January 15 - The Dropbine Stay Motel

"Dear Max,
I am writing this note to tell you that I left. I'm gone. I'm run away. Your Blanca is no more."
I don't know why I bothered getting up this morning.
"I am not entering the note on our website to stop the many hate mails you will be receiving from my many fans."
That should fill up up the inbox. (Not.)
"Tears blind me as I place the laptop on pillows near your head. I want this screen to be the first thing you see when you open your eyes."
I almost fell out of bed.
"My grief knows no bounds."
The message was saved under 'Notepad'. There was a little broken heart icon pointing the way. (I wonder where she learned that trick.) Blanca had named the file 'Forsaken.'
"Last night I am suddenly realizing that you care nothing for me."
Last night. Has it only been three hours? Okay. Here's the bit. I had just finished taking a shower. I was walking out of the bathroom, drying my hair. A towel was wrapped around my waist.
"I don't need no bricks falling on my head."
I saw Blanca, naked except for heels and a little gold crucifix, posed like a model out of Penthouse Magazine. She was on her knees in the middle of the bed, one hand holding a breast, the other cupping that bottomless pit between her legs. An empty bottle of tequila lay on its side, near the telephone. (Where and when she had bought it is anybody's guess.) Even though the scene caught me off-guard, I merely switched off the hair dryer and asked if she wanted to call room service. Blanca swayed slightly; her face registered surprise. Then confusion. Then anger. And then a thoughtful expression crossed her face. Then an expression like... like... Sandra Bernhardt morphed with Divine. The rest of the conversation, as far as I remember it, is recorded below:

BLANCA: What do we need from room service? I got something real tasty for you right here.
MAX: No thanks, I'm on a low-fat diet.
BLANCA: What's that supposed to mean?
MAX: It was a joke.
BLANCA: I'm not smiling.
MAX: Blanca, you've been under a lot of stress. And that bottle of tequila didn't help matters.
I tossed her my bathrobe, then sat down beside her and played with the TV remote.
BLANCA: I feel so foolish.
MAX: You shouldn't. You're a lovely girl.
BLANCA: Yes, I am.
MAX: You are. But I'm not physically attracted to the opposite sex. You know that. We've discussed it many times. Ad nauseum.
BLANCA: Not even Madonna?
MAX: Especially Madonna. And if I were straight, I would... I would...
BLANCA: You would what?
MAX: Well, I wouldn't have hired you in the first place.
MAX: Dontcha see? A real man would not be able to control his, uh, baser urges in a situation like this - you, sitting there like that. Whatever that is. Remember those times back in Houston? The times you dusted my bookcase in your bra and panties?
BLANCA: Yes, I remember.
MAX: If I wasn't gay, those... uh, experiences would have been too much for me to handle. You are, after all, all woman.
BLANCA: Yes, I am.
There were tears in her eyes when she said this. I took a tissue and dried them.
MAX: But you're tired this evening. You've had some tequila, and you've had some fun.
BLANCA: Not much fun.
MAX: And now it's time to go to sleep. Don't you have a column to write tomorrow?
BLANCA: My column. Yes. My Internet fans. They love me, Maxie.
MAX: They do.
BLANCA: I am famous in my own time.
And with those words Blanca crawled under the covers and went to sleep. Within minutes she was snoring like a lumberjack.

"By the time you read this I will be on my way to New Orleans. A cousin of mine, her name is Denise Delgado, she owns a restraunt there. I'm sure she can find me a job waiting tables or washing dishes." A short term of employment, at best. "Since I have no money except the one hundred dollars I borrowed from your wallet, I will be forced to hitch rides from perverts and eat my dinner out of roadside garbage cans." I pity the perverts. "And whatever you do, do not follow me and do not try to find me. Do not come to Viento Pasa Restaurant on Dauphin Street in the French Quarter because I won't be there!" She's obviously embarrassed about last night. Hell, I'm embarrassed about last night. But this isn't my responsibility. SHE'S MY CLEANING WOMAN FOR CHRISSAKE! I don't need this grief. I have problems of my own to deal with, not the least being a carload of crazed Spunks tailing my ass. Shit, shit! "Your friend forever, Blanca." Still. The idea of Blanca loosed, like Pandora's troubles, upon the City of New Orleans, is, well, troubling. And it's been years since I visited Scott Anstrum in the Big Easy. I'm sure he's dying to show me his latest conquest. Or twenty. Who knows? If we happen to be near Dauphin one night ...

