| short...not quite as sweet
Posted: 12/26/2007 6:44:18 AM | Disclaimer: Pardon my Spanish
"Live or Die, Do it Here"
The buildings keep most of the breeze from ever entering the avenue—high rise resorts, facing the beach and constructed in a way that back here it never gets much brighter than it is at six in the morning.
The shade doesn’t do much more than draw street vendors, who in turn draw tourists off the beach. I have yet to see a car here; it’s usually shoulder to shoulder people. Some call it Mercado Tropical. There isn’t much you can’t buy here and the press of the crowd makes the still air sticky as a jungle heart. The backs of the buildings are painted bright Mayan colors and the vendor’s shouts echo darkly of the flat slabs. Spiny skinned trees with leaves the locals used for hand fans line the nearly park wide median. Early morning their flowers are intoxicating, but as the heat rises and mixes with the street, the scent is like whiskey to a hangover.
The resort owners didn’t mind Mercado Tropical; they’re making money on all sides of the building. Even the alleys between are being worked by some of the best local talent, and from what I understand the resorts take a deep cut from that as well.
From my bicycle I can see the thick stone bridge crossing the far end of the avenue, a high, heavy arch with a half circle tunnel maybe two cars wide. Sometimes I float under the bridge on my bicycle like a gondola in a cheap, dry Venice.
Beyond shone brightly through the tunnel, like the light at the end of… of something, I thought.
It was too crowded to pedal. I pushed the bike along with what of my feet would reach the ground and still keep me in the saddle. You needed to stay on your bike around here. I checked again to make sure my wallet was in my front pocket.
Today I was watching hands; old hands, young hands, holding hands, selling hands, stealing hands—avoiding faces, just the hands, letting them do the talking. There were plenty of white hands here today, down to get third world dirty for a weekend I guess. Seemed quite a few of them were in love, or just as afraid of loosing their girls as I was my wallet. Regardless, the holding hands were making me feel pretty good about the morning as I paddled along on my bicycle—like there might be a chance.
A hand clasping the back of an arm just above the elbow passed me. It wore a uniform, ash grey with brass buttons and sickly eagle crescent.
Policia, best mind my manners.
Below the elbow, two hands were behind a back, zip-tied, with wire maybe. Bracelets were bruised around both wrists and blood crossed the raised tendons. The palms lay open, thickly calloused—broke down.
Three more zip-tied hands appeared and four more uniforms. Two of the uniformed hands held German looking pistols, low and nearly out of sight. I steadied my bicycle. The uniforms pushed the zip-tied prisoners through the crowd without notice.
Not what I was expecting today. I wished I had seen the faces. From behind, the prisoner’s clothes hung like a c*cky, young men’s clothes—their head’s hung like prisoners. I followed their hands.
When it was clear they were going up the hill to cross over the bridge, and the crowd thinned, I rode my bicycle past them, up the ramp and waited at the base of the bridge beside several other tourist viewing the avenue from above.
They were as young as there clothes attested, twenties maybe, their skin the earthy tone of Indian blood. None of the prisoners looked up. The Policia stared straight ahead. Something made me believe they weren’t just thieves. I watched their hands as they moved up the rise of the bridge. I’d let them go. The Policia didn’t look real bright but they would know I was following and I’d be sitting next to those boys within the hour.
I looked down at the people on the avenue. The crowd thinned as it neared the bridge. It was quite a drop, maybe eight stories looking at it against the buildings. Heights make me queasy.
There was shouting from the top of the bridge. The prisoners were up against the guardrail.
The Policia pointed to the avenue below, pushing the prisoners like playground bullies, shouting, “Vive o muere, usted lo hace aquí ”.
Live or die, you do it here.
I was hoping that wasn’t what I heard. My Spanish is poor at best. The prisoners were looking over the edge, as if weighing alternatives. The smallest of the four shrugged and the Policia pulled him from the guardrail, turned him to the avenue and cut his zip-tie.
“Jesus,” I said aloud. “There is no way in hell…”
I moved closer.
One of the Policia yelled at the crowd below. They cleared, like someone had fired a shot.
“Vamos!”
