Sweet Life

LA sits on a geological fault line. Greenhouse had hundreds of windows needing to be re-caulked additional struts and netting. If the big one hit, most of LA would suffer; business had to continue.

I remember one strong earthquake; that was the same day we got a dog.

Fredrick bought Romy and I a dog. The big, lanky hound took to sitting on the passenger seat of my MG. His preferred seat. Distinguished air about him, the Wellington Springer was short-haired with a mottled white and brown coat and a whip-like tail.

"Hunting dog," Fredrick said. "Already trained."

Our new companion's name was Sherlock Holmes, and he took to me and Romy immediately. I called him Holmes.

That night, Serafina fell in love with Holmes. Kibble with marinara sauce? Yep, that was his dinner. Afterward I took him et him in the canyon. He was off into the dusk sniffing for coyotes, exploring his territory

He was gone a long time, and I could hear his voice from up around Russel's house for a while, then he loped the ridge and finally came back to drink, then off again.

Fredrick called, told me to keep him in the house at night. “If he sets up a howl, check for an intruder.”

***

Holmes wanted to ride to work with me or Romy every morning, Serafina wanted to keep him with her, especially the days she worked.

On the first of every month, she drove Toddy and Ona to the different rental properties to pick up the payments, she sat in the truck making the deposit slips. Together they took the deposits to the bank.

Serafina liked talking with the tenants and their children, taking notes on repairs for Toddy. Holmes developed a deep affinity for children with cookies.

The four made a good team.

***

Our bookkeeper and the tax man approved my decision: Serafina needed a car.
She was delighted, asked for a Peugeot. Not my choice, but she'd driven one when she was young.

Saturday morning, we went to the dealership and selected a new 402 model with a short chassis, ivory colored sedan. Snappy, small but big enough to take on another task for us—making donations. Sure, this was for tax deductions, and it was something Romy and I wanted to do.

In exchange for her new transportation, she agreed to fill the trunk with six crates of fruit from the produce market, then deliver it to Angelus once a week. Because Sister Amy’s work had given me hope and the clothes for an interview. Fresh fruit is a luxury for homeless.

Soon Holmes and Serafina went to pick up Maria and Ona for trips to the produce market and Angelus.

Thick as thieves, those women were, with Holmes between them.

***

Nearing the end of the month, I heard Serafina call Toddy telling she would pick them up on the first. They held coffee-shop meetings with Toddy's crew. Had to chuckle, Serafina was outgoing and, at times bossy; she usually did that in Italian.

End of the month wrap-up, and that month we had quarterlies to review with the bookkeeper. That kept us at the office till ten that night.

***

Heard Serafina let Holmes out for his morning romp, then smelled the coffee brewing. Soon, Holmes started howling, running around the house. Had to grab his collar to bring him back in. Hoped we weren't getting a family of skunks in the canyon.

"You taking Holmes with you today to collect?" I asked Serafina and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Of course. Who's gonna rob me with my guard in the back seat?" Holmes was sniffing at the back door.

Romy came in and hugged his mom, "Gonna get the fruit today?"

"Friday, when Maria can come with us."

We left quickly; Holmes escaped. Took almost ten minutes to get him back in the house with Serafina. Had to go check the canyon later, see what agitated Holmes.

***

Romy and I were in Russel’s Oldsmobile. Went to the airport first. One of the trucks needed replacement, had to squeeze a few more weeks out of it.

Walking through the lobby, one of the clerks at the Hertz desk snagged me. Said Serafina had called, "She says it's important—call her immediately."

Behind the desk, I got her on the phone. "Serafina? Thought you were helping collect rent this morning." Heard Holmes in the background barking frantically.

"Holmes must have rabies. He won't come in the house, and won't let me get in the car. He’s nipping at me, snarling when I try to touch him. I called Toddy and Ona, they already left to collect."

"Call Maria to come stay with you."

"I'm afraid he'll bite her. You don’t understand—he’s gone crazy." I held the phone out for Romy to hear the barking and his mother yelling for the dog to shut up.

"Did you call the police?"

"He'll bite them, too. He won't stop jumping around and barking."

Usually Holmes ran the canyon sniffing for coyotes or he stayed in the courtyard. This wasn't rabies, he had all his shots.

"Did you call Russel or Fredrick yet?"

