by @mundoWav
‘You have to learn how to die, if you wanna wanna be alive.’
- War on War, Jeff Tweedy, Wilco, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
I smiled wide and stuck two hits of LSD to the top of my gum. Then I rolled across a king sized bed to face a wooden cutting board piled with cocaine. I cut a line with with one of my last Fuzz Productions business cards and rolled up a 500 peso note to inhale the white powder. Perico! I bounced up, grabbed my phone, opened Tidal HIFI and pressed play on ‘Detonate’ by Charli XCX. As the petals of music began to flow from my pink waterproof Wonderboom speaker, I scooped some crystallized Molly from a bag atop the mini fridge and swallowed it down before there was any taste. I was in a stone bungalow on the edge of the Laguna Bacalar and the sun was just starting to set.
I sidled out the sliding screen door barefoot and shirtless onto the short stone path leading to the water’s edge, encountering Lindo the duck, who I had previously let into the bungalow until he predictably shit on the floor. He quacked happily as I passed, so I went back in to get some chunks of cinnamon roll to scatter on the steps. I moved on to the kayak slip and stepped down the green carpeted ramp into the laguna.
The water was warm, clear and filled with lily pads near the shore. I dunked my head and looked around, the fresh water easy on the eyes. Farther out the Laguna’s electric 7 colors blended into the golden bath of the falling sun. I had just received some bad news. Helena, the woman I loved, my muse and my favorite person in the world had asked me to stop contacting her, or more specifically a third party, her Aunt, who had once called herself my other Mother, had told me to ‘Stop. Just stop.’ It wasn’t exactly a surprise; she had blocked me on Instagram months before after I sent her a garbled love letter that got messed up by a third party messaging app I downloaded at an Internet cafe when I was phoneless in Mexico City. Still, once I bought a new celular from a carnan on the street in Guerrero, I’d left her regular voicemails with updates on my adventures and held out hope we’d talk again. The setting sun felt like a metaphor for the end of a beautiful dream. Having listened a lot to Devendra Banhart’s ‘Smoky Rolls Down Thunder Canyon’, I had started to imagine myself as the exiled, ratty-assed compadre in the video for ‘Carmensita’, on a mission to defeat Lord Rajah the Malevolent, write a book, get rich and famous, and win the Princess Natalie Portman’s heart. I started swimming and the blood of love welled up in my chest, painfully cutting into my already growing euphoria. There were other girls to go after, smart, beautiful, amazing ones, but as Sinead O’Connor sang ‘Nothing Compares’. Helena had made me feel like I was in the presence of Picasso, like the world was painted in the colors of a luminescent goddess. She was an artist who had served as Anna Wintour’s assistant, fluent in Spanish and French, with a face like the Portrait of Dora Maar and a body that, in the words of Father John Misty, ‘could make your daddy cry’. She was a third culture kid, like me, and half Central American, so she was connected to the struggle of oppressed peoples, even though her Father drove a vintage Ferrari and played golf with Bill Murray. She was cool and sexy and kind, and I had been lucky enough to meet her through my bandmate and best friend from high school Bo, who was her cousin, when we were both almost young, just finishing college. She had instilled in me a desire to go out into the world and make something of myself, to live up to my potential, to somehow be worthy of her love. I had made a good run of building a career in Tech while staying connected to progressive activism and the arts, but that was all gone now. In the face of her silence, I had said that if she ever wanted me to stop contacting her, all it would take was one word. I intended to follow through on my promise. To that end, I felt like swimming until I couldn’t swim any further, to go down with the sun. ‘Iiiiii wanna be a little seahorse’ I tittered sadly, switching from a languid breast stroke to a choppy front crawl.
At least for twenty seconds… that was about as long as I could go all out after all the cigarettes I’d smoked over the past few years, and after all there was still Donald Trump to deal with. It was August 21st, 2020. The Democratic Convention had just ended. The war for the soul of America was on and I wanted to do my part in the fight. On my website, I posted short stories, articles on political goings on and seemingly relevant music videos, as well as my Twitter and Instagram feeds. Traffic had grown to almost a thousand monthly visitors, though a large chunk of them were angry alt-right trolls. I was still small-time but I felt that, even from Mexico, I had an audience and an opportunity to influence the election. Plus, I wanted to vote. I could die after that, I thought, if I still felt like that was the best option. I decided to turn back.
