Nostrils, Latino Bars, and Climbing Shoes

Pete is still a novelty to the gym occupants. He climbs like all of hell is on his back and he’s shaking it off with every hold he grabs. But it’s different this Saturday. Pete’s in a good mood...

             1. Nostrils, Latino Clubs, and Climbing Shoes.               

                 There he goes again. Words are spinning through Pete’s brain. He has an empire of sentences to choose from that all say the same thing. If he stops for a moment, in creeps the indecision, up come the walls. So instead he plugs in the old-school headphones --> Radiohead --> Underrated album --> Amnesiac. Coffee is nearby. Cigarette is lit. Ashtray on demand.

---

                Pete awoke earlier than expected. Last night he was in a small Latino club. Off of I-77. Nothing fancy. Think disco balls, and Christmas lighting. Think of a place where the cops don’t drive by much and a place where people go to the bathroom too often. But just like a bad girlfriend isn’t much, she’s at least honest and her intentions can be understood.

                 <<Rewind<< a few hours back and he was at home in his lair of ash stained carpet. His brother, Eddy, said Johnny (his cousin) invited them to dinner. Leaving in an hour. Take a shower if you want.

                Johnny was a young man, mid twenty’s. Short. Successful at business, decent with the girls…But lonely. He loved one girl and he’d been loving her for the last decade. If he had one wish, he would ask for a magic wand to turn water into vodka.

                And Eddy…Mid-thirties. Persuasive. Long hair. Always the happy man with lots of energy. Builds log homes with passion. Back on the snowboarding trip on the ski lift, he stretches his arms from horizon to horizon, saying with a smile, “Imagine if all of this snow was powder…”

                Pete has no money in his wallet, and his credit card is maxed out. Eddy is currently broke. But there they sit smoking a cig after dinner. Johnny’s house looks unoccupied although he’s been living there for a year. There’s a massive Samsung and some expensive sound seeping from the speakers. One drink. Three drinks, six, nine--It doesn’t matter anymore. Eddy’s words smooth Johnny into going out. So they all jump into the big truck. F**k warming it up…Eddy jams the clutch down like a racehorse digs his hoof into the dirt.

                So there they end up at the little Latino club. Everyone’s waiting around for the stuff to get there. They stand at the bar like the three musketeers, their pale skin contrasting everything about the dark environment. It’s dim to the point where Pete glances and can’t even see the DJ…lost somewhere up there in the foggy booth--Pete’s tall and skinny. Blonde. Metro jeans with a weathered jacket. Sometimes he thinks he’s a photographer, other times he’s an artist, a writer, a climber…It’s just one cycle after another.

                There are cigarette butts littering the floor. The bathroom is used more as a meeting place than it is for pissing. You can always count on the Duranguense music in the background. If it bothers you, feel free to hand the DJ a twenty and you can get a few minutes of Gaga or whatever the hell you like.

                Make no mistake though. The place is perfect--in the surrounding grid of fluorescent lamp posts and church steeples and fast food drive-thru’s, the Latino club acts as a warp hole: Jump in Friday and you are transported to some small town in Mexico. Jump out on Sunday and you’re ready for a week of work armed with paintbrush or hammer.

                Besides for one rather large Caucasian dancer, they were the only white ones. Although it may have pissed off some of those escape-seeking foreigners, the three were there. And they were comfortable thanks to Eddy who knew everyone and everything about the street. They were safe because they didn’t dare test what Eddy’s unpredictable brother or cousin were made of. Maybe it helped that Pete's head soared above the rest like a flashy buoy in the sea. Most of all though, Eddy tallied up fight after fight in his younger days #LocalMuhammadAliProdigy

                Eddy cruised around the little place in high gear. He mastered the dance floor and smoothly left his dance partner at the bar, swapping her for a drink. Man comes up to him. He walks and talks. You look around and see cowboy hats and dark shirts. But Eddy’s talking to the one dressed all in white. Comes back to the other two and says “Turris says Papitas is hot on the street right now. Watch out.”

