XI. WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

X: The Silky Prophesies

THUS SPAKE THE SILLY PROPHET: “Dude, I heard from the Archangel Margaret that one of those Three Smart Gay Friends is gay.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  I mean, I know he’s carrying around all that glitter for a good reason, but the clues are all there.  What?  Yeah, Archangel Margaret is fine, we had coffee and talked about cars and stuff.”

 

THIS OTHER TIME, THUS SPAKE THE SILLY PROPHET: “Ew, did she just give birth on the dancefloor?”

 

THIS OTHER TIME, THUS SPAKE THE SILLY PROPHET: “The Holy Virgin appeared in a burning twig and informed me, in a voice that resembled five-hundred hands clapping and three voices whispering secrets, that Mimi Makedullance would fart in the elevator in eight years, at the eleventh second of the fourth minute of the ninth hour of the second day of the third week of the fourth month in the Gregorian calendar.  Just remember: ‘whoever smelt it, dealt it!’ right, dudes?”

 

THIS OTHER TIME, THUS SPAKE THE SILLY PROPHET: “A double-headed snow-white mare appeared bearing pomegranates that were actually large raspberries and told me that the nations of western Europe would sign a treaty that allowed for free passage between the countries’ borders.  I don’t know about that one, but those large raspberries were yummy.”

 

THIS OTHER TIME, THUS SPAKE THE SILLY PROPHET: “Dude, guess what.  My frat brother, Mark, got possessed by the Wholly Spearedtit last night and spoke to me in eighty-thousand tongues, including a language of color.  Oh yeah, and he told me that scientists would invent a naturally-derived sugar substitute that had the taste of real sugar, but not the camels.  I don’t know about that, though—my French isn’t that good.”

 

THIS OTHER TIME, THUS SPAKE THE SILLY PROPHET: “Yo!  Come over here, I’ve got to tell you what happened last night.  After I got home from Gülüstü’s, I was still kind of wasted from the party.  Dude, it was so nasty, I threw up right into my laundry.  Then, when I looked up, the puppies in the basket with bows on my calendar spoke to me in a language of odors and guttural intonations and told me that the Millennium would come upon us in exactly five years!  How messed up is that?  What?  Yeah, I guess I could have read that, but why would they print a prophecy on a calendar?

 

THIS OTHER TIME, THUS SPAKE THE SILLY PROPHET: “Hey guys! Remember that hot Brooklyn actress from that hilarious movie with Joe Pesci with the courtroom and stuff? And that dude from The Karate Kid? Well, I had a dream that Freddie, the guy from the deli around the corner, was jerking off in the back room to a naked screenshot of her looking way older from some scene in a movie. I guess it was her comeback, or whatever.  Then, all of a sudden – and this is the crazy part of the dream – Mickey Rourke burst into the room and body-slammed us both into the ground. My shoulder even hurt a little bit this morning.”

 

THIS OTHER TIME, THUS SPAKE THE SILLY PROPHET: “Oh my God, Mark!  First, stop bogarting that joint.  Second, come watch this.  If you’re hungry or whatever, you need to do this.  Put your pointer fingers—no, that’s your ring finger, retard—together, like, pointing at the ends.  It’s a hot dog!  Oh wait, you have to put it right in front of your face, dude.  Yeah, it’s a hot dog!  I don’t know, some golden-haired sphinx with the face of a woman and the tail of an asp, who kept disappearing and reappearing between alternate dimensions, and who smelled like a thousand-million bundles of fragrant sparrows, showed me that trick.  Dude, I think she gypped me, I’m still hungry.  Do you still have that Ramen your mom left for you?”

 

THIS OTHER TIME, THUS SPAKE THE SILLY PROPHET: “Shut up, Gülüstü, don’t even bother me right now.  I’m so tired and hung-over it’s not even funny.  I was trying to sleep last night, when a glass of water by my bed transformed into a being with twenty-nine-thousand heads and a crown spun from threads of music.  He spoke to me, really slowly, about something that was going to happen in 2001, like about some airplanes and New York.  I was just like, whatever, I’m sleepy, peace out, bro, and took a sip.”

 

THIS OTHER TIME, THUS SPAKE THE SILLY PROPHET: “Hey, Gülüstü!  I was taking a shit, when all of a sudden time itself stopped, and the air around me condensed into the form of a child older than the entire universe, who only communicated through blood-tears of virgin lambs.  She said, ‘Ooh, Gübama is so hot, burning hot, especially in that sexy tuxedo he’ll be wearing at his steak dinner!’  Didn’t you date him or something?”

 

THIS OTHER TIME, THUS SPAKE THE SILLY PROPHET: “Hey, Gülüstü!  Sorry about that ex of yours.  He didn’t even get to have steak before they burned him to death, that totally sucks.  I thought that was what was supposed to happen!  Oh well, anyway, I was waiting for the Metro, when all of a sudden the girl next to me turned her face to me, and I realized that her eyes were actually never-ending spirals made of Higgs-Boson particles.  Then, all of the bones in her body flew out of her mouth and reassembled themselves in the form of a heavenly winged bone-orb of perfect light.  Yeah, I guess you could call it a “borb.”  Anyway, the “borb” told me, “Ooh, you’re dating Gülüstü!”  So I was like, “Duh, bone-orb.”  Then it said, “Gülüstü is really pretty, but not stunning.  But she’s totally red hot, especially when she’s eating skirt steak.”  Then it said, “Steak, steak, steak.  Red hot.  And skirt steak.”  Then the train came and we both got on and pretended like we didn’t know each other.  So—blowjob?

