Buying Ecstasy Cable Beach

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Buying Ecstasy Cable Beach

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Buying Ecstasy Cable Beach

We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use. On January 25, , I woke up at 1 PM , showered, and ate a lamb chop boiled in shrimp ramen with cauliflower and broccoli. I started a pot of coffee and studied the central story in my collection, due out in a year with a major publisher, and I saw once again no solution to its flaws other than disposal. But at the age of forty-three and looking at my first — and maybe last — realistic shot at a career in letters, I was like an old dog not yet willing to let go of a bone. But now that I was recovered and had contractual proof that I was not entirely worthless, I suddenly wanted to be someplace far away. He had included rough directions and advice about traveling in Mexico. The thought of moving to Mexico gave me the collywobbles. Actually living in Mexico, especially the mainland, presented a host of problems: My limited Spanish would prevent me from asking the locals where I could find a suitable place to live. Nor would I be able to pick up work easily when the money ran out. I had about four thousand left from my book advance. And I would have to track down a birth certificate to get a visa. On the other hand, in Mexico I could live on half my current monthly budget. There would be plenty of peaceful spots, good weather, and inexpensive healthcare. These chest pains had me a little worried. Life outside the U. Mexico was also where many other writers had gone for creative inspiration. John Steinbeck, Graham Greene, D. Lawrence, Aldous Huxley, and B. Traven author of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre had all produced notable work there. What was I going to write about shut up in a Kansas motel room year after year? Still, it seemed more sensible not to throw everything in the air and possibly have to postpone publication of my very first book, maybe even lose the contract, maybe even fall apart completely as I had before or contract some disease that would prematurely end my days, like D. I decided I had run from my problems for too long and should stick it out where I stood. That afternoon Jennifer, a welder at the factory where I had previously been employed, came over with a piece of cake. She asked how the book was going. I asked how she was. I know, I know, I said, and I swung my arm in a circle to indicate the entire motel complex, where every tenant lived alone. I called it the No-Mate Motel. Just about everyone in this place feels the same, I said. Life is hard. The next day I walked to the bus station. When I told the clerk I wanted a ticket to Mexico, his eyes lit up, and he began to talk about the joys of traveling. He had not actually traveled much, I gathered, but was nevertheless convinced that being on the road was the life. In a month you could go to a lot of places: Spokane to San Francisco. Missoula to Miami Beach. Sleep on the bus. Get a motel every now and then to shower. Hunker down in the winter and get a full-time job at the clown-wig factory. Have a fling with a diner waitress. A customer jangled through the door and asked if his U-Haul trailer was in. The clerk groaned and said, I forgot. The customer grunted and slammed the door on the way out. The clerk returned his attention to me. Greyhound could get me to the border in El Paso, Texas, he said, but after that, I was on my own. I bought a one-way advance ticket to El Paso for eighty-nine dollars. I was saving only twenty bucks by buying in advance, but the rent was paid through the end of the month, and I needed to make preparations: scrounge up that birth certificate, brush up on my Spanish, and say goodbye to all my friends and neighbors. Nevertheless I was dissatisfied with myself as a human being and hoped that a deep plunge into the unknown would shake me out of my funk, break something loose, slap me in the face like a cold splash of aftershave. It had worked before. My eyes were bloodshot, and I was getting fatter. I always seemed to be taking a walk through the empty town at 3 AM. I had cable TV and watched its ephemeral gush and commercials that were designed to make me feel good about buying products but instead made me feel like kicking a hole in the screen. The following afternoon I walked to the mall and bought motion-sickness pills, a Spanish-English dictionary, a thick notebook, and some packing tape. I had too much junk to bring with me. So I paid a storage place thirty-three dollars a month to store a computer, clothes, household goods, and stacks of manuscripts, most of them revisions that were only getting worse for all my effort. Then I went to the liquor store, bought a forty-ounce bottle of beer, sat at my little table by the window to watch the light fade from the sky, and thought about Mexico. Over the next two weeks I secured my birth certificate, studied