“Pre Extinction People”
She closed her tattered copy of “1984” for the last time in a dim dawn light determined to sleep before her afternoon shift serving seafood to plague refugees at “Pensione Excelsior - Punta del Este; Uruguay” Sleep was fitful and fruitful with vivid images of baby Jesus along with answers to thorny questions about Orwell’s deeper reasoning rising like molten bubbles bursting onto the surface of her next ‘fucking day in paradise,’ and still she pondered.
Angela arrived 10 minutes late and could feel the whine of stranded rich people curdling her employer’s good will. Sysa Phish growled lowly and pointedly - “get the fuck out there” · Angela processed tasks well and Sysa knew by requests of the uber-Vips for Angela’s table, she also understood her place in the food chain and nodded quickly as she gathered her iPad and towel to her apron and fled onto the marble floor of good food at Punta del Este.
The afternoon sun was setting and the tables were filling with the charmed evacuees from a collapsed world economy looking to transplant their confused importance onto a new landscape without knowing much about the culture in which they’d landed - armed with little more than Noblesse oblige that had served them so well in “the capital” Capitols of New York, Brussels and London for the past 200 years, but now required nuanced cultural sensitivity that was not part of their patrician upbringing.
“Can I help you?” Angela mimed to the garish redhead at her first table unsure which language to use. The brightly painted woman didn’t look up while she ordered catfish, potatoes and salsa in flawless Spanish for herself and her very pretty male companion who was leering from under his eylashes at Angela while fingering the redhead’s diamond bracelet. “Thank god it’ll be a short shift,” Angela thought “The train’ll get to Montevideo by 20:00, and i can be at the “Crocodile by quarter past, if I’m lucky.” Though the “Punte Este” was steady, work at the Crocodile Cafe” was far more lucrative and entertaining.
The ambulance was just pulling away as she arrived at the “Croc” about 10:20; the crowd at the doorway did not include the owner Guildern Suer, which struck Angela odd while Mordecais Lizt was pacing slowly in a tight circle, but still clutching his goblet of Tinto Rojo. He was able to focus his hoary blue eyes deeply on her when she posted herself at a tangent to his slow pacing; he stopped in front of her, stooped over and quietly muttered, “Guildern was stabbed in the arm evicting that puta speed freak - Tito. Angela tottered for a moment leaning on Mordacais’ elbow, and asked quietly, “is it busy?”
“Not too very; glad you’re here, Guildern was worried you missed the train; had to force him in the van - too much blood, we slowed it with a belt - he’ll be okay.” Angela focused by distress moved through the crowd to the back door like a battalion and commenced taking orders in the rapidly swelling Bistro - mayhem seems to draw clients like flies; Angela noted, meaning to say nothing of this to Guildern, feeling certain he’d known this before he ever gave the landmark cafe it’s name. Located deep within moss covered archways overgrown by ancient wisteria leaving a cloying scent of sweet decay, the aged stone archway and massive oak doors more resembled the landing for a dank terminus in a subterranean grotto than the customs office of its former life.
+-+-+—
Guildern sat up too quickly and felt his sight dimming in time to sit back against the cool pillow cloth. He glanced around for his phone hoping it was included with his pouch containing passport and wallet - his “bug bag.” He’d managed to knock Tito unconscious with the crack of a beer bottle to the skull and remained standing over the motionless body until the policía confirmed that Tito was still breathing; Guildern then allowed someone to quell the dripping blood at his elbow that had formed a crimson pool at the shoulder of his assailant. They used his own belt for a tourniquet so has pants kept drooping on his journey from the “Croc” to emergency room.
It wasn’t until well passed 3 AM before he stepped out of the taxi into the darkened doorway of the cafe. The door was propped open and a faint light lit the dampened paving stone - a peculiar moss green contrasted against the dark red of spilt blood. Angela looked up as he stepped inside, the after-hours crowd ignored them, peering into their drinks like a tired heard in semi-stupor. Guildern and Angela settled onto stools in a tiny alcove at the bar’s end. Their mutual fatigue somehow fortified each as they gazed into each other’s eyes with a silent “WTF just happened” expression that only longtime lovers can understand. His hand rested comfortably in the valley of her crotch and thigh while she tenderly examined the dressings covering the thirty stitches necessary to seal his gash.
