MonicaA Story by Tony A beautiful Apache girl I have had the pleasure of knowing.
Monica's parents were given to drink, and breaking their marital vows. As the child passed the years wherein she was most strongly influenced, her innocence was eviscerated by the constant cheating, fighting and ultimately, child abuse.
At 10 years, she was reduced to an orphanage of sorts in the State Capitol. It was a school/farm that was structured to gain the most money from the existence of the pathetic and often gravely ill kids who passed through the big gate, and by the field full of beautiful horses on to what separates the strong from the weak. Fifteen or so years later, I met Monica while sitting beneath a giant canopy of a tree, and making beer disappear with my compinches. She came in with someone, and I noticed her for her almost movie star flair and movements. She did everything but say, 'Reaally dahhlling....'. She didn't care that I could not understand the stream of beautiful sounds that sang from her eyes and her mouth, she obviously liked to do the talking. I was entranced. As she talked she moved her hands this way and that, gazing at the bright red nails as she stretched them out over her legs, which were crossed like a senators wife. Her toenails were painted the same color and her beat up sandals made her rather big feet look very cute. I smiled and she continued her story, and helped me keep the beer from warming. She looked quite a bit bigger than she was, due to the baggy dress of beautiful bright colors. "Mira." she said, presenting me with her necklace, which slid gracefully from her neck and appeared in her open palm. It was black pearls spaced on little chunks of turquoise. They were of various sizes, and fine quality. The centerpiece was a polished piece of black coral, carved in the shape of an erection. "Un verga," she sang in Castillano, "Esta mio." I didn't know enough spanish at the time to know she was telling me it was a dick, and it was hers, but I did know what it was and commented appropriately. As the Sun slipped away into the Mar de Cortez, six months later, Monica and I sat behind my 'casa carton' and talked about ghosts. She had had a dream of swimming with her niece, who had been dead for five years. She crushed fragrant Sinaloan mota onto a faded spanish primer, the tendons flexing in her strong hands. I sat on an upturned bucket and watched the blue sky turn to fire, then to deep purple while peeling the foil off the back of the liner from a pack of cigarettes. The paper that is yielded is the pescador's version of a zigzag. The process is more difficult than one might think, and the secret is to use five to seven minutes. I handed her the paper after balling it up once. In a couple of motions she loaded it with more duff than seemed likely, and rolled it across her palm, which she had seductively passed across her tongue, also in the same series of motion. Her hands made things seem unstable sometimes, now you see it now you don't... The 'gallo' (rooster) was as fat as a swisher sweet, and just the right texture. Damn, I love girls who can do! ''Dar me incendador, Teeyay,'' she said and we strolled down the beach, hand in hand. Blue smoke hung on a rare windless evening, the hush of the pelicans wings audible as he passed. Way up around the curve of the beach, the lights of the dock made mile long splinters of white on the black mirror of saltwater. © 2011 TonyFeatured Review
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12 Reviews Added on December 12, 2010 Last Updated on February 24, 2011 Author
TonyMexico...... Tan LejosAboutI am a guy, 49. I am spirit residing in a carbon based life form. The god I know can be found in motion and rest. I live in Mexico because it's very free, and community still means something. .. more..Writing
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