"I want to fly like a beagle, to the weed. Fly like a beagle, let the incense carry me. Price keeps on crashing, crashing, crashing... into the future. Price keeps on crashing, crashing crashing..." Further. Legal mdma. K2 so confusing, it's white and the yellows just keep coming. Lifting me higher. Took the downbound train only to fail and achieve escape velocity. And you will know all about it. It can't be helped. I can't stop talking, and you know exactly everything I mean.
Sleep.
Never.
Comes.
Rolling down the I-10 corridor. Every overpass becomes a runway to a different reality. The only place to get wet is Lake Ponchartrain, and the bridge is closed for an accident. I close my eyes and wonder how I got so far away from home. I run the roadblock and find out there's nothing wrong out there. Somewhere thee sun is coming up. I jack another tab and chase it with niacin-- it's time to burn.
OLHell -- And none of it was done at my end. Have a nice scapegoat, entirety of drug users who read this (may the awareness burn your mind out) . I don't even drink, and so many people have blamed me for their drugs it gets quite difficult to remain calm. People wonder why music becomes hardcore. I don't.
1987 --
"I got a story to tell, now listen up real well
Pay attention this way to what I got to say
Took it to the street, rap to the people we meet
Now we're rocking out hard to the Suicidal beat
Tried to deny our right, so we're putting up a fight
Just doing our thang, they tried to call it a gang
Saw the way we look, that's all that it took
That's all she wrote, they had their scapegoat
Dressed down, homeboyz, minority -- join the Army"
-- Suicidal Tendencies
The Old Electric
A close facsimile of an old guitar shamelessly squandered in youthful disregard for the value of a dollar. Letting go of it may have saved years of my life. It received more attention than anything else in my life. It nearly dragged me up to heaven with it once. A 1956 custom.
Konk-roar
Of all the web browsers available, Konqueror provides the highest level of transmission agency inspection. The experienced user can easily find a great number of commercial parties involved with the open source browsing experience. Konqueror does not provide the highest level of user ease, however.
Opera, the Apple browser, provides super fast page access through the advance storage of the HTML of commonly accessed pages. Chrome, at last inspection, operates in almost the same fashion. The speed of those browsers makes them highly desirable to some people, but not every experience should be taken at face value. When browsing new or rarely visited pages, the speed of Opera's and Chrome's access reduces to exactly the same speed as every other browser.
Firefox blows the doors off of all the other programs because of available user end improvements. If manipulated for security it becomes very slow, as does Konqueror. Konqueror, because of security and branding concerns, does not supply an add-on process that circumnavigates full approval of the KDE staff. Greasemonkey allows a user to add options at will. That can be desirable for functionality, but I would strongly advise against it on computers used for financial transactions. Above that computing underworld, the fully approved Mozilla add-ons can not be beat for point and click tinkering.
I have never tried Epiphany. Gnome has always been too simplistic for my liking. Epiphany is a Mozilla product, however, and as such is very much like their other product Firefox (or Iceweasel, if one uses Debian) but with a different wrapper and user experience.
The largest problem with Internet Explorer remains the massive widespread usage of it. Internet Explorer has never been separated from the Windows operating system despite an anti-trust lawsuit. Because of Microsoft commercial dominance at the governmental level, Internet Explorer suffers constant targeting by malicious packet inspections. On the plus side, software developers for anti-virus programs make a nice living off of it. On the negative side, software developers for anti-virus programs make a nice living off of it.
Aria2 requires no GUI at all. For the person interested in avoiding all the bells and whistles of having QT, GTK, or the MS and Apple point and click interface, Aria2 provides a solution. If one likes that, then one can probably set up a Perl receiver/transmitter. By that time a great many things about computer communications will become very clear, so very, very clear... *-*
Multiple Choice
What's worse: Charging into a wall of bayonets or charging into a wall of bayonets wearing dresses?
A - Gunga-Din answer: Make the enemy charge your bayonets.
B - Gung-ho answer: Charge the bayonets naked, win anyway, save the dresses for the women.
C - Gangrene answer: That's it. Game over man.
D - Gorgeous answer: Why would anyone charge bayonets? Give peace a chance (or at least perform a flanking maneuver).
A - Gunga-Din answer: Make the enemy charge your bayonets.
B - Gung-ho answer: Charge the bayonets naked, win anyway, save the dresses for the women.
C - Gangrene answer: That's it. Game over man.
D - Gorgeous answer: Why would anyone charge bayonets? Give peace a chance (or at least perform a flanking maneuver).
Cinco de Mayo
Happy Cinco de Mayo! If I bought into the "powerless over drinking," lack of personal responsibility philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous, then I would be getting blitzed right now. An AA sponsor I knew a decade ago called. He never calls me unless he's wasted. He sounded like he was having a blast. "Happy... happy shinko de.. Happy Shinko, Day!" Indeed. Happy Shinko, to all of you out there in the world of the intertubes and subway tubes. Be careful tonight. Stay strong, stay in control, stay safe.
Of course that only applies to people in the Western Hemisphere who have an idea what the 5th of May stands for. So many people think it's Mexican Independence Day, and just use the 5th of May as an excuse to drink margaritas and Coronas. In fact, that is what the "holiday" is -- an excuse for an epic drunk promoted by alcohol companies. Cinco de Mayo celebrates an 1862 Mexican military victory in the Battle of Puebla over the French. Party on! Their Independence Day is on September 16th. As far as excuses to party go, it's a creative one at least.