"They're not home."

"Okay, we'll be there as soon as we can. Stay in the house and keep an eye on Holmes."

Grabbed Romy's arm, "Holmes is upset about something, won't let Serafina out of the house."

He brought the Olds to the front as I made a few notes at the Hertz desk, then jumped in the car. Romy was worried about his mom, flooring the car as often as he could, eyes ahead and lips pressed together.

Pulled in the long drive to find Holmes barking at us and lunging at the Peugeot, then the roadster. His nails had scratched the finish on both cars; driver’s side doors and the front of hoods were scraped.

Through the window, Serafina waved at me, scared to come out.

Romy got the hose and let Holmes drink from the stream of water while I looked around. Maybe there was a rattler under the cars, some other varmint. Holmes was too big to get under either vehicle; saw holes he tried to dig.

Grabbed a rake and stuck the handle under the cars, thinking I would scare out the animal.

Nothing.

Holmes was at the hood of the roadster barking loudly, jumping and whining. Then he tried to get under the car again.

Barking at the grill? Rake in hand, I got on my stomach for a better view.

Nothing, again. Couldn't see anything but the smooth earth and a few pebbles.

Got a small whiff of a fishy smell.

Scooted closer and stuck my hand into the shade of my MG to a dark spot, and pinched some of the damp earth between my fingers. Scooted back and turned over and sniffed the dirt.

Brake fluid.

"What is it?" Romy asked, holding back Holmes who was lunging and barking, ears flapping when he jumped and wide-eyed, yipping rapidly.

"Leak on the brake line." We knew what the other was thinking.

I went to the Peugeot, the carriage was a little higher, but I got on my stomach again and looked underneath. Same dark puddle, same faint smell of fish.

Brake fluid has an odd smell, slightly fishy. Like nothing else on or in a motor.

Pinch between my fingers and I smelled it again. Got up and went to Holmes and let him smell my fingers. "Good Holmes, good boy."

Took us almost thirty minutes and two bowls of ice cream to calm him down and another hour with Serafina calming her down.

Two broken lines on the same day?

***

Police came out, took a report. Romy got in the cars and pumped the brake pedals to show them there was no resistance.

Any footprints were gone after Holmes' fury. I ordered Holmes to hunt, "Find him, boy. Where is the guy who did this? Go get him."

He ran down the drive, toward the road and then toward the highway. Running behind him, I followed him to the highway. The trail went cold at the asphalt. Holmes kept sniffing, but gave up.

The person who cut the brake lines had come and left in a car.

When I got back with a calmer Holmes, Romy was still talking to the police. They asked if we had any enemies, or if someone was seeking revenge. “Disgruntled employee?”

Romy described how I'd taken Jonathan to the bus station to get back to the East Coast yet he’d abandoned his trip in Lexington. They took some notes and looked around the outside of the house, and into the scrub. Found nothing.

***

That night, we piled in the old Ford and went to visit Fredrick and Russel. Holmes was smiling, quite proud of himself. Fredrick listened carefully as Romy explained what happened.

Russel suggested we get guns, a rifle, a fence. Mentally I dismissed the idea, but I'd go along with one gun to keep Romy and Serafina safe.

Fredrick let all the conversation play out and tilted his head to the side, "This is a discussion that shouldn't be held in such polite company." He smiled at Serafina. Code for something covert I suspected.

Fredrick drove us into the airport the next day and we rented cars until we could get the Peugeot and MG fixed and repainted. Wasn't upset about getting a new paint job. Holmes protected us. Had to figure that was Fredrick's idea behind giving him to us.

I called to the officers who'd come to the house. Jonathan had a warrant out for his arrest.

***

LA was growing up, and being port city, there were plenty of small haunts and cafes, unusual services from around the world.

Fredrick and Russel took us to a massage parlor after work one afternoon. Slippery with oil, a man with beefy, strong hands worked my body over until I was limp, relaxed.

Russel lay on a table nearby, I watched his masseuse thoroughly rubbed, tugged and pulled a big load out of him. Then my turn came. I just closed my eyes and grinned, quivered and emptied myself into the hands of a stranger, a smiling stranger who’d just made a bundle of cash.

This man had a twisting move and a talented middle finger. Ancient practice, but new to me.

