Henry and Lucia are giving up pork for Lent. Some things are in play here—
A few days ago while driving their station wagon on Stock Key, they noticed a passing truckload of pigs heading to slaughter up north somewhere, Louisiana maybe, where Cajuns are broke mouth for barbecue.
The hogs in the back of the rig look rundown, beaten, and sad. Lucia sobs uncontrollable, Henry pulls the car off the highway, parking it, they look at each other, vowing to never eat the doomed creatures again, for a few reasons—
Pigs are more clever than dogs.
Bacon is never fully digested, it turns black and sits in your gut for an eternity.
And finally,
When a person goes pork-less for a year a pig is spared.
As for Lent and Jesus, the atheist couple reckoned Jesus was an unorthodox thinker and a victim.
He spent his missing years— the years between his childhood and the beginning of his ministry— studying Buddhism in India, and at thirty He returned to the Middle East where He roamed the sacred red planet known as the Sinai.
During this period Jesus was a desert hobo— barefoot, naked, sweating flowers, his soul inflamed, leaping over hills, landing in no-mans-land on Mount Qurantania, colliding with Satan, face to face with Satan wearing his newly tailored Horned Piper snake suit, looking like a Hope Diamond, as big as the Gods, letting Jesus pass, bored by the rube.
Forty days and forty nights in the Sinai desert, Jesus’s halcyon days, the genesis of The New Testament—the greatest show on earth, the passion play, a hard-edged period for the young God.
Sadly, He didn’t have a chance, in the end, as the story goes, Jesus was duped by the Gods and strung up by Dago Legionnaires.
For the last 2000 years, Jesus has been hawked like Motorhead T-Shirts in the back lot of a Detroit arena by the high economist of the Catholic, Protestant, Eastern Orthodox, and Assembly of God conglomerates for control, ego, and bling.
Later, Henry and Lucia are in the kitchen, she’s frying turkey bacon, and eggs in an iron skillet next to a freshly boiled pot of black beans and rice, a favorite in Cuban where she grew up. Henry asks,
darling, are Cubans religious?
After El Revolución del 26, Julio, Castro declared Cuba an atheist state. Fidel’s brother Raul was a Jesuit schoolboy who later talked of going back to the church, but wouldn’t dare mention it as long as his brother’s alive. Cubanos are free to practice religion, as long as they keep a lid on it.
They can only pray underground? That’s not freedom. Are there Satanists in Cuba?
No sé Henry, you think I’m the World Book?
Yes, The Cubano World Book,
Sí querido, there are Santeria cults in Havana, it's voodoo, not devil worship. They sacrifice chickens and small animals, burn incense, dance around campfires. Fidel threw most of them in the hole because Raul the altar boy was offended by the infidels.
Lucia, let’s go to the grotto at Saint Mary Star of the Sea and smoke ganja. The spots venerated baby.
Buena bebe, we’ll dress in black, like in clerecía.
After showering the love couple oils their waist-length hair with patchouli oil, braiding it Cherokee style.
They lock the front door of the bungalow, then hop on their Vespa scooter, riding directly to Saint Mary Star of the Sea, parking on the lawn.
The church is made of rough-cut black rock and has a copper Celtic cross on the steeple— it was built in the thirties but looks hundreds of years old.
The couple bypasses the church, entering the grotto in the back where there’s a shoddy rock and cement structure that houses a shinny ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary— overgrown red poinsettia bushes engulf the shrine.
They sit on the manicured lawn, lighting a joint and puffing on it— the wind rustles, and the bushes swirl, reaching out to them.
A powerful feeling of religiosity engulfs them. Then as the sky turns purple and the sun sways— the face of La Madre Virgen liquifies and she says in Latin,
Henricus et Lucia omnia tua dant Deo
Henry and Lucia give your all to God
The air turns cold as the grotto is swallowed in blue smoke.
They look at one another and Lucia asks,
what happened querido?
That was either a hallucination or a religious experience, depending on how you look at it.
Was it real Henry?
If you believe in God it’s real, but for nonbelievers, it’s an illusion, like an LSD trip.
On the way home, they park the Vespa in the lot of The Moon Dog Cafe, across from Dog Beach, needing a drink after savoring the words drop-shipped in their laps by the Virgin Mary at the grotto of Saint Mary Star of the Sea Church.
The Moon Dog Cafe is an eclectic place where odds and ends are strung from wall to wall— fishing rods, surfboards, teddy bears, bras, you name it.
The born-again lovers sit at the bar, ordering clam fritters, broiled grouper, coleslaw, corn on the cob, and a pitcher of Bucanero Draft dosed with Clamato— honoring their Lent commitment and not ordering pig ribs.
Lucia pours the red beer into mugs which they lift towards the sky, toasting all things religious, taking big swigs. Henry comments,
the first mouthful is always the best.
Salud querido, I love you.
The bartender, an Israeli named Yoshi, sets the bar top with plates, tableware, and clothe napkins, then serves lunch.
As they’re eating, Henry points towards a shadowy figure at the end of the bar, someone who looks like he wants to be left alone, who's wearing a broad hat, black jeans, and a muscle T exposing his thin white arms. Lucia says,
he’s a rock star, querido,
yeah, it’s Keith Richards darling.
A few minutes later Keef walks towards them, sitting by them as Lucia says,
you look hungry, bebe
she orders more plates of food and Keith says in his famous raspy voice,
cheers, thanks, I don’t eat unless my old lady orders it, there’s no time when we’re touring.
I’m Henry and she’s Lucia,
Yoshi places an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels on the bar for Keith, gratis, and he says, grabbing the fifth,
let’s get outta here,
Henry places a hundred-dollar bill on the bar to cover what they ate and what's left behind. They follow Keith to a waiting limousine, things outside feel surreal.
In the back of the limo, Keith says,
can I crash at your place for a few hours?
Minutes later the limo's parked in front of the couple's bungalow.
Inside, Lucia pours drinks, Jack with coke, Keef passes out on the living room sofa, sleeping through the night till noon the following day, when Lucia makes him fried eggs, french fries, turkey bacon, and coffee.
After breakfast, the legend grins, handing the couple a handful of backstage passes for the evenings' concert saying,
don't miss it, I might be dead next time around, fuck the naysayers!
Then Keef pads his chest with both hands, raising them towards the Heavens as he walks outside, walking his renowned unbalanced walk, staggering and getting into his limo which goes north on The Overseas Highway to Miami, where The Rolling Stones will play tonight at the Miami Orange Bowl.
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