Ah, the Jesus Years. What it all means. When I was writing this, in its original form, the explanation of said Jesus Years in the plural sense happened upon me within the 33rd page. Funny. A perhaps Made Up. A sign from above.
No. But what does sustain me is the magic hand, not religion.
And not God, nor Jesus. Just writing, and the weird coincidences.
On another note, I had an English teacher in school once explain the significance of names in books. As an example, we were studying some novel I have long since forgotten, but there was an English character named Bentik; Mr. Vukovic asked us to consider why. At the end of our collective pregneant pause, he stated one of the more enduring images of Britain is Big Ben; and what does a clock do - it ticks. I've never forgotten that, or the fact that this particular teacher was neurotic and, in retrospect, looked a lot like George Costanza - and that we mocked him mercilessly.
Anyways, on with the show this is it.
No. But what does sustain me is the magic hand, not religion.
And not God, nor Jesus. Just writing, and the weird coincidences.
On another note, I had an English teacher in school once explain the significance of names in books. As an example, we were studying some novel I have long since forgotten, but there was an English character named Bentik; Mr. Vukovic asked us to consider why. At the end of our collective pregneant pause, he stated one of the more enduring images of Britain is Big Ben; and what does a clock do - it ticks. I've never forgotten that, or the fact that this particular teacher was neurotic and, in retrospect, looked a lot like George Costanza - and that we mocked him mercilessly.
Anyways, on with the show this is it.
Chapter 12: Torrent. The Jesus Years.
That Friday night of Spanish Before. A rather large male dressed in open-toe sandals and off-white toga; certain sash at the waist to match cloth headband dyed with my memory. His skeleton be wood, skin of that papier-mâché. Smaller, life-sized ninots arranged at his feet: characters that are ladies of an overflowing bust, old men of leer over girl shoulder.
Duardo and Frances’ Torrent neighbourhood of a club commissioning this creation for display - the smaller, G-rated falla infintil not more than thirty feet away.
All this down and around the corner from the casalet that showered us with liquor and peanuts. A bottle of Veterano brandy and a Marie Brizzard liqueur set upon every table. Tiny bottles of beer on demand. Coca Cola, even bottled water.
The group that was their gang, and Chusko the cheekiest.
Tall Andamio, black-rimmed glasses and attached friend to this alpha male. An arm around each other's shoulder, both highly uncomfortable with a silence of any sort.
Them two were kids and grown-up construction workers in their mid-twenties but the language placed them out of my reach, somewhat older than me. Our circle giggled with an inner response beyond the Spanish that I barely knew; and I swear that I tried - as I sat right beside X, across from Frances and Duardo. There were more, others to pick at the expendable paper sheets covering wooden tables joined at ends: I lend their changed names, those wives and girlfriends and further friends; the elders that talked with the similarly old at various of table, those teens that done sat with teens and did what they do when made to hang with adults at community centres - they invented and enjoyed.
In walked the local queen, and we could finally only then eat our brought in meals of a stuffed bread wrapped in foil, our various bocadillo. When came this tiny fallera major, everyone smiled and whispered towards the front table framed by tinged photos of the past girls of satin and sash, a timeline back to the 60’s. The start of this club’s commemoration.
Jacinto: brother beneath Duardo; even fewer of hair follicle, big boy and proud. Visions of Brooklyn. His wife a babe, a freckled air of Spanish actress - with a smattering of Parisian French. Poised ass in tight denim, of course. She was a godsend and bonded with X immediately - the bilingualism of our Canada. And X way more fluent than me, beautifully local in the traditional black blouson and checkered pañuelo of Las Fallas: a short graduation-type blouse tied in a knot at the waist; the handkerchief worn reverse bandit, or over the hair if female. Duardo and Frances had purchased an outfit for both of us, and these would be our wear for the entire festival. I felt better with it on, not at all the tacky tourist - my undershirt bearing a photocopy of certain winning lottery ticket:
The falla had won the Lotería Nacional, millions that a hundred or more shared in.
