Camino Journal Day 16

April 17

During the night, I dreamt I was a butterfly. Everything was perfect. I flew around drinking the sweet nectar of the flowers. I had no recollection of being a caterpillar, just that I could fly and did all things as a butterfly. There was no war, no famine, no disease. I simply went about looking for nice places to eat and sleep and perhaps to meet another butterfly.

I woke in the morning and dressed. The streets were filled with fog. The stale vermouth left in the glass on the nightstand filled the room with a pleasant aroma after mixing with the fresh sea breeze coming in through the open window. I snapped a photo in the body length mirror and started my walk to San Vicente De La Barquera. Looking forward to staying put a couple of days and maybe even busking some, I felt good, but a little groggy, perhaps from all the vermouth last night or the couple spliffs with coffee this morning.

As I made my way down the path along the coast and out on to a beach where I walked in the beginning of low tide sand that was packed firm, I was in no danger of getting sand anywhere and enjoyed the walk. I listened to my three new singles, and also some more of the recordings of the Bible by Alexander Scourby.

“You wanna talk about what happened?” It’s the little boy come out from the curtain again. I could hear him so clearly. Not like a voice really, but then kind of like one, after all. Was I still dreaming? I tried to jump really high, like an astronaut, and when the force of gravity overwhelmed me and my pack, I landed leaving two boot prints in the sand that would wash away later that evening. “Nope, not dreaming.” I assured myself.

“I can tell you some things you might not remember,” the little boy’s voice is pleasant and endearing. He still loves me.

“Okay.” I agree remembering Zhuang Zhou’s parable of the Butterfly Dream. Was I still dreaming? Could it be I could be the butterfly instead? Was I dreaming now as the butterfly that I was a human walking the Camino? There was no way to know for sure.

“It must be hard for you to have a cop for a dad, huh?” he doesn’t wait for me to respond, “I mean, I love cops. I think police officers are the coolest humans on the planet. The uniform, the bullet proof vest, the gun and baton. I love it all,” he’s excited, “But, um, let me get to the point. It must be hard to have a father who represents all that’s good and righteous in this world and who at the same time can seem so heartless when it comes to his own child. Am I right?”

He was much more charismatic and intelligent sounding than I had expected, “I hadn’t really put that together. It makes sense,” I say.

“Well, it must be hard. I tell you; it is hard. Your father is just a normal man. But he wears the uniform of something that represents a moral superiority. He’s the protector, the guardian and the keeper of peace, but he doesn’t want you. How does that make you feel?”

“I don’t really care,” I say. “It doesn’t bother me. I don’t need him anyway.” and I close the curtain and continue walking down the beach. I put on a recording of Joel Osteen titled Nothing Has Randomly Happened in Your Life, and didn’t talk to the little boy for the rest of the walk.

The forecast called for rain for the next few days, but having a nice hotel, I didn’t mind. I arrived around 9am and checked in and left my bag with reception. The room would be ready at around 1p. Easter was here. I’d go to mass. It was a little chilly in the room and as I went out for something to eat and head out to the church right on the seaside, I asked the receptionist if they could turn it on for me later.

After walking the 2.5 miles across the city, I arrived at a deserted church with no person in sight. It was now 11 o clock and if there was going to be a mass here, the door would be open, and people would already be gathering. I turned and headed back the other way to the church up on the hillside and along the way ran into Andy. His girl had just set off earlier that morning.

“Joe! What are you doing here?! It’s so good to see you again,” he was on a bike and did a U-turn to approach me on the other side of the street, “So how’s your Camino going,” he asked with a smile.

“It’s going great. Just got here this morning. I’m going to stay a day or two and play some music,” I invited him to get a coffee at the cafe next to where we were standing. We sat sipping them over to the side of the patio so I could smoke a spliff. Andy showed me his bike and where he’d added my sticker to the frame. I was delighted.

“How are things going with your work and with the van and girl? Are you going back to Germany soon?”

“Oh, I was supposed to go back in a couple of days, but I’ve decided to stay and be with my wife.”

“And your business?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m still doing it. I’m the owner, after all,” he says with some confidence, “It’s a little harder not being able to be there on sight, I’m sure you can imagine, but it’s going okay. What about you? You’re writing anything new,” he asks shifting the conversation away from him.

“Not too much. Just walking and enjoying the workouts,” I say.

