist and all were bad and all of them hated the United States. They build up the United States to be the greatest country in the world as far humanity, democracy, liberty and justice goes. Now the last two things I totally agree. There is no place on this earth that protects and serves liberty and justice like the United States, within it´s borders. In elemantry school I believed all three claims. I think its funny to see a seven year old child with a political point of view, I must have been a riot to listen to. I believe what was shown to me, what was told to me, and as far as politics went I hated comunists because they wanted to destroy the US.
As time went by and I grew up a little, I started to see things in the world like the first persian gulf war and not all was smiles and sunshine. George Bush senior was president then. I saw things but refused to believe them. I held on to what I was taught. How many people who have a favorite loved one and came to believe he was the greatest person on earth would believe other wise when told this person in question was a heroin addict. Not many. I didnt. During these years I lived in the US in my homeland was an ongoing conflict between the extreme right wing and the rebel insurgents. I automatically supported the right wing, for lack of information. It was during the early 90s that I heard a great song by Cypress Hill. Now you might be askingwhat in the world does a weed smoking rap group and politics have to do with each other? The song was How I could Just Kill A Man and at the end of the song there are some lyrics that I took to heart. The lyrics have nothing to do with politics or the cold war, but it does have to do with life and expiernce and judgment. The lyrics say How do you know where Im at? When you havnt been where Ive been. Understand where Im coming from? My point is how could I have an opinion when I havnt seen with my own eyes the situation or lived it in person. I couldnt.
I made my first concious trip to El Salvador when I was 16. My eyes looking for something more than a vacation. I have an auntie that is not educated, but expierience has made her a survivour during the conflict. So she started to tell me the story, and showing me things about what war is, what humanity is and the absence of democracy and justice. She did all this and I could not grasp. Then she baught me a book. That did it. The book is called FIRE FLIES IN EL MOZOTE. In the corner of my country there is the department of Morazan. In this department not far from the Honduran border is the hamlet of El Mozote. Back in 1980 it was a hamlet of about a thousand people. Farmers mostly. The department of Morazan during the conflict was in the red zone, a part of the Salvadoran territory that was controled by the guerillas. El Mozote was the home of many farmers who did not have anything to do with the guerillas. They did not oppose the government, they lived the best they could under the situation. They were protestants mostly with no link to any social organization. In december of 1980 the Atlactle brigade of the salvadoran army went into the hamlet. They separated the men, women and children and killed them all. Out of about a thousand people there was only one survivour. One woman. She lost everything. Everything. This book said a lot to me. Eventually I made a trip to Morazan. I went to the hamlet which people abandoned during the decade after the massacre. When I arrived I saw that some people had started to return. I was not convinced by my auntie or by this book so I went to speak to those who once had family there in this hamlet. I heard it from them. The words came from their mouths, the story projected by their eyes, the pain had not left their faces. In the hamlet there was still some old houses filled with bullet holes. There was the feeling that something really evil had happened here. To mark the massacre there was a simple metal and wood structure comemorating the massacre with the words NEVER AGAIN on it. Now I saw. Now I knew. Now I was allowed to have a humble opinion. The opinion with authority belongs to those who survived things like these.
In the book that was given to me by my aunt informs of who did this. The salvadoran army using the Atlactle brigade which was trained by the US. When inicial news of the massacre appeared in the New York Times washington and the White House denied the incident. Soon they had to accept. The onesided story that I had believed about the US as the champion of humanity, democracy, liberty and justice died. For me it was a time of reflection, and a time to check my self and see that I had to shut my mouth unless I knew what I was talking about. Needles to say that for some time I didnt talk politics. I dont consider that I talk politics. I dont know anything about politics. I only have an opinion. An opinion based on seeing and not being told. I have both sides of the story.
When I hear about the war on terrorism I really dont know weather to laugh or to cry. It´s the stupidest concept I have ever heard. Speaking as a US citizen I think a lot of the north american people have not evolved from the elemantry stage where you believe everything your told with out seeing for yourself. A while back when Britney Spears was asked on the ABC program 20 20 what she thought of the conflict in Irak she responded that she thought that the american people should trust the president with his desiciones; when asked if she trusted the president she responded that she did. I dont think I need a better example. They said mission accomplished a while back, yet there is still conflict in Irak. They claim time after time that they are winning the war on terrorism yet In Afgahnistan and Irak there is still conflict. The Taliban are still fighting and everyday new insurgent groups come up in Irak. They call it the war on terror and Osama Bin Laden is still on the loose and everyday he gains more and more support. Every day the arab world, the muslim world support more and more the idea of the US being the real enemy. Does no one stop to ask why this is?
I think the north american people really think that the rest of the world wishes that they could be like the US. This is simply not true. The american people think that they are the champions of humanity, yet every day you see american bombs killing innocent people. The US is the champion of liberty and democracy, but every day they support dictators and brutal regimes in the name of american economic intrests. Time after time the US has opposed the establishment of an international tribunal to put on trial war criminals for fear of their soldiers being brougt to the accused stand. The US speaks of democracy but constantly impulses election frauds in countries all over the world, Salvador being one of them. No one like a hipocrit. In the name of american economic intrests the US has stepped on a lot of toes. The american people see Osama Bin Laden as a mass killer terrorist. In the Arab world a lot of people see him as a heroe. If he is captured he will have more support. If he is killed he is a martyr. He has won this war on terror already. One persons terroist is another´s heroe. Why? At this point the US has made many enemies in the world with abuses by their armies, by their foreign policy, by the CIA that people want them out of the their lands. Some want america to fall. This is why the war on terrorism is so stupid, because it cant be won. For as long as american economic intrests cause poverty, injustice and death there will always be a person ready to pick up an AK 47 and fight. For as long as the US keeps on going into countries to establish what has not been asked for and what offends people will be willing to kill. As long as someone is abused he will be waiting for his chance to abuse his agressor.
That Salvadoran soldier that came home in a box, for what? Did he understand the conflict he was in, does his family understand why he was killed. His family is poor, a typical family of a soldier. A person that doesnt know both sides of the story. A person that believes what they are told and cant see for themselves. People who believe that the war on terror can be won.
I think there might be a way to win the war on terror and it doesnt involve rifles and bombs.