‘¡¡Che!!’ read the above of front of T-shirt, a Valenciano expression of Wow; ‘¡Plaka Plaka!’ on its back, a Smack Smack for the male caricature to stop cheering and screaming from news of Their win. This maybe explained the Veterano and Marie Brizzard on the tables, the plethora of petardos and the promise of huge fireworks on the night of the Big Burn.
A blessing all around.
Duardo had returned from Canada without the envisioned bounty; he had learned computers - and yet. He was reunited with family, with Spanish culture - and Frances still unsure and partly Canadian. I was happy for them and a love that could swim the entire Atlantic and back; wished them many much dancing - the Spanish flamenco that I awaited, or maybe salsa or light fandango, maybe an arm in arm people in a circle of traditional song. Back in Ottawa, they had taken X and me to a salsa club. Of fun, and a very hot; we’d swapped couples and was very hard to keep up with Frances but at least sensual and not sleazy pick up opportunities.
I considered that exact night as we cleared the tables, threw paper and foil from bocadillos into trash can and went outside for smokers and time of kids whipping around firecrackers at ten- or eleven-in-the-PM; dancing would begin later.
Fortuna: Spanish brand of cigarette. One of many things that clings to my Now from that Before. The du Mauriers of X be gone - she then entirely of a Spanish puff.
A bar two doors over, bits and pieces of the neighbourhood crowd - a brief hola to a many and much noise. Asking, then mentally writing down the next new word bandied about - bajo: a below or lower or, in this case, once down the back alley from bar and casalet, the bottom level of a home and its garage where we pit stopped and drank rum with lemon-flavoured Schweppes, added ice into plastic glasses baring everyone’s name courtesy black of marker. Smoked weed and exchanged more faces to remember and try not forget. Fun. Great.
But Henry did not quite translate; Chusko, big cheeky Chusko grabbed the black marker and screamed Eduardo’s impression of my given Henry onto side of my reserved plastic cup - On-ray, spelled with Spanish ear. I smiled behind the divide of a language; his dyed-blonde girlfriend jiggled and I assume that she was amused by the usual of her big guy, that this was a friendly boy in a rather large body. When the ice melted we were off, taking tour back through that narrow bar henceforth remembered as Ciudad - returning to courtyard, to front of casalet and kids and sound of drop-and-run petardos. They trust the children in this day or night of festival. Wonderful. Truly.
And we went inside for the dancing to music. But then I waited - found Abba, but then re-mixes, but every one of these young Spanish people knew every single word to ‘Summer Things’ from movie Grease - in perfect English. And so the wall I leaned against. The ron con limóns for they were easy to order, and myself soon outside, using gesture to share a brief suck of comfort on a ciggie, wiping sweat from sideburns and following the dance of everyone through an open window. Slowly inuring myself to the surprise Pop of petardos at my feet - to wince was to invite laughter from children. Salsa, and I returned inside: I could handle this, could almost dance. And was grabbed and taken upon said dance floor for next inevitable line dance, made to watch feet and raised hands and follow known moves and turn and eventually strut with absolutely no sexuality; X and Frances entwined and learned from one another. Swayed and smiled. But this line dancing - and Duardo calling me an Emergency of Steps; but the salsa I knew some little of, enjoyed faking with my hip and lazy crotch.
Fortunas: bajo in nicotine but strong enough for me the non-cigarette smoker. 3- or 4-in-the-AM. A break back at the bajo, rum and the vastly different emotions displaying themselves as same when language was confused. Me with my back to the corner, managing to speak and or communicate the once awhile; I tagged up with X occasionally and relied on Frances, Duardo mostly. I’m leaving bits out about their friends, their group, their flow, X speaking semi-Parisian to Jacinto’s wife, Sophia. Me actually smiling with my eyes. And I absolutely promise to eventually fill in the necessary of the back alley strolls between the casalet and the bajo of their friend.
