Welcome to Truckin' my monthly E-Zine. This month's issue includes another Subway Story from me, as well as a pants dropping story from Señor. I chose to share another NaNoWriMo novel sample from Jack Tripper Stole My Dog. So sit back, relax, enjoy, and spread the word! Thanks for all your support! Happy Holidays & Happy New Year! Salukis, McG
1. December Subway Story: Part 1 by Tenzin McGrupp
He sat across from me, with an oversized tattered jacket, and extra bulky pants, probably because he had on at least two pairs of pants, maybe more to keep warm from the bitter December cold. He cradled a ripped, black Glad garbage bag, which apparently contained all his possessions... More
2. I'm Taking Off My Pants! by Señor
Misadventures from the Philippines, Part I: Upon arrival it seemed they were not gonna let me in and upon departure it seemed they were not gonna let me out! Yet the true adventure lies in between. I ignored all warnings from parents, friends and my government and headed off to the Philippines for vacation... More
3. A Phishy Proposal by Tenzin McGrupp
"I cannot believe they got engaged during a Phish show in Las Vegas!" Angela exclaimed, with her wide resplendent eyes reflecting the non-stop twinkle of neon lights in the endless Las Vegas night, as we euphorically walked back to our hotel room... More
4. Jack Tripper Stole My Dog by Tenzin McGrupp
He didn’t know about the engagement. But he knew about Sasha breaking up with Slab after she came home from work early one afternoon and caught Slab having sex with a petite Malaysian girl whom he picked up at the dogrun in Tompkins Square Park... More
5. Pedro's Window by Tenzin McGrupp
Pedro would get up early each morning, before his mother, and even before his grandmother, who’s daily routine began at 5:30 promptly everyday. Pedro would sneak out of his bedroom, the smallest bedroom in the apartment, which he shared with his oldest brother Marcus, who sometimes was passed out from too much cheap rum... More
6. Her Last Christmas Present by Tenzin McGrupp
Her daughter calmly sat at the edge of her bed, as her doelful eyes looked at the small box wrapped up in recycled Santa Claus wrapping paper. She had wondered if her ill seven year old child would make it through the holidays... More
December 24, 2002
December Subway Story... Part 1
By Tenzin McGrupp
16 December 02
He sat across from me, with an oversized tattered jacket, and extra bulky pants, probably because he had on at least two pairs of pants, maybe more to keep warm from the bitter December cold. He cradled a ripped, black Glad garbage bag, which apparently contained all his possessions, and was held together by a few strands of masking tape. He was a tall black man, in his 50s perhaps, with white and grey specks peppering his natty beard. A deep scar ran down his face underneath his left eye, which he kept touching with his hands, covered in an old pair of pink mittens. And he was staring at me, as we both sat across from each other at the end of the subway car. It was 6:25 AM and the No. 1 Train crawled downtown, as I made eye contact with this homeless person.
I quickly sized up the situation and realized I had another subway story.
Before breaking eye contact, I nodded, to acknowledge his existence. Sometimes, I discovered, that when you are in a desperate and dire situation, like most homeless persons are, that being treated with dignity and respect by a stranger far outweighs a couple of dollars from persons whom couldn’t be bothered by a dirty, vile, down and out street person.
I spoke softly, but never breaking eye contact. I explained to the man that I am a writer and I am also the editor of an E-Zine and that I am close to a deadline without a story.
"If you let me interview you for a few minutes, I’ll buy you breakfast and give you a couple of dollars."
"Sure," he said, slightly unexcited, but with a look of trepidation on his face.
"What’s your name?" I asked.
"Joe."
Joe and I shook hands, then exited at Chambers Street and we walked one block to a small diner on the corner. We sat in a small booth, ignoring the strange glances we got from other breakfast patrons, and from the owner, a short balding Greek guy, with an eye patch, who looked like Danny Devito’s twin brother. I imagine that a suit dining with a six foot eight inch tall black homeless man was enough to make the average New Yorker look twice.
Joe was very uncomfortable and felt out of place. He kept staring out the window, as if he were waiting for someone else. He ordered an omelet and some coffee, and I got a bacon and cheese sandwich on a roll. He finished his meal rather quickly, and in between bites I gathered some personal information from Joe. Like he was the youngest of twelve children, growing up in Gary, Indiana, before getting drafted into the Army in 1968 and fought two tours in Vietnam. He floated around from Indianapolis, to Chicago, to Detroit, to eventually Brooklyn, where he married and worked as a mechanic, and supported a wife and two kids as well as a nasty heroin addiction.
"Some days I feel I am where I am because of what I have done to the people in my life."
He spouted this line to me, without making eye contact, as he stared at the middle of his empty plate. It was simple, and honest, and it was as if he pulled the same exact words that I had been thinking out of my head, and offered it up to me, as a pearl of street wisdom.
To be continued...
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from NYC.
16 December 02
He sat across from me, with an oversized tattered jacket, and extra bulky pants, probably because he had on at least two pairs of pants, maybe more to keep warm from the bitter December cold. He cradled a ripped, black Glad garbage bag, which apparently contained all his possessions, and was held together by a few strands of masking tape. He was a tall black man, in his 50s perhaps, with white and grey specks peppering his natty beard. A deep scar ran down his face underneath his left eye, which he kept touching with his hands, covered in an old pair of pink mittens. And he was staring at me, as we both sat across from each other at the end of the subway car. It was 6:25 AM and the No. 1 Train crawled downtown, as I made eye contact with this homeless person.
I quickly sized up the situation and realized I had another subway story.
Before breaking eye contact, I nodded, to acknowledge his existence. Sometimes, I discovered, that when you are in a desperate and dire situation, like most homeless persons are, that being treated with dignity and respect by a stranger far outweighs a couple of dollars from persons whom couldn’t be bothered by a dirty, vile, down and out street person.
I spoke softly, but never breaking eye contact. I explained to the man that I am a writer and I am also the editor of an E-Zine and that I am close to a deadline without a story.
"If you let me interview you for a few minutes, I’ll buy you breakfast and give you a couple of dollars."
"Sure," he said, slightly unexcited, but with a look of trepidation on his face.
"What’s your name?" I asked.
"Joe."
Joe and I shook hands, then exited at Chambers Street and we walked one block to a small diner on the corner. We sat in a small booth, ignoring the strange glances we got from other breakfast patrons, and from the owner, a short balding Greek guy, with an eye patch, who looked like Danny Devito’s twin brother. I imagine that a suit dining with a six foot eight inch tall black homeless man was enough to make the average New Yorker look twice.
Joe was very uncomfortable and felt out of place. He kept staring out the window, as if he were waiting for someone else. He ordered an omelet and some coffee, and I got a bacon and cheese sandwich on a roll. He finished his meal rather quickly, and in between bites I gathered some personal information from Joe. Like he was the youngest of twelve children, growing up in Gary, Indiana, before getting drafted into the Army in 1968 and fought two tours in Vietnam. He floated around from Indianapolis, to Chicago, to Detroit, to eventually Brooklyn, where he married and worked as a mechanic, and supported a wife and two kids as well as a nasty heroin addiction.
"Some days I feel I am where I am because of what I have done to the people in my life."
He spouted this line to me, without making eye contact, as he stared at the middle of his empty plate. It was simple, and honest, and it was as if he pulled the same exact words that I had been thinking out of my head, and offered it up to me, as a pearl of street wisdom.
To be continued...
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from NYC.
I'm Taking Off My Pants!
By Señor
Misadventures from the Philippines, Part I
Upon arrival it seemed they were not gonna let me in and upon departure it seemed they were not gonna let me out! Yet the true adventure lies in between. I ignored all warnings from parents, friends and my government and headed off to the Philippines for vacation. Immigration was brutal! Never before had I been grilled so thoroughly. Everyone before me casually strolled through immigration in 1 to 2 minutes. Twenty minutes after my grilling began I was still answering questions. Why was I entering the Philippines? Where would I be staying? Where would I be going? Why had I spent so much time in Southeast Asia? What is my daily routine in Thailand? Do I have any affiliation with Muslim or Islam? The questions seemed to go on and on. Sweat soaked my entire body. Were they actually not gonna let me in? Finally my passport was stamped and I was on my way.
I didn't exactly know what to expect from Manila so I pre-booked myself into a 5 star hotel. Driving in the air condition-less bus, after that grilling, I was glad that I did. All I was thinking about was a seamless check in and a nice long hot bath. The bus dropped me off close to the hotel and I made a beeline to the entrance. Before I could get through the door the police stopped me. Apparently before entering any building in the Philippines all persons and baggage must be checked. I guess that in a country terrorized by frequent bombings you can't be too careful. My bag passed inspection without incident. I wish I could say the same about my person.
Policeman: "May I see your passport please?"
"Ok, Mr. Señor, please take off your shirt"
"Ok, now Mr. Señor, please take off your pants."
Yes I was getting stripped searched! Usually I am quite happy to take off my pants in public, but somehow this experience didn't live up to the others! There I was in nothing but my underwear! Everyone was staring. Men whistled in jest. Women were awed by the vast amount of my precious body hair. And all I could think was thank god I didn't wear the underwear with shit stains! Oh no, the search was not over yet.
The cop leaned over and whispered into my ear, "Mr. Señor, I will not ask you to remove your underwear in this public place. However for security reasons I must ask you to let me have a peak."
Unbelievable! What do you say to that? My first night in a foreign country? Should I have said fuck off you goddamn pervert? Well I didn't. He peaked and smiled and I dressed and went on my way!
The hotel was truly opulent and the marble bathroom in my room was calling my name. After a long hot bath I settled down a bit and even started to feel pretty good. I decided a good meal was in order. I headed to the food court at the mall next door. Of course I had to go through a metal detector and got frisked, but this time there were no problems. The food court was unbelievably western, filled with KFC, McDonalds, Burger King, Kenny Rogers' Rotisserie, Dunkin' Doughnuts and more! I opted for the Filipino food and ordered the vegetarian special, which consisted of rice with "beef" and pork! This didn't faze me. I was ready for desert. That evening desert was walking around the packed mall and checking out the gorgeous Filipino women.
My luck was about to change for the better. Or so it seemed at the time. Two very hot Filipino women approached me and asked if I would like to join them for coffee. Things were going fine until someone came running toward us, grabbed one of the girl's purses and took off. We chased him and before I knew it literally 10 undercover security guards had caught the culprit. We spent the next hour filling out paper work in the security office. After, the three of us decided that we needed a drink. Normally I don't drink but this night I was fully prepared to make an exception. Off we went.
Four hours later after lots of laughing, dancing and drinking we found ourselves back in my hotel room. I'd noticed there was a lot of touchy feely going on between the two ladies on the dance floor and my excitement about the immediate possibilities was at a peak. I was not disappointed as the ladies began to dirty dance and strip each other. I'm not a big fan of breast implants, but the four breasts standing in front of me were blatantly fake yet perfect! My erection was rock hard and I was ready to join the fun. As I began to caress one's breasts they both removed each other’s pants. To my shock and dismay each of them had an erection as hard as my own! Instantly mine diminished and within five minutes I had the two transvestites out of my room. I must have stayed in the shower for an hour trying to scrub off the filthy feeling that encompassed my entire body. Why must Asian transvestites be so fucking beautiful and ladylike?
All in all it was quite a first night in the Philippines!
Señor is a pants dropper from Samui, Thailand.
Misadventures from the Philippines, Part I
Upon arrival it seemed they were not gonna let me in and upon departure it seemed they were not gonna let me out! Yet the true adventure lies in between. I ignored all warnings from parents, friends and my government and headed off to the Philippines for vacation. Immigration was brutal! Never before had I been grilled so thoroughly. Everyone before me casually strolled through immigration in 1 to 2 minutes. Twenty minutes after my grilling began I was still answering questions. Why was I entering the Philippines? Where would I be staying? Where would I be going? Why had I spent so much time in Southeast Asia? What is my daily routine in Thailand? Do I have any affiliation with Muslim or Islam? The questions seemed to go on and on. Sweat soaked my entire body. Were they actually not gonna let me in? Finally my passport was stamped and I was on my way.
I didn't exactly know what to expect from Manila so I pre-booked myself into a 5 star hotel. Driving in the air condition-less bus, after that grilling, I was glad that I did. All I was thinking about was a seamless check in and a nice long hot bath. The bus dropped me off close to the hotel and I made a beeline to the entrance. Before I could get through the door the police stopped me. Apparently before entering any building in the Philippines all persons and baggage must be checked. I guess that in a country terrorized by frequent bombings you can't be too careful. My bag passed inspection without incident. I wish I could say the same about my person.
Policeman: "May I see your passport please?"
"Ok, Mr. Señor, please take off your shirt"
"Ok, now Mr. Señor, please take off your pants."
Yes I was getting stripped searched! Usually I am quite happy to take off my pants in public, but somehow this experience didn't live up to the others! There I was in nothing but my underwear! Everyone was staring. Men whistled in jest. Women were awed by the vast amount of my precious body hair. And all I could think was thank god I didn't wear the underwear with shit stains! Oh no, the search was not over yet.
The cop leaned over and whispered into my ear, "Mr. Señor, I will not ask you to remove your underwear in this public place. However for security reasons I must ask you to let me have a peak."
Unbelievable! What do you say to that? My first night in a foreign country? Should I have said fuck off you goddamn pervert? Well I didn't. He peaked and smiled and I dressed and went on my way!
The hotel was truly opulent and the marble bathroom in my room was calling my name. After a long hot bath I settled down a bit and even started to feel pretty good. I decided a good meal was in order. I headed to the food court at the mall next door. Of course I had to go through a metal detector and got frisked, but this time there were no problems. The food court was unbelievably western, filled with KFC, McDonalds, Burger King, Kenny Rogers' Rotisserie, Dunkin' Doughnuts and more! I opted for the Filipino food and ordered the vegetarian special, which consisted of rice with "beef" and pork! This didn't faze me. I was ready for desert. That evening desert was walking around the packed mall and checking out the gorgeous Filipino women.
My luck was about to change for the better. Or so it seemed at the time. Two very hot Filipino women approached me and asked if I would like to join them for coffee. Things were going fine until someone came running toward us, grabbed one of the girl's purses and took off. We chased him and before I knew it literally 10 undercover security guards had caught the culprit. We spent the next hour filling out paper work in the security office. After, the three of us decided that we needed a drink. Normally I don't drink but this night I was fully prepared to make an exception. Off we went.
Four hours later after lots of laughing, dancing and drinking we found ourselves back in my hotel room. I'd noticed there was a lot of touchy feely going on between the two ladies on the dance floor and my excitement about the immediate possibilities was at a peak. I was not disappointed as the ladies began to dirty dance and strip each other. I'm not a big fan of breast implants, but the four breasts standing in front of me were blatantly fake yet perfect! My erection was rock hard and I was ready to join the fun. As I began to caress one's breasts they both removed each other’s pants. To my shock and dismay each of them had an erection as hard as my own! Instantly mine diminished and within five minutes I had the two transvestites out of my room. I must have stayed in the shower for an hour trying to scrub off the filthy feeling that encompassed my entire body. Why must Asian transvestites be so fucking beautiful and ladylike?
All in all it was quite a first night in the Philippines!
Señor is a pants dropper from Samui, Thailand.
A Phishy Proposal
By Tenzin McGrupp
29 September 00
Las Vegas
"I cannot believe they got engaged during a Phish show in Las Vegas!" Angela exclaimed, with her wide resplendent eyes reflecting the non-stop twinkle of neon lights in the endless Las Vegas night, as we euphorically walked back to our hotel room.
"And in front of me!" I offered up.
I witnessed the proposal, and although it was not the strangest thing I ever saw at a Phish show, it was the most tender moment I think I ever got to be a part of. The lucky girl was named Stephanie, and she coincidentally lived on Angela’s freshman hall several years earlier, during their college days in Austin. Stephanie’s boyfriend popped the question during the first set of Phish, right in the middle of their cover version of Bob Marley’s "Mellow Mood".
Kyle, was his name, and he was filled with nervous and excited energy that engrossed his entire skinny body. He slowly freaked out before the show started. When his girlfriend went to get a drink, he turned to talk to me and told me everything he’d been planning. Kyle bought the Phish tickets on E-Bay and spent a lot of money, but he felt it was worth it.
"Phish is our most sincere common interest, and was part of the reason we are together, so it’s only fitting that we get engaged at a show. And why not Vegas?"
When he heard the rumors about these shows being part of the last Phish tour before breaking up, he knew it was the time to go for it.
"Relax," I told him, "You have nothing to worry about, that lovely girl would be lucky to have you as her husband!"
I asked him if he had a camera, because I would happily take a picture of their moment.
"Shit!" he yelled, with a look of panic coming over his face, because after months of preparations, his perfect moment would have been ruined by a typical stoner move, as he left his camera on the dresser in his hotel room.
"No worries, bro," I said in a soothing voice. "My friends, have a camera. They will help you out."
I pointed to my Japanese friends, Oki and Tumi, musicians whom I met in Tokyo a few months earlier when I was following Phish in Japan. They came to America to see New York, and to tour several west coast Phish shows with me. And there we all stood, at the back of the crowded floor of a Phish show: me, two Japhans, and a couple soon to be engaged.
I tried to explain to Oki and Tumi what was going to happen in broken Japanese and English. And they understood right away and gave me a camera to get ready for when Kyle was going to pop the question to his girlfriend. I gave him the thumbs up and he smiled.
Before the show began, I chatted with the lovely couple. I found out that we had many similarities. Kyle was from Seattle, and I lived in Seattle. They currently lived in Atlanta, and I also lived there too for several years. Stephanie was a writer for a small newspaper, and I read papers all the time. (Just kidding, I told her I was a writer.) And most of all, she told me that went to the University of Texas.
"UT?" I asked, "Do you know Angela Hayes?"
"That name sounds very familiar," she answered.
I looked around to find Angela, so I could point her out. She was several yards away from me, sitting down with a group of her friends from high school and Austin.
"Yes, I know her! We lived in the same dorm. And she was in one of my writing classes."
The show started and it was the first American Phish show for the Japhans, so they were excited. Since, it’s a Las Vegas show, and I always get worked up when I’m in Vegas, I was definitely excited, as I anxiously focused on waiting for the sign from Kyle.
