Homunculus

by Wintner, Robert;

  Absorbing her affection, he felt something change inside. His heart was still heart-shaped and paper thin, but Marylin Sweeny was a woman; just add water. From her first touch, she flowed into him. Then she flooded his banks. The swift, deep current that carried her along sometimes dunked them both. She clung to his buoyant perspective.

  He fought for the surface, talking fast of market segment, market share, demographic manipulation and statistical support. But she grabbed him and said, “I can get more money.” He moved into it, to help her, but she let go and hightailed it to the high ground of destiny. Her scent lingered.

  Or so he said. He didn’t say the part about the reconstitution of his freeze-dried heart or swift currents or destiny because he didn’t need to. His ruddy hue and quickened speech tell the story. People have eyes; they see. Yet he forswears the beanstalk growing menacingly skyward, down which the wicked giant will descend.

  Tomàs can reason with her, comfort and help her work through it. He can share her hopes and deny her fears. At her place they can interface over dinner and dialogue on the global kitchen appetite. But he is afraid, so he treads more softly than the softest of men. She takes it for respect.

  “Shit. Tomàs looks like he might not ever get laid again,” Cisco says. “I think I won’t ever get laid again sometimes. It’s a bummer.” Cisco lies. He can find gross distraction when he wants it for hardly two dollars and two dollars more for the liquor. Neither Juanita nor Rosita will open the gates for just anyone for six grand. They make allowance for Cisco. He’s so big, so strong, so good-looking and simpatico, they say, and don’t charge more for saying it. Just remembering their sweet nothings and hot salsa stirs his ashes, makes him dig for the money and head out for awhile. It’s what daily life comes to for him: finding a place to plug in.

  Marylin keeps pace for convergence on schedule, wondering if Tomàs left his libido in his socks or on the empty page. She loves his personal commitment and calls him the paradigm for success. He says her focus is at least equal to his own. He watches her like a scientist observing behaviors. She reshapes her format to fit her new niche.

  Some say his patience turns her on. Some say subtlety is lost on Marylin. Some take the compassionate view, the one resigned to life in the hills, the one allowing Marylin and Tomàs intimacy in private.

  But some say no, this is not a private situation. For the second most delectable human pursuit is speculation on love, without which a lovely town is reduced to quaint masonry. And this particular tasty dish is for all to savor. Some think they will, but some think they won’t. Most think she’ll insist. Most think neither is gay and certain needs must be met. She can make a pleasing presentation, and he, well, you can only wonder, but surely he has the faculties. Surely logic will lead to conclusion.

  She consults him on where to show, what to show, when to show. They lunch regularly. She pays. Tomàs loves a heady lunch with a light, dry wine. They progress, then evolve. He opens up, she calms down. He gives her honest answers to simple questions. She is relieved. Many fear tourism, they say. Marylin knows better, diagnosing homophobia in a heartbeat. She knows what looms but ignores the naysayers, until Tomàs joins the chorus by conceding his apprehension for a certain potentiality.

  “That’s why you can’t write a decent lyric,” Marylin snaps. “Sixteen thousand dollars down the drain in one weekend. You think I care about potentialities? Whom do you think cares for me? I mean about me. Do you think an effort like this one should defer to bar talk?”

  “No, no. I don’t think that, and I …” He falters on caring for her regardless of fallout. She pegs him there, stuck, failing to find the next note.

  Because the long and short of it come down to caring. She does. Everybody else does not. Maybe one or two make a show of it, like Rhonda or Elizabeth Haley or Paley, but those two mostly want to eat popcorn and lament awful men and accessorize for their fucked up empty lives. She can count on no one once Tomàs becomes last man out. She mocks his stuttering silence with a hurtful grin. Then she gets up and leaves, shutting him down with sheer momentum.

  That afternoon she writes to the National Unified Task Squadron on Creative Recreational Events Allowing Merriment for guidelines on compliance. The six-page response outlines current theory on social/sexual justice, rights and integrity. Its ground rules pledge that each of its half-million members will consider attending those events approved by the N.U.T.S. ’n. C.R.E.A.M Board of Directors, according to the organization’s by-laws and rules of membership. The enclosed application is step one in achieving that approval. Marylin presses on. She knows about approval.

