The One You Call The One

Getting lost and found in Buenos Aires

I need to do something crazy or else I'll go crazy. I call her up for the twentieth time but for the twentieth time she lets me suffer. I walk into a bar to buy a pack of smokes even though I don't smoke. I guess I just need to do something conclusive, give life and take it away. Play God for thirty seconds, twenty times a day, every day. Burn galaxies with a spark of my Pink Panther mechero. Isn't it what being God is all about anyway �" smoking cigarettes, just bigger.

Note to self: whenever you think you are in the wrong place at the wrong time, you're simply not drunk enough.

My sudden crave for nicotine rewards me with a group of Israeli Jews, high on coke and God-knows-what, pogoing to some sort of punk music they just picked out of a jukebox. I don't know what language they're dancing in, but I'm not sure it's the one I can speak. A guy sitting solo at the bar beckons me to join him as he probably feels sorry for my bad luck. I accept his invitation, offer him a cig and wait for a miracle, or at least the moment it reduces to coincidence.

- Why don't you have a cerveza with me?
- I thought you'd never ask.

His name is Paolo Lasso and he's from Colombia. Turns out he's a poker player traveling through South America for the hell of it. I've never met a poker player before but I'm glad there are people who can flip off the system with this much elegance.

- Listen, I'mma be heading out to a gig. Consider yourself invited.

Someone once told me there's a saying in South America that if you meet a Colombian, one way or another you're gonna end up doing drugs with him. I don't know if it's true, but I just met a Colombian and we're mixing acid with lager beer on our way to a rock concert somewhere in the southern suburbs of Buenos Aires. Capitalistic upbringing makes me ask how much I owe - out of habit really more than anything else - but judging by the look Paolo Lasso gives me I guess that won't be necessary. I place the blotter under my tongue and wait for the magic to kick in.

We hop on a colectivo at Nueve de Julio and it's supposed to take us straight to our destination, or so claims a shirtless hobo at the bus stop. The bus gets more and more crowded after each stop to the point where fifteen minutes into the journey you might as well put your head in a bucket of mud and place bets on who dies first. Not surprisingly, the further we get away from glassy skyscrapers adorning the microcentro, the more surreal the struggle appears to be. With LSD starting to melt my brain a little, I can't help but feel strangely connected to all the people we pass in our mobile capsule, and for a moment I wish I could stop the driver, get off and hug someone for trying to make ends meet in a place where ends just don't wanna meet. Lots of people can't understand what so many find magical about the South American continent, and, who knows, maybe there isn't really any magic involved. If there is, though, it must have to do with the fact that it's a place where you wish someone a good day and for once in your life you actually mean it.

Note to self: real friends not only open themselves up to you, but also open yourself up to yourself. And if they do it with drugs, don't be picky. It's better to have pressure from peers than not have peers.

We surf out of the colectivo on the wave of people's sweat and shortened temper only to find out that booze isn't sold inside the venue. For lack of better alternative we sit down on the grass right in front, not that anyone minds. Upon Paolo Lasso's initiative we smoke two or three joints - supposedly Paraguayan but I wouldn't know the difference �" and then buy six beers each from a fourteen-year old kid who screams "cerveza!" and uses ice-cold water for a refrigerator.

- Pibo, look at the sunset. You never see colors like that in a city, not even in Colombia. Que chimba...

I would prolly need a fancy calculator to count all the times Paolo Lasso used the phrase "que chimba" throughout our brief relationship. I let it slide, though, because it sounds funny and besides I'm sure it's just a verbal tick of his and I wonder what's mine. I dunno whether it's the weed or the LSD, or both, but it looks like we downed all of our beers in a couple of minutes. Shame we're not in an actual contest competing for some sort of a trophy, especially that I could use something to piss in to.

- You can piss on me.
- What?
- You can piss on a tree.
- What do you mean?
- There's no trophy, but there's a lot of trees.
- What the f**k are you talking about?
- The contest. What are you talking about?
- Did I say it out loud?
- S**t, I hope you did. Let's go in, the band must be there already.

We take a leak and go through the standard security check because guns. Honestly, I couldn't care less about the gig. I wasn't even aware of its existence an hour ago. That said, finding myself among all these foreign faces spacing out to raw guitar sounds, it seems to me like the most reasonable thing in the world to join in on this temporary adventure. Occasional fireworks try to bring me down every now and then, but my devotion to gravity is clearly disturbed and I have no intention of taxiing yet.