If you're overseas you should join in. Just remember, there's nothing you can do to avoid a nasty hangover if you celebrate Cinco de Mayo properly. Don't forget, though, that it's your duty to honor Mexican Independence with slurred speech, even when you know today has almost nothing to do with Mexico as a whole. Spread the stupidity and disinformation. Corona and Cuervo need more money from drunkards!
I don't want to be a downer. It's good to have a day set aside for fun. Do it intelligently though. Have some class with your taste of south of the border fiesta.
Of course that only applies to people in the Western Hemisphere who have an idea what the 5th of May stands for. So many people think it's Mexican Independence Day, and just use the 5th of May as an excuse to drink margaritas and Coronas. In fact, that is what the "holiday" is -- an excuse for an epic drunk promoted by alcohol companies. Cinco de Mayo celebrates an 1862 Mexican military victory in the Battle of Puebla over the French. Party on! Their Independence Day is on September 16th. As far as excuses to party go, it's a creative one at least.
If you're overseas you should join in. Just remember, there's nothing you can do to avoid a nasty hangover if you celebrate Cinco de Mayo properly. Don't forget, though, that it's your duty to honor Mexican Independence with slurred speech, even when you know today has almost nothing to do with Mexico as a whole. Spread the stupidity and disinformation. Corona and Cuervo need more money from drunkards!
I don't want to be a downer. It's good to have a day set aside for fun. Do it intelligently though. Have some class with your taste of south of the border fiesta.
Uno
[This style was too similar to Death on the Installment Plan. It's listed as "to be corrected."]
The 300 gallon upright five foot diameter cylindrical fish tank at the Audubon Aquarium of the Americas held 75 bright, medium sized, flat faced silver fish. They swam constantly in circles, never stopping. The attendant said they would never know they were in such a small aquarium. Looking at them made me feel claustrophobic. I absolutely did not believe the fish had no idea they were confined closely. The fish don't have facial expressions. They don't have a way to communicate, supposedly. They sure looked miserable as hell to me. I couldn't think of anything more horrible than to be trapped in such a way, even if they never knew the sea. They were like veal, except at least veal got slaughtered and eaten after reaching a certain size and maturity.
It didn't occur to me to ask an attendant if the stock was ever rotated out or if the same tank-mates had to swim in 15 foot circles until they finally died of old age, unable to swim into the mouths of sharks or fling themselves into sharp undersea coral. They reminded me of people who took the bus to and from work everyday, walked to the store once a week, and repeated with no real end in sight, except maybe a vacation. Then they wouldn't be required to move from their location at all. They could remain nearly static until it was time to start making the same trips over and over again.
Cynically I mused that I was so much different. I made longer loops. I got to stop to sleep. Opening my eyes after rest made the experience of moving around seem new. I could communicate and I had facial expressions. Like other people I can feel pain and I have dreams, and exist on a higher level than simple animals and flora. Except when standing around staring at other people, other animals, or nothing in particular. Then I was just like an inanimate object. In fact it struck me that being an inanimate object would be vastly superior to any other sort of existence. So much less effort and tedium involved.
The young lady came back from the bathroom. She looked cheerful. Her name was Valerie. She told me that she loved me. We had been together 5 weeks. I ruminated about what she thought was so endearing in such a short period of time. Of course I loved her. I always love women. There's nothing better than loving a woman.
I don't think our two varieties of love were not the same. I would still love her after she no longer loved me. It would be sad when she was gone. I would think about her now and then, until I stopped. When I remembered her I would still love her. Somebody may have explained that emotion to me incorrectly, because when a girl said she stopped loving me she usually changed her behavior entirely. I never change my behavior, because of course I never say I stop loving a woman. I stay affectionate and sweet. My girlfriend would always just disappear after saying her piece. Why couldn't my relationships ever stay simple or end with just a breakup? Why did things always escalate to the all or nothing stage?
I don't cling. I am not a clingy person Maybe it's the way I treat love that keeps things from working out over and over. Physical love couldn't be more enjoyable. Spending intimate time with a woman was joyful. My hatred of spending time in public doing things average people do can not be overstated. I like to go in public for special events and outings. Attending everyday attractions does not excite me. Going out to see movies and sitting in cloth backed seats with people snacking nearby and talking felt like the opposite of a good time. Going to see the symphony, gallery openings, large private events, those things gave me a feeling of happiness and elevation.
I hadn't told Valerie about this yet. I always want to try an experience before knocking it, even if I suspect I will feel the same way I had every other time I had ever done something similar in the past. I'm not old enough to believe that there isn't hope normalcy won't somehow take root inside of me, that I'll wake up and want to go to fast food restaurants or wander around in big outlet stores like everyone else. I'm still not sure that's what normal really is.
I smiled at her when she handed me a Coca-cola. I do like Coke. That's a step in the normal direction. And Valerie is extremely intelligent, just like the other girls I had known. Before I could vacillate any further she pulled me to a side bench and sat me down, taking the Coke back away from me and putting it down next to hers. She pushed my legs together and sat down straddling my lap.
"Alexander, I know more about you than you know about me," she told me. I looked into her eyes and didn't know what to say. "I'm not going to slip away from you because you don't want to be in public with me."
"I'm not like that -- that's not something I -- "
She kissed me. It was a fantastic kiss. It didn't last too long. It was sweet and not a big display, but it was enough of a display to be sexy and normal at the same time. It was just right. I was supposed to do that, not have to depend on her to do that.