A second lost in the darkness

2007-12-29T01:37:00.000-06:00

I walk in the dark
I look only ahead
Nothing to see on my sides
Only a void awaits behind
I walk between the darkness
Strolling where spirits sleep and hide
I feel nothing
I am nothing
The pain is so much
Others bruise when I touch them
I hurt so much
Others bleed when I smile
When I love, she burns
When I desire, she enters darkness
I was loved so much it hurts
I walk in the dark
I was loved without a choice

Has Been

2007-12-29T01:35:00.000-06:00

I was done before I started
Potential was wasted in a drunken fit
There was no time for me to shine
The clouds were in place before sunrise
A has been is all I ever was
Ive been the laments of a mother
The enemy of who didnt know me
The lover of women that despised me
The king with no kingdom
A thousand times the offensive drunk
All I ever was is the excuse
They guy who never had a break
Down on his luck
Soon to be great
One beer away from stardom
Two shots away from a puddle of puke
Tomorrow is another day
This unfortunate son will rise again
Tomorrow I will be the man who overcomes
The day after tomorrow I will be yesterdays news again
All I ever been is a has been
I can justify it to myself in a thousand ways

superficial

2007-12-29T01:34:00.001-06:00

Phonies. At least I think thats how you spell the word for people that are not what they appear. There are all types of sub categories that go under this word. This might come as offensive to some people but to who is offended easily please go read a Britney Spears page or something. I really have to say what I feel I cant afford to be one of these people in question. After this small essay or rant however you feel after you read it you can write me and let me know that Im carrying excess baggage or what ever.
The first thing we should consider is my location now and where I used to live. Where I used to live is Carrollton Texas. Not too bad of a place. There were some racial differences but nothing huge. Thats not to say that I didnt feel the racial tension at school or on the street, but there were no Klansmen on horse back and white sheets running around trying to lynch people. That was one world. I was lucky enough to be surrounded by people that told me their true feelings; they told me in my face exactly what they thought. No BS, no run around. Hell, even my enemies where honest. More than one time a redneck said to me Hey beaner, go back to Mexico! Now thats love. There was no hypocrisy in his words just honesty about his feelings. Only his feelings because Im not from Mexico. So for the most part in my life up to that point I took most things at face value cause I didnt have to see angles.
Eventually after reading some things about my home land and drinking a generous quantity of malt liquor I made a decision to come home to this tiny hole in the wall I call the home land. See the stupid things alcohol will make you do? Anyway, it wasnt that much of a whim that I decided to come to Central America. I had come here a couple of times to visit my family. Now when I first mentioned that my life in Texas was one world you probably thought it was one more world involved in the story. Wrong. Salvador splits up into two more worlds. So the first of the two worlds of Salvador that I came to know was the one I found when I would visit my family. Its relevant to say that my family had two sides as well, Ill come to that later.
The first world was the one in the country side. Very nice. People from the country side are so nice. They are always eager to give you things you know like a basket of fruit and what not. Not cause they are interested in seeing what they could get out of you, but because its their nature and their up bringing. I spent a lot of time in the country side when I would visit. I would go to parties that people would throw for baptisms, 15ths and so forth. People would talk straight forward in a very humble way. I dont think I came across one arrogant bastard in my trips to this place. So when I decided to come here and live I thought that people would be the same here in the capital city. Wrong.
In April of 1999 I got the go ahead to come home. So I came home to the capital city. Everything was going just as expected until I had to mix with the people I was going to go to school with. Salvador is a third world country. During the 80s there was a civil war. Salvador is like most Latin American countries, there are the super rich in very small numbers. There are the super poor in very large numbers and there is an almost non existent middle classsmaller than the other two groups. So when I arrived at the catholic university I had been warned that I would be surrounded by rich kids, and I do mean rich.
There were in fact rich kids but there were also some of those of the middle class. Most of the people who I met and talked to are from what can be called the middle class here. I didnt meet or hang out with rich kids. Along with money comes a difference in political points of view. I think thats enough of the background. Lets get down to the point. These kids of what are known as the middle class here and the capital city altogether is the third world I didnt expect. War, poverty, television, reality shows, soap operas, all these things have drastically traumatized the people in this country.
The people I meet these days are for the most part phonies. Perpetrators. Not the real thing. This really just puts knots in me. Here are the examples:
I have a couple of so called friends here. Some of them, well actually 3 of them are down to earth. They live reality. These 3 friends I admire and I feel fortunate to have them and their sincerity which is scarce here. But I have other friends, the so called ones. One of them lives in this part of town that is pretty rough. This guy is smart and knows how to use his intellect. He already graduated and is currently working in a Business Law tribunal. He makes pretty good money, but its not like he rakes it in like bill gates. Lately he doesnt talk too much to me or the others that he went to school with; as I understand the situation he wants to associate himself with people of the upper class. He goes to the trendy bars, he buys his clothes at trendy stores, he doesnt drink just any type of liquor, he drinks what the rich drink. Now this is sad. This guy is so ashamed of his past and of whom he is that he is trying to erase who he is. He goes to English classes to learn the language because all the rich kids know English. This guy is so wrapped up in what E! Entertainment television dictates. He is so concerned to look, dress, act and speak like the rich kids here and or try to be more north American. Be anything but a Salvadoran.
Ive been out with him a couple of times and to these bars, and all you see is a lot of kids trying to act like their rich or like they are north American. They drink Coronas so people can see them with a trendy beer label in their hands. All of them trying to act like they have a private jet to take them home. GEEZE. Look at the map and you know how ridiculous this is. We live In El Salvador, a country that has barely been out of war for a little more than a decade and fixing to go right back into another civil conflict. This is the third world; come down to earth. The funniest thing is that what they think that most North American kids dress like, act like, and listen to is not what the reality is. I laugh and I get head aches about this type of thing. I laugh because I see a monkey trying to be a man, and I get headaches because I actually talk to these people. They cant accept their reality, they are ashamed of who they are.
When it comes to me, I went out in the past to see chicks, to drink a lot of beer and make an ass of myself or to get my ass kicked. Thats honesty. I never went out so people could see my new Oscar de la Renta pants, or to see me drinking the new fad drink. I went to out to socialize and not to act like what Im not. I know who I am; Im Luis from Salvador, an immigrant in the United States, and ex thug, a problem drinker, a guy trying not to loose his soul, a person trying to be as honest with himself as possible. I am not a person that is on welfare, in fact in this country Im pretty well off but that is not me, that is the blessing that my mother has received and she is nice enough to share with me. To end this part I would like to quote one of my favorite characters out of the movies.
Your not the shirt you wear, your not the car you drive, your not the content of your wallet, your not your fucking kakiswe are the all singing all dancing crap of the world. Its true little by little you just let yourself become Tyler Durden.
Now lets talk about the other type of phonies. The famous UNCLE TOMS. These types of people are the worse. These are the Salvadorans that left the country to go to the states and now they think they are too good to live here or to have belonged to this land. Hell there are some Salvadorans that are ashamed to be Latinos. I know of this one person, a wetback just as myself, born in El Salvador, in the poorest side of the country. We went to the states to start a new life. Now hes done pretty well for himself. He has three kids. They live in a house that most people never dream of having. He brain washed his oldest son to act like he does. Luckily his son doesnt act totally like him. Im not one to tell people how to vote, but when youre an immigrant that once was afraid of being caught by the MIGRA and being deported you should understand the people who still have not fixed their immigrant status. Everyone knows that the Republican Party does not exactly like all the Josés coming across the border, so when this person Im talking about was asked who he voted for he said he proudly casted his vote for George W. Bush. When asked why he replied because Mr. Bush is concerned with his interests as being one of the upper class. Just writing this makes me want to hit myself over the head with a bat. His son of course followed suit. The people at the same time yell to the four winds that they are Salvadoran, that they are proud of their origin. BULL SHIT. They dont even know what the history here is. When they come here they look down on the poor that live here. They go to mix with the other bastards that I already mentioned. One of them with delusions of being a North American, and the other with delusions of wanting to have delusions of being a North American. Both are the same kind of Indians that the Spaniards found when they arrived here on the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. The Indian that sold his country for some shiny cheap costume jewelry and a couple of mirrors.
To those who are Salvadoran and act as I have described, well what can I say but come down to earth. If youre an Uncle Tom like I have described what can I say but if you dont want the smell of the poor third world country you left behind to tarnish your new North American image, then dont come here, we have enough phonies here as it is. Its sad that in this day we dont analyze our surroundings and out past. We are all hung up on image, what other people think. Drug addiction, the war on terrorism, the war in Iraq, poverty, AIDS, homeless, the fact that the government of the United States is becoming more and more what most Americans fear, because when it looks like, smells like, feels like you call it what it isFACISM. All of these things dont matter to people, they are not worried about the war in Iraq, what worries them is if Calvin Klein makes a pair of jeans that doesnt make their butt look too big. They are worried about the car they drive if it looks phat enough to attract the opposite sex and not the fact that the fucking Hummer is killing faster our planet. These are just some thoughts, something that most people in this day only leave up to fashion and the advertisements for what ever is a fad at the moment. If ever I become one of these people I truly hope some kind individual puts three slugs in my head. Not one, not two, but three just to make sure I dont contaminate anyone else.

