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The present publication was developed by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC), under phase II of the global programme on implementing the.
Buying coke online in Santa Tecla
Manuel now lived off a switchback path near the old coffee fincas, a place where radio signals got lost between the mountains. Spray-painted gang symbols dripped over political party colors, and dogs snoozed in the middle of the road. At each stop more people piled in—a jigsaw of bodies pressed together, women with their purses strapped across their chests, men looking leery or guilty beneath their hats—as trumpets of salsa urging the bus forward, on and on through the winding streets. The traffic danced two steps forward, merged to a single lane on the left. Men rode on pickup beds unharnessed, gripping the railings of custom-built cages meant for cattle. Beyond, the peak of the San Salvador volcano watched over the capital, its face unequivocal and hard against the sun. Good for nothing! Just like your father! He and El Chivo in their scratchy suits, rosette boutonnieres bobbing up and down to the rattling beat. Sweat-soaked and slumped over a table, Manuel stared at the two-tiered buttercream cake with its display of tiny girls in tulle skirts. Fresh out of Zacatraz—six months: A jumpstart course on new business tactics, ha! Parties, drugs, girls. But Manuel thought of his neighbor Marta and her honey-colored eyes, how she had been missing for days and was then found strangled in a ditch, the fifth girl that month. Cops zigzagged through the rathole maze of La Campanera, handcuffed and hauled off all the marosos, no questions asked. Good to finally be able to quit the farce of going to school, though his mom had insisted he get a job, and the owner of the house she cleaned had set him up with an interview. All he had to do was present a clean police record and pass a lie-detector test. In two weeks they taught him the basics, and now he wore his gray uniform, number 33, and carried a shotgun over his shoulder. It was his job to stand sentry at the supermarket. The smell of raw meat and detergent blasted out every time the sliding doors sliced open. Day in, day out, he took in currents of cold air, death, and the quick cover-up of antiseptic. During breaks he chatted with the cashiers. He liked to watch their red-fingernailed hands grasp and release as they swiped packages across the scanner. The bag boys with their greased-back hair and tight jeans teased the young clerks, poked them in the waist, and broke into donkey laughs. They hustled to help the housewives with full baskets, the only customers who tipped. Manuel watched them carry the bags out, all those nice cars gleaming in the lot. It was nearly noon and through the store windows Manuel watched one of the barefoot boys waiting in the cereal aisle. In her cart, a woman wheeled a blond child, rosy-cheeked as the apples imported from the U. Manuel had seen other mothers buy him saltines and cream cheese, a toothbrush and mint paste. The woman nodded and gestured for the boy to put the milk and cereal into her cart. Then they turned into Home Goods, where the boy picked out a pair of blue flip-flops. He knew all the right moves. Everybody deserves shoes, a good breakfast. Why would he start tattling now? In the checkout line, the mother unstrapped her daughter from the cart and placed her next to the barefoot boy. The little girl smiled and swiveled her head to whip her blond braids while her mother laid out asparagus, a bottle of wine, pears, and cold cuts on the advancing belt. The woman opened her mouth but then just shook her head, smiled at the boy, and took out her credit card and handed it to the clerk. The boy dodged across six lanes of traffic, new rubber sandals slapping his heels, to the roadside shanties, a patchwork of plywood and corrugated zinc. The highway marked a dark seam across two worlds, the concrete and the lean-to. It spanned endlessly in opposite directions. It was something he liked to do, quietly count his footsteps. Other days, a word would break into two syllables, Mar-ta, Mar-ta , incantations that surprised him. He had not, until the moment the words tumbled from his lips, realized there was something he prayed for, something he wanted. When the sky stripped to pink, the red welt of the sun hung over the San Salvador volcano. To Manuel, it looked like a lowering eye, the clouds a hooded lid. At the bus stop a man railed at a woman while she stood immutable, her eyebrows pencil-drawn in arched surprise, her arms crossed. All those times his dad had romanced her back, telling her this time would be different and