trolley. clattering along the tracks. trying to read this bookabout Gram Parsons, such total trash. legs resting on seat oppositeme. tired but unable to sleep. past 16 hours wracked with musclecramps in arms and legs. i was staring at the clock all night.waiting. waiting. waiting. begging the sun to come up, for it to be seven am so i could leave and start the journey south. smoked some pot which served only to make me paranoid and miserable.-"what're you readin'..."middle aged nicotine stained woman. maybe 45 going on 102.prematurely aged by her lifestyle. smells of cheap perfume masking an overwhelming stench of cigarettes. out on the track homeless man comes on to me for some "black." my ears perk up but "she ain't holdin.'"her response is furtive, knowing. hopes demolished, he bummed some change, walked off kept looking.-"book about Gram Parsons...you heard of him?"she nodded. my hands trembling. eyes watering, teeth clenched.she seemed to understand. not many young white males on the train to tijuana at seven in the morning.
-this train moves slower and slower. times seems suspended. it's funny how the trip back drifts along so leisurely. going down you measure yr. sanity by stops. three more to go until sick cells are nourished and the pain subsides. cool waves washing through my body. stars bursting beneath my eyes. whenever i am sick it is absolutely unbearable to sit still. i dream of a train that breaks the sound barrier depositing me at the border in a manner of minutes. i bury myself in the book. i can feel my prop in my pocket. a good prop is important. you need an explanation as to why you are in tijuana. my prop is a pen, old press pass ,and a notebook. i am a freelance reporter, writing a story about the farmacia's in TJ. this is true in some sense. only, the black ink is the sticky tar heroin that Oskie Boy sells me, the story is my life which looms over me thick and dark like a thunderhead.in lieu of my inablilty to write during times of heavy addiction, my life is the story. the void, my body is the canvas. junk the medium. tragedy writ large. talent dried up like still born grapes on the vine, shriveled and dead.
-CLANK! CLANG! over the line. passing into TJ. like entering a world which should be physically far removed from the orderly one i just emerged from. amazing to think of the small distance from here...to there...24 hour sex/drug/violence. back...comfort, sercurity,a semblance of law and order. vices behind a mask. here they lay it all out on a mayan rug and you gesture nonchalantly to the vice of your taste. as soon as i cross over a multitude of smells hit me. meat, corn, tortillas. the putrid stench of shit. car exhaust. decay. the air is sweet. i love it. it means a fix. cheap cigarettes. a cafe on the street where they dont ask questions and you can buy eyes that look the other way along with meal and beverage for $10. i see the taxi's strategically parked along the blvd.-"senor, taxi...where are you going? taxi..."- as you walk along the line declining the offers are all but dried up by the last man. i have been here so many times though, past the same taxi drivers, past the mcdonald's, past the churo and corn vendors, past the same farmacia where the clerk in glasses eyes me with cold catholic scorn because he knows my blood is thick with tar, past the panhandlers, past the children begging with dead eyes, eyes that scare me they are so devoid of hope, past the single mothers and the cripples, past all of the filth and the staggering need and want and sadness and cheap hucksterism that none of it effects me any more. it is as common to me as my own hands. it leaves me with a dry, empty feeling. a dead hollow tree.with eyes as dark as the bottom of an ocean trench.- i tell everyone i come into contact with that i am a writer from san diego. and at first they were excited. they believed me. now they smile slyly and knowingly when they see me. they know a lie when they see it. no one asks if i want a pair of sunglasses anymore...to stop in for a beer...sample one of my pretty girls...my sister...my brother?. and no one. i mean no one, offers me drugs any more. i am a customer of the 18th street boys. and you don't cross them.-Oskie Boy is waiting right outside of the shop cleaning the tourist crap which never sells. the shop is owned by a white man. an american. he lives in san diego. it is operated by said street gang. Oskie has just had a son. he is constantly spun out of his mind. many times he is smoking meth out of his glass pipe. one day Oskie disappeared and Tony took his place. Tony said Oskie went on vacation to MexicoCity. i awaited his return. Oskie was generous and kind. he spokeof his love for his sons. i considered him a good man and a friend despite the fact that he was selling me something which was slowly taking over my body and mind. Tony is bitter, sarcastic, stingy,and a pain in the ass. the drug lords killed Oskie. i remember it well.- "So, when exactly will Oskie be back?"- "Oskie went on vacation."- "Yeah but...he's been gone for, like, three months."- "NO, I mean...he's on "vacation.""- "oh, shit...did you...kill him?"- "man, i'm not telling you that shit, you need to hurry up...i got more customers who come. finish up with that dope...i can't have two people in here..."- Tony became the man at the shop. when i found out Oskie Boy was dead I shrugged and took another hit. I was far gone.