Yuki, a snow white she-wolf, and Kalisto, a smaller brown shepherd mutt, were waiting for me, tails wagging, on the shore. We had just learned that Yuki was pregnant and, petting the two happy dogs, I decided I was going to ask Arrallani, the kind, motherly property manager, if I could have one of the puppies. Yuki and Kalisto ran off chasing each other, clearly in love, and I walked on. ‘Vuli Ndela’ by Brenda Fassie was on when I got back inside the bungalow. I toweled off and threw on some jeans and a black and white seashell shirt I had got at ‘El Manati’, a gallery and breakfast spot in town. I hadn’t showered in weeks, though there was a perfectly nice mosaic tiled one ien el baño. The laguna stayed with me wherever I went, a living aura on my hair and skin.
I left the doors unlocked and walked up to where my silver Nissan Rogue was parked. I had rented it from Enterprise in Park Slope almost a year earlier with cash and a photoshopped utility bill. I had planned to return the car in two weeks but, after spray painting ‘BLM’ and ‘Ida Lives’ on a statue of my white Supremacist ancestor in Nashville, coincidentally on the morning of September 11th, I had decided it was time to haul ass for the border. On a sandy Playa Miramar outside the revitalized city of Tampico, an oil rig crane operator named Saul and his girlfriend Maria had asked me what she was called. I had gone with the first name that came to mind - Sylvia, after Sylvia Plath and a cool yoga instructor who I had been lucky to make out with a few times when I was broke and living at my Mother’s house in Bridgehampton. The car was mine now, though I hoped to be able to pay Enterprise back with interest one day. I considered it a good investment. I connected my phone to the Bluetooth and put on ‘Leve’ by Cartel De Santa as I slowly backed up the cobble stoned driveway, a steep hill surrounded by lush vegetation, towards the property gate. I got out and opened up the gate before backing onto the road and sliding it closed behind me. I rolled down the dark streets with the windows down, relishing the cool, moist summer air.
I took out a new pack of Orange Chesterfields and rapped it two times against the dashboard, as I had seen Mexican businessmen do during the 8 months I’d spent scraping by as an English teacher in CDMX. I lit up a cigaro and coasted down mostly deserted side streets, just a stray dog and a few playing children here and there. In no time at all I was into el Centro, where there was a hum of activity. Birds in the trees singing the end of the day almost drowned out the stereo. Gringos and Mexicans were eating dinner on sidewalk patios. Street vendors offered up colorful handcrafted goods. The string lights lining the square seemed to echo in trails as I drove by. I was coming up. I switched to the CD player, where a collector’s version of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rumors’ had been doing time since I bought it at El Chopo Punk Market, along with ‘Instant Karma: The Amnesty International Benefit to Save Darfur’ and Sheer Mag’s ‘Need to Feel Your Love’. I skipped to the last track, ‘Silver Springs’ - Stevie Nicks’ break up song which was unjustly cut off the original album by Lindsay Buckingham.
I parked next to a house set up as a car wash and sat in the driver’s seat as the voices washed over me. ‘Was I such a fool?’ The question had an obvious answer. I had dedicated my life to someone who had never loved me. She had given me chances, and for that I couldn’t help but love her, but I had squandered them. Now we couldn’t even be friends. My story had lost its heroine.