The boy ran at the rail, jumped on to it and sprang away from the bridge. His eyes flashed arrogantly as he spun to his back, facing the bridge, like he might survive this. His Polo shirt lifted from his belly, wading under his neck. I heard screams from below.
Jesus he got a long way off the bridge.
He hung in the air without options.
Most of me did not want to see him hit the street. I thought I might puke. Then he did. No drama; like a dishrag falling to the floor.
More shouting and another of the four launched himself from the rail. It looked as if he was trying to make the grass median. In the corner of my eye I saw a third falling. The second prisoner hit the grass, tucked and rolled, then lay still. The third managed the same feat as the final prisoner took to the air.
I didn’t see the fourth hit. The second prisoner had begun beating at his head and neck, as if he were on fire, or being attacked by bees.
Death spasms? Jesus, I didn’t know, didn’t want to know.
He started to get up, stopped at propping himself on his elbows and began yelling obscenities at the Policia above.
The Policia appeared to be in shock. I couldn’t blame them.
The third prisoner lifted up from the grass, holding his lower back. The first lay crumpled a few feet from him on the concrete. I could see blood pooling around his head. Still yelling, the second prisoner managed to get up, walk to the third and help him to his feet. Both began shouting obscenities and waving victorious fists at the Polica.
A crowd had gathered at the guardrail. The Polica collected themselves and began to disperse it. I figured I should go with them.
Below I saw the two prisoners helping the fourth to his feet.
Feet, no faces and no more hands. I bet I can learn a lot from feet. | |
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| short...not quite as sweet
Posted: 12/26/2007 11:22:00 AM | | nice... liked the "like whiskey to a hangover" - bang, I was in the scene. | |
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| homework
Posted: 12/30/2007 7:20:40 PM | "Bonus"
Charlie watched as the kid twisted the top off a Double Stuffed Oreo and drug the filling from the other wafer with his front teeth. He had seen it done thousands of times and never once did it look like good manners.
“Good stuff, huh,” Charlie said as the kid chased the filling with the two wafers.
The kid, Trevor Ramsey, smiled the “Hey look, I’ve been eating poop” smile, even a good kid like Trevor couldn’t resist. The brown wafer packed around Trevor’s teeth reminded Charlie of little purple tablets he got once in elementary school from a hygienist that came around to teach the kids how to brush properly. The tablets turned your teeth purple where they needed to be brushed, where there was plaque that could result in decay.
Decay? What a word to have ten year olds associate with any part of their body, Charlie thought.
Charlie took that packet of purple, plaque identifying tablets home and immediately after dinner, he shoved away from the table and rushed to the bathroom to brush, just like the hygienist had instructed. He squeezed one of the purple tablets from the foil packet and popped it into his mouth, crunching it, working the pasty saliva around thoroughly. He spat stretchy purple, then smiled into the mirror, toothbrush in hand, loaded down and ready to work. The face in the mirror had nothing but purple teeth.
Charlie was horrified. They’re all rotten to the core, he thought. My teeth will fall out by morning and I’ll be living on Jell-O until they get me dentures like grandpa. He must have stood there in silent shock for a minute too long because he heard his mother ask if he was okay in there. He couldn’t let her see this; he would be in the dentist chair for months.
“Fine mom, just practicing my brushing,” he lied…kind of.
It’s a wonder Charlie had any enamel left on his teeth after that night. His mother finally intervened after a solid fifteen minutes of brushing and the purple plaque tablets went out quietly with the morning trash. At thirty-two Charlie had yet to have a cavity.
Charlie preferred the bottom teeth method and scraped the creamy center off of one of the cookies into his mouth. The thick filling held together a perfect three seconds as he pressed it to the roof of his mouth with his tongue. Then as it began to dissolve at the edges he rolled his tongue back sucking the filling from the roof of his mouth. It covered his tongue like a honey blanket a generous five count before it thinned and was gone. He slammed his double wafer chaser, noting the six seconds of crispness before the cookie lost its integrity.
“You know why the filling is the best part?” Charlie asked Trevor, who was unscrewing another cookie.
Trevor stopped decapitating for a second to think.