- when Oskie Boy gives me my sack my senses give way and the sickness hits me like a jolt. my mind knows a fix is seconds away. my body thirsts. nourish me. this is the refresher that takes all and leaves nothing. i pause for refreshment.
- a sense of guilt always hangs over me when i see the beggar children of Tijuana pleading for change. the mexican government has put signs up which implore one not to give these unfortunates change. it merely exacerbates the problem, they say. these signs have much in common with, say, "don't feed the birds"...
Maria and the Hotel Caesar
- Maria knows me at the hotel caesar. i never took a room there...but i ate there often. it is always the same. a coke, some tortilla chips. a plate of tacos. the same bartender languidly cleaning glasses, a sleepy look in his eyes. above the bar is a picture of Paul McCartney and his then wife Heather Mills. apparently, McCartney stopped into the hotel caesar briefly during a tour stop here. Rodrigo, another waiter, filled me in on the details.- "he was very drunk. he drank a lot of margharitas."- Rodrigo had no idea who Paul McCartney was or why I was so excited that this drunk gringo was once drunk there. he wondered why his picture was above the bar at all quite frankly. i mentioned the Beatles.- "Beatles?..."- He didn't know. He mentioned some Norteno singer. this, he said,would impress him. i shrugged...K-Paz?- "you want more Coca-Cola?"- i nodded. when he came back I was on the nod...so he poured the can of coke into my glass for me and walked away, i can only imagine, smirking.
Nothing but Trouble
- I ate breakfast once at Sanborn's. Sanborn's is the Mexican equivelent to Denny's...or IHOP. Sanborn's is nice because no tourists eat there. Ever. the waitresses speak very little english,which is fine by me because I am not there to talk. I curled up in a booth and purchased a San Diego Tribune in the lobby which is kind of like a miniature newstand. i sat in the smoking section, naturally, and lit up as soon as I was seated. it was a fine morning.I had a 1/2 gram of tar coursing through my body, a fresh pack ofParliament Lights, another 1/2 gram stashed up my ass (in Tijuana it is prudent to hide drugs in some orifice because white people are occasionally subject to search by the Policia. these searches never occur in a main tourist area, of course, and basically amount to blackmail. if dope is found...or anything else that the cop just doesn't like, he will quote a price. you have the option of paying or going to mexican jail. it is an easy choice.), and a glass of freshed squeezed orange juice which my waitresses set down beside me with a warm smile. i regularly fix in the bathroom at the HotelCaesar but the bathroom in Sanborn's is out of the question. Sanborn's employs a bathroom attendent who is on hand at all times to provide you with a fresh and constantly clean and invigorating bathroom experience. i am positive he would wipe my ass if he knew that i tipped large enough. he is a fucking pain in the ass. where am i going to do my dope after breakfast? i find that doing a little tar right after caps off a good meal in a splendid fashion, is a good tonic, invigorating in a way in which the bathroom attendent cannot be and insures that i will be high for my after breakfast stroll down the Ave Rev.- that day in sanborn's was a drag in more than just this respect.i knew she was trouble the minute i came in the door. for a second ,i considered biting the bullet, so to speak, and sitting in the non-smoking section. but, i was deliciously stoned and i wanted to enjoy my high. so, i asked the waitress to seat me in the smoking section. she was american and haggling with the head waiter over her bill. i had an instinctive feel that she would ask me for help. sure enough, half way through my Huevos Rancheros she came to my table to appeal to my better nature, which was in hock to my dealer at that time.- "hey hon, you mind if i sit here? you american right?"- she was middle aged and haggard. so many american women in tj are. she began to spill her story out onto the table almost immediately. her husband and herself were visiting mexico. in the course of some drunken frivolity their vacation had slipped into actions that were in bad taste, even for tijuana, mexico b.c. her husband was now in jail and she had summoned a lawyer to help get him out. they decided to meet for coffee and maybe a little breakfast at Sanborns, on the Ave Rev. at 11 this morning. however, when she came in the door at 11, there was more than one lawyer present. there were three. they had already ordered. she explained she wished to employ only one person, an argument ensued and they all left...after breakfast was done of course...her to figure out how to pay the large bill. you see, lawyer's in mexico have big stomach's. burns a lot of calories scamming people and chasing ambulances and drunk americans getting thrown in the slammer by the policia. and they also have very discerning palates as was testified to by there ordering all of the most expensive items on the menu. had i any money i could loan her? say over a hundred dollars. thousands of pesos? no...i hadn't...and besides...i had to tip the bathroom attendent...it wasn't true...but what the hell?- in the course of her arguement with the head waiter, the policia had been summoned. soon all manner of sirens let loose and two tj cops sauntered into the building. they weren't smiling. she was led away in hand cuffs and i sweated bullets, crystalyzing the dope in my ass into a hard rock, which was a pain to consume later on.
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