Cojistory
Listen:
“I don’t have anything against autobiographies, so long as the people writing them have penises that are at least a foot long when erect.” Roberto Bolaño.
I don’t usually fall for Colombians.
It’s almost always a mistake. But Alejandra was different. At least I thought she was at the time. It was the year I’d turned forty-eight, and sold off all my gear, keeping only a few books and a laptop. I was trying to conjure Bolaño, smoking and writing like a fiend before his death at [...]
Minutes later
a hard tropical rain drove me off the balcony. I went back inside and picked a cold Imperial from the cooler. A call came in. It was my old friend Ortiz. He sounded dangerously excited.
I woke late the next morning
still drunk and having to piss. A cruel light jabbed at me from an open window. I got up. On my way to the bathroom I hit my bad knee on the corner of a stone table. A mixture of blood, beer, and seven year old rum spurted from my leg.
Two days later
I stumbled onto Navarro like a donkey out of Tijuana: sticky, ashamed, eyes squinting into the equatorial sun. I should have felt relief, or some sense of excitement about this adventure. But I remember walking the streets of Panama City with a feeling of doom.