He waited until the fourth song to propose, then he turned to me told me that it was time. He pulled a small silver box containing the ring out of his pocket and got down on his knee in the middle of the packed, smokey, Thomas and Mack Center, and I was there clicking away taking as many pictures as I could, while Phish played "Mellow Mood".
She said, "Yes!" as she jumped into his arms, and I captured their loving embrace on Oki’s camera.
Then they both hugged me.
During setbreak I found Angela and as I told her the proposal story, small tears of joy rolled off her face. She walked over to the newly engaged couple and hugged them both. They joked about the strange coincidence about how they went to school with each other five years earlier, and didn’t really know each other, but at that exact time, they were meeting again after one of the most special moments in their lives and all because they newly engaged couple happened to be standing next to me, who was smoking up with two zany Japanese guitar playing hippies from Tokyo, at a Phish show in Las Vegas.
"You know," Angela grinned, "for the rest of their lives, they will remember that proposal as one of the brightest and happiest moments of their lives, and you, you McGrupp… you were a part of that."
"Wow, you’re right," I agreed, "But don’t forget the twins."
And as if on cue, Angela turned to look at Oki and Tumi, and they both smiled at her and waved.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
29 September 00
Las Vegas
"I cannot believe they got engaged during a Phish show in Las Vegas!" Angela exclaimed, with her wide resplendent eyes reflecting the non-stop twinkle of neon lights in the endless Las Vegas night, as we euphorically walked back to our hotel room.
"And in front of me!" I offered up.
I witnessed the proposal, and although it was not the strangest thing I ever saw at a Phish show, it was the most tender moment I think I ever got to be a part of. The lucky girl was named Stephanie, and she coincidentally lived on Angela’s freshman hall several years earlier, during their college days in Austin. Stephanie’s boyfriend popped the question during the first set of Phish, right in the middle of their cover version of Bob Marley’s "Mellow Mood".
Kyle, was his name, and he was filled with nervous and excited energy that engrossed his entire skinny body. He slowly freaked out before the show started. When his girlfriend went to get a drink, he turned to talk to me and told me everything he’d been planning. Kyle bought the Phish tickets on E-Bay and spent a lot of money, but he felt it was worth it.
"Phish is our most sincere common interest, and was part of the reason we are together, so it’s only fitting that we get engaged at a show. And why not Vegas?"
When he heard the rumors about these shows being part of the last Phish tour before breaking up, he knew it was the time to go for it.
"Relax," I told him, "You have nothing to worry about, that lovely girl would be lucky to have you as her husband!"
I asked him if he had a camera, because I would happily take a picture of their moment.
"Shit!" he yelled, with a look of panic coming over his face, because after months of preparations, his perfect moment would have been ruined by a typical stoner move, as he left his camera on the dresser in his hotel room.
"No worries, bro," I said in a soothing voice. "My friends, have a camera. They will help you out."
I pointed to my Japanese friends, Oki and Tumi, musicians whom I met in Tokyo a few months earlier when I was following Phish in Japan. They came to America to see New York, and to tour several west coast Phish shows with me. And there we all stood, at the back of the crowded floor of a Phish show: me, two Japhans, and a couple soon to be engaged.
I tried to explain to Oki and Tumi what was going to happen in broken Japanese and English. And they understood right away and gave me a camera to get ready for when Kyle was going to pop the question to his girlfriend. I gave him the thumbs up and he smiled.
Before the show began, I chatted with the lovely couple. I found out that we had many similarities. Kyle was from Seattle, and I lived in Seattle. They currently lived in Atlanta, and I also lived there too for several years. Stephanie was a writer for a small newspaper, and I read papers all the time. (Just kidding, I told her I was a writer.) And most of all, she told me that went to the University of Texas.
"UT?" I asked, "Do you know Angela Hayes?"
"That name sounds very familiar," she answered.
I looked around to find Angela, so I could point her out. She was several yards away from me, sitting down with a group of her friends from high school and Austin.
"Yes, I know her! We lived in the same dorm. And she was in one of my writing classes."
The show started and it was the first American Phish show for the Japhans, so they were excited. Since, it’s a Las Vegas show, and I always get worked up when I’m in Vegas, I was definitely excited, as I anxiously focused on waiting for the sign from Kyle.
He waited until the fourth song to propose, then he turned to me told me that it was time. He pulled a small silver box containing the ring out of his pocket and got down on his knee in the middle of the packed, smokey, Thomas and Mack Center, and I was there clicking away taking as many pictures as I could, while Phish played "Mellow Mood".
She said, "Yes!" as she jumped into his arms, and I captured their loving embrace on Oki’s camera.
Then they both hugged me.
During setbreak I found Angela and as I told her the proposal story, small tears of joy rolled off her face. She walked over to the newly engaged couple and hugged them both. They joked about the strange coincidence about how they went to school with each other five years earlier, and didn’t really know each other, but at that exact time, they were meeting again after one of the most special moments in their lives and all because they newly engaged couple happened to be standing next to me, who was smoking up with two zany Japanese guitar playing hippies from Tokyo, at a Phish show in Las Vegas.
"You know," Angela grinned, "for the rest of their lives, they will remember that proposal as one of the brightest and happiest moments of their lives, and you, you McGrupp… you were a part of that."
"Wow, you’re right," I agreed, "But don’t forget the twins."
And as if on cue, Angela turned to look at Oki and Tumi, and they both smiled at her and waved.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Jack Tripper Stole My Dog
A Novel by Tenzin McGrupp
Here is a second excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
He didn’t know about the engagement. But he knew about Sasha breaking up with Slab after she came home from work early one afternoon and caught Slab having sex with a petite Malaysian girl whom he picked up at the dogrun in Tompkins Square Park. But that wasn’t the worse of it. The girl’s dog was tearing apart one of Sasha’s sketch books, and Slab’s drummer, Yohan, the one-eyed stick handling wonder from Reykjavik, Iceland was embroiled in a severe and fierce masturbating session on their couch, sniffing a pair of Sasha’s dirty underwear, while wearing another pair of her panties on his head.
Sasha was furious and snatched up the Malaysian girl’s pug and tossed it out the fourth floor window of their five story walk up on Avenue B. The poor pooch fell hard and fast to the pavement, almost hitting a delivery man from Sushi World, who dodged the falling dog, and watched as it died instantly when it’s neck broke in four different places upon impact.
But she wasn’t done. She went into bedroom, unnoticed by Slab and his partner, who were engaging in a bizarre sex position that she had never seen. She grabbed the box of condoms that she had bought just the night before. She took them into the bathroom and saw that there were eight or nine left. She poked holes into each of the condoms until she ruined the entire box. When she was done, she stealthily walked past Yohan, still clutching his member, his good eye covered by Sasha’s stained undies. She opened the bedroom door and tossed the box of condoms on the floor and slammed the front door.
When she got downstairs she saw a small, yet curious crowd huddled around the dead canine. She began to laugh and ran rampant down the street and almost knocked over a woman coming out of a boutique, and that’s when she met Amanda from Sydney, Australia. From that moment, the nineteen year old Sasha, poured all her energy into her relationship with the affluent Amanda, who’s family had run into some good fortune selling pizza flavored potato chips in Australia, New Zealand, and all over Southeast Asia.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Here is a second excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
He didn’t know about the engagement. But he knew about Sasha breaking up with Slab after she came home from work early one afternoon and caught Slab having sex with a petite Malaysian girl whom he picked up at the dogrun in Tompkins Square Park. But that wasn’t the worse of it. The girl’s dog was tearing apart one of Sasha’s sketch books, and Slab’s drummer, Yohan, the one-eyed stick handling wonder from Reykjavik, Iceland was embroiled in a severe and fierce masturbating session on their couch, sniffing a pair of Sasha’s dirty underwear, while wearing another pair of her panties on his head.
Sasha was furious and snatched up the Malaysian girl’s pug and tossed it out the fourth floor window of their five story walk up on Avenue B. The poor pooch fell hard and fast to the pavement, almost hitting a delivery man from Sushi World, who dodged the falling dog, and watched as it died instantly when it’s neck broke in four different places upon impact.
But she wasn’t done. She went into bedroom, unnoticed by Slab and his partner, who were engaging in a bizarre sex position that she had never seen. She grabbed the box of condoms that she had bought just the night before. She took them into the bathroom and saw that there were eight or nine left. She poked holes into each of the condoms until she ruined the entire box. When she was done, she stealthily walked past Yohan, still clutching his member, his good eye covered by Sasha’s stained undies. She opened the bedroom door and tossed the box of condoms on the floor and slammed the front door.
When she got downstairs she saw a small, yet curious crowd huddled around the dead canine. She began to laugh and ran rampant down the street and almost knocked over a woman coming out of a boutique, and that’s when she met Amanda from Sydney, Australia. From that moment, the nineteen year old Sasha, poured all her energy into her relationship with the affluent Amanda, who’s family had run into some good fortune selling pizza flavored potato chips in Australia, New Zealand, and all over Southeast Asia.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
By Tenzin McGrupp
Pedro would get up early each morning, before his mother, and even before his grandmother, who’s daily routine began at 5:30 promptly everyday. Pedro would sneak out of his bedroom, the smallest bedroom in the apartment, which he shared with his oldest brother Marcus, who sometimes was passed out from too much cheap rum, or sometimes had not yet come home from wherever he had been partying that night. He would slowly pass his grandmother’s bedroom, carefully listening to make sure she was still snoring, and the surest sign that she was still sleeping. He’d then sneak past his mother’s bedroom, which she shared with his youngest sister, who moved into his mother’s bedroom after his seventeen year old sister, Marta had gotten pregnant by her Driver’s Ed teacher, and gave birth to a set of twins, one sleety January morning while waiting for the bus on 189th Street. If Pedro wanted to get any alone time, in the unusually large four bedroom apartment, but made restricted and cramped when all eight inhabitants were up and screaming and yelling and living the daily drama that happens each sarcastic morning and every appalling night.
Pedro pulled an old chair up to the window in his living room and peered out at the darkened street, which would soon be invaded by the onset of morning. He could hear the faint churning of garbage trucks making their pickups a few blocks away, but aside from that, the street was quiet. Pedro loved sitting in the window and watching what was going on outside. Sometimes he would make up stories about the people he saw walk in and out of the apartment. Especially those folks sauntering in and out at five in the morning.
On many instances, Pedro would watch his brother stumble home from his late night drunkcapades, after he stole a few wallets from idiot tourists gawking at Ground Zero, or picked the pockets of several cell phone yapping, not paying attention to anything 9 to 5ers in Midtown. Sometimes Marcus would be drinking with the superintendent’s wife, Lupe, and she would be carrying him home on her back. She was strong for her size.
Pedro’s dilapidated building had more than it’s fair share of sketchy tenants, whom made their way in life in unhealthy ways. He would see customers come and go, either buying or selling, or getting high, or pushing product, or sometimes he’d see older guys in suits, most recently white guys, in pleasantly tailored suits, and forty dollar haircuts, who’d be coming over at sun up to get their fix as they stopped off in Spanish Harlem from Connecticut en route to the office.
“I’ll be leaving early in the morning, dear, I have a breakfast meeting with our legal department,” as he casually lied to his trophy suburban wife, before he fired up the pipe for a hit of poorly cooked, improperly cut cocaine while sitting on the couch of his drug dealer, then properly medicated, he hastily sauntered next door to have a quickie with the crack whore du jour.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Pedro would get up early each morning, before his mother, and even before his grandmother, who’s daily routine began at 5:30 promptly everyday. Pedro would sneak out of his bedroom, the smallest bedroom in the apartment, which he shared with his oldest brother Marcus, who sometimes was passed out from too much cheap rum, or sometimes had not yet come home from wherever he had been partying that night. He would slowly pass his grandmother’s bedroom, carefully listening to make sure she was still snoring, and the surest sign that she was still sleeping. He’d then sneak past his mother’s bedroom, which she shared with his youngest sister, who moved into his mother’s bedroom after his seventeen year old sister, Marta had gotten pregnant by her Driver’s Ed teacher, and gave birth to a set of twins, one sleety January morning while waiting for the bus on 189th Street. If Pedro wanted to get any alone time, in the unusually large four bedroom apartment, but made restricted and cramped when all eight inhabitants were up and screaming and yelling and living the daily drama that happens each sarcastic morning and every appalling night.
Pedro pulled an old chair up to the window in his living room and peered out at the darkened street, which would soon be invaded by the onset of morning. He could hear the faint churning of garbage trucks making their pickups a few blocks away, but aside from that, the street was quiet. Pedro loved sitting in the window and watching what was going on outside. Sometimes he would make up stories about the people he saw walk in and out of the apartment. Especially those folks sauntering in and out at five in the morning.
On many instances, Pedro would watch his brother stumble home from his late night drunkcapades, after he stole a few wallets from idiot tourists gawking at Ground Zero, or picked the pockets of several cell phone yapping, not paying attention to anything 9 to 5ers in Midtown. Sometimes Marcus would be drinking with the superintendent’s wife, Lupe, and she would be carrying him home on her back. She was strong for her size.
Pedro’s dilapidated building had more than it’s fair share of sketchy tenants, whom made their way in life in unhealthy ways. He would see customers come and go, either buying or selling, or getting high, or pushing product, or sometimes he’d see older guys in suits, most recently white guys, in pleasantly tailored suits, and forty dollar haircuts, who’d be coming over at sun up to get their fix as they stopped off in Spanish Harlem from Connecticut en route to the office.
“I’ll be leaving early in the morning, dear, I have a breakfast meeting with our legal department,” as he casually lied to his trophy suburban wife, before he fired up the pipe for a hit of poorly cooked, improperly cut cocaine while sitting on the couch of his drug dealer, then properly medicated, he hastily sauntered next door to have a quickie with the crack whore du jour.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Her Last Christmas Present
By Tenzin McGrupp
Her daughter calmly sat at the edge of her bed, as her doelful eyes looked at the small box wrapped up in recycled Santa Claus wrapping paper. She had wondered if her ill seven year old child would make it through the holidays, heck, she wondered if she, a single mom working three shitty jobs, had the strength to make it through another horrible holiday season, as she took a swig of her breakfast beverage, orange juice and cheap vodka. Her lonely and dismal thoughts settled down to a slow roar, as her hands trembled as she watched her daughter slowly peel the wrapping paper off of her only gift. Her eyes swelled to tears as her daughter's angelic face changed from distant ambivalence to a cheerful surprise, as she opened the small box and pulled out the necklace.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Her daughter calmly sat at the edge of her bed, as her doelful eyes looked at the small box wrapped up in recycled Santa Claus wrapping paper. She had wondered if her ill seven year old child would make it through the holidays, heck, she wondered if she, a single mom working three shitty jobs, had the strength to make it through another horrible holiday season, as she took a swig of her breakfast beverage, orange juice and cheap vodka. Her lonely and dismal thoughts settled down to a slow roar, as her hands trembled as she watched her daughter slowly peel the wrapping paper off of her only gift. Her eyes swelled to tears as her daughter's angelic face changed from distant ambivalence to a cheerful surprise, as she opened the small box and pulled out the necklace.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
What a Long Strange Trip it's Been...
From the Editor's Laptop:
I am excited for the seventh issue of Truckin'! It's over a half of a year old, and I am surprised it has lasted this long! Not only has the quality of stories been improving since we first started at the beginning of the summer, but this issue has another selection from the NaNoWriMo novel. And of course, Señor shares yet another wild Asian adventure. I realize that this issue was lacking various voices, but I promise January will bring new fresh voices and plenty of more hijinks!
Again, thanks to the writers who spilled their blood and guts this year, and worked hard to meet deadlines to make each and every issue kick ass. I am humbled and proud of all of your efforts!
Please feel free to e-mail this link to your friends, families, co-workers, cellmates, lifemates, etc. Help spread the good word about this site and the writers!
Without your help, Truckin' would be just another boring website!!
If you would like to comment or contact any of the authors, please send an E-mail to: Contact Truckin'
Again thanks for your support! Happy holidaze!
