I used to buy large doses of Marijuana from my dear friend Sergio. Sergio was this big dark Mexican with a jolly personality, very charming, whenever he was asked: “Do you know where I can get some pot?” He would respond: “I don’t know, every one always asks me that, but I don’t do that stuff, and I don’t know where to get it.” That was that. He was my dealer for four or five deals in a row. I would walk to his house, we would sit and chat about petty laughable things, always wondering when we would both move back to our home countries, to eat the good grub our mothers had raised us with. Papas chorreadas for me, Chile Reñeno for him, hay dios mio, Lengua lo mejor para mi. We talked about the pretty girls, and about our jobs, and there were things that we would never talk about, such as horoscopes, tortillas yes, carnitas more, horoscopes never.
Sergio came over to my apartment on the day that I got a new puppy. I call it an apartment because I want to give it a sense of home, a multidimensional cuddling space, but it was a studio with no kitchen, ok man, it was a room. A white but dirty bed-sheet covered the paint stained window, the bed-sheet poorly sustained by two nails, you could not pull it to the sides, if I wanted sun, I had to tie it in a centering knot, effectively splitting sunlight, a trick that is both fun and easy to reproduce, you can try it if you want, splitting sunlight. The room was white too, my mattress cover was white, there was a pee yellow covering all that whiteness, my dingy closet had all the clothes hanging on the floor, clean clothes chaotically tangling with my dirty clothes. Everything about me smelled like it was almost clean, I took a shower everyday, I don’t remember where, the room did not have a shower, there must have been a public bathroom for my pee.
Puppy was light brown, short fat, promising to grow into one big hunk of shit producing affection. His favorite thing was to pee on me, every time he jumped on me it was flying golden showers. I always manifested my distaste for his proclivity, but the urine would fade to the point where I could never really smell it, I knew it was all over my clothes because I had seen his ejection but not because I could discern the smell. Urine doesn’t spot dark clothes, I always wear dark clothes because bright colors dish out too much energy, they act too happy, they attract attention from the wrong kinds of people, I don’t like energetic beings, I like quiet beings, beings that drift through the human condition without being too happy and without being to obvious. I mean my character was made to have a puppy that had bladder control problems.
When I was a boy of seven I was still peeing my pants, wetting my bed, it was a terribly embarrassing situation, but I was afraid to ask where the restroom was, I was very shy, the fear of asking was insurmountable it was easier to pee my pants. When I was in bed it was not fear, it was laziness, I did not want to get up; I felt my bladder gloating about its disposition, urging me release, and I never bothered to restrain it; it seemed so wrong, animals in the wild pee anywhere, I was in bed, warming myself up with my pee.
My parents saw it as a problem specially because my very nice bed was one of those that had clothes drawers underneath, the mattress became a sort of filtering system which would strain my urine to its highest contaminant purity right into our clothes drawer. I never had children perhaps because I was afraid of having to deal with a child that would just pee anywhere, it is not an easy thing to have such a child. I presume that I would have been less prone to it if I had been more aware of the world around me, but I was a hermit child, I had invisible play friends all over the house, I was always kept busy by them, so I never had time for the humans.
Later in life my parents told me that I used to love to play with my shit, that I would dig my hands into it and cover my face with feces and even eat the stuff, creative baby was me, mierda on canvas, seen that many times but I was just more accurate in detail than most artists. I don’t remember those eschatological love sessions, today I mostly don’t like shit, I don’t get a thrill out of going to the restroom, and I don’t like the fact that we are held hostage by our waste disposal system. I suffer a phobia for diarrhea, something I am afflicted with every time that I return to Colombia. The last time I peed my pants was at a movie with Audrey, it was a sort of tangled date, I did not want to go to the restroom, finally I had to let it go, she wanted to touch my leg, I was coldly distant, I was fourteen.
