What Possessed Me???: January 16, 2011

In 1988, my cousin & I went to

Acapulco on vacation.

It was a disaster

from the minute we landed in paradise.

This place was a dive.

And not the good, Acapulco kind.

The hotel was disgusting &

they put us on the

2,012th Floor.

This was so helpful,
to have a bird's-eye view

of the Earth below.

The first day, we got up and went right into

the blazing rays of the Mexican sun.

While I am darker than my cousin

(actually, half & half is darker),

I managed to leave 3 layers

of my epidermis at that pool,

as we wore out the pool-side cabana boy,

bringing us tropical breakfast concoctions,

on a regular basis.

Not a good choice,

when you pass out on a lounger &

wake up baked like a tortilla.

At first, we thought that we got

SOME NICE COLOR...

...until we got to the room.

The heat from the flame-thrower

was starting to come out…

...along with the sweats and screams of pain.

This was DAY ONE.

The next day, I decided that I wanted to go parasailing.

Bad Choice, #2,

on Day #2.

There were quality operators available

right on the beach;

apparently,

I couldn't find one of those.

Instead, I got three
joint-rolling teenagers,

who stole a boat,
a rope and a sheet,

and went into business.

I paid them the rate for a half hour ride.

They hooked me into a
safety harness and
explained to me the
necessary procedure
for becoming airborne.

I would have to
run toward the water,

as the boat accelerated,

with the fervent hope
that I'm dangling...

long before I'm drowning.

As I recall,
this was a bit frustrating,
to catch the wind.

When I'm finally aloft,
I'm enjoying the view
for about a good, solid minute,

before the part of
the harness that is,

um,
UNDER ME,

starts to cut into me.

Sort of like those
leather piece swings
that we had
when we were younger?

Never understood that design.

Any-who,
as I'm being eviscerated
by this piece of canvas
that I'm sitting on,

the boat changes direction,
but apparently...

the tow rope did not.

It's now lying diagonally

across my face & neck,

cutting into my windpipe.

The line is so taut,

that I can not get
my fingers under it,

to free my throat.

My beloved cousin
is standing
at the water's edge,
taking pictures of my
high-flying adventure.

I'm flailing my arms out,
desperate for oxygen &
she's f’ing waving

back at me,

like a parent continuously
waves to their kid

on the merry go round,

regardless of how many times

they actually go around.

She FINALLY
gets my sky-high message and
tells the guy on the beach,
who's holding the other end of the rope.

If she had a good camera,

with a powerful zoom lens...

she could have clearly

made out my middle finger,

that I was pointing toward her &

the driver of the boat.

Without the slightest
hint of fear that

I'll be filing a complaint with the

Mexican Better Business Bureau,

he gives the guy
on the boat
the signal of a hand
moving laterally
from left to right,

across his throat.

This is the

Spanish translation for

'CUT THE ENGINE,

we're choking the Gringa.'

I feel the sudden
slack in the noose &
like the
Coyote suspended in air,
off the cliff...

I look down
to the water,

just before
I drop like a rock,
into it.

That night,
we went to dinner at
an upscale place
on the beach.

All of the
local children
wander the beach,

trying to score
a wallet or two.

They sell Chiclets
to tourists and

as I gave a little girl
a five dollar bill

for a pack of gum,

she attempted to remove

my watch from my wrist.

She couldn't have
been more than

4 or 5 years old.

We ordered dinner &

when my grouper arrived,
it had
the head,
the tail &
the whole f’ing nine yards.

His little blue eye
stared intently at me,

trying to guilt me
out of eating him

(I thought his timing was a little silly, to be honest.)

I burst into tears and
cried my fish
right off of our table
(his plan actually worked!)

The waiter thought
I was loca en la cabeza,

but we'd already had enough.

I took out my
expensive gum and
called it a meal.

The next night,
the cracker-jack concierge
screwed up
our reservations
at a nice place and
our only shot at actually eating
was to opt for the local
booze cruise.

At the Day 3 marker,

my Mexican enthusiasm
was getting
a little shaky and
in dressing for
our night out,
I put on my best pair
of denim shorts,
grabbed my cousin and
hailed a taxi.

We climbed into
the back of the cab.

When we see
that the driver has

sweat rushing out of his hair,

we roll down the windows.

After Pedro
asks for our destination,

he goes from 0 to 130,

instantly.

The smell of
burning rubber,

in addition to the naturally
fragrant aroma

of Aca-Puko, itself,

has me weighing
the difference
between gagging or
having my hair plastered
to my head
for the rest of the evening.

The mood in the cab was
dark and dreary.

We both instantly
light our cigarettes &

drag on them deeply,

as the Mexican wind
whipped across our faces.

Pedro Andretti
is driving
soooo fast,
that every word
Francie and I
said to each other,
had an echo effect.

I can't make out
what Francie was saying,
but by the
pained look on her face,

I could string together
the concept
that something was amiss.

"Ouch,"

came out of MY mouth,

as I turned to
my loving cousin and
told her that
her cigarette ash had flown
into my skin and burned me.

"No, it's your
cigarette ash that hit me!"

"Ouch, Ouch, Ouch,"
said we, in familial solidarity.

After we simultaneously
flicked our butts
out of the cab,
the ouching continued.

We were
both being attacked,

as if a pack of

Killer Mexican bees
had been

sucked into the vent.

I looked down and
was stunned
to see a multitude of
multi-colored thumbtacks
on my lap.

As I stared incoherently
at them,

I felt the same
confused look
on my face that the
female pedestrian
in the crosswalk had,
when he clocked her,
after barreling through the

traffic light (the red one).

She didn't remain
there for long,

as her next move
was to bounce off
the side of the cab.

It was mind-boggling
that Fran and I
were the only two characters
in this asinine story
that were horrified...

and screaming.

Neither our killer chaffeur,

nor the pedestrian-victim
batted an eye.

She simply made
violent contact with

the front of the cab,

bounced off the side,

bounced a little more,

and landed nicely upright.

She gave a little jiggle
to her entire body,
as if to shake off
the internal bleeding and

her broken extremities:

And then SHE KEPT WALKING!

She didn't look back.

She didn't scream and curse,

although I tried
offering her expletives
in my broken
High School Spanish.

She didn't jump through
the driver's window and
choke the crap out of him,

although I lunged for his throat.

SHE JUST KEPT WALKING!

I returned my attention
to the thumbtacks.

When he was finished
mowing people down,

he reaccelerated,
reigniting the
stinging sensations.

When I thought
a bee was in my hair,

I looked up and
suddenly thought that
someone had
thrown a hood over my head.

Just as we arrived
at the dock for

The Love Boat,

the fabric from
the roof of the cab
was sitting on my head,
since the thumbtacks
that were holding it in place
now completely littered
the floor at our feet.

He looked very confused
as I screamed some of that
High School Spanish at him.