Cecil

I recently found a journal entry from around 1997, and so it goes-"El Paso is a hard-core town golf courses on one side of the free way and a landslide of corrugated metal huts on the other. LA BIBLIA ES VERDAD, or LEER LA BIBLIA appears written in big white letters on the mountain slope across the valley on the Mexico side. CECIL --he was a cook for a hospital in down town Houston. I asked if I could buy a cigarette from him outside of the terminal in El Paso. He said “No but I’ll give you one” and proceeded to hand me a GPC from the soft pack in his shirt pocket. He initiated further conversation by telling me about this Taiwanese friend he was visiting in Los Angeles. Evidently this friend of his is a successful chef in tensile town and does catering for movies. Cecil talked about his friend’s big house and pictures of the Tai chef with certain celebrates, like Ronald Reagan . We break the conversation to reboard and grab seats within a row of each other. As more passengers board, I happen to glance out the window and notice four kids breakdancing in front of a giant nautilus shaped forum adjacent to the bus depot. This display might not have appeared so strange had they been throwing down their old school headspin cardboard in any neighborhood but this turquoise plastered, adobe mud bricked, hacienda village. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the glimpse of a young woman as she navigated her way through the other passengers searching for a seat of her own. She had sort of chubyish creamy skin on her face and plump fingers with bluish green eyes. Her hair was curly and brown, down to the tips of her shoulder blades, with golden highlights like a grizzly bear. She wore a green and white silky sport jersey and peppered her talk with ebonic slang, ranting something about some boy as she settled into her seat. Cecil continues on about his Tai friend by lowering his head and gestures with a nod saying, ”big parties, lots of drugs”. Upon confiding this he removes his sunglasses, folds them and they disappear into his shirt pocket. Cecil protest that he’s “not really into all that” and goes on to state that he “went home early” from one of these parties, even though his friend said that he could stay the night. The bus lumbers onto the highway as Cecil tells of a girl in a bar he had met one afternoon. They talked for a long time about them selves their relationships their jobs. Evidently, this woman did something like voice-overs. He goes on to describe how She offered to take him back to his hotel and when they got there she said that he was one of the only people she had carried on a decent conversation with in a long time but that she wouldn’t cheat with another woman’s man. Cecil reassured me that she was, “a nice lady”. At some point I notice him unrolling a photo shopper zine he must have picked up in the terminal. I offered him the only book I had. He asked what was it about and I didn’t know how to explain it. It was a Carlos Castaneda collection. I garbled how it was about magic and stuff, he replied, “you mean like Steven King”. I couldn’t think of how to explain this to Cecil, then I think he realized his choices and agreed to give it a go.
The new Driver was a white hared goucho with a slim GUCCI belt and greyhound belt buckle. He announced the usual; NO SMOKING NO LOUD RADIOS …routine with a thick Tejano drawl. Just out side of Van Horn, the silk jersey girl leans over my seat from behind and asks what I am writing about. I show her that it is my journal. She asks what do I do? I reply that I don’t really know, I live at home, save up money and travel. I always kind of hate that question. At this point I’m starting to break a micro bead sweat on my brow as I notice how thick the concentration of blue color in her eyes is. She asks how old I am, “28” I reply, “Hmmm 28 and living with mom," she slices.
I had no reply. She slid back down into her seat. I was hemorrhaging. Cecil was reading."