FELIPE FELDMAR

For Just One Day

The arch of the ball flying across the sky is extensive, the result from a long and powerful toss coming from the arm of Peter. For an instant, the ball becomes resplendent and disappears into the sun, bursting out and falling like a meteor on fire. The ball bounces one, two times on the beach and rolls into the surf.

I walk to the edge of the sea. Even though the air is balmy, the water is warm and the waves are light, today, I find it difficult to move. So I slowly wade in and carefully pick-up the tennis ball frayed from all the times I have played with it with Peter in the beach.

Once I have the ball, I stop to watch a seagull beating its wings frantically, hovering and twisting in the wind, looking for fish in the salty waters of the Pacific Ocean. How I love the beach! The sounds of tiny and thundering waves, the cool spray of the water around us when we walk together with Peter, the feeling of cool water touching our feet during those long warm summer afternoons and the salty smell of the water as we approach the rocks where we sit down to share a snack. When we rest, he caresses my long golden hair and I close my eyes, feeling his delicate fingers as wave sweep, boom, slush, rise and fall, and we listen to the plethora of sounds coming from the ocean.

"Max! Max!"

I turn back and look at Peter. He sits on top of a sandy hill wearing dark sunglasses, leaning his handsome tanned face towards the sun. When we first met, he was only five. And now, there he is, about to turn eighteen, a boy becoming a man! I shake my head. Melancholy grips my heart, and I wonder: How much longer will I be with him?

I begin my walk back and see footprints in the wet sand, tracks that disappear as waves cover them, sweeping and carrying them back into the depths of the blue tides that ebb and flow with the inexorable pass of time.

"Time to go home, buddy!"

I drop the ball at Peter's feet. He takes my face and rubs it. His touch always makes me happy. I wag my tail, stand up on hind feet and place my wet paws on his lap. I look at him and lick his cheek for the millionth time. He laughs and tickles me. I smile. A tear rolls down my snout. For just one day, I wish he could see me!

The sun is setting. He puts on my leash, and slowly, for one last time, I lead him back home.

Out of the Dark

The light burns my eyes. A silhouette rushes towards my prostrate, aching body, for a second shading the light hanging from a frayed copper wire. Striking with the quickness of a rattlesnake, he kicks me. I bite my lips and grimace.

 Thump, slap, crack!

 Punches rain down my face. My arms are full of scabs. Ribs crack like kindling. I'm starved. My face is gaunt. I haven't bathed in one month. Death wants to whisper in my ear.

He stops to pant and between breathes he asks, "Where are they hiding?"

One eye shut, I look with the other eye, a red hue colored man. His arms are massive. One tooth is missing, and he has a scar running from his forehead down his neck. He lights a cigar and blows the acrid smoke, permeating the bricked, mossy basement.

The sound of a gunshot and a scream is heard through a small, barred window.

"What the fuck?" he says, stepping toward the heavy metal door.

All of a sudden, the door bursts open.  Sergeant Lopez runs in, machine gun in hand.

The bully drops on his knees to the floor, pleading for his life.

"Lieutenant! My God! What have they done to you?"

I rise from the chair, satisfied the ordeal is over. Now the pain will go the other way.

With all the strength I have left, I bend over to spit blood. I wipe my mouth with a soiled sleeve and walk to the basin to splash some muddy water on my face.  I look into the mirror. A messy, scarred, bulging bloody face stares back.

 It has been one month since the airplane was shot down. I was captured, and suffered hours and days of torture and pain. I close my eyes and breathe. It’s time.

I turn and scowl, looking into the man's eyes. Like the coward he is, he whimpers and slithers into a corner. The behemoth balls up and starts crying as I ask the soldiers to tie him down.

"Corporate, hand me your pliers!" I order.

The roomful of troopers looks at me. One burly soldier pulls a pair of pliers out of his pack and gives them to me. I stumble towards my torturer who now is sitting all tied up, unable to run. I open the steel jaws and press them tight.

"Please. I’ll tell you anything! No! No!”

“For my country! For the pain and suffering of this fucking war! For the rapes! For the beatings, and … for … being … such … a … pussy!”  I scream as I pull out each and every one of the fat, dirty oily fingernails of those massive fingers from hands that fell upon me. He howls, blood dripping, twisting in pain, writhing and squealing like a pig in a slaughter house. He didn't get a word from me in one month. After just one tiny minute, he tells all we need. Disgusting!

I take the handgun gun out of the holster from the corporate untying him. I raise the weapon, aim and pull the trigger. A shot goes off. He opens his eyes like two big saucers, puts his hands down his groin and faints.

"That will teach this prick not to mess with women!"

The soldiers step to one side as I limp outside. I manage to light a cigarette, and watch the night turn into day.

A Day in the City

Tonight, I'm meeting one of my Sugar Daddies! I'm walking down Lincoln Road in Miami Beach, and all eyes stare at this Latina bombshell. I love it! And how do I make men want me? Let me explain to you, baby.

First, I go get my hair done. Gustavo, my hair stylist and make-up artist says, "Girlfriend, with this hair and ink, you sure getting your tush shaken by some big D!" I laugh, and flash white teeth in the mirror, which reflects one young, unblemished face with tanned skin, hazel eyes, not one black hair out of place, eye brows plucked and sharp, fresh mascara, eye shadow just right, a touch of rouge and glossy red lipstick to complete the portrait.

 I say goodbye to Gusy, and proceed to a boutique to get the red dress I picked out last week, made in a style I call tuck, press, squeeze and pull: tuck in your stomach, press your ass, squeeze your boobs and pull, so that curves are popping all around your body. Make sure your breasts protrude with cleavage down your belly, and leave an areola of the nipple almost showing. This will make sure to have all stiffies pointing at you!

Next stop, I do my nails, freshly placed on lithe fingers, designer made with white tips and polished. My delicate feet are washed in warm water and massaged with oil, toenails clipped, filed, lacquered and shining. I close my eyes and relax, letting nail polish dry, thinking of my date for the night. Not one of my faves, but he'll do, especially since he drives a Ferrari and I'm going to the club with him. Most likely, he'll get drunk and I'll meet another macho to take home and lay.

Finally, my favorite part!  It is like Christmas in the Vatican, a gift from God, passed down Heaven, onto a mortal woman in this hallowed planet. I take from my Louis Vuitton bag a white box and open it. There they are, a brand new pair of Salvatore Ferragamo pumps! Two beauties glisten, giving their first breath of fresh air to the world, exultant, opening their eyes to conquer the Universe of Fashion. It is a magnificent gift from one of my viejos, which cost me a whole weekend with the bastardo, including three BJs, two rounds of sex, many nasty cigar kisses and a sleep over with his other buddies and their nenas in his beach house in Palm Beach. Nevertheless, having these gems in my possession, I would have done him two weekends!

I take the babies out of the box and slip them on my fresh feet, done exclusively for this magnanimous occasion, prepared just right to not desecrate the masterpieces. Once I have them on I close my eyes. Just like Alicia said, they feel one-hundred times better than any orgasm! They wrap around my feet, caressing them like fresh silk, beautiful toes showing, nails glowing, skin tanned and smooth, curving inside and outside the shape of the delicate black and shiny pumps. Paradise!