  She knows Filmfest I might not suck her through the black hole of greatness, but it’ll pucker things up good and plenty. She knows it. She completes the application in adherence to the ground rules, with an essay on moral turpitude in Mexico and film.

  Gray Bruce, National Unified Task Squadron Chair, calls with congratulations on passing the review. She shrieks into the telephone—can’t help it. Gray chuckles in a moment of warmth and sharing. A single person can change society with charity and goodwill and can earn her fame and fortune, if she has the backbone to do it. Even half of a half million at two hundred bucks a head will be … huge.

  But, Gray Bruce explains, support will be political, spiritual and moral. “It may not translate to sales. We require our members to consider those events in compliance with guidelines, and they do. We have so many events now vying for support. But don’t be discouraged. We are activists. We are organized. We tend to follow through. And don’t forget, we have more gays than Republicans in San Francisco now.”

  Marylin contemplates San Franciso. She understands the hazards of desire and seeks neutrality in her tentative relationship with success. She knows about wanting a thing so badly you can bugger it up and worse, bugger yourself in the process until the thing becomes incidental to the mess you can make. None of that here, no thank you, until two months pass with only two-hundred requests for film festival info. It’s hardly snit out of a half million, but if they all come … She multiplies tickets and other sales times two hundred. She sighs over expenses. Then she sobs, failed again.

  Tomàs doesn’t exactly hover but is ready for a proper cue. He swoops more gently this time with a glass of vino rojo and counsels, “More will come.” He resists elaboration and in fact succeeds in chivalrous endeavor by locking eyes for a telltale moment and withdrawing.

  When five hundred requests convert to sixty deposits, he says it again, “More will come.” She thinks he’s whistling in the dark, which is better than blowing smoke up her ass like he’s blown it up his own these many years and like the others try as well, watching like voyeurs at her expense. He points out that over half the deposits are for the entire program, and two-hundred dollars each, along with popcorn, beer, wine, and the T-shirts due any day now from LA, will nearly pull the enterprise halfway back to even money. And it’s only taken a year.

  Marylin understands that long odds are heroic odds, and women of valor never had it any easier. She asks if reaching for the stars is wrong. He says no, it is not. She says she doesn’t care, because if reaching is wrong, she don’t wanna be right—this in loose rendition of a similar soul song of recent decades. She laughs at her own foolishness. Tomàs observes and says, “I think success is a probability greater than zero.” She cries again. She orders tequila in a tall glass. He stands by, resolute and silent.

  Twelve cancellations two weeks before the fête entitle those subscribers to a full refund. Tomàs writes the checks and presents them for signature. He then mails them. Marylin stares into the universe. She over-ordered on perishable peripherals and now faces the potentiality of eating the popcorn, beer, wine and T-shirts from LA—nice ones, Technicolor, like she dreamed of.

  Gray Bruce, National Chair, suggests dedicating the festival to those fighting the dreaded disease, to stimulate participation. Marylin’s head hurts, but she goes along. The National Unified Task Squadron sends a black
wreath and a liaison committee. Participation swells, but in the end Marylin’s loss compounds, since dedication to the dreaded disease requires dedication of revenues, fifty percent. Tomàs argues for percentage of the net, since nobody but an idiot would expect a percentage of what has to cover expenses, unless the whole lot of them want to wallow in liquidated damages.

  Gray Bruce stands tall as Cisco with less threat. His sweeping coif, also gray, shines silvery in the lamplight and offsets his sharp facial features and deep tan. He stands up, looks down and asks, “Who is this little man? Are you a principal? Do you have authority here? Are you in a position of control? Do you know who I am? Do you know what I represent?” Tomàs also stands but sits back down, fuming with enough indignation for anyone with half a brain to see.

  “It’s fine. It’s fine,” Marylin insists. She puts her hand on Tomàs’ and says, “Fifty percent of the gate. The peripherals stay intact.” Gray Bruce looks straight ahead and nods once. Salvage efforts lead to a week like most others in town, except for the twelve movies to see and a few visitors schmoozing at el jardin.