Mediados de Marzo

2007-12-29T01:31:00.000-06:00

Cuando me ven
Sus ojos engañan.
Ofreciendo manos de amistad.
Ofreciendo cariño.
Me decís hermano,
Afilas tu cuchillo.
¡Como tu no hay otro!
Me ves la espalda.
Un 15 de marzo cuando el interés
Vence el corazón.
¡Manos hablen por mí!
El grito del engaño máximo.
El terror, la tristeza, el odio,
La perfecta humillación.
Mis últimos suspiros,
Mis ojos aun sin creer,
Sin poder entender
La puñalada en mi espalda.
Mi sangre marca mi pena.
Marca tu crimen a quien los amo.
ET TU BRUTE
Así cae Cesar.

Politics

2007-12-29T01:29:00.000-06:00

Before I start I gotta say that if your a good down home redneck that believes in the US current foriegn policy then you might not like what your about to read so instead of writing me telling me about your thoughts of how Im a communist heathen...here is a thought for you...You can start your own blog.
In march I was lucky enough to have my mom and my brothers come and visit me here in Salvador. One night my mom and I were talking about the past and the war that swept the country from the late 70´s to the early 90´s. My mom was young back in 1979 and was working at a string factory here in San Salvador. She worked the night shift so she left the house at 7 and didnt come home till 5 in the AM. At this point the war was not "official" I guess the best term is, but the reasons why a war was on the horizon were evident. Now let me make one more pause.
If you know any salvadoran more than one will tell you that what I´m saying is bullshit, the problem with my fellow countrymen is that they are easly brain washed and others are the small precentage of rich folks in this country so they didnt see what Im about to write about. My mom is a christian, a God fearing woman and as honest if not more than Abe Lincoln.
As most of latin america my small country was prisoner to the military dictatorship and the North american intrests in the region. Human rights were overlooked in the name of capitalism. But thats another story. So my mom told me that one night on her way to work on the last buses that would do their runs she saw the national guard detouring the vehicles as so they would not go through down town. There was a protest of some kind and down town was going to be a battle field. Eventually my mom made it to her factory and began her work. Inside the factory you could hardly hear anything cuase of the heavy machinery.
At about 1 am my mom had her lunch break and she told me she and her friends from work went outside to take a breathe of air. While outside they could see down the slope where the factory was, the rest of San Salvador. Which seemed normal enough. What was askew was the gun shots comming from the down town area. Evidently something had gone wrong. My mother and her friends only stared at the lights of the city and looked onto the center of the city where the national cathedral was located. They went back to work.
When the shift was over my mom and her friends carded out and waited outside for the first bus to come by. Eventually one came by and they started their descent from the hill towards down town. Again the national guard was out detouring the buses. Down town was quite the mess as my mom told me. Eventually the bus stopped and the national guards man said that there was no passage for vehicles. Everyone on the bus had to get off.
At this point my mom and one of her friends from work were on the sidewalk, the sun starting to come out. Every entrance of down town was blocked off to any car. My mom told me that at that moment she saw a Red Cross ambulance and a man argueing with a major or something from the national gaurd. Cars were blocked off but people were walking and going through. My mom had to cross the downdown center area to get to another bus that would take her home, so did her friend. So they started walking towards the cathedral.
When they came to the plaza they came across a nightmare. There were things burning in the plaza. the cathedral was riddled with bullet holes. There were national gaurds guiding people and telling them not to stop and keep moving. To get to the other side of town my mom and her friend had to go through the cathedral.
