Las Conchas

On a bad night you sleep here, in this one of many unfinished vacation homes in this unfinished vacation town in coastal Sonora, Mexico. Those ass-chafing bicycle nights, those hair-cursing soaking nights pounding a dusty concrete slab as your bones pinch your flesh against it. Through sweat that forces your eyes closed but keeps you awake, all you can do is imagine relief. Relief was maybe a few weeks ago, with a name like Samantha or Tabitha. You chide yourself for forgetting her name. You're getting sloppy, like you used to be. Samantha or Tabitha was friends with Sara, whom you sold dog shit weed to in the alley of a night club. Maybe you were the first person they approached, or maybe they didn't even approach you at all, but you tell them a story of why they would have had a hard time finding someone. A passionately delivered narrative catered perfectly to the white American drug purchaser's desperate reach for a connection to struggle, something about the American war on drugs and roving packs of corrupt Federales. You are a brave, principled rebel who carries the best product. You're like Whole Foods and Pancho Villa at once. This both allows you to charge an obscene mark-up and ingratiates you to their group. Samantha or Tabitha seemed skeptical, which meant that you get to spend extra time talking to her, selling her on your story, and on you. You give them their baggie, but smoke them up with your "private stash" before they go back in. This is when you ask Samantha or Tabitha about her tattoo, just before the bowl is kicked. In this familiar tactic, the momentum of conversation will draw you into the club with them, but tonight you are uncertain, so you mention the "secret after-parties". Maybe there are a few guys in the group, so you must get them to trust you and admire your street cred, even busying themselves trying to impress you. You must get them too wasted to make decisions, but not wasted enough to require a ride back to wherever they are staying. You think one of them may go alpha on you and resent your superior local wisdom, so you make jokes about petty machismo to start an undercurrent of bias against his objections to having a drug dealer as a tour guide. Somewhere in the midst of all this your hand ends up on Samantha or Tabitha's knee for a few uncertain moments, unfolding a rumor of natural tenderness and hesitation to contrast your jagged directness in all other matters.

The group decides against after-parties and invites you back to their beachfront rental, which is perfect because there are no after-parties you know of. You have three alarms on your otherwise broken flip-phone set to go off at 2:25, 2:27, and 2:37AM to simulate a text conversation with a friend saying the party may be busted, to wait a few minutes (to build tension), then officially call it off. You shut off your phone and pour everyone shots as they raid their fridge to nearly construct tacos from remnants of poorly boiled rice, limes, and shredded cheese, but end up eating the component elements.

Someone's beachy playlist in the background, you hold court in the living room as everyone leaves for bed or to gaze at stars until Samantha or Tabitha is the only one left listening. Bloated on rice and Tecate, she tries to speak but you move closer to her and she trails off into thought, returning with a noncommittal weed solicitation. You lead one another to her room and crack the window, but only a little bit because you know what happens next. Her new glass bowl is passed back and forth on the edge of the bed until it is spent. After blowing the char into a bag, you dig through your musty backpack to refill, leaning forward heavily as she lies back and stares at the ceiling for a few moments. Just before you reemerge, you feel her big toe tracing the waistband of your boxers. Thoroughly high, you climb her leg up to her face and begin the ritual.

Now that you've ascended to the rank of "Mexico fling", you must earn your stay for the weekend. Most trips are at least 3 days, and that's 3 days with air conditioning and showers and free food. She may be affectionate towards you and may even make you feel like you're not a public service, but you don't dare think that. Under no circumstances do you stop fucking her until she is asleep, and you wake up ready if she wants it. You know that without weed and good dick, you sleep on concrete. Nothing can go wrong. Your every dollar is spend on weed, condoms, and a steady diet of aphrodisiacs to ensure remarkable virility. Marine bivalves and avocados for every meal, and an unending bag of pumpkin seeds, which also works as a charming personal affectation.

You've been out in the sun for years so your race is ambiguous, and the accent you once faked now feels the most natural. On the rare occasion people may ask of your past, you know the sort of tales tourists want to hear and never disappoint. Your real name is never given, familiarity is aggressively dissuaded. Regardless of the situation, you are the first to leave.

Tonight was a bad night; you left the club alone. Maybe you were too direct. Maybe they could hear the clockwork of your motivation, or maybe they were actually just tired, and maybe you really would see them at the same place tomorrow night. You consider that prospect, leaning against the wall in silence next to the women's room entrance with with an empty bottle in your hand for an hour or two. Your other hand is in your pocket, with your thumb fondling several peso notes, a lighter with the safety band removed, and a condom you poked full of holes, as you've done with every condom you've used since you became a permanent nonresident.

You brandish peso notes and toss them on the bar on your way out, then pedal maybe 5 or 6 scarcely defined blocks until you pick a shadowless alley to wait for the sound of chains and effort. You busy your mind with fantasies, maybe of Samantha or Tabitha and exaggerated memories of the postcoital reverie you permitted. You rein in your thoughts as a few restaurant employees pass on their way home. The sea breeze is against you as you briskly walk from the alley directly into the path of a lone cyclist, dress shirt billowing, rapidly approaching from the clubs. The moment you collide and he realizes what is happening, he starts trying to put words together. You catch him in your arms. In one graceful gesture, you place them on the ground and push a rusty file through their right eye deep into the skull and, in a gentle breaking whisper, slowly sing the following verse in a tune almost recognized as you crank the file in widening circles:

When all vows are one
And questions end
What we leave undone
Will relief send
Let loose the pure
Light within you to mend
Knowing nothing more
Time to shut the door

By the final line all motion has subsided. You hoist him over your shoulder and carry him to the nearby beach, drop your backpack at the shore and fully clothed walk them through the calm water, which is waist-high for nearly a quarter mile and warmer than the air. You swear in harsh bursts because you forgot to leave your phone in your backpack and it keeps vibrating with reminders of the alarms you set, and you are sweating and cramping and your whole body itches. The moon unceremoniously sinks below the horizon like a match tossed into the ocean and you notice bioluminescent microbes give a lingering flash as you disturb them with the arm dangling in front of you. When you are finally well over your head, you tie the body to a rock so it is at least 6 feet underwater at low tide. Leaving your old bike for a new thief, you walk to their bike, pants causing painful blisters on your thighs. You ride to the outskirts of town, scarcely distinguishable from the last outskirts, cruising straight into the entry of the concrete skeleton of a luxury home abortion and lie down next to your bike in a corner.

As you caught your breath while seeking the least painful position, you were wondering who I am and why I am here with you. The night is long and you want to be alone, but this is where I will stay, and there will probably be others. I wanted to express my appreciation before. Now I get my chance.