Tijuana Princess, Airbrushed Decisions
by Joel Van Noord
“Do you think the world of me?”
The pillow’s scrunched and she’s on her side. The head spins with weight. They’re both there all to frequently. Too drunk and there are dank bags people knock on the door for. Music and that other thing… It’s the American Dream, money for nothing, but they’re both there too much and the place stinks of wet intimacy. She calls in sick too much and maybe on Tuesdays she’ll work. She’s more into driving two hours north for the night and hugging pseudo lesbians, smearing tanning lotion all over.
Her magazine’s on the floor and they’re on the pillow and he’s been reading books, which he hasn’t done since, what, sophomore year? But, now that he’s the emotional man with the simple guitar on stage and looked away from during intellectual conversations, there is a desire.
The book’s down and she too is a simple thing, even more so, only an object to lust. He is lucky? Yes. But we all have these same problems. Only different in degrees. Which is everything.
“I said, ‘do you think the world of me?’”
“At this instant? Maybe. Yes. Of course I do… I don’t know. I wish… In order to think the world of you I would first have to think the world. So… No. Actually… I don’t understand the question, I’m sorry.”
The next day: “I have a show.” and she looks at him and agrees to go and it’s quiet and his friends are there and supportive.
She sits and the legs are a right angle opening to the left and it’s what, three? The clothes have been off all day and she’s on what, who knows? Painkillers and the scars are pink and ribbed with stitches.
In order to compensate there is a tattoo of a turtle with exaggerated flipper-wings and a Japanese wave with lips like fangs. She’s gone and he’s happy and drinks too much. Some people judge and others enter sinking boats knowing full well. Others plug holes with intentions to sail further out into the void.
Her page is on the floor and it’s spread.
This is the American Dream? It’s the first time he’s not had a job. Gigging… gig. GIG. A little dance in the street while coins are tossed? But it’s easier than sitting in a cubicle? It’s all really silly and all really the same.
She’s off and drives north to the valley and he’s not going. He hates the valley and she’s doing what? Rubbing, sniffing, licking, pouting? She’s got to hold tight another little sprite of a girl and his friend has a subscription now and what is there to do but shake his head as it’s shown to him before he speeds 60 Km’s south of Tijuana.
I used to think // I had things to say // I used to think // there were things to say
Those are the only lyrics he’s been able to find. It’s all gone and leaving and he’s sighing and searching, putting two major chords to a dominant minor.
At the border the Federales wave a flag and they stop. An 18 year old with a clumsy looking rifle slung over his shoulder smiles,
Solomente nada, he says after asking them if they’re surfers and he says, in English, that he only swims. Nada, is it nothing, or he swims? Nadar. Is there an accente somewhere, is it their job to know? Saber.
In bed there’s some burn and things are in-grown but he still has to kneel and kiss around and bring it out and his friend’s out there non-stop, between times jerking it to this for the poetry of it and it’s a hassle. Is what it comes down to. Everything becomes a hassle.
The songs are harder to write, now that there is an obvious destination. He pictures the destination. There is a feeling, a need to change something in order to write something. But all the combinations have long since been done. What can be different? Shift everything up a full step and trade A for C? Add a Bm and an F sharp?
Girls got the books, reads them. But she’s lazy, only wants to travel, like anyone. She drives up and the meathead comes over and sits on the couch and drinks more beer than he brings. The meathead watches the guitar being strummed and there is singing and everyone’s a monkey, losing the plasticity of intellect. What’s-his-face got into grad school and they call him professor now, instead of our friend with the nude model of a girlfriend, the ol’ Guitar Strummer. That was once his 16-year-old name.. Ohhhh, but it’s ok. Surfer has the vibe and he’s quiet and off to the side. Sex is the center and Meathead’s aggressive. Guitar’s the smile, jester. Shrug. These are his friends, Meathead, Surfer, Sex-addict, nude model… He plays guitar.
But in Mexico the Federales find a roach and light it and sniff and search. There is a joint that not even the Americans know about but the Federales don’t find it. North of the border is the finest city in America but across that line there are free-range roosters roaming about thatch houses. Raw sewage streams between eroded hillocks and ferments inside the kelp beds north of the border.