“I really like your music. I’ve been listening to it while I ride the bike. It’s great. I hope only good success for you in your life, my friend.”

Andy gives me a hug and we return our tazas to the bar. I tell him I’m going to mass and invite him along. He agrees to walk with me but says he must head off to meet his lady soon. We walk and talk some more about life and love and happiness. Andy pushes his bike up the cobblestone hill and I walk with ease, my pack safely stowed away at the hotel. When we arrive to the top and at the church, some parents are having a photo shoot with their kid in his soccer uniform. They production team blocks where we can walk, holding us up as the photographer captures the exact shot. Finally, we are allowed to pass.

“Strange they decide to do a photo shoot on Easter in front of the church,” Andy says laughing to himself.

We stop at the entrance, and I roll another spliff. There is a sign on a stand, out in front of the door, just before the steps leading you up inside reading “Entry 2 Euro”

“Are they charging to go into the church?” Andy asks me.

“No. can’t be,” I replied, “The locals don’t pay to go to their own churches.”

“Look. The sign,” Andy pointed out to it. “But will you pay to see your god?” he jokingly asks hoping he hadn’t offended me. I laughed.

“Well, I was telling you and your wife that part of my mission here on this quest is to give more. To look for opportunities to help when possible. So yeah, I’ll pay to go in. I don’t mind. It’s just 2 euros, anyway.”

“And in other times. If you were not on a spiritual quest, would you pay to see the deity?”

“I think it’s absurd to pay to see a God,” I say catching on to what he was saying. “I’m not a regular church goer, I confess. I only go to Mass on the Camino.”

“What makes you go? I won’t step inside. Maybe I burn if I do.” Andy says with a smile.

“For me it’s a bit of nostalgia. I like to remember some sort of innocence I had when I was a kid. I still love to recite the Our Father in unison with the other members of the congregation.”

“And it’s the same prayer here as back home?” he asks me while I take a puff from my spliff.

“Of course. The Catholic prayers are the same everywhere. The entire service is in the same order and everything. My father went to mass in Latin,” I noted. "It was the same everywhere in the world for ages.”

“But does your father speak Latin?” he asks conformingly

“He does not.” I say condescendingly and with a bit of sardonic humor.

“And do you speak Spanish? Will you understand what they say in there?”

“Oh yes,” I say affirmingly. “I get it. I don’t have the right cadence to recite the prayers in Spanish, but the rhythm is almost the same as in English, so I just do them in English under my breath. Like I said, it reminds me of my childhood. I was only Catholic every other weekend when I visited my dad.”

A couple and their 3 children walk up to the sign and are reading it together. It’s a Spanish family and they are all a bit shocked that it costs money to enter and attend mass. “I’m not paying to go to la puta iglesia,” the wife says out loud where I could hear them. The teenage children look at each other with a humorous epression that said, “Wow. That escalated quickly. Mom’s in a fine mood today.”

“Cariño, Cariño. Mi amor. Be tranquil. I don’t think we have to pay, but I’ll pay. It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t mind,” he says grabbing her by the waist and pulling her in close. Andy and I stop talking and watch for a bit. The woman pulls away and points a finger at each one of her family members ending with herself and yells, “5. We are 5. That’s 10 euros. Just to go to church. Incredible. I will not pay to worship! I will not.”

“Cariño. We don’t even normally go to church. We are just on vacation. Let’s go in. It’s no big deal,” he coaxes her, but she’s made up her mind. The children already know it, and have started walking back down the path from where they came.

“What were they saying,” Andy asks me.

“She was pissed to have to pay for the entrance.”

“Oh. Well. I would be too.” he laughed.

About 15 til noon, a woman came over and flipped the sign around horizontally to show the other side, which read “Mass 12:00pm” No mention of an entry fee.

Andy and I busted out laughing as we realized it was a fee to see the church as a tourist during no working hours.

“Too bad for that family,” Andy said.

“Life is funny like that, huh?”

“Yes, full of unexpected coincidences. But in my work, I try to minimize the unexpected. It’s kind of how I view the world. I would not pay two euros to go in as a tourist either because I think I would be asked for money more times as I moved along the experience. I’m super German that way. Always playing it safe.” he said.

“There’s something to that, though. I used to be a little reckless, but now I understand exponential equations better,” I say to see if I pique his interest.

“What do you mean? How does that apply to what we are talking about?”