smashing a bottle against the curb to show her how serious he was. Manuel practiced a solemn apology, half believing his best hound-dog look might do the trick. Manuel took a bus into the crosshatched hills of Soyapango and the heart of his old neighborhood in La Campanera. But what he found was a cordoned-off section, more homes swallowed by the growing sinkhole. Like all the other abandoned structures on the edge, these had been gutted, the zinc roofs, jalousie windows, even the cement tiles pried off. The houses stared back at him like blind-socketed skulls. Manuel lowered his head and picked up his stride. Keep going, keep going , he thought. Manuel whipped around and there he was, El Chivo half hidden in smoke and shadow, sitting on the arm of a flower-print couch, the air heavy with the smell of weed. Dichosofui, How happy I was , sang the bird. El Chivo smiled and crooked his finger at Manuel. Manuel edged closer, held on to a sill, and peered inside. Three guys huddled around a table, rolling joints, counting money. El Chivo passed Manuel the joint and he took it. Better to say yes than to explain why not. Like my new chosa? El Chivo said, and winged his hand around in a slow arc. Free as a bird. I can see that, brother , Manuel said. Month by month and brick by brick, the second story assumed its shape, and the house rose above the others now with a white balustrade balcony, arched windows, and, on the corner, a cement eagle caught mid-flight. But instead, El Chivo and his buddies preferred to perch at this abandoned house on the edge of nothing, their backs to the gaping hole. She slinked up and eased her slender arm around the shoulders of the gun-toting man and cocked her hips. El Chivo grinned when he saw Manuel admiring her. Meet Estefany , he said. She likes all of us. Plumes of smoke curled around her fingers as she inhaled deeply. Manuel fell asleep that night on a bare mattress, stroking the limbs of the naked girl, her quiet breaths on his neck—whoosh, silence, whoosh, silence. He thought of his house just one block over, his mother probably hosing down the small square of their backyard—back, forth, back, forth—looking at the scraggly rosebush that grew in a rusted paint can, its fallen petals sailing on the runoff, little red boats into the gutter. Days later, at the peak of the dry season when the afternoons stretched tight as cellophane, Manuel was conducting traffic in front of the supermarket. Making room for a Land Rover to enter the busy intersection, Manuel stood on the median. He glanced over his shoulder at the cars churning toward him down the lanes. They swept past in waves, blowing his hair in circles, his shirt and pants pressing against his body. There was a lull and he waved for the Land Rover to go. It lurched forward, turned abruptly, bounced off the raised median, and the back wheel ran over his foot. Spikes of pain. He bent down, but the Land Rover sped off unaware. Manuel balanced on the uneven curb as cars whirred by, until finally a pickup came to a rolling stop so he could cross to the parking lot. The driver honked and waved; there was a family reclining in the back, their arms draped over the metal sides as if they were lounging in a hot tub. Manuel limped to the curb. Manuel spat over his shoulder and watched her lips moving, dark red outlining a shiny pink gloss, saying he should go to the hospital. But Manuel wanted to tough it out. That hijueputa, who does he think he is? His foot throbbed, and a wave of hot pain climbed his leg, until finally he accepted pills from the supermarket manager. Fuck this fucking stupid-ass job , he thought. El Chivo was probably watching some fifteen-year-old rub her tits while he high-fived his buddies and swigged the good stuff. When the sun slanted behind the maquilishuats, Manuel limped the three blocks to the bus stop. Please , drag of boot, hip swing, soon. Soon , heel scrape, fang of pain, please , his beat broken. From the bus window he studied the eye of the volcano. He imagined all his anger balanced on that tip, and as the bus drove farther and farther from where it had happened, he felt his body loosen. The voices around him shredded into the background, and the engine hummed to him as he nodded off. Standing on that pinnacle, or flying like a bird to some faraway roost, then merging into a kind of dusk. Manuel flew parallel to the roadside houses where a bare lightbulb let him peer in their windows. A family sitting on a couch, the blue aura of a television, a baby sleeping in the pocket of a hammock, a woman hunched over a table. When he arrived at his stop, it was dusk. Insects shrilled and his grandmother was waiting at the door. Bad things pass, good