Jackson,
How are you? Did you end up selling that '67 Mustang? Man, I used to love that thing. It's a damn shame you had to let it go but I understand, what with the economy beginning to slow down. When I think of that vehicle, I clearly remember the way everything was designed just so. They just don't make cars like that anymore. Now all they make is plastic bubbles. Roll cages surrounded by moulded plastic panels. A disposable consumer item. It saddens me when I think that car will probably be bought by some rich guy out in the suburbs. The type of guy who will only take it out when he goes to a car show. Like some museum piece. That vehicle is indelibly burnt into my memory. I should have bought if from you when I had the chance. I'm kicking myself for that.
Anyway, right now I am about to board a flight in Mexico City airport. I don't want to downplay what follows but....I'm still coming to terms with it I suppose. I came here for a conference and I decided to stay on for four days as a tourist. It seemed like a good idea. I was planning on visiting the museums and historical sites and all the rest of it. I bought a little guide book. I could have used my phone but I prefer to have a book. A tangible thing. I find with a book in hand I tend to collect tickets and brochures. I'll tell you man, leaving the hotel that first morning, it felt good to cut loose and be free of all responsibilities for four solid days. I mean I love my wife and all but being married to anyone can be a pain in the ass. Anyway that first day, I was just planning on drifting around, getting a feel for the place. Even if it was just the neighbourhood surround the hotel. I like to get myself orientated. I love the feeling of being cut loose: with my career being what it is and the responsibilities I have to Nate, there is nothing quite like it. It's like being a backpacker again, you know, standing on the threshold of a new, unknown life. At least for a short period of time. Romantic bullshit, I know. And of course, I would never really step over that threshold and in that new life. God no! I am optimistic about reinvention but I could never abandon my wife and kid. And at my age, the reality is it would entail a fair amount of loneliness and despondency.
Anyway on that first morning, having left the hotel and walked maybe four blocks down Paseo De La Reforma vaguely heading for the main Zocola, I decided a beer would be in order. (I still love drinking beer in the daytime only now at a slightly more moderate rate). I go into this bar. There were a few people sitting about. Locals by the looks of it. I sat down next to a fat little man in a cream coloured suit. We started talking and I thought this is exactly what I am after: local colour, local knowledge. The conversation was very general at first but then he told me that he used to write letters for illiterate, or semi-illiterate people. Love letters mainly. He used to set his typewriter up in the main Zocalo on a collapsible card table and everyday people would stop by and commission him to write these letters. This fat little guy told me he personally had thousands of love stories categorised and stored inside his head. Of course, nowadays people use these silly little telephones, he said, showing me his smartphone. The art of the love letter has gone. I used to write beautiful sentences which entwined and snared the human heart, he continued, lifting his glass and looking balefully at the glittering display of bottles on the back wall of the bar. Beautiful sentences which extended from one human being to another. Sentences that bridged the darkness. Clack, clack, clack all day, he said, moving his fingers over an invisible typewriter. Now? Now I am like everyone else. I use the common language. It is very functionary, he continued, dismissing this form of expression with a tired wave of his hand.
I won't test your patience describing him in detail. He was a character in all ways. Physically, this letter writing thing, the way he spoke, the whole package. I was just enjoying the hell out myself, sitting back, drinking beer in that dark little cantina. Anyway, he told me he understood how the city 'loved'. How it fell in and out of love, and had done for three decades. Love is like the weather or the economy he said, It can be charted over time. (I know this might sound fairly trite-can't anything thing be charted or plotted over time? I guess you had to be there. He was quite the showman). He had put into words every kind of love and lust configuration there was available to human beings. The whole gauntlet-from the sweet through to the most degenerate. New love, tormented love, cheating-on spouses-love, blind love, bitter love, broken-hearted love. Suicidal love. Much like a switchboard operator, these emotional currents had at one point or another, flowed directly through his small portable typewriter. I am personally responsible for the creation many hundreds of new lives, he laughed. Without my letters, many of these poor fools would not have come together. They would have never had their babies. I had return customers who came back to me three or four times in the course of their life, chasing different or new love. This in itself is a testament to my abilities. And what did I charge for my services? Nothing. A few pesos. A few pesos for the heart’s desire.
The beers were going down pretty well but I realised that the day was beginning to get away from me. While we'd been talking, or more accurately he'd been talking, the bar began filling up with more people. After a while, I began to realise the letter writer was starting to annoy me. He was a pontificator. That is, he liked the sound of his own voice too much. I reached a point where I decided I would finish my drink, say goodbye and leave. I'd had enough local colour for the time being and I needed to get on with my sightseeing. Besides, I was getting drunk and I thought some food would be a good idea. The last thing I remember was lifting my glass to my mouth. I remember the glass looked very far away. Then the corners of my vision began to tunnel in, going black around the edges.