“Do you understand x squared?” I ask as he nods, “Well, it starts slow. It’s no risk. It’s playing it safe and working through the low numbers until you reach the quote/unquote exponential growth,” I explain making the curved line with the motion of my hand, slow and straight across the bottom of the imaginary graph, hugging the x axis before rapidly jerking straight upward and into the sky. “That’s what I’m doing with my music. The exponential equation implies infinite input in order to get potential growth. For me, that’s just persistence. Persistence = x²”

“Yeah, but what about all the data in quadrant II of the equation. The x² actually is a U shape,” he says making the motion with his hand, “Not just a nothing becoming exponentially something, but there was all the pre-nothingness in Quadrant II, and an infinite amount as well.”

“Damn, Andy! You know way more about Math than I do. I’m having a hard time visualizing the Quadrants. But maybe Quadrant II is the thought. When the infinite possibilities are narrowed down to the first act in an infinite series of persistence, that becomes when the x is on the 0,0 mark. Thoughts become reality. I’m living proof of that,” I add.

Andy just smiles. I can see him mulling it over in his mind. I wondered what he thought. Hopefully not that I was full of shit. Just then I see the American Heiko had told me about over lunch the other day, Brett, walking up the last bit of pathway to the entrance of the church. Britta’s with him. I look and wave with a smile. She rolls her eyes in disgust. What’s up with her, I wonder.

“Oh that’s the other American guy walking the Camino,” Andy says. “Have you met him?”

“I haven’t. I heard about him, but don’t spend too much time with other Americans on the trail. We don’t seem to like each other at all.”

“Is that something particular to the Camino,” Andy asks investigating my position further.

“I’d say it’s a general statement about two Americans meeting anywhere at any time.”

Britta dissappears and Brett walks over to where Andy and I are standing and introduces his self adding, “You must be Joe. The guy with the guitar.”

“That’s me. Heiko told me about you. How’s it going. Where are you from in the states?” I replied.

“Idaho. I run a cafe there. We have live music. Heiko tells me you sing too.”

“Oh yeah. I’d love to come play your spot sometime,” I say cordially.

“Well, I don’t know about that. But hey, anything’s possible, right?”

I wondered why he said it like that. I wasn’t even all the way serious, just in a jovial way putting it into the ether. “You hanging out here today,” I asked changing the subject.

“Yeah. It’s Easter, ya know. Plus, I have been walking a lot lately,” he guiltily replies for not pushing on with the crowd he’d been walking with the last week.

“I’m going to mass if you want to go,” I say inviting him and motioning to Andy as well for a second invitation.

“Oh, no sir. I don’t go in those places. Just admire their beauty from outside,” Brett said adding, “Well, I’m going to get out of here. Have a nice day.”

He disappeared around the corner of the church. So strange to meet another American out in the wild. How embarrassed they always feel to be caught acting in a new way, trying things they never would, using words they’d never say. Feeling things, they always wanted to feel, but couldn’t. Running into another American in Europe is almost like walking in on a family member who is masturbating in the bathroom. We all do it, and would do it under the right conditions, but it’s unsettling to be encountered by accident while in the act…for both parties.

A lot of what Americans do on their first trips to Europe is to look for their past. The heritage of the Old World and to seek some sort of placement in the larger aspect of our history in the United States. To your average American, Europe is like a distant cousin who barely knows a wealthy grandfather. We take pictures of buildings, visit monuments of famous historical figures, marvel at the antiquity of everyday objects and all the while only see ourselves in the surroundings. A feeling of - I came from this, with the air of waiting for the patriarch to pass on and leave his fortune. A feeling of admiration and possession at the same time.

I said goodbye to Andy, probably for the last time and disappeared inside the church, I was even given a free mask. After the service was over, I walked back down to the Hotel Big Light and went up to my room. It had warmed up a little due to the sunny day. I took my sweat-soaked shirts from the mornings walk and laid them in the sun on the windowsill. I loved the old feel to the hotel. It was everything you like about the wooden hotels of the US from the 1800s with the added bonus of knowing how to add comfort and privacy after centuries of building and rebuilding. As a collective culture, Europe certainly had the benefit of years of experience.