things pass , she would tell him. Abuela headed back to the smoke-darkened kitchen, where she stirred the roiling pot of frijoles. He picked up a tortilla hot from the comal and tore off small sections, savoring the singed edges. Lining her walls were puffed seedpods, fragrant leaves tied in bunches, vials of amber-colored liquid. She made teas for lactation, pregnancy, spontaneous abortion; salves for bruises, cuts, and burns. Women came to her daily, heads bowed, muttering thanks, and dropped coins and bills into a glass jar. Candles burned around statuettes; the Virgin surveyed all, expectant, forgiving, hands extended beneath her sky-blue veil. Lying down, he gazed through the rafters at the clay tiles of the roof. Many were cracked, others were shrouded in the webs of spiders, some sprouted weeds. Each tile held the imprint of its maker. Our bodies leave marks , Manuel thought. Our bodies are marked. Abuela moved in the candlelight, gathering the ingredients to heal him. Manuel knew this ritual. To be rid of the evil eye, you must first chew mint and tobacco leaves steeped in cane liquor. Bathe in this mixture and then rub it over your entire body, especially hands and feet. Pass an egg over your head, and all that is bad will be contained in that egg. When you put it in a glass of water, the egg will become red. Lying on his side, Manuel regarded the floating red egg while Abuela rubbed his foot with coconut oil. Every now and then, she whispered something to him. The way to overcome pain is to soar through it. Her strong hands massaged away his anger. He faded to sleep as she recited the Five Sorrowful Mysteries of the rosary. Hours later, a thud on the door. Manuel shot up, pulled the string to the bare bulb overhead, and took eleven long steps from his cot to her thin figure straining to keep the door shut. Her hair, loosened from its long braid, hung like a white mantle over her shoulders. Hijo, go. You are not doing good to yourself or anybody in this state. His father again, stumbling in at the witching hour. And just as Manuel realized that he had not locked the iron grating, his father burst in, reeking and surveying the room as he wavered between plunging backwards onto the sill and plowing forward. Manuel stood as still as a pane of glass when his father approached him, rubbing his eyes with his fists. Was it a moan, an accusation? But she stood in the frame of the open door, still as a statue in a shrine. His father stood and began hurling plates on the floor, glass votives against the wall. Abuela stepped closer to the wood-burning stove, and just as his father started toward her, Manuel charged him, forcing him through the open doorway, onto the street. In the quiet afterward, the shards swept away and the grate locked, Abuela touched the feet of Jesus, passed her hands over the holy cards taped to the wall, and lit a candle. Manuel slept soundly. At dawn, the roof creaked and the walls groaned. A tremor—three quick jolts, the earth pulling tight at the end of the dry season. The statue of the Virgin knocked against the wall and fell from her ledge. His foot was still tender, swirled yellow and blue, swollen like a ripe mango. He left his boot unlaced and walked outside, where he passed his father asleep on the curb, a scruffy dog sniffing at his shoes. Manuel grinned, thinking, It will be a fine day. At the tiendita he bought pega loca, the kind the street kids huff in plastic bags, crazy eyes glazed beneath nests of matted hair. Sad boys always made him want to turn away. Back home, he tore the package open and mended the statue of the Virgin, gluing her bare feet and crescent moon onto the upraised arms of the angel. He handed it to his grandmother with a kiss and headed to the bus stop roundabout. Halfway into his shift, Manuel saw the Land Rover turn into the lot. The door opened and the driver got out, gold chain and sunglasses glinting as he opened the back door for a blond woman. Manuel spat. The gringa of the chocolate eggs. Would one of the checkout girls tell the gringa about his foot? Leaning against the maquilishuat, he stared at the fallen blossoms, the pale open-mouthed blooms, the glistening splotches of those ground into the cement. He closed his eyes, heard her heels clicking, and raised his head. She was addressing him in Spanish, but the words sounded squashed and pulled. PerDON , she said. Manuel was surprised to hear his name; the driver had removed his sunglasses and was regarding him steadily. Army background for sure, the kind of hardcore military-trained bodyguard who looked down on him, a mere cardboard cutout of a guard. Manuel turned his face. Hey, sorry, okay? La Miss, she wants to take you