Sergio sat on the head of the bed and I at the other end, playing with puppy while my bag of pot laid next to my plant Cassandra, a semi suicidal hypochondriac that I fed water regularly, we talked about everything, and the different women in my life would affect her in different ways, Some would sicken her, dry her, cause her to go dormant on me, a few others would make her feel well but never too well. Cassandra liked my general indifferences, we were both indifferent to each other, we were the married couple that slept in separate rooms, never talked much, or if so only about our liquids coffee and water, no toast, neither one of us liked breakfasts, and she was so indifferent that she only ate once a week, I liked that about her, I was so indifferent that sometimes I would not feed her for weeks, then she would launch herself into one of those incessantly bothersome sessions “oh no I am dying, my green leaves now pale yellow, my stems suffocated so much that even water can not be absorbed, I am shutting down, I am going to die, you can not keep me alive, I never asked you for anything, I never used that much of the house, I stayed with you through all your drinking, I never accused you of being abusive or an alcoholic like all the others, and still you never cared about me, you know I love classical music and yet you never play it for me anymore, and ever since you been seeing that black bitch, who refuses to water me, you don’t care if I die!” Cassandra, who could believe her, but she just went on like that, and I would ignore her until she had managed to yellow herself dead pale, much of her stem turning a hideously dark brownish color, and then her guilt driven campaign would get to me, I would talk to her a little, play some salsa music to try to lighten her morbid composition, I take her many dead leafs off and then feed them to her, she did not seem to object to the perverse cannibalism of self, every leaf I placed in her soil disappeared, I never asked her about it, it was a subject that neither of us wanted to address; we respected each other that much, and so slowly she would come back to life, and be green as green, again.
There was a bang at the door, bang, “police open up! This is the police open up!” I froze, the door busted itself open, three pigs, I hate cops, always have, I could never be a woman that loves men in uniform, they sicken me. This buffalo smelling insensitive monster in boots, stands in front of me, my sitting face dead smack centered on his penile personality, musk mustache, I am smelling the primordial history of the universe, this guy was a find, frozen in the primordial urine of cells that would eventually make up donkeys, pigs, some would make it to cattle, this guy had made it to buffalo, there was a lot of hair all over his body, bushes full, and the smell of stampede was all over him. Such a virgin thinker, pristine raw emotions what a treasure.
I was dead frozen, fear freezes me, my little brother once got hit by a school bus, I froze, rather than rush to help him, I froze in the moment. He gets hit by that bus many times through my life. I don’t believe is symbolism because if I did the torture would be more immense. The buffalo pig grabs my bag of pot and puts it to my face and talks in a broken language which I discern as an interrogation to ascertain his certainty, “is this yours!” Let me see we are in my studio apartment home, I don’t get a community rate on my rent, I decide not to answer, maybe I am still frozen but it seems to be a decision that I have made, not to answer. His boots hold him steady, he grabs me by the shoulders and turns me around, fuck, something feels gross about this, I know he is fucking me, but I would never be able to prove it, around these parts only physical evidence counts, judges are buffalo too.
Then Sergio, who has been silent up to this moment speaks: “I told you I don’t do that shit and I don’t sell that shit, but everyone is always asking me if I know where they can get it or if I sell it just because I am a dark Mexican, but I don’t do that shit.” Sergio had turned me in to the cops, he was a good guy, he did not do that shit. He sold me some shit, he sold me to the cops to clear himself for good. He dint’s do that shit.
I had to leave my puppy in the apartment all by himself, with Cassandra, she will not feed him, she doesn’t care, with any luck he might shower her.
ricardo
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Fingers In The Right Top Drawer
After some time in the penitentiary, I went back to my studio home but it was gone, a guy wearing a real T-shirt, the type with no sleeves, never understood why they went out of style, anyway he answered the door, displaying his armpit’s generous head of hair, he was probably Italian, skinny but manly, Italians are the only men in the world that manage to look macho even when they are short and skinny, Napoleon was actually Italian, he was from Corsica, but don’t tell that to the French, anyway it is not like the French admit to anything that doesn’t serve their pride. Anyway Mr. Italian armpits just opened the door, stared at me with dark deep socketed eyes, did not say a word, I looked at him, imagined that puppy dog must have been bludgeoned to death in some kind of human dog wrestling match, I did not bother to ask about Cassandra, she was a survivor, I didn’t ask about her, but my heart would miss her always.
After doing some time in the local bars, performing a sort of liver cleansing ritual, I managed to get accepted to Medical school in Caracas Venezuela. I would miss America somewhat, but I did not want to have to lie in my employment applications: “Have you ever committed a felony?” “No.” Its hard to lie even when you are liar, people do not seem to understand that liars like me don’t do so because we like it, we do it because we are afraid, afraid of the truth. Anyway Caracas was to me a far off land, new and fresh, and accompanied by some cash that I had managed to acquire by innocent credit card fraud, I was admitted to the fine Medical School of the Americas. MSA, was sort of the great Latin hope for producing enough doctors to abort Catholics while they were still in the womb. Their graduates were all over the third world, some were as far as Italy and Spain. Their credentials were respected as long as they did not try to get into a specialty outside of their general practice: prescriptions and abortions. I was trying to get into prescriptions, the lofty end of it.
