August 06, 2020. - Nice view, tho - Flash Fiction: 6

Flash Fiction: 6

With a slight grudge against la pandemia, he walked over the First Street bridge and into the Arts District. He was trying to get some “outside” time to help with the lifting of his spirits. A mood change, if you will. The mandated self quarantine had started to fuck with his mental. He was certain he would grow roots at his toes if the didn’t get out.

Walking listlessly, left foot, right, he remembered this part of town when it was very different from what you see today. He thinks gentrification fucked everything up by making it look just like everywhere else. Where you once had one-of-a-kind establishments you now get the run of the mill brewery and baked goods. If it weren’t for the old buildings you might as well be in Glendale. (Or Monrovia, imagine that.)

Meh! Fuck everybody, he thought as he avoided every business. He didn’t want to give any of them his money. None looked like they needed it. It was too weird to get food from a woman in a face shield and gloves. Plus all of the outdoor seating annoyed him even before this madness.

Fed up, he decided to walk further in to downtown where he finally stopped at a hot dog lady. At least there he can catch a virus with his dignity intact. 

The grease sizzled louder than the bus engine that just blew a ton of exhaust in his  direction. Put a mask on that fucker.

Mayonesa?

Si.

Verdura?

Si. Pongale todo.

Jalapeño?

Si.

Covid?

Que?

She handed him the nectar of the city wrapped in a thin semblance of paper. 

Did she really ask me if I wanted Covid?, he thought.

Coca?
O Peksi?

Oh, no. Una agua por favor.

Consider that hot dog swallowed. Gone in 6 seconds. The water went down slowly. He took his time, crumbled the plastic and put it in a little cardboard box with other recyclables.

As he wiped his mouth and hands he looked at her one more time wondering if she really asked if he wanted covid on his wiener. He felt she did.

With a slight grudge against the lady, he walked home to the sound of conspiracy theories in his head about who planted her on that corner and why he was the chosen victim.

He sat with those worries for two weeks, in quarantine. After the two weeks he still got tested to make sure he was negative.

His cooking has improved.

August 03, 2020 - Overpass underpass - Flash Fiction: 3

Flash Fiction: 3

Facing too many choices, for someone who is not the sharpest tool in the shed, can be paralyzing.  Or to anybody for that matter. But I just close my eyes and I pick. I press four buttons and the machine starts to tumble towards life. A robotic fidgety arm selects a small record, lays it down, and a needle hits the groove to generate that familiar hiss out of the speakers.

TAH-pa-ta-PUM. ♪♫♪

As soon as the drum sound comes through the jukebox, “Esaaaa NOOOO!,” some dude howls from the darkness of the way-way-back of this joint in full lament. The sorrow in his voice triggers mine. “Esa rola noooo,” he pleads to the bulb hanging dimly over his booth. The bulb does not reply. He’s definitely on one. 

“I’m still heeeere♪♫♪, after telling you so looooong…♪♫♪,” says the Rock-Ola. The Notations record from the late 60’s hypnotized me straight to the bar to get another round: shot and a chaser.

This fucken song has me nodding to a rhythm that is simultaneously lifting me up and bringing me down. I don’t have a sense of direction. I just keep drinking and after a few I’m forming a strong argument in my head how memories can also paralyze you.

Later, I’m in the booth with the sad homie lamenting party. I’ve kept the songs going for a couple hours now. He hasn’t been able to mutter a complete sentence. But I just wanted a partner to be down in the dumps with. Round after round he keeps my misery company.

This jukebox has a golden selection but I still play that song a few more times just to see his reaction. Also because I think he loves it even if it hurts. Or because it hurts.

“Esos recuerdos…me matan…burble-blabber-bla,” says the homie. I nod.

Sitting next to him my drunken misery doesn’t look so bad.

“Want another one, homie?”

“Blurb-blah…blurb.”

I got chu bro. 

August 02, 2020 - New mask, who dis? - Flash Fiction: 2

Flash Fiction: 2

The dried up sewer stench rises through the grates and into your nasal passages. It sticks to the mucous membrane. You can’t shake it. It even gets in your throat. This is why I hate breathing when downtown. I’m lucky that my body does it on its own or I would probably die. If I could only hold my breath for the few moments that I’m here but I can at best do like 15 seconds. Wearing a surgical mask helps with the lurking odors.

She’s supposed to meet me here at 7pm and it’s 6:58. She’s usually five minutes early for the pick up. I hate holding so many doses on my person at one time. But I know she’s good for it.

At least there’s not many people around here. The last decade of outbreaks wiped out huge numbers. Double digit millions. Just a few looters and scavengers left looking for anything that might have been missed from the 7 years of unrest and uprising we’ve been through.

As long as I don’t see any orange tinted eyes I’m ok. That’s the tell tale sign of, “the infected.”

There she comes. I can see her swagger from two blocks away.
Black boots, black jeans, black coat. Classic. 

She’s been the closest thing to “normal” that I still have in my life. I can remember having drinks at the rooftop bar just a few blocks from here years ago. I wish there was at least one bar left or liquor store.

Damn she’s good. Black hat, blond hair, red lips. Beautiful.

If there was a god I would thank it for keeping her in my life. Even if it’s just for these quick pick ups, a quick exchange of product and a bit of conversation every three days.

Here. Beautiful face and - orange eyes.

Fuck.
Slit.

I didn’t know that I could do that so quickly, draw my sword and slice off her noggin.  Her blood pooled as I stepped back and watched the scavengers rummage through her pockets and remove her boots.

No one has feelings anymore. I wonder if I do.

As I strolled back to my lair I recounted all of the many occasions her and I had laughing and drinking. I made a mental list.

I buried the doses that were meant to be hers in the ground. We’ll let the earth get high in her name tonight.

August 01, 2020 - Entre Los y la luna - Flash Fiction: 1

Flash Fiction: 1

Following a long day replete with the exhausting particularities of moving and a little bit of cooking, Carlos took the time, one hour, to set up his new bed in his new home and was finally about to get some proper rest. 

It took him one hour of sweeping, moving boxes, measuring floors and mattresses, selecting sheets and blankets in his new apartment. He was now in a new neighborhood, a different part of the city where he imagined the new life he worked hard at creating.

Wearied, at bedside, he started to undo his pants. He sat on his mattress and for a moment felt gravity tug at his cerebellum with a deliberately delicate tow. He surrendered without negotiation and lay horizontal, resting his greasy mop of a mane on a freshly washed pillow, for two seconds.

It was two seconds in which he experienced nothingness. It felt eternal. Everything was still. His heart beat in silence. He clearly saw his body floating in space, in the universal whirlpool of stars and planets with no bound. With eyes closed he couldn’t feel earth beneath him or roof above him. Only the light from lightyears of galactic travel was present in all directions.

He weighed nothing.
He heard nothing.
He smelled nothing.

Wait, he thought. He did smell something, on the stove… beans. Fuckin’ beans.

In the kitchen - burners off - check. 
Back to bed. Drained.

He still slept saintly and soundly. An innumerable amount of dreams ran through his mind that night. All of them forgotten. None that he could recall if you asked him about them the next morning. 

But years later and even in another home, he did and does still remember those two seconds of… just being in space… with nothing but his universal self.