I turn around the corner to Washington Avenue. Suddenly, I stop in front of a cigar shop. I remember it was four years to the day since I arrived to Miami from Cuba, stepping out of a soggy raft as a poor, gaunt, barefoot, thin and scared girl. I made a promise to Diosito y La Virgencita that I would become someone. And here I am, María Abreu, a self-made woman!

I smile, shake my head and leave the past in the past. I keep on walking with long strides, pumps tapping, ready to trade body for green. Boobs, make-up, hair, dress and shoes; Ya tú sabe! Bring on the world!

Tree of Alms

A white sheet of snow covered the plains, valleys and mountains. It was as if the heavens had flipped over, white-washed clouds lying on the ground and deep blue winter skies pressed on them to get all dirt out. It was a white that was as pure and fresh as the cover page of a new story.

In that snow, a track of small footsteps was being made by a boy wearing an old leather jacket over a frayed wool sweater. He wore all the three pants he had, tattered black boots, and snow-shoes that barely kept him atop the layer of fresh snow.

It was one day before Christmas. The boy had promised his sister he would pick out a Christmas tree. Not too small because the needles would fall too soon, and not too tall since it would not only be too heavy to carry, but also too big to put in the cabin. So there was the boy, only ten years old, not sure he was up to the task. But with the energy and fruition of youth, he had already walked two snow covered miles. While he walked on the snow covered mountains, he thought about his father.

The previous summer, a fire had burned acres of pristine cedar forest. His father had been a logger in the area, out felling trees. There was a huge fire. He was engulfed by flames thirty feet high. With heat so extreme and smoke everywhere, he fainted. To the despair of Steve and his family, their father perished. They had lived without their mother for seven years, and it was the first Christmas without their father. He felt was miserable, yet he insisted to continue with the Christmas tradition of going out with his father to pick out a Christmas tree, cutting it, loading it on to the sled, and bringing it back home. This time, though, he had to do it by himself.

Flake, the family’s Alaskan husky, bounced in the snow in front of him. He chased a rabbit for a while, dug a small cave, picked up a dry pine limb and bounded back and forth, enjoying snow that was more his element than the boy’s.

Steve had been walking all morning, but the only vegetation he found was a sapling barely breaking out of the snow. After the fire, there were no trees left. It had been hours since he had left home. He was about to turn back, when across the valley, he saw the most wonderful tree he had ever seen! It towered up, as if almost touching the sky. The limbs were wide and strong, the needles were green and fresh. Before the sight vanished, he rushed down a steep slope. As he was rushing down the hill, the sled sped up, caught up with him and tripped him dragging him down the slope. He lost one snow shoes in the snow. He didn’t mind the shoes and took the other one off. He was able to hustle to the top, taking two steps up and one step back. Once he got to the base, it definitely was the biggest tree ever. It would take all men in town to drag it back. But he didn’t mind. He was sure they would help. So he took out the ax that was big and heavy. He began to raise the ax back when a thundering voice startled him.

“What are you doing son?”

The deep voice made him drop the axe. A giant of a man stepped out from behind the tree. He was as tall as a house and as thick as the rocks in the river. His hands were two huge hams of muscle, and he brandished an axe that was about the boy’s size. Flake was down the mountain, too far away to call him.

“I’m here for our Christmas Tree,” mumbled the boy.

“You mean this majestic piece of nature. Why, this is Old Green!” the man said laughing, his voice booming around the old mountains.

“Old Green?” asked the boy.

“Yup! Been around this mountain for more than a thousand years!”  The man proceeded to pat the trunk, and a little avalanche covered the boy, knocking him down.

“Sorry ’bout that!” the giant said, grabbing the boy from the collar of his flannel shirt to pull him out. At that moment Flake came bounding along. When he saw the man holding the boy, the dog bared his teeth and leapt towards the man. The giant grabbed him in mid flight as if it were a Chihuahua. He began to talk to him in a language that Steve couldn’t understand. To his surprise, the dog calmed down. The man let him down on the snow, and the dog ran off as if he had just talked with his best friends.

“Those pups get somewhat restless sometimes!”

“How did you do that?” asked Steve, amazed.

“All the time we’ve been in the mountains, we have had to learn to speak wolf!”

“Wolf?” asked the boy.

“You telling me you ne’er seen one? Look like your dog, boy!”

“I’ve seen plenty. We have to put fires outside the cabin to keep them at bay.”

“Well, the best thing you’ve got to do is to learn wolf. Look, if you come here more I can teach you some.”

Steve thought it was the most wonderful thing he had ever heard. He would learn to speak wolf. And he would be hanging out with someone so different and unique, that it would be awesome to learn from him something new. He had read all the books in his house, which were three, and he felt he could learn much more.

“I would love to! Where?”

The man looked around as if searching for something and said, “Where else, under the tree!

“This is your home?”

“Something like that. By the way, they call me G.”

“I’m Steve”

The man extended a hand as big as a bear paw. Steve stretched his hand and the giant of a man covered it completely like a small piece of candy.

“I promise if you show up to learn, I will definitely make sure to be here. Now for the matter of the tree, here’s what we’re going to do.”

The next day Steve dragged his older sister Sara, and his younger brother Jonas with him to see the tree. They kept complaining all the way. But it was a wonderful day to walk, which helped raise their spirits. The air crisp and fresh, blue skies, and snow more compact and easier to walk, the only sounds of snow crunching under their feet. They hopped on the sled to travel down the slopes, and slowly climbed up them. After some hours, Jonas began to say he wanted to go back, and Sara thought Steve was crazy.

“Steve, if we don’t go back now it will get dark on us!”

“Sis! Just one more hill!”

“You’ve been saying that for an hour!”

She’s right!, he thought.  Maybe they were lost. Since it had snowed the previous night, Steve’s and Flake’s tracks had been covered. He was hoping Flake would find a scent and lead the way, but the dog couldn’t pick up the trail.

“Let’s go one more!” Steve said. He began to run, pulling the sled. If not, her sister would take a lock of hair and pull him back. Jonas laughed and went after him. “Wait, wait! You’re going to cause an avalanche!” As she said this, loose snow began to slide and chase after them. It fell in bunches, piles and masses, heavy, cold, wet and completely covering them. Flake barked like mad, and everything went dark.

Steve was the first to open his eyes. A huge fire was warming them. They were covered by a giant blanket. Jonas lay next to Sis, both sound asleep. On the other side sat G and Flake. When Flake saw Steve, he came rushing and almost knocked him back, licking his face and barking.

“What happened?”

“You boys and gal were covered with snow. Well, more like buried. Deep. In lots of snow. Good thing old Flake here was able to pick up the trail and fetch me. He came bounding and barked like mad. This fellow told me you fellows were buried. I went to fish you out.

Steve began to shiver. He missed his father so much, he wanted to cry. He had he promised himself that he would be strong. But the event was too overwhelming, and tears began to drip.

“Now, now. Don’t feel sad!” said G, patting him on the back. His pat was more like a push, but his voice was soothing. “Look! I made some chocolate!” He handed a tin mug full of the richest, steamy chocolate he had tasted. It was better than his Mom’s. He smiled when he felt the liquid warming into him, and forgot they had been buried.

“There you go! Now help me rouse these two. It’s almost time.”

Steve tapped Jonas, and Flake began licking Sara.

Jonas gasped at the Giant, and Sara scurried back to the tree.

