MEANWHILE, BACK IN LIMA. . .
The Cure
Auntie M leaves her Hobbit House, plopping down at the glass living room table to edit an ad jingle she’s voiced.
I’m stuck to the faux leather couch, basking in a Pepto Bismol brain fog. A big yawn. “I’m bored.”
She puts on her reading glasses and stares at her laptop screen. “Tranquilo, Dougito. The answer to all your problems is in the back of your eyes.”
“What?”
“In the nook in the bookcase behind you.”
I rummage while listening to her cut and loop a happy little ditty that sounds like an old ad jingle. “Nothing.”
“The other drawer.”
She glances over to see me pull out a TV remote. “Aye. Eso.”
It’s a complicated-looking sucker. Where’s the damn power button?
“It es not going to bite you.”
OK. I haphazardly press buttons.
It’s a local news report, Las Millionarias “Palpas” Del Amor. The well-to-do in Huancayo, The happiest place in South America, are going crazy, over-the-top themselves for bragging rights on who can wield the most fuck-you bling for wedding gifts.
“I think some bride in Huancayo just got twelve-hundred cases of cerveza and a condo in Lima as a wedding gift.”
“Aye. Try the news.”
“I thought that was the news.”
CLICK.
I alight on a goofy guy in a tweed suit, day-glow white teeth, and a felony of a haircut seated behind a naugahyde news desk.
“You mean the one that looks like a capybara shit on his head?”
“Sí. You might learns eh-something.”
He grins a big gap-toothed smile, talking to the camera in Spanish while the camera angle changes. The news geek turns awkwardly before cutting to a busty Latina reporter dressed to the nines and holding a microphone infront of three women in shapely green and red costumes. They are being cheered lustily by a festive crowd while they take bites out of large pieces of watermelon.
“You’re right. I did learn something. I now know Miss Watermelon has been crowned in the middle of the Amazon?”
CLICK.
Time to take the channels for a spin. Terrible choices. I settle on ‘Night at the Roxbury’, but it’s so badly dubbed it feels like watching ‘Turkish Star Wars’ on acid.
“Nothing but crap.” Chucking the remote to the side, I sink into the couch and rub my tummy.
She looks my way. A hearty guffaw.
“What?”
“Your hair.” Stifled giggling. “You looks like a payaso. A clown.”
It’s true. Despite Gus’ promises, my immersion hasn’t improved my Spanish one iota and I still haven’t mustered the courage to ask for a haircut. My last failed foray into BilingualLand, I tried ordering a coffee at the local Starbucks. All seemed well, until the friendly barista misunderstood my name, writing ‘Dung’ on the side of my coffee cup. Then, somehow ‘Dung’s’ Vanilla Latte order morphed into a weird Frapucchino mixed with Lucuma. A tasty upgrade, but one I barely had the Soles to cover.
I’m not taking those kind of gambles with my hair, so I just let it grow. And grow. In the place where my imagination never meets reality, I thought I’d look cool in my new, long-maned style, kinda like Jesus or maybe even the lead guitarist of Tool. You know, somebody with a life plan.
But as the days stack up, one thing is certain: I am right-haired. Who knew? The starboard side has branched out, from a tiny acorn follicle to pre-mullet sequoia, able to defy both gravity and moisturizing conditioners until the end of times. The left side, on the other hand, looks like the pathetic patchy pubic hairs on a mange-infected female hyena’s spotted clitoris. A bit of a train wreck.
It’s gotten so bad that every time I put my trusty emerald Mark Twain ‘Territory Ahead’ ball cap on without caking on the styling gel, my hair flares out, earning stares and making me look like a four-eyed circus clown.
I clutch my belly and moan.
Auntie M snaps her laptop shut. “Let’s try a. . . different cure.”
“Oh, please, not that doctor, again. I can’t go back.”
She rises to grab her red jacket from the coat rack. “Tranquilo. Western medicine es only been around for 2,500 years or eh-so. This es debased on mythology.”
Did I hear that right? “Debased on mythology?” I struggle to my feet.
“Sí. And besides, how can you knows the “real” Lima hanging out in Miraflores or San Isidro?”
I want to file a protest, but she’s already passed my rhetorical Maginot Line. “I’m game. What do you have in mind?”
She looks me dead in the eyes and grins. “I am taked you to the Witches Market in Gamarra.”
“Gamarra?” Sounds like some giant, radioactive flying turtle that gets its jollies off fighting Godzilla and ripping up downtown Tokyo. “What’s a Gamarra?”
Auntie M picks up her laptop and brushes past me. “And the first rule. No bringing any valuables.”
Huh?
I enjoyed it but still have no clue what I read.. Best I can figure it's got to do with a vacation in a Latin town. Poetic but a bit seriel.
This bit was amazing:
“The starboard side has branched out, from a tiny acorn follicle to pre-mullet sequoia, able to defy both gravity and moisturizing conditioners until the end of times. The left side, on the other hand, looks like the pathetic patchy pubic hairs on a mange-infected female hyena’s spotted clitoris.” —- your descriptions never cease to impress me. :)