  But small towns so remote can fall behind the times. Neither mean nor fearless, the place lives by tradition. Men of flamboyant behaviors are certainly nothing new, and few men in history have more swollen pingas than the Flamenco elite. Yet this new flavor of flamboyance curdles the common sensibility like limon in the leche; men have strolled arm in arm in town. But these men come on poignantly predisposed and in great numbers relative to the drastic nature of their longing. They drift in groups speaking their own dialect and retire to their hotels for perversions fundamentally different than those popular in town. Some old timers sense trespass or at least encroachment. This organized subculture could facilitate decomposition much faster than Northern Italian, Szechwan or psychotherapy. They’ll come in waves to a place like this, if they can fit in and order a drink in English. Sunset would pale forever if the grackle song competes with the man giggle.

  Just look: the wayward crowd has changed already. The misfits, kooks and free spirits no longer stumble onto a place at random. No, the word is out, and a secret place can get jam-packed overnight. Holiday in Mexico or Glorious Mexico or Viva la Mexico will first indicate the rube realists coming down expensed from the Miami Herald or the Los Angeles Times or anyplace in between. In and out in four days of fabulous dining and glorious, marvelous, bright and shining profile of the adventure that can be yours to live. Because every discovery of isolated beauty like this marks the beginning of the end. Discovery leads to rediscovery, first by more adventurers seeking adventure, then the desperately poor seeking refuge from a world entirely too demanding, followed directly by the desperately rich seeking that long lost time, this time with money. Together these classes of critical poverty and wealth will form a third world nation of their own, one that speaks English.

  In time the middle takes note of places with no malls, no McDonald’s, no media, the middle and its media call these places charming for their lack of modern convenience. And in trickles the mobile middle, hungry for charm, because it’s all used up back home. Yet it cannot go far without its needs, its values, its missionary zeal for comfort, security and those rights we hold self-evident, including fabulous dining. And what could be so wrong with a mall? And who but a totalitarian dictator would ban tourism? Nothing and nobody are what and who, but alas the free spirit becomes organized and visible, tethered to tours, filtered with promotion and homogeneity.

  The gringo newspaper carries ads for hypnotizers, aura integrators, colorists, counselors, consultants and choreographers—these alongside colorful accounts of Pedro scratching the dirt for thirty dollars a week while his wife brings in another thirty as a housemaid. This feature article by Margaret Donahue Mayweather Hughes reports the advent of the two-income family in the hills of Mexico.

  And here come the gays with their shrill threat, their public affection, their bone of contention. The filmfest becomes a Trojan horse carrying the means of the end. What if? The question lingers. What if they like it here? What if they come back in droves? What if we …

  Fear fuels reaction. Reaction leads to purpose; or maybe another drunk gives rise to reaction, and purpose is another delusion. Momentum compounds when two moviegoers touch privates in public and hold there as if on a D-double dare, or maybe they simply crave attention. A few heads turn. Some stare. Some mumble. As if encouraged in their bid for stardom, the two kiss. One thrusts, the other moans. It’s no different than a display of hetero lust, except that such displays don’t occur in the jardin for obvious reasons. And then, of course, this is two men. They writhe, rubbing each other front and center. They may enjoy the natural freedom that should be theirs by rights, but it’s a taunt, a test, a line in the sand. Hey, it’s guys, tongue jutting, bone rubbing, dry humping—right up next to greasing it up and corn holing in public! So the story makes the circuit.

  “Well, it’s indiscreet, no argument there. But what the hell, I’ve had blow jobs in the jardin!” This from Charles at the top of his form, several months prior to his disappearance. “I’m not bragging. I’m only telling you it ain’t the first time. Sure, it’s usually late at night and empty when I get my blow jobs. And nobody can say these guys ain’t weird. They practically insist that we imagine them at home packing fudge. But that’s only because you haven’t been around it. The theater’s full of it. I never minded. More of the other for me. You know? Besides, what would you have thought when you were thirteen, if you knew you’d grow up to be an alcoholic in a … a pueblo?” Charles quells the howl for action, until a group strolls into La Mexa and stands at the bar. Two hold hands; two giggle; all blink innocently as fawns for mercy and acceptance.

