by
__James

so,
hary woke
up
the other day in his hotel room,
spanish newscaster blaring from the television welded in steel cage,
a sweet saccharin/morphine taste in his mouth, and a painful pressure in the base of his skull.
Cross-eyed, he stumbles
to the tiny sink bolted to the bare pink and green concrete wall, inadvertently killing a giant
cockroach.
twice before he had this exact scenario played out, leading hary to note some possible synchronicity, but the pounding in his head quickly drowned out any
jungian theor-
izing.
his skin felt rubbery and cold.
half way through picking the hair/soap muck from between the blades in his last dis-
posable razor, the plywood door to the outside courtyard exploded with ear crushing
pounding.
"senior?"
continuous knocking.
"senior, es media dia."
hary makes his way to the door, "yea, uh, una dia mas."
He slips a two hundred peso note through the huge gap between door and wall.
the bill disappears as does the old man on the
other side.
hary loses interest in shaving and gets dressed. he had been in this place for just under a week, and was beginning the process
of blending in, even in the
vaguest
sense.
he still, and would probably always, stand a head or two over the locals,
and his ivory white skin didn't blend well with mexican red, but his spanish was, at least, getting better.
moralia is a collage town, and like most such towns, makes a reasonably good place for a gringo to disappear, and develop a tan.
thousands of young mexicans flood the
main zocolo
every
day at about half past noon , crossing themselves as they pass the basilica, drinking cappuccinos, flirting.
hary was
a student of human nature, and it was getting close to noon. hary locks the padlock to his hotel room door,
and heads up the hill,
through taco and pirated musical recording vendors, to a small
coffee shop off the main square, tripping over uneven sidewalks, and stepping over ancient and identical indian women.
"una cafe americano, por favor."
hary stairs at the five hundred plus year old basilica, and begins to entertain a thought; how is this different?
at home the first action of the
day would be to walk down a hill to a stikingly similar coffee shop, and sit for hours watching people. and then after the
daily sociology class he might switch beverages to a nice scotch or a cheap beer, strangely familiar to last nights activities, the only difference being the two thousand miles that
separates hary
from home.
hary sipped his coffee slowly, thoughtfully,
"scotch is expensive in mexico."
he thought
out
loud.

  Harold
R
epulic