I got out of the car, put on my mask and crossed Calle Cinco to Barbanegra, where I spent most nights as an unofficial host, welcoming guests with a simple ‘un momento por favor’ until they could be seated. Mauricio, the owner, who had become a good friend, almost like an older, more successful Mexican brother, usually went for a Tropical Steampunk vibe with the music, but it was different every night and always seemed to be a perfect reflection of my thoughts. ‘Song For You (Mansionair Remix)’ was playing on the stereo as I walked up to the restaurant. The tune brought back memories. Helena had sent me the original video before we saw Rhye play at Brooklyn Steel and then introduced me to singer Mike Milosh after the show, then… I shook off my memories. Mauricio’s gorgeous dark haired wife Karla, who I had asked out, much to her bemusement, before I learned they were married, was illuminated by flickering candles next to a flamingo in a cage. She greeted me with deep, glowing eyes that felt like swimming in the laguna. I took my usual seat behind the black wooden sidewalk bar, took off my mask and lit up a cigarette. When Francesca, the pregnant, but still hot, redhead waitress with an octopus tattoo on her calf matching the carving on the wall came over I ordered a Spicy Margarita, Guacamole and Ceviche de Pescado. I hadn’t eaten all day.
I looked across the street at Patio de Aguacate, another restaurant that I would sometimes go to for a little bit to mix it up. I locked eyes with Marina, a mixologist head from Guadalajara, behind the bar and then heard the bagpipes of Alpha Blondy’s cover of ‘Wish You Were Here’ wafting across the street, mixing with Polo and Pan’s ‘Canopee’ from inside Barbanegra. Andres, the teenage barman on my side of Calle Cinco, was vigorously shaking the Margarita I had ordered over his shoulder, adding icy percussion to the mix. Snippets of conversation from nearby tables tickled my ears. Fragrant smoke from a pot of burning sage drifted and curled in the gentle breeze. In the midst of all this, I felt I was somehow connected to everything, like the air was an ocean of water and every whisper of my breath touched a delicate dance of mystical currents that could lead anywhere, like how they say the flapping of a butterfly’s wings can cause a hurricane halfway across the world, so I began to quietly speak my thoughts out loud:
’The Democratic Convention ended last night and there are now 74 days til the US election, there were 76 when Obama made his speech. Donald Trump is a proven monster. He’s flattered by comparisons to Hitler. He looks up to Putin. He supports the Taliban. He doesn’t believe in Science and he wants to end Democracy. Since Bernie Sanders chose to sacrifice himself like a Jedi monk for World Peace by calling Benjamin Netanyahu a reactionary racist and boycotting the AIPAC conference, Joe Biden is the chosen hero of light and love. It pissed me off at the time, but Nicholas Kristoff said it best back in March: Biden stacks up better than anyone against Trump, and has the best chance to win not only the Presidency but also the House and Senate for Democrats. He’s a tall white guy who most everyone likes, is considered one of the most decent people in Politics and was popular with African Americans even before choosing Kamala Harris as his running mate. Why should we care? The future of the Earth is at stake. As Daniel Pinchbeck wrote in his book on ways to avert global apocalypse ‘How Soon is Now?’, ‘The sky is falling’. If Donald Trump wins another term there likely won’t be an Earth or humankind left to fight for in 20 years. He’s already lording over what’s been a psychedelic holocaust for anyone who’s not a straight, white man, or a total sell-out…’
Francesca brought my drink along with the guacamole and some chips. I took a swig and savored the spicy, sour taste. ‘Andres hace lose mejores Margaritas en el mundo!’ I said. ’Si, provecho,’ said Francesca with a smile. She walked off to another table and I ate a few chips before continuing to speak…
‘‘Psychedelic holocaust’ might sound like hyperbole, or the unbalanced projection of a drug obsessed hippie, but Trump’s presidency has been a nightmare come to life. What started as surreal has turned into bottomless horror. Many innocent people, including the straight white men who stood up in solidarity with marginalized groups, have already had their lives destroyed, or even lost completely. Since he was elected, I myself have been fired, harassed, involuntarily hospitalized, imprisoned, concussed, poisoned, shot at and, worst of all, diagnosed with schizophrenia, just for refusing to cooperate with his Nazi regime and doing my part to fight for what’s right… that and self- medicating with buckets of LSD, I guess. I had to leave the USA, coming to Mexico saved my life. I’m so grateful to this country and this magical pueblo. For the first time in years, I feel safe and free to live in peace.’