"From outside all you could see is darkness through the front entrance of the cathedral but when we walked in and our eyes adjusted to the darkness we both gasped almost screamed. There were dead bodies everywhere. Men, women, young, old, children. I felt cold and fear was comming up my back. I was so afraid. Inside the guards where moving the bodies to a corner. A guard told us to keep walking and waved his rifle at us. I wanted to run but I couldnt, and I felt my feet heavy. We were walking into another room towards the back looking for the exit when Clara told me to speed up but not to run. The blood was everywhere and I could slip. I was trying to snap out of my shock when I saw I was stepping on the blood of a little girl who had been shot in the head. She was no older than 8. Near her hands a small basket with tortillas. I dont know how we got out but when I was aware again we were outside in the back of the cathedral."
It seems that a large number of protesters had taken the plaza. The national guard came in to supress them. When the bullets started flying some of the protestors took refuge in the cathedral. The national guard waited them out. Eventually they lost their patience and went in bullets flying. No one knows how many were killed.
That was the beggining. Why do I tell you this? These national guard members were trained by US advisors here in Salvador and by the school of the Americas in Atlanta Georgia. Their weapons their funding all US. Why? Cuase the United States has economic intrests. If it has to do with money the US will support any dictator. The same ass holes in power then are still here. The US government, especifically the republican party regard these extreme right wing governments as heroes. In 12 years of civil war here the US backed and trained salvadoran army were getting their asses handed to them by a bunch of farmers with AK 47s. The army had airplanes, choppers, tanks, the best weapons and still they couldnt win.
Now the problem at hand as I see it for the US government and it´s people is the war in Irak. The war in Irak is similar to the one here, as that it is a guerrilla war. Since Vietnam the US has not been able to understand and to fight a guerrilla war. In other words your army is fighting a loosing battle. Everyday there is at least one soldier dead on average. The other day I heard the so called president say that the best way to pay tribute to the fallen soldiers is to finish the objective. Well then why doesnt he send one of his crack smoking daughters to the front. In every war the United States has been in the poor of the poor are the ones on the battle front, not the rich. Bush talks a bunch about honor and tribute and defending freedom. But he hasn´t steped on the blood of a 8 year old little girl. I think its time that the citizens of the United States of America start living up to their reputation of a democracy loving nation. Eventually when the US pulls out of Irak, in the end this will happen, whats going to be left behind is a tirany.
I hear a lot of people saying that the 9 11 attacks justify this war. In international law the international comunity recognizes everyones right to self defence when attacked by another nation. The problem is that Irak didnt attack, the problem with Irak is that it has OIL. people are all worked up about terrorism and scared of another attack, well welcom to the earth situation. Every time the US didnt like a situation in Latin America a little organization called the CIA would over throw a government or instigate a war. Here are some examples: The over throw of the elected president of Guatemala in the 1950´s Jacobo Arbenz, The over throw of elected president Salvador Allende in Chile 1972, the war instigated and funded by the US in Nicaragua with the CONTRAS, The murder of Archbishop Romero in El Salvdor by death squads trained by the CIA, The MOZOTE massacre of 1000 farmers in el salvador by a batalion trained by the US military etc. This is the world we are used to. THIS IS TERRORISM TOO. I understand the people of the United States that they don´t understant, thats becuase your government hides things from you. Some people say that the US is the police man of the world. I think thats funny, cause there is a lot of police brutality going on. No one asked for the US to be policing the rest of the world.
I just wanted to provoke some thought into the situation that we, all of us, are living in our modern world.