But yes, at some time only just before the sun shining the Mediterranean, we finished with the casalet and headed the not so many streets back towards the marvellous terrace of Francesca y Eduardo. I was tired but half-buzzed on mostly Fortunas and running up the sides of palm trees; I was acting and afraid of being caught, my mind definitely not considering that Jesus probably never ever had a girlfriend, had two sisters and four brothers that we hear very little about. I was shouting of X’s love for me from halfway up a scaly palm and asking if anyone believed me at that near crack of beautiful dawn; I was acting and afraid of being caught. My eyes ran up the length of her denim clad legs, paused at cleft of butt and remembered that she doesn’t believe in underwear, avoids all visible panty lines - and I for some reason kept this juicy note of entice to myself that night in that palm tree. Cigarettes seemed to have that effect, a sensitivity that I would sometimes pine to harness towards a girl enjoying herself and fulfilling the whole point of travel. She perhaps trying to forget - with me still in her presence.
A smile on her face that had nothing to do with Henry.
Them girls walked ahead without us boys, laughing and quite entirely sure that I would have to descend eventually. I hugged a trunk not of a true wood but an overgrown herb; waved and stared around the neighbourhood. An arch of lighting spanned the street and joined lamppost to lamppost, spelled FALLAS in a bright red of many bulb. I fell the ten, twelve feet to ground and was sober enough to land on my toes, able to fast walk comfortably. “You dumb, Onray.” To this I huffed and hugged my big friend Duardo as we came up behind our two lady friends.
“Do you think she was lonely before me? She must have been, no?” This is what I said in six-hours-ahead Spain, 5-or-so-in-the-morn. Terribly tired talk.
“She smart girl all of the time. With man, without.” Chest hair poked out top of white T-shirt beneath his black blouson. I already knew that Duardo was not fanatically philosophic - mostly Spanish and aware. A man.
“That seems to be the story, amigo.” Just a thought amongst friends in a very nice scratch of Spain absolutely devoid of tourists - nowhere near a desert or famine or landmark or I Was Here souvenir vendor. “But, Duardo, I cannot thank you enough for this getup - sorry, the blouson.” I grabbed and sniffed the ciggie smoke I had inflicted upon it, “And, yes - this wonderful pañuelo for my neck, my friend.” That there smile upon his face in the then and there not entirely because of my gratitude. Just because. “I’m a little kooky, am I not? Sorry. Sorry for stepping outside the casalet so much; I was going to know more Spanish before coming but I grew lazy, my friend. Am I that bad of a dancer? Yeah …don’t answer that - I’m different and old.”
“You not old, Onray. Me - I am old.” Duardo peered up at the last of a Spanish night and moved his lips, counted off his life. “Trente-quatro …thirty-four I am.”
“Fuck that, I’m thirty-three, man.”
“Ah - the Jesus Years. That why you wacky, Onray. These the, eh, different time.” It was mere blocks from home as this misuse of a plural trickled into my ears, stayed; I ran up another palm tree and extended my body way out, held on by my four fingertips of an excuse. I had been given a defence.
“Jesus made me do it,” I may have screamed, maybe yelled. Stuff made sense for a very brief.
“It not that easy, Onray. Onray!” He said my name kind of loud, courtesy the time the alcohol the frustration. But he did laugh, and wave his hand at the turn of our girls. “Everything gonna be Ok,” he told them, and they resumed a walk away.
A front door with a security camera. A very small elevator: 2 wide, 2 deep. The open and close of their apartment door and the brief exchange of salutations, dos besos. The shuffle to separate room and maybe separate of bed. Weary and yet able to maintain performance of appearance love, nonetheless - the both of us: X and Me.
A good night. And there had been these plans made to arise for the desparta wake-up call, very macho dares; it to begin at 8-in-the-next-morn - that morn. I had been pinned with a fake sheriff’s badge and made an honorary fallero at some point in the night - a male member of the club - and all that I had to do was show up and throw some petardos around the neighbourhood: even if one drank, one Must get up for.
Buenas noches. We undressed in the dark and fell independently to our respective beds; I was way too tired to eavesdrop on Duardo and Francesca only one door over. The maybe sounds of love or making.
“Good night,” she said as always, and I believe that I replied. Looked out the patio doors and smiled with a cheesy knowledge; the Jesus Years and that ex-girlfriend to my right.