Five Cigarettes in El Paso
El Paso appears out of the Texas night suddenly, like a milky way bursting, spreading apart across the valley before us. The Greyhound lights up as we roll down the other side of the hill we must have been slowly climbing. Most everyone on the bus wakes up, stretches, and stares out at the (sea of lights). The Fundamentalist woman beside me still sleeps, picking her nose incessantly as she snores. My neighbors speak only in whispers; the Cuban cursing at his girlfriend in Spanish; the 400 pound David Crosby character hissing at the old woman next to me.
David Crosby: She won't stop that(!) It's making me sick(!)
Cuban: That fat man won't shut up. He's making ME sick.
A crackling echo and the driver's voice wakes up the remaining passengers.
This is El Paso. It's about 12:30 a.m. Those going on to Phoenix and Los Angles, you'll continue on this bus. 12650. We'll have a half hour break. For those going on to Tucson or points in Nevada, your connecting bus will leave from gate 6 at 3:00 a.m".
I'm going to Tucson.
Burt and I set off to find a liquor store. He has half and hour, I have almost three. Burt is a short man, 40 something, beginning to bald, and alcoholic. He's been sweating and shaking through most of West Texas.
Burt: I wasn't expecting every county to be dry.
We decide on a nearby bar for hard stuff.
Burt: I think most of the bars close at 1:00. We'll have a few here and then hit the store.
I don't argue. One must respect your elders. The bar is a Spanish disco with red shag carpet on the walls, mirrors on the ceiling, and drunk mexican men in 10 gallon hats and unbuttoned, starched shirts. Burt smells dope, mutters something about getting a knife in his gut before a drink, and we leave.
Three blocks away is a convenience store. Very convenient. We buy a six pack and drink it outside by a dumpster. Two Mexicans approach and one asks for a cigarette. I give him the one that's been behind my ear since Dallas. A cop car slinks by.
Burt: Whatdya think the Law in El Paso says about drinking by a dumpster?
I have no idea, but convince him that the pigs have (bigger fish to fry) on a hot almost Mexican night. We finish the beer and with bloated bellies wander back towards the station. Burt has also bought a bottle of MD 20/20. I have four cigarettes left.
Outside the front of the station, a group from the bus has gathered. The Biker from Kentucky has a joint he's been talking about since Memphis. Now's the time he says. Here on the street corner. I squat and attempt to write a post card:
Here in El Paso. Be in Tucson by Sunrise. More later. Love A.
A young mexican drawn to us by the smell of grass, materializes from an alley with a zip-lock bag full of dope. Selling cheap. The biker buys a quarter and begins rolling joints to go around. On him. Isn't it always like that.
A quiet car is a cop car. That's what we listen for, silence - every other car can be heard several blocks away, the BASS pounding, shaking the cement, widening potholes. Strange enough, nobody seems seriously paranoid.
I have not seen one beautiful woman yet.
I don't even hesitate to give her a smoke. It was apparent before she even opened her subtle mouth to sing: Do you have a smoke? - She was the perfect woman. She could light cigarettes between her toes, recite Blake, Keats, and Yeats as well as Rexroth, Williams, and Bukowski, sing the blues, play the cello, fly a plane, make bird calls, handle a gun, and speak at least three languages. She would make love in graveyards, ride a motorcycle without a helmet, drink wine and whiskey straight from the bottle, skydive, drive on the wrong side of the road, skin her knees, and eat spicy food. I wonder if her imagination rivals mine?
She inhales slowly, thanks me, and disappears around the corner. But of course. At times my desire seems so strong it frightens me. I now have three cigarettes.
It's 2:30. I am alone. Burt, the biker, the nose-picker, the Cuban...they have all gone on to L.A. I lie down across the metal chairs and attempt to sleep. Everyone stares at me as if I was a drunk, or a bum. Damn, I'm just tired! A fat Indian woman keeps whispering to her two dreary children and pointing at me. I don't need this. Sit up. Push hair back. Straighten clothes. Let's go outside.
The air is cold and refreshing. I notice the security guard for the first time. Stand up straight. I don't look that suspicious, do I?
"Can I buy a cigarette from you? I have 25 cents." A 30 year old unusually good looking man steps out of the shadows. He sways back and forth, hands in his pockets.
"Here, don't worry about the money." I fumble for my pack. One is broken from sleeping on them. I throw out the shreds. Whoops. I hand him one and pull out the last for myself.
"Thank you so much. What's your name?"
"Alexander." I strike a match and hold it out.
"Thanks Alexander." We smoke in silence for a moment
"Where you going Alexander?"
"Headin' to Tucson."
"Ohh...Tucson is a wonderful city."
"Really? Is it warmer than here?"
"I would say so. Do you have friends there?"
"No, I'm sorta trying to get away from all that. I guess. Gonna hide out in the mountains for a while."
"You have a place to stay?"
"No, a tent, sleeping bag...."
"I used to live in Tucson. I moved here and got hooked on coke. Do you do coke?"
"Um, no, never tried it."
"Oh...it's great. I'm on some now. I was at this bar and I traded my ring for enough to get me through the night. The guy took it too, even though it was busted. So now, I'm feeling good. I like to check out the bus station and meet people who are traveling....moving...you know..."
"Yeah." Silence for a bit. "What's Tucson like?" I ask.
"Oh it's a pretty cool scene. A lot of coke."
"Pretty women?"
"Oh, I guess...pretty enough...pretty men too."
"I'm gay, so I don't really check out the women." Oh shit. What am I getting into.
"I noticed you and thought that you would be okay to talk to...you know?" I nod. "Does that make you uncomfortable? That I'm gay?"
"I think you're fucking beautiful." I don't know what to say.
"When does your bus leave?"
"Um...pretty soon. 3:00 I think."
"What if you miss that one?" I panic.
"Well, I really can't. I've been on the road for three days. I want to get to Arizona..."
"Oh, yes...I understand." We finish our cigarettes in silence.
"Are you sure you can't miss that bus. We could go back to the bar, do a few lines...you really should try coke. You could crash at my place for the night."
"uh huh."
"No." A little.
"Thanks."
"No, no, I really can't...but thanks..." A bus pulls into the station. Be mine. Be mine. Save me from this awkward situation. "Hey, that might be my bus, I should go find out....I'll be right back." I run inside. The woman behind the counter tells me it's the bus to Tucson. Thanks. I return to the man. I can't deny it, I kinda like him.
"Yeah, that's my bus."
"Oh" He pouts. "Are you sure you can't miss it?"
"I really can't."
"Okay. Well it was nice talking to you. Enjoy Arizona."
"Thanks....good luck with everything here." He reaches out his hand, but I refuse it and take him in my arms in a sudden embrace.
"Goodbye." I can't look back.
I have all three back seats of the bus to myself and I stretch out to sleep. It's been a long trip. Almost there. I think about the man. I think about the woman. I sit up suddenly with a revelation. I know what I want and it scares me. I want the personality, philosophy, and attitude of masculinity, and the body, long hair, and sex of femininity. I am doomed. And out of cigarettes.
Alexander Zimmerman