“I told you it was true!” Steve said. Both Sara and Jonas stared at the man. Like he had done with Steve, he chuckled, and that seemed to calm them down. “Try the cocoa!” he boomed at them.

“They picked up the cups, and felt the warmth going into them. Sara had a few scratches, and Jonas arm had been sprained. But as the cocoa went into them, they felt better.

The giant stood. Standing, he seemed as big as the tree standing next to them.

“We better get ready!”

“Ready for what?” asked Jonas.

Flake began to bark. The sun went behind a far away mountain. As light gave way to dark, the tree began to zap and hum. And then, there was an explosion of light.

They flew back. And before them stood the tree covered with garlands, candy canes, chocolates, gum, tinsel, ornaments, and a huge  star that lit everything around them.

Next to G stood a man with a beard so white it almost shone. He wore a long red fur cloak, carried a staff of knarly wood and walked towards them.

Jonas ran behind Sara, and she stood without moving next to Steve. Fang smelled the man, but like G had done with him, the dog befriended him.

​The man looked at the children. “Your father and mother are OK. They send their respects, and tell you they love you very much. They want you to stay together, always be together and believe in yourselves.”

​“You’ve seen them?” asked Sara.

​“Sure. They wanted me to come. And they were the ones leading you here!”

​“Leading us?” asked Steve?

​“Steve. Your father knew you so well. He was sure you would go out looking for a Christmas tree. When you leave earth, things and people are left behind. But your soul lives forever. This is the Tree of Alms. It carries the secrets and souls of the people in the mountains. That’s why it is so important for G to protect this tree. And it will be your responsibility to protect it as well. You three are the only ones to know the secret. G will always be here. But your job is to make this tree special. And what better way than to make it the town’s Christmas tree!”

​Steve looked up at the tree. Could they protect it from the town’s people? It seemed that all humans wanted was the biggest, the oldest and most wonderful things, not leaving them to nature. They had to convince the people in town. They would bring them to see this wonderful creation and all of them would be stunned. Steve, Jonas Sara and their children would make sure through years and decades that the tree would be the heart of Christmas.

Spanish Eyes

Rain fell down from the mass of dark clouds that covered the Barcelona night like a dark veil dropping from the heavens to hide the face of an ancient woman. Drops large and small, glistening and dark, struck the bedroom window, dozens of them barely heard, yet thousands pounding the glass in angry bursts as gusts of wind pushed curtains of water against the old Victorian house.

A man sat in darkness in an antique arm chair. He could have been confused for one of the statues out in the hallway, as he sat frozen, watching the rain. A flash of lightning brought to life his shadow, highlighting his sharp outline: aquiline nose, long face with gaunt cheeks, brow narrow and high, and uncombed, sandy-gray hair. If someone had looked at him for the first time, the features found most prominent would have been the man’s eyes, a blue so unique and profound that when a writer from La Vanguardia had written about the famous lawyer in a social column, he had described them as two rare sapphires floating on the Mediterranean Ocean’s waters inside a Dali painting. Indeed, they were a pair of magnificent eyes, so bewitching and powerful that from adolescence to middle age, they had given him the privilege to power his way professionally, and conquer women naturally.

Nevertheless, that rainy night, his gaze was unsure, wandering, constantly looking into the night outside the window. Glistening and moist, the eyes had lost their iridescence and life, becoming two cracked granite stones in an abandoned quarry.

In the darkness, he leaned down and turned on a small lamp. He turned his head to the bed and saw the woman laying there. Tears began to trickle slowly down his face.

The only pair of eyes in Spain to match the beauty and intensity of his stared back at him. In contrast to his blue eyes, hers were black; so black, they appeared to be two shiny coals burning not with red and orange flames, but with a supernatural black fire. The woman was from Andalucía, a woman of onyx eyes framed by rose-red lips, fair light skin and black, straight, glossy hair. That night, her eyes were like ravens flying at dusk, a gaze so penetrating it burrowed into his heart, past the glass pane, through the rain, into the small forest of the mansion, to the rising waves of the turbulent sea.

The man looked away. With nervous fingers, he lit a cigarette. He wanted to utter something but the rain constantly stroke his words down, and tears choked away his words. He looked back to the bed. The woman’s eyes didn’t move.

“Please, stop!” the man mumbled.

So elegant as a lawyer, that night, his appearance was an utter disaster. There sat a man with broken spirit, an image of an unkempt, beat, crumbling and aging man. His always pressed pants were wrinkled and full of spots. His designer shirt hung two sizes too big, and he wore a sports jacket with frayed sleeves of a color that didn't match his heavy leather boots. Slowly, he rose from the chair and managed to stumble towards her hypnotizing glare.

“Those eyes!” he blurted.

The only weak point in his life had been that woman and her eyes, windows in the only soul capable to move, touch, penetrate and burrow into him. Her eyes were his precious gemstones that no one else could have. She asked to be set free but he couldn't let her go. He had never lost, and wouldn't lose then, her or them.

He bent to kiss her lips, moist and cold. He looked into her eyes, dark as two winter stones laying in the snow.

“Why did you want to leave me!” he cried in hushed tones.

He caressed her smooth skin and her hair like ran like chaff through his fingers. Tears poured down his face like the night’s rain as it ran down gray streets of the haunted city.

 Sorrow brought to bear what he had done. He bid her goodbye.

He went to the window and opened it. Water pushed by the wind rushed into the room. The woman’s hair, dress and satin blankets billowed, making her appear as if she were floating. He looked back at those eyes that seemed to be laughing and mocking him one last time.  He smiled. Forever, they would be his.

He dropped a knife crusted with blood, jumped out of the window and ran into the night.

Check Mate

The nurse is bringing the baby! I can see he is wrapped in a blanket full of teddy bears that my mother mailed to me. The sun is coming slanted through the hospital window, reflecting from the wooden railings off the little crib to the side of my bed. Outside, two fighter jets fly near the hospital, the ubiquitous sound in the base hospital.

My womb is aching.  Last night, after being in labor for eight hours, I was so exhausted I passed out as the obstetrician was about to hand me my baby in the delivery room. When I woke up, it was already daylight. All morning I've been asking, pressing and pestering the nurses to let me see my baby. My mother is far away, and my husband Tom is in Afghanistan, stationed there, not able to be at my side to see the birth of our first son. 

It has been so difficult to be far away from my loved ones. When they told me I was going to have a child, I was so happy. It is something that Tom and I talked for years, have been trying for months and had to see a battery of doctors. After treatment, prayers and lots of intercourse, finally, I got pregnant.

What's funny is that the baby was born only eight months into my pregnancy. Medical people told me that it is safer for a baby to be born on the seventh or ninth month of gestation instead of the eighth.  So I was quite nervous when I began having contractions. Tom was supposed to be with me during birth. Since the baby was to be born one month ahead of schedule, he chatted, skyped and called me every day of these last weeks to ask me questions; so much so, I got tired of him hounding me. It was a relief when he told me he had to go on a mission to some remote post that with his southern twang sounded more like a Southern Bar than an actual town.

People don’t understand how difficult it is to have a husband in the military: stationed so far away, the long waits, seeing the other wives' fear in their eyes when they hear their husband has not come back from a mission, or those dreaded times when uniformed officers walk to the doors of neighbors looking grim, telling families their loved one has fought valiantly for his country and has perished for the right to freedom. For us wives, it is hell. I don't want that feeling anymore, especially now that the baby is here. I was sure the pregnancy would be the catalyst for him not to enlist again, to stay home and be a father. But Tom, a professional military man, is in it for life. So once again, he left me. 