Before that train of thought went anywhere she pulled back and looked me in the eyes. "You're not listening to me, Alex. This is different. Forget what you think you know or knew. I'm going to show you what it really means to be in love."
She pulled away, stood up and took my hand. "Would you like to get out of here?"
"God, I can't think of anything I'd like to do more."
"Me too." She waited for me to stand up. We held hands after I was next to her.
"What do you mean you know more about me than I know about you?"
"I'll tell you. I'll show you," she said.
I had never felt like this before. Nothing felt askew between us at all. I believed her. Things felt right.
The 300 gallon upright five foot diameter cylindrical fish tank at the Audubon Aquarium of the Americas held 75 bright, medium sized, flat faced silver fish. They swam constantly in circles, never stopping. The attendant said they would never know they were in such a small aquarium. Looking at them made me feel claustrophobic. I absolutely did not believe the fish had no idea they were confined closely. The fish don't have facial expressions. They don't have a way to communicate, supposedly. They sure looked miserable as hell to me. I couldn't think of anything more horrible than to be trapped in such a way, even if they never knew the sea. They were like veal, except at least veal got slaughtered and eaten after reaching a certain size and maturity.
It didn't occur to me to ask an attendant if the stock was ever rotated out or if the same tank-mates had to swim in 15 foot circles until they finally died of old age, unable to swim into the mouths of sharks or fling themselves into sharp undersea coral. They reminded me of people who took the bus to and from work everyday, walked to the store once a week, and repeated with no real end in sight, except maybe a vacation. Then they wouldn't be required to move from their location at all. They could remain nearly static until it was time to start making the same trips over and over again.
Cynically I mused that I was so much different. I made longer loops. I got to stop to sleep. Opening my eyes after rest made the experience of moving around seem new. I could communicate and I had facial expressions. Like other people I can feel pain and I have dreams, and exist on a higher level than simple animals and flora. Except when standing around staring at other people, other animals, or nothing in particular. Then I was just like an inanimate object. In fact it struck me that being an inanimate object would be vastly superior to any other sort of existence. So much less effort and tedium involved.
The young lady came back from the bathroom. She looked cheerful. Her name was Valerie. She told me that she loved me. We had been together 5 weeks. I ruminated about what she thought was so endearing in such a short period of time. Of course I loved her. I always love women. There's nothing better than loving a woman.
I don't think our two varieties of love were not the same. I would still love her after she no longer loved me. It would be sad when she was gone. I would think about her now and then, until I stopped. When I remembered her I would still love her. Somebody may have explained that emotion to me incorrectly, because when a girl said she stopped loving me she usually changed her behavior entirely. I never change my behavior, because of course I never say I stop loving a woman. I stay affectionate and sweet. My girlfriend would always just disappear after saying her piece. Why couldn't my relationships ever stay simple or end with just a breakup? Why did things always escalate to the all or nothing stage?
I don't cling. I am not a clingy person Maybe it's the way I treat love that keeps things from working out over and over. Physical love couldn't be more enjoyable. Spending intimate time with a woman was joyful. My hatred of spending time in public doing things average people do can not be overstated. I like to go in public for special events and outings. Attending everyday attractions does not excite me. Going out to see movies and sitting in cloth backed seats with people snacking nearby and talking felt like the opposite of a good time. Going to see the symphony, gallery openings, large private events, those things gave me a feeling of happiness and elevation.
I hadn't told Valerie about this yet. I always want to try an experience before knocking it, even if I suspect I will feel the same way I had every other time I had ever done something similar in the past. I'm not old enough to believe that there isn't hope normalcy won't somehow take root inside of me, that I'll wake up and want to go to fast food restaurants or wander around in big outlet stores like everyone else. I'm still not sure that's what normal really is.
I smiled at her when she handed me a Coca-cola. I do like Coke. That's a step in the normal direction. And Valerie is extremely intelligent, just like the other girls I had known. Before I could vacillate any further she pulled me to a side bench and sat me down, taking the Coke back away from me and putting it down next to hers. She pushed my legs together and sat down straddling my lap.
"Alexander, I know more about you than you know about me," she told me. I looked into her eyes and didn't know what to say. "I'm not going to slip away from you because you don't want to be in public with me."
"I'm not like that -- that's not something I -- "
She kissed me. It was a fantastic kiss. It didn't last too long. It was sweet and not a big display, but it was enough of a display to be sexy and normal at the same time. It was just right. I was supposed to do that, not have to depend on her to do that.
Before that train of thought went anywhere she pulled back and looked me in the eyes. "You're not listening to me, Alex. This is different. Forget what you think you know or knew. I'm going to show you what it really means to be in love."
She pulled away, stood up and took my hand. "Would you like to get out of here?"
"God, I can't think of anything I'd like to do more."
"Me too." She waited for me to stand up. We held hands after I was next to her.
"What do you mean you know more about me than I know about you?"
"I'll tell you. I'll show you," she said.
I had never felt like this before. Nothing felt askew between us at all. I believed her. Things felt right.
Deux, Two, Dos
The gravel tracks through the hills northwest of Menard, Texas, seemed to go on forever. Mile after mile went through stages of cedar breaks on hillocks with interspersed persimmons to more open steppe fields with forbs, scrub oaks and woody plants. The faster an area began to give a distinctive feel to it the quicker it started looking exactly like every other mile of Hill Country the two men had already been through. They saw so many deer, snakes and armadillos that within hours they hated the sight of them.