Salukis, McG
"Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself." - Leo Tolstoy
November 26, 2002
November 2002 (Vol.1, Issue 6)
Welcome to Truckin' my monthly E-Zine. This month's issue includes another Subway Story from me, as well as a few recycled Best of Blogs... featuring S.P.U.D. and Labor Day. Our favorite writer, Armando Huerta has recently moved to Greece and shares a cool South American experience. We have two NaNoWriMo Novel samples. November is National Novel Writing Month and this issue includes excerpts from Mona LaVigne who wrote Gysana, an odd erotic story. And take a peek of my selection from my first completed novel: Jack Tripper Stole My Dog. So sit back, relax, enjoy, and spread the word! Thanks for all your support! Salukis, McG
1. November Subway Stories by Tenzin McGrupp
Tuesday Morning 11.5.02... I sat in the far corner of the subway and scribbled through a few pages of my novel that I printed out just before I left my studio... More
2. NaNoWriMo: Gysana: the Novel by Mona LaVigne
…Angelica lit a cigarette. "I, uh, I know you and I have not gotten along all that well over the last year or so. I mean, we have our good moments, for sure, but you know what I mean. We have not had exactly the most friendly relationship. But, I, um, I just want to tell you that I am really grateful to have you around. Gysana…" More
3. NaNoWriMo: Jack Tripper Stole My Dog by Tenzin McGrupp
The flask, nearly 90 years old, originally belonged to a local county Sheriff in Mississippi who was bootlegging moonshine back in the days of prohibition. The flask used to ride shotgun with him as he, and the help of local Klansman, busted up make shift bathtub gins and strong armed rival bootleggers... More
4. Different Customs by Armando Huerta
As an international mutt moving around from country to country on average every three years it has always been an effort for me to say where I am from. Despite my passport since birth, growing up in various countries makes the question of what country in this world I would truly call home a challenge I have yet to overcome... More
5. Flutterbys by Tenzin McGrupp
The unsympathetic flock of butterflies that gregariously invaded her stomach late last night drowned out the somber fall of rain, as it tickled the ill mannered ground with multiple drops of water. As she hastily attempted to light her cigarette, the stifling wind challenged her every time... More
6. Kiss by Mona LaVigne
I watched the neon light flashing, methodical in strict illumination. People walking by, going home to their swank Union Square walk-ups, passing under the brilliant sign, not noticing. How could they miss it? How could they take such a nifty little “one-two-three-four-blinkblinkblink” thing for granted? I certainly couldn’t... More
7. S.P.U.D. by Tenzin McGrupp
We used to play this game called S.P.U.D. and I would throw this ball really high into the air and sometimes the ball would never come down and when that happens it would always be the same situation. The feverish anarchists would cry for their complacent mothers, while the religious right would mutter the WASPy names of their spoiled children, when in doubt, call for your suburban family... More
8. Labor Day by Tenzin McGrupp
2 Sept 2002... It's Labor Day so the empty subway cars would have indicated to me early this morning, when on a Monday unlike any Monday, but today Labor Day, is a wet, cold, and rainy day which welcomed me to an empty subway car and a seat on the A-Train... More
1. November Subway Stories by Tenzin McGrupp
Tuesday Morning 11.5.02... I sat in the far corner of the subway and scribbled through a few pages of my novel that I printed out just before I left my studio... More
2. NaNoWriMo: Gysana: the Novel by Mona LaVigne
…Angelica lit a cigarette. "I, uh, I know you and I have not gotten along all that well over the last year or so. I mean, we have our good moments, for sure, but you know what I mean. We have not had exactly the most friendly relationship. But, I, um, I just want to tell you that I am really grateful to have you around. Gysana…" More
3. NaNoWriMo: Jack Tripper Stole My Dog by Tenzin McGrupp
The flask, nearly 90 years old, originally belonged to a local county Sheriff in Mississippi who was bootlegging moonshine back in the days of prohibition. The flask used to ride shotgun with him as he, and the help of local Klansman, busted up make shift bathtub gins and strong armed rival bootleggers... More
4. Different Customs by Armando Huerta
As an international mutt moving around from country to country on average every three years it has always been an effort for me to say where I am from. Despite my passport since birth, growing up in various countries makes the question of what country in this world I would truly call home a challenge I have yet to overcome... More
5. Flutterbys by Tenzin McGrupp
The unsympathetic flock of butterflies that gregariously invaded her stomach late last night drowned out the somber fall of rain, as it tickled the ill mannered ground with multiple drops of water. As she hastily attempted to light her cigarette, the stifling wind challenged her every time... More
6. Kiss by Mona LaVigne
I watched the neon light flashing, methodical in strict illumination. People walking by, going home to their swank Union Square walk-ups, passing under the brilliant sign, not noticing. How could they miss it? How could they take such a nifty little “one-two-three-four-blinkblinkblink” thing for granted? I certainly couldn’t... More
7. S.P.U.D. by Tenzin McGrupp
We used to play this game called S.P.U.D. and I would throw this ball really high into the air and sometimes the ball would never come down and when that happens it would always be the same situation. The feverish anarchists would cry for their complacent mothers, while the religious right would mutter the WASPy names of their spoiled children, when in doubt, call for your suburban family... More
8. Labor Day by Tenzin McGrupp
2 Sept 2002... It's Labor Day so the empty subway cars would have indicated to me early this morning, when on a Monday unlike any Monday, but today Labor Day, is a wet, cold, and rainy day which welcomed me to an empty subway car and a seat on the A-Train... More
November Subway Stories
By Tenzin McGrupp
Tuesday Morning 11.5.02
I sat in the far corner of the subway and scribbled through a few pages of my novel that I printed out just before I left my studio. I edited the few pages I had written the night before. My fifty-minute subway ride usually goes by faster if I can work on my projects and this morning rush hour was no different.
At the 191st Street stop, a young black guy got on. By his dusty work boots and pair of work gloves flopping out of his back pocket I drew the assumption he was in the construction business. He sat down across from me and was fumbling through his wallet. He pulled out a rolling paper and was laughing, shaking his head from side to side. He opened up a small baggie of marijuana and began to sprinkle his stash onto the rolling paper. He rolled a joint as the subway raced downtown, not caring if anyone on the crowded subway saw what he was doing. As soon as he was finished crafting his morning joint he got up and walked to the back door of the subway and opened it. I thought he was going to go to the next car, but he didn’t. He stood in between both subway cars, and lit up his joint, smoking and puffing until he smoked the entire thing!
I have seen people get high on the subway before, but not at 6:20 AM on a Tuesday morning. He sat back down, with a wide grin on his face. I do not think any of the other passengers realized what he just did. All of them were caught up in their own worlds, the usual subway daze taking over their facial expressions.
Friday Afternoon 11.15.02
I saw the little girl first. She was no older than five or six, and she was holding onto her mother’s hand as she got on the subway. The precious Puerto Rican girl sat down next to me, and her mother sat next to her, and her grandmother sat down next to her mother. Her mother opened up a plastic bag and pulled out two white boxes, the size of a shoebox, with the word "Gracias" in big red letters stamped on all the sides. The logo on the top of the box said Ayala’s Fried Chicken. Before she could open the box I could smell something delicious, what exactly I did not know.
The mother opened the box and I turned my head slightly to the left so I could see what they were eating. The box was filled with French fries. Her grandmother opened her box and it looked like it too was filled with fries. The grandmother began to tear open little ketchup packets. She would use her teeth to bite down and squeeze the ketchup on her fires, and kept repeating the process about eight more times before she ran out of ketchup.
The subway was filled as it made its way downtown from Spanish Harlem, and the family of three ate French fries the entire time. I would glance over occasionally to see the young girl stuffing her mouth with four or five greasy, ketchup soaked fries. The sides of the boxes started staining with huge grease rings and I imagined how much grease they could squeeze out of eat fry, just as the grandmother squeezed out the ketchup.
As the little girl made her way through the greasy box, I noticed the few pieces of golden battered fried shrimp and bright white tartar sauce at the bottom. The grandmother’s old, weathered and wrinkled, scared and bandaged hands drenched in ketchup shook, as she scooped up one shrimp, dipped it twice in the sauce then buried it into her mouth.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Tuesday Morning 11.5.02
I sat in the far corner of the subway and scribbled through a few pages of my novel that I printed out just before I left my studio. I edited the few pages I had written the night before. My fifty-minute subway ride usually goes by faster if I can work on my projects and this morning rush hour was no different.
At the 191st Street stop, a young black guy got on. By his dusty work boots and pair of work gloves flopping out of his back pocket I drew the assumption he was in the construction business. He sat down across from me and was fumbling through his wallet. He pulled out a rolling paper and was laughing, shaking his head from side to side. He opened up a small baggie of marijuana and began to sprinkle his stash onto the rolling paper. He rolled a joint as the subway raced downtown, not caring if anyone on the crowded subway saw what he was doing. As soon as he was finished crafting his morning joint he got up and walked to the back door of the subway and opened it. I thought he was going to go to the next car, but he didn’t. He stood in between both subway cars, and lit up his joint, smoking and puffing until he smoked the entire thing!
I have seen people get high on the subway before, but not at 6:20 AM on a Tuesday morning. He sat back down, with a wide grin on his face. I do not think any of the other passengers realized what he just did. All of them were caught up in their own worlds, the usual subway daze taking over their facial expressions.
Friday Afternoon 11.15.02
I saw the little girl first. She was no older than five or six, and she was holding onto her mother’s hand as she got on the subway. The precious Puerto Rican girl sat down next to me, and her mother sat next to her, and her grandmother sat down next to her mother. Her mother opened up a plastic bag and pulled out two white boxes, the size of a shoebox, with the word "Gracias" in big red letters stamped on all the sides. The logo on the top of the box said Ayala’s Fried Chicken. Before she could open the box I could smell something delicious, what exactly I did not know.
The mother opened the box and I turned my head slightly to the left so I could see what they were eating. The box was filled with French fries. Her grandmother opened her box and it looked like it too was filled with fries. The grandmother began to tear open little ketchup packets. She would use her teeth to bite down and squeeze the ketchup on her fires, and kept repeating the process about eight more times before she ran out of ketchup.
The subway was filled as it made its way downtown from Spanish Harlem, and the family of three ate French fries the entire time. I would glance over occasionally to see the young girl stuffing her mouth with four or five greasy, ketchup soaked fries. The sides of the boxes started staining with huge grease rings and I imagined how much grease they could squeeze out of eat fry, just as the grandmother squeezed out the ketchup.
As the little girl made her way through the greasy box, I noticed the few pieces of golden battered fried shrimp and bright white tartar sauce at the bottom. The grandmother’s old, weathered and wrinkled, scared and bandaged hands drenched in ketchup shook, as she scooped up one shrimp, dipped it twice in the sauce then buried it into her mouth.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Gysana: The Novel
A Novel by Mona LaVigne
This is an excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
...Angelica lit a cigarette. "I, uh, I know you and I have not gotten along all that well over the last year or so. I mean, we have our good moments, for sure, but you know what I mean. We have not had exactly the most friendly relationship. But, I, um, I just want to tell you that I am really grateful to have you around. Gysana…" her voice trailed off again and she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her sobs. "Mitchell Reinhardt, I am just glad you are here to help raise this child. And no matter what happens, I wanted to say, you know, thanks."
Mitchell Reinhardt did not know what to say to her little speech. His mind was being ripped in a million different directions, the most prominent of which was, of course, guilt. He still could not believe that he had been so sloppy as to let Tamra, that little bitch babysitter, walk off with Gysana. And all because his dick had taken control of his mind. He had to stand there and talk to that woman, Cheryl (even though she WAS pretty hot) and let Tamra take his daughter and go to get ice cream. Had she even gotten ice cream? Or had she just taken Gysana and run? Or had the two of them been kidnapped, maybe? Whatever the case, no matter the circumstance, it had been his fault. It seemed to Mitchell Reinhardt that most of the mistakes and accidents in his life had been the direct result of stupidity in terms of his genitals…
It began at midnight on his thirteenth birthday. His mother, in a heroin-induced stupor, had passed out after the Carvel cake had been served, and his father had decided to take him to a brothel on the seedier side of town.
"Son," he had said when they were standing outside the front door to the unmarked building, "there comes a point in every boy’s life when it is time for him to become a man." Mitchell Reinhardt had looked at his father in that same innocent way that all boys look at their fathers when they are not making any real sense. "This is your time, kiddo."
They had arrived at the whorehouse and Mitchell Reinhardt, trembling with both fear and excitement, had his first sexual encounter with Miranda, a tall, buxom blonde who said she was from Los Angeles. It had been quick and painless. Painless, that is, until about a week later, when Mitchell Reinhardt developed a strange burning sensation whenever he would urinate, which also seemed to be with more frequency than usual. Of course, a quick shot or three of antibiotics took care of that, and once the discomfort passed, he remembered how good it had felt to be inside a woman. For the whole time he was in high school, he had sex with no fewer than fifteen women. A few of them were younger than he was, some of them were his age, but most of them were older. Much older, in fact. There had been Mrs. Hamilton, his biology teacher, who had offered to help him out with some "extra credit" homework. There was Mrs. Larimer, his next door neighbor’s mother. She had been paying him to mow her lawn twice a month in the summer. One day, after seeing him shirtless, sweaty, and dirty, she coyly invited him in for lemonade. Mitchell Reinhardt was not too bright, especially at the age he was then, and fell for her trap like a bee to a sweet, sweet flower. He came into some unfortunate times after having sex with Mrs. Larimer.
About three weeks after their first encounter, and about five hours after their twelfth encounter, Mitchell Reinhardt woke up in the middle of the night, only to find himself face to face with the business end of Mr. Larimer’s 12-gauge shotgun. Terribly afraid of having his brains splattered all over his cowboys and indians bed linens, he pleaded with Mr. Larimer to spare his life. "I’ll do anything you want, sir, please!" he had begged. Not a wise thing to say, he thought to himself five minutes after uttering the words, as he strained his neck with Mr. Larimer’s cock in his mouth and the cool steel of the shotgun leaving a wicked mark on the middle of his forehead. So many years, so much trouble into which he had gotten due to his libido. The worst (and best) of which had been with Mia. No, he did not really care about her, and yes, he had, in fact, murdered her in cold blood in the local state park while she held their baby in her arms (while she was breast feeding, no less). But he felt that for all the errors he had made with his cock, the one good thing, Gysana, his baby girl, made the others seem both incredibly trivial and extremely worthwhile.
Mona LaVigne is a writer from New York City.
This is an excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
...Angelica lit a cigarette. "I, uh, I know you and I have not gotten along all that well over the last year or so. I mean, we have our good moments, for sure, but you know what I mean. We have not had exactly the most friendly relationship. But, I, um, I just want to tell you that I am really grateful to have you around. Gysana…" her voice trailed off again and she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her sobs. "Mitchell Reinhardt, I am just glad you are here to help raise this child. And no matter what happens, I wanted to say, you know, thanks."
Mitchell Reinhardt did not know what to say to her little speech. His mind was being ripped in a million different directions, the most prominent of which was, of course, guilt. He still could not believe that he had been so sloppy as to let Tamra, that little bitch babysitter, walk off with Gysana. And all because his dick had taken control of his mind. He had to stand there and talk to that woman, Cheryl (even though she WAS pretty hot) and let Tamra take his daughter and go to get ice cream. Had she even gotten ice cream? Or had she just taken Gysana and run? Or had the two of them been kidnapped, maybe? Whatever the case, no matter the circumstance, it had been his fault. It seemed to Mitchell Reinhardt that most of the mistakes and accidents in his life had been the direct result of stupidity in terms of his genitals…
It began at midnight on his thirteenth birthday. His mother, in a heroin-induced stupor, had passed out after the Carvel cake had been served, and his father had decided to take him to a brothel on the seedier side of town.
"Son," he had said when they were standing outside the front door to the unmarked building, "there comes a point in every boy’s life when it is time for him to become a man." Mitchell Reinhardt had looked at his father in that same innocent way that all boys look at their fathers when they are not making any real sense. "This is your time, kiddo."
They had arrived at the whorehouse and Mitchell Reinhardt, trembling with both fear and excitement, had his first sexual encounter with Miranda, a tall, buxom blonde who said she was from Los Angeles. It had been quick and painless. Painless, that is, until about a week later, when Mitchell Reinhardt developed a strange burning sensation whenever he would urinate, which also seemed to be with more frequency than usual. Of course, a quick shot or three of antibiotics took care of that, and once the discomfort passed, he remembered how good it had felt to be inside a woman. For the whole time he was in high school, he had sex with no fewer than fifteen women. A few of them were younger than he was, some of them were his age, but most of them were older. Much older, in fact. There had been Mrs. Hamilton, his biology teacher, who had offered to help him out with some "extra credit" homework. There was Mrs. Larimer, his next door neighbor’s mother. She had been paying him to mow her lawn twice a month in the summer. One day, after seeing him shirtless, sweaty, and dirty, she coyly invited him in for lemonade. Mitchell Reinhardt was not too bright, especially at the age he was then, and fell for her trap like a bee to a sweet, sweet flower. He came into some unfortunate times after having sex with Mrs. Larimer.
About three weeks after their first encounter, and about five hours after their twelfth encounter, Mitchell Reinhardt woke up in the middle of the night, only to find himself face to face with the business end of Mr. Larimer’s 12-gauge shotgun. Terribly afraid of having his brains splattered all over his cowboys and indians bed linens, he pleaded with Mr. Larimer to spare his life. "I’ll do anything you want, sir, please!" he had begged. Not a wise thing to say, he thought to himself five minutes after uttering the words, as he strained his neck with Mr. Larimer’s cock in his mouth and the cool steel of the shotgun leaving a wicked mark on the middle of his forehead. So many years, so much trouble into which he had gotten due to his libido. The worst (and best) of which had been with Mia. No, he did not really care about her, and yes, he had, in fact, murdered her in cold blood in the local state park while she held their baby in her arms (while she was breast feeding, no less). But he felt that for all the errors he had made with his cock, the one good thing, Gysana, his baby girl, made the others seem both incredibly trivial and extremely worthwhile.
Mona LaVigne is a writer from New York City.
Jack Tripper Stole My Dog
A Novel by Tenzin McGrupp
Here is an excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
The flask, nearly 90 years old, originally belonged to a local county Sheriff in Mississippi who was bootlegging moonshine back in the days of prohibition. The flask used to ride shotgun with him as he, and the help of local Klansman, busted up make shift bathtub gins and strong armed rival bootleggers. It was his to fill with his grandmother Justine’s famous moonshine until after World War II, when he lost it in a crooked poker game to an Army Drill Sergeant who cheated the Sheriff out of three hundred and forty six dollars and walked away with all his money, his Stetson hat, and his flask.
The flask did not stay in the hands of the Drill Sergeant for very long. The very next night he was shot dead by a milkman who came home early to ironically catch his wife in bed with another man, that man being the Drill Sergeant. He got shot in the back by the disgruntled milkman, and decided to shoot his wife as well. After urinating on the dead naked bodies of the Drill Sergeant and his wife, the milkman went through the Drill Sergeant’s clothes, stole his pocket watch, his money, and flask. He also stole his car and headed to Atlanta.
The Milkman's two Mississippi murders were just the beginning of one the worst crime and murder sprees ever recorded in the post World War II American South. He killed twice more in Mississippi, heading east through Alabama, where he murdered and raped three college students in Mobile, before striking again near Montgomery, where he held hostage and terrorized a group of nuns in a small farmhouse. The Milkman repeatedly sodomized and tortured the nuns in true Draconian fashion, before he eventually shot all of them, one by one, face down in the ground, their cries muffled by hay shoved into their mouths, their silent prayers to God going unanswered.
Next up on the Milkman’s mayhem of a route was Georgia. One night as a young man dropped off his girlfriend at her house, the Milkman followed him home and savagely killed and dismembered the popular, Buck Applewhite, an all-state football player at Emory University in Atlanta. Buck was the "Golden Boy of Emory," an academic all-American in two sports, the 1946 Heisman Trophy runner-up, and President of the Local Chapter of the Association of Atlanta Birdwatchers. He was the quick witted, handsome, laconic son of the mayor and richest man in Lilburn, Georgia, the white haired sage, the honorable Dr. Les Applewhite. Dr. Applewhite was crushed by the news of the murder of his only son, whom he had been grooming to become a future Governor of Georgia.
