Green Beer At The Long Bar


     Road was in a gray mood ~ as gray as a sky that doesn't know whether to rain or not.  Road was home ~ and lost.  He was always lost when he was home ~ and he hated it.

     There was something bad within himself that home reflected ~ God knows what.

     Maybe it was love ~ flustered.

     Road has a foolosophy.  He didn't believe in philosophies ~ only foolosophies ~ and he had one all his own.  His foolosophy was, if you can't beat 'em, don't join 'em either ~ but run like hell.

     That was Road's damnation.  When he couldn't beat home, wouldn't join up with its forces, he'd run like hell ~ for the Long Bar south of the border, in Tijuana, Meh-hee-ko.

     The Long Bar on Revolution Avenue in Tijauna is a long bar in a long room, tables down the middle, booths along the wall opposite the bar.  It's the longest bar in the world ~ and the best, as far as Road was concerned.

     There's a lot of earth poetry in the Long Bar.  It bubbles in the green tinted beer and the Mexican waiter's frown.  It's in the rest room where the old rest room hombre will fix you up for a tip ~ with carefully horded toilet paper if you need it.  But only for a tip.  It's in the live Mexican music (with trumpets), the mesh of border town slop culture, and carved into the wood of all the booths by a thousand un-stable-ed hands ~ young hands, old hands, bald eagle just out of boot camp hands, queer hands, little girl hands, bad dude hands, AWOL hands, rambling hands, stuck hands, dropped out hands, student hands, Latin hands, whore hands, too many virgin hands, and many drunk hands, carving with a coin's edge, pocket knife, ball point pen, or finger nail, the message ~ "I've been here, Momma.  I've been here, Momma Earth.  My tongue's getting dirty, but your blood tastes so good.  Your Mexican beer blood!"

     "And everybody is a Mexican," said one of the 6 little women drinking beer with Road.  "Everybody in the whole world!"

     "Right on!" answered a handsome young Mexican hombre in the next booth.  He toasted the pretty blond senorita from the United States.

     She was fourteen.

     Road was no longer in a gray mood.  His mood was now black ~ with glory and a grin.  Yes, black ~ with a full moon ~ a full moon with a full night ~ a night full of stars ~

     And 6 young ladies he'd brought down to Tijuana ~ for the first time, it seemed, in their lives ~ loose!

     "Freedom is dangerous," said Maggie, fourteen years old, gulping her beer.

     "Life is dangerous too," said Judy (or was her name Jill?), who was, with a slurp, also 14 years old.

     "I wanna live," proclaimed matter of factly the daintiest yet oldest of them all, Emile, 18 years old, who didn't drink, she said once, and now was drunk.

     "We wanna live," corrected sweet Sue, thirteen, and on her way to the bottom of another glass of frothy beer.

     "We're Mexicans," laughed Mary, the pretty blond who'd spoken earlier of Mexicans.  She felt a refreshing numb ting in her flushed, long yellow hair mopped cheeks.

     "Right on, senorita!" exclaimed the same Mexican in the next booth.  He was liking her more and more.  Her and his eyes ricocheted twinkling stars that needed no words ~ just bad jokes.

     "I'm too old to be down here," laughed Morena, also fourteen, cheeks also numb, and a real bad joke just about to dance on her tongue.  "I've got beer on my thumb," she laughed.

     These 6 girls, with their blooming bodies of bouncy bosom truth, could've passed for 25 years old ~ if need be.

     In the Long Bar ~ there was no need.  Road got up and bought two more pitchers of beer.  15 minutes later they were empty and he bought two more.

     One by one the girls teeter tottered out of the booth to visit the ladies room at the other end of the bar.  And teeter tottered back into the booth ~ flushed, whimsical ~ as the peoples of thee booths n' tables n' longest bar in the world chortled their admiration.  Everybody knew what was happening.

     The miracle of little girl growth was being anointed ~ and celebrating the womanhood that could not be denied ~ in their eyes and desires ~ lusting thighs and yearning minds ~ for God n' life n' love ~

     And fucking.