 

THIS OTHER TIME, THUS SPAKE THE SILLY PROPHET: “Man, Mark, I’m so bummed.  I totally didn’t think they were going to burn Gülüstü at the stake.  I mean, I wasn’t obsessed with her or anything, but she was really pretty—not stunning, but really pretty, you know?  Anyway, I was playing beer pong downstairs, when all of a sudden I hallcinated that everyone in the room turned into little mounds of snow.  Upon each mound of snow, there appeared seven seven-armed mandrake roots.  Each one carried a pigeon beak the size of a thimble, but with the glory of a trillion dulcet notes.  When played together at the same time, the pigeon beaks declared, ‘Zaireekah!  The end is near!  First, ye shall behold the sky turn purple—not a nice shade of purple, but an ugly one the color of bruises and grave mistakes.  Second, the sound of a billion-trillion serpents hissing will ring through the lands!  They will not be loud enough to keep you from having conversations, but will prevent anyone from sleeping, as they are arrhythmic hisses.  Third, a highly controversial president of a powerful western European nation will be accused of using government funds to procure underage prostitutes.  Fourth, sixteen swarms of sixteen boll weevils upon sixteen beaver-mounts will ravage the lakes, rivers and other tributaries of the nations of the world.  They will accomplish this through deceit, as well as the development of opposable thumbs—both the boll weevils as well as the beavers.  Fifth, the people of the world will cease to recognize the color pink.  Instead, they will see a brownish-green tone.  “Oh well,” shall declare the people of the world.  Sixth, day will turn into night.  Then, night will turn into day.  This will consequently cause the collapse of most governments.  Seventh, The Four Mean Pedophiles will, riding bareback, give everyone Indian rubs until their arm-skin falls off, thus causing Judgment Day to come and everyone will either go to heaven or to hell, or maybe somewhere in between.  You!  Witness to the Fate of the World!  You alone have the power and foresight to hearken the forces of—’ Then I stopped listening because I realized I accidentally spit beer all over that new Lacoste shirt I bought.  Anyway, want to go check out that new strip club?

IX: The Story of Gülüstü

I: The Birth of Gülüstü

 

Since before the time of recorded modern history, around 1970, it had been fated in the stars that a really pretty—but not stunning—woman would be born to, and only to, a dark-haired raven of a female and a light-haired ibis of a male.  It such happened such that such a lady and such a gentleman were dating and accidentally “came to know each other” one night.  As the ibis-male had terror of commitment, he implored that his raven-female mate consult the famous village witchdoctor to “see the movie ‘Bye, Bye, Baby.’”  The raven-female assented—“Ok”—then “slyly winked at the audience,” meaning she had secretly read some star maps and scrolls and, through this, discovered the mystical prophecy of “The Coming of the Pretty.”  She aksed of this witchdoctor: “Hey!  I’m that raven-female.  You’ve read ‘The Coming of the Pretty,’ reet?”

The witchdoctor, reeling in terror-delight, exclaimed, “Nope, what’s that?”

“You know, that thing about the pretty one being born.  To me.”

The witchdoctor, reeling in horror-recognition, “Oh yeah!  I read that last year.  Cool.”  The witchdoctor unsheathed a saber, put it away, then replied to herself, “She should rub some African root on her tum-tum, then not do anything else, then it’ll be born.” 

“Were you talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, ok,” responded with delight-fun the raven-female, “Thanks!”  And thusly gave the old hag twenty euros[1] for her troubles.  The raven-female left in terror-ecstasy, and the witchdoctor continued to unsheathe, resheathe, usheathe, and unsheathe continuously. 

 

The ibis-male was filled with rage-contempt upon hearing that his mate “Papa Don’t Preach”ed him. 

“Ew, I can believe you did that,” he shouted several times, to curse her, then stated, “I’m going to leave now.” 

Then left he. 

 

After forty days and forty nights, she still did not give birth, as human gestation periods last for longer than that.  After nine months, The Three Smart Gay Friends arrived in town, bearing gifts of glitter, Sephora makeup kits, and hats.  In sheer delight, the raven-female accepted these gifts and went to a nightclub with them.  The Three Smart Gay Friends burst into song, chanting endlessly “Holiday.  Celebrate.  It would be so nice. Holiday.  Celebrate.  It would be so nice. Holiday.  Celebrate.  It would be so nice. Holiday.  Celebrate.  It would be so nice. Holiday.  Celebrate.  It would be so nice. Holiday.  Celebrate.  It would be so nice. Holiday.  Celebrate.  It would be so nice.”

Moved by such an outpouring of fun, she gave birth on the dancefloor, which was indeed prophesied in the section of “The Coming of the Pretty” entitled “Giving Birth on a Pink Square That Flashes.”  Fifty-three angels sang rather loudly as this happened, and then they shut up.  An old woman, stationed on an adjacent dance square, which was of a green-color color, commended her on her genius-use of some African root to usher in the era of “The Really Pretty One.”  The raven-female thanked everyone profusely and danced a celebratory dance to some damned-ancient songsong. 

 

AND SHE WAS INDEED REALLY PRETTY!  BUT NOT STUNNING!

 

It was at this time that the raven-female realized that her prophesied child was a full-grown woman. 

 

“Hey you!  Thanks for being born.  Can I name you Claire?”

 

The Really Pretty One exclaimed in a voice that was very loud, “Nope.  My name’s Gülüstü.” 

 

“Ok.”

 

II: The Deeds of Gülüstü

 

One time, when she was about seven, Gülüstü the Pretty pooped for the first time.  Her followers were surprised, as Pretty People do not poop.  This proved that Gülüstü was actually the mortal incarnation of something deity-ish. 

 

This other time, on the day of her fifteenth birthday, Gülüstü declared skorts “fucking ugly.”  After this decree, skorts were banned throughout the kingdom. 

 

Then, this other time, she instigated the feminist movement.  This occurred when she was in stewardess school, when she declared, “Hey guys.  I mean, let’s think about that word for a second.  It’s, like, derived from the word “steward,” which, I read, is a male-centric word.  Isn’t that kind of messed up?  That’s, like, really sexist or something, reet?  Can we call ourselves ‘flight attendants’ instead?” 

 

THUS SPAKE GÜLÜSTÜ!

 

“Ok.” 

 

III: The Dating of Gülüstü and Gübama, Emperor of Joy

 

Mimi Makedullance, a mutual friend of Gülüstü and Gübama, declared, “Hey guys.  You two would be really great together.  You’re really pretty—but not stunning—and he’s the Emperor of Joy, but not the Emperor of Eternal Happiness.” 

 

“Ok,” they both said.  Thus began the relationship of relationships. 

