This is the rest of it.
He hadn't eaten what she had put on the table for him. He had retained no sense about eating or self-preservation. All he knew was that he had not been taking the Pill. The absence of effect of the Pill. Looking deep into the absence he knew nothing. He would let himself discover eventually that an absence had no implications. It was the thing uncovered that had implications.
There was a smell in the house. It was the smell one finds on the first breath after a sneeze. Was that smell always there or was the sneeze a reset button for the senses, allowing you to peer through the build up of files that remained on your mental desktop? Thousands of files with names names like DCN000977651298-997 (the smell of your own shit) turned transparent to the nose for a moment, making it able to differentiate and navigate and smell directly through stacks of tacky aroma files that had been clumping to constitute eau du everyday and smell the something that was as plain as itself on its own face. Either that, or it was the smell of cells sloughed from the bronchial tubes, back of the throat and sinuses during a hundred mile per hour exfoliation. That was the smell of the house. It was always there. Or, considering, it might be that the house enabled him to peer through those clumping files. There was indeed something about this house that he noted, but didn't dwell on. Something.
But let's be reasonable. There weren't a lot of things going on in this man's head that would make for good reading at this precise moment. One would have to dig deeply and quickly with sharp tools that allow the wielder to pinpoint, grasp and pluck in one smooth motion. And then what would you have? Once outside the head, the things would require sorting into piles subsequently requiring arcane explanations that soon would bore dear reader. This man had been lost to himself for years. A mind of interesting potential in his youth, but at the moment I labor to describe, the mind had long since gone to waste in a sopa de nuez of guilt and unchecked introspection. Well, in fact, the soup hadn't been so bad, but the attempted cure, as is so often true, fucked him up soundly.
His consciousness upon arriving at the old woman's house was that of a child during the first few months of perception, or of a very old dog. The old dog may be an exaggeration. The medication he took was simply referred to, without titters, as The Pill.
His consciousness upon arriving at the old woman's house was that of a child during the first few months of Rohrshak blotch perception, or that of a very old dog. The old dog may be an exaggeration. The medication he took was simply referred to, without titters, as The Pill.
The medication was designed to blot out depression, but blotted out far more. The connections of one image to another, one memory to another. One smell or taste to a word or sound. It cut connections, leaving the significances dangling like wind chimes and turning his experience into a pleasant pool of intangible deja vu. He had been taking the medication for three weeks in a hotel room under the supervision of the Spook.
Somehow he had traded away his withdrawal symptoms. He had quit before, whatever had been easy to find and to use--sometimes exotic, sometimes stupid, sometimes rot. He had quit before and sought relief immediately. Once he had taken heroin and Pop Rocks. Once he had used mezcal to ween himself off chewing coca leaves, once he had become deeply accustomed to betel nut juice and nitrous and had given himself up to a month-long temescal vision of peyote and self-starvation. He had never come out of his costumbres any cleaner. To The Pill had been the easiest transition.
The woman didn't believe in The Pill, but she followed the letter of the Spook's instructions.
He had certainly needed help when the Spook found him in DF, el Distrito Federal, the Ciudad. Mexico City.
What can one find beneath a park bench in Mexico City? A wet bag of popcorn, remnants of a burst eight foot tubular Scooby Do balloon, two nearly empty water bottles (one with its lid, one accordianed unevenly holding coffee ground brown liquid and matches), a flattened deep blue Jumex box (sabor: jugo de piña), a disintegrated condom mass melted and open like the Sun's areoli encircling a kernel of corn, dark tar brown mud ramped up against the rear base of the bench by the perfect trowel of running water and time, broken glass (green and brown), seven tamale corn husks, a paper cup lined with globuled yellow mayonnaise and red chile flakes, the bones of a small chicken coated with ants, and agitated adult earwigs curving and rolling in sublime asphyxiation. The earwigs had found dried salty blood in the creases of the cold neck of the only other thing that lay beneath the park bench: the man known as LSPA. If he had been able to open his eyes, he would have said he had seen worse than this.
A heavy mist spat down from the DF sky and collected in the gritty leaves above the bench. As the moisture gathered, the mist became a rain and the sloppy overflow from the leaves beat down on the man's exposed pants. The rain kept the ants from finding him.
A skinny out of place tourist stuck out his hand to the man with the cart and asked for a coconut popsicle. The young vendor smiled toward the exposed pants as he handed the tourist his change.
"Yes, quite a mess, huh?"
Then, he kicked the shoe gently trying to determine the right adjective for the body.
"Ah, careful now, amigo. Cuidado. Precioso."
The vendor pushed on with a small laugh. Not the same as his adjective.
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