OF PISCO AND PERU: PORTLAND, PT.3

The rainstorm lets loose just before Gus wheels into the covered short-term parking garage, bleating the MINI’s horn while pushing into the ticket lane.

After jerking to an abrupt halt, I jump out and squeeze the water from my soaked shirt, then turn to my carry-on bags. Gus pushes me aside, yanking out the heavier luggage with surprising vigor.

I’m taken aback. “You’re coming in?”

Dabbing his face with a greasy snot-green bandana, Gus points his elbow at the pouring rain. “You wants me to drive back in this?” He gums a drunken Cheshire Cat grin. “Besides, is six in the AMs. Times to make my daily fit-shace.”

My lips pinch to the left while I pace along in thought. My potentially ex-work shift just started. Am I really going through with this?

“No free hour?” Gus stops dead in his tracks, reading the parking sign overhead: Hourly Parking (Short-Term Parking Garage)/Rate: $3 Per hour/$27 Per Day. “I’m telling you, Duck, why even gets outta bed for Mondays?”

I look down and stifle a chuckle. “Nice shoe.”

Gus looks down with a pained expression. A lone, red, decrepit girl’s shoe lies at his feet as if waiting for its soulmate on the cold, hard concrete of the airport parking garage.

“What?”

“Terr-ee-bleh. You see? Usually they comes in pairs.”

“Unless she was an amputee.”

“No. Is serious. This place has fallen into the wicked juju.” Gus grimaces and shuffles slowly around the offending shoe. “I bet some depraved icehole’s keying my MINI. I can feels it.”

“Yeah, probably that same googly-eyed fucker you cut off coming in here.”

“And I just stole it, too.”

I give a good tug at the rolling luggage. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a coffee you goof.” I point my head to the yellow sign over the skybridge entrance.

“No coffee.” Gus’ voice pitches upward to a whiny tone. “Life’s so unfair.”

Gus’ superstitious mood turns even weirder when a well-coiffed matriarch and her mega-brood meatplows in front of us at the airport’s revolving glass doors. We watch helplessly as they bog down.

“Fuck it.” I bound towards the lone side door.

“Duck, wait! Is bad luck going in there.”

Too late. I trundle on through with Gus following behind, staring back in slackjawed horror at the masses of flesh straining to pancake their way through the turnstile.

Gus snuffs out his cigarillo on the escalator handrail, then crosses himself rigidly as we drag our bags down to the airline check-in.

“This is way too much bad karma for a Monday, Duck. Dios mío.”

After ticketing, we saunter into the airport bar, greeted by a small cortege of waitstaff in Hawaiian shirts flashing plastic-lollipop smiles and barraging us with ‘Hellos’ and ‘Good Mornings’.

“Aha.” Gus marches towards a firepit table lined with chairs, not a stone’s throw from the server’s station at the bar. We sit down and Gus’ eyes widen in surprise when I pull out a notebook and a weighty tome about Peru from my backpack.

“You is really taking charge of this change-of-lifestyle thing, hey Duck?” He whistles approvingly.

“You bet your bippy.” I start thumbing pages. “Lima is the second biggest city in the world that’s technically a desert even though it sits on the coast? Isn’t that amazing?”

“Increíble.”

“It’s because of the Humbolt Current.”

Gus rolls his eyes, yawns and lights a Swisher Sweet. “JesuCristo. Do I needs to use the white courtesy phone to get a drinks around here?”

Shaking my head. “Please don’t. And you know you can’t smoke in here.”

“No. Is okay ‘cuz no one ever stops me.” After a big, satisfied puff, Gus looks around and squeaks a sharp whistle, trying to get the attention of the closest waiter, who’s helping a Japanese couple order in English by raising his voice several decibels and pantomiming.

My phone rings. “Dammit. It’s my work. What do I do?” I set the phone on the table like it’s contagious. Gus tilts forward at me. “You know, Duck, I has a theory.” This can’t be good. We have a staring contest while the phone continues ringing. After some seconds, I give in. “Okay, what’s the theory?” He gestures like a street hustler performing a card trick. “They is two types of hombres in this flucked up world: the ones who gets weird and the ones who work. Which hombre is you, Duck?”

I should have known better. “Really, Gus.” “Sí. Most guys ditching work use lame fluckarounds like I gots the flu, or my grandmother just dies again. That’s all wrong.” “Yeah?” “Aye, them weak-sauce flake outs might gain an extra long drunkfest in Vegas or Cancun, but for an extended reprieve from your working class shitehole, you needs something extra special.” “I can tell you’ve put a lot of thought into this.” “Pffffththththahh!” Of course I has. I is unemployed. I has all the times in the worlds. The points is to let your imaginations run wild. Hows about you gots Hairy black tongue disease from eating an infested hamburger. Wouldn’t that be a nice?” I wipe Gus’ spittle off my face. “Charming.” “Or. . .” He sticks out his tongue. Sweet, musty smoker’s breath hits me in the face. “Aye. Or maybes your fecal replacement surgery got boshed. That’s a real game-changer.” The phone rings.