 

But it was really rocky because that’s what happens with power couples.  Upon the death of Gübama, Gülüstü had recently broken up with him and had, several times, hooked up with The Silly Prophet, some drunk guy she met at a hockey game.  It was at this time that Gülüstü developed a really serious drinking problem, after getting to be really good friends with Prissy, Nats fan.  Her sorority sisters were quite concerned, but it’s hard confronting people about that kind of thing.  Then Gülüstü was burned at the stake and everyone was really sad for a while.  Then they got over it and forgot about her. 

 

---

[1] It is hypothesized that this passage of “The Book of Gübama” was not written by God, but rather by a disciple of Gübama or Gülüstü or The Silly Prophet, as the euro did not come into existence until 1975.

VIII: The Story of Gübama

The time of terrible brightness had blighted the retinas of world-weary travelers for thousands and thousands of days.  Fair stewardesses – for that is the ancient name of flight attendants before Gülüstü the Pretty changed this through her instigation of the neofeminist movement – strove to defend the safety of eyes through the dainty and sexualized distribution of transparent eye patches, eye drops, temporary surgical implants, and so on.  For though these passengers had traveled to far-away lands, and/or principalities, the distance between the Wicked God Helios and their eye sockets was paved with evil, evil, far-reaching sunlight. The pain was unlike any travelobstacle they had encountered in their more antiquated excursions. Neither stewardess nor pilot nor pharmaceutical company had succeeded in combating this ancient curse on mankind.

 

Beginning in the late 1960s, and for tens of years after that, various warlords had fought to discover the secret of beauty.  Additionally, airline companies had struggled endlessly to solve the insurmountable problem of sunlight streaming in through the windows of their airplanes.  The struggle continued without reprieve, costing millions in money, limbs, and lives. Let us recount for a moment the tragic tale of Frank A. Moses of Mobile, Alabama, who lost eight toes, nine fingers, one nose, sixteen eyelashes, and the will to live through the violent and failed “Experiment 225-PS921: Flame-Covers.”  Such needless suffering seemed an unending blight.

 

And so this continued, until the Coming of Gübama, affectionately known as Güügs, Güü-Güü, Güüber McGüüberston, Güüfy O’Güüferville, Emperor of Joy, and His Highest Holiest One, who was hired by Virgin Airlines, previously known as Whore of Babylon Airlines, in the final decade of the Age of Excessive Brightness. 

 

“Hey guys! I’m Gübama. Thanks for hiring me. What do I do now?”

 

“Well, Young Gübama, we have a serious problem, as you and all your brethren know.”

 

“What’s that again?”

 

“The problem of sunlight streaming in through our windows, bothering the ocular flint-knappings of our passengers.”

 

“What are those?”

 

With a patriarchal scoff, the elders replied, “Oh, I suppose you young folk say ’squinted eyes.’”

 

“Oh, that’s right.  I heard about that problem. Why don’t you try window shades?”

 

“What?”

 

“Window shades.”

 

The elders leaned in, fascinated by such sorcerer-speak.  “Tell us more.”

 

“They are covers, frequently made of plastic, or sometimes metal or wood in rarer circumstances, that are placed over the surface of a window.  They are generally adjustable with little strings or handy handles, or some other simple mechanism. My mom has them in her house.” 

 

THUS SPAKE GÜBAMA.  ALL HAIL GÜBAMA!

 

“Valiant attempt, Young Gübama, but do you not realize that house windows are of a larger size than airplane windows?  And of a different shape as well?”  The Airline Pharisees were dubious of Gübama’s divine revelation. 

 

“Well, you could make them smaller, right?  And a different shape?  Couldn’t you find a factory for that or something?”  An inches-thick silence descended upon the board meeting.  One could liken it to the foot-thick silence that descended on Golgotha some time ago. 

 

“BURN HIM!” cried the Airline Pharisees.  And so they did—Gübama the Great perished at the stake in the year of 1997. 

 

Adherents mourned their loss through the opening and closing, opening and closing, opening and closing of their house window shades, fervently hoping that one day Gübama’s holy schematics would come to fruition in order to permit them such actions on an airplane.  Through great fortune, his legacy was to live on many months later, in the year of 1998, when Virgin Airlines was bought out by Vestal Virgins, Inc., and renamed Vestal Virgin Airlines.  One fateful evening, Mary Margaret McMagdalene, a Vestal Virgin night-time janitor, discovered a charred Post-It with a crudely and hurriedly drawn diagram of window shades, though smaller and better fitted for the windows of airplanes, as they had once been envisioned in the gold-dappled eyes of Gübama.  She presented it to the Mystical Council of Directors, who regaled her with some cake that was left over from the office party, in gratitude for her wondrous uncovering of the sacred “Scroll of Gübama.” 

 

“Neat!  We should use this idea,” declared the Virgins.  And so they did. 

 

At the grand unveiling of the airplane-house-window-shade, one forward-thinking Virgin asked “What shall we call them? ‘Airplane-house-window-shade’ seems a bit wordy, don’t you think?”

 

Present at the convention was Gübama’s former lover, Gülüstü the Pretty, who had been drinking champagne alone by the refreshment counter.  Upon hearing this pivotal inquiry, which she had been anticipating since the passing of the Great Güü-Güü, she threw down her pink plastic cup and cried out, “Hear thee, hear thee!  For this is the work of the Lord through the creamy, blesséd hands of Gübama, my ex-boyfriend, and—“

 

“Oh, let’s call them gübamas, then,” stated the Virgins.  “Burn her!” they shouted immediately afterwards.  So they did, for her inner ugliness was so pronounced, no amount of gübama-coverage could mask her soul’s hideous visage.  Also, nobody likes an uppity lush. 

 

…

On this day, July 4^th, proud and grateful Americans celebrate some damned thing, but – most importantly – even prouder Americans celebrate the genesis of Gübama’s genius-gift.  Hear thee!  Let us raise our gübamas, then close them, then open them, then close them, then open them, then close them, so that we may honor the Great Güüg’s great martyrdom, as well as mankind’s conquest and harnessing of the Sun, when mankind is traveling transatlantic flights.  Amen.

VII. Han Göebelbürg, Neo-Nazi at Chueca Rainbow Bar

Bleurrgh…eckhahag..fuckin’ funk I’m drunk. Wooozeeessh. Fuuuuck, my thoughts are woozed. Can’t get straight. Buuuutt…I…don’t care. Ahhh, and who the funk are these kids. Been dancing off of those chairs for couple minutes now. And funkin’ gin tonics in their hands, fuckin’ figures. Damn neon clothes. Sheeee…And lace and necklaces…and fucking earrings on both of them I think. Like fuckin’ fourteen-year-old kids. Who let the fuckin’ kids in here. Uururrup. Weird fuckin’ kids.

