Of Pisco and Peru: Mancora

Pt. 9

Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash

The whoosh and crash of the ocean’s waves are my lodestones, my focal points for this night of fearful sleep. At first it works, but slumber ain’t easy when the brain’s braced itself for a white-knuckle disaster every thirty seconds.

Was that the front door handle moving? Are those foot falls in the bathroom? Or is it that iron lung thing firing up again? Mosquitoes? ZZZzzzzz.

Nope. Nothing’s stabbing me in the chest. Just the sound of the waves. There is peace and serenity in the waves. Washing away all anxieties. (Yawn) Wait. That’s gotta be the front door? Wish that fucking water heater would stop. Is that squeaking the wind or is someone climbing through the back window?

Nah. That’s nothing. Just the. . . (Yawn). . . sounds of the. . . (Yawn). . . Waves. . .

The waves. . . (Yawn). . . THe waves. . . (Yawn). . . THE waves. . . THE Waves. . . THE WAves. . . THE WAVes. . . THE WAVEs. . . THE WAVES! THE BIG WAVES!! TSUNAMI!!!! Crashing through the door!!! How the fuck do I get outta here? Auntie M? How fast can we run uphill on a dirt road in the middle of the night in our skivvies?

Lathered in sweat, I awake with a scream still rattling through my throat. A nightmare. What an utter failure. Time for a different tactic.

I cross the room and sift through my backpack. After hearing a muffled moan, I place my ear to the wall and smile. It’s Auntie M’s familiar voice from next door. She’s play-acting a cartoon character role, singing ‘Go to Sleep Little Baby’ in Spanish with passionate abandon.

Feeling around the guts of my backpack for the familiar dog-eared book. “Aha.” My old childhood storybook friend. Wish I had a drink with me. ‘Pig Pig’ and a good, hard Scotch go hand in hand. Plopping down on the couch, I flick the TV remote for some background noise and thumb through pages.

Photo by McGill Library on Unsplash

It’s not long before my eyes look up from the young cartoon pig in a diaper to the TV.

What is all that yelling about?

It’s a Mexican telenovela. Some old dude with an eye patch and a terrible toupee is seated on the stairs of some luxury hacienda, beating his head against the banister while screaming his guts out. No clue why, but being a telenovela, he’s probably just found out he’s being cuckolded by the beautiful female lead for a brooding rich guy. Of course, being a telenovela, he concusses himself far too long and screams far too loud.

CLICK.

Oops. A porno. Turn down the volume. Strange. The sound doesn’t match up. This must be reeeeally low budget.

CLICK off the TV, but the overacted sound of ardor continues. Hmmm? I tilt my head and listen. The neighbor’s TV? Different movie. Must’ve gotten the extended package. Or are they going at it?

Oh well, back to the business at hand. From the beginning.

“Pig Pig was the baby of the family. His brothers and sisters had grown up and left home long ago, but Pig Pig refused to grow up.”

Moaning. Is that my neighbors next door? You’ve gotta be kidding me. The neighbors are fucking at an eleven. I need them fucking at a three. I’m trying to do something important here.

No respect. Must focus.

“He still wore his sleep suit, though it was much too tight.”

The disaster on TV is tawdry by even gonzo porn standards. A grimy hotel scene shot from a low angle and lit by what looks to be a replacement bulb from an ‘Easy Bake’ toy oven. The female lead, who’s built crack-head thin, screams at the top of her lungs like she’s receiving The Great Pumpkin. The male lead, a dirtbag pouring sweat with the faint beginnings of a porn mustache. . . wait a minute? Is that the taxi kid who picked me up at the airport in Lima?

Oh well, back to the book. “And he continued to sleep in his crib, even though his feet hung over the end.”

I look down. Little Duck is at attention, pointing to the opened book. “Dammit!”

All right. But just this once. Some manipulation and concentration to achieve a certain clarity of mind. Puts me to sleep, every time.

Bite my lips and close my eyes, coaxing the proper visuals to complete the trick at hand. Mercifully, the audio is already provided. Now, they’ve switched to a shower scene. I want to yell out something like Fucking keep moaning. I’m not finished yet! or Faster, dammit, faster! but I don’t want to ruin the moment. No. I’ve gotta go with what I’m given.

The visuals are fast and furious. In addition to what appears to be a lunging reverse cowgirl Dirty Sanchez backbend, to downward dog with the entire Swedish Bikini Team, which is an impossibility in real life but well worth trying, I’m trying to milk an extra twenty seconds from my habit by conjuring up the most boring thoughts known to man: Watching grass grow, paint dry, Dubstep, a tax audit, waiting in line at the bank. . .

Getting close. I throw the book to the side. No sense doing the money shot on that fucking pig’s face. I’m not that kinky.

And. . .that’s a wrap. No surprises here. I run a quick physical. Blood rushing to the temples. Check. Pulse racing but starting to taper. Good. Breathing is slowing. Excellent. Whew. Where’s that damn tissue box?

“Jaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” It’s Auntie M’s voice from next door.