The street door creaked shut behind me, echoing as I ascended the steps. I sneaked a passing glance into my own shifty eyes from the cracked glass of an obsolete air-shaft window. They looked strange to me there, reflected by a single, seedy, unadorned light bulb in the stairwell of a crumbling art deco hovel that smelled of stale beer and piss. Letting loose a slight shudder, I proceeded to the door. I expected to hear the clanging of a fire alarm upon buzzing the doorbell, but all that broke the silence was a faint and perfunctory whizzing noise that seemed almost as if it were meant for dogs or for the tone-deaf. While I ruminated through sporadic images of hounds and deaf mutes, the Ogre opened the door to his lair and invited me in with a gracious bow. He gave a wide, playful smile that seemed so out of place as to add a refreshing touch of surrealism to a gritty portrait of urban decay.
Once I was in the lair, the door closed swiftly behind me. I was a guest of my drug dealer, the Ogre. The Ogre was one of those lost souls who had drifted from his native land to embark and rest upon the deceptively fresh shores of a country that was not haunted by the same ghosts that haunted the old country. His face bore the scars of a lifetime of perdition; his skin looked like the haunted beds of the silent seas left disheveled in the wake of Prufrock’s claws that had scuttled along so violently, so ineffectually, so inconspicuously. I was there to pick up the pharmacopoeia before proceeding to ingurgitate it with friend and foe alike in houses I’d never seen before, with people I’d never met before, among voices I’d never heard before. This was the beginning of a maelstrom.
I followed the Ogre’s shuffling feet into his living room. The whole apartment was like a testament to kitsch, lined with flower-designed wallpaper and stacked full of cheap souvenirs and trinkets, bawdy postcards… and key rings. In fact, lots of key rings – and from what I could tell, mostly with Catholic iconography. My gaze lingered on one key ring with a Virgin of Guadalupe that seemed to follow my eyes as I ventured in. They reminded me of my own eyes reflected in the stairwell only moments ago, eyes that had looked so foreign to me, even though they were my own. Many of the key rings featured the Virgin, dark and sublime, trapped and frozen in the translucent plastic. I thought I’d bring this strange topic up with the Ogre – to break the ice, as it were – but I also wanted to know why he had so many key rings. He noticed my curious eyes and with exaggerated alacrity he preempted my question:
“Ah, dat’s my business,” he said in a strong German accent, pointing unnecessarily at dozens of gaudy little images of angels and Virgins strewn across his stained brown carpet. “I make dose tings. I’ve got a factory out near San Angel. I make tousands of dem every day. A tousand Virgins hanging off a tousand key chains, lying in a tousand men’s front pockets, brushing against a tousand testicles.”
“So the drugs are just a hobby?”
“Dat’s right” he laughed, chortled, then coughed, “and a lucrative one at dat. People tink it strange sometimes, but de key rings and de drugs are de same. Packaged Magic iz vat it iz. Look at it or swallow it, people vant to buy de magic. You vant someting to drink?”
“Any beer?” I noticed I was getting irritated with myself for asking questions. Dealers don’t like questions, no matter how insignificant they may seem.
“I don’t drink anymore,” he declared with a violent diagonal slash of his hand. “Alcohol’s bad for me.” I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.
“Right. Well, I’ll just grab my stuff and go.”
The Ogre began shuffling his way toward one of the back rooms of his apartment. His fat, fluffy slippers dragged about like dead little furry animals stuck to a Rhino’s hoof. He was wearing a bathrobe and a pink sauce-stained shirt underneath that read “Hi!” I noticed a wheezing sound emitted every time he breathed out through his nose, which, by the way, was plastered to his left cheek. I assumed the cartilage had disintegrated some time ago. Some key ring Scotty must’ve beamed it up to his head along with a gram-and-a-half of yayo during a microdot binge.