I watch the nurse with her white dress as she approaches with the baby in a little bundle. She looks somber when she hands me my son. What is wrong, I think. I look into the nurse's eyes as she leans down. She shakes her head and walks away. Tears run down my eyes. Is he okay? I reach to my bedside table for my glasses, put them on and slowly uncover the blanket to finally see his face. I'm happy and nostalgic, eager and afraid, jubilant and cautious. Here, staring back at me is the most wonderful creature on Earth!  My tiny human being, suckling a tiny fist, yawning, blinking open his eyes, moving in his little PJs.  

I tickle his belly, look at him closely, and my heart skips a beat. This is not my baby! 

At that moment, somebody knocks on the door. "Come in!" I call, expecting the nurse so I can ask her where’s my son.

Instead, Captain Washington, one of the commanders of the Pensacola Air Force Base walks into my room. He is a tall, handsome black man, wearing a blue uniform with creases that could cut through steel and medals that cover his heart. He is standing erect at the door, holding his hat under the crook of his arm.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him nervously. "They told me our son was to be born today. I came to tell you that I just turned in my resignation."

I look from the baby’s father to the little being in my arms, my son, who has green eyes, dark skin and black, curly hair. The tall man kneels down next to my bed and holds my hand. I smile, cry, laugh, hyperventilate and begin to faint for the second time that day and before everything goes dark I think: Finally, a reason to leave Tom.

West of the Mississippi

It's been sixty years and finally, tonight is the night! I've asked friends, old colleagues, girls of the girls and females in town to tell me what it feels like to lose your virginity. After listening to many stories, the advice I heed which makes me take the plunge is that of my high school friends, the posse I meet twice a month at Cafe Rouge.

"It's the most pleasant pain you've ever felt!" says Rose, who is somewhat prissy. "No, it's like a toothache," says Sheila, who is a physician.

 "Come again?" asks Barbara. "That's right," Sheila goes on, "it hurts, but you don't want the thong pulled out! The girls laugh.

"No, really, it's like having an ember put into your body that burns at first. But once the scalding heat stops, you feel warm pleasure spreading all over your body," says Karla, who is always running around with those bohemian thoughts.

"Don't worry about it! If he's pecker is too big for your little VJ, we'll just call a plumber to get it unstuck," says Dorothy, the 'practical one', comment which really brings down the house.

Yet, after all the encouragement, good wishes, and having the girls tell me I should leave my cell phone on speaker so they can hear me and in the process give me advice -which of course, I decline- I’m so nervous I want to pee in my panties!

So many years thinking about it, and finally, I've decided to do it! I'm sure the Man Upstairs will understand this little slip up. I can't go up there with a ripe vagina!

Robert Joe Robertson walks in with a bundle of orchids in one hand and two bottles of wine in the other. I put the flowers in a vase, open the first bottle of wine, and begin to get frisky.

Robert, or Bobby, as he asked me to call him, is a very distinguished man. A retired oil tycoon, married four times - he outlived two of his wives- , drives a classic Mercedes Benz, wears a Stetson hat with a golden longhorn bull on the front, and is always up for a challenge. Somehow, he got a whiff that I was the oldest virgin in White Horse, and since then has been chasing after me for months.

One thing that makes me uncomfortable about Bobby is that he is 82 years old! If we add our ages, well, I know it sounds like a lot. But he is experienced, and I'm still new -down there- so I'm sure that when we make it to the bedroom, we'll be explosive!

We proceed to drink the first bottle of wine, and after some preamble, he begins to kiss me. Good thing he stopped smoking some years ago. His tongue is a little pasty. But don't mind the tongue, I want his penis! I proceed to unzip his pants. To my astonishment, I find I'm holding a tiny shriveled root that is dormant. I hold and caress it as if it was a Faberge egg, trying to coax it to life, but the thing won't freaking move!

"Don't worry about it. This little blue pill will take care of it!" he says, showing his dentures as he drops it in his mouth and swallows it with a swig from the first cup of the second bottle of wine. After some minutes, nothing happens. We continue kissing, but it feels somewhat awkward. He puts his bony hand into my flowered skirt and begins tingling me down there. I get ticklish and ask him to stop, giggling like a silly teenager. He gets a little pissed and decides to take another blue pill with more wine. Five minutes later, and still, nothing.

"This's never happened to Big Joe!" he says, looking at the dead thing in his hand. "Maybe if you get a little naked and I can see your titties, then that will wake him up!"

So he takes my breasts, kisses my throat and I'm passionately disgusted. I just want him to get a boner, stick it in me and tussle around a bit so I can finally find out what all the fuzz is all about. Twenty minutes later, his sausage remains as cold as a dead fish floating in a red tide.

"Shit, this can't be! Here!" He yanks open the plastic container, shakes out a hand full of pills, and swallows them as if they were M&Ms.

Finally, it comes alive! Layers of skin begin to smooth out and veins thicken. It is like watching one of those time lapse scenes in documentaries where plants pop out from seed in the ground to become mature in a few seconds.

After I see the little manhood getting frisky, I get moist and excited. I pour us a couple of glasses of tequila and we slam them down. A few seconds later, everything is spinning. Bobby takes off his clothes, rips off mine, lays on top of me, and before he penetrates me, I pass out!

The next day, it is drizzling in West Texas. The oil derricks are pumping away and a few winter leaves are tossed around by a gust of wind as we stand in the graveyard. Bobby’s casket is just meters away. I feel awful. He had a heart attack the night before. Not only that, he’s lying naked in there! They couldn’t put on his pants because rigor mortis set in, and his thing, which last night should have come to life much sooner, is now erect like a lightning rod and will stay up for eternity! I’ve been told that paramedics, forensics, police officers, employees of the death parlor, towners and out-of-towners haven’t had quite a chuckle in a long time.

So I outlived the oilman, I wasn’t his mistress, I didn't get his millions, I have just proceeded to earn the reputation as the biggest slut West of the Mississippi, and worst of all, I'm still a virgin!

Nevertheless, the girls still love me and laugh about the whole thing, telling me not to worry. They promise me I won't be a virgin when I’m 70. I just shake my head, smile wryly and think, Tramps!

Los Pedos del Nito

- ¡Mucha, mucha, mushhha! ¡Lessss quierrrro contar algo! - dice el Nito a los presentes, con tono de quien ya está mega pasado de copas.

Todos en la cantina se dan la vuelta para ver al Nito, vestido con su sombrero de vaquero  hecho lata, un cincho con hebilla de acero inoxidable labrado que casi le tapa el ombligo, y botas hechas según él de piel de cascabel egipcia, pero más bien hechas con cuero de vaca de Escuintla. Apenas mide 1.50 metros de estatura, pero si alguien le preguntara a él, le diría a  cualquiera que tiene los cojones más grandes del oriente de Guatemala.

- ¡Aquí va, aquí va! - dice Nito, cierra los ojos, frunce el seño y ... ¡Pffft!

- ¡No jodan, otra vez este cabrón y sus pedos! - dice Pedro.

- ¿Por qué lo dejaron entrar? - pregunta Don Cheyo. 