Spanish, corresponded from the public-library computer with Bob in Mexico, and fought that sick feeling in my stomach that always accompanied a leap into the unknown. It would work, I told myself. I would write it all down, and, unlike the stories I was composing, every line would be real. For me the better part of success had always depended on putting myself in the right place. Then maybe, just maybe, I might write something good. The purge was satisfying. I had no romantic prospects either. My love life had been an across-the-board disaster, and now that my life was at least half over, it was a relief to think I would probably spend the rest of it alone. Wanting to be as healthy as possible for the trip those chest pains again , I also quit smoking. After pushing all the buttons for half an hour, I tried to break it with my hands. Then I began to stomp on it. Eighteen times I stomped on it before I threw it, intact, into the trash. A few minutes later I carefully read the instructions on how to set the time and retrieved the clock but was still unable to set the time, which led to my stomping on it and throwing it into the trash once more. Then I noticed that the time display was a decal never mentioned in the directions. So I peeled off the decal and set the clock with ease. I packed six ham-and-Swiss sandwiches, a bag of baked and salted acorn-squash seeds, and two marshmallow pies. This was supposed to last me until El Paso, where I intended to start a fast to lose weight, but all my food was gone before I arrived in Denver. At the terminal there I was greeted with a two-hour delay. I also encountered Mr. Rapid Gestures, whose nervous disposition was possibly caused by amphetamines. He was off to seek a lost ghost-town fortune in the Dragoon Mountains of Arizona. This will be the third time I have faced death, he announced. He asked where I was going. Not wanting to sound like one more treasure seeker with a doomed plan, I replied simply, El Paso. Rapid Gestures and the tragic and elusive nature of all earthly reward: even if you find your treasure, the rain of dust and time will eventually bury it again. Fortunately, because it was winter, the bus was not even half full. Travel nerves, quitting smoking, and watching my once-in-a-lifetime book deal recede from my grasp were not the best recipe for equanimity. I added vindictively that I might help someone in need , but not someone wandering the bus depot at 9 AM looking for money to buy a drink. There were four people on the bus to El Paso, one a mother who kept shouting at her child, Behave! You just wait and see. No one is going to miss me. Anxious about carrying nearly four thousand dollars on my person, I had divided the sum into three pockets, my left sock, and the bottom of my right shoe. The bus stopped just on the other side of the border, and everyone got off and stood in a line. I was last. Each passenger in turn pushed a button that activated a stoplight. If the light went green, the person returned unmolested to the bus. If it was yellow, you were executed on the spot. Only by running into an American woman did I find out how to get my tourist card. I followed her to a small office staffed by three agents. She and her son were not granted a card, and she was furious. When it was my turn to apply, I blundered through my rehearsed speech in Spanish and received a sixty-day card. Back on the bus, the man selling tickets to our next destinations seemed surprised when I said Zacatecas, where I would transfer to Jerez. The fare was fifty-seven dollars. I paid him and, with my rudimentary Spanish, understood him to say that the bus left at pm. I checked my clock: PM. We were stuck in a tunefully anarchic Mexican traffic jam, and I worried I would miss my transfer. My new bus smelled like perfume and had two drivers, like a pilot and copilot. Through a doorway that separated them from the passengers, I glimpsed two vases holding pink paper roses on the dash. The bus was unlike any other I had ever traveled on and featured actual legroom, two TV s playing movies, and curtains on the windows. I was the only gringo aboard. My seatmate was a garrulous secretary from Aguascalientes, who ate one piece of fruit after another and talked to me in rapid Spanish as if I understood every word. I riffled through my Spanish-English dictionary, trying to assemble sensible replies. Soon it was darker than dark outside, the kind of impenetrable darkness you might encounter after your car breaks down a mile from the isolated mountaintop castle of a legendary vampire. At our first stop somber children boarded the bus with covered baskets of food and bottled water for sale. I got off to use the facilities. I have only one piece of advice if you plan an expedition to Mexico: bring your own toilet paper. Most Mexican roads and highways have no shoulders, and livestock routinely roam about unfenced. I had heard stories of buses wrecked or robbed, so it seemed something of