I took a shower and readied my dirty laundry to take to the coin operated mat down the street. The sun was out, and it was warm, so I threw my pants into the bundle and sat in my shorts on the lawn across the street eating store-bought anchovies in vinegar with a couple Shandy beers and a spliffs. It took an hour and a half to finish up the laundry and when it was done, I went directly to my room for a nap. I awoke to the coaxing voice of the child within,

“Hey. I’m glad you finally acknowledged me. Maybe I could have come at you a different way for our first chat. But I know you think about your father a lot. I know everything you think about. So, let’s start off again. I’m Joey. And I have a lot to offer you. We have a lot to go over.”

I noticed the absolute change in his demeanor from yesterday when I’d only first discovered him. He was again as youthful and pleased with life as any innocent child. I figured I’d play along. What could it hurt? As long as I didn’t go around town having conversations out loud, I should be alright and not considered insane. I got up from the bed and dressed to go back out to the streets and play some music.

“You’re right. I do think about my father a lot. And it’s hard to talk about. I’m sorry I was off-putting earlier.”

Joey seems to physically grow just slightly upon hearing this.

“Oh, it’s quite alright. I couldn’t be happier that we’re talking. Notice how I’m getting healthier by the minute. It’s your words and care that feed me. Tell me you love me. And you really gotta mean it but watch what happens. I said, “I love you.” Nothing.

“No, say it like you did when you admitted to the situation with your father bothering you. You had sincerity.”

“I don’t know how,” I replied. I stood in the bathroom brushing my teeth and then staring at my face in the mirror. Was I attractive? I didn’t know.

“Ok, well, we’ll come back to that later. Just know that with every sincere gesture toward me, I get bigger and stronger. It’s the only way I can, shall we say, eat. I know you’re going to do great.”

His enthusiasm bothered me. Even stung a little. “Try to say, “I love yourself in the mirror. It will help,” he suggests.

“I love you.” I say in a weird stumbling mumble and try again. “I love you.”

“Oh, that’s better. I felt that one. What do you love about you?”

I didn’t have a rapid answer.

“Is there nothing at all that you love about you?” Joey asked me condescendingly. “You can’t think of anything?”

I couldn’t. I’d never really thought about that before. What did I love about me? “My blue eyes,” I finally say.

“Oh, really? In spite of it being a recessive trait? That’s good. Let’s think about that. What do you love about them?”

“Their color,” I respond.

“And not that they are rare and considered beautiful?” he pokes at me.

“Well, that too, I guess.”

“You guess? Look if this is gonna work, you have to be honest with me. How did you feel the other night when the bartender liked Victor’s eyes more than yours?”

“I guess I felt like he was better than me.”

“And so, you might like your eyes because they make you better than others, or so you think. Do you see?”

It stung, but Joey was right. I remember when I was a child how during a rare discussion of history and Hitler and the Jews, someone in the family pointed out, “Joey would have been alright. He’s got the blonde hair and blue eyes. They would have never killed him.”

“So, I don’t think your blue eyes are something you like, so much as something your proud of. Is there anything else you can think of?” Joey prides on as I leave the hotel and look for a cafe/bar where I can sit and write.

“I guess I like my voice. I love singing.”

“See, I just got bigger again. I feel stronger. There’s that genuine talk I’m looking for.”

Joey had noticeably aged 6mo to a year in just our short interactions. I felt good about it. I wondered if any of it was real but didn’t worry too much. I bought a dozen churros from the street vendor with some chocolate and sat in a bench under an overhang from a building and ate them while it poured rain. The rain smells sweet in Spanish towns. The streets all cleaned of grime and dust each night leave very little for the liquid to mix with. It’s not like the smell of a North Texas rain. Despite the down pour, people were out and moving around. There was a sense of relief over the whole city that Easter had come and gone with good weather, monies were made and now everyone could relax a little. These small port cities were the hardest hit by the pandemic, financially as well as with death.

After my churros I walked and found another alcove and sang some tunes for an hour before heading over to a bar closer to my hotel to take something. The waitress girl came out and took my order. I drank a few Orujos, which is a liquor made from hemp, and scribbled away in my notebook. I rolled spliffs and took periodic drags off them while enjoying sips of the alcohol. No one seemed to mind the slight hint of marijuana smell coming from the high quality in my roll. I left back for my hotel feeling thankful and at peace. I laid down feeling proud I’d been writing regularly and that I was working through some things.

