Stranded in Mexico
© 2008 Jorge Kafkazar
Worshipers of the bullfight are many, their ceremonies diverse. “Mano,” too, idolized the agility of the torero, his ability to find dangerous pleasure at the bull’s expense, then extract himself, unhurt, at the very last instant. Mano celebrated this skill in his own way.
Since there were no “horns” worthy of his skill in the village, he would hitchhike into the City and mingle with the crowds to look for large busted women. With perfect timing, he would slip past one and, in a single smooth motion, reach back, grab, fondle, and squeeze the right breast, then spin away into the massed humanity before she could react. Olé!
If the woman screamed or pursued him, he would duck and dodge nimbly out of sight, heart pounding, adrenaline gushing in his veins. He would then pause, count to thirty, and backtrack, sidling up to her from behind, unseen. A tug on her clothing would send her off balance, letting him massage her left breast with his free hand before he fled once more.
He called this his ‘paso doble,‘ and he would mentally award himself both ears, afterwards. The tail, too, if she was a tourista.
Mrs. Pulipidez had appeared in Mano’s village late one August, that same year that the meteor passed over, blazing from horizon to horizon in the twilight. No one knew where she came from; few people knew her name. She rarely talked to anyone. She lived in a small shed a kilometer outside the village. Schlumpfed her way in to the tienda de comestibles on Tuesdays near siesta time, when no one was around, then swayed home under the burden of shopping bags dangling from each arm.
She always wore a red XXL muumuu under an ancient, misshapen sweater whose sleeves hung to her grey-pink fingertips. Cheap sunglasses and a babushka to protect her skin from the Mexican sunlight. Huaraches. Her puffy, pasty face and air of dislike kept people away.
Mano saw her for the first time on his return from the City on a Tuesday. He would never have noticed her except for her tits. He was surprised by the size of her tits. They are a challenge, he thought. Two challenges. Look how they bulge her muumuu way out, popping open the top buttons of the sweater, jutting out just like…like a really huge pair of tits! Literary similes were not Mano’s strong point.
Even Mrs. Pulipidez’s unattractive appearance and strong body odor could not deter Mano. These, these are a pair of horns worthy of my greatest skill, he thought. But, in the village, there are no crowds to hide in. What shall I do?
Another quiet Tuesday. Mano, ski-mask-clad, lurked behind the smelly green dumpster in the alley near the tienda, waiting, watching, fingers clenching in anticipation. Suddenly, two huge, red hibiscus flowers bobbed in the sunshine at the mouth of the alley, just visible. Mano raised his hands and shot out in front of the shopping-bag encumbered Mrs. Pulipidez.
Time slowed to an ooze. He had plenty of time. Time to jab down one foot, stop, pivot, take aim with both hands. Time to see how truly substantial these tits were. Time, too, to see the eyes behind her sunglasses. The yellow eyes, with slitted pupils like a snake.
Fear descended upon Mano, taking away his joy. Stop, he told his hands, but their momentum carried them to their targets. Do not squeeze, he told his fingers, but they squeezed, anyway. Run, he told his legs, but they stayed frozen in the moment.
He was aware of everything: Mrs. Pulipidez’s fierce stare, her tits in his hands, the sound of her shopping bags plopping on the dirt, her arms encircling him in a grip of steel, like tentacles. Exactly like tentacles, he realized. His eyes widened with horror as he saw two more sucker-covered tentacles erupt from the top of the muumuu, unfurl themselves and wrap around his head. He felt a sudden twist, then pain, and heard a final snap.
“Mrs. Pulipidez” withdrew the tentacles back into the muumuu, patted its bosom, and picked up the bags. Then it stepped over Mano and trudged down the dusty street, alone, unseen.