  Cisco says, “Yeah. It’s like a whole world, on account of these guys fucking each other in the ass.” Well, it was a blow to collective sensibility all right. Nobody appreciates that kind of language or that kind of sentiment. Unfortunately, the group of new visitors spook and leave. Sentiment then varies in waves rolling up and down the bar. Some regret meanness no matter what the situation, others disagree, insisting that life is full of difficult indications, and Cisco concisely stated the difficulty growing here. No one is hurt, not really.

  Cisco procures by profession, goods or services. Six-five in his boots with no hangover, he looks lithe with stringy muscles that didn’t come from body building, and his tattoos underscore his intention: Live Free/Ride Hard on one arm balances Live Hard/Ride Free on the other. He’d slung his share of hash and lived to fight about it. His pony tail isn’t chic but is left over from the revolution, from the day he said, “Yeah,” to the rider on the Quicksilver Messenger Service album. He never worked in a restaurant or considered cream rinse.

  New people sometimes stare. He lets them stare, until he turns them off. The starers sometimes smile. He likes that, taking it as a lie down and roll over, flanks bared. He says he’s not nearly as bad as he used to be. “I used to be bad. I liked to fight. I mean I liked it. Didn’t care if I won or got the piss knocked out of me, I just liked it. Musta been fucked up or something. I don’t like it nearly as much anymore. I still got a wild three minutes in me though.”

  He sees himself high on the food chain. Many others see him there too. Yet more importantly, he is known and appreciated in town for his link to original soil. Cast from the mold of crude adventurers wandering the earth in the last half of the Twentieth Century with long hair, tattoos, earrings and a fundamental instinct for survival and hedonism, Cisco’s future is secure for now.

  He enjoys a niche in town. Aggressive when drunk, he confines his drinking to La Mexa, so you know where to avoid him. Up and in from down and out, he enjoys life in this hideaway paradise such as a canary might enjoy a song in a mineshaft, so long as suitable conditions prevail. Hardly a songbird, he looks like nothing to lose, and he doesnn’t give a good goddamn what you lose too. Maybe aging and beating have left him kind and gentle as an old diamondback with some dented rattles and a broken fang.
He doesn’t need to throw punches anymore to prove who’s toughest or most fearless, because he knows and knowing is proof enough, not exactly like Marylin’s knowing, but not exactly not. Anachronism in his own time and proud of it, Cisco is a man, old style. He stepped aside from evolution, did not adapt and wound up in Mexico. Standing tall in private glory, he can get you excellent dope and cocaine to write home about.

  A cheerful woman comes on the dish-fed tube as if in synchronous intervention. Pancho turns her up and says he’s been to New Orleans.

  “I’m Valerie Varn,” the woman says. “And New Orleans is riddled with lush courtyards and walkways. Try remembering your way into this maze.” The camera goes to a tavern full of men. “McGirts is a bar catering to gay men but welcoming lesbians and straight people too!” The camera goes close on the bartender, a shaggy brute who looks like Cisco but smiles sweetly and guarantees that no place on earth has more beautiful men per square foot than McGirts. Valerie Varn goes close on a shy teenager, who says he loves McGirts, because he can fit in. The other men in the bar smile.

  Cisco turns it off. “Anybody want to go to New Orleans?”

  “Too big,” Pancho says.

  Nobody else speaks. Discussion is closed. “This is easy,” Cisco says. “We mess ’em up. That’s all. Just mess ’em up. You know? I mean mess ’em motherfucking up.” He says he can make it look like three guys jumped the homos, and he’s the three guys for the job.

  “No, no, no!” Tomàs intervenes. “You talk like a criminal. You want to hurt people because you don’t like them?” Maybe Tomàs steps up to appease his critics, maybe to keep the peace, which he does in the end, saving Cisco from himself, saving the town from notoriety.

  “Why should we listen to you?” Malcolm barks. “You caused it.”

  Tomàs ponders cause. Cisco says, “So?”

  Some sit back. Some groan. Siesta time approaches. Tomàs looks up. “Leave it to me. They’ll be gone. They won’t be back.” He leaves slowly, thinking. Cisco watches, dazed by a world going stranger still, where a stoop-shouldered mental can clean up a situation better than he could. Someone orders one for the road, pre-siesta. Consensus rises like bubbles in salsa left out too long; yes, for the road, one. The afternoon thickens.