On the way home, Fredrick sat in the back with me, scooted close and asked me if he knew where Jonathan might be if he were in LA.

"Only know he worked in Angelus for a while."

"Rus, go downtown to McPherson's mission."

Russel let me and Fredrick out in front of Angelus. Few people milled around; the evening service had just ended. A man with a ring of keys was locking the doors, we approached and asked if he had seen a man "Jonathan McCann." He hadn't.

We walked around a few blocks didn't see anyone, but I doubted if Jonathan would be sleeping on a cardboard box or blanket in the alley.

On the way back to the car, Fredrick told me to get a new phone number and make sure it was unlisted, no one could find my address that way.

I looked at Fredrick, "If you were going to try to kill someone in LA, where would you hide?"

"Not in LA." He laughed, then, "I'd jump the border."

***

The next weekend, we were off to Rosarito Beach, Mexico.

The old Rosarito Beach Hotel was still a hang-out of all the stars and starlets. They opened during prohibition, and enjoyed a fine reputation as provender for all forms of recreation and relaxation not found in the states.

Unlike most of the West Coast in the US, men could room together without question; at this hotel men weren't questioned. No way at this point in our lives were we going to have to pretend to be cousins again.

At the hotel, all four of us went to the beach. I enjoyed swimming, but kept hearing kids on the beach hollering "Tiburon!" just to see who would come running out of the waves. I figured out they were hollering "Shark."

I laughed. How big could the sharks be? Then I noticed a taxidermized shark over the front desk in the lobby. It was over twelve feet long.

"Where to dine tonight?" Romy asked.

"Lobster dinner in the restaurant." Russel said.

"Feh." I murmured.

Fredrick stepped in, "Let's go into Tijuana for the evening. I need to look around." He winked at me.

***

Dressed casually, we left for Tijuana, coursing the dusty roads and came to the downtown area. Church bells rang calling people to mass. Lots of activity on the streets. The vendors on the sidewalks were leaving for the day and the next shift of sellers came to their stations. Prostitutes.

We found an enclosed area to park, cruised the avenidas. I was appalled as we strode through the Zona Rosa, the red-light district. There were children prostituting themselves. Lots of indigenous children. Girls, plenty of them, and boys.

My steps slowed, I looked into the faces of the boys. They looked like me when I was a kid. Dark, straight hair, big brown eyes. One was barefoot, and his feet were dirty, but he looked up at me and gave me a quick, perfunctory smile and glanced around, probably looking for his pimp.

I stopped, grabbed Romy's hand. "These boys – they're just kids." Concern clouded my face. "Where are their parents?"

Fredrick intervened, "Quiet. I'll explain later." He took Romy's hand out of mine.

***

Stopping in front of several eateries, Fredrick read the menu and we decided on a rooftop restaurant, upscale and with a view of the streets from the third floor. Food started arriving as we sat down.

Once again, everyone had lobster while I asked for the house specialty and got a platter of a whole sea bass, fresh tortillas, salsa. Incredible dinner. A guitarist played softly, strolling between the tables. We watched the streets below.

Fredrick came to sit beside me and put his hand on my thigh, "Leave the kids alone. If you want a boy, we could wind up in jail. There's more money to be made blackmailing you with a boy and harder to get out of down here. Swift justice on the streets. You'll never see a courtroom. If you want a boy, I have contacts in LA."

"But they're so small – so young."

"That's their lot. They're feeding their families. Probably all the kids in their homes are working. Economic depression hit harder down here." He said, "Leave them alone. Okay?" He tilted his head and smiled.

Didn't want a boy, it was my heart that hurt seeing their small, dirty faces forcing smiles at strangers.

***

Fredrick went to the bar, struck up a conversation with the barkeep. Spoke in Spanish, I couldn't understand him. Pulled his wallet out, and tucked several bills behind his business card and gave it to the man, then they shook hands.

Later, we walked back to the car, heading back do to Rosarito Beach. We sat beside the pool enjoying a nightcap, then went upstairs.

The image of the boy’s smile stayed in my head, I sat on the balcony watching the boats passing offshore. Russel and Fredrick were celebrating Romy, simultaneously.

Romy was grunting then humming. When their moaning and slapping flesh became loud, I shut the balcony doors, still wondering about the boy who looked like me.