Nestor and Mark were looking for a specific road where they would find a specific driveway leading to one very specific ranch. They were seven hours late when the sun began slipping below the horizon during their twists and turns. They had backtracked a half dozen times. The hand scrawled map had provided a clue in the last hour that made them think they may be on the right track.
The purple and metallic lavender Cadillac they rolled down the roads in was never intended to be used on such primitive surfaces. High praise had always been heaped on Cadillacs, but the one Nestor drove began squeaking like a dying titmouse every time they hit the smallest bump. Taking curves too fast had removed half a dozen crescent moons from the glass of the windshield. The windows kept building up dust to the extent that they had to roll down their windows sporadically in order to be able to see through them. Neither one of the two men were enjoying the experience.
Before leaving Austin they sat around in a private office for four hours waiting for Nestor's second cousin and one of their employer's close friends from Brownsville. The office contained nothing but fine antiques. The chair behind the large mahogany desk had been made entirely from polished longhorns with the utmost clarity of color. An ornate brass clock on the desk was supported in the right hand of a robed Venus coming out of a shell, on a pink marble stand. Even the walls of the office reeked of money, covered in finely jigged cherry panels and trim.
Nestor did not look out of place in the room, even though he was dusty and wearing old, thin farm blue jeans and cowboy boots and the simplest of white button up shirts. Mark had dressed for the occasion. He was wearing brand new, gaudy cowboy boots with rhinestone and fancy stitching. Lots of stitching and patterns also adorned his light blue dressy cowboy pants and cream and beige cowboy shirt. He kept a big white hat on his lap. As well as he blended in Mark may as well have hatched from an alien's egg in the room.
Sitting in chairs next to each other the minutes had passed slowly, especially since the only person keeping any conversation alive kept leaving the room. Their employer, William Collins, had prostate and kidney problems. He had no alternative but to attempt to use the bathroom on a regular basis. Every trip Collins returned looking more miserable and upset. Nestor wondered how serious the condition might really be. The story that it was not a big deal was obviously untrue.
Mark Tucker once or twice mentioned the weather. Mark grew up and spent the earlier part of his life in the big farm areas of central northern Texas. He was no less intelligent than most men, but he never had any reason to improve his mind. He made progress in life through perseverance and loyalty to the people who gave him breaks. It had worked for him so far. He didn't have the best fashion sense, but he was easy to get along with.
Nestor never told anyone his real last name. He learned early in his first years away from Michoacan that the less people knew about him the safer he was. William Collins knew him as Nestor Alvarez, because that's what it said on the work permit. Nestor was no more an Alvarez than he was a Breckenridge.
It cost three weeks of hard work to get identification and a work permit with the name Alvarez on it. The expense spared him sleepless nights and days spent glancing over his shoulder. Too many people from back home knew his family name. There were people would do harm him, or worse, harm his family, simply out of jealousy and spite. Enough could not be said in support of remaining inconspicuous and soft spoken in a position such as his.
The men finally knocked on the door for the appointment with William, Mark and Nestor. An obvious look of relief passed over Mark's face, but nobody noticed. Nestor addressed his relative only as 'Migo. The other man was called Taylor. Taylor and 'Migo were carrying one duffel bag each. Small talk was exchanged. They left the duffel bags with barely any conversation and went beck out of the building the way they had come.
"Okay, gentleman, you know what to do," Collins told Nestor and Mark.
Mark and Nestor respectively said "Yeah, don't worry about it. We know what to do," and, "Si, entiendo," at the same time.
The two walked down the hall and out to the small inside garage just down the hall. The garage door was closing just as they mounted the stairs to descend to the Cadillac. They threw the duffel bags in the trunk before they got in the car. Thegarage door opened again, and then they too drove away.
As the guys left the room a small microphone hidden behind a painting on the wall transmitted the door latch clicking closed. Three blocks down, in an abandoned church school house, a couple of federal agents were sitting behind a desk listening to the transmission. One of them was rubbing his temples. The other guy threw a pencil over his left shoulder. It clattered on the floor to their rear.
"That was it?"
"Yeah, that was it."
"We just spent six hours on high alert for three sentences."
"Apparently."
"And no video feed from the garage?"
"You're sitting right there. Do you see any video feed on the freaking monitor? Why do you do this? Every time we go out on a job and don't land some major bust right away you bitch and moan about every single thing. I'm telling you, if you keep doing this I'm going to ask for another partner."
"You just do that, Steve. You just do that. We'll just see if you can find anybody else who'll put up with the way your breath stinks after you eat your Reuben sandwich and drink your prune juice every afternoon."
In the office down the street William Collins stared up at the painting with the hidden microphone and smiled. He hadn't even begun to play his hand yet, but he knew that he had almost won the entire game already. "The feds are so handicapped by procedure. It makes them entirely predictable," he had thought to himself.
And then it was that the day crept closer and closer to darkness in Hill Country as Nestor continued to try to find the ranch house with Mark in the passenger seat. By that time they had both let loose a couple of quiet barrages of cursing, not so much at each other as out of frustration. They got along a lot better than most people would under the circumstances.
"Hey, Alvarez. I've got to go to the bathroom."
Nestor sighed. "Me too. I'll pull over."
The Cadillac kicked up little clouds of dust even at very slow speed as it slowed to the side of the road. The two men got out. Mark was urinating before Nestor could get around to the passenger side of the car. It was so dry that the yellow liquid just glided over the surface of the dust without sinking in.
