I fancy I can hear the ocean this morning, this ocean so far away from what was once my home. At 7:45, Alfredo texts, pulls up in his Jeep Gladiator, knocks on the door, and their framed, looking like a 1940s swords and sandals gladiator in what I can only call Californian attire, hands this old cracker a coffee. The cup is pink with swirling smiley faces and pink hearts, and reads:
Hotter Than Your Mom
Coffee [pill icon] Dose
Sexy lips licking are to the right above 3 pills.
On the back is a smiley face below a pink panel. On the left of the panel is a flame.
Inside, to right and left, are vertical imprints of DOSE
Between reads:
Brewed Fresh
Hot Coffee
Not Today Satan
The coffee was good.
I would like to meet the savage slut who started this shop so for to reflower her golden terrace.
I recall last night, having spent the day atrain with Sir, a pudgy, computer consultant and train nerd, who has five years on me with rail travel. He was such a kind man. A Great Lakes man, he is looking to move to avoid paying income taxes on the social Security money already stolen from him by the Pheds once.
His internet goes out—he a complete slave to his smart phone and admits it openly: “Look, Elon Musk’s SpaceX Launch pad. Starlink is a great idea. You know he stole his engine designs from Russia? I’ve always been a space nerd, followed everything in the 60s and 70s, and then nothing, like we didn’t even go to the moon. So, these beautiful hills will not ruin Starlink reception. But I can not bring myself to help that man out. A friend of mine spent 110K on a Tesla truck, and is now losing 20K selling it because he cannot stand the man, the power behind the throne. Look, it went out again, and we are by a tower?”
“Sir, if I may, Mister X is probably joking at table with The King that his government-funded e-car biz was subsidized by his ideological enemies, who are now willing to lose money in disassociation sales. Also, if he is half the man I think he is—looking like a Bond Villain and all—I trust he will launch more satellites designed to blast your repeater station service and compel you, his enemy, to pay him media taxes.”
Sir laughed, a techno nerd Santa, like most folks my age plugged with a blood sugar monitor which tells his phone, to tell him, that he is about to expire…
As we headed south, with many families on this train, and no Amish, the women kept getting prettier. Parting from Sir and crutching along, I am picked up by a Mexican baggage driver transporting old ladies, a perfect human herding stevedore. The old lady was very pleasant, her Gen X daughter with a charm better suited to milking cows in Missouri.
Soon upon the 794 out of Los Angeles to Santa Anna, I note that the passengers are now mostly atomized. Big, soft, American land whale men in there 20s with a few ragged possessions and/or a valuable device, pretty, petite women with enormous amounts of baggage. Every one except for the skate board and surfer bums, who are in pairs, sits alone, half of them with baggage blocking the aisle seat. The bottom floor of the coach/cafe car is the office, so I must crutch upstairs. The women and Negroes are all denying me space, passively. I find the least passive/aggressive looking girl, the one who has not heaped luggage on the aisle seat with all of the empty racks above, and sit down.
The conductor looks like Terry Crews and sounds exactly like Denzel Washington playing a Marine Captain. He is the best conductor, ever, should train them. He comes down the aisle and reminds every one to put luggage up top. This means women too. The two prettiest girls on the train are aghast. The men out here their age are big hulks, some giants, soft yes, but obviously in strong fruit. Not one man offers to help as the prettiest of the pretty two tries over and over again to hoist her 40 pounds of clothes and makeup with her 85 pounds of curve—this bitch is curvy at 85 pounds: run 4 babies through her and she’s perfect! Eventually, the 105 pound cock blocker shows her the floor luggage rack and the ordeal is over. The separation of the sexes, demarcated by austere lines of absent courtesy rings ominous.
At night Santa Anna Station is beautiful, like something out of a spaghetti western. A lady, my age, does not know what bus to take. The nice middle class lady waiting on an UBER does not know the buses, but points to this old, broken-down cracker, and says, “He probably knows where the busses are!”
The woman is afraid to approach.
In moments I hear, “James,” and see a smiling guido stud striding across the pavement, “do you want me to drive around? Oh, let me get the heavy one,” as I curse myself for a weakling and he snatches the heavy pack which I need crutches for, “Oh, this is light?”
Loading my prole clothes and gear into the back of the Gladiator, I look at a Hollywood image of a gladiator and say, “5’ 11” 6,”?
“Five Eleven,” he grins.
“210 pounds?”
“On the dot. I should be 185. I couldn’t last 30 seconds in a fight. I need to trim down, but can’t stop eating.”
“Carlo, thanks so much for inviting me here. That let’s me make up some for those $500 in ebooks you bought so I could buy train tickets. And you’ve rented a gym, putting me in a hotel—this is so kind.”
“James, I don’t even read since I got out of prison. I was upper middle class, doing drugs, did time for stupid shit. I’m 39. Like everybody my age, I was a wannabe niցցer. The only cool role models were niցցers. I want to be like them. Then, I do time, and my cellmate is like, “I can’t stand these niցցers and their stupid shit.”
“I’m like, what do you mean—racism is bad.”
Then six months later, ‘I’m like, bro, I can’t stand these niցցers! I was raised to worship these people, then, being locked up with them you find out what they are like. They don’t even make money slinging dope. The only ones that have money to eat at the commissary are ones that have a woman on the outside. They are completely dependent on women. This one niցցer who I liked, was talking all this shit about how when he gets out, he’s got his white MILF bitch and his other bitch. Then, I’m out, and I see sitting out front of a gay porno shop. I know what he’s doing, and I’m like, ‘Son, how is it?’”
“He’s like, ‘Bro, its not good, its bad.’”
“I know what he’s doing there.”
“I got out of drugs just in time. The meth went bad, didn’t even get you high. So I stopped. I stopped drinking in prison, go to AA now. All of my drug using associates, switched to heroin, then the heroin dried up and it was all fentanyl, this white powder—don’t need the poppy anymore. Now they’re all dead, every one of them.
“Here, some walking around money,” and he drops a 2 inch thick fold of bills on my lap. “I’m doing good, got a good legal business, good partner, Asians, none of this niցցer shit. Here, and top-shelf wife beaters for training. I need to get in fighting shape. I have a family, wife is pregnant again. [In the picture she looks like the princess of some tiny Italian nation.]
Alfredo, who smiles a lot, openly, not smirking, has close cut hair and is very handsome, takes me to a dive motel owned by the Brothers Patel. Despite having given me an amount of cash that amounts to 7 times my entire life’s savings, that was in my thin wallet, Alfredo pays for my room and smiles. The zombie Mexican clerk, who, half asleep, is trying to fathom why some old gutter gnome with no money and a C-list action hero are renting a room together. Alfredo laughs, “He’ probably thinking this is going to be some weird sex—crutches and everything!”
It turns out that hookers, mostly female, see their clients here a lot. The whore next door almost fucked the old man in that room to death last night. Sounded like he lost a lung.
Alfredo looks at the room, and smiles, seeing that I think it is great, clean, a vast bed, a desk, 3 chairs, dresser, hangers to dry my clothes on after I wash them in the sink—a clean bathroom! His smile widens and he bumps fists, “It’s all good—James likes it. My wife would take one look at this place and leave. I will be back with coffee in the morning after the gym, and food later after work.”
Framed in the doorway, Alfredo smiles with genuine joy and we bump fists.
He’s the kind of man I never even dreamed of being, has beat the worst demon drug that the Alltarchs have released among we the herd so that we will not return to the way of the pack.
I want to write his story, if God has left that time in His design.
Thank you, Alfredo.