Hanging out the window and smoking a good-nite-spliff, Joey started showing me little mind movies. He’d set up an old school projector that played the videos on the black curtain he’d been living behind for so long. “I’ve got a lot of great stuff to show you, but let’s start with today. I do the voice over too. I’ll show you what you did today, so you can get the idea behind the reason for the films, which is, after all, to help you better understand the past and some of the things you don’t like to think about. You’ll find that with your age and experience and newfound confidence, you can take a more objective approach to, not only who others are, but who you are as well. I was there that first time you suspected your life was a movie. It was also one of the last times we saw each other. I’m glad your back to living the dream and not the movie,”

"Not the movie?” I ask, “And living the dream. I mean, I’m living more of the dream than anyone else I know.”

“Precisely. You mean it when you say it. Say it again and see if I can grow any.”

“I’m living the dream,” I say. Then with more feeling and belief, “I’m living the fucking dream, man!” Joey grows, most noticeably by the hair.

As if taking some sort of growth serum, Joey gets stronger and more confident. “So, let’s watch this first one, Ok? Roll yourself another, if you want, and I’ll see you tomorrow, you’ll be asleep by the time it’s over.” The projector noisily starts up.

The camera follows me through the busy streets of San Vicente de la Barquera carrying a small guitar. My diamond earrings glisten as the camera pans to show me eyeing the streets for a place to busk. Spanish voices fill the air around as some walking in the crowd bump into my guitar case as they pass. I find a spot up by the church, sit out my guitar bag and begin to play, Today I Started Loving You Again. People stop and begin to form a semi-circle around me. The camera cuts to the first tipper tossing a coin into the pile then focuses on my face and stills.

“That’s us.” it’s Joey doing voice over, “38 years old now. Same kid who sat reading books before school while waiting for the bus. Remember our first fight?” the camera does a series of zoom in/zoom out close ups on the scars above my eyes from taking punches, “That one is from when we were 18. This one we got from that South Paul bastard marine who cheap-shotted us at 34.” The film rolls again. I’m playing Redneck Mothers by Ray Whiley Hubbard. “Ironic isn’t it,” Joey’s voice continues, “What a song. Not that amazing when we first heard it, but good songs got a tide of their own. In/out. Up/down.”

The camera goes again as I sing the chorus to a mostly Spanish crowd. A few lips moving as they attempt to keep the pace with colloquial Texas English.

“And he’s not responsible for what he’s doin/Cause his mother made him what he is” I sing as some proprietary information scrolls across the screen and Jerry Jeff Walker’s version begins to play in the background as the people all tip and I pack up and follow the heard into the church. The music fades to an old church organ hymn and I find my seat. The altar boy and girl ascend the stage with the priest. Joey’s voice comes back,

“We’ve never been too religious, I know. As a kid our dad forced us to go to church so his mother would be happy. He never went though. We’d all go with Dana, our stepmother.

“En el nome de la patria, Jesus el fili, y el espiritu Santi,” the priest says in Latin to begin the service crossing himself as the entire congregations does simultaneously. We all sit.

“When we were all babies,” Joey’s voice-over continues, “we had Catholic baptisms. Since then, our education in the lord mostly came from the tele-evangelist, which we were forced to watch if Dana also decided she didn’t want to take us to church, which was the majority of the time,” he pauses and the camera focuses on the priest,

“Durante esta Pascua, déjanos recordar que el dios verdadero del mundo es el amor, y que Jesús Cristo nos mostró que el amor verdadero es el único requisito verdadero que tenemos mientras que vivamos. Él nos quita los pecados del mundo.”

“This priest gets it,” the V.O. interjects as the altar boy and girl move some things around, kneel and pray, and return to their seats. I’m lying in my hotel bed, getting sleepy, “Not like when we were growing up. Most Texas priests, even Father Publios the Greek guy in the Colony, TX, preached punishment, atonement, tithing and repentance. As a child, the Lord was someone to be feared, much like our father wanted us to think of him.”

The priest continues, “Con la guerra en Ucrania, vemos una necesidad muy grande para amar a los demás si como fuesen nuestros hermanos. Debemos intentar amar al otro como Jesús Cristo nos ama a nosotros”

The priest prepares the communion as Joey’s voice continues with organ music going on low in the background, “Uff. The war. Hadn’t thought about that in a while, but there is little time to think about any external wars, when we’ve had our own little war inside going on for decades now. Best tend to ourself.”

