Crossroads at a porn shop (Part II)

Fiction: the second part of the story of the Salvadoran guerilla killing a motherfucker

Old Time Square picture taken from here.

Van Nuys es very nice postcard. Image taken form here.

We were going over all the different categories of porn movies.

Some are as follows:

• Gonzo (the wham-bamn-choke-you-ma’am stuff)

• Bondage/fetish (which included everything from hairy chicks to foot stuff to flogging to enemas and other shit)

• Gay

• Lesbian

• Transsexual/Shemale (that was the term back then; whatever, porn ain’t supposed to be politically correct)

• Big boobs

• Big ass

• Black

• Interracial

• Gang bang

There’s more. So we spent the good part of his six-hour shift going over them, making sure he knew how to find the sections in the video/DVD display room—all of which were empty. We kept the video tapes and DVD discs behind the counter. Because people steal. Especially horny men. Especially horny drunk or high men.

To make sure he knew the sections well enough, I tested him. I told him to wait in one part of the store and randomly grabbed a bunch of movie boxes and made him put them all back in their sections.

In less than a minute, on his first try, he put them all back correctly.

“Impressive, compa,” I said. “You’ve got good memory.”

“Aveces no nos dejaban a escribir los mensajes,” he said in Spanish, that sometimes they (the guerrilla leaders) wouldn’t let them (the younger guerrilla messengers) write messages down, pointing to his head. “Memory only.”

“Crazy,” I said. “I never can remember shit.”

“¿Por qué?” he asked. “Accident?”

“Nah, it was on purpose,” I said. “Meth, crack and vodka will do that to you. But I’ve stopped now.”

“Thas good. Es veneno eso. Poison.”

“No, yea, well, I mean, I still drink. Like, a lot, but at least I stopped the other stuff, ya know?”

Marcial just looked at me and smiled understandingly, which really pissed me off. It stung of smugness and condescension. But I was kinda sure he didn’t mean it.

I knew I had a problem and I didn’t like facing it. I was making all these sorts of compromises and bargains with myself—that I could still get fucked up but not like crazy fucked up, not like before, and if I could remember what I did the night before, where I parked the car for example, I would reward myself with a morning beer, but just one, maybe a light beer, or maybe, just maybe, one little Vicodin if I was real hungover or just a quick hit from the pipe or like a small bump of crystal if I was running late and didn’t have time to brush my teeth or make coffee.

But then as inevitably as the porn shop customer spills his cum in the end on the cold and stinky floor in the back movie rooms, I fucked up spectacularly. I couldn’t control my drug and alcohol intake. I’d lose count. I’d lose track of time. I couldn’t control myself.

So the truth hurts.