Veracruz, Mexico. 1974. Her mom had basically told her to bring home the bacon or not come home at all. And for a while she didn’t. She ran the streets and did what she wanted in a spell of adolescent rebellion, turning tricks for food and shelter and spending the rest on drugs, mostly pot […]
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Veracuz, Mexico. 1974. A vague recollection suddenly crystalized and then was gone. Like a postage stamp image flash in a vast photo album of memories and fragmented particles of hazy images. It must’ve been months ago, seemed like years now. Back when I was relatively newly arrived in the port. I remembered sitting at one […]
read moreVeracruz, Mexico. 1974. She snatched up the C-note like a baby alligator taking its prey in one quick hungry bite. She motioned for me to wait. I waited. I was her slave and maybe she knew it… or not, but a hundred pesos was a hundred pesos… She turned and walked a few steps down […]
read moreVeracruz, Mexico. 1974. She seemed to be thinking it over now. “Don’t worry about the money, nena” I repeated. “I got enough to cover the night. It’ll be worth it to ya… Vamos?” Her eyes rolled back like a cash register for the briefest tenth of a second… Like a cartoon character, rolling up twin […]
read moreVeracruz, Mexico. 1974. As the days wore on, I felt that even the giant roaches that patrolled the dark corridors of the hotel like kindred spirits, hiding furtive and sinister in dark corners, had abandoned me. One time I woke up sweaty and hungover to bring a bag of dirty clothes that had sat festering […]
read moreHere is a short chapter from Jonathan Shaw’s upcoming memoir Scabvendor: Confessions of a Tattoo Artist: “A man becomes like those whose society he loves.” – Hindu proverb Voices singing, bottles breaking… A ship blows a horn nearby. A rum-soaked, tropical night emerging from yellow shadows. Lively open-aired cantinas click into focus, eyes clicking new […]
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