The organ continues and the basket is passed. I dig hurriedly through my pocket for some coins, take communion and say the Our Father aloud with everyone else under the covid masks. The camera goes up to the top of the church and then goes into a hole in the organ still breathing a beautiful note as the image fades to black.

There’s a clicking of the reel change and I come out of an almost sleeping trance.

“Ah, sorry. yes, “Joey says, “Gotta change the reel on this old thing. Roll yourself another smoke. I’ve got one more to show you.”

I hang out the window taking long drags off the spliff with intermittent breaths of fresh cold air. The room was freezing. They hadn’t turned the basement boiler on after all. My legs and arms covered with goosebumps as I hopped a little up and down in place smoking the spliff. I left it half smoked on the window seal and jumped back under the covers. I always like to have a half smoked spliff around for if I wake in the night or for the early morning. I was enjoying Joey’s movies and would likely finish the spliff before falling all the way asleep anyway.

The image on the black curtain picked up with me back outside, off to the side of the church, crushing and mixing some hash with tobacco in my palm to make a spliff. I’m talking to Andi non-stop and he’s got a stary-eyed gaze of not understanding my Texas accent, which is so thick even I can’t understand it. I don’t remember talking like that, I think. And this scene seems a little out of order. Was this a dream?

“You see God for me is everywhere. The priest was good though. Very good. I was moved. He talked only of love,” I say explaining the sermon to Andy.

“And you took the sacrament?” Andy Asks.

“Of course. When in Rome, ya know!”

“But it means something to you, or no?” he inquires further.

I guess it reminds me of something I’ve lost. Something that I am getting back.” I offer Andy a drag off my spliff.

“Oh, no thank you. For me only beer and copas.” he laughs.

I put the spliff back in my teeth and continue talking, “I think the communion is a reminder of a very sad day. Of the darkest night before the most violent dawn. The night Jesus was betrayed by one of his closest allies. The night he knew there was nothing he could do about his impending death.”

“Ah. So, you believe in Jesus, then?” Andy continues to try to get to the bottom of it all. “I’m not religious. I’m German,” he added for some humor and an attempt to explain his curiosity.

“I’m not religious either. These dogmas and rules on how to get to heaven are bullshit. For me Jesus did a major thing in the historical context of religion and that was to remove the church from the equation. Salvation for all. Direct communication to God.”

“That’s if this person, Jesus, ever existed.” Andy adds.

“Yes, but some of the teachings are still useful today, and anyway, Jesus would not have been Christian.”

Joey’s V.O. returns. “Here’s one thing I absolutely love about us. Our sense of wit and humor. Maybe you should write a song with that line. Jesus was not a Christian.”

Andy got a laugh out of that, and I continue to smoke my spliff and share a few moments of silence with Andy standing there as I’m about to begin performing again. I used to not be capable of sharing a silent pause, but now, especially with the spliff, I can kind of fade out until the other either offers up something good to say and continues the conversation or moves on. Andy moves on.

“Well, Goodbye again Joe. It was so good to see you perform some. Bon Camine” he says and heads back down to the city center. The camera focuses on me from a bird’s eye view as a small crowd of tourist gather round to listen while I’m playing a cover of Jason Isbel’s Cover Me Up. When I finish, the crowd applause, drops coins, and goes about their day as I try to get another group interested. It’s about 2-10 euros every song and can start to add up quickly if the crowds stay around. While they are tipping, I start into Tom Petty’s Runnin Down a Dream and the camera goes up and out into space before zooming back into Arlington Stadium at a Rangers game. 1982 appears on the screen.

As the crowd chants, “LET’S GO RANGERS” the camera slowly moves through the outfield crowd and down over 2nd base, over the pitcher's head and through the backstop to the concession stand where a younger Cindy Rey and James Animal, my parents, are talking at what looks like is the end of a small work break. So crazy to see them so young, I think to myself. They look so cute.

“So, you’re coming to the party with me tonight, right? James asks Cindy.

“Yes. We went over this. Pick me up from my dorm at 9pm.”

“Oh. Great. I’ll see ya then. Gotta get back out there,” he squeezes her waist and kisses her on the cheek then straps on his beer carrier before hustling back out to the stands. Cindy walks throuhg an EMPLOYEES ONLY door and reappears behind the counter with an apron and a hat.

“See you later, Jimmy!” she waves.