The news of the tragic and senseless murder of Buck Applewhite prompted the largest manhunt ever in the history of Georgia. Unable to find or catch the real murderer, the "Milkman Serial Killer", had baffled and eluded the local police. The incompetent bunch of inbred misfits couldn’t even catch a cold, let alone a serial killer. They buckled under intense pressure from the Mayor and the media, and they were desperate.
The local district attorney, himself concerned with the poor media attention his office was getting, devised a scheme to save his job, the reputation of his town, and ease the pain of his friend and cousin, Dr. Applewhite. The district attorney railroaded and framed a young black man. The patsy was a drifter from Oxford, Mississippi, called Latrell Johnson. Evidence was fabricated, false witnesses were paid off, and the fix was in. The all white jury in Lilburn unanimously voted that Latrell Johnson was guilty of murdering Buck Applewhite, and the judge, Harry Applewhite, also a cousin of Mayor Applewhite, handed down a swift sentence: death by hanging.
Latrell Johnson was hung later that month, and the Milkman Serial Killer knew he got off without a hitch so he headed north to Virginia, and got a job teaching English to reform school kids. A year later, while visiting a whore house in Richmond, his flask was stolen by one of the girls, Bubbles, a charming, self destructing, petite, curly haired nymph from Texas. She held onto it for thirty more years.
Not much is known about the time the flask was with Bubbles. She herself was an odd mystery, but it is known that she was a call girl for fifteen years in Virginia before she married a truck driver and moved to Memphis where she attend dog grooming college. She stashed away the flask in an old box in her garage, and it wasn’t until her death in 1976, that her adopted son, Reginald, found the flask while going through her things. He was frantically looking for something to sell to feed his thirty dollar a day heroin addiction. He took the flask to his drug dealer, the Reverend Henry James, and traded it for a small hit of Mexican black tar.
Reverend Henry James, a black minister at the Christ Episcopal Church outside of Memphis, was a former special operations soldier in Vietnam. He served for seven years and participated in the Phoenix Assassination program, where the CIA had arranged, funded and approved of the deaths of thousands of men and women whom they deemed were dangerous individuals and posed a threat to the national security of the United States and it’s allies, so they approved of the extermination of politicians, secular leaders, military men, intelligence officers, spies, and journalists all over South East Asia, in Cambodia, Thailand, North and South Vietnam, Laos, and Indonesia.
The Revered Henry James soon found God after his thorny time in Vietnam. He also found a solid opium and heroin connection, thanks to his friends in Air America, civilian pilots on the CIA payroll who ran guns, money and dope in and out of South East Asia, during and after the Vietnam War. He became a wealthy man importing heroin and built no less than sixteen churches in Tennessee, Kentucky, North Carolina, and Florida.
The Reverend Henry James never did drugs. He smoked marijuana three times a day, but he didn’t do real drugs. He refused to touch the stuff he was selling. He loved to drink more so than smoke pot. He held onto the flask for several more years after trading some smack for it, sipping Jim Beam out of it everyday. He loved and cherished the flask, and held it so close to his heart that in fact that the paramedics had to remove it from him when they had to quickly try to revive him after he passed out in the middle of a prayer service during Easter Sunday mass.
One of the paramedics stole the flask and his wife took it to the pawn shop one morning after they ran into financial difficulties. It had been sitting in the pawn shop for four hundred thirty-five days...
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Here is an excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
The flask, nearly 90 years old, originally belonged to a local county Sheriff in Mississippi who was bootlegging moonshine back in the days of prohibition. The flask used to ride shotgun with him as he, and the help of local Klansman, busted up make shift bathtub gins and strong armed rival bootleggers. It was his to fill with his grandmother Justine’s famous moonshine until after World War II, when he lost it in a crooked poker game to an Army Drill Sergeant who cheated the Sheriff out of three hundred and forty six dollars and walked away with all his money, his Stetson hat, and his flask.
The flask did not stay in the hands of the Drill Sergeant for very long. The very next night he was shot dead by a milkman who came home early to ironically catch his wife in bed with another man, that man being the Drill Sergeant. He got shot in the back by the disgruntled milkman, and decided to shoot his wife as well. After urinating on the dead naked bodies of the Drill Sergeant and his wife, the milkman went through the Drill Sergeant’s clothes, stole his pocket watch, his money, and flask. He also stole his car and headed to Atlanta.
The Milkman's two Mississippi murders were just the beginning of one the worst crime and murder sprees ever recorded in the post World War II American South. He killed twice more in Mississippi, heading east through Alabama, where he murdered and raped three college students in Mobile, before striking again near Montgomery, where he held hostage and terrorized a group of nuns in a small farmhouse. The Milkman repeatedly sodomized and tortured the nuns in true Draconian fashion, before he eventually shot all of them, one by one, face down in the ground, their cries muffled by hay shoved into their mouths, their silent prayers to God going unanswered.
Next up on the Milkman’s mayhem of a route was Georgia. One night as a young man dropped off his girlfriend at her house, the Milkman followed him home and savagely killed and dismembered the popular, Buck Applewhite, an all-state football player at Emory University in Atlanta. Buck was the "Golden Boy of Emory," an academic all-American in two sports, the 1946 Heisman Trophy runner-up, and President of the Local Chapter of the Association of Atlanta Birdwatchers. He was the quick witted, handsome, laconic son of the mayor and richest man in Lilburn, Georgia, the white haired sage, the honorable Dr. Les Applewhite. Dr. Applewhite was crushed by the news of the murder of his only son, whom he had been grooming to become a future Governor of Georgia.
The news of the tragic and senseless murder of Buck Applewhite prompted the largest manhunt ever in the history of Georgia. Unable to find or catch the real murderer, the "Milkman Serial Killer", had baffled and eluded the local police. The incompetent bunch of inbred misfits couldn’t even catch a cold, let alone a serial killer. They buckled under intense pressure from the Mayor and the media, and they were desperate.
The local district attorney, himself concerned with the poor media attention his office was getting, devised a scheme to save his job, the reputation of his town, and ease the pain of his friend and cousin, Dr. Applewhite. The district attorney railroaded and framed a young black man. The patsy was a drifter from Oxford, Mississippi, called Latrell Johnson. Evidence was fabricated, false witnesses were paid off, and the fix was in. The all white jury in Lilburn unanimously voted that Latrell Johnson was guilty of murdering Buck Applewhite, and the judge, Harry Applewhite, also a cousin of Mayor Applewhite, handed down a swift sentence: death by hanging.
Latrell Johnson was hung later that month, and the Milkman Serial Killer knew he got off without a hitch so he headed north to Virginia, and got a job teaching English to reform school kids. A year later, while visiting a whore house in Richmond, his flask was stolen by one of the girls, Bubbles, a charming, self destructing, petite, curly haired nymph from Texas. She held onto it for thirty more years.
Not much is known about the time the flask was with Bubbles. She herself was an odd mystery, but it is known that she was a call girl for fifteen years in Virginia before she married a truck driver and moved to Memphis where she attend dog grooming college. She stashed away the flask in an old box in her garage, and it wasn’t until her death in 1976, that her adopted son, Reginald, found the flask while going through her things. He was frantically looking for something to sell to feed his thirty dollar a day heroin addiction. He took the flask to his drug dealer, the Reverend Henry James, and traded it for a small hit of Mexican black tar.
Reverend Henry James, a black minister at the Christ Episcopal Church outside of Memphis, was a former special operations soldier in Vietnam. He served for seven years and participated in the Phoenix Assassination program, where the CIA had arranged, funded and approved of the deaths of thousands of men and women whom they deemed were dangerous individuals and posed a threat to the national security of the United States and it’s allies, so they approved of the extermination of politicians, secular leaders, military men, intelligence officers, spies, and journalists all over South East Asia, in Cambodia, Thailand, North and South Vietnam, Laos, and Indonesia.
The Revered Henry James soon found God after his thorny time in Vietnam. He also found a solid opium and heroin connection, thanks to his friends in Air America, civilian pilots on the CIA payroll who ran guns, money and dope in and out of South East Asia, during and after the Vietnam War. He became a wealthy man importing heroin and built no less than sixteen churches in Tennessee, Kentucky, North Carolina, and Florida.
The Reverend Henry James never did drugs. He smoked marijuana three times a day, but he didn’t do real drugs. He refused to touch the stuff he was selling. He loved to drink more so than smoke pot. He held onto the flask for several more years after trading some smack for it, sipping Jim Beam out of it everyday. He loved and cherished the flask, and held it so close to his heart that in fact that the paramedics had to remove it from him when they had to quickly try to revive him after he passed out in the middle of a prayer service during Easter Sunday mass.
One of the paramedics stole the flask and his wife took it to the pawn shop one morning after they ran into financial difficulties. It had been sitting in the pawn shop for four hundred thirty-five days...
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Different Customs
By Armando Huerta
As an international mutt moving around from country to country on average every three years it has always been an effort for me to say where I am from. Despite my passport since birth, growing up in various countries makes the question of what country in this world I would truly call home a challenge I have yet to overcome.
This was never the case with my father. Having lived in Bolivia up until he left in his mid-twenties to continue his post-grad education abroad he clearly and completely considered himself a Bolivian. He had actually incurred the wrath of his family by not only never coming back to live there but also marrying a blond haired, green eyed Brazilian bombshell without their approval. Many was a time when my widowed aunt, deciding my sister was the weakest link of the three children, would pull her onto her black clad lap and try to convince her that if she aided in my parents getting a divorce we could all live happily with her in La Paz.
While that, thankfully, never happened, we did, as a family, make an annual pilgrimage to Bolivia so that my father’s family (8 aunts and uncles and more cousins than I can possibly count or remember) could survey us, laugh at our clothes and accents and serve us food so spicy I would often start crying at the table (I was one of those spoiled fat cry-babies).
As is the custom with old school Latin families, the patriarch was the oldest sibling, in this case my uncle Jorge. Trust me, no one could assume the role better than he. Along with his piercing blue eyes he had a no bullshit demeanor gleaned from years in the air force where he eventually was made a general. Many a times he’d march me around the yard correcting my posture and telling me to suck in my stomach. Needless to say, that combined with the altitude sickness I experienced every single time we landed in La Paz, made trips to Bolivia fall very low on my wish list.
His imposing manner did help out from time to time however. Bolivia, in that era under a military regime, was a closed economy where electronics were prohibitively expensive and scarce. As such, we would arrive packed like gypsies, carrying not only gifts but also fulfilled shopping lists which were mostly comprised of VCRs, walkmans and Casio recorders. You could see the customs agents wetting their lips and salivating when we’d leave baggage claim, their minds registering the bribes and confiscated goods they’d bring home that day transforming their humble abodes into a delinquent mall. Alas, they did not reckon facing my uncle. The minute he would see a customs agent making a motion to stop us he’d leap over the railing screaming bloody murder and waving his military ID. The agent would become petrified as my uncle would threaten him with a beating, life imprisonment and the deflowering of his prettiest daughter. This behavior used to mortify me, while at the same time I must admit, thrill me as the gates would open and we’d be escorted out of customs by kowtowing customs agents mumbling their apologies. My uncle always appreciated the humor of those moments and would laugh the whole way to hotel, pantomiming the horrified faces the agents made as he careened down the highway from the La Paz airport immune to police…. above the law.
Armando Huerta is a writer living in Athens, Greece.
As an international mutt moving around from country to country on average every three years it has always been an effort for me to say where I am from. Despite my passport since birth, growing up in various countries makes the question of what country in this world I would truly call home a challenge I have yet to overcome.
This was never the case with my father. Having lived in Bolivia up until he left in his mid-twenties to continue his post-grad education abroad he clearly and completely considered himself a Bolivian. He had actually incurred the wrath of his family by not only never coming back to live there but also marrying a blond haired, green eyed Brazilian bombshell without their approval. Many was a time when my widowed aunt, deciding my sister was the weakest link of the three children, would pull her onto her black clad lap and try to convince her that if she aided in my parents getting a divorce we could all live happily with her in La Paz.
While that, thankfully, never happened, we did, as a family, make an annual pilgrimage to Bolivia so that my father’s family (8 aunts and uncles and more cousins than I can possibly count or remember) could survey us, laugh at our clothes and accents and serve us food so spicy I would often start crying at the table (I was one of those spoiled fat cry-babies).
As is the custom with old school Latin families, the patriarch was the oldest sibling, in this case my uncle Jorge. Trust me, no one could assume the role better than he. Along with his piercing blue eyes he had a no bullshit demeanor gleaned from years in the air force where he eventually was made a general. Many a times he’d march me around the yard correcting my posture and telling me to suck in my stomach. Needless to say, that combined with the altitude sickness I experienced every single time we landed in La Paz, made trips to Bolivia fall very low on my wish list.
His imposing manner did help out from time to time however. Bolivia, in that era under a military regime, was a closed economy where electronics were prohibitively expensive and scarce. As such, we would arrive packed like gypsies, carrying not only gifts but also fulfilled shopping lists which were mostly comprised of VCRs, walkmans and Casio recorders. You could see the customs agents wetting their lips and salivating when we’d leave baggage claim, their minds registering the bribes and confiscated goods they’d bring home that day transforming their humble abodes into a delinquent mall. Alas, they did not reckon facing my uncle. The minute he would see a customs agent making a motion to stop us he’d leap over the railing screaming bloody murder and waving his military ID. The agent would become petrified as my uncle would threaten him with a beating, life imprisonment and the deflowering of his prettiest daughter. This behavior used to mortify me, while at the same time I must admit, thrill me as the gates would open and we’d be escorted out of customs by kowtowing customs agents mumbling their apologies. My uncle always appreciated the humor of those moments and would laugh the whole way to hotel, pantomiming the horrified faces the agents made as he careened down the highway from the La Paz airport immune to police…. above the law.
Armando Huerta is a writer living in Athens, Greece.
Flutterbys
By Tenzin McGrupp
10.16.02
The unsympathetic flock of butterflies that gregariously invaded her stomach late last night drowned out the somber fall of rain, as it tickled the ill mannered ground with multiple drops of water. As she hastily attempted to light her cigarette, the stifling wind challenged her every time. Aggravated, she looked out into the distance, and her detachment from her somber thoughts were quickly enticed by the splitter splatter sounds of the rain hitting random objects. Tilting her head, she strained to see a cat stealthily walking alongside the road, dodging the cheerless droplets and side stepping soggy puddles. The gloomy cat froze as the hypnotic headlights of an oncoming car shattered the dark road and lit up the murky ground where the cat now stood. Anchored to its territory, the overconfident cat stood its ground and growled. The reckless car, gaining speed, had no intentions of slowing down or stopping. She wanted to scream out and say something, to the cat or the driver, but a blanket of indecision had been cast over her. A rattling amnesia reverberated throughout her complete body. Without blinking she saw a bright flash of lighting, then heard a clasp of thunder, as the cat pounced left to avoid the car, only to jump right into the path. As the car disappeared and the rain continued to fall, she could not see any good signs of hope, the lifeless carcass helplessly pancaked on the trivial road. Slipping out of her brief paralysis, with her skeletal hands shaking and her doleful eyes glazed with fury, she finally got her cigarette to light. She scornfully smoked and carefully listened to the curtailed remainder of her last zealous symphony.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
10.16.02
The unsympathetic flock of butterflies that gregariously invaded her stomach late last night drowned out the somber fall of rain, as it tickled the ill mannered ground with multiple drops of water. As she hastily attempted to light her cigarette, the stifling wind challenged her every time. Aggravated, she looked out into the distance, and her detachment from her somber thoughts were quickly enticed by the splitter splatter sounds of the rain hitting random objects. Tilting her head, she strained to see a cat stealthily walking alongside the road, dodging the cheerless droplets and side stepping soggy puddles. The gloomy cat froze as the hypnotic headlights of an oncoming car shattered the dark road and lit up the murky ground where the cat now stood. Anchored to its territory, the overconfident cat stood its ground and growled. The reckless car, gaining speed, had no intentions of slowing down or stopping. She wanted to scream out and say something, to the cat or the driver, but a blanket of indecision had been cast over her. A rattling amnesia reverberated throughout her complete body. Without blinking she saw a bright flash of lighting, then heard a clasp of thunder, as the cat pounced left to avoid the car, only to jump right into the path. As the car disappeared and the rain continued to fall, she could not see any good signs of hope, the lifeless carcass helplessly pancaked on the trivial road. Slipping out of her brief paralysis, with her skeletal hands shaking and her doleful eyes glazed with fury, she finally got her cigarette to light. She scornfully smoked and carefully listened to the curtailed remainder of her last zealous symphony.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Kiss
By Mona LaVigne
6*25*02
I watched the neon light flashing, methodical in strict illumination. People walking by, going home to their swank Union Square walk-ups, passing under the brilliant sign, not noticing. How could they miss it? How could they take such a nifty little “one-two-three-four-blinkblinkblink” thing for granted? I certainly couldn’t. Sitting on the cool park bench, Jonah’s hand on my knee, all I could see was that blinking neon light.
“Didja mean what you said?” Jonah whispered, his lips grazing my ear.
(three-four-blinkblinkblink)
I turned to face him.
Jonah, Jonah. Six-years Jonah. Musician Jonah. Smoking Weed In The Park On A Sunday Afternoon Jonah. Over the last four years I had been wondering “Where? What? How?” about him and now we were reunited, sitting on a bench under a rain-filled tree.
I stared at his lips, the same lips at which I had stared for the last time nearly five years ago, wondering the same thing as I was now. Will he? Does he sense that I don’t have the balls to do it? Now that I’ve told him what I had be too scared to tell him for the last six years (over dinner, no less, in a restaurant safe haven), now that it was out in the open, would he finally do it? “I’m totally in love with you and I want to fuck the shit out of you.” What did it mean to him, my confession? I had expended my guts for the evening, and now maybe it was his turn to take a risk. The blinking neon light twitched in my peripheral vision (one-two-three) and Jonah’s question hung thick in the air. Nose to nose, his hot breath on my chin, his moist lips glistening the faint orange-yellow-blue reflection of the flashing neon, I lifted my eyes to his.
“Yes. I meant every word.”
