Dead Awake: The Last Crossing (11 page)

There it was on top of me,
dimming the brilliance of the lights in the skies, with all its
artificial color, and blocking out all un-feigned beauty. A sign in
neon-red that crossed the barriers of all language: Cantina! My
feet had managed to take me to the only place where I might forget
myself, and all my troubles, for another while. I knew it would
only be an artificial numbing of my grief, but what did it matter?
I was already pretty drunk anyway, and more would help me forget.
Yes, it would all come back tomorrow, with twice it’s strength, but
for today I could see my island in the sea of ease and glassy
lull.

It was a small cantina, not
at all like the bars in New York. In fact it surprised me to see
the electric sign. The owner must have been doing well enough to
improve on his advertisement strategy. Of course, even in the
poorest of places, you will never find a bartender who goes
hungry.

As I entered, hard smoke and
the smell of liquor, hit my face. There were three barstools and a
couple of tables with rough chairs, but no luxuries. No pool table,
no darts, not even a fan to keep the mosquitoes off; but it didn’t
seem that the mosquitoes were too interested in that crowd anyway.
The men there had very rough features; almost puppet-like: deep,
wrinkled, bulging eyes, with the same international feature that
every wino has, the potbelly.

Their clothes were torn in
different places, but not quite as worn as a bum’s. Angry faces,
probably angry at some other problem like my own, were the popular
expressions. Some were sad, in their own grief, but most of them
were mad at each other.

One of the larger rougher
men spoke out to me in a menacing way.
“Oye che!
We don’ts
like yous Yankees here in our village. Why you no go home to your
own sissy!” I’m sure he meant “city,” but that was excuse enough to
let out my frustrations.

Before I knew it, I was on
top of the man, and we were both on the floor. His forehead was
bleeding from either the impact on the floor, or my fist. I noticed
more details than usual during the fight. Things got
slower.

I don’t know if it was
because of the Spanish alcohol or from the adrenaline. Either way,
twice as strong a man as I was now laying flat on the floor,
getting pounced on. As we fought, the bartender snuck around and
slammed a chair on my back. The impact made me fall back, as the
man under me tried to gain his posture. But I wasn’t about to let
him take the upper hand. Grabbing what was left of the chair (still
in the bartender’s hands), I snatched it and grabbed the
bartender’s throat. With foaming rage, I knocked out the bartender
with one blow square to the temple, and then threw him with my legs
across the bar.

The man on the floor, that
by now was beginning to stand, began to look mean again, so without
measuring the risk, I rushed him headfirst. I’m not sure what the
other three or four people around us were doing, but certainly no
one else was getting involved. My memory after that point is a
little foggy, except that I remember the other man never had a
chance. I was on top of him again, with one fist closed and the
other holding some hard object that had been produced out of
nowhere. I proceeded to thrash upon him with my fist, and gave him
an occasional devastating blow with the hard metal
object.

After two or three of these
hits, the sides of his head were looking like a beaten cantaloupe,
gushing with blood. I suppose one more hit would have killed the
man. Luckily he stirred a little before I gave it to him; and that
made me think he was on his way up in a final attempt to wallop me.
I yelled to deny him his attempt, grabbed his collar (making me let
go of the metal in my hand), and held him pressed against one of
the round pillars that held up the bar.

I wasn’t sure whether to
choke or beat him, and went from one action to the other; insuring
that any attempts at recovery would fail him. Maybe a little more
of this and that would be the end of that man, but he started to
cry just then. I didn’t see it at first, as my fist continued to
land the blows, but it must have registered anyway. I had just
picked up the metal and was about to land the deadly blow, when his
tear fell and it stopped me in the middle of the action. It rolled
down his rough wrinkled face like dew of a dying plant. He couldn’t
have been more than forty, yet his wrinkles were deeper than a man
of sixty, rougher than the leather from the jacket of a
cowboy.

I threw the object from my
hands and screamed to him in anger, shaking him so hard that his
blood sprinkled onto me. “I’m not going to kill you! You hear me!
I’m not going to kill you! You’re going to live, you bastard! I’m
not going to kill you!” I involuntarily slapped him again, although
at this point I no longer was angry towards him. The shock must
have been so scary that it made him start to cry like a little
boy.

I let go of him and went to
pick up the bag I had brought in. Then I went to recover the last
of my Spanish beer, took a sip, and then set it down. (All of this
was done in the coldest of attitudes, that I can scarcely remember
it being me). But then I realized what I was doing and threw the
bottle down. I turned to the bartender and saw him lying (still
unconscious but breathing), and relief ran through me. I sat there
motionless as he regained consciousness and saw me. He tried to
back away and hide under the bar ledge. I just felt sorry and
turned to the other man.

I felt a deep sorrow, as I
looked, and hoped he would be ok. I knew he would, but who can take
back something done out of hate? What can one say to someone
intentionally harmed? In the middle of thrashing them, to realize
you’ve done wrong and just say “sorry”? After such lunacy, what
good could it do? I’m sure he was so scared of me by then that
anything I tried to say would have only made him more terrified. I
didn’t want to see that, or have him beg for mercy like a child, so
I walked out of the cantina without another word to say. And
finally, it was on the way to my room when my humanity hit, so I
started to cry . . .

I must have noticed the
stars and their dance again... I thought about how earlier I had
thought of all those things about them, looking up with a soaked
face, and saw that they were still dancing without the slightest
care to any of my woes. They had gone on, without me, through the
fight and all, and hadn’t even regarded any of it. I thought of how
much worse it was now. It could have been much better if I had just
gone home before.

Then there, on my door as I
approached, hung the wrinkled note. For a second I didn’t know what
it was. But then it hit me. It was the poem I had so eagerly
anticipated earlier; but never received.