“Dammit!” Jim thought to himself. “She’s making me look stupid in front of her co-workers. Acting superior cause she runs the stand and I’m a beer hawker. I make more fucking money than her, anyway. I hate it when she calls me Jimmy. She is fine though. Finer than a fox,” he thinks justifying being with her.

The camera follows James into the stadium as the announcer is heard introducing, “Now to the plate Cather, Gino Petralli!”

“Ice cold beer! Get your cold beer here!” James yells while noticing the smiling women and giggling teenage girls. Under his thick large, framed glasses and knee-high socks, James was very handsome. He didn’t know it, but he could have had any girl he wanted. All the guys wanted Cindy. She was so smart, they all said. So, James wanted Cindy too. And he got her.

“Get your beer here! Ice cold beer!” he yelled.

Petralli gets a hit. Single to right field. James takes out his pocket stat chart and notes the hit with an H1 next to Gino’s name for his second at bat. James has developed his own shorthand that he uses like a court reporter for the live action and later at home he will fill in the official program he buys at each game and then keeps alongside his baseball card collection. He’s a diehard Rangers fan.

“We’ll take 4 Schlitz Beers, compadre. Toss em down here.”

“That’ll be 2.50 dollars,” James says back.

The beers are passed down the row and the money comes back the other way. Instead of being ready to accept the bills, James was jotting down the last developments of action on the field, “Hey four eyes! Why don’t you do your job?”

Jims rage grew inside but he dug his finger nail into one of the cuticles to control himself. Passing the change back down the isle.

“Hey, are you that 2nd basement at University of Texas? It is you, huh! Little big to be a 2nd basement ain’t ya? I guess that piano you’re hauling kept you from being able to cover the ground at short stop,” they all start laughing and James smiles mockingly.

“Well, what college do you play for,” James asked back.

They don’t answer and James continues down the steps, “Cold Beer! Cold Beer Here! Get Your Beer Here!”

The camera goes toward James and then over him and into the concession stand where Cindy and the other two girls are gossiping while attending to the customers.

“I don’t get what you see in him,” one of the girls says to Cindy

“Yea. He’s super weird,” says the other.

“No. He’s really sweet. And he likes me a lot. He comes from a good family. his father was a Coronel, you know.”

“Oh. I get it now,” one of the girls responds, “You’re trying to marry up.”

“What’s a woman like you doing bowing down to the patriarchy,” the other girl chimes in, “I thought you were all boss,” they teased.

“I want a family of my own. A child. To be loved by a man, and not be poor anymore,” Cindy responds.

“So, you’re saying you love him?” Like really love him.”

Cindy nods her head and smiles, “I think so. He moved from UTA to be with me at UNT. He treats me like a queen, and you should see his phone bill from all the calls,” she pauses serving a beer and some peanuts to a customer. They all continue working and chatting and as one customer leaves and another approaches, in that brief window of privacy they carry on their small talk. Cindy adds, “He’s a little perverted though.”

The girls laugh.

“Oh my god, Cindy. All men are perverted. He probably just wants to put it in your ass, huh? Or for you to gag on his dick. All men are the same, if you ask me.”

“Well, yea, but that’s not all he wants,” Cindy says, and the girls stop stunned and wait for the reveal. “He’s got a camcorder. A hand-held with a tripod,” she says modestly and getting a little red in the cheeks.

“So what? He wants to film you guys doing it?”

“Yes. And he also wants to film me going down on him.”

“Oh, no. I could never. Did you do it?” one of the girls pries.

“I would never been in a video giving head to a guy. I will not be making any homemade pornography with him. It’s just silly,” Cindy proudly affirms.

“Well, I would,” the other girl says, “I’m interested now. James you just came on my radar. He’s super dorky, but you’ve got me intrigued now. I’ve always wanted to be a Porn star, or a Playboy Bunny. Maybe I could have a centerfold someday.”

“The only magazine you’re getting into is Hustler, you skank,” they playfully joked.

“Well, for now he’s my man and is super sweet. So yall need to get back to work,” Cindy finally officially ends her break and puts her nose to the grindstone.

As the projector reel pitter-pattered to a stop, I was long gone to dream land. Watching me and my parents from the third person was interesting. I hadn’t been sucked into a movie in ages. In the morning I would get some more stickers and business cards made at the local printshop and do some busking. Maybe some more writing and conversating with my inner child.