Hello, my Internet fans. This is Blanca none the worse for wear and you will never in a million years guess where I am and what I am doing. Do you give up? I am in Baton Rougue Louisiana (!) and I am sitting at a table in the republic library writing my column on one of the computers they got there for anybody's use. The lady who runs this place is very elderly but she is also sweet and has promised to help me when I start downloading on myself. So I guess you're wondering what I'm doing here in this strange place, how I got here, all the dirty details. It's been a wild ride that much is certain. I'm afraid I must announce that two days ago after an embarrassing fight Max and me parted ways forever. Modesty prevents me from saying too much about the situation, but you will be interested to learn that it involved a cheap motel, a bed, full frontal nudity, and fourteen shots of tequila.

Anyway, the next morning like a thief in the night I slipped out of our room and walked to the feeding road. The first person to notice me thumbing rides was a young and not bad looking man with long hair and a odd way of talking. His old red pickup stopped on my shoulder and as he rolled down the window he said to me, "Hop in, mon cher. Timesawaistin." So I hopped in and we drove off and we hadn't gone two miles before he told me his name was Bugger and he had a coon's ass. Although I was rather shocked by this information I managed to compose myself with a fat joint someone had left on his dashboard. When I lit it, Bugger frowned and said, "Ya'coulda waited fer a g'dam IN-vite!" But I just shrugged and blew smoke rings at his nose. After that we sat quiet for awhile. Finally I asked him if he'd seen a doctor about his butt condition. Bugger gave me a funny look and then he smiled and said no, 'coon-ass' was what Louisiana folks with French blood in them are called. He said it's a term of affection in his neck of the woods. I cleverly remarked, "I knew that, Bugger. I'm not as stupid as you look." (And Max thinks he's the one with wit.) Then Bugger said I was "nearabouts the purt'est Mes'can gal" he'd ever seen. I said that should go without saying. (By now I was batting a hundred.) Suddenly we found ourselves in the middle of freeway traffic. Bugger was grabbing his stickshift knob and asking me if I wanted to listen to some music. I told him I didn't mind. So he turned the radio to an awful station and put his hand on my knee. "Legs like them, cher, need touching by a man who knows how to touch hisself."

I checked out of the motel around 9am and drove to a nearby restaurant where I ordered coffee and the He-Man Breakfast. I'm sitting here now, in fact, in a booth by the window. The laptop is resting beside my plate, which is piled with enough eggs to feed Botswana.

This morning I've been thinking about Spunks. I'm amazed those animals were able to catch up with us - if indeed it was them inside the Malibu - considering how much distance we'd covered, and how late they began thier pursuit. It's even more amazing that they knew which freeway we'd take, and where we were headed. For the moment we seem to have shaken them. Or maybe they just don't want to enter the Pelican State. (Louisiana DPS has been known to detain minorities on the flimsiest excuse.) Whatever the reason, their absence from my life is an unexpected treat.

The waitress just slouched over and asked if I wanted more coffee. Her posture, voice and visage all told me I'd better decline the offer. Which I did. So now I'm leaving money on the table for the meal, along with an insulting tip; and I'm preparing to start my journey to New Orleans. From here it's a five hour drive, under the best of conditions. But wait. Through the restaurant window I can see sheets of rain blanketing the asphalt. My luck, wretched as always, is at least dependable.

Bugger's hand started traveling up my skirt, which was short, so I knew it would be a quick trip. My legs, trained by the Good Sisters of Guadalupe, closed tighter than Max's wallet. I said, "Moving kinda fast, ain't you, Cowboy?" "I got eleven inches here might argue that assessment." "I don't believe it." "That I got eleven inches?" "That you know the word assessment."

Suddenly I am desiring a glass of water, or better still, a soft drink. Great writing is thirsty work. (I wonder if Jackie Collins has this problem.) So I just called out to my librarian friend for help with the vending machine. To show her I have a sense of humor, I yelled at the top of my lungs, "Get your old coon's ass over here! I need some coke!" And look! Here she comes! (You know, she does seem to be walking faster.) And there's a man wearing a brown uniform with her. I expect, my Internet fans, that Blanca Delgado is about to receive special treatment!