A scorpion with an obvious mental impairment got too close to Nestor. Nestor peed all over it. It scuttled away into the undergrowth. That was when Mark spotted a falling apart old white sign barely hanging from a fence on which could barely be read letters saying "Tractor Repair." It was the last landmark they needed to get to their destination.
"Nestor! There's the sign, man! We found the sign!"
"Hey, look at that. I was beginning to worry, Mark. I'm very glad we have found this sign. This has been a long day." The time read five minutes to 8 P.M.
The two men got back in the car. A barely noticeable track between two fence posts next to the wooden sign led off the little gravel road. Nestor turned the Caddy down the little driveway and sped up.
"Next time we should tell William we need a truck for this run."
"There's never going to be a next time."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Oh, it's nothing. I just don't think we do this again."
"If you say so, Nestor. If you say so. I've never known William to turn down money though, especially not good money."
"There's the house," Nestor pointed to two o'clock.
An old white farm house situated in a narrow clearing between tall trees greeted the car as it reached the end of the driveway. The shaded area was easily fifteen degrees cooler than the road they had been on for hours. A simply dressed, very old man was sitting on a swing on the wide porch, watching them as they approached the house. He watched as they drove up. A dog ran out from a small shed adjoined to the eastern side of the porch, barking at the tires of the stopping vehicle.
Mark and Nestor got out of the car. Neither one of them made any moves to leave the sides of it though. They just stood there waiting for the old man to say something. Their stances revealed a humble and respectful repose on both of their parts.
"Good evening, you men," the old man said. "It's good to see you both. You're going to need freshening up and some supper. We'll get you fixed right up."
"Thank you, Mr. Collins," they each said in turn.
"Don't you men worry about it," he groaned slightly as he stood up. "Why don't you come in. I'll get Maria to set the table."
"What about the bags?" Mark asked.
"Don't you worry about that. We'll get to that later."
"Gracias, señor," Nestor said as he went up the steps to the house.
"Was mighty hot today," Mark said as he went inside.
"Yes, yes it was," Mr. Collins said as the screen door banged behind him.
[unedited]
Nestor and Mark were looking for a specific road where they would find a specific driveway leading to one very specific ranch. They were seven hours late when the sun began slipping below the horizon during their twists and turns. They had backtracked a half dozen times. The hand scrawled map had provided a clue in the last hour that made them think they may be on the right track.
The purple and metallic lavender Cadillac they rolled down the roads in was never intended to be used on such primitive surfaces. High praise had always been heaped on Cadillacs, but the one Nestor drove began squeaking like a dying titmouse every time they hit the smallest bump. Taking curves too fast had removed half a dozen crescent moons from the glass of the windshield. The windows kept building up dust to the extent that they had to roll down their windows sporadically in order to be able to see through them. Neither one of the two men were enjoying the experience.
Before leaving Austin they sat around in a private office for four hours waiting for Nestor's second cousin and one of their employer's close friends from Brownsville. The office contained nothing but fine antiques. The chair behind the large mahogany desk had been made entirely from polished longhorns with the utmost clarity of color. An ornate brass clock on the desk was supported in the right hand of a robed Venus coming out of a shell, on a pink marble stand. Even the walls of the office reeked of money, covered in finely jigged cherry panels and trim.
Nestor did not look out of place in the room, even though he was dusty and wearing old, thin farm blue jeans and cowboy boots and the simplest of white button up shirts. Mark had dressed for the occasion. He was wearing brand new, gaudy cowboy boots with rhinestone and fancy stitching. Lots of stitching and patterns also adorned his light blue dressy cowboy pants and cream and beige cowboy shirt. He kept a big white hat on his lap. As well as he blended in Mark may as well have hatched from an alien's egg in the room.
Sitting in chairs next to each other the minutes had passed slowly, especially since the only person keeping any conversation alive kept leaving the room. Their employer, William Collins, had prostate and kidney problems. He had no alternative but to attempt to use the bathroom on a regular basis. Every trip Collins returned looking more miserable and upset. Nestor wondered how serious the condition might really be. The story that it was not a big deal was obviously untrue.
Mark Tucker once or twice mentioned the weather. Mark grew up and spent the earlier part of his life in the big farm areas of central northern Texas. He was no less intelligent than most men, but he never had any reason to improve his mind. He made progress in life through perseverance and loyalty to the people who gave him breaks. It had worked for him so far. He didn't have the best fashion sense, but he was easy to get along with.
Nestor never told anyone his real last name. He learned early in his first years away from Michoacan that the less people knew about him the safer he was. William Collins knew him as Nestor Alvarez, because that's what it said on the work permit. Nestor was no more an Alvarez than he was a Breckenridge.
It cost three weeks of hard work to get identification and a work permit with the name Alvarez on it. The expense spared him sleepless nights and days spent glancing over his shoulder. Too many people from back home knew his family name. There were people would do harm him, or worse, harm his family, simply out of jealousy and spite. Enough could not be said in support of remaining inconspicuous and soft spoken in a position such as his.
The men finally knocked on the door for the appointment with William, Mark and Nestor. An obvious look of relief passed over Mark's face, but nobody noticed. Nestor addressed his relative only as 'Migo. The other man was called Taylor. Taylor and 'Migo were carrying one duffel bag each. Small talk was exchanged. They left the duffel bags with barely any conversation and went beck out of the building the way they had come.
"Okay, gentleman, you know what to do," Collins told Nestor and Mark.