                Daniel tags in, “Papitas? He’s a friend, so who cares?” Peter looks at Johnny: “Yeah but he hangs out with Alvaro.” JJ nods. “Yup. That’s the problem.”

                Peter clenches up a bit, feeling the effects of his ninth Corona. “I could give a f**k.” He slams it town on the bar top. “I know where they live. We go by Walmart. Get some ammo. Go by the house…”

                “"I have my new Beretta at home. You got your .22 and Edd’ll take the shotgun. I can get my Beret…”

                And they all smile and laugh within their tetrarchy command unit. They are mentally invincible--delusional--sunken in drunkenness…Their eyes locked on the front door, waiting for the good stuff to come in.  

                They get the s**t. Eddy’s driving. He gets it out. It’s a lot for the price paid and the time of night. “Want one for the road?” Pete asks. Eddy nods.

                Unwrap. Key. Dip. Nose. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

                And they’re all soaring, the highway lines feel like edges of a tunnel. The hard bass is pounding the mirrors, managed by Pete who’s in the backseat. He’s loving it. He thinks to himself. This is like s**t out of the movies. Unreal. But it’s there, it’s happening. And being the over-thinker, he loves when action is happening. He thinks he loves forgetting all the logic of good long term decisions in exchange for a few hours of euphoria…

                Now they make it back to Johnny’s. And all is well. With music videos to gaze at, they all sit there on the leather couches. They all pass the key and baggy around. They all have a drink in hand. Their ears are as full as their stomach is as their nostrils.

“Fu-ck valentine’s dayyyy,” Pete slurs as he raises his glass to Johnny’s. It clasps triumphantly. There are grins. The baggies are empty. The air is empty because smoking isn’t allowed.  

                The next day, Pete’s frustrated. He tries to hack away thoughts of the previous night. It’s like he has a machete and he’s chopping off zombie heads but there’s blood everywhere and it’s a mess. He wonders how it would be to never do drugs again. But he knows to not even put himself up to the challenge. His mind drifts back to the memory box --> folder --> Philadelphia. He remembers the phone call. He told her they needed to break up, he was moving back to South Carolina. She said nothing till they met up. And for three hours she had him in her web. She broke him down in every way she could. And he was so confused. That’s when she said “When you go back, you’ll do cocaine. I just know it.”

                She was right. And Pete remains conflicted. God or no god. Drugs or no drugs. Ambition or none at all. He knows certain things about himself to be true. He loves sensations, variety, experiences. The out of control. But too much of it and he hates it. Can’t he have just have a little bit of everything all the time?

                Despite all logic, it is funny to him how much trust he places in his daily Gemini description. Maybe because when he offers a prayer to the heavens, he gets no response. He knows he can’t ask anyone what will come of tomorrow. But at least a bullshit horoscope gives him something; the way that a bad plan feels better than no plan at all.

                In this suffocating environment of weekend drinking and substance appreciation, there is a sliver of hope for Pete: rock climbing. It is something that makes him feel awake amidst all the numbness. And lately, he puts it all out there in the climbing gym.

                He is still a novelty to the gym occupants. They stare at him as he slithers in from community college and does his quirky stretching. He chalks up and tears it up. He climbs like all of hell is on his back and he’s shaking it off with every hold he grabs. Girls are intrigued to look upon the sights of genuine forearms pumping in and out; Pete appears to be there for the sport--not for chit chatting his way into their panties.

                But it’s different this Saturday. Pete’s in a good mood. He engages with the company of climbers. He talks about the route and the shoes and whatever else comes to mind. He reads it all with his eyes. And one girl’s eyes are as genuine as his. Maybe he can be as honest with her as he can with his pen and paper?

                She’s attractive. Not too attractive though--he’s tired of those kind of girls. And she is petite. Brunette. Relaxed. More than anything, his intuition resonates a simple affirmation. And so he thinks he should ask for her number. But he doesn’t as she says goodbye and it was nice to meet you…as they stare each other down to the sweat running over their heated skin. He stands there mesmerized by his own paralysis. Next time he’ll talk to her, he thinks. But damn, now he’ll be thinking about it all week.

Author's Note

Say whatever you like. Enjoy.