But they might even be a bit good looking. I don’t care about the boy though. I’m not fuckin’ gay. Not funkin’ gay at all. Not like all the other funkin…Blurph…ehhh…ehh..but the girl though, I don’t know. If she wasn’t a..wasn’t looking like she was a nine years old. I’d go to rape for that. Pfg. Go to jail for that. Rape.

And now they’re in the middle of the funkin’ floor. Dancing…real fucking wild and weird. Whjaoa. It’s not even a club, you fucking kids. Shit, and it’s Michael Jackson, that American asshole. Wacko asshole. They’re screaming to it…real fucking wild and weird. Beezzurrnt..pfffgh. Fuck, I gotta say something. Fucking stand up.

“Michael Jackson was a fucking pedophile. Stop fucking dancing!” I snarrlscream out. And they just look at me, wide fucking eyes.

“Hola! We know! We don’t care! His songs are our favorite!”

And they keep fucking dancing. Those assholes, I can’t believe it. They keep fucking dancing. I want to do something. I fucking need to do something. I want to throw a cup or a bottle or any fucking thing, but the bartender won’t give me another. Cut me off, the cunt. Pfffigh. And he fucking knows me too, been coming here for months. I gotta do something.

“And he was a fucking Jew too! Everyone knows he was a pedophile. No one knows he was a funking Jew!” This time I stand up. My arms up, big as I can get. Wooozeeerizjep…Fluu..ahhck. I gotta fucking sit down. I sit down, my elbow thud on the bar now with my head resting on my hand and eyes fucking narrowed right at them and my knees swung wide apart over the funking bar stool. Come here, you fucking kids. Come here, I fucking dare you.

And now that makes them look at each other with those same fucking wide eyes and they sit the fuck down and then have the fucking nerve to turn to me and try to fucking talk to me about what I said.

And the girl, then she babbles, all fucking broken and soft, about “mentiras” and her fucking idol. I don’t give a fuck. Pffh. And the boy, he starts to talk too, but louder and clearer such, about the same shit. I still don’t give a fuck, but they are pissing me off less. Pfffeeugh. It’s because I got them to stop the funking weird dancing.

I don’t know why but now I’m holding out my fucking hand. My funking hand out. And I say my name. Bluurphgzzt. And then those fucking freaks…bllhh...they start going on in French or damned Catalan. Fucking bastards, I’m from fucking Germany. In a fucking Spanish bar.

I’m too pissed to keep talking. They’re trying to tell me they’re married, fucking Andorran or shit. “What the fuckare you doinghere then?” I yell over the goddamned pop. They fucking shrug. I don’t give a fuck. I’m done. Pfhguyg. I’m funking done with the kids.

I turn away. Drop my fucking head onto the bar. It’s fucking heavy, a mess right now. I know he’ll kick me out in a few minutes. Don’t fucking care. I hear the kids getting up to leave, trying to tell me bye. Don’t fucking care.

And the boy, when he leans forward to pay the fucking gin tonic tab, he’s definitely got a fucking earring on. It’s got one of those damned cartoon characters on it. That fucking Japanese cat, I think.

Don’t fucking care right now. I’ll sort them out another night. Qhuurneeekzzpt…bzzzt…eowoozt…spltt…

VI. Pink Freak (Ladee Lebon-Hsu, HRMM of the Royal House of Andorra)

Hola, amigos (y amigas)! Que tal? It’s Pink Freak, here! Sorry that I’ve been such a dum-dum about writin’ in and keepin’ you all updated on our every breath and wink, but with all of the siesta-takin’, olive-oil-eatin’, and trash-divin’ goin’ on here in Madrid, there’s hardly enough free time for a chica to get anythin’ done at all!

Needless to say, we’ve done some absolutely FABULOUS shoppin’! Take a look at these tights that my darlin’ Blue Monster helped me pick out.  And, no, they’re not jeans, they’re just made to look like them! How “tight” is that??? LOL.

The only problem is, I can’t decide which top to pair them with first! That over-sized Yogi-Bear shirt is an obvious first choice, but I just bought this super-rad, hot-pink T with a picture of a dinosaur screaming “aaarrgghh!” as he puts on a pair of 3D sunglasses. It’s a bit more form-fittin’, so it would allow me to show off more of the incredible detail work goin’ on at the top of the tights (are those pink buttons cyyuuute, or what?). What do you guys think? PLEASE let me know ASAP in the comments below!

But of course, sooo much more important than the pretty things I’ve been buyin’ are the pretty people I’ve been meetin’! Blue Monster, bein’ the complete sweetie that he is, has SO many friends from when he studied here two years ago. They are all super-nice and muy maja. Whether or not we’re hangin’ out en casa or a la marcha, we’ve been havin’ a big ol’ Spanish blast. I’ll wait ‘n let one of them fill you in on the details, since I usually have ningun idea what we’re talkin’ about or, even what we’re dancin’ to! LOLZ.

Oh my god, but I HAVE to tell you guys about these great new friends I met the other night. For the first time since I’ve been back in the States, I was able to do most of the talkin’! And they all seemed to understand my Spanish perfectly! This is Alicia:

Do you love her dress or what? The only problem with hangin’ out with her is that I have to tone down some of my pink so we don’t clash. Que lastima!

And here are some pics from this totally hip club Blue Monster and I discovered – right in the middle of the Reina Sofia museum! We must have showed up at a good time, because the place was packed!

At a certain point, the party even spilled outside!

Some people were so drunk, they even lost their shoes!

The wild afternoon of partyin’ ended with a gentle slow-dance in the more secluded ballet room (LADEEZ ONLY!).

Well, amigos y amigas, I think that about fills you in on our most recent Madrid-ventures! I hope you’ve all been havin’ as much fun as we have! Dos besos!

Hasta luego!