There is a 200 foot tall Catholic Jesus only appropriate for panhandle Texas and they drive. They drive hard and there is a bluff. Surfer brought the 19 year-old and she’s brought a 20 year-old and a Stoner, who’s been comatose-high the entire trip –only sitting and slurring and laughing pathetically. There are five of them and out of everyone in their crew, Guitar and surfer are the only ones who are native, post-college, and have known each other since first grade.
None of it matters there on the bluff. There are fires and it’s an American holiday and the dirt is packed. The waves are leagues beyond the over-priced Norte and the water is 5 degrees colder than 100 miles north. There is a thin slice of current the second day and the waves break outside of this, so they paddle and are surprised by a seven-degree shift in warmth. On the third day only the larger of the waves prepare in this area so they wait. The girls watch the surfer and are amazed but even that wanes and Guitar’s out and Surfer stays, snaps on the lip and plunges down and the faces are extra steep so he launches ugly airs and his feet kick and run like Luigi. Small crowds watch with minor acknowledgement and it’s lucky the 19-year old has agreed to like him; it’s also lucky Stoner is such a stoner. But he’s got a Beemer and even with an excess of tents he sleeps in the sand; wakes up at seven with his Jewish Afro flattened and climbs in a tent, still drunk and high. They’re already out and the cold water illuminates hang-overs and then the first wave erases it.
He fishes and the 20-year-old follows and she’s a dancer from Ventura and this is good. He wades and snags and there is a dead skate and plenty of laugher and squealing and skipping. The fourth day the sun breaks and at night it doesn’t matter. There is a bar with plenty of windows and sand and they’re all from south of Ventura. There are locals that sleep on the opposite side of the bar with smiles on their faces. Less than a quarter are white woman. There are señoritas but they sit with their niños and listen to obnoxious fire-rocks.
They’re more than wasted off dollar ‘Ritas and Dude from Hermosa is on the table and dancing. This is after the 20-year-old climbed up and did some hip-hop renditions and had the bartender dig his hairy lips into her giggling torso.
Dude from Hermosa drops behind the bar and cautiously fills drinks. He tilts the tap and dances around. The bartender moves over and stops it from overflowing. Free drinks are acknowledged and the small crowd becomes wilder. He’s on the bar-top again and Stoner is attempting a conversation about how, “we shu’ heng ou’ mo’,” when Dude takes a wrong step and launches, as if from the lip of a wave, into the ground. He is inches from death between chairs and unforgiving stone. We are constantly pruning skills and he’s inches from cracking his skull on a chair and leaking out like a cantaloupe with gravity from a first story window.
He broke his fall on Guitar’s head and Guitar wants a free drink. Stoner spilled his and walked to a small cobble-wall near the bluff and he’s vomiting a homogenous strand of white. He may fall and he may survive the cold peninsular night.
The 20-year-old loops her hand in Guitar’s during the short walk home as they pass the stinking urinals and showers. To the east is a road and tall hills with tall desert stalks rising from wide scrubby bases. Further east is more nature and here, for the 50 yards west of the highway, there are places for them to visit. This is the case for many miles south and it is certainly a sort of discrimination.
The following night, after marshmallows and friendly songs around the fire, it’s easy to escape into a tent to rub the stones from below into backs and he and the 20-year-old combine exotic ocean-induced smells.
She’s back to State College and Finance and surfs Myspace and there’s an email and someone, maybe the 20-year-old, buys an EP and Tasteful-Porn comes back and leaves and they airbrush her legs and she lets it grow and it’s sharp like Italian cheeks and they turn odd angles in the bed and he buys a broken piano and becomes dedicated and forgets about it and reads a book and finds another song and they’re on a date for 30 dollars a plate and there is a need to get a job. But beyond that is a need to do what it takes to not have a job. Which may be to pimp a female for all she’s worth. Take her money and marry her, put her in group scenes or exploit her escape hatch. Put her in films and forget about genuine sex. This is an option, of course, then, of course, there are other options. That is obvious.