Anastasio, quien es mudo, se carcajea abriendo la boca, temblando de risa, sin que ni pío salga de su trompeta.

- ¡Peren, peren, peeeeeren! - ... ¡Pffffft! - ¡Hic! Pedo e hipo, hipo y pedo, ¡qué coooombinación! - se ríe el Nito.

- ¡Callate pisado! - dice Manuel.

- ¡Huy, huy, huy! ¡Cómo yede! ¿Quién fue muchá, quién ffffue? - pregunta el Nito, empezando a dar vueltas y a marearse.

- ¡Callate Nito! ¡Fuiste vos serote!  - grita Chepe, el policía del pueblo.

 Todos en la cantina "El Porvenir" en Asunción Mita, se matan de risa.

- ¡Sho serotes! ¡Shhhho! En serio, ahora sí. - Se tambalea con medio vaso de Indita en la mano, señala a todos y... ¡Pffffffft!

Se empiezan a alejar de Nito todos los que están sentados en las mesas cerca del bar.

- ¡No hijos de la chingada! ¡Pónganme, pfffft, atención, pffffft, en serio, pfffffft!

- ¡Saquen al mierda ese! - dice El Mostaza.

- ¡Que apesta! dice la putita de la Samantha.

¡Ahora sí serotes, ahora sí! ¡Pfffft, pfffft, pffff! ¡Jurrrrro que mato al pedorro asqueroso!

- ¡Entonces pegate un tiro serote! grita Carlitros.
 

- ¡Quién dijo eso! ¡Jurrrro que lo mato! - de repente, saca un revolver que más bien tiene cara de escopeta.

Todos en el bar se tiran al piso, mientras Nito levanta la pistola y dispara dos veces al techo. El resultado es que una lámpara del tiempo de tatalapo se zafa, le cae encima al Nito, y lo deja desmayado.

- ¡Aprovechemos mucha! - da la orden Doña Chon, la dueña de la cantina. Chepe, el albañil toma a Nito de los brazos, y Güicho, el que trabaja en la Pepsi dejándole el producto a todas las tiendas del pueblo, lo levanta de los pies. Medio cargado, medio arrastrado, lo van sacando de la cantina a la noche. ¡Y lo más cabrón es que el Nito se sigue pedorreando! ¡Pffff, pffft, pffffffffffft!

Mientras pasan los dos entre las mesas con el frío del Nito, todos hacen su comentarios.
 

- ¿Qué, le dieron cuerda al cabrón?- pregunta el licenciado Marcos.

- ¡Hay que decirle a la Juana que le dé frijoles volteados y no parados! - dice la otra putita de la cantina, Mirna.

- ¡En vez de finca mejor debería de vender escapes de moto! - dice el práctico del Meme, el farmacéutico. 

Ya afuera, Güicho y Chepe lo dejan postrado en una banca,  con un  costal viejo de café encima del pecho por el sereno y le ponen la pistola sobre sus huevos, con el sombrero tapándola para que alguien no se la huevée.

Pasa la noche. Suena el canto del gallo, y se ve el sol saliendo. Abre los ojos Nito, y ya es de mañana. - ¡Mieeeerda, la Juana me va a matar! - Sale corriendo, y al pasar frente a dos señoras, se tira el primer pedo del día. ¡Pfffft!

María le dice a la Tomasa al ver pasar volando al Nito: - Ai chula. ¡No sé como la Juana le aguanta los pedos al Nito!

Le contesta Tomasa, - ¡yo preferiría los pedos del Nito y no las cagadas del Neto!

Millennium

Charlene's lying naked; a long stemmed rose sits next to her. She takes it, smells it, and gives it a dainty kiss with lips that for a moment disappear in the red of the lush petals.

Michaela caresses the teenager’s black hair and kisses her, slipping moist tongue on her lips. Charlene kisses back, her skin tingling with excitement, pressing her breasts onto Michaela's, four nipples rubbing gently against each other.
 

 I watch sitting on a Victorian chair. I close my eyes, reach between my legs and touch my delicate, warm and moist vagina. I rub my clit with delight. But that smell of raw flesh, of blood rushing, of sweat flowing, of hearts pounding, makes me lust; lust for blood!

"Ouch!"

I open my eyes. Tonight, all my dreams are coming true. I see a drop of blood on Charlene’s small thumb, becoming a trickle which then slides down her slender hand, moving slowly, a thin, red rivulet of elixir that sprinkles the rose.

Michaela's pupils dilate. My nostrils flare. Not tonight! Tonight is for kisses, for sex, for love. But the young virgin's blood is too exquisite not to heed. I take off my lace robe and saunter my long, slender, naked body to bed.  Michaela’s already licking the girl’s finger. So I focus on the rose, which I take, licking petals one by one, feeling the infusion and essence of life seeping into my soul. Then I go down on Charlene and take her in my mouth. Vagina, rose, blood, the perfect triumvirate!  Then with the rose, I tickle lightly her vulva, leaving rosy spots of blood which mix with her juice, which I proceed to devour.
 

Charlene’s squirms with delight!

I feel young, fresh and full of life! It's been one thousand years, and here I am, at last! Tonight, I feast!

Charlene breathes hard, cheeks flush, heart beats fast, moans, grabs the silks bed sheets and comes. And like a child after having a hearty meal, she sleeps.

 Michaela reaches her soft hand and touches my breast. She gives me her lips and we kiss, tongues searching each other. We look into each other's eyes. She smiles, takes the rose and lays it on the naked breasts of the girl. She rises, giving me one last long, tender kiss. Her elegant face turns to me and smiles, eyes flashing with love.

“Enjoy.”
 

Alone with Charlene, I caress her young face, kiss her lightly on the lips, and lay there, admiring her young, gorgeous body with the rose highlighting her flesh. How long it has been! Tomorrow, she’ll be one of us!

Nice to Meet You

I'm coming! 

I walk around the corner of 5th Ave. and East 44^th St. in Manhattan. It is a dark, gloomy, January day. This is my type of weather, a day where my work feels easier to do. And there he is, the Wall Street tycoon, pressed cashmere coat, Armani suit, gray silk tie, hair with a touch of white, checking the time from a gold Rolex so heavy and gaudy you can see it glinting even in the waning afternoon light.

If he knew what was about to happen, I wonder how would he answer these questions: Are you sorry for all the broken hearts of women you seduced, screwed and never called back in your youth? Would you change those times you didn't come home to see your kids when they were growing up, leaving the office after work to go play poker and drink with your rich mates? How did you feel when you kicked poor tenants out of their dilapidated apartments, on bleak winter days like today, and later go to a fancy restaurant, buy the most expensive wine to boast on another closed deal so you could add a cool million to your fat bank account? And my favorite, what would you do if I told you that you only had a few minutes to live?

He's not getting away! 

I start running with bounding leaps. I'm swift, being swept by the blowing wind. My cloak billows, so I pull it down with a bony hand. I stop at the intersection, turn and see that the taxi is on time. 

The man thinks he can run across the street before the cab passes him. He jumps onto the street, takes two steps and on the third slips on a clear patch of ice. Black attaché goes flying, one winged-tipped shoe comes off, his tie in the air as he is falling horizontal to the asphalt.  The yellow cab swerves and loses control, skids sideways, and just when it seems it will miss the falling man, there is a loud thump. The bumper hits the head of the man’s head before he reaches the ground.