     They were ready to start fucking with it all ~ 'til they were part of it all ~ or die trying.

     Road sat back in the chair facing this booth, its beer splotched beer dripping table, its 6 patriot heroines of the Long Bar pitcher of soapy suds with a green tint.  This was the greatest.  When he'd picked up 14 year old Mary hitch-hiking on El Gringo Boulevard, and her thigh bumped his when the truck bumped a bump ~ He knew in his gray mood that he'd do anything ~ especially go to County Jail ~ for jail bait!

     They both knew in the moment of that thigh touching, eye opening bump, the time had come.

     And piss on Tulip!

     Road gently jumped on the blond pretty and too young but so what Mary.  Her creamy warm shoulders smothered him into her own entity ~ and she gently jumped back ~ in the rear of Road's truck ~ parked on the side of the street.

     For virgin stomping celebration, the two of them rounded up as many of Mary's girl friends as they could find.  They crossed the border where young 'uns can drink legally ~ and that evening Road anointed the whole group with beer and cheers ~ to life in the Long Bar.

     Run run, Road, run run!

     He stretched his arms.  Thru his reddened but bright eyes, Road squinted up at the ceiling, thoughtfully studied it.

     "You know something," he said ~ and 6 pert charming heads turned his way and listened.  "All those old times I spent drinking down here, I thought Long Bar beer was tinted green because it was the cheapest dirtiest of beers.  But that isn't why it's green."  He raised his glass and swallowed a good amount.  "It's the reflection from the ceiling!"

     Maggie, Judy (or Jill?), Emile, Morena, sweet Sue, and Mary tilted their heads heaven bound ~ and sure enough, the ceiling was green.



Mary Slow Dances With Her New Hombre


     As sweet 13 year old Sue complained about being driven to drink n' dope by her parents and having to take her emotions underground because of their "ass hole fascist rules," Road thought he heard some one mention the word "cannon" (or "canon") in the next booth ~ the booth full of young Mexican hombres.  His eyes narrowed in their direction, and he saw one vaguely familiar appearing hombre glance back at him, then turn to his compadres and indicate "boom!" with his hands ~ and say "el grande estallido!" as he did it.  Where had Road seen him before?  Road shook his head, perplexed, drank, switched his attention back to his own booth, where Maggie was explaining to Sue how Sue could educate her parents by running away from home ~ live in the canyon behind her house for a couple days.

     "I'd get put on restriction," said Sue, slurring.

     "That would give you time to read, catch up on your own education," said Road, completely digging on being the pied piper of Tijuana for 6 young ladies.  Momentarily he wondered if they might all be virgins.  He doubted it.  He knew Mary wasn't ~ not since that afternoon in the back of his truck.  So at least one of them wasn't ~ and it didn't matter anyway.  Road didn't even know why he was thinking about that.

     "Being put on restriction would also give you time to digest and fatten up your religious experience of living out doors for a few days," said Road to Sue.  "And believe me, it is a religious experience."

     Little Sue thought on it with the twinkle of an angel and a belch.

     Blond pretty Mary ~ broken in and boozing up ~ was sure eye-balling that Mexican next door!

     So was Road.  The hombre had just shouted, "el grande estallido!" and made the booming motion with his hands again.  His compadres laughed.

     Road's red eyes narrowed ~ and he gulped his beer, wished he knew the Mexican language.

     "What are you thinking so hard on?" asked Maggie of Road.  Her eyes glistened ~ depthless ~ innocent ~ but not that innocent.

     Road blinked.  "Huh?"

     "Huh?" cutely mimicked Maggie, and laughed like only a 14 year old girl could laugh.

     Road laughed too.  "Wanna go dancing now?" he asked nobody in particular ~ and 6 girl-women answered positively and in chorus.

     They left.

     The Mexicans in the adjoining booth followed.

     In the night club they entered, a few store fronts down the street from the Long Bar, the band was not yet playing, but there was jukebox type music anyway.  The dance floor was bare, surrounded by empty tables but for a few occupied ones.