And like every perfect mid-afternoon masturbation fantasy I’d ever had, Jonah’s fingertips slid over my jaw, his thumbs grazing past my eyes, his hands curling behind my ears, and brought his mouth to mine.
When the first kiss is second nature, you know you’re in trouble.
When you’ve been dreaming and writing a kiss forever, there’s always a pretty good chance that it’s not going to live up to your expectations. In fact, you might almost surmise that it won’t so you won’t be let down. Well, how the fuck do you deal when it goes so much better than you had ever imagined? Then it’s all blown! When Jonah kissed me, I could feel my insides dissolving -- a smallpox-ian smooch.
Jonah’s best feature is his laugh. I ended the kiss almost reluctantly, just so he would smile and laugh, which he did, and my head started to spin. He rested his forehead against mine, and in typical female fashion, I said,
“You kiss really well.”
“Really?” he replied, “I always thought I was a bad kisser.”
I shook my head. “Nope. You kiss like me.”
As if to test the theory, he tipped his chin toward me and slipped his tongue into my mouth. Silenced, I could not say what I really wanted to say, and instead the words trickled out from the corner of my mouth in a vibration. The tree above us shook and the wet came down like a new storm.
Mona LaVigne is a former adult film star from Montreal, Canada.
6*25*02
I watched the neon light flashing, methodical in strict illumination. People walking by, going home to their swank Union Square walk-ups, passing under the brilliant sign, not noticing. How could they miss it? How could they take such a nifty little “one-two-three-four-blinkblinkblink” thing for granted? I certainly couldn’t. Sitting on the cool park bench, Jonah’s hand on my knee, all I could see was that blinking neon light.
“Didja mean what you said?” Jonah whispered, his lips grazing my ear.
I turned to face him.
Jonah, Jonah. Six-years Jonah. Musician Jonah. Smoking Weed In The Park On A Sunday Afternoon Jonah. Over the last four years I had been wondering “Where? What? How?” about him and now we were reunited, sitting on a bench under a rain-filled tree.
I stared at his lips, the same lips at which I had stared for the last time nearly five years ago, wondering the same thing as I was now. Will he? Does he sense that I don’t have the balls to do it? Now that I’ve told him what I had be too scared to tell him for the last six years (over dinner, no less, in a restaurant safe haven), now that it was out in the open, would he finally do it? “I’m totally in love with you and I want to fuck the shit out of you.” What did it mean to him, my confession? I had expended my guts for the evening, and now maybe it was his turn to take a risk. The blinking neon light twitched in my peripheral vision (one-two-three) and Jonah’s question hung thick in the air. Nose to nose, his hot breath on my chin, his moist lips glistening the faint orange-yellow-blue reflection of the flashing neon, I lifted my eyes to his.
“Yes. I meant every word.”
And like every perfect mid-afternoon masturbation fantasy I’d ever had, Jonah’s fingertips slid over my jaw, his thumbs grazing past my eyes, his hands curling behind my ears, and brought his mouth to mine.
When the first kiss is second nature, you know you’re in trouble.
When you’ve been dreaming and writing a kiss forever, there’s always a pretty good chance that it’s not going to live up to your expectations. In fact, you might almost surmise that it won’t so you won’t be let down. Well, how the fuck do you deal when it goes so much better than you had ever imagined? Then it’s all blown! When Jonah kissed me, I could feel my insides dissolving -- a smallpox-ian smooch.
Jonah’s best feature is his laugh. I ended the kiss almost reluctantly, just so he would smile and laugh, which he did, and my head started to spin. He rested his forehead against mine, and in typical female fashion, I said,
“You kiss really well.”
“Really?” he replied, “I always thought I was a bad kisser.”
I shook my head. “Nope. You kiss like me.”
As if to test the theory, he tipped his chin toward me and slipped his tongue into my mouth. Silenced, I could not say what I really wanted to say, and instead the words trickled out from the corner of my mouth in a vibration. The tree above us shook and the wet came down like a new storm.
Mona LaVigne is a former adult film star from Montreal, Canada.
S.P.U.D.
By Tenzin McGrupp
We used to play this game called S.P.U.D. and I would throw this ball really high into the air and sometimes the ball would never come down and when that happens it would always be the same situation. The feverish anarchists would cry for their complacent mothers, while the religious right would mutter the WASPy names of their spoiled children, when in doubt, call for your suburban family. The voice of reason said very little to me and to my useless mind, as it just sat there in steps and inside all the lunch boxes of the greatest small little garages, where burnt pink and jealous green cars would park side by side in parallel lines, their passengers decked out in the latest Eastern Euro-trash fashions of all sorts and sizes from places we never heard of like Grinsk and Sholjpe and that other obscure place called Helgrinistan. Sometime during the last night of our monthly security meetings, I lost sight of my mission. The gatherings were held by the dried up river, which used to belong to the green people, where they danced in the archaic moonlight until the sun rose. At that point they realized that yes, they too were the only ones who would walk inside the last orbital path of the mighty comet, whose destination lay forth to colliding with our unsettling planet, Earth, where we all just sit, dumbfounded as we stare at the last ship off the solid rock. Alas the bananas and the Olive trees stand still in the fierce winds of the hurricanes. The angry parents tow their children and drag their dogs with chain links, and the tires on their cars are very soiled with dirt and dust from mid-western tourists, who wash their mall bought shoes against their wallets. I sit and I wonder why oh why do all these people sit for hours on end, watching the TV box, and stare and do nothing. There is so much slack around that it kills me. Where is that inner motivation? Our burbs are filled with no drive, nothing to satisfy the insatiable cries of the nice politicians whom live in those glass and golden homes in places like Vail and Simi Valley, as they sip Vodka Martinis and proclaim, "Hey we must get together for the next trip to Hamptons, oh indeed!"
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
We used to play this game called S.P.U.D. and I would throw this ball really high into the air and sometimes the ball would never come down and when that happens it would always be the same situation. The feverish anarchists would cry for their complacent mothers, while the religious right would mutter the WASPy names of their spoiled children, when in doubt, call for your suburban family. The voice of reason said very little to me and to my useless mind, as it just sat there in steps and inside all the lunch boxes of the greatest small little garages, where burnt pink and jealous green cars would park side by side in parallel lines, their passengers decked out in the latest Eastern Euro-trash fashions of all sorts and sizes from places we never heard of like Grinsk and Sholjpe and that other obscure place called Helgrinistan. Sometime during the last night of our monthly security meetings, I lost sight of my mission. The gatherings were held by the dried up river, which used to belong to the green people, where they danced in the archaic moonlight until the sun rose. At that point they realized that yes, they too were the only ones who would walk inside the last orbital path of the mighty comet, whose destination lay forth to colliding with our unsettling planet, Earth, where we all just sit, dumbfounded as we stare at the last ship off the solid rock. Alas the bananas and the Olive trees stand still in the fierce winds of the hurricanes. The angry parents tow their children and drag their dogs with chain links, and the tires on their cars are very soiled with dirt and dust from mid-western tourists, who wash their mall bought shoes against their wallets. I sit and I wonder why oh why do all these people sit for hours on end, watching the TV box, and stare and do nothing. There is so much slack around that it kills me. Where is that inner motivation? Our burbs are filled with no drive, nothing to satisfy the insatiable cries of the nice politicians whom live in those glass and golden homes in places like Vail and Simi Valley, as they sip Vodka Martinis and proclaim, "Hey we must get together for the next trip to Hamptons, oh indeed!"
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Labor Day
By Tenzin McGrupp
2 Sept 2002
It's Labor Day so the empty subway cars would have indicated to me early this morning, when on a Monday unlike any Monday, but today Labor Day, is a wet, cold, and rainy day which welcomed me to an empty subway car and a seat on the A-Train. Of course I am the only one I know going to work at the early hour, aside from the subway conductor, who is already on the job, in fact I sat and pondered writing this blog in his office, as it screeched and crawled its way down to the tip of Manhattan Island. Alas, I arrived to work not as rushed as you would expect on a wet Monday morning. The humid and testy temperatures of early August have retreated and been replaced with sporadic wet and damp weather, a splash of the Pacific Northwest, with East Coast attitude, and a tinge on the cold side with a nice cold spell that this overheated and rundown city welcomed gleefully with open arms. My arrival at work was more relaxed than normal, even my attire was less than the usual suit and tie. It felt like a weekend morning at the firm, the lights were all out, only a few computers were up and running, the trading floor did not smell like the typical morning office, with the pungent aroma of gourmet coffee and the scrumcious smells of fresh baked pastries and the occasional wafting of anticipatory greed. Not this morning. The office was empty, because nearly all the French staff were returning from Europe from their summer end two week holiday, and the locals were at home, or elsewhere relaxing for the Labor Day holiday. But I get stuck working these days, but I enjoy the empty trading floor, me alone in my trench, secluded from the next trench by rows of electronic screens, equipment, and data processing information bombarding all my external senses. I sit down check my messages, read my e-mail, and read all the recent news updates from Europe, Asia, the Middle East, Africa, then South America. Same shit really. War looms in Kashmir. Famine in Angola. Rebellion in Sierra Leone. Poverty in all of Central Africa. Economic Crisis in South America. Death in the Gaza Strip. Genocide in East Timor. Weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. Terrorism in Sweden. And Posh Spice had a baby. Same old shit, eh? I'll enjoy this peaceful day while it lasts.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
2 Sept 2002
It's Labor Day so the empty subway cars would have indicated to me early this morning, when on a Monday unlike any Monday, but today Labor Day, is a wet, cold, and rainy day which welcomed me to an empty subway car and a seat on the A-Train. Of course I am the only one I know going to work at the early hour, aside from the subway conductor, who is already on the job, in fact I sat and pondered writing this blog in his office, as it screeched and crawled its way down to the tip of Manhattan Island. Alas, I arrived to work not as rushed as you would expect on a wet Monday morning. The humid and testy temperatures of early August have retreated and been replaced with sporadic wet and damp weather, a splash of the Pacific Northwest, with East Coast attitude, and a tinge on the cold side with a nice cold spell that this overheated and rundown city welcomed gleefully with open arms. My arrival at work was more relaxed than normal, even my attire was less than the usual suit and tie. It felt like a weekend morning at the firm, the lights were all out, only a few computers were up and running, the trading floor did not smell like the typical morning office, with the pungent aroma of gourmet coffee and the scrumcious smells of fresh baked pastries and the occasional wafting of anticipatory greed. Not this morning. The office was empty, because nearly all the French staff were returning from Europe from their summer end two week holiday, and the locals were at home, or elsewhere relaxing for the Labor Day holiday. But I get stuck working these days, but I enjoy the empty trading floor, me alone in my trench, secluded from the next trench by rows of electronic screens, equipment, and data processing information bombarding all my external senses. I sit down check my messages, read my e-mail, and read all the recent news updates from Europe, Asia, the Middle East, Africa, then South America. Same shit really. War looms in Kashmir. Famine in Angola. Rebellion in Sierra Leone. Poverty in all of Central Africa. Economic Crisis in South America. Death in the Gaza Strip. Genocide in East Timor. Weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. Terrorism in Sweden. And Posh Spice had a baby. Same old shit, eh? I'll enjoy this peaceful day while it lasts.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
What a Long Strange Trip it's Been...
From the Editor's Laptop:
I am excited for the sixth issue of Truckin'! It's a half of a year old, and I am surprised it has lasted this long! Not only has the quality of stories been improving since we first started at the beginning of the summer, but this issue has selections from NaNoWriMo novels. Thanks to the vision of the Truckin' staff, we were able to peek into the minds of two novelists and a hearty Bolivian story from Armando. I realize that this issue was lacking various voices, but I promise December & January will bring new fresh voices and plenty of more hijinks!
Again, thanks to the writers who spilled their blood and guts, and worked hard to meet deadlines to make the November issue kick ass. I am humbled and proud of all of your efforts!
Please feel free to e-mail this link to your friends, families, co-workers, cellmates, lifemates, etc. Help spread the good word about this site and the writers!
Without your help, Truckin' would be just another boring website!!
If you would like to comment or contact any of the authors, please send an E-mail to: Contact Truckin'
Again thanks for your support!
Salukis, McG
"Imagination is the voice of daring." - Henry Miller
October 24, 2002
October 2002 (Vol.1, Issue 5)
Welcome to Truckin' my monthly E-Zine. This month's issue includes two Thai stories from Señor. Our favorite writer, Armando Huerta has recently moved to Greece and shares an early morning experience. Jessica E. Lapidus submitted a bit on her cross country drive and getting stuck in Nebraska. Lori Blandford returns with an essay on why we travel. Mona LaVigne wrote Gysana, an odd erotic story. Newcomer Nathan West opens the door to a back room experience from San Fran. And, yours truly, Tenzin McGrupp wrote four stories for this issue, spinning personal tales from Amsterdam, Vancouver, Texas, and Jamaica. So sit back, relax, enjoy, and spread the word! Thanks for all your support! Salukis, McG• Jake's Beer by Tenzin McGrupp
• Nebraska by Jessica E. Lapidus
• Les Halles a la Grecque by Armando Huerta
• Gysana by Mona LaVigne
• Monday Morning, Montego Bay by Tenzin McGrupp
• Busted by Señor
• Why Do I Travel? by Lori Blandford
• Goodbye Pussycats! by Tenzin McGrupp
• Back Room, San Francisco by Nathan West
• Loveless Sex AND Sexless Love by Señor
• Tela & Cheese Sandwich by Tenzin McGrupp
Jake's Beer
By Tenzin McGrupp © 2002
We lost Jake somewhere after dropping the second hit and just before the third hit of liquid acid. Angela didn’t seem overly concerned. She just kept smiling and announced in her lazy central Texas drawl, "We’ll find him, when we find him."
"I’m sure we will. But in what condition and where?"
Jake is not your typical irrational psychotic, suburbia angst ridden, prescription drug stealing, green-haired dreadlocked narcoleptic, monkey smelling freak from Nowhereyouheardof, Oregon. He’s got a bad fucked up side too. And whenever we foolishly leave Seattle to go to Vancouver, something always goes wrong and once again, the frenetic Cannuck air must have triggered something in that shriveled head of his. One second he was standing right behind me showing me a picture of Tito Puente in a elf costume, and then gone! Vanished, disappeared. Leaving me in a house of young MDMA snorting castoffs and rejects from the local skater club, kicked out because they could NOT skate, but look the part, so they desperately keep on living the lifestyle. Street kids feverishly sucked in by the relentless undertow of the massive waves of Americana that simultaneously wash up on the shores of countries worldwide with sad sour faces and simple sponge brains soaking up every tasteless commercial and swallowing one MTV-Hollyweird shit sandwich after another, destined to helplessly accept their slack oriented, consumer spoon fed lives in Mooseland. A scrappy bunch of future hooligans and statistics, a few of them, the most coherent of the lot, were eagerly trying to sell me bunk pharmies, a pathetic attempt to hustle a Hustler, that I chuckle at and brushed aside like an old house fly on it’s last heroic flight before death. Amateurs. Skater kids substituting freshly swiped over the counter diet pills and passing them off as Percosets. Fourth grade stunts. Skater genius number three forgot to wipe off the DEXI-THIN logo on his stash.
"Didn’t get that e-mail, eh?" As I make a swatting gesture, nearly setting his backward baseball hat straight.
"What are you talkin’ aboot, eh? These are good Percs, eh!"
"Great, Gretzky, keep ‘em for yourselves."
I quickly snag Angela before one of those half pint pinheads drags her off and forces her to drink a beer, spiked with a bad combo of cough medicine and the drug du jour, the date rape drug of the week, what ever Mack from the docks sells them that day. Oh, you bet it works. Ask around. Works real well on the plaid wearing "wild" and "liberal" girls from the local Catholic high school.
After driving around for a while, in circles around downtown Vancouver, going nowhere in particular, I decided to go see Tako. We were on our way to her loft in the first place, until Jake took us off the path on nothing more than a bad drug deal, never worth an ounce of discussion ever again. To hell with Jake.
Tako has a calm and soothing effect on people. Her loft is also her studio where she paints elaborate flags and wind socks. She’s having a dinner party for some of her friends and we were very late, as is.
Tako didn’t answer the door. I rang the bell several times and there was no answer. Tako’s studio is in a not so good part of Vancouver. Old Chinatown is less Chinese these days and more Vietnamese and Laotian. Her place is located above an old laundromat that sometimes dubs as a low profile spot to conduct a few shady drug deals. Nothing big time, a few bags of commercial British Columbia homegrown nugs or a few stems of magic mushrooms from time to time, maybe even a Happy Pill or too. Nothing more, just your local, casual potheads, the art poseurs and former American pension stealing, stock option selling dottcommers, looking for refuge north of the border.
I ring the crusty doorbell again. No answer. Angela turns the handle and the large metal door opens. She gives me a funny, but playful look and I follow her inside, up a long cast iron stairwell. The delicious sounds of early American Jazz standards are echoing its way into my ears, and the pungent smells of high-grade kind buds, mixed with stale aroma of cigarettes and cheap rum tickle my nose hairs and bumps of geese flock to my arms.
Her studio is dark, except for a few candles and green Christmas lights that illuminate the walls. A group of people is sitting at the table making hand shadows and sipping fruity cocktail drinks with those cheesy tiny pink umbrellas and Tako is standing on her couch showing someone a large photography book. She looks up and sees us, and in one motion, jumps down off her couch and hugs Angela.
"I’m so glad you finally made it. We were starting to worry, maybe you got stopped at the border!"
"Jake," I maffled, with a tight scowl on my face.
"I figured. Here’s maybe this will calm you down."
Tako hands us a small dish with three delicious mini chocolate chip muffins sparking with liquid Sunshine and calling out to us.
"They are extra special. I’ve had one after dinner, and I was waiting until you guys to come to give you your treats."
Angela and I looked at one another and snatch up a muffin each. With one left I say, "Fuck Jake," and popped the last and my second muffin. Tako and Angela saunter off like two cats and start talking about something I’m not interested in. The green lights are casting odd shadows on the ground and ceiling as I walk into the kitchen to get a Molson. I drink down a quick gulp, and realize there was something peculiar about Tako’s refrigerator. Before leaving the kitchen, I take another gulp of beer, slowly open up Tako’s fridge in dramatic Hitchcockian fashion and close it quickly, with the excitement pumping my heart faster, the sweat soaking my hand and fingers. Holy fucknuts! I chug the rest of my beer open up the fridge and yell out, "Jake what the fuck are you doing in there?"