V. Peggy de la Plancha, Pedestrian Madrileňa on the streets of Sol

My woozy stomach was already cursing the foolhardy decision to opt for canas over claras and fried croquetas instead of the lighter salmorejo dip that [Cafe in Sol] has become so famous for. Mmm, well, some things are worth it, I tried to reason with my gut as I bumbled, more nauseous than drunk, down a familiar street that I had crossed through so many times I didn’t even bother to remember its name anymore. Calle de Correo, perhaps? Yeah, that sounded about right.

Just as I was halfway down the block, absently reminding myself not to miss the left turn ahead onto Calle de Montera, which would take me more-or-less right to my girlfriend’s new apartment up in Chueca, I noticed two young kids playing around near one of those new phone booths. Now, when I say “kid,” I don’t mean a child or anything, since these two were obviously at least teenagers. I’d hope so – it was probably close to four in the morning at that point, since I know I left [Cafe in Sol] at about a quarter ’till and made it up to Lucia’s about an hour and a half before our daybreak fuck.

Anyway, I knew before I even got within hearing distance that those two were well trashed. They were frolicking on some scaffolding like complete buffoons, sipping their daftly concealed beers from plastic bags.

That kind of thing really never bothers me, especially in tourists – which these kids certainly seemed to be, with strange pink and blue fanny-pack caps strapped on their heads and matching shirts so bright and unfashionable they must have come from Amsterdam or something – so I didn’t make any effort to walk on the other side of the street or avoid eye contact as I passed by them. I was only caught slightly off-guard when the girl jumped out in front of me, grinning widely with a small camera in her hand, and asked – in giddy, slurred, broken Spanish – if I could take a picture for them.

“Sure,” I responded, returning her buzzed smile. I’m a pretty sociable person and don’t mind helping people out if it’s easy for me, so I wasn’t going to sweat the hold-up a quick photo might cost.

“Thanks! We want to take it over here!” She started doing this weird half-prance, half-run thing toward the side of the phone booth facing the curb and stopped – with an emphatic and embellished clap of her hands – in front of an overflowing trashcan. There were tons of cardboard boxes, broken furniture legs, moldy food wrappers, smashed drink containers, and probably a few used condoms and diapers – you know the scene – strewn all about the concrete she was standing on. It was making my stomach twist and rumble even more just to be standing there.

“Uh, you sure you want it here, by the trash?” I asked, thinking to myself there must be some kool thing in the background view that I just couldn’t see or get.

“Yep!” Pink Freak and the the boy – who had, in the brief couple of seconds that I was distracted fiddling with the camera’s buttons, managed to to lift the front of his shirt up, over his head, and behind his neck, so that his bony torso (except for the shoulder-blades, which were still covered by sleeves) was exposed – answered in eager unison. They seemed to think everything was fine with the situation, so I just laughed and decided I would go ahead and do them the small favor of cutting out as much of the gross litter and filth as I could. I made sure that the picture captured them from the waist up only.

Considering their wacky and cracked-out appearance, it didn’t turn out half bad. I passed the camera back into Blue Monster’s anxiously outstretched hand, feeling pretty proud of myself.

“Thank you so much!” he called out with an excess of glee, hurriedly pressing the buttons to scroll through the recently taken photos. I shrugged, waved, and backed away to continue on toward Calle de Montera. Before I turned around, though, I saw Pink Freak cock her head over Blue Monster’s shoulder and let out a high-pitched sigh of what sounded like extreme disappointment. I wonder if the picture didn’t save for some reason, I thought to myself, debating whether or not to go back and offer to take another one. But I was too titillated by the thought of being in Lucia’s clean and comfy apartment to want to spend any more time on the street, especially hanging out with those dirty young kooks.

“OH GOD! Oh no, oh no, oh no!” Blue Monster’s perturbed shout resonated much more than Pink’s frail wail had. Looking back, he even seemed to be slamming his head furiously against the side of the glass booth. I figured it was as good a time as any to hurry on out of there. Harmless and amusing as the two of them seemed, by now I already had a good enough story to tell Lucia about the walk over without waiting around any longer or taking any chances. Blue Monster’s voice continued to carry through the street, though his voice had shifted into something completely uncharacterizable – a swollen tone of exaggerated earnest that was both desperate and infuriated at once. I swear I even heard Pink Freak start to break down into a squeaky, shrill series of wordless cries.

“It’s okay though, we can fix this, I think. Somehow!” Thankfully Blue Monster’s anguish and panic seemed to be replaced by a sudden sense of hope, “We’re just gonna have to sacrifice something. It won’t be perfect, but we’ll manage! Here, here, you go first.” At this point I was nearing my turn at the far end of the sidewalk and had no hope of seeing or hearing Pink Freak’s response.

….

I wonder what their problem was and if they ever managed to solve it. I also wonder what on earth it was they needed a photo of so badly. I’m sure I saw several flashes going off from back behind me as I walked down Montera, so I can only assume the camera started working well enough for them to capture whatever little piece of Madrid it was that they wanted to remember forever.

IV: Hector Velázquez y Simpson—Compañero de piso (roommate), Part 1

Estefania had called me a few hours earlier, telling me that the two American subletters had arrived. “Hombre, they seem pretty nice, but…I don’t know, there’s something a little strange about them. Well, maybe that’s unfair, since we really didn’t talk that much. Maybe it had something to do with what they were wearing. Anyway, you’ll meet them soon enough.” Apparently they had lost their luggage, so I’m sure Estefania was exaggerating their appearance. They were probably just a little disheveled, maybe a little off from the plan ride. Estefania is always so dramatic. She’s cute, though.

By the time Rafa and I finished the game and had dinner, it was around midnight. My mom told me that Americans go to sleep really early, so I assumed I probably wouldn’t see them until the next day. Julia was having a party at her house, so I figured I’d just tiptoe in, change, and head out. I was kind of interested in meeting them, but if they were staying for a month, we’d run into each other eventually.

I’d always been interested in getting to know some real Americans. I mean, movies are probably the lamest way to go about making assumptions about people—if that were the case, then all Spaniards eat ham and look like Penelope Cruz, which is unfortunately not the case. I mean, Julia is totally great, but she definitely doesn’t look like Penelope Cruz. Even what my mom told me about growing up in Connecticut is kind of a hard thing to go by, since she lived in a tiny town outside of the state capital. These two were from New York City, and that’s totally supposed to be all crazy and cosmopolitan, right?