The street is silent. Sheets of newspaper are tumbling in the wind. Snowflakes begin to fall on the warm body turning rigid, fast.

He's mine! 

I approach the body, stoop next to it and watch as a foggy plume of vapor-like smoke that is his soul seeps out the body, hovers, and then becomes an image of him. I stare at it and ask to open its eyes. It does so, looks at me with fear and asks with a quivering voice, "Where are you taking me?"

I don't talk. I grab him by the wrist and sweep him over to the next realm.

So rude I haven’t introduced myself. 

I'm death.

I'm coming. 

Who's next?

Full Circle 

 I close my eyes and breathe. It helps me relax and meditate, to think of my life, to remember the past.  A few minutes pass, and I can clear my mind. I’m ready to go back, open to any memory or thought, so I focus. First it's blurry, far away. But I'm zooming in. Then all of a sudden, I can see it as clear as the deep blue sky that autumn afternoon in Vermont. It’s my first recollection!

I’m two years old. I’m running and my mother is chasing me around the house. I'm wearing a wool sweater that chilly, October morning. And nothing else! My little feet are touching the cool wooden floor boards, sounding "splat, splat, splat". My mother laughs and I giggle. She catches me and picks me up, spinning me around in circles. I wiggle my feet and squirm in her arms as she covers me full of kisses and hugs, passing her long fingers on my disheveled hair.

"Mommy, put me down! I'm a gib boy!"

As much as I plead and I try, she tickles me, which makes me cry with laughter, feeling her fingers like a giant spider running on my belly, making me shiver and get goose bumps. She carries me to a bedroom, full of cars, teddy bears, baseballs and footballs, legos and jigsaw puzzle pieces strewn from side to the other, setting me down on the bed. I begin to try to get away, but she’s fast, and pulls me back.

"I'm a gwon up Mommy. I went pipi on my own!"

"I know love. I'm just going dress you. Here, your underwear, jeans, sox and shoes. Ready. Look at you, so handsome! You want to go to the park and play?" she says, leaning down to give me one more kiss. I feel her young skin touch and rub my cheek, smell her fresh lavender skin, hear her laugh full of life and see her long wheat colored hair shining from one ray of sun sneaking in from the large window framing that wonderful woman, showing that Fred the Oak Tree’s leaves are already turning red and yellow.
 

I jump off the bed. Suddenly, I realize that for the first time I'm not wearing a diaper! Ah! How loose, how free, how liberating! Finally, I'm a big boy! I run to one side of the house and the other. No squeezing, no chaffing, no cream and powder on my tushy!

Mommy is waiting at the door and calling. We’re going to the playground. I rush to the living room, pick-up my green, wiggly dinosaur, run back to my Mommy, and take her hand as we walk out the door. I'm ready to tell all the three year olds that I’m all grown up! 
 

I open my eyes and see the nurse standing next to my bed. "Well there, look who needs a change of diaper!" she says, joshing the old convalescing man. That’s me, lying in bed, full of memories. I give a wry smile and think, Life does go round in circles.

Born too Soon

 

The camera rolled, the tape ticking and clacking. The star of the silent movies mimed and mouthed, pretending to sing, running after fake bandits, hanging from the ledge of a building, kissing a beauty, surprised, happy, sad, angry, but always the love of audiences.
 

Yet how he yearned to speak and have his baritone voice heard by the masses! To sing to a sold out crowd! To declare his love to the silver screen actresses! Some days he felt like a clown in a circus, pretending to enjoy his craft. But no voice!

He loved to perform. When he was a boy he dreamt of acting the Royal Shakespeare Company. Instead, he joined a vaudeville show, what his agent called his step to the heights of theater, becoming the main attraction touring small towns and cities in United States. He wore white make-up, a suit with waistcoat, a top hat, and dance with a long cane that he used as a prop to twist and dance with. Children begged him for more. Adults laughed when he and his chubby partner did a routine, running around the ring, clowns chasing them, a dwarf riding a horse after the whole lot, in the end always tripping and falling, to be covered with a cake. He hated it.

In a small town of California, he caught the eye of a young director. The actor was cast into a silent movie. He didn't know what films where. Finally, I will get to be an actor! he thought. A real actor! I'll get to play Julius Caesar, Hamlet or the Merchant of Venice. Will I be, or won't I be, that is the question! He spent most of the night before the audition awake, rehearsing all the lines he had ready to show the world. Finally, sleep overcame him and he closed his eyes, dreaming of the sunset where he would declare his love to the starlet of cinema.

And there he was, a star of silent films, doing the same act as in the circus, only then for movies: smiles, dance, jokes and slapstick for the rolling camera. But no voice, no Shakespeare. Just lost dreams of acting as days became weeks, weeks turned into months and months gave way to years.  If it were not for all the girls, I would go back to the circus, he thought, looking at the blond bombshell sleeping in his bed while he got dressed and prepped himself for another day in Hollywood.

Talking films would come twenty years later when the aging actor was too old to be cast. He watched lesser actors do detectives, killers, lovers, and Shakespeare. Alas, he had been born too soon.

The Dance of Life

Caroline stepped out into the bright lights. It was her moment. She smiled like she never had, shaping her body like an eight and twisting like the wind. She jumped up into the air, feeling her white tutu rising as if lifted like a bird, a swan that was finally free, flying, raising its wings, flapping and rising to the sky, to the stars and the moon, far from this Earth that held her back.

And now she rushed to one side of the stage and then to the other, spinning like a tornado, sweeping everything in her path. She closed her eyes and imagined she was rushing through a forest, with all the fuzzy animals chasing her to be her friend.

The rising and falling notes made her heart beat fast, rise and fall with the cadence of the classical music she had rehearsed to hundreds of times. She bent, writhed, sat and stood, all with a smile of delight, a moment that finally had come to conquer her world of dreams.

Finally, she did one more turn and the music stopped. She looked through the bright lights into the audience, but she couldn't find her mother. Suddenly, she remembered she had to bow. No, ge-nu-flect, a hard word to say, more difficult to remember. What princesses would do; something she had practiced with her mother endlessly in front of the bathroom mirror. So she bent her knees slowly, spread her arms and saluted.

The sound came like rush of falling rain. It was the loud noise of applause. And then, people began to shout "Bravo", "You're the best", "Amazing", lauding her for minutes. Some of the crowd threw flowers to the stage. The girl picked up a red carnation, smelled it, smiled, and saluted one more time. It was the happiest day of her life.

In the audience, her mother couldn't stop crying with joy. Many people had doubted her daughter could do it. Seeing the beaming smile of that wonderful girl made it worth all the struggles, efforts and fight for her daughter. Caroline had Down's Syndrome. That night, the girl had taught many people a lesson in the Dance of Life.

The Perfect Shot

Three seconds!

After running for two miles, Detective Martín stopped. He breathed hard, heart pounding fast, inhaling and exhaling like an old locomotive sputtering through a mountain climb. His right calloused hand reached down the right side of his jeans, and with a movement that belied his obese complexion, he pulled out a handgun from an old beaten holster his father had given him after retiring from the police force. The tool of choice was a stainless steel Colt .45 revolver. Other members of the police force jostled him when the first time he went out to the shooting range and took out that relic of a gun. However, they stopped kidding him when they witnessed his shooting performances, times when he would drill tight shot groups in the head, chest, and sometimes in the groin area - if someone watching was not of his liking - of the black target human silhouettes.
 