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
We lost Jake somewhere after dropping the second hit and just before the third hit of liquid acid. Angela didn’t seem overly concerned. She just kept smiling and announced in her lazy central Texas drawl, "We’ll find him, when we find him."
"I’m sure we will. But in what condition and where?"
Jake is not your typical irrational psychotic, suburbia angst ridden, prescription drug stealing, green-haired dreadlocked narcoleptic, monkey smelling freak from Nowhereyouheardof, Oregon. He’s got a bad fucked up side too. And whenever we foolishly leave Seattle to go to Vancouver, something always goes wrong and once again, the frenetic Cannuck air must have triggered something in that shriveled head of his. One second he was standing right behind me showing me a picture of Tito Puente in a elf costume, and then gone! Vanished, disappeared. Leaving me in a house of young MDMA snorting castoffs and rejects from the local skater club, kicked out because they could NOT skate, but look the part, so they desperately keep on living the lifestyle. Street kids feverishly sucked in by the relentless undertow of the massive waves of Americana that simultaneously wash up on the shores of countries worldwide with sad sour faces and simple sponge brains soaking up every tasteless commercial and swallowing one MTV-Hollyweird shit sandwich after another, destined to helplessly accept their slack oriented, consumer spoon fed lives in Mooseland. A scrappy bunch of future hooligans and statistics, a few of them, the most coherent of the lot, were eagerly trying to sell me bunk pharmies, a pathetic attempt to hustle a Hustler, that I chuckle at and brushed aside like an old house fly on it’s last heroic flight before death. Amateurs. Skater kids substituting freshly swiped over the counter diet pills and passing them off as Percosets. Fourth grade stunts. Skater genius number three forgot to wipe off the DEXI-THIN logo on his stash.
"Didn’t get that e-mail, eh?" As I make a swatting gesture, nearly setting his backward baseball hat straight.
"What are you talkin’ aboot, eh? These are good Percs, eh!"
"Great, Gretzky, keep ‘em for yourselves."
I quickly snag Angela before one of those half pint pinheads drags her off and forces her to drink a beer, spiked with a bad combo of cough medicine and the drug du jour, the date rape drug of the week, what ever Mack from the docks sells them that day. Oh, you bet it works. Ask around. Works real well on the plaid wearing "wild" and "liberal" girls from the local Catholic high school.
After driving around for a while, in circles around downtown Vancouver, going nowhere in particular, I decided to go see Tako. We were on our way to her loft in the first place, until Jake took us off the path on nothing more than a bad drug deal, never worth an ounce of discussion ever again. To hell with Jake.
Tako has a calm and soothing effect on people. Her loft is also her studio where she paints elaborate flags and wind socks. She’s having a dinner party for some of her friends and we were very late, as is.
Tako didn’t answer the door. I rang the bell several times and there was no answer. Tako’s studio is in a not so good part of Vancouver. Old Chinatown is less Chinese these days and more Vietnamese and Laotian. Her place is located above an old laundromat that sometimes dubs as a low profile spot to conduct a few shady drug deals. Nothing big time, a few bags of commercial British Columbia homegrown nugs or a few stems of magic mushrooms from time to time, maybe even a Happy Pill or too. Nothing more, just your local, casual potheads, the art poseurs and former American pension stealing, stock option selling dottcommers, looking for refuge north of the border.
I ring the crusty doorbell again. No answer. Angela turns the handle and the large metal door opens. She gives me a funny, but playful look and I follow her inside, up a long cast iron stairwell. The delicious sounds of early American Jazz standards are echoing its way into my ears, and the pungent smells of high-grade kind buds, mixed with stale aroma of cigarettes and cheap rum tickle my nose hairs and bumps of geese flock to my arms.
Her studio is dark, except for a few candles and green Christmas lights that illuminate the walls. A group of people is sitting at the table making hand shadows and sipping fruity cocktail drinks with those cheesy tiny pink umbrellas and Tako is standing on her couch showing someone a large photography book. She looks up and sees us, and in one motion, jumps down off her couch and hugs Angela.
"I’m so glad you finally made it. We were starting to worry, maybe you got stopped at the border!"
"Jake," I maffled, with a tight scowl on my face.
"I figured. Here’s maybe this will calm you down."
Tako hands us a small dish with three delicious mini chocolate chip muffins sparking with liquid Sunshine and calling out to us.
"They are extra special. I’ve had one after dinner, and I was waiting until you guys to come to give you your treats."
Angela and I looked at one another and snatch up a muffin each. With one left I say, "Fuck Jake," and popped the last and my second muffin. Tako and Angela saunter off like two cats and start talking about something I’m not interested in. The green lights are casting odd shadows on the ground and ceiling as I walk into the kitchen to get a Molson. I drink down a quick gulp, and realize there was something peculiar about Tako’s refrigerator. Before leaving the kitchen, I take another gulp of beer, slowly open up Tako’s fridge in dramatic Hitchcockian fashion and close it quickly, with the excitement pumping my heart faster, the sweat soaking my hand and fingers. Holy fucknuts! I chug the rest of my beer open up the fridge and yell out, "Jake what the fuck are you doing in there?"
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Nebraska
By Jessica E. Lapidus © 2002
The sun was setting in The Middle of Nowhere. The Jeep’s right rear tire lay exhausted on the ground next to me while the bare break drum bearing one-quarter of the car’s weight groaned against the pavement. The tire had had a slow leak since Sacramento, and I had been stopping every 250-or-so miles to fill it. I was in a rush to get out of Nebraska, because as I was approaching the central part of the state, a handsome young man in a Pinto rolled up alongside me and yelled,
"Your tire’s low!"
and frantically waved at the back of my car. I got off at the next exit and stared at my tire, which stared back at me, depressed and sad. It was getting dark so I hastened to remove the deflated tire and replace it with the donut. The Jeep was loaded with bags and boxes containing my entire life, and when I was ready to put on the donut, there was not enough room between the brake drum and the pavement. I looked skeptically at the jack. I was sure that it was taking all it could with the 4,000 pounds on top of it, but I took a deep breath and cranked it once…twice…a third tenuous time and…SMASH!! The Jeep and all it’s weight came crashing down on the exit ramp, the brake drum actually bounced a few times before settling.
A trail of ear-scorching expletives came out of my mouth, and I even surprised myself with my own vulgarity. Looking over the highway, I saw that there were no cars, no people, nothing. I was decidedly in the middle of nowhere.
Gingerly opening the back of the Jeep, I began to look for the flashlight as the sky quickly turned from lavender to dark blue, but became quickly deflated as I realized it was buried under some bags. I walked around the car a few times, checking the signal on my cell phone, and one tiny dot told me that it was a lost cause. The stripped jack lay buried under the car, which was looking weaker by the second. My watch read 8:15 PM, and my stomach warned me that it was time for dinner. Feeling the familiar sting of tears behind my eyes, I noticed a glimmering pair of headlights coming off the exit. Nebraska State Police. I started jumping up and down, frantically waving my arms until I had been spotted. The officer parked next to me and as he approached, his platinum buzz-cut and bright blue eyes shining, I tucked my Star of David pendant into my shirt.
"Good evening, sir," I said, running my hands through my hair.
"Good evening, miss. A little car trouble?"
Talking way too fast, I told him about the tire and the stripped jack, the brake drum slamming against the pavement, and about the last 200 miles I had driven from Denver, Colorado to this small town in Bumblefuck, USA.
"Where am I?" I asked, as the cop reached into his trunk and retrieved an industrial strength car jack.
"Giltner, Nebraska."
We made small talk about cross-country travel and Jeep Cherokees as he jacked up my car and I helped him to ease on the donut. Thoughts of the three ounces of Humboldt’s Finest in my glove compartment flitted around my brain like the lightning bugs zipping through the thick, humid air.
When the car was stable, the officer wished me well and pointed me to an auto repair shop in Aurora, about 10 miles away. I thanked him and got on my way, eager to get my tire repaired, knowing that I would not get too far in a two-ton vehicle riding on three wheels and a 13-year old donut.
When I arrived in Aurora it was 10:00 PM and the auto repair shop was the only thing open. A mulleted man, almost too closely resembling Jake "The Snake" Roberts (who had died some months earlier) patched and attached my tire for $15.
"How far to Lincoln?" I asked, swatting moths from my head.
"Oh, a little ways," he replied, lighting my cigarette and then his own.
"Like…how a ways?"
"About 75 miles or so."
I glanced at my watch. It was 10:45. I groaned along with my stomach.
"You could get there in less than an hour if you know how to drive, miss."
I thanked Jake "The Snake" (as he would henceforth be called in all my recollections), and got on the road. The speed limit in Nebraska is 65 miles per hour. I took the empty highway at 85, some fuzzy country tunes blaring from my busted stereo.
When I arrived in Lincoln, Nebraska it was 11:30. For a capital city and college town, it appeared to be abandoned. I sang along with "Pink Houses" as I drove under the lights of factories in the downtown area. I found a hotel on the outskirts of town, checked in, and drove down the street to the Village Inn, the midwest’s answer to Denny’s. It was 1:00 AM and they were putting up the chairs in the non-smoking section. I found a booth on the other side, ordered a cup of coffee and a grilled cheese with tomato. As I lit a cigarette, two teenage girls walked in, dressed to the midwestern nines in silver and purple dresses, their streaked hair teased beyond the Aqua Net Corporation’s wildest dreams. They sat down in front of me and I watched one of them order a bacon cheeseburger, cheese fries, and a pot of coffee. I watched her simultaneously smoke and eat as I inhaled my grilled cheese with tomato. The acne-faced waiter never brought my ketchup, but instead flirted with the teenage girls. By eavesdropping I learned that it was prom night, and they were just getting a quick bite before heading out to another party where there would be beer. The girl in the silver dress was lamenting her evening to her friend, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Man, I want a beer so bad. And I’m fucking pissed off."
She shoved a handful of cheese fries in her mouth, washed them down with a gulp of coffee, and took a drag of her cigarette, all at the same time.
"I mean, man, it’s, like, the biggest night of my entire life, and I can’t even have a beer."
She took a bite of her bacon cheeseburger.
"I can’t wait to get this baby outta me so I can have a fucking beer."
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer originally from New York City.
The sun was setting in The Middle of Nowhere. The Jeep’s right rear tire lay exhausted on the ground next to me while the bare break drum bearing one-quarter of the car’s weight groaned against the pavement. The tire had had a slow leak since Sacramento, and I had been stopping every 250-or-so miles to fill it. I was in a rush to get out of Nebraska, because as I was approaching the central part of the state, a handsome young man in a Pinto rolled up alongside me and yelled,
"Your tire’s low!"
and frantically waved at the back of my car. I got off at the next exit and stared at my tire, which stared back at me, depressed and sad. It was getting dark so I hastened to remove the deflated tire and replace it with the donut. The Jeep was loaded with bags and boxes containing my entire life, and when I was ready to put on the donut, there was not enough room between the brake drum and the pavement. I looked skeptically at the jack. I was sure that it was taking all it could with the 4,000 pounds on top of it, but I took a deep breath and cranked it once…twice…a third tenuous time and…SMASH!! The Jeep and all it’s weight came crashing down on the exit ramp, the brake drum actually bounced a few times before settling.
A trail of ear-scorching expletives came out of my mouth, and I even surprised myself with my own vulgarity. Looking over the highway, I saw that there were no cars, no people, nothing. I was decidedly in the middle of nowhere.
Gingerly opening the back of the Jeep, I began to look for the flashlight as the sky quickly turned from lavender to dark blue, but became quickly deflated as I realized it was buried under some bags. I walked around the car a few times, checking the signal on my cell phone, and one tiny dot told me that it was a lost cause. The stripped jack lay buried under the car, which was looking weaker by the second. My watch read 8:15 PM, and my stomach warned me that it was time for dinner. Feeling the familiar sting of tears behind my eyes, I noticed a glimmering pair of headlights coming off the exit. Nebraska State Police. I started jumping up and down, frantically waving my arms until I had been spotted. The officer parked next to me and as he approached, his platinum buzz-cut and bright blue eyes shining, I tucked my Star of David pendant into my shirt.
"Good evening, sir," I said, running my hands through my hair.
"Good evening, miss. A little car trouble?"
Talking way too fast, I told him about the tire and the stripped jack, the brake drum slamming against the pavement, and about the last 200 miles I had driven from Denver, Colorado to this small town in Bumblefuck, USA.
"Where am I?" I asked, as the cop reached into his trunk and retrieved an industrial strength car jack.
"Giltner, Nebraska."
We made small talk about cross-country travel and Jeep Cherokees as he jacked up my car and I helped him to ease on the donut. Thoughts of the three ounces of Humboldt’s Finest in my glove compartment flitted around my brain like the lightning bugs zipping through the thick, humid air.
When the car was stable, the officer wished me well and pointed me to an auto repair shop in Aurora, about 10 miles away. I thanked him and got on my way, eager to get my tire repaired, knowing that I would not get too far in a two-ton vehicle riding on three wheels and a 13-year old donut.
When I arrived in Aurora it was 10:00 PM and the auto repair shop was the only thing open. A mulleted man, almost too closely resembling Jake "The Snake" Roberts (who had died some months earlier) patched and attached my tire for $15.
"How far to Lincoln?" I asked, swatting moths from my head.
"Oh, a little ways," he replied, lighting my cigarette and then his own.
"Like…how a ways?"
"About 75 miles or so."
I glanced at my watch. It was 10:45. I groaned along with my stomach.
"You could get there in less than an hour if you know how to drive, miss."
I thanked Jake "The Snake" (as he would henceforth be called in all my recollections), and got on the road. The speed limit in Nebraska is 65 miles per hour. I took the empty highway at 85, some fuzzy country tunes blaring from my busted stereo.
When I arrived in Lincoln, Nebraska it was 11:30. For a capital city and college town, it appeared to be abandoned. I sang along with "Pink Houses" as I drove under the lights of factories in the downtown area. I found a hotel on the outskirts of town, checked in, and drove down the street to the Village Inn, the midwest’s answer to Denny’s. It was 1:00 AM and they were putting up the chairs in the non-smoking section. I found a booth on the other side, ordered a cup of coffee and a grilled cheese with tomato. As I lit a cigarette, two teenage girls walked in, dressed to the midwestern nines in silver and purple dresses, their streaked hair teased beyond the Aqua Net Corporation’s wildest dreams. They sat down in front of me and I watched one of them order a bacon cheeseburger, cheese fries, and a pot of coffee. I watched her simultaneously smoke and eat as I inhaled my grilled cheese with tomato. The acne-faced waiter never brought my ketchup, but instead flirted with the teenage girls. By eavesdropping I learned that it was prom night, and they were just getting a quick bite before heading out to another party where there would be beer. The girl in the silver dress was lamenting her evening to her friend, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Man, I want a beer so bad. And I’m fucking pissed off."
She shoved a handful of cheese fries in her mouth, washed them down with a gulp of coffee, and took a drag of her cigarette, all at the same time.
"I mean, man, it’s, like, the biggest night of my entire life, and I can’t even have a beer."
She took a bite of her bacon cheeseburger.
"I can’t wait to get this baby outta me so I can have a fucking beer."
Jessica E. Lapidus is a writer originally from New York City.
Les Halles a la Grecque
By Armando Huerta © 2002
Flying into Athens from the United States is always tiring on the traveler with the seven hour time difference inflicting heinous jetlag. For me this is always worse since I can never seem to sleep well on planes. Instead of a nice deep sleep I always end up drifting in and out of a light doze like a trucker on a Mid West interstate when his amphetamines wear off. The end result is that I always arrive in the late afternoon and promptly fall asleep till 4:30 the following morning.
Not only is waking up at that hour extremely disconcerting, it is also amazingly boring. Good television is non-existent and after a long flight I’m pretty much always done with my reading material. Luckily downtown Athens is still alive and well at that hour and strolling the streets is not only safe, it’s entertaining.
During this last trip, upon waking up at the aforementioned 4:30am I hit the streets within 5 minutes of getting up. Sure, I had horrid bed head and smelled like a migrant cherry picker but I thought that it would probably still put me leagues ahead of most people I’d run into. Walking up the street from the dump of a hotel I was staying at (phone wouldn’t work, the patio door fell on me when I tried to open it and the sheets felt like someone was rubbing a burlap sack on my privates) I came across the downtown fish market. The complex is a Neo-Classical arcade with a soaring ceiling and large archways acting as entrances from the street.
Chaos is the only way to describe what was happening out front. Trucks were double parked, pulled up onto the sidewalks and idling sideways across the avenue out front. Workers screaming in Greek with cigarettes dangling from their chapped lips dragged kilo after kilo of fish from the back of the trucks into the market. Some of these were so large they grabbed only one at a time and hoisted them on their backs and lugged them like a basket of dirt at an open mine pit. The crowd of workers was augmented by street merchants selling cigarettes, lottery tickets and hot coffee. Inside the situation was the same with vendors dumping ice on their displays, arguing over space with their neighbors and often forming conversational circles smack in the middle of everyone’s way to exchange jokes, tips and family news. The variety of the fish being brought in was breathtaking. Every conceivable sea dweller from the Mediterranean was there, snuggled next to his brothers on a bed of ice awaiting the probing touch of a housewife seeking that night’s dinner. The fishmongers (I love that word) didn’t seem to mind my ambling about and open mouth gazing at their displays.
In fact, I would say they were proud that a foreigner would find their lives at that hour of the morning interesting at all. All I could think about was how lucky I was to see this part of Athens that most tourists, or even locals, would never experience. It was an insight into the workings of a city that I would now be calling home.
Armanod Huerta currently lives in Athens, Greece.
Flying into Athens from the United States is always tiring on the traveler with the seven hour time difference inflicting heinous jetlag. For me this is always worse since I can never seem to sleep well on planes. Instead of a nice deep sleep I always end up drifting in and out of a light doze like a trucker on a Mid West interstate when his amphetamines wear off. The end result is that I always arrive in the late afternoon and promptly fall asleep till 4:30 the following morning.
