My room seems untouched. . . except for that tasteful black-and-white portrait of a Japanese woman posing in a kimono for the play The Mikado. Wasn’t she facing the opposite way, earlier? Probably just me. I always have trouble with faces.
What’s that breathing sound?
My phone’s message signal chimes in. “Hello, Gus.”
I head to the large bathroom and fail a toggle switch IQ test trying to get the proper lights to come on. The shower is semi-enclosed by faux wood with hanging bamboo cage lights on thatched walls.
“Duck. DuckFlucker. I just reads online. . .”
Sure enough, the back door only goes three-quarters the way up, leaving a three-foot opened drawbridge for flying bugs and petty larcenists. At least any would-be thieves or mass murderers will have to get their exercise climbing over it. That’s always a plus.
“. . . They just discovers another Pishtaco ring. . .”
Right above the shower, there’s a rusted grill in the ceiling. The water heater’s up there, pulsating. Nothing like enjoying your relaxing beach stay trapped inside an iron lung.
“. . . The policia says they sucked out they victim’s blubber. Can you imagines that, Duck?”
“Why are you telling me this, Gus?”
After three more rounds of checking hiding places, I’ve convinced myself there’s no Charles Manson pirate inside my room. Guard down, I head to the john.
“They stores them in a roomful of 2-liter Inca Kila bottles to sell on the Peruvian fat market. Is booming.”
Sitting there, listening to the sounds from the ceiling grill breathing full bore, as if Darth Vader’s my personal toilet attendant, ready to hold my hand and comfort me while I drop a deuce.
“They is coming to get you, Duck! Pfffffththththah!”
CLICK.
#
The wheels of the gurney squeal like a stuck pig. It’s heavier than I expected, but I have the half-bright idea to push it to the front door as a barricade and, damn it, I’m gonna do it. Riiiight. There. Perfecto.
I haven’t even caught my breath when Auntie M opens the door outward. “Christ!”
“You okay?”
Catching my breath. “Fine. Why?”
“I kepts hearing someone outside my door.”
“Not me. I’ve been here. . .” We check out the gurney at the same time. “Making. . . alterations. You?”
She shrugs. “Tranquilo. Just watching La Vida de Pee.”
I silently mouth the translation before frowning. “The Life of Pee?”
“Pee es Pi in eh-Spanish. ‘The Life of Pi’, Doug.”
“Oh, yeah. I was just joking. I’m glad you get my sense of humor.”
She shakes her head, then motions to leave before hesitating. “You’re eh-still having a good time, esn’t you? I means you es eh-still enjoying. . . my country? No?” There’s an uncertain timber in her voice.
I suck in air, not expecting the question. “Of course. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
Her smile radiates, before slowly evaporating as she walks away. “Bueno.”
Did I just not insert my foot in my own mouth? A small victory. “Good.” I lean over the gurney, waving heartily. “Um, if you need anything I’m right here. Or text me, too, you know? Okay?”
“Buenas noches, Dougito.”
Another great piece. Ethel story and the dialogue on this one flows beautifully :)
I suck in air, not expecting the question. “Of course. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” Love it!