a miracle to be roaring hour after hour down these roads without incident. I studied the subtitles, trying to improve my Spanish. The sun rose in the sky, and, according to my trusty, indestructible Chinese clock, I slept for one hour. Zacatecas is over eight thousand feet above sea level. Though I was supposed to transfer here and keep going, Zacatecas looked right, and I decided to stay for a while. In the distance I spied a man washing buses with a long-handled brush, and I went over to ask if he might recommend a hotel. He unleashed a stream of magnificently unintelligible syllables, which I pretended to understand. Luckily he was kind enough to point. I thanked him and, moving in the indicated direction, immediately came upon the San Carlos, a large, fancier-than-I-was-accustomed-to hotel. For all I knew, he lowered the rate. In any case, I secured an upper-floor room for twenty dollars. When I got winded climbing the marble stairs, I blamed it on the altitude. My room had pink-marble floors, a color TV , two double beds, and an elevated blue bathroom with cracked plaster. Cracks in walls are a signature feature of Mexico. The room was painted beige and green with a decorative lavender frieze and a fly smashed in the middle of a shoe print on the ceiling. In the distance a collapsed sidewalk gave way to a sheer cliff. I felt the heightened senses and surge of vitality that always came with arriving in a new place. It was what I had lived for most of my life: a short-lived ecstasy bordering on madness that soon faded into mundanity — until the next move. I had lost track of what day it was, then realized that I was seven hundred miles into Mexico, in an unexplored city, and in no hurry to get anywhere. I had enough money in my pockets to last a year, if I did it right. I heard a knock at my door. It was the clerk, out of breath from the stairs, coming to bring me a towel and two bars of soap. After a long wait and no hot water, I took a bracingly cold shower. Just as I was finishing up, the hot water came on. Invigorated from the shower and that familiar taste of madness, I took a walk through town. But the currency-exchange booths that were abundant everywhere else in Mexico were scarce here. I saw a woman in a restaurant grilling fresh tortillas and suddenly realized I was famished. I told her I knew nothing and to please give me something good. Everything is good, she said. I pointed to beans, eggs, and beef, and she fashioned for me three gorditas for fifteen pesos. I told her I had no pesos. My American money was not common, or even particularly welcome, outside the border towns, so she was doing me a favor. Also the plump and savory gorditas came with a big mug of sweetened chicory. On the way back to my room, I stopped at a bank and converted a hundred dollars into a handful of colorful bills and odd coins. My efforts to sort them out would provide much amusement to clerks and merchants in the days to come. I told him that I had seen a fat one in the mirror only an hour before, but he did not laugh. Later that day I went out with my notebook and my temporarily manic personality to see some local color: the assembled brass band with the animated trombonist warming up to play; the children building a fort in the trash; the dejected young man with the black eye walking along the street with his companion; the man sitting in his dark, empty shop, smoking a cigarette; the pretty but hard-faced prostitute in a short black dress and a fur coat; the orange-pink Spanish colonial church at the top of the hill; the basketball court on which kids played soccer. Two tangerines cost two pesos. The clerk giggled as she plucked the coins from my hand. I ate the fruit on a bench by a lake whose shore was crowded with pigeons, which I learned were entirely uninterested in tangerines. A sweet-eyed dog, also indifferent to tangerines, came over to say hello and followed me back into town. He was mine, I supposed, if I wanted him. I went in, and when I came back out, the dog was waiting for me. I gave him half of my sweet roll. A parade appeared, and festivities broke out for no reason that I could determine. Church bells rang, and people began to line the street. The band with the animated trombonist at its center swung into view. The hard-faced prostitute draped in fur now wore a smile. She stared through me with her burning black eyes, and we shared a secret moment of joy. Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? Accept Deny. Contact Us Subscribe Submission Guideliness. Thanks very much for this, I said, holding up the paper plate of cake. I just baked it, Jennifer said. Not so well, she said. Just feeling down. She asked what I was going to do. Behave how? I wanted to ask. At a place called Tacos, I had two tacos. At a place called Bar, I had two beers. What Do You Think? One Nation, Indivisible February Fiction Rubbish Tom Payne. 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Buying Ecstasy Cable Beach