“Is this something you saw on Discovery Channel?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, I give. Why?”
“Because it’s smooth,” Charlie said, reaching over Trevor to get another Oreo from the bag.
“Duh, and sweet.”
“But if it wasn’t smooth you wouldn’t like it near as much.”
“Doubt it.”
“Sure. If it was all hard you wouldn’t be able to get it off the cookie.” He slid the frosting off as an example then stuck it to the roof of his mouth again like peanut butter and kept talking through it. “If it was slimy like a tomato you’d probably barf”.
Trevor nodded and wretched.
“See what I mean.”
The Day-Care was the perfect part time job for Charlie; decent pay, easy hours and as long as Martha Fielding dealt with the serious issues—scrapes, bruises, potty accidents, etcetera—he could avoid maturity all together.
“It has to be perfectly smooth, not quite ice cream and not quite taffy,” Charlie said, sucking on the filling. He had the same distant look Trevor had seen on his father’s face when a man on the radio was talking about a girl named Pam…Pam Anderson, he thought.
Trevor waved his hand in front of Charlie’s face.
“Hello.”
“Just thinking.”
“I can tell.”
“You know why the centers are so smooth?”
“No.”
“Me.”
“You?”
“Yep. I’m the one that tells them when the centers are just right.”
“What ever.”
“Serious. It’s my other job—my real job.”
“Real job. What, a cookie taster?”
“No, I don’t taste anything. That’s why I am so good at my job. I don’t have any idea what an Oreo tastes like.”
“No way.”
“Yeah way. It’s called ageusia, there’s like five people on the planet that have it and I’m one.”
“So, like you could eat a cat turd and it wouldn’t make you barf.”
“If I knew it was a cat turd, I would barf all over…and I don’t know if we should be using that word.”
“Turd or barf?”
“The “T” word.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks. But I think the way a cat doodie would feel in my mouth would make me barf pretty quick. Don’t you?’
“I couldn’t get it past my nose.”
Charlie ran something that might have been pickle shaped under his nose and took in a deep whiff.
“Oui oui, barfy.”
They both doubled over.
“Really though, that’s what I do, I test food for squishy, slimy, gooey…I make sure people are going to like the way it feels when they eat it.”
“I never notice, I just scarf.”
“That’s because I’m doing such a good job.”
“Do you get free cookies?”
“What do ya think you’re eating.”
“Bonus.”
Martha was waving at them from the door.
“Looks like it’s time for you to head out.”
“Yeah.” Trevor reached for the cookie bag. “Can I have a couple for the road?”
“If you don’t think your mom will mind.”
“Nah.” Trevor dug three cookies from the bag. “Thanks.”
“No problem bud, they’re free.”
“See ya.”
“See ya.”
He watched Trevor head to the door then scanned the playground to see just how much he was going to have to pick up. A couple of balls and a jump rope, five minutes tops. He took another Oreo from the bag, twisted its top off and began to drag the filling across his teeth. Trevor and his mom were waving goodbye to him from beyond the fence. Charlie stopped with the Oreo and waved back with his free hand.
Jeez, what a goof, he thought.
Trevor’s mom turned him toward the parking lot. There was no ring on her hand.
Double goof, Charlie thought and finished scraping the Oreo’s filling off.
He wasn’t certain about the smile but she looked back, folding her hand twice in a tiny wave then roughed up Trevor’s hair and the two disappeared around the corner.
Bonus, Charlie thought, noting the six seconds of crispness. | |
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| short...not quite as sweet
Posted: 1/2/2008 10:58:01 AM | "His eyes flashed arrogantly as he spun to his back"
I know what you're trying to say here, but for some reason I didn't like the use of the wording, it felt a little awkward to read, picturing eyes "flashing" is one thing....but "arrogantly" brought an element of confusion to the statement that I found ended up taking away from the feel of the story.
I felt the intensity and you brought it on pretty aggressively, which I really enjoyed. | |
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| short...not quite as sweet
Posted: 1/2/2008 6:26:20 PM | Thanks for the taking the time Syerra. Appreciate all comments/direction.
Best,
S.C. | |
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