Anyway, as soon as I walked into the apartment, the girl in pink totally freaked out. When I say pink, I mean she was decked out head-to-toe in pink—really loose cotton sweatpants with a weird miniskirt folded on top, and an enormous Yogi Bear t-shirt that hung off of her like a scarecrow’s jacket. She seemed to have been decorating her room with all kinds of pink cloths—a handkerchief and a shawl tied awkwardly around the loft ladder, and this dingle-dangle belly dancer’s cloth draped on the side of the bed frame.

When she saw me coming in, she immediately dropped the gigantic pink housedress she was hanging up and gasped. I smiled and looked to where I heard a voice screaming in Spanish. Blue Monster was sitting in my armchair, yelling into a cell phone at whom I assumed to be the airline that lost their luggage.

“No, you listen to me. I obviously understand that there is a lot of luggage that needs to be delivered all over Madrid, ok? But first of all, that wouldn’t even be a problem if you all did your job; second of all, that’s definitely not my problem, since I’m not the one who lost two pieces of luggage. If you tell me my luggage, that’s been lost for two days, is coming to my apartment during a certain time, I’m supposed to stay here so I can receive it, right? How long do you really expect me to wait around like a fool until you decide to get your act together and do your job? Tomorrow? Sunday? What if it doesn’t come until Monday, am I supposed to take a day off of work to just sit around the house waiting for you to fix a problem that you caused? Are you joking?” Blue Monster looked up at me for a second and muttered, “Hola,” before turning his attention back to screaming into the phone: “Oh, really? Well, give me the number of your supervisor right now, because this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I have never been treated with such disrespect. How can you treat paying customers with such disrespect?” He grabbed a pen from the table, ripped a piece of cardboard from an empty box, and began writing furiously. “Of course I’m writing everything down, why would I ask you…”

I walked into my room and shut the door. There’d be time to get to know them later, or to at least introduce myself. But they seemed a little preoccupied. I had wanted to shower, but I just wanted to get out of the apartment as soon as possible, so I just threw on some clean clothes and got ready to run the hell out of there. I opened my door just as Blue Monster was hollering out something, probably the luggage code: “M! A! D! I! B! Siete! Tres! Tres! Nueve! Nueve!” I walked past Pink Freak just as Blue Monster added: “Ostia!” Looking at Pink Freak timidly moving around her little room, hanging those weird decorations, I couldn’t help but feel a little bad, so I invited her and Blue Monster to Julia’s party. Holding either a pink fanny pack or hat, she looked at my with wide eyes and said slowly, “Oh, ok, thank you very much. But, um, I don’t know…”

For a second, I thought she didn’t speak English, but I think she was just really, really out of it.

“Vale, well, have a good night,” I responded. I opened the door and left. I wanted to call Estefania and yell at her for picking huge weirdos for me to live with, but I figured the damage was done. I walked down the stairs thinking about how late I’d have to stay out to avoid talking to my two new roommates for a month.

III: Alicia Margarita Llorens y Torres—Iberia Airlines Customer Service Representative

Oh dear, I thought to myself as the third angry traveler left the desk, this is going to be a long day. American Airlines had booked seventeen passengers on a New York—Brussels—Madrid flight, and everyone had missed their connection in Brussels. As often as this happens, its always so unpleasant having to calm everyone down and somehow convince them that everything is fine. A lot of times, customers get way too personal in some desperate bid to make me sympathetic enough to just magically conjure up their luggage. Believe me, if I could do that, I would in a second just to spare everyone the pissy quasi-polite whining in broken Spanish. One of those days.

That new woman, Pilar, really struck out with the bitchy customers today; just her luck, I suppose, since the woman was as daft as an acorn. Unfortunately for her, it sounded like these two were as prickly as cactuses. Feeling poetic today, Alicia? I decided to pretend to run some data and listen in on what was going on. Pilar just wasn’t ready to be manning the service desk, and she’d probably freak out and make me take care of everything anyway.

This couple seemed a bit strange from the start—even though I could only see them from the neck up, they were wearing the oddest hats I had seen in a while. They were made of cheap nylon, and the brim sagged like a flimsy cloth; zippers ran above their foreheads and seemed to contain bulges in what looked like pockets. He wore blue, and she wore pink. Those hats alone screamed tourist, but I was surprised when the boy spoke—he had a relative eloquence to his questions and comments. Pilar seemed confused; I was about to step in, but the couple seemed to buy her explanation and left for carrousel eleven. A weepy French woman stepped up to my window, and I quickly forgot about them.

Just as the French woman began crying again, I noticed something odd over at carrousel eleven: the couple from earlier was taking turns posing and taking pictures of themselves. Even from fifty meters away, I couldn’t help but notice their bizarre outfits. The boy in blue was wearing a ridiculously tight blue t-shirt and garish multi-colored sneakers; the girl’s outfit, however, was the icing on the cake—a loose-fitting hot pink jumpsuit, purple plastic Mardi-Gras beads, and sneakers identical to those of her companion, except they were trimmed in bright pink. Their hats now seemed infinitely stranger in combination with their color-coordinated costumes. From the way they were alternately prancing around and standing stoically at the baggage carrousel, they seemed both humorously aware and completely oblivious to their appearance.

I’ve been working the customer service desk for a few years now, but I can’t say I’ve witnessed a sight quite like that in a while. The boy in blue seemed especially erratic, as he seemed to be both laughing and cursing at their situation. When they began to approach the desk again, I heard him screaming expletives in English, hard and blunt like an American. As Pink Freak and Blue Monster came up to my window, I braced myself for an incomprehensible line of questioning.