As I ended my speech, a funky looking woman, with a golden nose ring and a colorful Iskra kimono over a bathing suit, came up to me, ‘Have you seen a big green bag? I might have left it here earlier.’ ‘Let me see.’ I said, and then to Francesca as she walked by: ’Encontraste una bolsa verde?’
‘I’ll check,’ she said in English and walked back to the kitchen. ‘Could I have a Negra Modelo as well please?’ The funky looking woman said. ‘Mi tambien, por favor’ I added. Francesca nodded and walked back to the kitchen.
‘So what’s your name? I’m Sisi from Brooklyn by way of Costa Rica.’
‘I’m Mo, from Brooklyn too, Williamsburg! I drove down here a year ago, a few months before the pandemic started. Where in Brooklyn are you from?’
‘I lived on South 1st and Wythe, in the building that used to have Main Drag Music. Its Secretly Group now.’
‘They represent Faye Webster, right?’ I had become obsessed with the sad indie country starlet as one of the best hopes of a new generation after seeing her do yoyo tricks on stage during a Stella Donnelly concert. I went so far as to show up at an awesome free Lady Lamb solo show in Roma Sur wearing Faye’s signature straw sun visor hat and requesting ‘Is It Too Much to Ask’.
‘Yeah, and Yoko Ono, Slowdive, Khruangbin, The Dirty Projectors and Sharon Van Etten. Its a powerhouse.’
‘Cool. I used to live on South 4th and Kent, in the old pillow factory next to the Woods. I miss it there.’
‘Better to be here right now. We couldn’t be hanging out at a restaurant like this in New York. Everyone’s locked up at home.’
‘I guess you’re right. It’s kind of nice being unemployment royalty. I’ve never felt so free.’
‘Right on. What do you do, other than work here? ’
‘This is a secret, but between you and me, I just pretend to be the host. It gives me a sense of purpose while I drink. I used to make mobile apps but now I’m a writer.’
‘Cool. I’m a video editor. Have you written anything I might have read?’
‘If you had the New York Post app on April Fool’s day 2017 you would have gotten the biblical ultimatum I sent as push notifications to Donald Trump.’
‘That sounds radical, but I don’t read the Post. Anything else?’
‘I wrote a mixed media short story called ‘After What Happened’ about a guy who runs into a problem with an old flame on the way to the Women’s March in DC. Just a few thousand hits on my website, but I like to dream that it inspired Hillary Clinton to name her book on the election ‘What Happened’.’
‘One can dream. Cheers!’ Francesca had dropped off our cervesas without me noticing.
Sisi told me about about cutting videos pro bono for Planned Parenthood, her pet Iguana named River Phoenix and her favorite surf spot in Puerto Viejo. She told me about a lesbian romance with her best friend in high school, her 3 month experiment with fruitarianism, and her firm belief that Bubba Hotep was the best film ever made. I greeted guests as they came in. The moon rose, cigarettes were smoked, beers and shots of tequila were drank and the songs went by, blended two at a time: ‘Ghostwriter’ by RJD2, ‘Last Train to London’ by ELO, ‘Paracemos Tontos’ by Enrique Bunbury, ‘Regalame Este Noche’ by the Breeders, ‘Harvest Moon’ by Poolside, ‘Tristesse / joie’ by Yelle, ‘Love Buzz’ by Nirvana, ‘Small Talk’ by Courtney Barnett, 'Forever' by Haim, ‘You’ by Gold Panda, ‘Can You Get to That’ by Funkadelic, ‘El Bandido’ by Nicolas Jaar and ‘Venus’ by Television. Then the music stopped and Mauricio popped out from the kitchen. He gave me a wink from eyes that still dazzled from beneath the dark sunglasses which he always wore, even at night, before returning inside. Moments later, a descending guitar riff cut through the silence and I recognized ‘Fall Through’ by my friends’ band Big Huge.
’This is my favorite song.’ I said excitedly. ‘Its not even on the internet. I don’t know how Mauricio is playing it.’
Sisi listened intently for 30 seconds , then said, ‘Sounds like if The Smiths, The dBs, Blondie and AOC had a nude party.’
’The Green Nude Deal - If America elects AOC as President, passes Universal Health Care and ends Global Warming, Occasio poses nude for Vogue.’