Not only is waking up at that hour extremely disconcerting, it is also amazingly boring. Good television is non-existent and after a long flight I’m pretty much always done with my reading material. Luckily downtown Athens is still alive and well at that hour and strolling the streets is not only safe, it’s entertaining.
During this last trip, upon waking up at the aforementioned 4:30am I hit the streets within 5 minutes of getting up. Sure, I had horrid bed head and smelled like a migrant cherry picker but I thought that it would probably still put me leagues ahead of most people I’d run into. Walking up the street from the dump of a hotel I was staying at (phone wouldn’t work, the patio door fell on me when I tried to open it and the sheets felt like someone was rubbing a burlap sack on my privates) I came across the downtown fish market. The complex is a Neo-Classical arcade with a soaring ceiling and large archways acting as entrances from the street.
Chaos is the only way to describe what was happening out front. Trucks were double parked, pulled up onto the sidewalks and idling sideways across the avenue out front. Workers screaming in Greek with cigarettes dangling from their chapped lips dragged kilo after kilo of fish from the back of the trucks into the market. Some of these were so large they grabbed only one at a time and hoisted them on their backs and lugged them like a basket of dirt at an open mine pit. The crowd of workers was augmented by street merchants selling cigarettes, lottery tickets and hot coffee. Inside the situation was the same with vendors dumping ice on their displays, arguing over space with their neighbors and often forming conversational circles smack in the middle of everyone’s way to exchange jokes, tips and family news. The variety of the fish being brought in was breathtaking. Every conceivable sea dweller from the Mediterranean was there, snuggled next to his brothers on a bed of ice awaiting the probing touch of a housewife seeking that night’s dinner. The fishmongers (I love that word) didn’t seem to mind my ambling about and open mouth gazing at their displays.
In fact, I would say they were proud that a foreigner would find their lives at that hour of the morning interesting at all. All I could think about was how lucky I was to see this part of Athens that most tourists, or even locals, would never experience. It was an insight into the workings of a city that I would now be calling home.
Armanod Huerta currently lives in Athens, Greece.
Gysana
By Mona LaVigne © 2002
Gysana, that impossibly delicious little whore, she thought she was so smart.
I’d sit on the Great Dead Stump by the duck pond and chain smoke as she’d cross the Green towards me. When she’d walk, her ass would twitch and twitter and her hair would bounce as her breasts, and the boys, they’d watch her, slack-jawed. I hated Gysana with an almost immoral passion, and yet vainly attempted to call her my friend. She was oblivious to all around her as she walked, save for the sound of polyester, denim, and cotton rising from erections all around her. And her innocence, her playful grin, the toss of her firestarter hair: it was all bullshit. Every bit of it.
She’d saunter across the Green and stand before me, her skirt so short, I could usually see her pussy, shaven and glistening. The boys would see her talking to me, and I could feel their green eyes searing into us, demonic and cruel. She’d sit next to me on the Great Dead Stump, and gently press her lips into my neck, and then tip my chin to her face. Eye to eye, tooth to tooth, this woman, her squeeze-monkey mouth wet and waiting, kiss me, they’d plead…
I’d look away from her and stare at the starers, those envious little pricks. Gysana’s legs would be spread as though she were wearing pants (which she rarely did) and her fingers would trace the insides of her thighs, her bare, liquid thighs and if she moved even the slightest bit, I could smell her, sweet and sweat. Her breath cool on my face, and without me asking she would kiss, her tongue peeking out against the shell of my ear, my fists and toes curling in resistance.
Or sometimes she would appear in jeans so tight you could tell what she had had for breakfast. She would pad coolly across the grass, the strings of her thong peeking out over her pointed hips, her hair flitting across the pale slip of flesh between the top of her jeans and the bottom of her shirt.
This would happen almost every day. I’d sit on the Great Dead Stump, Gysana would cross the Green, cocks would stand at attention, and she’d pass them all to come to me, waiting, smoking, detesting her very being. And after time spent together, I would go home, slip past my mother watching Cops, and crawl into bed alone, where I would chew Valium and write frantic, manic rantings in a spiral notebook.
One day I sat on the Great Dead Stump and acted my usual "I-don’t-care-if-she-shows- or-not-because-I-hate-her-and- why-do-I-even-bother-sitting-here-every-day- because-I-am-a-creature-of-habit-that’s-why" self, noticing everything, caring about nothing, wishing I were drunk, until the sun set. It barely occurred to me that Gysana had not come that day until there was nothing left to look at. It was dark, the sky’s pale gray glow casting shadows of trucks and monsters against the duck pond. I glanced out at the Green and saw a few stragglers heading back to their homes, some dogs running back to the wood. At my feet, there were worms and beetles crawling out from the Great Dead Stump, coming home into the night.
I stood and walked the perimeter of the Green. No Gysana. I started for home, shooting my eyes down each dark street, not really caring, but just curious. No Gysana.
When you’re looking for someone that you cannot find, everything looks like them. The red cars and brick four-story walkups spoke of her hair, the menacing puddles of anti-freeze were her eyes. I had become quite acquainted with Gysana’s cunt on the day when she arrived at the Green with a small hand mirror, held it between her legs, while grabbing my hand and forcing me to stick my fingers inside her while watching the action in the hand mirror. She came on the Green, my fingers sticky and stank with her juice. Now the dark purple sky, I could have sworn, smelled and looked like Gysana’s innermost regions.
I ran upstairs to my apartment and stood in the door, listening to my mother watching the Atlanta PD attempting to negotiate with a strung-out trailer park woman. My mother didn’t smoke and hated that I did, but I knew that in my absence she would go into my bedroom and take my empty ashtray and hold in under her nose, breathing deeply. She was talking to herself about me, her small voice breaking in and out of the Georgia drawls on then television. I knew they didn’t use words like "stupid, ugly, retarded motherfucker" on Cops. I was able to slip past her when the commercials came on, and scurried into my bedroom. The window was ajar and the blinds were flipping nervously. So as to avoid my mother, I crawled out the window and shut it behind me, turning around the back and running to the Green.
When I arrived there, just as I surmised, Gysana was sitting on the Great Dead Stump, throwing my cigarette butts from earlier in the day into the duck pond. The mallards would swim over and inspect each butt before scornfully looking at Gysana and drifting away. As soon as I set one foot on the Green, she turned around to face me. Approaching her, I noticed that she had a black eye. I kneeled before her, beseeching her face for an explanation. Spreading her legs, I held my lighter under her thighs and saw scores of wretched bruises dotting her legs like continents. She slipped a finger inside herself and held it to my mouth, as the unmistakable taste of semen slid in between my lips.
Gysana thought she was so smart, dressing like that, walking like that, taunting and teasing like that. Everyone hated her... it wasn’t just me.
Mona LaVigne is a writer from NYC.
Gysana, that impossibly delicious little whore, she thought she was so smart.
I’d sit on the Great Dead Stump by the duck pond and chain smoke as she’d cross the Green towards me. When she’d walk, her ass would twitch and twitter and her hair would bounce as her breasts, and the boys, they’d watch her, slack-jawed. I hated Gysana with an almost immoral passion, and yet vainly attempted to call her my friend. She was oblivious to all around her as she walked, save for the sound of polyester, denim, and cotton rising from erections all around her. And her innocence, her playful grin, the toss of her firestarter hair: it was all bullshit. Every bit of it.
She’d saunter across the Green and stand before me, her skirt so short, I could usually see her pussy, shaven and glistening. The boys would see her talking to me, and I could feel their green eyes searing into us, demonic and cruel. She’d sit next to me on the Great Dead Stump, and gently press her lips into my neck, and then tip my chin to her face. Eye to eye, tooth to tooth, this woman, her squeeze-monkey mouth wet and waiting, kiss me, they’d plead…
I’d look away from her and stare at the starers, those envious little pricks. Gysana’s legs would be spread as though she were wearing pants (which she rarely did) and her fingers would trace the insides of her thighs, her bare, liquid thighs and if she moved even the slightest bit, I could smell her, sweet and sweat. Her breath cool on my face, and without me asking she would kiss, her tongue peeking out against the shell of my ear, my fists and toes curling in resistance.
Or sometimes she would appear in jeans so tight you could tell what she had had for breakfast. She would pad coolly across the grass, the strings of her thong peeking out over her pointed hips, her hair flitting across the pale slip of flesh between the top of her jeans and the bottom of her shirt.
This would happen almost every day. I’d sit on the Great Dead Stump, Gysana would cross the Green, cocks would stand at attention, and she’d pass them all to come to me, waiting, smoking, detesting her very being. And after time spent together, I would go home, slip past my mother watching Cops, and crawl into bed alone, where I would chew Valium and write frantic, manic rantings in a spiral notebook.
One day I sat on the Great Dead Stump and acted my usual "I-don’t-care-if-she-shows- or-not-because-I-hate-her-and- why-do-I-even-bother-sitting-here-every-day- because-I-am-a-creature-of-habit-that’s-why" self, noticing everything, caring about nothing, wishing I were drunk, until the sun set. It barely occurred to me that Gysana had not come that day until there was nothing left to look at. It was dark, the sky’s pale gray glow casting shadows of trucks and monsters against the duck pond. I glanced out at the Green and saw a few stragglers heading back to their homes, some dogs running back to the wood. At my feet, there were worms and beetles crawling out from the Great Dead Stump, coming home into the night.
I stood and walked the perimeter of the Green. No Gysana. I started for home, shooting my eyes down each dark street, not really caring, but just curious. No Gysana.
When you’re looking for someone that you cannot find, everything looks like them. The red cars and brick four-story walkups spoke of her hair, the menacing puddles of anti-freeze were her eyes. I had become quite acquainted with Gysana’s cunt on the day when she arrived at the Green with a small hand mirror, held it between her legs, while grabbing my hand and forcing me to stick my fingers inside her while watching the action in the hand mirror. She came on the Green, my fingers sticky and stank with her juice. Now the dark purple sky, I could have sworn, smelled and looked like Gysana’s innermost regions.
I ran upstairs to my apartment and stood in the door, listening to my mother watching the Atlanta PD attempting to negotiate with a strung-out trailer park woman. My mother didn’t smoke and hated that I did, but I knew that in my absence she would go into my bedroom and take my empty ashtray and hold in under her nose, breathing deeply. She was talking to herself about me, her small voice breaking in and out of the Georgia drawls on then television. I knew they didn’t use words like "stupid, ugly, retarded motherfucker" on Cops. I was able to slip past her when the commercials came on, and scurried into my bedroom. The window was ajar and the blinds were flipping nervously. So as to avoid my mother, I crawled out the window and shut it behind me, turning around the back and running to the Green.
When I arrived there, just as I surmised, Gysana was sitting on the Great Dead Stump, throwing my cigarette butts from earlier in the day into the duck pond. The mallards would swim over and inspect each butt before scornfully looking at Gysana and drifting away. As soon as I set one foot on the Green, she turned around to face me. Approaching her, I noticed that she had a black eye. I kneeled before her, beseeching her face for an explanation. Spreading her legs, I held my lighter under her thighs and saw scores of wretched bruises dotting her legs like continents. She slipped a finger inside herself and held it to my mouth, as the unmistakable taste of semen slid in between my lips.
Gysana thought she was so smart, dressing like that, walking like that, taunting and teasing like that. Everyone hated her... it wasn’t just me.
Mona LaVigne is a writer from NYC.
Monday Morning, Montego Bay
By Tenzin McGrupp © 2002
"Where was Tomas," I kept wondering as I looked up and down the crooked street. When he shows up he’ll insist he wasn’t late. The locals have only one kind of time. Island Time is always two or three hours off in my world. And it really irks me to all hell, especially when I’m trying to score.
"Me no late Mr. McGrupp. Me arrives the time me arrives. No later no less," Tomas coolly replies before I begin to scold him on his tardiness.
"Look Yoda, I’m not looking for any Jamaican-Jedi like Taoism’s on punctuality, I just want my stash."
I had been jonesin’ hard, each and every second of the long 48 tedious deathly slow hours of my melodramatic gin fueled weekend. Sasha took off to Virgin Gorda in the middle of the night with all of my stash, and most of my Cds. Well, it wasn’t the middle of the night, she actually walked out at Noon, which might as well been the middle of the night for me who passes out daily when the birds begin to chirp as they look for pre-dawn food, just moments before the sun rises slowly over the misty blue-green horizon and illuminates the tranquil streets of Montego Bay.
"No worries, Mr. McGrupp. You will have irie day. I promise," Tomas says as he leads me down a side street.
The Narog Section of Montego Bay is not going to be mentioned in those colorful guidebooks every other tourist is flipping though during their continental breakfast at their plush resorts on the Bay. Narog is unknown to the outsiders, and the locals stay out of there unless they are looking for trouble or a bullet in their ass. Narog is known mostly for arms dealing and well pretty much that’s it. Behind the glossy picturesque postcards and travel commercials and neo-hippie drug rhetoric of Jamaica, there’s a devastating under-culture of corruption, hostility, and most of all a thriving arms smuggling business. While corporations and banks are fighting for all the tourist resort and hotel dollars, gangs of all sorts are fighting for control of the drug dollars, which 90% of is American dollars. Cash. The one currency everyone on the world accepts.
All the drugs and prostitutes are scattered throughout the other sections of town, but I’m following Tomas through a congested maze of side streets and alleys with dozens of aged shacks barely standing, ridden with bullet holes and burn marks, and random Island sayings of all sorts spray painted on the pathetic doors and so-called walls. It smells awful, like a combination of a dirty baby’s diaper and the Men’s bathroom at an East Village dive, with a tinge of jerk spice in the air to make it oddly attractive. A few random dogs dart back and forth and start following us. The dogs are thinner than the kids and both seem to be barking. The group of kids run over and start panhandling and Thomas gives them a look and they scurry off, disappearing into an alley with the dogs. The more turns we start making the more I am lost, and I have given up on trying to navigate my way out. I see a lady sitting in the middle of the street not saying anything, just sitting with an empty sack. This is too confusing, so I just make sure I got my eyes on Tomas. He stops and smiles.
"We are close."
And as he says that a man without a shirt and shoes comes sprinting down the adjacent alley, running wildly out of control. Almost falling with each step then catching his balance, he is determined to run as fast as he can. It reminded me a scene out of COPS, when a random shitless redneck would be running through an alley with a couple of Alabama State Troopers hoping over walls and fences to catch the local Peeping Tom, yet another crystal meth snorting Dead-Beat Dad. Just as that humorous thought enters my mind, two uniformed men come chasing after him, with guns drawn and they start shooting. Tomas grabs me and pushes me into the doorway of a shack, as the shirtless man comes darting past us. I catch a glimpse of the man, and he’s bleeding from his neck down and he’s carrying a chicken in his right hand. A live chicken maybe, I couldn’t tell, but the local cops run right by us, and Tomas gives a good hearty laugh.
"Was that guy your cousin?" I sarcastically say, shaking off this odd confrontation with a poultry thief and two gun toting federalies.
Tomas gets my joke and laughs.
"No, that’s my cousin," as he points to my left.
I realize I am now standing not in a shack but a corner bar. If this is a shack, it’s a generous description on my part. I'm not Bob Villa, but I could hammer wood a lot straighter than the stoned geniuses that crafted this spectacular saloon, a dirt floor with four Swiss cheese bullet-piercing walls and a tin roof. This ain’t Paris. Here in Narog, it’s a bar.
I look over and this guy with gray dreadlocks, a good foot taller than me, who is standing behind a few crates and barrels with a slab of ply wood. That is the actual bar. He has a rifle slung over one shoulder, and black revolver tucked into his waistband. There is no one in the shack aside from an old man passed out in the corner, with his shirt over his head.
Tomas says something to the bartender, winks at me and then disappears behind the backdoor. I begin to follow, but the bartender puts out his arm and motions me back. I sit down at the bar and he gives me a warm beer. I sip and count the seconds that Tomas is gone and start thinking how he might not come back for a few hours and I’m sicker than I’ve ever been, all my drugs stolen by a manic-depressive Russian stewardess, utterly lost in a foul smelling, not so friendly part of town with a gangster’s wad of Canadian Dollars bulging out of my shirt pocket, and the side streets roaming with heavily armed trigger-happy cops, chasing chicken stealin’, shirtless wearin’, neck bleeding petty thugs, who may or may not be related to my new business partner.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
"Where was Tomas," I kept wondering as I looked up and down the crooked street. When he shows up he’ll insist he wasn’t late. The locals have only one kind of time. Island Time is always two or three hours off in my world. And it really irks me to all hell, especially when I’m trying to score.
"Me no late Mr. McGrupp. Me arrives the time me arrives. No later no less," Tomas coolly replies before I begin to scold him on his tardiness.
"Look Yoda, I’m not looking for any Jamaican-Jedi like Taoism’s on punctuality, I just want my stash."
I had been jonesin’ hard, each and every second of the long 48 tedious deathly slow hours of my melodramatic gin fueled weekend. Sasha took off to Virgin Gorda in the middle of the night with all of my stash, and most of my Cds. Well, it wasn’t the middle of the night, she actually walked out at Noon, which might as well been the middle of the night for me who passes out daily when the birds begin to chirp as they look for pre-dawn food, just moments before the sun rises slowly over the misty blue-green horizon and illuminates the tranquil streets of Montego Bay.
"No worries, Mr. McGrupp. You will have irie day. I promise," Tomas says as he leads me down a side street.
The Narog Section of Montego Bay is not going to be mentioned in those colorful guidebooks every other tourist is flipping though during their continental breakfast at their plush resorts on the Bay. Narog is unknown to the outsiders, and the locals stay out of there unless they are looking for trouble or a bullet in their ass. Narog is known mostly for arms dealing and well pretty much that’s it. Behind the glossy picturesque postcards and travel commercials and neo-hippie drug rhetoric of Jamaica, there’s a devastating under-culture of corruption, hostility, and most of all a thriving arms smuggling business. While corporations and banks are fighting for all the tourist resort and hotel dollars, gangs of all sorts are fighting for control of the drug dollars, which 90% of is American dollars. Cash. The one currency everyone on the world accepts.