The next thing I knew I was in a small room which could have been a hotel although it looked more like a rooming house. It was not unlike waking up after my colonoscopy. After opening my eyes, I needed to spend about three-quarters of an hour just lying there, mentally getting my shit together before I was able to get to my feet. Of course, I had been robbed. Later on, I found my bank account had been hit five times. Each time up the daily limit. Five times! This accounts for how incredibly hungry and weak I was. I do have vague memories of people coming and going in and out of that room. I had this sound in my head: the clatter of a typewriter. It was all twisted together into an ugly hallucination. I can't tell you for sure what happened over those five days. Anyway when I was finally able to get up and on my feet, I left the room and wandered downstairs. All I had was the bed sheet wrapped around me. I went through a doorway and emerged into a bar. Not the same bar I'd been in five days ago. A different place. People turned to look as I wandered in. I was still completely out of it because of drugs in my system.
Later, after the police had arrived and had taken my statement, I went to the hospital and was checked out. There was nothing wrong with me apart from the fact that I was dehydrated. What I'm saying is I still had all my organs and I hadn't been raped. And of course, my bank account was quite a bit lighter. The woman who owns the bar with the rooms-for-rent upstairs, told the police she had no idea was going on. People come and go all the time. There are so many faces I see every day, she insisted indicating the customers who lined the bar. Yes, she had noticed me being taken in. Helped in. They said I was drunk. She hadn't suspected anything was going on or that I was being kept in the room against my will. The Love letter writer had paid for the room a week in advance. There was another man with him. She could only provide a vague description of this man. The woman assumed we were middle age gay boys having some sexual escapades upstairs. It was none of her business.
I didn't really know what to make of this situation because I didn't feel any different. Just tired. Yes, of course, I felt angry that I'd been ripped off. I had one bruise on my leg but that was it. Really I have not been abused or hurt in any way except that I had been drugged. I'd lost what? Four and a half days and some money. The more time that went past, the more little recollections and fragments begin to slot into place. After all, I had not been completely unconscious while I'd been in that room. Sometimes being under the influence of whatever drug they used felt like I was in the grip of a bad fever. I remember that I had the same thoughts over and over and over again. You know what I thought about? I thought about that goddamn '69 Mustang sitting in your driveway. I mean in exhaustive detail. I think I might have taken that entire car apart in my mind. Every nut, bolt and washer. And then re-assemble it. It was a strange thing. The detail was incredible. It was like looking at a moving, three-dimensional schematic. Like the car was endlessly exploding in slow motion over and over again.
After I had dealt with the police, calmed Marlene down over the phone, given my statement and talked to my insurance company there was nothing really left to do except book another flight out of Mexico. And so here I sit, waiting at the gate. Anyway, that is all from me. If you remember who you sold that car to let me know. After what I went through, you would think I would never want to see the damn thing again but that is not the case. I would be seriously interested in making an offer.
All the best.
How are you? Did you end up selling that '67 Mustang? Man, I used to love that thing. It's a damn shame you had to let it go but I understand, what with the economy beginning to slow down. When I think of that vehicle, I clearly remember the way everything was designed just so. They just don't make cars like that anymore. Now all they make is plastic bubbles. Roll cages surrounded by moulded plastic panels. A disposable consumer item. It saddens me when I think that car will probably be bought by some rich guy out in the suburbs. The type of guy who will only take it out when he goes to a car show. Like some museum piece. That vehicle is indelibly burnt into my memory. I should have bought if from you when I had the chance. I'm kicking myself for that.
Anyway, right now I am about to board a flight in Mexico City airport. I don't want to downplay what follows but....I'm still coming to terms with it I suppose. I came here for a conference and I decided to stay on for four days as a tourist. It seemed like a good idea. I was planning on visiting the museums and historical sites and all the rest of it. I bought a little guide book. I could have used my phone but I prefer to have a book. A tangible thing. I find with a book in hand I tend to collect tickets and brochures. I'll tell you man, leaving the hotel that first morning, it felt good to cut loose and be free of all responsibilities for four solid days. I mean I love my wife and all but being married to anyone can be a pain in the ass. Anyway that first day, I was just planning on drifting around, getting a feel for the place. Even if it was just the neighbourhood surround the hotel. I like to get myself orientated. I love the feeling of being cut loose: with my career being what it is and the responsibilities I have to Nate, there is nothing quite like it. It's like being a backpacker again, you know, standing on the threshold of a new, unknown life. At least for a short period of time. Romantic bullshit, I know. And of course, I would never really step over that threshold and in that new life. God no! I am optimistic about reinvention but I could never abandon my wife and kid. And at my age, the reality is it would entail a fair amount of loneliness and despondency.
Anyway on that first morning, having left the hotel and walked maybe four blocks down Paseo De La Reforma vaguely heading for the main Zocola, I decided a beer would be in order. (I still love drinking beer in the daytime only now at a slightly more moderate rate). I go into this bar. There were a few people sitting about. Locals by the looks of it. I sat down next to a fat little man in a cream coloured suit. We started talking and I thought this is exactly what I am after: local colour, local knowledge. The conversation was very general at first but then he told me that he used to write letters for illiterate, or semi-illiterate people. Love letters mainly. He used to set his typewriter up in the main Zocalo on a collapsible card table and everyday people would stop by and commission him to write these letters. This fat little guy told me he personally had thousands of love stories categorised and stored inside his head. Of course, nowadays people use these silly little telephones, he said, showing me his smartphone. The art of the love letter has gone. I used to write beautiful sentences which entwined and snared the human heart, he continued, lifting his glass and looking balefully at the glittering display of bottles on the back wall of the bar. Beautiful sentences which extended from one human being to another. Sentences that bridged the darkness. Clack, clack, clack all day, he said, moving his fingers over an invisible typewriter. Now? Now I am like everyone else. I use the common language. It is very functionary, he continued, dismissing this form of expression with a tired wave of his hand.
