Paranoia

a short story entitled "Paranoia"

My plane landed in San José at 9:51 PM, 4 minutes ahead of schedule after two hours and fifty-one minutes of headache, turbulence, and a funky smell of tangerines and jalepeños from the middle aged Mexican woman seated to my left the entire way. I disembarked from the plane and awaited with nervous eyes as my suitcase failed to show its ugly face on the conveyor belt for yet another minute-and-a-half. They must have found it. They've got fucking dogs to sniff out every single piece of luggage and they fucking found it and they threw it off the fucking plane mid-flight. And now some fucking Nicaraguan (I think we flew over Nicaragua) has got a buttload of my clothes and 12 ounces of my cocaine. Pissfuck.

After long last, it rolled nonchalantly up the conveyor belt and I curse myself as my fear dissapates for again letting my apprehension turn into an obsession. I got through customs and immigration or whatever the fuck it is that they had waiting to petronize me. I didn't fill in half of it. They don't even care. They just want to get your signature so they can forge it on everything. I know they fucking do that. I swear to god, you can't trust a soul south of Maryland.

Anyways, like I was saying. I got through and the fucknig change assholes wouldn't change my pesos to colones or whatever the fuck currency they have here because it's 8 cents short of the equivalent of 10 dollars. They shouldn't even be using dollars here. No wonder the colón is so worthless. No one here even accepts it. Such fucking national pride. That shit would never fly in a country that actually matters.

So I had to go through the flock of vultures that is the TaxiCab's finest employees, to the ATM to cash some of my own curency to spend in their goddamn economy. I returned through the death feeders, where one offered me a ride and then another and another. They all call me "friend." They don't even know my fucking name. I'm not their friend.

After going to the counter and buying the "Boleto Officiál del Taxi del Aéropuerto," I chose one lucky driver to be my chauffer for the following 12 minutes. He is fat and greasy and he has a gold tooth. He is the one that pleaded for my business the least. And the meek shall inheirit the Earth... or at least a one dollar tip. We made intermittent small talk all the way regarding places of origin, mastery of the other's language and whether or not San José has a subway system. Of course this city of 17 residents hasn't got a subway. What a stupid fucking question.

When we rolled up in front of the Hostel Galileo, I discovered that where I now occupy is a part of a somewhat shady neighborhood. But what the fuck did I expect in San José for $8 a night? I dropped more on the taxi. So I stepped out and Pepé took off with my dollar and a grin and I rang the bell praying that I would be let in before being stabbed and pilliaged. They always fucking stab and pilliage people here. I fucking know it.

When the buzzer rang our across the street, cast in shadows, to anounce the arrival of fresh meat, I hastily kicked the door open only for it to close in my face before I could get my bags and guitar through the door. Frantically, I rang the bell repeatedly, trying to beat the dark figures creeping forth from the darkness. I don't want to get fucking stabbed and pilliaged. Rudely interrupting my fear, the fucker at the front desk buzzed the rusty door 18 fucking times, mockingly.

The front hall is painted blue and dismal. The only hint at life is a grey and black cat that is long-haired and wheezing.

The girl at the front desk and I spent the greater part of three minutes exchanging reservation information in poor versions of our second or third languages. My room sports the same pale blue-grey paint as the hallway and a single flourescent bulb affixed to the ceiling leaks a dark and grainy white light across the room in all directions. The place brings to mind the bathroom at a gas station... except with beds and filthy pillows.

The hardwood floor is unstained, uncarpeted and unswept. I know there are going to be fucking bugs crawling around here, between the cracks. Three Israelis paused their Hebrew conversation upon my entrance to cast dubious glances in my direction. One inquired in a heavy accent and without interest as to where I was from. I told her. They went back to their Hebrew and I put my sheets on the bed above one of theirs.

I then went to the bathroom to wash my face from a long day of travelling. There are going to be fucking cockroaches and pubic hairs creeping and clogging in the sink, I just fucking know it. I have a knack for knowing that type of thing. It's a gift, it's a curse.

But something stopped me short before I reached my destination. Someone. Ten feet to my left, a figure rose from the seat which keeps the computer company in the absence of their uses. I could make out the flowing, long, blonde hair with just the hint of a curl to it, in the gracefull moonlight and obnoxious radiance of the computer screen, before she stepped into the hideous, dark light of the flourescent lamp. But even in this light -- even in this horrible light, this light that makes me wish to be that man who navigates with sunglasses and a stick and a dog -- this figure emerging from one darkness into another is the most beautiful creation my eyes have ever been humbled to see.

Without so much as an exchange of mumbles and utterances, I know that this is one of the girls in this world that is worth living for and worth dying for. Our eyes lock on eachother's for no more than an instant. Call me a hopeless romantic, but I prayed to god in that instant that she would be in the same room as I and she and I would spend this sleepless night and the next exloring one another's sexual domains.

Our one moment of connection ended and I went to complete my task fo remedying my sweat-soaked face. And what did I find? Fucking pubes and roaches. I fucking knew it!

THE END