Mark and Nestor respectively said "Yeah, don't worry about it. We know what to do," and, "Si, entiendo," at the same time.
The two walked down the hall and out to the small inside garage just down the hall. The garage door was closing just as they mounted the stairs to descend to the Cadillac. They threw the duffel bags in the trunk before they got in the car. Thegarage door opened again, and then they too drove away.
As the guys left the room a small microphone hidden behind a painting on the wall transmitted the door latch clicking closed. Three blocks down, in an abandoned church school house, a couple of federal agents were sitting behind a desk listening to the transmission. One of them was rubbing his temples. The other guy threw a pencil over his left shoulder. It clattered on the floor to their rear.
"That was it?"
"Yeah, that was it."
"We just spent six hours on high alert for three sentences."
"Apparently."
"And no video feed from the garage?"
"You're sitting right there. Do you see any video feed on the freaking monitor? Why do you do this? Every time we go out on a job and don't land some major bust right away you bitch and moan about every single thing. I'm telling you, if you keep doing this I'm going to ask for another partner."
"You just do that, Steve. You just do that. We'll just see if you can find anybody else who'll put up with the way your breath stinks after you eat your Reuben sandwich and drink your prune juice every afternoon."
In the office down the street William Collins stared up at the painting with the hidden microphone and smiled. He hadn't even begun to play his hand yet, but he knew that he had almost won the entire game already. "The feds are so handicapped by procedure. It makes them entirely predictable," he had thought to himself.
And then it was that the day crept closer and closer to darkness in Hill Country as Nestor continued to try to find the ranch house with Mark in the passenger seat. By that time they had both let loose a couple of quiet barrages of cursing, not so much at each other as out of frustration. They got along a lot better than most people would under the circumstances.
"Hey, Alvarez. I've got to go to the bathroom."
Nestor sighed. "Me too. I'll pull over."
The Cadillac kicked up little clouds of dust even at very slow speed as it slowed to the side of the road. The two men got out. Mark was urinating before Nestor could get around to the passenger side of the car. It was so dry that the yellow liquid just glided over the surface of the dust without sinking in.
A scorpion with an obvious mental impairment got too close to Nestor. Nestor peed all over it. It scuttled away into the undergrowth. That was when Mark spotted a falling apart old white sign barely hanging from a fence on which could barely be read letters saying "Tractor Repair." It was the last landmark they needed to get to their destination.
"Nestor! There's the sign, man! We found the sign!"
"Hey, look at that. I was beginning to worry, Mark. I'm very glad we have found this sign. This has been a long day." The time read five minutes to 8 P.M.
The two men got back in the car. A barely noticeable track between two fence posts next to the wooden sign led off the little gravel road. Nestor turned the Caddy down the little driveway and sped up.
"Next time we should tell William we need a truck for this run."
"There's never going to be a next time."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Oh, it's nothing. I just don't think we do this again."
"If you say so, Nestor. If you say so. I've never known William to turn down money though, especially not good money."
"There's the house," Nestor pointed to two o'clock.
An old white farm house situated in a narrow clearing between tall trees greeted the car as it reached the end of the driveway. The shaded area was easily fifteen degrees cooler than the road they had been on for hours. A simply dressed, very old man was sitting on a swing on the wide porch, watching them as they approached the house. He watched as they drove up. A dog ran out from a small shed adjoined to the eastern side of the porch, barking at the tires of the stopping vehicle.
Mark and Nestor got out of the car. Neither one of them made any moves to leave the sides of it though. They just stood there waiting for the old man to say something. Their stances revealed a humble and respectful repose on both of their parts.
"Good evening, you men," the old man said. "It's good to see you both. You're going to need freshening up and some supper. We'll get you fixed right up."
"Thank you, Mr. Collins," they each said in turn.
"Don't you men worry about it," he groaned slightly as he stood up. "Why don't you come in. I'll get Maria to set the table."
"What about the bags?" Mark asked.
"Don't you worry about that. We'll get to that later."
"Gracias, señor," Nestor said as he went up the steps to the house.
"Was mighty hot today," Mark said as he went inside.
"Yes, yes it was," Mr. Collins said as the screen door banged behind him.
[unedited]
Cuatro, Four
Valerie and Alexander sat at a table overlooking Lake Pontchartrain. They decided to go to one of the restaurants beside one of the nicer marinas east of Fat City. The sun began to set. Many of the tables remained unfilled, waiting for the swelling of the night crowd.
"Sometimes people talk about you, Alexander."
"That's sort of strange. People don't talk to me very often. Who talks about me? What do they say?"
"You don't have to worry. Nobody cares what older people say. It's just that you got a reputation for being eccentric after not showing up for your wedding."
"We weren't right for each other."
"You didn't come out of your house for 7 months, even when Bella tried to commit suicide under your window."
"She was the one who was deranged, clearly. How could the world not see that?"
"Then why didn't you call an ambulance instead of climbing out of a window on the other side of the house? And then you got hung up on the fence and somebody had to call an ambulance for you."
"I see how it is. These are the sort of things people talk about. Who exactly has been saying things?"
"It was all over Tulane after it happened. Bella's friends wanted you guillotined, not to mention her parents. Do you have any idea how much money her family spent on the wedding?"
"No, I've never thought about it. I'm a bubble head. I can only think about bizarre, eccentric things, like stopping all the light from entering my room and keeping static on the television twenty-four hours a day, so as not to be able to hear the satellites in my head."