“Or Exploding Heads Syndrome. You just wakes up y that little noggin of yours, Pffffththththahh! pops like a zit, exploding in two!” “Unbelievable.” I snatch the phone and get up from my notebook. “Watch my stuff and get me a coffee.”

“A Cuba Libre?”

“Coffee.”

“I is just kidding. Don’t take life so seriously you dumb ding dong, Duck.” Gus chortles, then pulls out his bandana and blows his nose.

I dodge foot traffic past a statue of ex-governor Vic Atiyeh. “Hu. . . hello?” Dammit. Get that milquetoast tone out of your voice, Doug. The secretary’s chewing gum habit pops through the receiver. I can almost smell the spearmint. “Doug?”

A fake a half-assed coughing fit. “Sorry I couldn’t make it into work this morning. I’m feeling a bit under the weather. The. . . sniffles.” Crap.

The gum smacking stops. “Aw. Does somebody have a case of The Mondays?”

A case of The Mondays? “Oh, heck no, Linda. Uh, I would never. . . it’s just. . . I’ve got a headache.” Cringy.

“A headache? Well, pop a Tylenol and buck up, little soldier.”

“Head cold. I meant head cold. Like the flu.”

“Well, which is it?”

“I’m not sure.” A couple more coughs for good measure. “I was so out of it when I checked myself into urgent care.”

“Urgent care? Which hospital?” She sounds genuinely concerned.

Good question. “Ah. . .” Heck if I know. “I was. . . catatonic when they brought me in.” The gum-chewing starts in. “Wait a minute? I thought you just said you checked yourself in?”

Double crap. “Maybe both? You know doctors, Linda. Buncha dorks in white coats.”

A deep voice from behind. “Fuck you!”

Wheeling around, a huge, mohawk-sporting bodybuilder-type in a white jacket and matching loafers barges past me and scowls. I cover the phone with my palm. “Sorry, sir. I meant that it looks great on you.”

Linda’s voice. “Is that your doctor?”

“Yes. His bedside manner is quite. . .” I watch Lord Humongous flip me off while marching down the hallway. “Intense.”

Chewing gum popping, then a breathless, “What’s his name?”

I’m pacing around. Don’t panic. Stay sharp.

“Your doctor’s name?”

Leaning over, I squint at the golden statue’s plaque. “Vic. Vic Atiyeh.”

“You mean the dead ex-governor?”

Why does she have to bad so damn smart? Our educational system sucks. I inspect the plaque again. When did this poor bastard die? “I think it’s his, uh, grandson, actually.”

“Doug, this sounds like another one of your — “

“How long have we worked in Hell together, Linda?”

She draws in a big breath. “Forever and a long day.”

“Exactly. And I’ve always been consistent and, uh. . .”

“Weird.”

“Quirky.”

“Fair enough.”

“Consistently quirky. You know what it’s like to be trapped day after miserable day with Larry and the suck up twins, Tom and Jerry.”

“Yeah, buddy. Ugh.”

“Exactly. Listen, any idiot can do my job.”

“Any idiot has done your job. Hahaha.”

“Haha. Very funny. Please, I just need some time to find myself. I’m begging you.”

“And what if you can’t find yourself, Dougie?”

“Well, then you’ll never have to hear from my consistently — “

“Weird.”

“Quirky self, again.”

A pause on the other end. “Just call in tomorrow.”

CLICK.

I walk back to find Gus smiling impishly while taking a plug off a bottle of Corona.

I sit down in front of another beer bottle on top of my notebook. “What’s this?”

Gus gesticulates wildly, then pulls in close enough so I can smell his wino breath between the gaps in his teeth. “It’s magic! They ran out of coffees.”

“Uh. Huh.” I drag out the two beats, skeptically, before taking a sip. He’s read my mind. Anything to help me sleep on the plane.

A big, carnie geek chortle from Gus. “Aye. How’d the work call go?”

“Like I sucker-punched myself in the balls. I’m guessing with sick time and a few well-executed excuses like this last one. . .”

Dammit. Lord Humongous and his equally-buffed wife seat themselves at the table next to us and start perusing menus. Has he seen me? I scoot my chair until my back’s to them. “. . . two, maybe three weeks, tops?”

“What’s done is done, Duck.”

“What’s so funny?”

I peer down at my Peru notebook:

Fact 6: Macchu Picchu, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. It is the largest tourist attraction with over 2 million visitors annually.

Fact 7: There are over 4,000 native varieties of Peruvian potatoes cultivated in the Andes. Major agricultural products are cotton, sugarcane, coffee, cocoa and rice.

Fact 8: Mining and fishing are the main sources of employment in Peru.

Then, in a wild, jagged scrawl in black magic marker lettering:

Fact 8.5: We just got backs from deepest jungle after my friend got bittened by that big, ugly bat. He is in the baño, bleeding out his eyeballs, and turning into a Pishtaco. Only God saves us all.

