The Outing

They watched the fool make himself. He was drinking a margarita, apparently the latest of a line, and it must have been strong.

   “... and that, my friends, is how you dance with a lady. You see? Grabbing her arms like so, and pulling her in like--uh!”

   Calderon rolled his eyes. He couldn’t think and he needed to and this jackass, with his margaritas, was polluting the air with American bullshit.

   “What a fucking jackass,” said his partner Antares.

   “Sí,” mustered Calderon. He’d been called up for this job at the last minute, had barely been briefed on the details--and the tequila wasn’t helping his nerves. He needed the money though, badly.

   “Let’s get out of here,” Antares said, emptying the caballito in his hand.

Calderon kept his eyes on the sidewalk as they made their way back to the motel. 1058, 1059, 1060. He counted the slats as they passed.

   “This your first time?” Antares asked.

   “No--no, I done it once before.”

   “Yeah? How’d that go?”

   The persistent bastard.

   “Nobody got killed, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

   “That’s what I’m gettin’ at. I got a little girl to take care of, you know. Don’t need no ... surprises.”

   “Surprises? Shit! How do you think I feel? Was doin’ just fine before bein’ called up--just fine.”

   “That right?”

   Antares was a fucking asshole.

   “S’right.”

The motel was dilapidated and moldy, as Calderon had expected. Americans! And they think so poorly of Spanish people! Just look at this shithole! He stepped into the washroom and turned on the sink. A rust colored liquid spurted from the faucet and then turned clear. “Shit.”

“Amigo.” They were laying across from each other on the double bed. Neither had pulled back the rubbery comforter, or the sheets so starched they likely would have torn at the folds.

   “Sí?”

   “So, what’s our story?”

   “Shit ...”

   “You don’t know?”

   “Usually they send it to us.”

   “And?”

   “And ... they haven’t yet.”

   “Shit!”

   “Calm down, amigo. This is nothing. We will get the story by morning, I’m sure.”

Calderon didn’t sleep that night, but he did dream. Each new scene brought a different snake pit, and he seemed to swim in their thickness, incurring a bite with each muscle twitch. He worried less each time, as if the vipers of dream carried venom real enough to kill, and his heart was swelling--beating--pump, pump. That it would burst if he did not wake.

   So, climbing upward through the venom ocean toward the surface, he pulled upon the currents and finally awoke. Antares slept soundly on his allotment of the double bed. His arms were crossed over his chest like an embalmed corpse; his fists clenched slightly at intervals along with his smooth drawn eyelids.