"Don't be that way. It's just that you should know you haven't vanished from people's thoughts just because you withdrew into yourself and stopped acknowledging the existence of the outside world."
"I didn't stop acknowledging the existence of the outside world. I got sick and tired of being involved with average people. All they do is talk, about the weather, about their portfolios, or about hair styles or television or celebrities, but most of all they like to talk about people who can't respond to what they are saying."
"This is good. You're really getting it off your chest. I knew this would be a positive exercise."
"Who are you, really? Were you sent into my life as some sort of free lance therapist? I'm beginning to think this is some sort of set-up."
Valerie smiled as Alex winked. "Yep. It's a set-up. Especially that thing. Remember that thing..."
"That thing gets me in trouble. That thing is the reason you could be a Soviet spy, well, a spy from Al-Qaeda or some other hideous, evil organization, and I'd never know."
"No, silly. Not that thing. That thing."
"Oh, that thing. Yes, it's absolute proof there could be nothing wrong between us."
They both laughed.
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, it's not you're failed engagement, that's for sure. That puts you in great spirits. Let's talk about something else, unless this is too public for you, too common."
"I'm all ears. I do have an appointment," he looked at his arm where a watch should have been. "Right after death I'm supposed to be somewhere very important."
"People say you're running out of your inheritance."
"Bella's crowd?"
"No, that would be your neighbors, who told people who are friends with Bella's parents. They say that you keep putting your bills back in your mailbox unopened."
"Some of the bills I receive can easily be proven to be fraudulent. I've stopped responding to collection attempts from shysters and thieves. If the post office insists on dropping off such disrespectful notices, even though I've written return to sender on duplicate after duplicate, repeatedly, then it's really up to the post office to sort out the whole mess."
"Some of the bills are for your accountant."
"He's the worst one."
"I can see that I'm going to wind up enamored of a completely deranged pauper. I'll have to give you sponge baths and feed you with a small spoon in our one room hovel. The cost of washing your bib will be more than we can afford."
"Would you really do that for me? Bathe me and feed me if I was a vegetable?"
"Not so much. I would take pictures of you being loaded into the ambulance and post them on the Internet with funny captions about your absolute incompetence. And the secret videos and audio tape. If you go broke I'm totally making sure the entire world knows all your deepest, darkest secrets. Because all I care about is money."
Alexander's features darkened. He looked at Valerie with a very serious expression for long seconds before looking out over the water. The sounds of gulls broke the silence between them. Valerie leaned over the table and pulled on Alex's bangs.
"Don't do that," he said.
"Don't be so serious. You already have only one thing I want, and that's you. It would be nice for you if you didn't fall into complete ruin before you die, but that has nothing to do with how I feel about you."
"I stopped caring. First my parents died. My next two relationships did nothing but make me more unhappy. I wound up in a relationship with a total nutcase. She was good in bed, but she and her parents were pushing me into marriage. That couldn't have been clearer if they had been using a bulldozer. It's like the world exists in a state of total discombobulation wherever I am."
"What if I told you it's probably mostly you? That the world is fine, but you're just not coping with it very well."
"I'd tell you that we're currently experiencing a deficit of that thing we were talking about."
"The good thing or one of the bad things."
"Who cares? We should go somewhere before the restaurant begins filling up. We don't want to be in the public eye..."
"I think we should stay right here. I think we should make this a regular spot, so people who want to talk about you will have to talk about us. We should do something totally scandalous. Like have a good time, talk loud enough for other people to hear, and engage in displays of public affection. Like kissing, even."
"I don't know if I can go through with something like that. You know how quiet I am. Can we just skip the talking and stick with scandalous displays of affection?"
"We can definitely do that."
Alexander moved his chair around to Valerie's side of the table. He leaned in very close to Valerie and nibbled on her ear lobe. She squealed very loudly, in a high pitch. Alex almost fell out of his chair.
"Masher!" Valerie exclaimed in feigned horror. Several people looked over, and those who didn't were trying not to. Their waitress appeared concerned, and finally decided to pick up water to bring over.
"What the hell, Val? And who yells masher? Didn't people stop doing that... when did people do that?"
"I do that. And we aren't scandalous if all we do is give people something to look at. They need to hear something too, or we haven't even caused a ripple in the pond."
"We're off to a good start then, because I'm fairly certain that could be heard in the next restaurant."
"I knew it. You're completely stuffy."
The waitress arrived at the table. She asked how they were doing and Alexander grunted and smiled at her. Valerie put her right hand conspicuously in his crotch and said, "We were thinking about engaging in a couple of forms of sexual intercourse right here at the table. You don't think anyone will mind, do you?
"To tell you the truth, the owner would probably consider you heroic for something like that. We still get crowds, but it's nothing like it used to be. The place could really use a spicier reputation."
"Wait... wai... uh..." Alex stuttered as something he hadn't expected began to take place. The waitress' face turned red. She walked away. Valerie smiled at him and leaned in close.
"I told you things would be different."
[unedited until mañana]
"Sometimes people talk about you, Alexander."
"That's sort of strange. People don't talk to me very often. Who talks about me? What do they say?"
"You don't have to worry. Nobody cares what older people say. It's just that you got a reputation for being eccentric after not showing up for your wedding."
"We weren't right for each other."
"You didn't come out of your house for 7 months, even when Bella tried to commit suicide under your window."
"She was the one who was deranged, clearly. How could the world not see that?"
"Then why didn't you call an ambulance instead of climbing out of a window on the other side of the house? And then you got hung up on the fence and somebody had to call an ambulance for you."