“Hello, we’d like to make a reclamation for our suitcases,” stated Blue Monster in a surprisingly calm tone and nearly perfect castellano. His associate Pink Freak stood silently next to him, fingering her purple beads like a rosary. They gentle-tapped their fingers on the counter as I mechanically explained the process of reclamation, all the while trying to figure out what on earth had brought them here, how old they were and, most importantly, if they should have been traveling alone. I brought out the luggage identification chart, and Blue Monster described his suitcase: “dark green, hard-backed, with wheels and a retractable handle.” Looking to Pink Freak for the description of her luggage, she simply stared at the sheet, almost seeming terrified of my question. Slowly, she pointed at a few pictures, wordless all the while: “blue, soft, bag.” After a brief exchange of contact information, they left without making the outrageous, crazed statements I had been anticipating since I saw them playing around the baggage carrousel. As they walked away, I heard Blue Monster scream out, “Fuck, are you fucking kidding me. This is bullshit, fucking bullshit. Fuck.” Shouting out his string of profanities as if nobody but he and Pink Freak understood English. American conceit, all too commonplace. Oddly enough, this was the most typical aspect of my interactions with that strange, strange couple. I wonder if they’ll make it through the next month.

II: Frederika N. Brüges, Brussels Airport Security Guard

Even as she stood close to a quarter mile away on the stale gray carpet, sequestered between lumps of travel-weary luggage and disheveled Europeans, I noticed Pink Freak. Like any sane and alert security worker, I immediately concerned myself over her impending approach. Alarms of some sort were bound to be set off by the glittery sheen of her necklaces alone. Not to mention whatever might be stored in the strange neon-pink-head-pouch-adornment that rested lopsided over her frayed and tangled hair. For better or for worse, the stress and constant motion of my job makes it impossible to stay focused on one thing for too long, so the potential safety threat posed by Pink Freak remained at the back of my mind until I saw a hideous, vomit-inducing backpack come out the end of the X-ray scan machine. It was a scaly army green color (akin to an infant’s shit-stained diaper) with garish pink blossoms silk-screened over every possible square inch. It even seemed to have a stench…stale barrel or sweaty funeral parlor or frisky cowboy…even now I can’t be sure how to describe it best. Although I encounter so many hundreds upon hundreds of bags of luggage each day that I’ve become numb to anything short of a diamond-encrusted Louis Vuitton, this particular piece alerted all six of my senses. It could only have come from one source. I drew a sharp breath and turned my now-panicked gaze back over my left shoulder toward the metal detectors, where the next group of travelers were removing their shoes and belts and preparing themselves for the tense passage through the detector’s electronic arch. This was the first time I noticed Blue Monster.

“Oh my fucking fucking fucking God! I still can’t fucking get over this. I can’t believe we have to go through fucking security again. And fucking customs too. And then we’ll have to do it all again in Munich! This is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.”

The angry young man seemed incapable of ceasing his string of impassioned epithets. I wasn’t alarmed so much by his anger and volume – in my line of work, it is incalculably rare to encounter anyone in a happy, satisfied, or calm mood; I’m just happy to be a part of the system that moves people forward rather than those inept dullards who work in scheduling or reservations and do nothing but shift people sideways or backwards – as by the fact that he was bending down to untie a pair of bright, obscenely colored shoes that didn’t belong on the feet of anyone over the age of eight. Not to mention that the blinding cyan cap he was wearing, which matched the Pink Freak’s, zipper pouch and all, wouldn’t be acceptable even on a four year old. Are these two really taking themselves, or this situation, seriously? The irony here, I can only wonder if they… And then, as if some greater force were suddenly at work tying my own consciousness to theirs, I noticed Pink Freak and Blue Monster turn toward each other, point at the two bins overflowing with pink and blue accessories, and erupt into unrestrained giggles at a pitch that approached that of my grandmother’s tea kettle whistling off at 3PM during every afternoon of my childhood summers spent in England.

But, just as I began to think that maybe these two had some slightly less tenuous grasp on the situation and their place in it, my hopes were dashed as deeply as the Marianas Trench’s most obscure niche. Blue Monster had resumed his embittered tirade, which, though addressed to forces that operated beneath and above the people, processes, and equipment present, could for the time being have no outlet other than the heavily bejeweled ears of Pink Freak. She seemed incapable of forming any sort of response beyond spaced-out silence or aimless giggles.

Drugs, I thought to myself, with a combination of sadness and dread, it could only be drugs. And I bet I know just where they are too. In that strange cap-pouch on Pink Freak’s head. The poor thing hadn’t even managed to remove half of her metallic jewelry and accessories. Even from a distance of fifteen or twenty feet, I could spot several gold-and-pink bangles draped randomly over her neck and ears, as well as what appeared to be a wedding ring on her left hand (When I looked closely, it appeared that Blue Monster wore a matching band. I could only presume that these represented some sort of commitment the two of them shared together; I could only hope that it wasn’t something as serious or real as marriage.) and a wristwatch that was at least three times the diameter of her wrist, made of some heavy black metal. As she neared the front of the line, I thought about walking over to assist her in removing the rest of the jewelry so that she could pass smoothly through the detector, but I decided it might be beneficial to the safety of her, her fellow passengers, and the inhabitants of whatever city she was traveling to if a valid reason presented itself for subjecting Pink Freak to a full body search.

My hunch was reaffirmed as I turned back to the X-ray scanner belt to see that her nauseating bag had been flagged. Brüno, my efficient and responsible colleague, brusquely unzipped the main pouch and reached in to pull out a sopping Duty-Free plastic bag that held a container obviously well over the 1000ml limit. A light brown fluid dripped out down the sides, and the area immediately began to smell like an acrid combination of hospital hallways and abandoned barns. Whether or not the stale liquid was scotch, bourbon, or rum, I couldn’t quite be sure. But at least now I knew the source of the stench I had discerned before. I have to say I felt only relief that it was a bottle of alcohol and not anything more life-threatening.

Blue Monster had just passed through the detector while Pink Freak waited at the threshold in an immobile state of zoned-out oblivion. Blue Monster’s outcries had transitioned into a more stoic silence through which he still managed to emit vibes more sinister than NEED as Brüno tried to explain to him that the bottle was going to have to be confiscated. The contents of duty-free packages are under no circumstances ever supposed to be opened in-flight, a rule that is too frequently disobeyed to be worth enforcing with any other means than disposal of whatever contents remain. Brüno dropped the package into a trashcan with a shake of his head. Blue Monster’s only response was an even more disapproving shake of his own.