All the drugs and prostitutes are scattered throughout the other sections of town, but I’m following Tomas through a congested maze of side streets and alleys with dozens of aged shacks barely standing, ridden with bullet holes and burn marks, and random Island sayings of all sorts spray painted on the pathetic doors and so-called walls. It smells awful, like a combination of a dirty baby’s diaper and the Men’s bathroom at an East Village dive, with a tinge of jerk spice in the air to make it oddly attractive. A few random dogs dart back and forth and start following us. The dogs are thinner than the kids and both seem to be barking. The group of kids run over and start panhandling and Thomas gives them a look and they scurry off, disappearing into an alley with the dogs. The more turns we start making the more I am lost, and I have given up on trying to navigate my way out. I see a lady sitting in the middle of the street not saying anything, just sitting with an empty sack. This is too confusing, so I just make sure I got my eyes on Tomas. He stops and smiles.
"We are close."
And as he says that a man without a shirt and shoes comes sprinting down the adjacent alley, running wildly out of control. Almost falling with each step then catching his balance, he is determined to run as fast as he can. It reminded me a scene out of COPS, when a random shitless redneck would be running through an alley with a couple of Alabama State Troopers hoping over walls and fences to catch the local Peeping Tom, yet another crystal meth snorting Dead-Beat Dad. Just as that humorous thought enters my mind, two uniformed men come chasing after him, with guns drawn and they start shooting. Tomas grabs me and pushes me into the doorway of a shack, as the shirtless man comes darting past us. I catch a glimpse of the man, and he’s bleeding from his neck down and he’s carrying a chicken in his right hand. A live chicken maybe, I couldn’t tell, but the local cops run right by us, and Tomas gives a good hearty laugh.
"Was that guy your cousin?" I sarcastically say, shaking off this odd confrontation with a poultry thief and two gun toting federalies.
Tomas gets my joke and laughs.
"No, that’s my cousin," as he points to my left.
I realize I am now standing not in a shack but a corner bar. If this is a shack, it’s a generous description on my part. I'm not Bob Villa, but I could hammer wood a lot straighter than the stoned geniuses that crafted this spectacular saloon, a dirt floor with four Swiss cheese bullet-piercing walls and a tin roof. This ain’t Paris. Here in Narog, it’s a bar.
I look over and this guy with gray dreadlocks, a good foot taller than me, who is standing behind a few crates and barrels with a slab of ply wood. That is the actual bar. He has a rifle slung over one shoulder, and black revolver tucked into his waistband. There is no one in the shack aside from an old man passed out in the corner, with his shirt over his head.
Tomas says something to the bartender, winks at me and then disappears behind the backdoor. I begin to follow, but the bartender puts out his arm and motions me back. I sit down at the bar and he gives me a warm beer. I sip and count the seconds that Tomas is gone and start thinking how he might not come back for a few hours and I’m sicker than I’ve ever been, all my drugs stolen by a manic-depressive Russian stewardess, utterly lost in a foul smelling, not so friendly part of town with a gangster’s wad of Canadian Dollars bulging out of my shirt pocket, and the side streets roaming with heavily armed trigger-happy cops, chasing chicken stealin’, shirtless wearin’, neck bleeding petty thugs, who may or may not be related to my new business partner.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Busted
A Señor Story © 2002
The signs were clearly there. I just choose to ignore them. For this, I paid dearly. First I learned about the Thai Mafia. An acquaintance told me that if a Farang (that is Thai for any westerner, i.e. ME) attempts to open a business that competes with a 100% Thai owned business then the Mafia will do all it can to put the Farang out of business. If somehow the Farang manages to succeed despite the Mafia, the solution is simple: murder. Yes they kill you! I wish someone told me this before I bought a 25% stake in a restaurant and a 33% stake in a language school! Both of these business compete directly with 100% Thai owned businesses. Since I co-own with Thai people I believed that I was safe. Furthermore, every country has a Mafia and every Mafia has their share of horror story's, such things were of no concern to me.
The following day after learning about the Thai Mafia I found myself at a gas station filling my tank. In the midst of this a strange looking Thai man came running up to me. Apparently he saw my tattoo and was very curious and excited by it. In very broken English he began to ask me all about it. After explaining and thinking he understood nothing he showed me his tattoo. I was shocked to find a swastika tattooed to his wrist. As I am in a foreign country in which I am not thoroughly familiar with all the symbols and customs I asked him what that was. A big smile came across his face and in perfect English he said, "Nazi." He followed this up by giving the Hiel Hitler sign and then broke into a dance while singing, "Kill all the gays. Kill all the Jews. Rid the world of all such scum!" He stopped dancing, winked at me and said, "I am Thai Mafia!" and walked away.
What the fuck was that? Did he know that I am a Jew? Is it a coincidence that one day after learning about the Thai Mafia I randomly encounter one? Was this a subtle message that perhaps I should not own parts of the businesses that I have become involved with? Perhaps the time had come to leave Thailand all together? I did not sleep well that night. My dreams were nightmares and my nightmares were violent. I awoke at 6:00AM. I was ready to pack my things and get the hell out of there. Before packing I began my day like I do all others here. I rolled out of bed and headed straight for the beach. There I practiced Chi Kung while facing the sea and watching the sunrise. After I went for a swim. I was just sitting there in the water taking in all the beauty that surrounded me, regaling in the serenity that always follows my Chi Kung practice and I knew I was not going anywhere! I'm a harmless guy. The Thai Mafia doesn't even know I exist and if they do, the certainly don't give a shit about me! Samui has become my paradise and I ain't leaving.
Like all countries in the world, Thailand has many laws. Some are quite silly and others quite practical. Some are strictly enforced and others, well, not so strictly enforced. One of the more practical laws is one must always wear a helmet while riding a motorbike. Although practical this law is barely enforced. I would estimate that 10% of all Farang and 20% of all Thai's actually were helmets, yet I have never seen anyone pulled over for such an offense, a 200 Baht ($5) fine. Nevertheless for the first two months that I lived here, I followed this rule religiously. If I drove one mile or 100 miles I always wore my helmet. However after two months, I got a little overconfident about my driving and every now and then I simply chose not to wear my helmet. I never had a problem until the day after I met the Mafia man at the gas station.
I was off to Nathon, the commercial center of the island, helmetless. A cop pulled me over. I was taken to the Police station and dropped off in a large room filled with people. One by one each person was called up front where they filled out some paper work, paid their fine and went on their way. Unfortunately for me, the police were in no rush. I sat in that room for over four hours until my name was finally called. As I began to fill in the paper work an uniformed officer came by. He said something in Thai and then told me to follow him. I wasn't too nervous yet, but when I found myself in an interrogation room I nearly shit my pants. I quickly composed myself and thanked the good Lord that I happened to have a lot of money on me. I figured I was looking for more the 200 Baht fine. I broke out 10,000 Baht ($250) and asked him if this would take care of things. Before I knew it I felt the back of his hand smacking my cheek. He slapped me so suddenly and with such force that I fell to the floor. He then started screaming in rage, something about how all Farang think they can break the rules and pay their way out of trouble. As he was yelling he removed his belt from his slacks and began pounding the desk with it. For the first time in my life I was paralyzed with fear. I literally could not move. He planned on making an example out of me to put all Farang in their place, when two men dressed in jackets and ties bolted into the room. There was a lot of yelling in Thai and then one of the gentlemen escorted me out of there. He told me that the officer claims that I tried to hit him and therefore I must spend the night in jail until things got sorted out. He led me down a corridor where there were three holding cells. Two Thai men occupied each of two of the cells, mine thank God was empty. I stood awake, wide eyed all night. Many convicts and cops came and went but lucky for me no cop hassled me and no other convicts were brought into my cell.
The next morning I was brought back to the interrogation room only to find the same deranged officer sitting behind the desk. Much to my shock he apologized for slapping me. He explained that yesterday he found out that his wife was having an affair with a Farang and he took out his aggression on me. He had to tell the other men that I tried to hit him to save face for losing his temper. Now, I was free to go. OH MY GOODNESS! You can be sure I got out of there as fast as possible. Upon reflection I don't believe that the officer's wife really had an affair. Hell for all I know he might not even be married. I believe that Mafia had me pulled over and had the cop scare the shit out of me. Am I just paranoid? I don't know, but I do know two things. I am looking into getting rid of my ownership of my two companies and I will NEVER ride my motorbike without a helmet again. Oh for the good news... I never had to pay the 200 Baht fine!
Señor is from Samui, Thailand.
The signs were clearly there. I just choose to ignore them. For this, I paid dearly. First I learned about the Thai Mafia. An acquaintance told me that if a Farang (that is Thai for any westerner, i.e. ME) attempts to open a business that competes with a 100% Thai owned business then the Mafia will do all it can to put the Farang out of business. If somehow the Farang manages to succeed despite the Mafia, the solution is simple: murder. Yes they kill you! I wish someone told me this before I bought a 25% stake in a restaurant and a 33% stake in a language school! Both of these business compete directly with 100% Thai owned businesses. Since I co-own with Thai people I believed that I was safe. Furthermore, every country has a Mafia and every Mafia has their share of horror story's, such things were of no concern to me.
The following day after learning about the Thai Mafia I found myself at a gas station filling my tank. In the midst of this a strange looking Thai man came running up to me. Apparently he saw my tattoo and was very curious and excited by it. In very broken English he began to ask me all about it. After explaining and thinking he understood nothing he showed me his tattoo. I was shocked to find a swastika tattooed to his wrist. As I am in a foreign country in which I am not thoroughly familiar with all the symbols and customs I asked him what that was. A big smile came across his face and in perfect English he said, "Nazi." He followed this up by giving the Hiel Hitler sign and then broke into a dance while singing, "Kill all the gays. Kill all the Jews. Rid the world of all such scum!" He stopped dancing, winked at me and said, "I am Thai Mafia!" and walked away.
What the fuck was that? Did he know that I am a Jew? Is it a coincidence that one day after learning about the Thai Mafia I randomly encounter one? Was this a subtle message that perhaps I should not own parts of the businesses that I have become involved with? Perhaps the time had come to leave Thailand all together? I did not sleep well that night. My dreams were nightmares and my nightmares were violent. I awoke at 6:00AM. I was ready to pack my things and get the hell out of there. Before packing I began my day like I do all others here. I rolled out of bed and headed straight for the beach. There I practiced Chi Kung while facing the sea and watching the sunrise. After I went for a swim. I was just sitting there in the water taking in all the beauty that surrounded me, regaling in the serenity that always follows my Chi Kung practice and I knew I was not going anywhere! I'm a harmless guy. The Thai Mafia doesn't even know I exist and if they do, the certainly don't give a shit about me! Samui has become my paradise and I ain't leaving.
Like all countries in the world, Thailand has many laws. Some are quite silly and others quite practical. Some are strictly enforced and others, well, not so strictly enforced. One of the more practical laws is one must always wear a helmet while riding a motorbike. Although practical this law is barely enforced. I would estimate that 10% of all Farang and 20% of all Thai's actually were helmets, yet I have never seen anyone pulled over for such an offense, a 200 Baht ($5) fine. Nevertheless for the first two months that I lived here, I followed this rule religiously. If I drove one mile or 100 miles I always wore my helmet. However after two months, I got a little overconfident about my driving and every now and then I simply chose not to wear my helmet. I never had a problem until the day after I met the Mafia man at the gas station.
I was off to Nathon, the commercial center of the island, helmetless. A cop pulled me over. I was taken to the Police station and dropped off in a large room filled with people. One by one each person was called up front where they filled out some paper work, paid their fine and went on their way. Unfortunately for me, the police were in no rush. I sat in that room for over four hours until my name was finally called. As I began to fill in the paper work an uniformed officer came by. He said something in Thai and then told me to follow him. I wasn't too nervous yet, but when I found myself in an interrogation room I nearly shit my pants. I quickly composed myself and thanked the good Lord that I happened to have a lot of money on me. I figured I was looking for more the 200 Baht fine. I broke out 10,000 Baht ($250) and asked him if this would take care of things. Before I knew it I felt the back of his hand smacking my cheek. He slapped me so suddenly and with such force that I fell to the floor. He then started screaming in rage, something about how all Farang think they can break the rules and pay their way out of trouble. As he was yelling he removed his belt from his slacks and began pounding the desk with it. For the first time in my life I was paralyzed with fear. I literally could not move. He planned on making an example out of me to put all Farang in their place, when two men dressed in jackets and ties bolted into the room. There was a lot of yelling in Thai and then one of the gentlemen escorted me out of there. He told me that the officer claims that I tried to hit him and therefore I must spend the night in jail until things got sorted out. He led me down a corridor where there were three holding cells. Two Thai men occupied each of two of the cells, mine thank God was empty. I stood awake, wide eyed all night. Many convicts and cops came and went but lucky for me no cop hassled me and no other convicts were brought into my cell.
The next morning I was brought back to the interrogation room only to find the same deranged officer sitting behind the desk. Much to my shock he apologized for slapping me. He explained that yesterday he found out that his wife was having an affair with a Farang and he took out his aggression on me. He had to tell the other men that I tried to hit him to save face for losing his temper. Now, I was free to go. OH MY GOODNESS! You can be sure I got out of there as fast as possible. Upon reflection I don't believe that the officer's wife really had an affair. Hell for all I know he might not even be married. I believe that Mafia had me pulled over and had the cop scare the shit out of me. Am I just paranoid? I don't know, but I do know two things. I am looking into getting rid of my ownership of my two companies and I will NEVER ride my motorbike without a helmet again. Oh for the good news... I never had to pay the 200 Baht fine!
Señor is from Samui, Thailand.
Why Do I Travel?
By Lori Blandford © 2002
I was browsing a bookstore yesterday and came upon a "New Release" book called something like "Why We Travel." Of course I'm interested in reading that book. But before I could pick it up and make it my next subway friend (to bury myself in and drown out the recent influx of drunken preachers), I felt I owed it to myself to answer the question the book posed.
"Why do I travel?"
What a good question! Yet so difficult to succinctly answer.
Well, I never did feel the need to escape. Not the law or an abusive boyfriend or the lies of life. I don't really have too much to run from. Boring? No, just really bad at lying.
It's not for the photographs because I'm a mediocre photographer at best (Photoshop helps me out a lot).
It can't be wanderlust because in real life I'm a bit of a nester. I don't like to move a lot and have only lived in three cities in my (almost) 28 years.
It's not to use my linguistic abilities. I speak Buffalo girl Spanish and the Ukrainian from my younger years is equivalent to the two years of German I studied… (not good).
It's not to perfect journal writing. I've always had the best of intentions but eventually bore of writing to myself- always seems rather redundant. I like an audience.
It's not to collect patches for my backpack. I never purchased a patch.
It's not for the stamps on my passport. Who would travel for stamps on their passport?!
It's not to have sex in as many countries as possible. In fact, I've only had sex in three foreign countries (wouldn't you like to know!). I haven't even had sex in Canada (not that I remember anyhow, but it seems, so, un-Buffalo like). Or Mexico. I haven't even been to Mexico! So, why am I writing a piece about traveling?
It's not because I have money to burn. I don't and traveling isn't cheap- no matter how many Rough Guides you reference… I like good food and good wine. That means good money.
Do you still care about why I like to travel?
Thanks, I'm flattered.
I happen to think the desire is selective and awarded to those who were good kids in their last life (probably those who shared). The art of travel is something we're born with, seek out, and make happen. Traveling, for me, is a most insightful, self-acquainting and character testing activity. It challenges my inner being and provides me with endless daydreams. It's also a drug. Or a Pringle… Once you pop, you can't stop.
I can wax philosophic for months (I won't. You can go soon) about the real, deep, intelligent reasons, but in the spirit of joire de vivre, I say that traveling just feels good. And sometimes, that's all the explanation I can provide.
I hope that wasn't too anti-climactic for you. I also happen to think it's because I like to talk to people and learn their stories. Everyone has a story.
I hope you liked mine.
Lori "Boogie" Blandford is a traveler from Cobble Hill, Brooklyn.
I was browsing a bookstore yesterday and came upon a "New Release" book called something like "Why We Travel." Of course I'm interested in reading that book. But before I could pick it up and make it my next subway friend (to bury myself in and drown out the recent influx of drunken preachers), I felt I owed it to myself to answer the question the book posed.
"Why do I travel?"
What a good question! Yet so difficult to succinctly answer.
Well, I never did feel the need to escape. Not the law or an abusive boyfriend or the lies of life. I don't really have too much to run from. Boring? No, just really bad at lying.
It's not for the photographs because I'm a mediocre photographer at best (Photoshop helps me out a lot).
It can't be wanderlust because in real life I'm a bit of a nester. I don't like to move a lot and have only lived in three cities in my (almost) 28 years.
It's not to use my linguistic abilities. I speak Buffalo girl Spanish and the Ukrainian from my younger years is equivalent to the two years of German I studied… (not good).
It's not to perfect journal writing. I've always had the best of intentions but eventually bore of writing to myself- always seems rather redundant. I like an audience.
It's not to collect patches for my backpack. I never purchased a patch.
It's not for the stamps on my passport. Who would travel for stamps on their passport?!
It's not to have sex in as many countries as possible. In fact, I've only had sex in three foreign countries (wouldn't you like to know!). I haven't even had sex in Canada (not that I remember anyhow, but it seems, so, un-Buffalo like). Or Mexico. I haven't even been to Mexico! So, why am I writing a piece about traveling?
It's not because I have money to burn. I don't and traveling isn't cheap- no matter how many Rough Guides you reference… I like good food and good wine. That means good money.
Do you still care about why I like to travel?
Thanks, I'm flattered.
I happen to think the desire is selective and awarded to those who were good kids in their last life (probably those who shared). The art of travel is something we're born with, seek out, and make happen. Traveling, for me, is a most insightful, self-acquainting and character testing activity. It challenges my inner being and provides me with endless daydreams. It's also a drug. Or a Pringle… Once you pop, you can't stop.
I can wax philosophic for months (I won't. You can go soon) about the real, deep, intelligent reasons, but in the spirit of joire de vivre, I say that traveling just feels good. And sometimes, that's all the explanation I can provide.
I hope that wasn't too anti-climactic for you. I also happen to think it's because I like to talk to people and learn their stories. Everyone has a story.
I hope you liked mine.
Lori "Boogie" Blandford is a traveler from Cobble Hill, Brooklyn.
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