***

The next morning, Fredrick told us he had to leave for a few hours, jumped in the car and left us by the pool in our bathing trunks; heavy wool short pants that weighed and pulled themselves down when wet.

We sunned as more American tourists arrived.

The three of us changed and walked the tourist shops buying candy and trinkets for Toddy’s family.

Russel and Romy found ceramics they were bartering over. I wandered outside, standing near a newspaper stand and I saw a flyer posted on a utility pole. Large photo of a showgirl, underneath, "Muxe."

Never saw that word before. Was Muxe like moxy? Looking more closely, I noticed the flyer had the words "Zapoteca."

Living in LA, I had a little Spanish, I pointed to the flier where the vendor could see me, "What's this? Muxe?"

He grinned, and wiggled his hips with his hand behind his head. "Hombre." He pointed to the photo of the woman.

I pointed to the word "Zapoteca," and raised my eyebrows.

"Indigino. De Oxaca, Yucatan." Zapotecs are an indigenous tribe living on the east coast of Mexico.

Must be a troupe of dancers touring the west coast. To my surprise, the vendor jerked the flyer down and handed it to me. I bought a newspaper from the capital, and one from Tijuana, and carefully tucked the flyer inside.

Then the vendor offered me some Tijuana bibles. I bought two—Maria might like them. Tiny booklets, about the size of my palm.

***

It was one o'clock and Fredrick still wasn't back. "Should we go look for him?" I asked Russel.

"He'll be back when he's ready." Russel wasn't concerned, so I glanced at Romy in new shoes and a pastel blue guayabera shirt looking all the native.

Upstairs, I showed them my Muxe flyer, newspapers, then the tiny "bibles."

Opened one of the bibles, why, how disgusting! We were laughing with surprise and I’d never show them to any woman. They were dirty jokes, six or eight pages long. Caricatures of US personalities cavorting sexually in raucous situations.

***

Stumbling through the newspapers in Spanish, they were like the US paper in most senses. Classifieds, society columns. Romy and Russel undressed and began rubbing against each other. Watched them kiss, pressing themselves together, grinding their hips.

Took off my clothes, turned on the ceiling fan; watched them.

Nothing frantic about it; they set a slow pace. Romy didn’t like to be hurried, he had become more refined in his sexual techniques. Slow start, light tease, then, as his excitement built, he became assertive, then aggressive forcing his partner to serve him his orgasm exactly how he wanted.

Had me well trained.

Beautiful men, erotic how their bodies moved, muscles tensing and relaxing in the afternoon light. Russel went down on Romy, slid his finger inside his hole. Rub and suck—that aroused me. Romy grabbed Russel’s ears to steer the action, one of his favorite moves.

Trying to control himself, Romy’s body began trembling. “More.”

His hips lifted, whimpering a few times, “Now!”

Got loud for a few breaths, that excited me. I pulled my rod; stood, walked beside the bed. Romy leaned over and took my load quickly. Russel watched, erect. When Romy sucked my load, Russel came on Romy’s face.

Beautiful.

***

As we headed out for a dip, here comes Fredrick, smiling. Romy and Russel went on to the pool. Fredrick pulled me back into our room. "Our lucky day."

He took me in his arms, kissed me and said he found some security for me, and not to worry about anything. "What do you mean?"

"We'll talk later. What's this?" He pointed at the pile of newspapers.

"Seeing what they're doing down here. Have you ever seen a Muxe?"

"Heard of them..." He looked at the flyer. "Oh, yeah, this is like the cross-dresser shows in San Francisco. Interesting, these are people who take on the opposite gender roles yet they can’t have a long-term relationship."

He sat and read the flyer, then the newspapers. "Did you check for Jonathan's name on the list of arrests yet?"

"They list the names from the police blotter?" We studied the Tijuana paper.

Then he told me why the list of names was so short. "Tourists are let off if they commit small offenses—maybe a night in jail to sleep it off, but if they cross the line it can be real trouble." 

"The line?"

"Yeah. Changeable line, depending on the crime and the arresting officer. Tricky situation, but I don't see his name here." He stood, stretching, "Swim?"

"Nah, I'd rather nap."

We fell asleep together on the bed smelling of cum and sweat.