‘We just gotta get it all done while Annie Leibovitz is still alive.’
‘One can dream.’ I said wistfully.
Sisi stood up and downed her beer. ‘I gotta go, but I’ll tell you my secret since you told me yours. There are 3 dildos in my bag. If I find the bag, maybe we can have some fun. Text me.’ She wrote her Mexican number on a pink business card and dropped it on the bar.’
‘I’ll be here! I said laughing. ‘Buenos Noches!’
I turned to my Ceviche, which had been sitting untouched. It was delicious, the fish fresh and lemony, the onions crisp and crunchy, the tomato more fruit than vegetable and all of it perfectly seasoned, just slightly picante. I wolfed it down like it was water on the holy fire rising from my belly.
Francesca brought la cuenta in a little tin cup, ‘Cuando listo.’ ‘Muchas gracias’, I said. Everyone else had gone. Tulum stayed open late, but Bacalar still had an early curfew. The bill looked really low so I tipped 50%.
Jaz and Jay-Z’s ‘Originators’ came on as I got up and walked out onto the street. I decided to leave Sylvia behind and walk back down Calle Cinco. The streets were already quiet, but as I stepped into a little roadside tienda to pick up a fresh pack of cigarettes, I heard Pachuca, the elderly, but large and barrel-chested shopkeeper, singing along to Bob Marley’s ’No Woman No Cry’, the faster studio version from Natty Dread. The vibe was ineffable; I could see the music floating in the air. When I was a kid, I thought ‘No Woman, No Cry’ was kind of a misogynistic anthem encouraging men to not get too deeply involved with women. It was only when I was in high school that my Music Composition teacher enlightened me to the truth that it was Bob telling his Mother not to cry as he left Jamaica for the United States. A total 180! I thought about my own Mother. She was blocked on my phone and I hadn’t talked to her in months. She drove me crazy, but had saved my life many times over. I had been far from perfect, to put it nicely, as a son. I knew she loved me and Bob Marley’s, and, to a lesser extent, Pachuca’s singing made me want to love her back. I decided to give her a call in the morning. ‘Fade Into You’ came on next and I kept walking.
I thought about the other women in my life, sisters, friends and lovers. I still considered myself a feminist, but I had let them all down, in some way or another. I had tried to be a hero, but it seemed that what women, at least the ones that gravitated towards me, really wanted was someone to listen and play a supporting role. When it came to getting serious in relationships, I had always been emotionally unavailable and non-committal, hungry for sex and affection while still secretly hoping I could work things out with Helena for the long-run. I had atoning to do, but I hoped I could be forgiven and rise anew.
I got back to the gate and took out my key to open the door, looking out into the outside world a last time before closing it behind me and proceeding into the hushed property.
I stopped into the bungalow to grab a joint and the speaker from my bedside and walked out to the end of the pier. The laguna was dark, but the sky was alive with glowing stars. I lit up and, as my eyes settled into the depths of space, I saw three streaks of white light flash across the night. Good luck! A cosmic sign! Maybe things would turn out ok after all. I took my phone out and searched for the perfect song to fill the pregnant silence. I thought I heard a splash, maybe even a voice, and looked out into the black water, something was out there…
Suddenly, I was back in the Laguna, confused and surrounded by darkness. Had I never stopped swimming? Had my night out on the town been nothing more than a sweet dream? It had all felt so real. I had tripped hundreds of times before; on high doses I had seen spirits and had visions, but never a total out of body experience. Maybe I really had become schizophrenic. Suddenly my limbs felt leaden and I gasped for breath.
‘Help’, I yelped, ‘I’m gonna die.’ But it was no use. There was no one coming. No one could save me from my cruel, twisted fate. I looked back to from where I thought I had come. I saw a glowing light in the distance, maybe on the end of a pier. I thought of Gatsby staring across the bay, ‘so we beat on boats against the current, borne ceaselessly into the past’ and then I heard a faint voice floating over the water. ‘I lost myself on a cool damp night…’ It was Jeff Buckley’s ‘Lilac Wine’. I couldn’t have soundtracked the moment any better if I was doing it myself, I thought with a wry, resigned smile. I hung on for the chorus, then I slipped beneath the waves.