My counselor, forty seven year old Consuelo, a woman of means when it came to legs and ass, had a thing for doctors, and while many of us were not yet doctors, she pre-qualified us, I don’t think anyone graduated without her approval, but again it wasn’t that Consuelo was saying “You don’t have what it takes to be a doctor of the Americas.” It was that between her, laid the archers to the Americas.
It was with Consuelo that I learnt how to Salsa dance, music full of ripe fruits, papayas, mangos, bananas, and pineapples, Salsa is not so much a dance as a fruit feast of delicious succulent admirations. Pelvic compliance was one of the first lessons, which can be safely done during nocturnal awakenings to the memory of the music. The best Salsa dancers are always lusting lusciousness, there is no legal way to measure that in a person, no way to add it, you either have it in you or you don’t, I almost had it in me, but my overly active mind always got in the way of my lascivious lusciousness. I guess if you have lost the animal in you, if you don’t have the savage green jungle inside of you, if you can’t swing through the trees like one big ass monkey, if you can’t snake your way through the foliage, if you don’t have it in you to scare the existence pale out of a few giants, then you don’t have the rhythm, you don’t have the unhinged ass that Salsa demands and worships.
Some people feel, that if you don’t have the monster jungle in you that you can just feed it inside of yourself through avocados. Avocados are the creamy butter of the jungle lust, pregnant nippled bellies of the lush green lust, and greener still. They even rot with wanton, you have never seen anything leave existence with such perfect disregard for hygiene as an avocado does, when it throws itself into the dirt and just rots loudly proclaiming a kind of massive escalating vomiting of self dance that darkens and grows the night until the entire jungle is simmering in its darkness. The Indians always call it avocado darkness, it is considered the night in which the children are born, where bellies grow voluminous, where avocado darkness hides parenthood, where the night is not slept, where the night is not slept.
No one really knows if this is really true, though I personally believe it is; but there is one interesting fact, that many have been found dead from over stuffing themselves with avocados. The authorities sometimes dare to question the authenticity of the practice, wondering if it is possible that some involuntary assistance is given during avocado night feasting, but it would be difficult to prove that, there are certainly much easier methods of putting away your enemies, for instance, snake bites are popular and exceed chance encounters.
Anyway the villagers always keep an almost religious silence about avocado nights, they quietly condone the stuffing of one’s lover with avocados as a way to get Salsa in them, equal to a large ass monkey.
I have marveled at the life in this place, even my nights in the slammer there were muddy joys, there is something dirty about the place, dirty about the peoples, dirty about being there, dirt filled auras as wide as the planet, but the dirt is soil, pure life affirming soil, you are one with the cockroaches that chance in size with bullfrogs, the beer spits at you, the water is dirty, you have to drink the beer, the beef is tasted by the flies first, then by their vermin, the church bell rings but there are no saints here, everyone is into incest and rape and stealing from their neighbor; and wives are just as treasonous as husbands, and they all beat each other up, and they forget about it over hot chocolate and sweets, and dirty cock fights and even pigs laugh at the fun.
I was afraid of blood, demonios, I was afraid feces, of urine, of everything unsanitary, so I was glad to find that our medical school had suffered severe budgets cuts seven years back and so there was only one cadaver, and only one dead corpse of rotting flesh that was fresh enough in blood not to fall apart encountering living human contact. Still we were mostly kept away from the bodies. But for one so as not to shame our education. There were plenty of drugs to instruct those of us reaching for the pharmaceutical industry, while there was an arrangement for our fellow medical practitioners to test their talents on the local women who volunteered for free abortions. Everyone was a winner here, even sometimes the abortions would turn into frantic tube tying sessions.
But let me not skip the one corpse that was still good enough to eat, still clinging to a semblance of its past self. Some said that he was Consuelo’s failed love, a passionate romantic that got strangled by her thighs or maybe merely a metaphor for his having failed medical training, he looked German in origin, which fits the romantic part nicely and he was trying to be a doctor, which again fits the German theory nicely, but who knows, he could be anybody, he could even be a local, he was preserved in pure alcohol or formaldehyde or something like that which us doctors used to retain a certain scalable freshness in things, all the while killing other things that were trying to be borne off of them.
