This entry was posted on Sunday, July 5th, 2009 at 2:37 pm and is filed under A Luna Blued. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your own site.
Estrella serves up some pungent asada in a gas station parking lot about three miles east of the Elysian Park house where the Ensenada sisters lay. At ten after eleven on a Friday night in L.A., those three miles can take you forty minutes, at least, out of your way. But warm tortillas wrapped around that musky goo were what I thought I needed to brace me for a night of rescuing little girls and memories… of sisters and childhood. Bad move.
I should’ve had a Snickers from the Arco on my corner, or another cruller from Tang’s, or even a Pollo Loco thigh. And maybe I would’ve gotten to those girls in time. But I sat in my LeBaron, forty minutes gone, crunching my last chicharone… trying like hell not to be where I was, searching the night for a poem. If I’d have been there twenty or so minutes earlier, I might have seen the strobe of a digital flash leaking out from under the window boards… pictures shot of those little girls wearing frilly little maid uniforms… to be deleted after a sale went through.
But I sat there, top down, swigging a Celray, pondering a move. I borrowed some courage from Aggie’s dreams and opened my door with only failure to lose. Then headlights bled from the right, coming around a curve. I got back in, slid down in my seat and waited for it to pass, unnerved. Then I heard it pull into the driveway across the street; the engine was cut; a car door opened. Shaking, I inched up in my seat to catch a peek… then my self got broken.
I don’t know who I am anymore, doubt if I ever did… but what I saw waiting outside that Elysian park house slammed the last nail into that coffin lid. It was Panama, closing his old Honda door, looking around with those casual eyes. Then he eased on in through the peeling front door, carrying a bucket of Kentucky Fried, family size.
The top on my convertible has been broken for awhile; it won’t go up. I drove back home as a starless sky pressed down, knowing I was f**ked… if I’d ever thought I was up to any grace, I knew I was s**t out of luck. My appetites defined me. Tonight, I should’ve helped those girls right away and never had to wonder why…. but cheap good food and bad men blind me every time.
Hope I still have an angel on my side.