January 15 - The Dropbine Stay Motel
BLANCA: What do we
need from room service? I got
something real tasty
for you right here.
"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 ...
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!
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.
"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:
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.
BLANCA: What?
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.
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.
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."
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.
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!