Monday, February 13, 2006

He was Carrying a Guitar Case

I have heard of it before: from my sisters, from my mom, from my girlfriends.

We were at Acoxpa and División del Norte; I was sitting facing the left side of the bus, with the backdoor on my left, a fourteen-year-old kid at my right and a man with a guitar case standing in front of me. An adolescent girl (a pretty one, you don’t get to see a cute one very often on this route) was also standing in front of me, but turned around, butt-to-butt with Guitar Case. They were both standing.

I was half-sleeping when it woke me up: a hard breathing coming from somewhere near me, it sounded like a series of contained coughs, like a badly restrained yawn, and it was getting louder.

I turned to my right to find out if the kid was making this noise, all I could see on his face was some kind of nervousness, which at that time I interpreted like shamefulness. The first thing I thought is that he had farted repeatedly and he was embarrassed for it, but then he looked at me and I saw something quite different from embarrassment: his face was a mixture of defeat and fear. Then, I noticed that he was looking at his lap and glancing constantly at some point in front of me.

I followed his view to that particular point of the universe.

The man with the guitar case was standing, as I said, in front of me with his right hand holding on to the tubes of the bus to keep his balance, his left hand (at least, some of it) was resting at the top of his guitar case, being a cloth case, he had to hold it with his thumb and his index, while with the other three fingers he was rubbing the girl’s ass.

The noise was coming from him.

He was making some sort of sigh that was a bad-disguised moan of pleasure, making it louder when some lucky finger reached the girl’s asshole, or when the bus stopped suddenly and he actually got a chance to grab a whole buttock of the girl.

Bus stop: left buttock.

Bump: right buttock.

Bus stop: middle finger deeper in her asshole.

The girl started to shake, the man with the guitar case started to sweat.

Watching those fingers was like looking at a dead seaweed massaging obscenely a sandy beach.
I was astounded, looking simultaneously at the man, the girl, the fingers, the kid to my right.
The I-am-so-turned-on noise grew louder.

Why the fuck doesn’t she do something? Kick him in the balls, you stupid girl!

I watch at the other passengers. A nun, a nurse, two students older than me, and three plumbers or electricians. All looking purposely away, the kid to my right joined them.
I keep watching: sweat, hard breathing, shakes, ass, asshole, fingers, case.

“Stop it now, motherfucker.” It came out of my soul.

Sweat and noises and harder shakes (weeping?).

I stood up. The perv was a feet shorter than me. The noise had stopped. All I could hear was my heart beating faster than ever. Rage? Pre-fight adrenaline?

“STOP IT NOW!” This time I yelled, making the passengers to stare at both of us. He was still ignoring me and trying to fingering the girl.

“Wha- What?, Are you talking to me?” Fingers stopped.

“You heard me, you piece of shit. Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“I saw you. You fucking touch her again and you will leave this bus limping”

She started to cry. One of the students stood up and gave her his seat. I was expecting that he came to my side to face the perv, but he walked as far as he could, looking scared and confused.
The man with the guitar case blushed and mumbled a set of short phrases: “It was the movement of the bus”, “You idiot”, then to girl “I’m sorry”.

He looked at me hatefully and pushed the stop button moving very carefully in order to stay away from me. The big faggot.

He got off the bus at Miramontes, just beside the Muertortas.

The bus: silent. Only the crying of a young too-pretty-for-this-city girl.
I sat down slowly with my jaw feeling like steel, my fists still firmly closed. I looked around.

Nobody gave a fuck.

The nun and the nurse where sleeping (or pretending to be), the plumbers-electricians where looking by the window, and the two students where sharing a UNAM Gaceta.

The girl still crying with her head between her hands.

I finally got off the bus at Tenorios, feeling the eyes of all the passengers of the Route 1 bus on me; I looked back at the girl. Her head hung.

Smoking a cigarette on my way home, I wondered how many other asses the guy and his case will share tomorrow.

Tomorrow, another common day in this pigsty we call home.

Tomorrow, another day to carry a guitar case.

7 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

hola, solo queria decir unas cosas respecto a tu post de Placebo en 100 bars, el problema es que no tengo cuenta de blogger asi que no pude dejar mi post, espero que no te moleste :

no soy nadie conocido , llegue a este blog via Monorama, al cual llegue via Reek of Putrefaction, porque es el blog de mi profe de foto y es amiguisimo de Bef . Solo quiero decir que soy fan instantaneo de las breves historias que se publican aqui, soy melomano de hueso colorado y las rolas que aqui se describen son de una u otra forma parte de mi acervo musico-mental. hasta ahora no me habia animado a escribir respecto a algun post en especial , sin embargo este me pegò, y duro.
A mis escasos 19 años, recién puedo decir que encontre a mi primer amor, y al leer lo que se dice sobre esta super canción de placebo a dueto con el Maesse Bowie experimento esa extraña sensaciòn que permite una cnexion directa entre el texto y el lector. Es como si me estuvieran hablando directamente, como si solo hubiera estado esperando el momento en que yo lo leyera para que nunca se me olvide y para que me haga pensar en miles de cosas, mi imaginación se disparó y ahora me ecuentro escribiendo esto. Ha sido una semana rara, aun no ando con esta chica, pero ya hay algo chido , a veces la palabra novia (o) es una simple formalidad, sin embargo mi futuro inmediato pinta bien y solo estoy esperando que me diga que si. Y de repente leo esto.... supongo que es lo que algunas personas llaman en Timing perfcto del universo.

Saludos y que 100 bars dure mucho tiempo mas.

si me la quieres mentar o algo asi :
tsandoval@montaignac.edu.mx

Friday, February 17, 2006 7:53:00 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

si, comprendo tu frustracion. Me recuerda a una canción ( un poema?) de Gerardo Enciso que decia : Amo a mi ciudad pero mi ciudad no me ama. Pero sabes, a pesar de todo es bueno saber que no te quedaste viendo o fingiendo no ver lo que pasaba e hiciste algo. Me hace pensar en muchas cosas tu post.

Saludos

miguel Sandoval

Sunday, February 19, 2006 8:42:00 PM  
Blogger Ernesto Sandoval said...

yo sólo me pregunto: por qué borraste el post de la inscripción?? fue excelente.

Monday, February 20, 2006 12:02:00 AM  
Blogger Silent said...

Lo borró mi recontrapuerco blog, yo no lo hice. A mi también me chocó eso.

Monday, February 20, 2006 7:56:00 PM  
Blogger Silent said...

Al anónimo diecinueañero:
Hüey, si crees que lo vale: aguanta vara. Aunque sufras, llores, y sientas que no hay salida... aguanta vara. Al final SÍ vale la pena.

Al Miguel Sandoval: Gracias... pero emmm... ¿Nos conocemos?

Monday, February 20, 2006 8:03:00 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

el anonimo diecinuañero y miguel sandoval somos la misma persona. No tengo el gusto de conocerle pero me gustan mucho los posts. como ya lo explique, llegue aqui de pura casualidad via Monorama de Bef

Monday, February 20, 2006 11:30:00 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

.... y si , ella vale tooodo el posible sufrimiento

saludos

miguel sandoval

Monday, February 20, 2006 11:33:00 PM  

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