to the hospital to get your foot checked. They insisted until finally the gringa asked the manager and he said yes, go because it is lunch. Manuel got into the front. In the back the woman was speaking English on the phone and paused for a moment to smile and say, Hola, okay, gracias , and to the driver, Vamos. Blacktop, piano music, and air conditioning—Manuel imagined this is what outer space must be like. He was dozing when a small gasp came from the back. Please, despacio! The gringa was photographing a family riding on a motorcycle, a toddler braced against the handlebars, the father steering and, behind him, a boy gripped onto his waist, the mother sidesaddle, her shiny black hair wild in the wind. Helmets not even an afterthought, a family traveling happily along the Salvadoran highway. This was pure fairy tale, an image anyone would like to keep. Manuel closed his eyes and felt the car float over the asphalt. The place wore a smile like a false promise. Across from him, a watery-eyed man in a neck brace watched a TV hanging in the corner. Little girls asked questions in squeaky cartoon voices. A boy with an arm cast batted at the plastic flowers in a vase; a woman with a huge pregnant belly called over, Cht, cht, cht , and told him to stop. The stuffing was coming out of the broken plastic seat, and Manuel willed his hands not to pick at it. The gringa sat cross-legged, her huge purse on her lap, smiling, as if everything she ever needed she had right there, clasped in her hands. Manuel studied the lady sitting next to him, her flower-print shirt pulled tight against her pregnant belly, her nails painted red, her feet clean and smooth in her sandals. The boy kept fidgeting and the mom kept shushing him. She nodded, waved her hands, Go, go, go , and he followed the nurse inside. A technician led him to another room. He asked Manuel to lie on a table and covered him with a heavy blanket. A sharp square of light shone down on his leg and the technician lowered the giant eye of a machine. Manuel braced himself, clenched his eyes shut. What would happen? Silence of Judgment Day, the moment before lightning strikes? Another beep, and the voice said he could see the doctor now. The doctor reached out from his large wooden desk to greet Manuel. Above him the Virgin watched over a crowd of children, her face full of love and patience. Framed documents with gold lettering, seals, and signatures penned the Virgin in, and fluorescent light illuminated every inch. It seemed to Manuel that everybody was perched on their own shelves. When the doctor handed him a bottle of pills from a glass cabinet and explained that they were for pain, Manuel ran his finger over the words, a file of smashed ants. He would never take the pills. Now he was standing on the lip of something, an open space spread out before him. He looked at his lap, his limp brown hands. The doctor swept a giant white envelope from his desk, took out a black sheet, and clipped it to a board on the wall. It came alive with the flip of a switch. Manuel had seen a skeleton before. One day in grade school El Chivo was fooling around with a slingshot; high above the banana leaves, the outline of a large bird preened on a wire. Taunted by El Chivo, Manuel swore he could hit it. The rock whipped across the treetops, the bird fell, and El Chivo hooted and yipped. The stunned hawk lay on a humus of dried leaves, its eye bloodied and feathers matted. Leave that shit to die , El Chivo said. But Manuel picked up the bird with his bare hands, perched it on a low branch, and watched as it stared back at him with its one good eye. A week later Manuel returned to find the hawk picked clean into neat sections of feather and bone. In the shining box Manuel saw the proof—glowing, alive, his foot a white, haloed wing. Alexandra Lytton Regalado is a Salvadoran-American writer, editor, translator, and educator. She cofounded the press Kalina and is assistant editor at swwim. Courtesy of the artist and Durham Press. Path Created with Sketch. Page 1 Created with Sketch. Dichosofui Manuel now lived off a switchback path near the old coffee fincas, a place where radio signals got lost between the mountains. Related pieces About the Author Share. Online Aging Ethnicity Family.
Buying coke online in Santa Tecla
in order to purchase drugs, spends all his money, getting involved in crime several times, increasing. Gabatz RIB, Schmidt AL, Terra MG, Padoin SMM, Silva AA.
Buying coke online in Santa Tecla
Buying coke online in Santa Tecla
Social Media and Access to Drugs Online: A Nationwide Study in the United States and Spain among Adolescents and Young Adults.
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