I won't test your patience describing him in detail. He was a character in all ways. Physically, this letter writing thing, the way he spoke, the whole package. I was just enjoying the hell out myself, sitting back, drinking beer in that dark little cantina. Anyway, he told me he understood how the city 'loved'. How it fell in and out of love, and had done for three decades. Love is like the weather or the economy he said, It can be charted over time. (I know this might sound fairly trite-can't anything thing be charted or plotted over time? I guess you had to be there. He was quite the showman). He had put into words every kind of love and lust configuration there was available to human beings. The whole gauntlet-from the sweet through to the most degenerate. New love, tormented love, cheating-on spouses-love, blind love, bitter love, broken-hearted love. Suicidal love. Much like a switchboard operator, these emotional currents had at one point or another, flowed directly through his small portable typewriter. I am personally responsible for the creation many hundreds of new lives, he laughed. Without my letters, many of these poor fools would not have come together. They would have never had their babies. I had return customers who came back to me three or four times in the course of their life, chasing different or new love. This in itself is a testament to my abilities. And what did I charge for my services? Nothing. A few pesos. A few pesos for the heart’s desire.
The beers were going down pretty well but I realised that the day was beginning to get away from me. While we'd been talking, or more accurately he'd been talking, the bar began filling up with more people. After a while, I began to realise the letter writer was starting to annoy me. He was a pontificator. That is, he liked the sound of his own voice too much. I reached a point where I decided I would finish my drink, say goodbye and leave. I'd had enough local colour for the time being and I needed to get on with my sightseeing. Besides, I was getting drunk and I thought some food would be a good idea. The last thing I remember was lifting my glass to my mouth. I remember the glass looked very far away. Then the corners of my vision began to tunnel in, going black around the edges.
The next thing I knew I was in a small room which could have been a hotel although it looked more like a rooming house. It was not unlike waking up after my colonoscopy. After opening my eyes, I needed to spend about three-quarters of an hour just lying there, mentally getting my shit together before I was able to get to my feet. Of course, I had been robbed. Later on, I found my bank account had been hit five times. Each time up the daily limit. Five times! This accounts for how incredibly hungry and weak I was. I do have vague memories of people coming and going in and out of that room. I had this sound in my head: the clatter of a typewriter. It was all twisted together into an ugly hallucination. I can't tell you for sure what happened over those five days. Anyway when I was finally able to get up and on my feet, I left the room and wandered downstairs. All I had was the bed sheet wrapped around me. I went through a doorway and emerged into a bar. Not the same bar I'd been in five days ago. A different place. People turned to look as I wandered in. I was still completely out of it because of drugs in my system.
Later, after the police had arrived and had taken my statement, I went to the hospital and was checked out. There was nothing wrong with me apart from the fact that I was dehydrated. What I'm saying is I still had all my organs and I hadn't been raped. And of course, my bank account was quite a bit lighter. The woman who owns the bar with the rooms-for-rent upstairs, told the police she had no idea was going on. People come and go all the time. There are so many faces I see every day, she insisted indicating the customers who lined the bar. Yes, she had noticed me being taken in. Helped in. They said I was drunk. She hadn't suspected anything was going on or that I was being kept in the room against my will. The Love letter writer had paid for the room a week in advance. There was another man with him. She could only provide a vague description of this man. The woman assumed we were middle age gay boys having some sexual escapades upstairs. It was none of her business.
I didn't really know what to make of this situation because I didn't feel any different. Just tired. Yes, of course, I felt angry that I'd been ripped off. I had one bruise on my leg but that was it. Really I have not been abused or hurt in any way except that I had been drugged. I'd lost what? Four and a half days and some money. The more time that went past, the more little recollections and fragments begin to slot into place. After all, I had not been completely unconscious while I'd been in that room. Sometimes being under the influence of whatever drug they used felt like I was in the grip of a bad fever. I remember that I had the same thoughts over and over and over again. You know what I thought about? I thought about that goddamn '69 Mustang sitting in your driveway. I mean in exhaustive detail. I think I might have taken that entire car apart in my mind. Every nut, bolt and washer. And then re-assemble it. It was a strange thing. The detail was incredible. It was like looking at a moving, three-dimensional schematic. Like the car was endlessly exploding in slow motion over and over again.
After I had dealt with the police, calmed Marlene down over the phone, given my statement and talked to my insurance company there was nothing really left to do except book another flight out of Mexico. And so here I sit, waiting at the gate. Anyway, that is all from me. If you remember who you sold that car to let me know. After what I went through, you would think I would never want to see the damn thing again but that is not the case. I would be seriously interested in making an offer.
All the best.
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