“What the fuck?”

Gus spits out a fountain stream of beer between the gaps in his teeth. “¿Qué?”

“What the fuck’s a Pishtaco?” I say, wiping beer spray from my face, then holding up the notebook.

“Andean vampire. Carves its victim’s fat off with a big knife and eats it. That gabaucho waiter was being all nosy, looking over my shoulders after he takes our order. I had to makes him leave.”

“Christ. I thought he looked at me funny when I walked back in.”

As I pull back my beer, it foams over, spilling all over my crotch.

Gus flashes his gapped-tooth smile. “JesuCristo, Duck, you is such a gloob.”

Shaking my head, I scoot my chair closer to the firepit. “What? You think I did this on purpose like it’s some sort of fashion statement?”

Gus chuckles to himself while surrounding customers pretend not to stare at us. “No worries. Passengers pissing themselves is the least of security’s problemas. Not after last weeks.”

I take the bait, blotting my pants with a paper napkin. “What happened last weeks?”

Gus gulps more beer. “They find the, uh, dead pilot’s corpse stuffed in a bathroom’s stall.”

“Damn.”

“Sí. His skins completely peeled off his face and stuffed in a murse filled with bath salts and anus chemicals.”

“Anus?” That can’t be right? “Heinous?” I sure hope so.

Gus continues. “Yeah, heinous. So this dwarf is — “

“Little person.”

“¿Que? Like munchkin?”

“No, they like to be called little people.” He watches me scowl as he sips his beer.

“In Spanish they is called enanos.”

“That sounds better.”

“Okay. This enano is all whacked off his gourd, all sweaty like he’s flucking a neanderthal, with a ‘SOUTHWEST AIRLINES’ pilot’s nametag pierced to his bloody left tit, munching on one of Captain Stubing’s ears like is a breakfast burrito. They finally captures him pissed out naked on luggage carousel ten.”

“Jesus. Sounds like one of my nightmares.” The hopeless thoughts are creeping in again.

“Aye. Somethin’ to look forward to on your deathbed.” Gus probes my scowl and reacts with a huge, sick smile. “I’m telling ya’, Duck, this is your lifes exchanging message from God.” Gus solemnly looks up while crossing himself. “With vibes like this, how can you not moves to Peru?”

We both sip our beers and ponder what a terribly weird world we live in, before Gus shows off a sinister smile.

“Word is the bath salt dwarf’s the head mechanic for one of the major airlines.”

My phone rings again. My maybe ex-manager’s number. Click.

“Gus, I don’t know how you did it, but you did. I just can’t afford to sweat the small stuff anymore. Well, until in the future sometime when I die a horrible death, of course.”

“Is there any other types of death to die, Duck?”

I hoist up my Corona for a toast. “To Orville Wright. ‘The Airplane stays up because it doesn’t have time to fall.’”

The beer bottles clink and Gus’ eyes light up. “Unless the Bath Salt Dwarf’s working on your plane.”

Not what I needed.

Gus studies my reaction with a grim smile. “Or is nine-eleven. Or that German flight where the co-pilot gots all depressed and rammed the airliner into a mountain. Or Malaysian Airline Flight 370, which, poof — ”

Gus chugs his beer as our favorite waiter walks by us balancing a full tray. He furtively glances our way like he’s just seen the ghost of Vic Atiyeh roaming the tarmac, then averts his eyes without breaking stride.

I sit paralyzed, my mind locked in a gedanken thought bummer about suicidal pilots and a fiery crashes at terminal velocity. That’s it. No tip.

“ — vanished like a fart into the Andaman Sea.”

With a hefty wheeze, I sag deeper into my chair. “Thanks. I was feeling so much better.”

“De nada. ’Course where you is going, there’s Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“I like the carnage. It relaxes my soul. They crashed into the Andes. The survivors resorts to cannibalism.”

I lean back, horrified. “Jesus.”

He shrugs and crosses himself. “What can you do? Is a filthy habit.”

“That’s it.” I grab all my stuff and begin awkwardly rolling my luggage to the security check-in point. “Thanks for depressing the shit out of me, Gus,” I reply, not looking back.

“Hey, Duck!” His tone cuts through my spine.

Stopping dead in my tracks, I turn around, listening to the sound of my luggage crashing to the floor.

There’s Gus staring back, completely carefree, toasting me with my own half-drunk bottle of Corona.

“I hopes you find your pieces of your mind in Peru. And maybe a nice señorita alongs the way.”

“You know my luck with that stuff.” I stiffly grab my things and turn around. I’m on my way. Nothing can stop me.

Over my shoulder Gus bellows, “Enjoy your flights and remember, Duck, ‘Take lots of notes’. We is gonna makes me the next Mario Vargas Llosa!”

“Who?”

#

LINK TO NEXT CHAPTER: LIMA

LINK TO THE PREVIOUS PART:

Comments: [email protected]

Cheers