Now there it was; soiled and
wrinkled, as if someone had misplaced it, and later stuck it to my
door. Maybe he had lost it, I thought; but when I read it I knew
different. I could give no sympathy for a simple misunderstanding.
The author had merely waited for the entire course of events to
play out, so he could laugh and not warn. It was done on
purpose.

There was a skillfully
buried explanation, in his poem. He had detailed the day so well,
even down to the perfect description of my arrogance as I had
entered the bar. All had been laid out. He had just wanted to wait
till after, so that I could hate him – and I did... I began to hate
the man.

FIGHT

Force feels through me as a vapor of hot steam

Every melting rock of ice is
useless in the struggle

There is no
straining,

Like a whirlwind breaking
wood

Just a smoothing motion of
volcanic clay

Shame they show
resistance

Isn’t as they have a chance
they might be persistent

But as hot masses melt all
will fall to fight

Intelligence, a brass of
work

Freely giving of its
considerable substance

More than muscle of its
own

Arrow of a striking force
with an eye for any target.

If it stood before: now it stands, but penetrated
–

Inhale... It’s
victory!

Was there ever any
doubt?

But you had striking
harmony

The power shot from high –
into your hand

With all the
Fight

There is no Fall

I clasped the note tightly
as tears ran down my face. Again I screamed out to him, because I
was sure he was watching and laughing at me now. “I am not like
that, you bastard! I am not like that! I would not kill a man... I
would not hurt him!”

But as I yelled, the image
of the badly beaten man came to my mind, as a small drop of blood
dripped from off my forehead onto the poem.

I put down my head in shame.
I could no longer shout those words, only whisper them. “I am not
like that... I would not kill... him.” The poem seemed to burn into
my hand as a witness in contrast to those words. It felt as though
it had been written and sent to judge me, and now was pronouncing
that awful verdict on my character; so I spoke to it directly, as a
man would speak to the jury for his defense. I spoke to it, and not
to the man who had written it, as if the poem were an entity of its
own.

“
I am not that way, I tell
you! I will not fight to kill another man.”

I crumbled the paper and
cried for a while on the porch. There was nothing left to do that
could change what had happened, so I went inside to sleep – to wait
for tomorrow. Perhaps a better tomorrow.

CHAPTER 7

Fireflower

The next day came all too
soon and all too miserably. Again, I found myself searching for
some answers that would explain what it was I had done that had
taken it too far – far enough for her not to want me any more. What
had I done that was so wrong?

Still, No matter how much I
tried to justify my actions; my blame, or lack of blame in the
matter, ceased to be important. I could have been in my right all
along, but who cared? I didn’t-any more. What did it matter when
she was no longer there? It didn’t make any sense, any more, to be
in the right. If I said I was sorry and got her back, then by all
means, “Sorry”! What could make my pride break, if my whole soul
was already broken? I couldn’t live without her any more, so who
was I kidding? Fate was fate. I’d have to eventually go over to her
house, beg forgiveness, grovel, and cry madly. But as much as I
wanted to, subduing my ego and pride was a thing that would prove
harder in deed than in thought.

I fought hard at mastering
myself, but felt the grip of fearful pride that held me back, like
a giant hand around my waist. I was scared to face her. Scared as
one would be that has to face someone so mad and try to say you’re
really sorry, especially when that someone might not forgive any
more. No, I couldn’t do it right away.

So I did the next best
thing; I snuck around and spied on her for a while.

Behind bushes and under the
cover of nice large objects dove the dark shadow that watched her
house. I could run fast enough, and close enough, that I could
almost get a peak inside. I had the idea that if I went fast
enough, they wouldn’t be able to see me. It was a ridiculous idea,
but who could get me to see the foolishness in it? The whole day
was exhausted in finding new ways to get closer without being
noticed. I even convinced some guy to lend me his bicycle for a
moment so that I could get an edge in my spy-game.

All the day long I watched,
but never really saw Noelia. One time I got a look in one of the
windows and saw some people there, but it was too fast to get a
good look. None of them were familiar. That was odd. Maybe some
family members were visiting, or some neighbors.

All my pains that day were
in vain, for I never got to see her. What could she be doing? The
curiosity was itching like a nasty fungus. I tried much harder the
next day, and the next, but never got one peek. All the while a
slow paranoia began to spill into my blood. Why was she nowhere to
be seen? And who were all those people? Could it be that she was in
trouble, or maybe hurt?

That thought brought the
first wave of an ocean of anxiety crashing into my head. Later, it
became more menacing and harder to ignore. All day long I spent
looking and worrying; long eyes seeking for some focus through an
open window that was so unkind. And it got the best of me, to the
point that I got careless.

So intense was the urge to
know how Noelia was that I could no longer resist. I made my way
right up to her door and, relentless, I refused to take
precautions. Then I saw an open window. That window! But fear got
the best of me right before I was able to see anything, and lucky
for me, for I would have been discovered.

Not two seconds after I
dashed from the door, a lady came out. I don’t know if she saw me,
but I ran like an escaped convict, and dove into a bush a block
away. The door closed. Apparently the lady hadn’t seen me, but I
couldn’t be sure. It was troubling that she had just gone out,
apparently to do nothing, and then gone back inside. Had she seen
me from inside? It could have been Higinia, but there was no way to
tell, and that made it even more embarrassing. I felt like giving
up and walking my silly little body over to her door, and turn
myself in. I didn’t do it of course, just hid. Not daring to try a
stunt like that again, I sat motionless from within the bush
waiting for a chance to escape. All the while my mind saw fit to
pester me with stories of a girl in trouble. I tried to shrug it
aside, reasoning with myself in distressed conversation.