Anyway, obviously our school could not afford a full body suit or a decent refrigerator so they had hacked the guy up, into portions of himself, and placed him in these drawers on a sort of large aqua dilapidated table desk; legs and arms, each in separate drawers, even fingers got their own little drawers, toes too, it wasn’t quite a neat operation, and his head was in a pickle jar, kept behind the largest cover door. Pointless for me to tell you that this table desk was the center of attention. Somehow we were all connected to him, in order to graduate we would have to get to know him, personally I could have graduated myself without him, but you know modern medicine is not to be taken lightly.
His head was really only used during exams, it was a treasure, lightly handled, we were all very bright anyway, a shortage of medical schools in the United States had sent us abroad, some of us were here to please our parents, which is more evidence that we did indeed know where the frontal lobe was, the Petunias, and the Amygdala, an old time favorite of mine. Consuelo liked it too, we use to pay little boys to dig the Amygdala out of the head of dead bodies that had been abandoned in cemeteries, and then we would fry them over a fire and toast their crispy mush down our throats. Then, well, you know what then.
It was during these long humid nights that I would tell Consuelo that she could save her earlobe from my piranha teeth if she were to tell me about Aqua man. Yeah, that is what we called him. Oh Jesus, I am already telling you too much, why my doctor’s license might be at risk, say I more. Consuelo would say nothing, not a word, her fingers would glide to remove her long dark hair away from her earlobe, and motion closing her big dark eyes as if she was going into some kind of a voodoo trance, where all pain was equaled to ecstasy. I limped my way to her lips, held her cheeks with my palms, and kissed away the sands of all of Latina America.
I don’t think anyone slept at night, around these parts people wanted to be too tired to work and too tired to study, besides the dark underpinnings of the culture just called for us to accomplish our deeds at night, we sobered our days away, the heat was too much, we memorized body parts, and practiced listening to our hearts with stethoscopes, and when no one was looking we really enjoyed pricking each other with those long, silvery, pump glowing, seventy-five dollar syringes, I don’t think I can translate how exhilarating it is to prick a friend with a needle. It kept us awake even as we were sleep.
But the oddest of things, was the body of that young man in our main study room, the center of attention, was a truly fantastic affair; we loved him, everyone loved him, we never wanted to hurt him, we wanted to be near him, even Consuelo, that showed a severe indifference to him, had a certain way of coming into the room to see him. She would make a sort of dancing entrance, twirl herself 360 degrees and back right into the table, arching back, leaning her marvelous spine, which was as highly defined as her ribs, backwards, and then she would lift herself up with both hands, as if he were lifting her, only it wasn’t so, then she would lay her humid bulging ass cheeks on the table top, her hands would release her, and she realized a smile to our group; asking away our doings, as if she had just finished pleasuring her own. We were moved, twitching from the heat and from her, and from what was going on, the flies would land upon us and use the privilege of our humid stupor to nest on our pores.
When Consuelo wasn’t dancing with Aqua man, we were, that was the oddest thing about it, he made us want to dance, appropriately Salsa music, covered by tuition, was piped through the old and dysfunctional speaker system, and as soon as the music would start to dance, we would all stare at each other’s smiles and move to dance or flirt with one another into exhaustion. We would chat, we would laugh, we would joke with Aqua man, some of us, the sicker of us doctors, would toss his fingers around, and others would try to prevent it, and that was the whole dance, and the music blearing from the speaker would squabble, and pierce our ears, and our incessant laughter would inundate all. We finally ended by putting back all of Aqua man in the drawers, though not always in the right drawers, and often then a power failure and faulty generators would cause the music to cease poking at us, and so we drifted to the local bar, where we were considered rich because of our hasty cadence towards alcoholism. Many of us never made it to our home rooms, many of us were mud ditch dwellers, many of us would not graduate or make it out of there alive; one of us would be the next Aqua man, you see there had been some budget cuts seven years back, alumni contribution to our alma mater.
Consuelo, the name means consolation, the consoled one, she had been cured of all her suffering, appropriately by the medical school, not because she could forget whatever pains torture a woman with as many beautiful scars as she, but rather because she had Aqua man.
You probably want to know if I graduated, how simplistic might you be, would the answer make any more of a difference on big ass monkey salsa and dark avocado rotting nights?
ricardo
After doing some time in the local bars, performing a sort of liver cleansing ritual, I managed to get accepted to Medical school in Caracas Venezuela. I would miss America somewhat, but I did not want to have to lie in my employment applications: “Have you ever committed a felony?” “No.” Its hard to lie even when you are liar, people do not seem to understand that liars like me don’t do so because we like it, we do it because we are afraid, afraid of the truth. Anyway Caracas was to me a far off land, new and fresh, and accompanied by some cash that I had managed to acquire by innocent credit card fraud, I was admitted to the fine Medical School of the Americas. MSA, was sort of the great Latin hope for producing enough doctors to abort Catholics while they were still in the womb. Their graduates were all over the third world, some were as far as Italy and Spain. Their credentials were respected as long as they did not try to get into a specialty outside of their general practice: prescriptions and abortions. I was trying to get into prescriptions, the lofty end of it.