     Road and the girls sat together at one of the empty tables ~ and life was cozy as a bomb shelter in the third world war.

     Only instead of bombs, there was jukebox music.

     The young ladies couldn't stand it.  The old Saloon Girl instinct was heaving strong in their bosoms.  They peered at each other, blushed without really being embarressed, shrugged their shoulders, slurped their beer, and one by one left for the dance floor.

     They stomped it to pieces.  Each little woman had her own way of wiggling ~ and now is a choice opportunity to label them all in general with the word: beautiful.

     This went on for about 40 minutes while Road sat content, occasionally visiting the bar for a new round of beers.

     The night club began to fill up with thirsty young men ~ who sat at various tables ~ content as Road ~ watching with intent involvement the 6 beautiful girls stomp around in front of their noses.

     Finally, when the 2nd or 3rd slow song happened along, and the girls sat down, or meandered around with nothing to do, one fellow decided to ask Mary to dance.

     He was the Mexican hombre whom both Mary and Road were interested in ~ but for different reasons.

     He was a handsome fellow with his jet black hair just a bit too long ~ and pretty blond Mary bounced snugly into his arms.

     The dress Mary was wearing was down to the floor and fine ~ sleeveless ~ and with a generous V neckline.  Life glistened like a polished diamond in Mary this evening.

     Her creamy shoulders pressed tight against the hombre's cheek, as her slender arms wrapped themselves lovingly around him.  One of her hands found the back of his neck under a head of jet black hair ~ and wouldn't leave it alone.

     Road squinted.  He recognized that lucky hombre from somewhere.  But Road couldn't really tell.  You've seen one wetback, you've seen 'em all.  But below the border they weren't wetbacks.


     Didn't Road once give him and his friend a place to sleep above the border ~ on a cold night in the hills?

     The slow throbbing music glued the young brown man and Mary together like, say, a toasted cheese sandwich.  His hands pressed gently into the back of her waist ~ 'til she was more between him than in front of him, she twisting and grinding her hip as much as possible into the center of his existence.

     Others were dancing now.  The Mexican hombre had broken the ice for the other fellows sitting around.  But none of them could get as close as the Mexican hombre and Mary.  Road bit off the end of a thin Tijuana cheroot, lit it, settled back in his chair with a puff.  He was almost jealous (the most foolish of emotions).

     The hombre slid his lips onto Mary's bare shoulder.  Her blond head, blue eyes closed, hot mouth fallen open, buried itself into his brown neck.  The young hombre's fingers wandered down the slope of Mary's slender slowly twisting behind.  Her shoulder pressed harder against his mouth.  Round pale boobs squeezed a little out the sides of her dress.  One of the hombre's hands snuck up to softly caress these fleshy toboggan slopes of Mary's body ~ but he didn't over do it.  Mary slanted inward kind of like a bent bow, as if she wanted him to over do it.  She continued the slow twisting of her slim torso back n' forth 'til she had her hip once again crammed into the hombre's middle ~ and against a very stiff Latin cock.  Mary simply stood in that position now ~ and pressed mean and strong and warm.  The hombre's hand slipped around her other hip and rested low upon her tummy.

     "I'd go to County Jail for you, jail bait!" gritted Road in a whisper, sittin' alone, wondering why it wasn't himself dancing with Mary.

     How'd he let this happen anyway?

     His cigar was already smoked thru.  He had to light another one ~ and the song wasn't even over yet!

     That damn Tulip, getting married tomorrow.  He couldn't get her off his mind ~

     As Mary and the hombre kissed long and passionately on the dance floor.

     The hombre's hand was just about caressing her crotch!

     "Shit," groaned Road ~ swallowed half a bottle of beer ~ puffed on his cigar.

     The song ended.  Mary and the hombre disappeared into a shadowy side booth.  The other girls gathered around the table with Road.

     Road got up, approached a shadowy side booth ~ where a brown hand was sneeking under a fine dress and gently pinching a ripe sweet nipple.