During shooting practice, he would take his time and prepare, always pouring lead in a relaxed manner. This time, for the first time in his career, he would be shooting at a live target; not only that, it was also the first time he would be shooting at a live moving target, more than 50 meters away and moving away fast as he raised the gun.  According to experts, the range at which shooting needs to take place for a handgun to be effective is between 10 to 20 meters. Therefore, to shoot and hit a man running at full throttle, now more than 55 meters away, was unheard of. Nevertheless, this time he would be "Shooting for all the marbles,"  as his older brother liked to say those times they played in their backyard, having target practice using slingshots to fire rocks at empty Pepsi cans.
 

Two seconds!

'Breathe, breathe!' he said to himself. 'You only have one shot. Make it true!' With a muscled forearm -the only strong part of his body, a result not from hours at the gym but from the arm wrestling contests held at the police station-, he lifted the gun. The stainless steel barrel of the revolver glinted in the afternoon sun. He squinted, trying to locate the man through the sights of the gun, calculating the speed of the man running, the ballistics of a 100 grain bullet flying in the air with a light breeze, and the velocity at which the bullet would drop at a distance of 60 meters; a Hail Mary in football terms.

Sweat poured down his broad forehead, trickling past thick black eyebrows, down short eyelashes, in and around brown eyes, onto porcine nose, wetting chubby pocked cheeks, sliding down onto thick neck and soaking a gray workman’s shirt. Even though it was 30 degrees C, he insisted on wearing an old black leather jacket given by an old fling. He raised his left arm to wipe as much sweat as possible from face and eyes, gripped the base of the mother of pearl revolver with left hand joining right, cocked the hammer of the gun with a bandaged right thumb, heard the bullet slide into the chamber, closed his left eye and aimed.

One second! 

Voices were screaming behind him. The sights oh the revolver located and aligned with the man's back. And then all of a sudden, everything went quiet. He remembered the time he was playing in the championship game of the Little League baseball league, the time he had been at bat and managed to shut out all the screaming parents and kids, when he swung the bat to hit the winning homerun, one of the few highlights of his childhood.
 

"Wait! Wait!" The chief yelled as he ran towards him. At that moment, even if someone had told him his house was on fire, or that Cindy Crawford was waiting for him with a six pack of beers and lying naked in his bedroom, he wouldn't have budged. This was his moment, why he had joined the police force, the reason for the infinite hours in classrooms, hundreds of shooting sessions in the range, the many times of chasing criminals and the endless writing  of reports to the justice system, a system which for the most part favored criminals' lies. Finally, an opportunity to impart justice and make amends to the victims of ruthless crimes. It was time to show society why he had joined the force.

Fire!
 

He pulled the trigger. Hours later, back in the station, Martín would tell the chief and the rest of the detectives he hadn't heard the explosion of the gun, didn’t see the fire coming out of the barrel, couldn’t smell the acrid scent of cordite and hadn’t looked at the blue smoke billowing from the hot barrel of the gun. What he remembered was watching the flight of the bullet cutting through the air, moving at the speed of sound, a copper projectile flying fast, very fast, raising and then falling as it chased down the runaway and connecting, followed by the sound of the missile ripping skin, breaking bone and flushing blood, all mixed into a loud thump, pop and crack. In the end, he saw the man spin around and stand for an eternity looking back at him in a mix of surprise and pain, grimacing and holding his chest, finally closing his eyes and dropping like a felled tree, giving a final gasp as life left body, swept by the dusty wind of the hot, summer afternoon.

Epilogue.
 

The culprit of the crime had been caught minutes before Detective Martín pulled the trigger. The man running had only been an accomplice. He was suspended for six months from the force.

At home, after a day of drinking beer and thinking of the events of that fateful day, he came to the conclusion that he had no remorse from the act. It had been his duty, payment to a decadent society that didn't need more criminals, a debt of honor to a country maligned with vice and a waning rule of law. He wiped his Colt .45 revolver, slid it into its holster and put it in the drawer of the bedside table. He lay down in bed, turned off the lamp, closed his eyes and smiled as he went over the perfect shot.

Risitas

A todos los que  temen a unos tales depredadores de mar, quiero contarles que las apariencias engañan. Pero primero, me esperan un segundito. Mmmmm, allí. Acabo de enrollar un tal cigarrito de esos que dan risa. Lo lamo, aprieto, enciendo, inhalo y, ¡Ahhh, sabroso! Me encanta parar un segundito a fumarme un mi churrito. ¡Ji,ji!

Bueno, tons les cuento. ¡Los tiburcios aquí en el Océano Pacífico de las costas guatemalensis no son lo que se imaginan! Cuando piensan en un nosotros, nos ven salvajes, grandotes y jodidos. Solo porque tenemos boca grande, dientes filudos, aletas hidrodinámicas y podemos oler sangre a kilómetros, no quiere decir que seamos unos malvados. Y sí, a la hora de comer somos un poco escandalosos, haciendo un reguero de sangre y vísceras. ¡Pero no es lo que parece! Perenme, un toque.  ¡Ufff, buenísimo!
 

Les cuento un secretín. Por las noches, cuando ustedes están en sus casitas cenando, en la cama, jugando con los patojos, echándose un revolcón en las chamarras (que rico) o viéndonos en el Discovery Channel, nosotros armamos unos purrúnes de escándalo en una playita cerca de Monterico. Llegan las tiburoncitas coqueteando con sus colitas y las aletas todas chungas después de ir al salón. En nuestro mundo, en vez de arreglarse las uñas, las chicas van allí con las parlamas para que les pulan y limen los dientes. Así que cuando abren la boquita todas sonrientes, se ven súper coquetas. Perdón, un jaloncito al purito. Soploooo; ya está.

 La otra noche se me vino uno tiburoncita con piel gris, suave, todo un culito. La invite a un cigarrito, un traguito y zas, nos fuimos detrás de unos corales a darnos un agarrón. Y no verán que había un par de buzos allí que casi se mueren de un infarto al vernos. Quería estar solo con ella, así que saque el pecho, le guiñé un ojo a miamorcito, y les fui a dar un sustito. ¡Y vaya que se largaron los carnales! ¡Hasta burbujas les salía del trasero, puros torpedos los dos mis reyes! ¡Jí,jí!

Entonces, prosigo. Parecemos matones, pero somos re-deal-pelo. Si ustedes de vez en cuando nos ven por la orilla de la playa nadando entre de la gente, no es para asustarlos o comerlos. Sólo queremos compartir un ratito las olas y el sol con los brodies y las sisters.

¡Eso sí, ese cabrón del Steven Spielberg, que ni se me aparezca! ¡Nos hizo mierda a toda la raza! Ahora entiendo porque todo el mundo corre cuando nos ve, especialmente cuando un chistosín canta la musiquita esa del Tun-tún, Tun-tún de la peli. Puchis, yo casi me canto del miedo viendo al Mandibulín ese haciendo lata a toda la mara. No jodan, hasta hubo unos días que yo salía despitacado cuando uno de mis compas se acercaba a saludar, creyendo que él era el asesino en serie ese de la lica. ¡Cómo el Jason de Viernes 13 que los ahueva a ustedes!