My counselor, forty seven year old Consuelo, a woman of means when it came to legs and ass, had a thing for doctors, and while many of us were not yet doctors, she pre-qualified us, I don’t think anyone graduated without her approval, but again it wasn’t that Consuelo was saying “You don’t have what it takes to be a doctor of the Americas.” It was that between her, laid the archers to the Americas.
It was with Consuelo that I learnt how to Salsa dance, music full of ripe fruits, papayas, mangos, bananas, and pineapples, Salsa is not so much a dance as a fruit feast of delicious succulent admirations. Pelvic compliance was one of the first lessons, which can be safely done during nocturnal awakenings to the memory of the music. The best Salsa dancers are always lusting lusciousness, there is no legal way to measure that in a person, no way to add it, you either have it in you or you don’t, I almost had it in me, but my overly active mind always got in the way of my lascivious lusciousness. I guess if you have lost the animal in you, if you don’t have the savage green jungle inside of you, if you can’t swing through the trees like one big ass monkey, if you can’t snake your way through the foliage, if you don’t have it in you to scare the existence pale out of a few giants, then you don’t have the rhythm, you don’t have the unhinged ass that Salsa demands and worships.
Some people feel, that if you don’t have the monster jungle in you that you can just feed it inside of yourself through avocados. Avocados are the creamy butter of the jungle lust, pregnant nippled bellies of the lush green lust, and greener still. They even rot with wanton, you have never seen anything leave existence with such perfect disregard for hygiene as an avocado does, when it throws itself into the dirt and just rots loudly proclaiming a kind of massive escalating vomiting of self dance that darkens and grows the night until the entire jungle is simmering in its darkness. The Indians always call it avocado darkness, it is considered the night in which the children are born, where bellies grow voluminous, where avocado darkness hides parenthood, where the night is not slept, where the night is not slept.
No one really knows if this is really true, though I personally believe it is; but there is one interesting fact, that many have been found dead from over stuffing themselves with avocados. The authorities sometimes dare to question the authenticity of the practice, wondering if it is possible that some involuntary assistance is given during avocado night feasting, but it would be difficult to prove that, there are certainly much easier methods of putting away your enemies, for instance, snake bites are popular and exceed chance encounters.
Anyway the villagers always keep an almost religious silence about avocado nights, they quietly condone the stuffing of one’s lover with avocados as a way to get Salsa in them, equal to a large ass monkey.
I have marveled at the life in this place, even my nights in the slammer there were muddy joys, there is something dirty about the place, dirty about the peoples, dirty about being there, dirt filled auras as wide as the planet, but the dirt is soil, pure life affirming soil, you are one with the cockroaches that chance in size with bullfrogs, the beer spits at you, the water is dirty, you have to drink the beer, the beef is tasted by the flies first, then by their vermin, the church bell rings but there are no saints here, everyone is into incest and rape and stealing from their neighbor; and wives are just as treasonous as husbands, and they all beat each other up, and they forget about it over hot chocolate and sweets, and dirty cock fights and even pigs laugh at the fun.
I was afraid of blood, demonios, I was afraid feces, of urine, of everything unsanitary, so I was glad to find that our medical school had suffered severe budgets cuts seven years back and so there was only one cadaver, and only one dead corpse of rotting flesh that was fresh enough in blood not to fall apart encountering living human contact. Still we were mostly kept away from the bodies. But for one so as not to shame our education. There were plenty of drugs to instruct those of us reaching for the pharmaceutical industry, while there was an arrangement for our fellow medical practitioners to test their talents on the local women who volunteered for free abortions. Everyone was a winner here, even sometimes the abortions would turn into frantic tube tying sessions.
But let me not skip the one corpse that was still good enough to eat, still clinging to a semblance of its past self. Some said that he was Consuelo’s failed love, a passionate romantic that got strangled by her thighs or maybe merely a metaphor for his having failed medical training, he looked German in origin, which fits the romantic part nicely and he was trying to be a doctor, which again fits the German theory nicely, but who knows, he could be anybody, he could even be a local, he was preserved in pure alcohol or formaldehyde or something like that which us doctors used to retain a certain scalable freshness in things, all the while killing other things that were trying to be borne off of them.