I must finish using this computer in a hurry because the bitch who works here just asked me to leave the premises. The man that came with her is a security guard. He said in Louisiana trash like me isn't allowed in public places. I was hurt and surprised by their attitude, but I begged them to please give me five more minutes. They whispered among themselves for at least that long, then the old lady said "five" and held up five fingers - like I don't know how many five is! So now I am rushing to tell you the rest of what happened with Bugger. Where was I? Oh, yes. His hand up my skirt. So anyway, after a moment's consideration I slapped Bugger's wrist with a force that shocked both of us. Bugger said, "Ouch." Outside the truck, it was starting to rain. A lot. Bugger switched on the windshield wipers and said, "Now, honey." and I said "Don't you 'now honey' me, you sex harasser!" and Bugger said "You're confusing me with the guy ain't got plenty of hot babes waitin'firm in Lake Charles. He said, "I'm the one gets harassed 'round these parts." and I said "Must be a nice change for you, then." and he said "What do I need with your sorry ass? I got seven kids thrown across this state, four of 'em legit!" and I said "You don't look old enough to have seven kids." and he said "I was born a buck." and I said "Well it ain't hunting season so lemme outta this goddam truck." When I said that Bugger hit his brakes and pulled to a stop faster than Aunt Hopi can flip a tortilla. I caught the phrase "stupid Mex'can" as he sped off in the rain. I was eventually rescued by two housewives in a Honda. Without questioning my motives they brought me all the way to Baton Rouge where I thanked them and got out and walked and walked and walked until I saw a sign on this building that said 'Internet Access Available."

Uh oh! Here comes trouble. And judging by the expression on that security guard's face my walking today isn't over even though these heels ain't got much life left in them and frankly neither do I.

Strange lights surround me, strange and beautiful lights of many colors. I don't know where I am or how I got here or what I'm doing here or anything the least bit helpful, but it sure isn't like any place I've ever seen. It's not the Baton Rouge Library, I can tell you that. I left that place long ago. I think. Or was it minutes? (This is all very queer.) Yes, I remember leaving the library - it was early evening. I remember walking along a dark street in these heels that are killing me. Were killing me. My heels! Where are my heels? I paid forty dollars for those heels. And my panty hose! Where are my pantyhose? And my panties! Ave Maria, I am undressed!

I find myself in a reclining position. Flat on my back. A cold metal surface is caresses my shoulders, my spine, my buttocks. It is not an unpleasant feeling, in different circumstances the sensation might be considered sexy. It's as if I'm lying on my gynacologist's table waiting for the handsome male nurse to appear with warm lubricant ...

There is a dense mist in the air. Or a fog. Or smoke. Maybe I'm in a bar! Or visiting a local tobacco shop. Maybe I'm on a cargo ship with lots of horny seamen. That would be interesting, yes. The vessel is drifting through a thick fog, somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico. Yes! A thick moist fog. Girl, you gotta get a grip! Snap out of it! I am alone and confused. There is so much I don't know about my current predicament.

Except for one thing. Of this one thing I am certain. Upon this certainty I would bet Max's life even though the knowledge comes to me from I don't know where. And the thing I am certain of is this: I, Blanca Delgado, am at this very moment connected to the World Wired Web without the aid of a computer!

The fact is as plain as the pixels on my face not to mention curious as hell to anyone reading this column. If I lift my head a little - and for some reason this causes me pain - I can see my hands lying motionless at my side. They are frozen. My fingers are also frozen. I have frozen fingers! But my mind and my brain stems, thanks to the Blessed Virgin of Cannibus, continue to function perfectly. I am presently tense with past lives, forever linked to the Internet. MY THOUGHTS ARE BITS AND BYTES. BITS AND BYTES CONTROL MY EMOTIONS. I AM FLOPPY DISK AND HARD DRIVE. I AM TWENTY INCHES OF RE-CONFIGURED SONY MONITOR. I AM EXTENDED KEYBOARD, WATCH ME HACK. I AM BLANCA DELGADO, ALL COMPUTER, SPIDER MISTRESS OF THE FUCKING UNIVERSAL WIDE WEB! I can't help but wonder if Bill Gates has achieved this level of power.

But then, unhappily, I gaze at my surroundings. And I sigh. Time passes for poor Blanca. I sleep. I think. I weep. A drink! I sleep some more. More time passes. I consider masturbating but realize this would be a hopeless if not downright chilly experience.

Suddenly, coming out of the mist, I see a face! A child's face, pale and unhappy; it stares at me with huge, and I mean huge dark eyes. I cannot determine the sex of the child. I think maybe he (she?) is wearing sunglasses. Then I see another child's face, identical to the first. Then another face emerges from the fog. Then another face. And another and another and another. Can these be Bugger's children?

Do you see them? Can you see through my eyes?

Try touching the ball.

Max City