Alternate Bonus Ending:
I stopped into the bungalow to grab a joint and the speaker from my bedside and walked out to the end of the pier. The laguna was dark, but the sky was alive with glowing stars. I lit up and, as my eyes settled into the depths of space, I saw three streaks of white light flash across the night. Good luck! A cosmic sign! Maybe things would turn out ok after all. I took my phone out and searched for the perfect song to fill the pregnant silence. I thought I heard a splash, maybe even a voice, and looked out into the black water, something was out there…
I strained my eyes to make out the shadowy figure slowly emerging from the unformed darkness, gliding like a phantom sailboat through fog. It was a duck! ...and not just any duck, but Lindo! Then, as suddenly as I had recognized my avian friend, I was in the laguna, looking back at my own self on the pier. I craned my long neck and curled my webbed feet. I was Lindo! I felt no terror, only curiosity as I watched my human figure take a seat, dip his feet in the water and tap the glowing phone in his hand. The gently lilting guitar notes of ‘Kaze Wo Atsumete’ by Happy End filled the air. I recognized the song from Sofia Coppola’s ‘Lost In Translation’, my friend Bo’s favorite movie, and perhaps mine too. At the same time as the tune sounded timeworn and familiar, with Japanese lyrics I had once read translated into English, I felt I was hearing it for the first time. It brought me joy and peace. I quacked in approval. As soon as the track had started, the sky had begun to lighten, even though it should have been many hours til dawn. I had never seen Lindo fly, he was a very large duck after all, but as I unfurled my wings and gently flapped them, I knew it wouldn’t be a problem. I gazed lovingly upon my human form. If nothing else, he had always been a good sport and a friend to nature. He flashed me a peace sign, and then, as the red glow of the sun peeked out over the horizon, I took flight.
DJ Moodring Remix:
I stopped into the bungalow to grab a joint and the speaker from my bedside and walked out to the end of the pier. The laguna was dark, but the sky was alive with glowing stars. I lit up and, as my eyes settled into the depths of space, I saw three streaks of white light flash across the night. Good luck! A cosmic sign! Maybe things would turn out ok after all. I took my phone out and searched for the perfect song to fill the pregnant silence. I thought I heard a splash, maybe even a voice, and looked out into the black water, something was out there…
I strained my eyes to make out the shadowy figure slowly emerging from the unformed darkness, a surfboard with what looked like a duck figurehead on the nose appeared. The figurehead moved its head and quacked at me in delight. It was not a figurehead but a living duck, and not just any living duck, it was Lindo! Behind Lindo was Sisi who was awkwardly paddling on her surfboard barely managing to stay on. She lost her balance and tumbled off the board, along with the big green bag that was balancing on her back. Lindo fluttered off quacking in disapproval.
“Fuck!” She said. “That’s the last time I take this duck to my secret spot.”
“I don’t think he wants another trip,” I said.
I gathered Sisi’s bag and noticed how light it was. I had my fair share of experience with dildos to know that they weren’t in the bag. “Looks like you found your big green bag, sans dildos.”
Sisi looked at me with panic. “They’re not inside?!”
“I don’t need to look. This bag is light. 3 paper clips might be in it but definitely not 3 dildos.”
Lindo quacked. I looked over and floating beside him were the same three streaks of white light I had seen in the sky, but they remained bobbing in the water rhythmically. Just as Sisi and I realized they were the missing dildos, their movement summoned the rhythmic strum of the acoustic guitar from the speaker. I recognized Bob Seger’s “Night Moves.” I thought of the excitement a young Bob felt dancing with the dark-haired, dark-eyed Italian girl who would later break his heart. And then thought of old Bob writing the song, shoring up the exhilarating feeling that was now serenading the Laguna. “I love this song!” Sisi said. Then she looked at me playfully, “Don’t just stand their like a faccia di catzo! Leave the duck, take the dildos. Let’s have some fun.”