We're both knee deep in this jacuzzi of audiovisual experiences thrown at us like darts, where bubbles are conceived by jumping and screaming and hugging strangers who aren't really strangers because we're an extended family traveling through the crowd and adopting everyone with hugs and kisses. Our spontaneous adoption center is doing really well until we bump into a curious quartet composed of a Brazilian wardrobe named Syro (whom I count as two), a New Yorker named Don (or Dan) and a tiny, fragile, doll-faced Chinese girl named Blanca (whose parents must have had a terrific sense of humor or were just awfully color-blind). Although the odds aren't too good on this one, Curious Quartet tells us this place is dead and they're heading back downtown, to Palermo Hollywood, to a club called Kika, and it's guaranteed to blow our minds as if we needed any more of that.

Before I know it I've got Amarilla sitting on my lap as there isn't enough room in an old rusty cab we've supposedly agreed to split. She seems to be very uncomfortable with the way she's traveling so I'm tryna sport a hard-on as a joke, but I can't do it on cue. Luckily, there's coke with vodka being passed around courtesy of our American friend, and even the cabbie treats himself to a sip or two. In my mind it makes for an opportune moment to break the proverbial ice separating me and Blanca. When the drink finally finds its way to my hands, I place it between her legs and start slurping so that it looks like I'm sucking out her pee. Unfortunately for me, she doesn't find it at all funny and gives me a disapproving look as if wondering why I choose to hide my issues behind the mask of pathetic jokes and faux self-distance.

We arrive at our destination and pay the cabbie something in the neighborhood of thirty pesos each. I'm ready to stretch my bones on the dance floor but they all wanna snort coke first so we walk into an alleyway and they do the honors while me and Blanca are keeping watch. People always offer me coke and I always say no. They wonder why, roll the bill and snort, then turn into a sweaty bag of meat with impaired motorization, and I wonder why they even wonder. Or at least why they insist on doing it right before getting into a packed club in the middle of the summer. These, to me, are the real mysteries of life. Not the big philosophical questions about the meaning of existence and what-have-you, but the small tiny details that somehow drive our choices only to reveal how clueless we all are.

The two of us stand there in silence, eavesdropping on a symphony of quick inhales and runny noses �" sort of the night-time equivalent of birds singing. There's something unsettling about Blanca's eyes, so when she suddenly asks me out for dinner tomorrow, I say I won't be able to make it. I think I'd decline such offer from any girl, there's something off-putting about it. When they're back, Syro announces how good the blow was and, honestly, he sounds so convincing I'm having a hard time sticking to my vows. On our way back we realize we lost Paolo Lasso somewhere but no one can tell if he was even in the cab with us so we figure he must have had better things to do. To make things worse, or maybe not worse but just more surreal, he has been replaced by an Irish jock who acts like we share bloodline, but nobody knows his name or how the hell he got here in the first place.

We skip the line because Syro is friends with the bouncer, and it's hundred pesos for the entrance. If it wasn't for arbolitos on Calle Florida, I'd think it's a bit heavy on the pocket, but then again I've never had much trouble exchanging paper for experience. Inside they check us for guns, but they must be disappointed we don't pack any. The place is so awfully crowded I don't hesitate to part ways with Curious Quartet and the sketchy Irish fellow the minute we're inside. Seeing me walk away, Don, or Dan, grabs my arm and tells me I need a wingman for the kind of job I'm setting out to do. I don't know what job he's referring to, but even if I did I'd find his rationale pitiful, cheap and degrading. Obviously, I like my feelings bottled so I lose him with I'm good. My plan for tonight is to invest big on an inflatable emotional stock, a place governed by instincts and strobe lights, where groovy moves are exchanged for sloppy kisses which are then exchanged for poorly concealed hard-ons exchanged for overpriced drinks, rip-off taxis, creaky beds, explosive orgasms, painful headaches and lots of unanswered questions the morning after. Now that I think of it, una gamba is a fair price to pay, and it only makes me sad there are people who keep saving accounts and then they die and their money's still there.

I weed through dance floor's inhabitants who are luring me deeper into this luxurious abyss, and I'm happy to take the bait. There's a lot of flexible hips waiting for a pair of hands to guide them through the night, but I'm not yet that confident on foreign soil. At one point some girl grabs me by my dick and runs my fingers down her crotch, but she's dry like the Atacama so I dunno what she was trying to prove. Then I'm introduced to someone who offers to displace my jaw, free of charge. Then someone spills a drink on my shoes. Then someone grabs me by the a*s, but it's a guy. Then I'm grabbed by the dick, again, but it's a friend of that guy so I'm getting confused. Then someone tells me I look confused and I nod my head because it's true. Then I make out with someone, but who they are, where they came from and how they managed to make my tongue so obedient is a mystery to me. Then I bump into an angel. And then I stop because angels are not something you just bump into and move on. I think one drink more would make me check her arms for wings, but what difference would it make. It's been a long night and I'm devoid of any self-awareness. It's been a long night so it doesn't take much for me to approach her. It's been a long night and in life, I've found, you either waltz with angels or tap solo in a puddle of s**t so I might as well give it a shot.

