Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Juan Saponatime

"Cocaine is the most potent stimulant of natural origin.This substance can be snorted, smoked, or injected. When snorted, cocaine powder is inhaled through the nose where it is absorbed into the bloodstream through the nasal tissues."
http://www.whitehousedrugpolicy.gov/drugfact/cocaine

Chapter 2

Tim was the name sewn into the man's obnoxiously bright red shirt. Lying inside this shirt was a super-amped, high-octane charged human being. "A wrecker, at this hour?" He spoke to himself. "Well, " he said ever so slowly, followed by, "IcanprobablygiveJuanacallOKhewillshowbutitmighttakesometimebuthewillshowOK?"
Hiding behind confectioners sugar and newsprint, I watched Tim very carefully. Looking at him I instantly thought of all the people who were high on cocaine and gave themselves away. The quick banter in his voice, the ever present grinding of the jaw, not to mention the white residue nostril ring-dead giveaways.
The wrecker sped into the lot, the back tires spinning furiously and then came to a sliding stop. Juan, the truck driver was a cautious Chicano with unwashed greasy black hair, sleep in his eyes and his name painted on the side of his truck. Until we conversed in espanol, I do believe that Juan was holding the grip of a pistola or at the very least, a very large wrench in his left hand.
I introduced myself and then explained my mission, my sense of urgency, and my need for quick action. "Si Senor," he said, "I help you," he smiled at me, revved up the engine and we screamed off together down the road in the wrecker toward my derelict ride.
Juan jumped on the bumper and quick as a flash, Young Elvis stepped out of the dead Buick smoking a cigarette. I explained to my new friend Juan that this 'gringo loco' was not some random jackass but in fact my photographer, 'Elvis Joven.' Juan put down the extremely large wrench, hooked the Buick to the wrecker and off we went to the nearest house of lodging.
Elvis headed for the lobby to get us checked in as I grabbed our luggage from the back of the truck. "Cuando," I asked Juan, "when?" His response was not what I wanted to hear, "Manana, manana por la noche." Tommorrow night would be too late, tommorrow night was the show.





© 2006

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