The Sickness

2007-12-29T01:27:00.000-06:00

Fingers running through my hair
Its before dawn and its time
Awake, cause Im dry
The sweat smelling like medicine.
This morning looks like dusk
Its all the same to me with you
With you hugging me inside
Hugging me warm and once again
My thoughts breathe hope.
Sunsets or day breaks I need you
For the long day, for the long night
When I start feeling your message of love
Nothing is more important
In my chest flying in a frenzy are doves
Inner peace,
At this hour I am glad to have you by my side
In the good and mostly the bad
No love is like yours
Bitter out and sweet within
My duty to you is my life
No woman compares to you
Not my mother that gave me life
I love you cause you promise me death
Yet you rob me of heaven
When I lay with you in my blood
There are no laments, nothing comes to my aid
When they start I turn and turn,
There is sweat and voices
The sun hasnt come up
The last ghosts of the night appear
Its what I want
I dont claim anything then
I dont beg for any mercy
All I need is you for that moment
My tears start to run with my blood
My memories my happiness and hope
Its all faded in liquid
All gone in a flask
In the end fears fade with you
And only the shakes remain.

It's Cold

2007-12-29T01:18:00.000-06:00

Its past midnight
Here I am looking for the answer
The room is cold
Roys Lyrics on the radio and
The temperature drops a few more degrees
There is a thought that passes
A beautiful woman I have never met
A small coal has been lit
I got to have more
To have me a fire
Got to have more
To get me warm
For now that thought burns
For now its cold.

Memories in the Plaza

2007-12-29T01:10:00.000-06:00

I (Death in the plaza)
Your rejection is reflected on my wounds.
Cold, sadistic and razor sharp.
Your back preaches hate to me.
My heart is baptized with your spit.
My crime to you is being human.
You condemn me for not being cruel.
I am of your blood.
Yet mine is not frozen.
I am of your pack.
But Im not an animal.
Your rejection is reflected on my wounds.
My blood, the love you despise.

II (The one who remembers)
The pavement swallows up blood.
History swallows the truth.
The plaza is full of ghosts with resentments,
They nag of the children;
Children born during the war,
Who in peace have gone blind and
With hunger they have become deaf.
They have become desperate animals who
Every three years they wait with hope
Every three years they are fooled.
Today there isnt any sorrow, only resentments.
There are no scars; the wound is still open,
It still bleeds.

III (The ghost in the plaza)
I bled in the street.
My cry was silenced here,
Silenced with bullets from an M-16.
Over the pavement I spat my love away.
My tears were mixed with the vision of black boots.
I dragged myself and I could see flowers and stones.
I breathed slowly,
And the pavement and I became one.
I never left this place.
Ive always been here.
Ive always been resentful.
Ive always been the pavement.

IV (Remembering at night)
Deceit, every day is more abundant.
The same goes for those who die fools.
To protest today, its a luxury.
To be poor, its to have shame.
Going to the plaza at night,
Smoking a cigarette and listening to screams of the past.
Going to where blood ran like a river, and
Crying in the darkness,
Is to commit a crime.
Today the crime still is, being human.