Anyway, obviously our school could not afford a full body suit or a decent refrigerator so they had hacked the guy up, into portions of himself, and placed him in these drawers on a sort of large aqua dilapidated table desk; legs and arms, each in separate drawers, even fingers got their own little drawers, toes too, it wasn’t quite a neat operation, and his head was in a pickle jar, kept behind the largest cover door. Pointless for me to tell you that this table desk was the center of attention. Somehow we were all connected to him, in order to graduate we would have to get to know him, personally I could have graduated myself without him, but you know modern medicine is not to be taken lightly.
His head was really only used during exams, it was a treasure, lightly handled, we were all very bright anyway, a shortage of medical schools in the United States had sent us abroad, some of us were here to please our parents, which is more evidence that we did indeed know where the frontal lobe was, the Petunias, and the Amygdala, an old time favorite of mine. Consuelo liked it too, we use to pay little boys to dig the Amygdala out of the head of dead bodies that had been abandoned in cemeteries, and then we would fry them over a fire and toast their crispy mush down our throats. Then, well, you know what then.
It was during these long humid nights that I would tell Consuelo that she could save her earlobe from my piranha teeth if she were to tell me about Aqua man. Yeah, that is what we called him. Oh Jesus, I am already telling you too much, why my doctor’s license might be at risk, say I more. Consuelo would say nothing, not a word, her fingers would glide to remove her long dark hair away from her earlobe, and motion closing her big dark eyes as if she was going into some kind of a voodoo trance, where all pain was equaled to ecstasy. I limped my way to her lips, held her cheeks with my palms, and kissed away the sands of all of Latina America.
I don’t think anyone slept at night, around these parts people wanted to be too tired to work and too tired to study, besides the dark underpinnings of the culture just called for us to accomplish our deeds at night, we sobered our days away, the heat was too much, we memorized body parts, and practiced listening to our hearts with stethoscopes, and when no one was looking we really enjoyed pricking each other with those long, silvery, pump glowing, seventy-five dollar syringes, I don’t think I can translate how exhilarating it is to prick a friend with a needle. It kept us awake even as we were sleep.
But the oddest of things, was the body of that young man in our main study room, the center of attention, was a truly fantastic affair; we loved him, everyone loved him, we never wanted to hurt him, we wanted to be near him, even Consuelo, that showed a severe indifference to him, had a certain way of coming into the room to see him. She would make a sort of dancing entrance, twirl herself 360 degrees and back right into the table, arching back, leaning her marvelous spine, which was as highly defined as her ribs, backwards, and then she would lift herself up with both hands, as if he were lifting her, only it wasn’t so, then she would lay her humid bulging ass cheeks on the table top, her hands would release her, and she realized a smile to our group; asking away our doings, as if she had just finished pleasuring her own. We were moved, twitching from the heat and from her, and from what was going on, the flies would land upon us and use the privilege of our humid stupor to nest on our pores.
When Consuelo wasn’t dancing with Aqua man, we were, that was the oddest thing about it, he made us want to dance, appropriately Salsa music, covered by tuition, was piped through the old and dysfunctional speaker system, and as soon as the music would start to dance, we would all stare at each other’s smiles and move to dance or flirt with one another into exhaustion. We would chat, we would laugh, we would joke with Aqua man, some of us, the sicker of us doctors, would toss his fingers around, and others would try to prevent it, and that was the whole dance, and the music blearing from the speaker would squabble, and pierce our ears, and our incessant laughter would inundate all. We finally ended by putting back all of Aqua man in the drawers, though not always in the right drawers, and often then a power failure and faulty generators would cause the music to cease poking at us, and so we drifted to the local bar, where we were considered rich because of our hasty cadence towards alcoholism. Many of us never made it to our home rooms, many of us were mud ditch dwellers, many of us would not graduate or make it out of there alive; one of us would be the next Aqua man, you see there had been some budget cuts seven years back, alumni contribution to our alma mater.
Consuelo, the name means consolation, the consoled one, she had been cured of all her suffering, appropriately by the medical school, not because she could forget whatever pains torture a woman with as many beautiful scars as she, but rather because she had Aqua man.
You probably want to know if I graduated, how simplistic might you be, would the answer make any more of a difference on big ass monkey salsa and dark avocado rotting nights?
ricardo
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