the taxi pirate.

“She’d better not be throwing up in the cab!” Our driver growled into his rear-view mirror.

“She’s not!” I countered, catching his eyes in the mirror and realizing with a thrill that I decidedly liked what I saw. In between Tara’s dry heaves I got a chance to evaluate him more carefully. He was most definitely a pirate. He looked like the actor Breckin Meyer, only a few decades older and with a dark, slightly dangerous side. I could hardly wait to engage him in conversation on the way home.

He very dashingly helped us transport Tara from the car to the lobby, then waited outside with a cigarette while Tito and I shuttled her up to her apartment. She was coherent, but sick as a dog. 

“I’m just gonna lie here......” she said, after fumbling open the door and making a beeline for the toilet. “So comfortable,” she murmured, her cheek resting against the porcelain. “I’m just gonna rest here all night.”

“Are you sure?” I asked nervously, offering the wash-basin that I had procured from the kitchen. “Why don’t we put you in bed and you can use this if you need it? I think that would be a lot more comfortable.”

But she was already waving us away, her eyes closed. “I’m fine now,” she insisted. “You kids go have fun. Go.”

So we did, on the basis that it was almost morning and hopefully someone would soon be awake to keep an eye on her.

We kept a respectful silence on our way down to the lobby, where, I was pleased to see, our pirate driver was still waiting. His spirited reaction to the situation prompted a conversation on alcohol and inebriation as we pulled away.

“And what’s your favorite type of drink?” I trilled, scooting closer to the divider.

“Sex y perversion!” came the answer. He had heard vida, not bebida. 

I was considering telling him that that was my favorite type of lifestyle, too, but I paused to consider the consequences. Luckily it was at this moment that Tito pulled me back into conversation of his own, so I could put off considering the possibilities of running off with a cab driving pirate for a while longer. At least, until we pulled up to the curb outside Chiqui’s. I ran out to use the ATM and returned to hear the snippets of their conversation.

“She’s beautiful, your friend,” The cab driver was saying to Tito, “Very beautiful.”

I promptly slid into the front seat and tipped him far more than was necessary. I lingered for a second longer than what was appropriate, debating whether or not to grab him by the collar and... but alas, I had sobered up too much and there was a group of revelers approaching the cab.

“Good-bye,” I said regretfully. I wriggled out to join Tito on the sidewalk and we waved as the cab pulled away.

“What a night,” I sighed. Tito agreed.

But apparently, he didn’t feel it was over yet.

“Can I come in for a glass of water?” He asked.

“Sure,” I said, ever-accommodating. Before I knew it he was sitting on the couch with his glass, and motioning for me to join him.  

“Uh oh," I thought. Why couldn't he be just a little more pirate-y?

“I don’t want to wake the senora!” I whispered, putting a finger to my lips. “She’s a very light sleeper!”

He frowned, un-convinced.

“And she prowls the house late at night sometimes!” I added, shuttling him to the door.

 “Really, it’s better if you go.”

He tried to stick his head back in the doorway to protest but I was already putting the lock in place.

“Thank you so much for all your help tonight!” I whispered. And slammed the door.

Thank God for Chiqui.

I thought as I was crawling into bed about how he had been inordinately helpful, and had probably come far out of his way. Was I supposed to have been some sort of compensation? This is why I avoid men, I thought, and went to sleep.

November 21st, 2006

There's such a fall wind blowing outside. I had a great conversation with my dad today about dreams, being home, craving the simple life- and interesting to talk to Bonne right after because even though the soccer game would have been fun, I have absolutely no desire to be out at the clubs right now. I would rather be here, reading, writing. Now of course I'm too lazy to write it all down but my conversation with my dad made me think about so many things- not things that were new, but just ways of thinking that made me feel better, more content. Maybe life is about training yourself into certain ways of thinking- just like weight training to achieve a certain physical shape, you can repeat certain mantras to yourself to improve yourself spiritually, etc. It goes along with the thing of the Universe and willing what you want to happen. I think that the bottom line is that it's all a game and you have to just play and not take yourself too seriously. You have your game, your goal, and your gains, and what I need to gain is the value of patience. 

caught!

I was burrowing pleasantly in my room amid the books and journals, but couldn't help feeling rather wistful every time I received a new and increasingly illegible text message. Bonne and company had clearly had a grand time at the game and were now carousing through nearby neighborhoods in search of new bars. At around 12:30, I got a call that indicated they had given up the pursuit.

 "We're outside with a bottle of tequila!" She slurred. "Come down!" 

The phone was then passed from person to person, with each informing me in their own inebriated way the top five reasons why I should join them, despite my protests that I was in my pajamas and really quite ready for bed. I hung up feeling secretly excited to have a little nip of debauchery after all, and I ran to the kitchen to prepare a concoction that would quickly catch me up. With a water bottle filled with 98% vodka, I trotted downstairs to join the revelers, who were putting the neighborhood playground to good use. Garrett and Steph were on the seesaw, Mo and the tequila were on the slide, and Bonne and Andrew were taking turns pushing each other on the swings. I jumped aboard the other swing and we all had a good hour of so of silly talk and shenanigans before everyone went their separate ways. 

By that time I was decidedly tipsy, and hungry, of course, and Bonne and I headed straight for the kitchen once we climbed the stairs. In the refrigerator we found a sublime sight; a pan full of delicious empanada. The crust of a pizza encircling chorizo sausage, garlic, tomato.... within seconds we had it on the table and were pulling out large sections with our hands, me squirting ketchup on each piece on its way to my mouth. It was like something out of a Heironymus Bosch painting. I was just about to break out the Principe cookies to add to the glory when I heard a sound that was neither chewing nor the ripping of empanada. 

It was a bedroom door opening. 

I looked at Bonne to see if she had heard it too. She had stopped chewing and was looking rather pale, and only got more so once we heard another creak. We sat silent as mice, praying that Senora was only on her way to the bathroom, that she would not notice the light that was on in the kitchen. I was about to tip-toe across the tile to turn it off, but I was too late. The door swung open,  and there was Chiqui in her long white nightgown, looming like the Angel of Death. 

She surveyed the scene. There were pieces of empanada all over the table, and on the floor. Bonne had some in her hair. I had ketchup on my hands. There was a tortuously long pause, then, 

“Ohh!” Senora cried.

We cringed.

“Ohhh!” Senora said. Her nightgown billowed behind her as she stalked toward the table, yanking the half-empty empanada dish out of our reach.

“Ninas,” she clucked as she deposited the plate in the oven and switched on the heat. “Que horror. How could you waste this food by eating it cold?!”