A Week in Mexico

19 January 2010 § Leave a comment

Copy that rhythm down on a post-it note and keep it on the front of your notebook or ipod as long as you’ll need it: these appointments are necessary, and we should very much like to not become mixed up with tenses and verb conjugations. The disc will skip and that’s why we’ve converted our most important files to single entities: mp3’s and seawaves, aiff files to satisfy the fruitmongers.

While you’re a resident of these stocks, the apple will be rotten and when it gets thrown by the renaissance version of Nolan Ryan at ten years old, it will stick in your teeth and twist them in cruel directions. There will be no windows, either, for the castle is kept well vented and glass has not become so popular yet – they need their sand, because it is courage and balls that get them through the evening feasts and daily carnivals, cheery and deadly as they are. The punishment is not so severe these days, what with all the regulations for humane practices bearing down on us from the emperor, but how long will he last? Let’s get to some scheming – there are coups to plan, governments to overthrow. But all they really need is to be reflected upon – you’d never imagine one would reach the desired effect of shining a sunbleached mirror in a specific direction, but it works. The way it did in Mexico a few years ago. Remember that trip?

On the plane, they said I couldn’t drink the beers I bought at the airport. It is forbidden.

– but we’re going to Mexico! And these are Corona! Am I not aiding your economy by drinking on this plane?
– this is American Airlines, sir.
– I bought them in America!
– it is forbidden.

gulp.

Everyone on the aircraft was a bit sweaty on account of the air not working properly. I sweat more than most, and it seemed that the higher the plane was, while the air is supposed to be colder up there, we were moving toward the sun at 545 miles an hour. I got up to use the lavatory, and I found the reason for its nomenclature: it was backed up. Fucking blue lava leaked from the steel toilet and onto my shoes. I stood there without a shirt in disbelief. It was too bloody hot to wear clothes.

Now with blue and brown shoes, I exited from my claustrophobia and found the second class cabin smaller than when I had arrived. The sun was shriveling the plane into a sardine can, but we were all raisins sweating blue lava. I moved to the front of the cabin, saying hello to all those in first class. One of the businessmen was complaining about missing his Jack and coke.

Setting the miniature glass down on the galley counter, I finally reached the portal to enter the world of Cool. I pulled up on the long white lever and read the red letters IN CASE OF EMERGENCY. This is a fucking emergency, I thought calmly. Out of nowhere, the door disappeared and I was savagely sucked and warped into a vortex of screaming nuns and excited little girls, mad men (not just mad, but hysterical!) and crying middle-aged women, one of whom was birthing a flame at the time. The blue lava swirled, and oak trees floated through the cabin, carved themselves into baseball bats and suddenly I thought I’ve been watching too many movies. Just then, the ding blares into my ears and some stuttering monkey hops on the intercom to let us know about his recent experiences linking happiness to LSD. I get up to use the lavatory.

It is overflowing, and god is playing tricks on me. But since god and I are on the outs, I blame it immediately on the stewardess.

– Did you cause this eruption?
– No sir, it was the pilot. He just came out of there.
– You mean that loopy motherfucker with the yellow fur coat and the giant smile?
– It wasn’t yellow yesterday, sir.

Someone was losing their job, right that minute, and I was there to watch the whole thing. I stomped my way up through the classes (noticing the distinct patterns of dress, hairstyle, food and beverage choice and amount of saliva dripping from chins as I progressed) to the pilot’s door and rapped on it. Hard. There was some scuffles on the other side I heard something about terrorist, bomb.

– I’m not a goddamn suicider! I’m deaf and beerless and my shoes are now blue. I want to see Big Bird right this fucking minute!

Some kid started crying – not just crying, but more of a blubbering wail that violated every one of a person’s senses, rising mercury levels to untold amounts. I asked the pilots for a syringe to extract it so I could give my mercury to the kid. There was some loud whispers about heroine and marijuana.

– you don’t inject bud into your arm, dipshits! Where’s Big Bird?

I continued complaining at the closed door for another few minutes. By the time the kid ceased asserting his reasons for existing, I rummaged through the galley and poured myself a couple of drinks before sitting back down. I was kind enough to offer a glass of gin to the old lady next to me, and in return for my enormous favor, she handed me a makeup mirror.

– what the fuck do I need this for?
– Look at yourself, you idiot! Your hair is disheveled, and there is drool all over your chin. It’s on your shirt, too. You look like a goshdern hooligan!

She tossed back the gin in one gulp. Clean and clear – no constipated, “I will show the world my disgust but still swallow” faces. Then she asked for another.

– Do I look like Tom fucking Cruise to you? Are we in Mexico yet? That shit is forbidden!
– Not in first class, it’s not.

Looking around, I saw Armani suits, iPhones, and one short red dress massaging Stretch Armstrong, post-dissection by a ten year old. I had arrived to the upper class, and I was now exempt from the flight attendant’s adverts for smokeless cigarettes, perfume, stale cookies, and tap water. Six dollars a pop. But we were still offered, as part of the luxury package, a bottle of Elegancia and Lucy, the dead stewardess in the cockpit. For more information, see ‘Happy Joe’ in 16B. Six dollars a pop.

There has never been a life like it. The seats are bigger, more comfortable. Robot servants in funny hats treat you better (but you’re expected to tip, and not knowing that a 512 MB DDR stick was an insult, I was slapped around a bit) and it is not forbidden to drown in copious amounts of free alcohol. On Big Bird’s next trip to the lavaroom, I made an arrangement with him – something about him giving me his coat and I give him a boot in the ass. With squinting, shaky eyes and convulsing pelvic movements, he agreed – ashamed but proud to have communicated his feelings to a new co-conspirator. I carefully divided the three sheets of blotter into fair amounts – two for me, one for everyone else – and stared into that makeup mirror for the next three hours. I discovered two and a half new galaxies, one and three quarters of which have been since named.

Landing in Mexico that evening, head throbbing from seatbelt dings and scotch (and maybe the bump to the head suffered from the low cockpit clearance), I was fairly certain I had realized the American Dream. The secret – are you ready for this? – is to wipe the fucking drool from your chin and wake up.

But this was Mexico.

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