***

Before we left Mexico, we stopped at a private club. Saturday night would be busy at the crossing; we'd cross later. Packed the car, checked out and stayed for dinner. Everyone ate their bugs and I had seafood stew with hot tortillas. Fisherman's dinner, and I had to find the name of it to ask Maria to cook it for me.

"Caldo de Siete Mares," the waiter told me; I wrote that down.

***

It was late when we left Rosarito Beach. Fredrick drove us into Tijuana into a seedy area of town. Found a man to watch the car and went off on foot to a small bar with a sign on the front boasting the silhouette of a naked woman engaged sexually with a burro.

"What?" I wondered why we came here. Heard about the donkey shows, women and burros mating on stage; the idea was revolting. Had a lot of respect for farm animals.  That woman was working to feed her family.  Sad situation.

Fredrick and Russel seemed to know where they were going as we passed the entrance to the bar and coursed a dim alley. There were sounds all around us, voices, laughter, music. All quieted as we neared the end of the alley. Russel gave five knocks on a narrow door.

"Quién es?"

Fredrick leaned near the door and said a few words in Spanish. The door opened quickly and we went in to find ourselves in a dim room. Poster of the Muxe was taped on the wall. Fredrick discretely slipped the doorman sixty bucks cover charge.

***

Audience gathered in the stuffy room were all men, nicely dressed, most drinking beer dispensed from a short, make-shift bar. The room was hot – faces carried a sheen of sweat.

Fredrick couldn't find us any seats so we stood near the bar; several men close by introduced themselves casually with smiles. Not their real names.

I took my coat off, heated with the alcohol and closeness in the room. Heady smells of male sweat, different colognes, enticing mix.

Fredrick was talking with the barkeeper as the crowd buzzed. Suddenly, the crowd fell silent. Deep, resounding beat of a drum came from the side of the room, it continued for several minutes before we saw anything.

Spotlights suddenly filled the corner of the room. A man strutted out with a large drum hanging from his neck. Long plumes of feathers, thin and iridescent waved from his headdress. He wore little other than gold armbands and a bright red loincloth.

The crowd started chanting, "Moo-shay, moo-shay..." Soon, under bright lights and onto a small stage, a figure appeared, looking at the floor with toe pointed. The Muxe!

Long hair, studded with flowers, she lifted her eyes, and gracefully raised her slender, golden arms. Wearing nothing but a long, traditional full skirt covered with embroidery and ribbons.

Her narrow chest was bare, small breasts with tiny dark nipples, she began swaying and glancing at the crowd coyly. Make up, lipstick and big, flashing black eyes. Incredibly beautiful.

Gracefully she swayed and began a song, I couldn't understand, but I was transfixed with the form of a man-woman, moving with the grace of a ballerina, but in the body like Romy's when I'd met him.

Her voice carried an ancient melody with the drumbeat. The Muxe continued with songs, dancing slowly and as her show continued. Her movements became more suggestive, then, she dropped and stepped out of the long skirt to reveal a tight, red satin pair of shorts covering a small package, clearly defined. Narrow hipped, and with a small, rounded butt, she strutted, leaned and posed.

Most of the men in the room were rearranging their underwear a number of times during the performance. Several men had approached the stage, mumbling, reaching toward the Muxe. They were bodily removed from near the stage and taken to the back of the room.

I understood them, I wanted to touch her skin, too. She was so alluring.

Fredrick was sweating, had his jacket over his arm, but fumbled around in the breast pocket for a few moments, then approached the stage, smiling at the Muxe. She smiled back. Instead of reaching out toward her, he stuck his business card in the waist of the loincloth of the drummer.

The drummer smiled, nodded and we left.

Good thing we did. As we drove off, there was a line of police cars waiting to raid the place. Not sure if it was the donkey show or the Muxe, but I was glad to get out of the super-heated room.

Same fear as the night Romy and I left the camp the night I met him.

***

On the long drive back to LA, I fell asleep in the back with Romy, head filled with images of that beautiful Muxe dancing to an ancient drumbeat.

Had one day to get ready to get back into the work routine, and I was very grateful. Working hard allowed me these opportunities – there was so much in the world I never imagined. I wanted more.

Coming in Chapter 8:

The tattoo is revealed, and it’s not good. A great loss occurs before the labeling.

Is this Muxe homosexual or what? David finds out.