- Hi, what's your name?
- I'm lesbian.

As if God himself stepped down from heavens to personally punch me in the throat. My initial reaction is to wave the white flag and try luck somewhere else, but it turns out a pill too bitter to swallow. Instead, I tell her I'm gay since that's the only reasonable response I can come up with in such a short amount of time. The music is so loud I need to literally scream it into her ear and I hope I'm not overdoing it.

- Pleasure, Ray
- No, not Ray. I mean I'm gay.
- You're what?
- Gay, marica.
- Then why are you dancing with me like this?
- Like what?
- Dirty.
- Then why are you letting me dance like that with you?
- How do you mean?
- You're lesbian.
- I beg your pardon?
- You just said you were lesbian.
- No. You said you were gay.
- I'm not gay.
- I'm not lesbian. What makes you think I'm lesbian?
- God, this is terrible. What did you say your name was?
- Angela.
- You're joking, right?
- You're weird.
- I'm lost...may I ask you a question?
- Shoot, Ray.
- My name's not Ray.
- What's the question?

They may steal a lot of things from me in life but I refuse to be robbed of the smile on my face after dancing the night away with the most beautiful creature in Buenos Aires. And I have yet to come over for a drink or whatever excuse she'll choose to make up. Even now though, with all the blood pumped down my crotch at the brain's expense, I'm strangely fulfilled. With lips as sweet as hers, God, I'd better be.

She squeezes her hand into mine and leads me to the exit where a beam of light strikes us dead in the eye as if the Sun were mad we dared to trade this beautiful morning for last night. Mad or not, I'm still having tired face massaged with sunrays and my hair caressed with gentle winds, or, if you will, buenos aires. I allow it that foreplay, it's like drinking coffee from an empty mug.

Angela asks me to stand still and wait for her so I stand still and wait for her. When she's gone it I have a look around and it dawns on me that I'm standing in front of a plethora of tweaking lights and bar signs, among which large groups of young, drunk and beautiful porteños flag down cabs and pass by like they were on a moving walkway to heaven and God promised to cook an out-of-this-world barbecue for his guests. It's an inexplicably beautiful feeling, that one, and part of me realizes I will never be able to top it, and this is actually the highlight of my entire life. Here and now, of all times and places. For a moment everything goes into slow motion, and I can feel my soul depart from my body and stand next to me, with a drink in its hand �" I guess just to add to the confusion. We exchange looks and once better acquainted I gaze into it, or it gazes into me, as if we were warming up for action in a cheap lesbian porn. Somehow I feel like I'm in two places simultaneously - both here and there - until I'm no longer sure who's looking at who, and whether I'm really myself or just a product of what everyone else wants me to be.

- I'm so happy right now. But I'm also sad deep inside. I must be thinking too much.
- You know what's better than thinking? Dancing.
- More?
- Why of course!
- It's just so weird, being torn apart like this. I don't know how I should feel about it.
- Then don't. Rumor has it Argentinean girls are the most daring on the continent.

I open my eyes, or perhaps it was only a blink. Either way I feel overwhelmed so much so that if I had a gun right now I swear I'd shoot myself and get it over with. But then I see my angel returning from her odyssey, and the very sight of her gracefully maneuvering through the cemetery of sex, sweat and make-up is enough to wash all the negativity off of me, and also make me wet but that's neither here nor there. Oddly enough, the first impulse urges me to run away, but I can't tell where that comes from so I pay it no mind. She gets closer, and I can now see she's carrying two Martinis like they were her babies, and I was about to be pronounced the father. I take a break from not believing in God, and start praying she still be willing to acknowledge my existence.

Dear God, I'm not usually too much into the idea of you running this whole thing, but I just want you to know that if you don't let this girl, that girl, walk past me right now, I will remain your humble servant for eternity. I think she's the one. I really do, God.

God must have listened to my prayers because she doesn't walk past me. I mean why would she after all, I think I'm being paranoid. Instead, she stops right in front of me, smiles, and hands me the drink like we knew each other for years and she just went to buy it for us. And, who knows, maybe we do know each other for years. Maybe nights well-spent can last years, the same way wasted years can last but a couple of days. Curiosity pushes me to examine her shoulders, but there's no sight of wings. I wanna ask if she really is an angel sent down here to deliver me from despair and eternal solitude, but I don't wanna spoil the mood and saying it with a straight face is simply impossible. All I know is that my faith has been restored and my life has been saved. We clink glasses and exchange another smile. I chug the drink down and wonder why there's a half-dissolved pill at the bottom of my glass.

Author's Note

Some grammar mistakes are made on purpose. I don't know whether I should change the audience settings to "mature". There's strong language and drug use, but at the same time it's not particuarly graphic or offending. I'd appreciate any feedback, thank you.