By 4:30 AM end of trade allowed the cafe to be closed and darkened, and the two weary friends carried each other’s hand up the staircase to the welcoming loft and beckoning downy berth. Hours later the clattering of fish carts on cobblestones signaled the early evening preparation for the evening trade and prospects of further economic recovery. The borders had reopened 6 months earlier after 18 months of lockdown. Like the necessary bomb shelters of WWII people adapted to the intervals of interruption, gradually succumbing to an inevitable depression and surrender to circumstance punctuated by emotional conflagrations that often left injured parties in their wakes.
Guildern woke to Angela pulling his flaccid member into her mouth with a gentleness he’d forgotten she possessed. Still woozy from depleted fluids his arousal was a more sacred and ejaculation complete than he could remember having. Angela swallowed all his come and left his limp penis in her mouth as she began to doze. The sun was pouring through the windows as he stroked her hair and reflected on their past 6 years together. Her petite physique and auburn tresses belied a physical power that still surprised him to see when she hoisted cases of wine onto the top stacks, or shifted crates across uneven floors. When she began to stir, he crawled between her legs and did his best to aid her to find a peak the could both gaze from in their private hearts.
Mordecaise was in the process of stocking the bar for the early afternoon stream when the two returned back down the stairs they’d climbed up for refuge the night before. “‘sup” Mordecaise grunted in his best imitation of “hood-speak,” just as Pasqual burst through the door slamming it shut before a loud crash echoed through the cafe.
“Fucking Tito is out there with crowbar, swears he’s gonna kill you Guildern - high as a fucking kite.” Guildern didn’t know if he was gonna laugh or cry, so he returned to counting the receipts from the night before. “Man did you hear me?” Angela was hanging up the phone.
Commenting to no one in particular she remarked, “Cops said we’ve exceeded our allowance for the month, fix it yourselves, or wait ’til next month.” The pounding at the door had ceased and there was an ominous silence, while Guildern continued to count the receipts.
Pssqual rose from his seat and grabbed the lariat he used during the winter festivals to attract customers and exited out the back. 10 minutes latter there was came a loud mewling like a stuck pig so Mordecaise stuck his head out the door to see if it was safe again. He saw Pasqual standing with a foot poised awkwardly on a tormented Tito who was squirming like a hogtied caterpillar seeking a new life. Mordecaise turned to refill his goblet with Tinto Rojo, then stepped back outside to consult with Pasqual.
Mordecaise set his goblet down on the low table where Pasqual sat admiring his handiwork, having gagged Tito to cut down on the squealing. Mordecaise lowered his voice and peered into Pasqual’s eyes - the goblet being the tipoff, so when Mordecaise began to speak Pasqual had his phone ready for notes. “There is a decedent, Domhall Schmuck from Rio who died here last Wednesday; the estate is sizable and there is no family member claiming the body. I want you to check with your friend Gonzo Benino in Rio for blood relatives and then contact Leslea Corkturn in Saltlake; he lived in the States for 20 years prior to 2021 so there may be “blood” claiming. The guy was a recluse with few known associates. When you can, I want anything you can turn up about his business interests before the Public Administrator files; there may not be a will, so you can expect a lot of interest we don’t need, please make sure Gonzo and Leslea understand that.” As he rose to leave, he turned back and mentioned to Paqual, “there’s a Renoir shipping from NYC to Punta Este next month, I want it insured for $3.5 million USD, same for the bonded carrier.”
Pasqual watched the gangly hirsute man receeding back through the too small doorway and thought to himself, “life is a real hoot.”
jts 01/2021
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
all rights reserved
∞
No comments:
Post a Comment