Trusting that Blue Monster could quell his rage sufficiently enough to not lash out, physically or verbally, at Brüno for at least a couple of minutes, I waved my hand at Pink Freak, beckoning her to exit whatever nervous daydream was leaving her stalled in front of the metal detector. She jerked her head slightly, and, for only the briefest of moments, a flash of unfiltered recognition of the world around her passed through her eyes. They quickly clouded over again, however, as she giggled into the air and began to step forward. Of course, I knew she was going to set the machine off well before the obnoxious beep-siren — that sound that has ingrained itself into my neuronal structures so deeply that it seems to play in the background of even my most private thoughts and dreams — went off. She didn’t have that look of nervous, confused innocence that most people who trigger the detector put on. Nor did she immediately look down to notice any forgotten metal accessories with that expression of foolish self-conscious disgust that so many people also share. Instead, Pink Freak didn’t seem to react at all. It was as if she hadn’t even heard the alarm. She was simply staring back-and-forth between Blue Monster’s infuriated eyes and Brüno’s unapologetic shrug as he stood with her open bag still held over the trashcan. Somewhere behind her vacant eyes, she was slowly putting two and two together with regards to the fate of her beloved bottle of liquor. I decided to interrupt her before she had a chance to ask Blue Monster anything that might provoke another livid outburst.

“Ma’am,” I addressed her as such even though I had a difficult time ascertaining at all what age she or her Monster friend might have been, “Will you please step aside for a few minutes? I’m going to have to perform a full body search. You set off the alarm just now.”

“What? Where? Why?” she responded in a spacey tone, with light silences lingering between each of the words.

Since I had already answered all three of those questions clearly just seconds before, I figured it was best to avoid wasting additional time or energy using words with Pink Freak. I merely grabbed her hand, picked up the portable metal scanner, and led her the squared-off privacy box where full-body pat-downs are performed. This was the first time I was able to stare closely at the outfit worn by Pink Freak. What I had previously presumed to be separate tube-top and capri-bottom pieces turned out to, in fact, be connected parts of a single large jumpsuit. It was something I had only ever hoped to see on an infant before. I was at a loss for words in front of this utter pink monstrosity, and decided to forsake my usual attempt to make light-hearted comments to ease the awkwardness of performing such an intimate and invasive procedure. I think few travelers realize the process is just as uncomfortable and stressful for us security workers as it is for them. Most people should be grateful they only have to be subjected to such experiences a few times in their lives, and not day after day, hour after hour, and – sometimes – minute after minute.

Perhaps I should have made more of an attempt to alleviate the nervousness of the situation, because Pink Freak was once of the most anxious and skittish “victims” I’d ever had. Her body shook in unconnected bursts – first her left knee would buck slightly, then her right shoulder would twist violently, then her eyes would blink separately just as her head would make a frantic 180 degree turn from one shoulder to the other.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

“Oh, I’m oka-ay,” she replied in a slurred, slow whisper.

Drugs, I thought to myself again, it has to be. I only wonder where they are. The pat-down procedure went more quickly than most do, since the outfit’s cheap cotton was thin enough to be see-through at close distances. Of course, it was also too cheap to come with pockets. This all meant that no extra probing was necessary, thank goodness. I was hardly surprised to observe that she wore a bra-and-panty set that was decorated with bright pink buttons and purple puppy dogs.

I reached into my pocket to pull out the hand-held scanner to begin the second part of the examination. The device buzzed quietly as I passed it over her legs, torso, and arms, beeped slightly as it went over her neck and face, reacting to the necklaces, bangles, and earrings that she only just then seemed to realize she was wearing, and erupted into a strident burst of electronic blares as it came into near contact with the fifteen-pound watch she was wearing. I bet this is one of those devices that comes with a secret compartment for drug-storing. There’s no other reason for such a small, feminine girl to be wearing something that belongs on the wrist of a Hell’s Angel.

“I’m going to have to take this off and take a look at it, ma’am.”

“Ohh…kay,” she responded in the same dragging whisper-tone.

I unstrapped the complicated metal buckle – thicker than what you encounter on most belts – and removed the watch for her, since Pink Freak seemed to flighty to do it on her own. I tapped, prodded, and shook the thing, desperate to uncover whatever pills, powders, or vials might explain the behavior and appearance of her and Blue Monster. But, to my surprise and slight frustration, there didn’t seem to be anything suspicious about the watch. Except, of course, for the flaming skull-demon face that was imprinted on the face. The ironic juxtaposition of this image with her frilly and rosy clothing failed to cause me the thought it normally would, since, at that point, I wanted nothing more than to pass her and the Monster on to the next poor airline workers who would have to deal with them. Whatever. What else could I have expected from her at this point? I guess she and Blue Monster have already taken whatever it is they took.

Then, suddenly, it occurred to me that there was one part of her attire than remained unsexplored. That strange cap-hat item. Bingo. I gestured to it wordlessly, and she tremblingly reached her hands up to remove it from her head.

“I’m going to have to unzip this and take a look inside.”

“Ohh..kay.” I didn’t think voices could crack during a whisper, but I swear hers managed to.

From the shape and weight of the bulky hat, I could tell that it was brimming full with something. Bingo, I thought again. I struggled for a few seconds with the chintzy plastic zipper before finally opening up the pocket, when, to my complete mystification, ten or fifteen packets of mini-sized ketchup and one packet of sugar spilled to the ground. There was nothing else inside the cap, no matter how many times I turned it inside-out and flipped it back again.

“Alright,” I said bending down to pick up the fallen condiments and stuff them back into the gaping hole in her hat, “I guess that’s everything then. You can follow me back out.”

I led Pink Freak back to where Blue Monster was standing, putting his neon shoes and azul belt back on in front of the X-ray scanner. Pink Freak was absently holding her unzipped cap in her hands, where a teetering packet or two threaten to fall back to the floor.

“Oh my fucking God. They better not fucking take your ketchup as well,” Blue Monster whipped an irascible glance from me to Brüno, “Those packets ARE under the 1000ml limit. And they’re unopened as well, you assholes…” Blue Monster continued to curse under his breath as I waved him and Pink Monster on toward the signs that led to their boarding gate.

As they bumbled away, Brüno and I shared one quick glance that spoke of suppressed amusement, bewilderment, and relief – feelings that we would have no opportunity to attend to until the long day’s end. Sharing a sigh of deep understanding, the two of us leaned down to return to our work, our hands brushing slightly as we reached to pick up the same flagged lap-top case that rolled down the conveyor belt.