Waiting For The Red Lady

2AM Saturday night, Buenos Aires.

Lost in a rancid late night whirlwind of saggy asses and rock hard smiles, my friends upstairs shaking up the night, the tired parade is running out of fun. Tired of the sad old games and lopsided insecurity. I lost my eager young cab driver somewhere in that horny crowd and ended up back in the other whorehouse with the gringo again.

4AM

As the gringo and I waited for the Red Lady to reappear, we spoke of God and manifestation. Surrounded by butt ugly old fuck monkeys, a cold wind blew in the door and distant lightning cracked across the sky outside, water armies marching across the legendary pampas of old Argentina. The gringo said let’s go and off we went, just as the first drops fell. The black interior of the taxi engulfing lost conversations, it was a rush of neon this and traffic that. We soon emerged at the next place like happy kids of summer picnics past at World’s End.

But there’s a spirit of trouble and betrayal that follows me like a persistent vicious dog. I don’t want it around, but betrayal is what it is and it curls up to rest at my feet, dreaming of revenge and destruction. I throw it a scrap from time to time, just to keep it from rising up, fangs flashing as I dream of apocalypse teachings yet to be revealed. The jukebox blasts out new and old memories and the lights flicker on and off and the girls come and go and the night unfolds like a mutant metal flower telling me all I need to know for now.

I think a good old cheap Buenos Aires hot dog would go down pretty well about now, but I’m still waiting for a certain girl. Finally her older sisters comes and sits beside me for awhile. Another kiss on another soft cheek and then she is gone, and now another one comes by and smiles. I really like this place, an easy new purgatory to inhabit as flying saucer spirits gather in silence across the world to wipe the slate clean of all harsh judgments by weakhearted unbelievers with names whose power rings no bells and whistles in higher realms of mind and vision.

I go up for another round with the chubby girl with sparkly eyes, an easy laugh and a peace sign crudely tattooed on her upper arm, black hair that flows like a waterfall of crow’s wings. Aquarius. Her name? Jasmine. I remember. Jasmine. Nice name, nice girl.

5AM

Back in the bar, I get my pen and book out and start to write again. I’m on chick number 2, waiting for number 3. Skinny little thing with a legendary face. Abril. But she’s out the door and on her way home now to try and beat the dawn. I ask her if tomorrow she’ll be in. Yes, she says with a sweet smile to melt my heart with crooked pirate eyes. Yes she’s the one. Another one.

I sit back down and keep writing. Gotta remember all these girls who bring me such pleasure and passion in my prayers. Gotta remember each and all, it seems so important. Maybe I’ll remember why someday. We’ll all meet again. That’s why. That’s what I told the blonde one whose mother died. That she’d meet her again. Maybe that’s why she came up to me, because she knew I’d tell her the truth. A man sitting in a Buenos Aires whorehouse at 5 am writing poems in a little book can never tell a lie. Everybody knows that.

 

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2011.

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