     "Don't I know you?" asked Road, tapping the hombre's shoulder.

     "Si!  About time you recognize!"





     Reader, dear soul of 'de universe, do you tire of thee word, "road"?  The road here, the road there, the road around the world and the dead end road?  Road, road, road, and more roads?

     Road rode road.  That's all there is to it.  What else can I say, if this wretched dude called Road ~ rode road all the time?

     Road rode road.

     Yes, he rode road, road, road.  And more roads (many while confined inside a prison cell of bread and water soul).  He rode so many roads he called himself Road.

     "Just call me Road," said Road as he rode road ~ in his purple truck faded chipped paint almost gray, no doors on the gaping sides of the cab, rolling deep into the Mexican night ~ and riding with him were 5 Mexican hombres.



On Your Own


     Sweat wet blond hair hung in Mary's eyes, down Mary's cheeks, over Mary's shoulders.  She kicked back, alone, in the shadowy booth of the night club a few store fronts down Revolution Avenue from the Long Bar in Tijuana.  Tears slowly formed in her eyes and fell ~ mingled with the salty moisture on her cheeks, dripped down her neck and between her firm pale boobs, trickled down under her dress, formed a small pool in her navel.  She breathed heavy, sighed heavy.  More tears joined more tears, and the little river of tear continued on ~ snuck under her panties, found a home in the soft tangle of blond bush between her slightly spread legs.  She smiled.

     Maggie came over, sat next to her, tapped her on the elbow, and said, "Road left."

     "I know," said Mary.  "He left with those Mexicans.  Something about a cannon."

     "Shit," said Maggie, retreating from the booth to answer the call of some fellow who wanted to dance.  "We gotta get home on our own now, Mary!"

     But Mary didn't hear.  She was drunk.  Glass clinking sights and musical booming echos whirled dizzily in her head.  And she fainted.





     Ramon, thee notorious town drunk, sat upon the sidewalk with his back propped up against a wire fence, and an empty Tequila bottle in his hand.

     Flies, of course, were buzzing, have always buzzed, will always buzz ~ no matter what we do.

     Ramon swatted uselessly at them as they buzzed around his unkept mud caked head, until he had no strength left and could swat no more.

     It was in the autumn of '73, in a small town called Tecate, in Mexico, near a border patrol station, about 30 miles from San Diego.

     The time was 8 o'clock in the morning, or about that time, let's say Saturday ~ and it was this Saturday morning that Tulip was getting married.

     Ramon moaned.  A Mexican curse dangled from his lower lip and fell on his shirt.  And he blinked with disbelief as a faded purple ex-milk truck with a Howitzer M1857 (Napoleon) cannon chained to its rear bumper, swiftly rolled with a growl and a clank clank, by his red veiny nose.

     Throughout his career as thee notorious town drunk of Tecate, Ramon had sat and watched many things cross the border ~ parades, armies, the most weird of vehicles, the weirdest being in 1956 when a giant, brightly painted, hot-dog weiner on wheels crossed the border, with a handsome man's head sticking out the top, on the man's head a big white cook's hat.  The man had smiled and waved to Ramon.  In '56 this made Ramon feel good and alive, even important ~ to have a character such as this wave to him!  He'd tried to wave back, but he was too drunk to lift his hand ~ and had simply blinked.

     Now, in '73, a faded purple, so faded almost grey (with chipped paint), ex-milk truck (and without doors on the entrances to either side of the cab), pulling an old cannon behind it, rolled by.  The driver, with long dark hair in a tangle under a gray dirty cap on his head and wearing black jeans and a gray long sleeved and soiled work shirt with half its tail out, noticed Ramon, smiled and waved to him.  This was as good as being waved to by the weiner cook back in '56 ~ but like then, Ramon was once again too drunk to wave back.  And only blinked.

     Yet there was a difference this time.  A few years after the weiner cook had passed, Ramon had wandered into a few Budhist meetings.  After the purple truck with a cannon vision passed, and Ramon blinked, he muttered into his tequila bleached whiskers (in this year of '73) the universal song of 'de universe according to the Budhist faith, which is, "Nam Myoho Renge Kyo."

