Somewhere between Abilene and El Paso, goin Southwest in my 73 Polaris wagon, I exit at a speck on the map, Salt Flat City, parkin at a Tex Mex joint, Pedro’s Cafe.
Inside, I sit at the counter, looking over the menu.
The waitress is genderqueer with a florescent Cleopatra wig on, saying to me,
howdy handsome, do you like Tex-Mex food? Honey, and if you all is game, I give the best head in Texas.
No thanks, sweetie, I'm impotent, I'll have el especial, keep the coffee common, cariña.
In due course, I'm served by Miss Brittany CoxXx, ha ah; chicken quesadillas, cheesy baked burritos, tamales, Tex-Mex with native aroma, delicioso.
By 9PM, I'm on my way to the El Paso border crossing, it’s closed, I do a U-turn and drive to Gala National Forest, parkin, grabbin my sleeping bag, finding a bushy area, laying it on a bed of pine; on my back lookin up at the sky, tunin into the Earth Mother and da stars above;
Like a Cowboy in the Boat of Ra.
That morning at 6AM, I pack up the wagon sucking down 3 Red Bulls like there's no tomorrow, hyper-buzzed, drivin' to the El Paso border crossing, stoppin my car at the checkpoint, showing the Mexican agent, who resembles Cantinflas, my passport, and car insurance, he's indifferent, smirking and sayin,
Don't get the clap, Gringo.
Going south to Torreón, Mexico, is 7 hours from El Paso, halfway to Mexico City. , rockin' to Ranchera and Mariachi music on the radio.
At Chihuahua, I pull into a liquor store, buying 2 pints of mescal, a Zippo lighter, and ultra-thin rolling papers.
Driving out of town on Avenida Bolívar I see a Black cowboy standing on the sidewalk, pimpin' somethin, maybe himself, I ask,
you got any weed, man?
Sure gringo, I got quarter ounces of Diesel Gold for 1000 pesos,
let me smell some,
he opens a Ziploc bag, and I take a whiff; the shit’s pungent, so I hand over a 1000 Peso note. Driving into an alley I roll a few.
Driving 45 Southeast, I light a joint, alternating tokes with swigs of mescal, turning up the radio; the Mariachi this time, it's archetypal, it's Mexican folklore the band sings,
Clap it, clap it, make it loud
Strike it, strike it, with your proud
Broken heart just made me strong
The music won't let me down
C'mon, c'mon, clap it now
Move it, move it, till you drown
Rise your head with the liberation
I won't let you down
By dark I can see the lights of Zacatecas on the horizon, weary I turn into Parque Nacional Sierra de Órganos; no one is there, not even a watchman.
I lay a sleeping bag on the rooftop of the wagon, counting stars and fading out.
Up early, I drive into Santana Ciudad buyin half a dozen bolillo
I'm no linguistic and Mexican might as well be Swahili
In 3 hours, I’m in Mexico City, passing grimy brick buildings, exhaling soul shadows that shake me to the bone.
In the comunity of Tepetos, a dicey area, I notice a rusted neon sign at the end of an alley, El Last Exit.
I park on Calle Juarez and walk to it, inside I see a big gal in a metal cage, who asks,
do you want a woman gringo?
Señora, I want to book monthly,
esta bien señor, 2000 pesos and a 500 peso deposit.
I walk to room 107, unlocking the door. There's a made-up double bed, a hot plate, and a cold-water WC. It's not a good room, it's akin to the dumps young Bukowski lived in.
Horny to get a taste of the city, I quickly ditch the room.
Outside it smells like a septic tank, I duck into Rico's Cantina. It's dark inside, smelling like stale beer. The hard-drinkin' Mexicans eyeball me, el camarero comes close face to face, his breath is awful, I order,
let see now, I'd like a shot of top shelf Tequila and a Corona Extra,
The greaser grabs a machete from under the bar, slamming it on the counter like Noriega like Noriega or Pablo EEscobar
I belt out;
fuck you, greaser,
running to the safty of Saint Christofer's Church, buying a red rose from a lady dressed in black; a thorn pricks my finger, and it drips blood.
Catching my breath, I kneel in the 2nd pew, looking over the crucifix on the sanctuary wall.
I see Jesus and his face is in motion, it's the color of Silly Putty, He moves his lips, speaking;
Henry, is there something you want to tell confess?
May I share a story,
yes, my son,
I met a Gypsy kid on a bus goin from Greece to Albania, and he told me a story;
Romani Folklore has it that when You were crucified, a Gypsy stole the holy nails from Your wooden cross, and You were so grateful You told him in the future the Romani people could loot and plunder sin free, Jesus says,
Yes, son, it’s a faithful tale.
He looks at me earnestly saying,
Henry, in the coming months human beings will be raised, entering the Kingdom of God, Eternal life, are you ready to skyrocket into the Heavens my son?
Yes, ah Jesus, it sounds, well, breathtaking, but I'll miss mescal, tamales, and pussy.
Without warning, I wake up in the 2nd pew, feelin horny and wantin a drink.
I never had another religious experience, which was fine by me.
Back at La Exit, I ask the mamasan to send a woman, fresh orange juice, ice, and a bottle of tequila to my room.
After partying through the night, things felt right again
