Saturday, August 19, 2006


I came to laying on my side on a concrete bench. My head was at such an extreme angle and my neck so stiffened by this unnatural position that I knew raising it would be a painful, if not impossible, affair; I opted to roll over onto my stomach and slowly push myself up into a sitting position while leaving my head, more or less, in its listing attitude. This too was no easy feat, accomplished by grunting, groaning effort. Laughter, accompanied by a lewdly malicious voice, attracted my attention from the other end of the cell. Two locals were sitting there watching me. He spoke again, the fat one with the leer in his voice and eyes, in a colloquial Spanish that I didn't understand. I said nothing.
Looking down I noticed my pockets had been turned inside out; my shoes were gone. I did not yet know how I arrived there; I sensed a partially formed, vague memory lurking just below the surface of consciousness. I tried retracing my steps mentally: the girl in the bar, dancing, being led onto the beach, rolling around in the sand. So far so good; too bad there's no way this one ends well. Sort of like a movie that reveals the hero's death in the first frame. Closing my eyes I tried to pierce memory's fog, at once afraid and enticed by what I might find there.
A dim scene played out: the girl was suddenly screaming at me; I was beseeching her to be quiet, asking in broken Spanish what was wrong: trying to say, ¿Cu├íl es la materia?, and just managing to stammer, qual estimer, qual estimer? At the same time thinking her hysteria seemed odd, acted. Get away, a foreign and sober impulse welled up into my sloshed mind, get away from her. Several missing frames later and I'm struggling in the deep, loose Baja sand; wheezing, stagger-running, covering as much distance from side to side as forward but making progress back toward the plaza, and the hotel. Memory submerged, and only briefly resurfaced to reveal a glimpse of being herded into the back of a Mexican police car by baton blows, kicks, and epithets.
I was now staring at the wall across from me; it was covered in a profusion of graffitti, mostly vulgarities in Spanish. I realized I had been staring at a word. It shimmied and danced as a pair that separated, nearly aligned, and separated again repeatedly as I fought my double vision. I tried closing one stinging eye; I couldn't, like a very young child who can't yet move his eyelids indepently. So I placed a hand, trembling slightly as if a small electric current was running through it, over one eye.
Slowly the word came into focus. No, I thought, no possible way. But there it was. Faint and weathered by countless years, crudely etched in jagged lines; I could just make out:

1 comment:

Mortimer Shy said...

This sounds like Jorge Luis Borges, in style and the unravelling, suspenceful content--which is mysteriously like a modern parable. You seem to throw these kind of literary pieces in your blog every once in a while like you were coming down from the intoxication, and frustration, of trying to articulate irresolvable issues, and releasing (from this reader's point of view) yourself from them.

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