     He had just enough strength to do this ~ which gave him more strength to repeat the chant again and again 'til he was standing up and screaming it.

     Meanwhile ~

     At the Mexican border patrol station a few yards away, two guards examined the cannon curiously, and the bill of sales Road showed them.  They waved him to pass ~ and he did ~ after paying them a little money.

     However, at the United States border patrol station, a few more yards away, it was not so easy.

     "Are you a United States citizen?" asked the husky easy going United States border patrol man.

     "Yes," said Road.

     "Bringing back any fruit, vegetables, or liquor?"


     "What do you carry in the back of this truck?"

     "My study."

     "Your what?" asked the border guard.

     "Books," said Road.



     "What kind of books?"

     "Ohhhh ~ the kind you read."

     "Can I see?"

     "Sure," said Road.  He stood up, turned around, unlocked and slid open the doors into the rear.

     The guard peered in, saw the books, nodded his respectful bafflement, then peered out ~ at the cannon.

     "Where did you get the cannon?" he asked.

     Road handed him the bill of sales.

     The husky guard frowned over the note for a moment.  "What are you going to do with it?"

     "Give it to a museum," said Road.

     "Does it, uh, work?" asked the guard.

     "I hope not," Road chuckled.

     The guard kept the bill of sales and said gruffly.  "Park over to the side there.  We have to check out your truck and, uh, cannon."

     Road frowned, put the truck in gear, did as he was ordered.

     This husky guard and a woman guard went thru all of Road's beat up books, soiled bedding, thready clothes, and sparse kitchen ware ~ but without finding the dope that wasn't there, or the cannon balls, gun powder, Colt 45, or stolen money that was there.

     "This is a very interesting truck," said the woman guard as she browsed thru the silly stories that Road had written that he kept in some folders.

     "That's because I'm a very interesting guy," said Road.

     She nodded some sort of acknowledgment with a little smile.  Her hair was hidden in a tight bun under her cop cap.  She was older than Road.

     The husky guard examined the cannon from barrel to grease bucket.  Road yawned, pulled a cigar out of the glove compartment, bit off the end and spit it out, lit the cigar, and puffed.  The entire examination of the truck and cannon lasted what seemed like an hour ~ maybe an hour and a half.

     The husky guard, flustered, clomped into the station, came back out a few minutes later accompanied by the gray haired chief.

     The husky guard, the woman guard, and the gray haired chief all stood on the outside pavement beside Road, who sat in the driver's seat of the truck.  He puffed on his cigar.  It was a good cigar ~ bought the night before in Tijuana.  Dry ~ and a taste all its own.

     The three guards talked amongst themselves, then turned and silently looked at Road.

     Road was yawning, watching the trickle of traffic slowly roll by.  He blew a cloud of smoke at a fly on the windshield.  He was very tired and hungover after the celebration in Tijuana the night before.  Plus he'd been driving the rest of the night into Mexico, and all the dawning morning out of it.  "Shit," he sighed heavily, turned his head and saw the 3 guards standing next to him, studying him silently.  "Oops!  Excuse me.  I didn't realize..." said Road.

     The woman guard seemed very friendly with her little smile.

     The other guard, cigarette in mouth, and the chief, cigarette in mouth also, glared back at Road as if he was a mortal sin.

     A long heavy moment passed.

     Flies buzzed.

     The woman guard lit up a cigarette too.

     "I don't know what to tell you," said Road, throwing his hands up in the air.  The cigar butt wiggled dry and suddenly tasteless in the corner of his mouth.

     The old chief jammed the cannon's bill of sale into Road's hand, and growled, "How about, 'good bye'?"

     Road glanced for a moment at the lady in uniform, wanted to smile but didn't.  "Good bye,"  he said into the chief's steady eye, and drove away, anxiously thinking about Tulip's wedding.


(Copyright 1974, 2010)