"I see how it is. These are the sort of things people talk about. Who exactly has been saying things?"
"It was all over Tulane after it happened. Bella's friends wanted you guillotined, not to mention her parents. Do you have any idea how much money her family spent on the wedding?"
"No, I've never thought about it. I'm a bubble head. I can only think about bizarre, eccentric things, like stopping all the light from entering my room and keeping static on the television twenty-four hours a day, so as not to be able to hear the satellites in my head."
"Don't be that way. It's just that you should know you haven't vanished from people's thoughts just because you withdrew into yourself and stopped acknowledging the existence of the outside world."
"I didn't stop acknowledging the existence of the outside world. I got sick and tired of being involved with average people. All they do is talk, about the weather, about their portfolios, or about hair styles or television or celebrities, but most of all they like to talk about people who can't respond to what they are saying."
"This is good. You're really getting it off your chest. I knew this would be a positive exercise."
"Who are you, really? Were you sent into my life as some sort of free lance therapist? I'm beginning to think this is some sort of set-up."
Valerie smiled as Alex winked. "Yep. It's a set-up. Especially that thing. Remember that thing..."
"That thing gets me in trouble. That thing is the reason you could be a Soviet spy, well, a spy from Al-Qaeda or some other hideous, evil organization, and I'd never know."
"No, silly. Not that thing. That thing."
"Oh, that thing. Yes, it's absolute proof there could be nothing wrong between us."
They both laughed.
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, it's not you're failed engagement, that's for sure. That puts you in great spirits. Let's talk about something else, unless this is too public for you, too common."
"I'm all ears. I do have an appointment," he looked at his arm where a watch should have been. "Right after death I'm supposed to be somewhere very important."
"People say you're running out of your inheritance."
"Bella's crowd?"
"No, that would be your neighbors, who told people who are friends with Bella's parents. They say that you keep putting your bills back in your mailbox unopened."
"Some of the bills I receive can easily be proven to be fraudulent. I've stopped responding to collection attempts from shysters and thieves. If the post office insists on dropping off such disrespectful notices, even though I've written return to sender on duplicate after duplicate, repeatedly, then it's really up to the post office to sort out the whole mess."
"Some of the bills are for your accountant."
"He's the worst one."
"I can see that I'm going to wind up enamored of a completely deranged pauper. I'll have to give you sponge baths and feed you with a small spoon in our one room hovel. The cost of washing your bib will be more than we can afford."
"Would you really do that for me? Bathe me and feed me if I was a vegetable?"
"Not so much. I would take pictures of you being loaded into the ambulance and post them on the Internet with funny captions about your absolute incompetence. And the secret videos and audio tape. If you go broke I'm totally making sure the entire world knows all your deepest, darkest secrets. Because all I care about is money."
Alexander's features darkened. He looked at Valerie with a very serious expression for long seconds before looking out over the water. The sounds of gulls broke the silence between them. Valerie leaned over the table and pulled on Alex's bangs.
"Don't do that," he said.
"Don't be so serious. You already have only one thing I want, and that's you. It would be nice for you if you didn't fall into complete ruin before you die, but that has nothing to do with how I feel about you."
"I stopped caring. First my parents died. My next two relationships did nothing but make me more unhappy. I wound up in a relationship with a total nutcase. She was good in bed, but she and her parents were pushing me into marriage. That couldn't have been clearer if they had been using a bulldozer. It's like the world exists in a state of total discombobulation wherever I am."
"What if I told you it's probably mostly you? That the world is fine, but you're just not coping with it very well."
"I'd tell you that we're currently experiencing a deficit of that thing we were talking about."
"The good thing or one of the bad things."
"Who cares? We should go somewhere before the restaurant begins filling up. We don't want to be in the public eye..."
"I think we should stay right here. I think we should make this a regular spot, so people who want to talk about you will have to talk about us. We should do something totally scandalous. Like have a good time, talk loud enough for other people to hear, and engage in displays of public affection. Like kissing, even."
"I don't know if I can go through with something like that. You know how quiet I am. Can we just skip the talking and stick with scandalous displays of affection?"
"We can definitely do that."
Alexander moved his chair around to Valerie's side of the table. He leaned in very close to Valerie and nibbled on her ear lobe. She squealed very loudly, in a high pitch. Alex almost fell out of his chair.
"Masher!" Valerie exclaimed in feigned horror. Several people looked over, and those who didn't were trying not to. Their waitress appeared concerned, and finally decided to pick up water to bring over.
"What the hell, Val? And who yells masher? Didn't people stop doing that... when did people do that?"
"I do that. And we aren't scandalous if all we do is give people something to look at. They need to hear something too, or we haven't even caused a ripple in the pond."
"We're off to a good start then, because I'm fairly certain that could be heard in the next restaurant."
"I knew it. You're completely stuffy."
The waitress arrived at the table. She asked how they were doing and Alexander grunted and smiled at her. Valerie put her right hand conspicuously in his crotch and said, "We were thinking about engaging in a couple of forms of sexual intercourse right here at the table. You don't think anyone will mind, do you?
"To tell you the truth, the owner would probably consider you heroic for something like that. We still get crowds, but it's nothing like it used to be. The place could really use a spicier reputation."
"Wait... wai... uh..." Alex stuttered as something he hadn't expected began to take place. The waitress' face turned red. She walked away. Valerie smiled at him and leaned in close.
"I told you things would be different."
[unedited until mañana]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Repent or Die