As the dead furry little zombie animals cushioned his feet on their way back into the living room, the Ogre produced a bag of goodies that was intended for me. He knew what I liked, he knew what I bought, and he also knew what I was capable of, so we both already knew the what, which and how-much of the bag’s contents. We sat down on his couch as the bag was opened and its contents emptied carefully on to a large porcelain plate. First, the big packet of weed was taken out, clumsily and without ceremony. Then the small bags of coke were plucked, a gram sealed in each little plastic bag. Our fingers lingered on the pleasant texture produced by the curiously sensual collusion of meat, skin, plastic and powder. They always did. Next, we proceeded to pick out the pills of x – fat, thick, pink or blue pills with a purposeful groove down the middle that made it easier to bite into halves, thus ominously warning of its potency. Finally, we very carefully removed the tiny microdot pills: pure mezcalin-induced insanity. We both lit a cigarette at the same time, as if anticipating the certainty of basking in future states of bliss.
“Vell der you go my boy, old MacDonald’s farm,” said the Ogre, alluding to the local sobriquets applied to each and every one of the aforementioned goodies. He lifted the brick of weed and held it towards the gaudy glass chandelier (which I only then noticed) shouting “El Gallo” (the rooster) before quickly bringing his face down to let out what seemed like a mad – though silent – cackle. He then pinched a little bag of coke between his thumb and his index finger, while extending his remaining three fingers high, and shouted “El Perico,” (the parrot) alluding to the effect of logorrhea this particular drug induced, and he admired for some time the profile of a parrot that was created by his outstretched hand, his three extended fingers giving this shadow puppet the impression of a cockatoo. He gently laid it back down in the porcelain bowl, quite solemn in his expression. Next he grabbed a pill, or a “tacha,” and proceeded to stick his fingers in my hair and shuffle them about as if he were looking for lice. He then produced the “tacha” between his two fingers and held it up to my face as he pulled away with wide eyes and whispered loudly “El Chango” (the monkey). I didn’t even think that word was used to refer to x, but I was pretty amused with the whole mad spectacle so I let him go on, myself giggling nervously in between skits.
The maestro then demanded silence with a hammed up finger-to-lips and an affectedly loud shush that was almost lost behind the glare of two giant, blaring, blue eyes of mad intensity. He carefully placed one of the microdots in his palm. He then stood up, turned to me, bowed and rose with feigned ostentation, looked me straight in the eyes and announced: “La Perdicion.” I was slightly taken aback because I felt like he was telling me a secret. At that moment I couldn’t help but glance at the Virgin of Guadalupe with the roaming eyes, but this time I noticed the Virgin was somewhat bigger, no longer on a key ring but as one of those battery-charged plastic icons sold at the Basilica. She was now two palms tall and had flashing green and red lights around her entire body. I must’ve failed to see her until then as she was in the far corner of the living room. Surely enough, her eyes were looking right at me, right into my eyes, following me as I moved my head from left to right. I felt a chill and got the urge to ask the Ogre about his obsession with the Virgin (I knew he was no Christian), but when I turned my head back to where the Ogre was performing what must’ve been only a second or two ago, I saw that he was longer there.
I placed the pharmacological fauna back into the bag and took out the prearranged amount of money so I could pay the Ogre and leave. I had a look in the kitchen to see if he was there, but all I saw were unwashed dishes, plates and glasses in the sink, with some ham and a box of Fruit Loops on the counter. I then peered out into the long hallway. It was getting dark in the house, early evening, and I could barely make out the end of the hallway, let alone the doors to the other rooms. The hallway seemed to stretch off infinitely into a void which the darkness revealed. I guess I could’ve just put the money on the coffee table in the living room, seeing as we’d agreed on the usual price of the candy beforehand, but for some reason I wanted to see him before I left. I heard some tinkering and then some melody emanating from down the corridor, so I made my way toward the faint, distant-sounding music. My steps felt nervous, my feet felt clumsy, the hallway seemed to speed away from me, but without actually moving. Each move forward on my part was heavy and belabored, as if I were trying to run from something in a dream. But no matter how I tried, I seemed to be too slow. The feeling of being about to be caught in a dream had been superceded by the feeling of never catching that which I was chasing, and it was the same angst that I felt.
