At night, I get a chair up by the window and pull the drapes aside just enough for a little look-see right
up and down the street and I carefully open the window just a crack, a crack mind you, so I can hear the
sound of the cars as they rumble past the corner, paying little or no attention to the sign commanding them
to stop. Mexicans. Stealing the shirt off your fucking back.
I caught her trying to break in and I tied her up.
You fucking thief, I said.
No hablo English, she replied, smirking, showing a row of sharp white teeth.
I take this big old dildo I have and I slowly.
Why you no sleep?
What's the dif, I answer, between breaking beer bottles against a goddamn curb and shoving a broomstick up a chick high on spanish fly? Where's the percentage in making a fool out of yourself everytime you open your mouth?
Then there was this mexican girl sat in front of me in B7 math. She was a dog, a real chihuahua, but the first dance of the year was coming-up and it was a big status thing to have a girl to go with, even if she was a dog and a beaner. You just couldn't go without one. Then one day right after class I get my courage all screwed up and go up to her and say:
You heard about that dance next week?
Yeah, I heard about it.
You wanna go...with me?
I gotta boyfriend, she says, and besides you're too ugly.
No hablo mexicano, I start to say, no hablo fucking chili-chompers, no hablo stinking stealing pepper-bellied greaseballs, no hablo, no hablo, no hablo.
Now I remember in grammar school there was this song we'd all sing:
No, you too ugly and my boyfriend he gotta brand new chevy.My name is Poncho
The old man lies unconscious in the middle of the street. Poncho's busy beating him with a broomstick. The dog just stands there, barking like crazy, the piercing high-pitched sound carries for blocks, rising like stomach reflux in the hot still air. The blood is brown-coloured, forming a vaguely reflective puddle in the gutter.
Then to my surprise, a hoarse, but familiar voice whispers in my ear:
Every dog has his day.
Leave me alone, I scream. Can't you see I'm going potty?
My eyes are half-closed. I don't let on. I just wait. The cars pass in the night. I don't touch her as she sleeps. She is not anyone's prisoner, especially not mine. She snores lightly. It is only the wind that sends a trash can lid crashing into the gutter.
Then a sharp, but familiar voice whispers in my ear: Is it true that the madman who knows he's mad is close to sanity?
You're not him, I say, and besides what's lonely? Nobody knows what loneliness is.
Nobody knows what madness is either, but that never stopped anybody from wearing a straitjacket.
I'd rather be skiing.
You're having an increasingly difficult time differentiating between what is real to the rest of us and what's real only to you. Is that your problem?
The real reason I won't or can't sleep is because of the time in junior high school when this girl I knew gave me spanish fly and I fucked myself to death on the gearshift stick of my father's volvo.
And this is the same girl who wouldn't go to the dance with you, I suppose?
I've read about this before or at least heard about on television.
I may not be a doctor, but I could play one on TV.
And when did you first get the idea that you'd been given spanish fly? says the good old doc, only half disguising his indifference, if not contempt.
When you die, says Lucy, will you feel happy because you can finally sleep?
The reason I can't or rather won't touch her as she lies sleeping next to me is because I sense her dreaming and dreams are the only thing, the last thing, the final thing, that I really respect. I've read that insomniacs have an increasingly difficult time differentiating between what is real to other people and what's real only to them.
Is that by means of an explanation?
It sounds better than the truth.
Why don't you play with my private parts? Maybe you want me to blow a fart?
I'm busy, busy, busy. I'm busy watching an old man walk his dog. Who indifferently, if not with contempt, sniffs the broken fragments of a bottle smashed against the curb.
The four o.clock in the morning plays tricks on you. the street lamp in the middle of the block casts a ghostly, unreal light and the cars that occasionally pass, the other houses all dark and shut up tight. The young mexican smokes a cigarette and the tip flashes red, red, red.
He looks up at me and grins and I shout:
Hey you, you wanna have some spanish fly?
The stillness is unbroken, vast, monolithic.
The street outside my window, the body that lies snoring next to me, the sound of a dog barking, an old man's feeble cries for help, the persistent hiss of innumerable spray cans.
A point of no return reached in a movie house chock full of mexican gang members and dead people. My house. Your house.