To sit on a beach in Mexico drinking
cocktails with The Blonde, the both of us slow
from a mix of…

(“Hola. ¿Vende usted vicodin o percocet o oxycontin?”
The same line I’ve spit out in more than a dozen of these little farmacias since we landed 2 days ago. So far, all I’ve gotten in reply was ‘Arrepentido señor’. Sorry. And the man behind the counter shaking his head. So far, all I’ve been able to get my hands on is bencoprim, and tramadol. Oh yeah, also a sheet of xanax. But none of that adds up. It isn’t what I’m looking for.)

To sit on a beach in Mexico in the morning
drinking cocktails with The Blonde, the both of us
slow from all the rum mixed with muscle relaxers, mood elevators, and painkillers but still…

(This time it’s different. The man behind this particular counter, in this particular farmacia reaches behind him and pulls a sheet of white paper off a shelf. He unfolds the paper and lays it out in front of me. It is written in Spanish, but that’s okay. I’m not saying that I can read it. I can’t. But I don’t need to. All I need is to see certain words. Words like percodan, and adictivo, and I search my brains for matching words, like cuánto.)

To sit on a beach in Mexico
drinking cocktails in the morning with The Blonde, the both of us
slow from all the rum mixed with muscle relaxers, mood elevators, and painkillers, real painkillers, the kind that I pay 7 bucks
a pop for at home, but here…

(“Quinientos para diez, señor.”
I do the math. The guy’s talking in pesos, and that’s 50 bucks for 10. I nod my head and he puts a small white box on the counter. Then I ask him how many more of those boxes he’s got back there and he bends down. When he straightens up I see that he’s got 6 of them, that’s 300 dollars and I reach for one of my credit cards.)

To sit on a beach in Mexico
drinking
in the sun, and next to me, The Blonde. The both of us
with dilated pupils and tanned legs. The both of us slow from all the booze and the pills.
There’s a waiter
dressed all in white holding a notepad. He’s standing in front of me.
I order 2 pina coladas,
and 2 cans of Sol beer with just
the right accent and as he runs off to get the drinks I think about perseverance- that’s
me. John the Perseverant. Sure. Anybody else would’ve given up
after being turned down 10 or 12 times, but when something itches
I usually
scratch ‘til it bleeds. The Blonde turns towards me.

“Do you think we’ll be able to take any of those pills home with us?”
“There probably won’t be any left by then.”
“You’re probably right.”
“I’m always right kitty cat.”
“Should we get more then?”
“We’ll try. Maybe this afternoon I’ll catch the bus and head downtown. See if there are any pharmacies that I might have missed.”

The waiter returns with our drinks. I thank him with my
impeccable
command of the language, and we suck up some more booze.
 
“Don’t forget we have the bullfight at 3:30.”
“That’s right. Tres y media! Plaza del Toros!”
“You don’t have to speak to me in Spanish you know.”
“Yes I do. You’re a college girl from Minnesota and you’re here on spring break. I’m the handsome Latino you met at the pool bar. Tonight I’ll take you out for an authentic Mexican dinner, and afterwards you’ll invite me up to your hotel room. I’ll wear a sombrero in bed, and you’ll straddle me. And also the moon will come in through the window and it’ll make your shoulders glow. I’ll call you la fantasma hermosa.”
“Don’t tell me you’re already drunk”
“No senorita.”
“Then try and act normal.”
“I am.”
“Shit. I guess you’re right.”
“I’m always-”
“Yeah, yeah. I know already. Look, I’m gonna try and take a nap. Don’t let me burn.”
“No problema mi amor.”

To sit on a beach in Mexico,
to open a can of Sol at 10 am, to wonder
what happened to reality, without really
being concerned
about it
at all.