Having arrived after what seemed like the length of an entire night, I knocked on the door. No one answered. I knocked louder. The sound of my knocking seemed to reverberate in echoes all around me. Nothing. I was in two minds as to whether I should assail his privacy with my pecuniary concern, but I knew I wasn’t there as a client. I was there as a fellow narconaut and I knew that our deranged camaraderie was a quality the Ogre appreciated, if not treasured. The Ogre had no family or friends that I knew of. And as far as I could see, he had no national, religious or any other ideological affiliations. He didn’t even really have a job. He just had fellow narconauts to tell stories to, to share experiences with, to feel some sense of kinship to alleviate the weight of a life lived without anchors, without masts or sails, without even a compass. It must be said here, narconauts make very bad sailors.
So I slowly pushed the door open, and the music became more audible. I couldn’t recognize the music. It sounded like a requiem being played on a single violin. Some such melancholy mood enveloped the room that now came into view. It was consistent with the bedraggled aura of the rest of his apartment, but the air was stuffier, the lights were dimmer and the walls were red. It wasn’t until I extended my head around the door that I descried the Ogre, hunched over the cover of a 45-inch record that was being nestled in his hand. He was looking intently at the cover, but he looked like he was looking much, much farther away. I didn’t know if I should try and grab his attention, so I just stood there for a few moments, wondering if he was alright. He didn’t move. The music croaked and scratched on, something about storms and ships and loss, as I well may have imagined. I extended my gaze to cover the whole room. There was crumpled linen, an open closet full to the brim with flannel shirts and corduroy pants, and the Ogre in the midst of it all, head bowed before him, as if he were in a cell. Then I ventured forward a couple of steps to see just behind the door… and I found hanging on the wall, a giant portrait of the ever graceful Virgin of Guadalupe, arms stretched out with palms open as if ready to embrace, her sideway glance falling on the genuflecting Ogre at her feet, who was still looking away beyond any focus, beyond even the reach of perspective. I thought the Virgin would once again look into my eyes, straight into my eyes, and follow my gaze, but she didn’t. Her gaze was fixed unflinchingly upon the back of the man whose own gaze was lost despite its fixation.
The room suddenly seemed to vomit forth a whirlpool of misplaced hopes, forgotten dreams, forlorn and unfettered emotions, and self-deprecating satire; a sardonic, wasting, eddy of despair welled and whirled without and within. Forms of human imagination crept and crawled along the reeking, rusty red walls that changed color with every thought, with every apparition offered in its path, with every unwelcome vestige of conscience thrown on its altar of subconscious sacrifice. Voices ventured forth into the echoing chamber; clamoring, cantankerous voices, fed from the depth of its dark corners where there was being acted out the still-life image of the Ogre crucified upon the crooked cross of his painful immersion under the gaze of the now cyclopean Virgin, bent and distorted, protruding from the wall and leaning into the room with a menacing grimace that washed upon the angst-ridden faces howling under its omniscient, demented stare.
The voices in the room then merged into one, solid ululating tone that emanated from the twisted mouth of the cyclopean Virgin of Guadalupe… a chorus… like that of a requiem… arose… in whispers…
Tallied up do we face, in our bold and brazen reverie,
The fortunes and sorrows of the years,
Spent in the anguish of the once hopeful moments,
When our hearts did our spirits boldly steer,
Now savage, silent seas do cover the tempest,
That holds back our memories and tears,
Yet scuttling and scratching, clawing and groaning,
Do those reveries still haunt the darkest shadow of our fears,
Fear not thy fair fortune, man of wide fate,
Fear not thine own hands, at the ungodly hour,
Waste not, my young man, thy ravenous race,
Be not the man of denial,
Though raging and lost, though sickly to see
Keep faith in thy breast, though silent you be,
And give me thy hand, and bring forth with glee,
The last living whisper that once, long ago,
Brought you trembling to me.
Waves of nausea descended upon me with ever greater force and my head began to spin amid voices of pure madness and self-sympathetic distress. The music in the room swelled and roared to a crescendo, climaxed into a dithyrambic frenzy, and then gradually leveled out into a constant droning drum and bass rhythm. I thought it was now night and then noticed that my eyes were actually closed. As I opened them I noticed I was in a lounge surrounded by people, with a cigarette burning into my fingers and my head rushing through profuse, warm waves of blood and bliss. Spinning in dismay, wrapped all of a sudden in a glow of semi-consciousness, I searched around me for a familiar face.