Bueno señores, último suspiro de está hierba, apago la mecha y los dejo. Hay competencia de surf en Sipacate. Voy a ver si uno de los cuatíos por aí tiene más "Mary Jane". Recuerden, no todo lo que se ve es parecido; o algo así va el dicho. Y ojo, si me ven a mí o a uno de mi raza por el Puerto, no salgan corriendo. Lléguense a dar un paseíto para que les demos un su besito. Tun-tún, Tun-tún. ¡Ji, ji! Perdón, ya me entró la risa; y un cachito de hambre. ¡Orales!

Words of Smoke

 

Oscar was the founder of the Crime Novel book club. Some years ago we nicknamed him Sherlock, outcome of the time he decided to amuse us members of the club, coming dressed as one of the most renowned detectives in literature. We laughed so much that night that he decided to make it his permanent attire, to lighten the mood during the discussions held each first Saturday of the month. His dress consisted of gabardine coat, tweed jacket, black pressed pants, starched white shirt, bow tie, black loafers and black top hat.

Every Saturday he would greet all members as if they were British royalty. By far, Oscar was the best moderator we ever had: his mind sharp as a knife, always open to new ideas and critiques, letting people speak and challenging any comments that had no substance.

Yet what I remember most of him was what he did before his dissertation to open the discussion. He would seat at one end of the long table, take out an old, scarred pipe, a leather pouch full of tobacco and a lighter, and carefully line them up on the table. Carefully, he would open the bag of tobacco, making sure not to spill any since it was imported and difficult to get in Guatemala City. Then he would take a pinch of tobacco between thumb and index fingers, transferring it carefully into the well of the pipe, doing this three times, enough tobacco just to touch the brim. Next came the pressing, a delicate process that Oscar had explained was the key of a good smoke: too loose and the tobacco burned too fast; too tight and the tobacco wouldn't "flow", making it a tough smoke. Then he would press the tobacco with the tip of his right middle finger, just tight enough. After looking into the well, he would shake the pipe to make sure it had the right fit, smell it, stick it into the left side of his mouth, biting the stem to secure the hold, as a result making a clacking sound. He would then reach for the lighter (always a Zippo), flip it open and snap it, making sparks fly, conjuring a flame, first blue and then orange. His hand held steady as flame touched tobacco, dragging one, two and three times, the flame rising as if pulled by an invisible string. Sweet blue smoke tendrils then would wrap around us, holding us together like an invisible seatbelt, preparing us for the roller coaster ride of the nights’ comments, arguments and debates. To finish, he would blow out a plume of smoke, smile, cross right leg over left, and open the discussion.

On those nights of books, wine bottles were drank, cigarettes consumed and pipes smoked. If the discussion was good, two pipes were standard. On rare occasions, when all of us had drank too much and said things we shouldn't have, Oscar light up a third time.
 

With time, Oscar's mind began to fade. He became aware that he couldn't lead the club anymore, so he passed the baton to me. In years past he was able to recollect the minutiae of hundreds of stories. But his mind began to fade, forgetting all stories one or two days after finishing the book. In the end, Oscar gave up reading novels. Nevertheless, for some time he came to be with us, always smoking that scarred, burned, brown wood pipe. His last few contributions were those times he would take that old, beloved pipe of his from his mouth, point it at us with a shaking hand, and tell us a story of his wife who had passed away, or of one of his friends who had died during the civil war.

 Now Oscar doesn't come anymore to the Book Club. Memories and words have left his consciousness like that sweet, blue smoke that filled our clubs which was full of life and happiness, only to fade into space and be swept into the realm of long, lost dreams.

I miss him.

A Short Friendship

Her hair was smooth, straight, long and black. Under the dim light, her almond shaped eyes glinted, reflecting the light coming from the dance floor.  She was getting all the males’ attention including that from two fellows sitting at a corner table. Together with them were three long legged girls, sharing a bottle of rum, staring at us and giggling.

I asked her if she wanted a drink. She flashed her pearly white teeth and thanked me. The bartender dropped a beverage in a large cup, from which drops ran down the condensed surface of the glass that held a frozen margarita. She took the drink, puckered her mouth, and her moist red lips wrapped around a long straw. Gently, she proceeded to pull the liquid into her dainty mouth and winked at me. I felt something tingle.
 

"Cheers!" she said, fluttering her fingers as she turned back to leave.

            I took her arm and asked, "What's your name?" 

She whispered in my ear, "Johanna. Johanna Valdez. Look me up in Facebook." She rubbed her lips against my ear and gently kissed an unshaved cheek.

Back with her friends, I watched one of the guys frowned. The other scowled. Her girlfriends giggled, ribbed her a bit and waved at me. I waved back.

While I polished down two more Scotches, I debated whether to press the issue and walk over to her table. Once again I looked over and saw one of the guys frown and put a paw around her shoulder, daring me to come over. The other guy sneered. Patience! I pulled out my iPhone, opened the Facebook Ap, and punched in her name. A few seconds later, a picture of a stunning Latin woman came up. She was wearing dark glasses, smiling, dimpled cheeks and head leaning to one side, looking confidently back at the camera. So I sent her a friendship request, put my phone away and without looking back at Johanna’s table, took myself out of the bar and into the Guatemalan night.

The next morning I woke up with a mild hangover. On the nightstand lay my phone, I picked it up and checked it to see if there were any messages. Good news, no work messages early on Saturday. Great news, Johanna had added me as her friend.
 

I went to the kitchen, made coffee and carried it along with my phone into the den. I scanned her Facebook profile: Colombian, 26 years if age, moved to Guatemala three months ago, no occupation or relationship status. I opened the pictures’ file and ogled the first photo: a bronzed body scantily clad, with lace underwear barely covering her voluptuous breasts. She stood sideways, modeling to the camera. Through the fabric, I could see the pronounced curve of her breast, round and hard, with small, tender, rosy nipples. Yummy! The next picture was of her lying on a beach chair, supine, wearing no more than a dainty, pink bikini, showing two round perfect curves. The final picture was that of a sketch of her, coyly nibbling a finger, naked, right arm across her front, right breast covered and left breast exposed.

I was taken aback by the pictures: sexy, risqué and glamorous. But that drawing! Showing a breast? Who uploads a picture like that for her Facebook audience?
 

When I finished my coffee, I went out to the patio where Rufus, my black lab, who was scratching the door to be let in. Instead, we went around the block, the dog sniffing at the many bushes and trees, pulling me here and there as I rubbed my head, feeling a headache starting.  One block from home, a woman sold newspapers and candy. I stopped to buy some gum and I froze. I read Nuestro Diario’s headline: Shooting in zone 10. Drug dealers gunned down! Under the headline was a picture of three bodies laying on the sidewalk. 
 

I picked up one of the papers, and not heeding the woman’s complaints, I began frantically to flip pages. Page 4! Where was page 4! And there she was, a picture showing her young, pretty face. Johanna and the two men were gunned down in a drive by shooting from an opposing drug cartel.

Two weeks have passed. I open her Facebook profile, and messages from family and friends cover her wall: final goodbyes, prayers, tears and well wishes on her trip to Heaven.  One last time, I look at those pictures, haunting images of a short life of sex and friends awry. I write a message of farewell, close her profile and delete her from my list of friends.