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|The Restroom Story by lalaponcus(m): 9:17am On Jul 20, 2018|
If I tell you the wild dreams I have,
Would you cringe at its recitation because you choose to see yourself in the smaller picture of the universe.
Would you be enthusiastic to know that the Chinese gave me a medallion of honor while president Xi scrambled frantically to court my stay by taking me on trips to the ancient Shaolin temples situated deep in the mountainous regions of Shanghai.
Obviously his secret service had done their research and got to know of my love for Shaolin Temple: a film I had binged on as a child while poking the eye of a good friend in a reenactment demonstration the next day.
Would you be happy for me if you heard that the Spanish Prime minister me drove personally and chatted with me like old friends while his motorcade weaved through the snake-like countryside road of Cordoba.
Would you feel a bile beginning to form in your gut just because you saw me kiss the female police officer who is trying to control the raging crowd of tourists who have all flown long distances to be chased around the once quaint city by a pack of enraged bulls.
What if you saw that familiar face you know on the big screens.
Himself and Macron having a little conversation over dinner of macroni while rain drenches eager paparazzi photographers whose eyes show weariness from chasing celebrities over the town but with hearts that hold a little flicker of hope of one day being present to take the most controversial shot of all time.
More like the red carpet enthusiasts who wait to film a nip-slip event that would surely break the Internet.
What if you saw your affectionate 'bro' cruising in a motorcade of Bentley coupes on the streets of Columbia.
Two goons dressed in biker gang outfits riding on both sides.
Ten fully armed men with sunshades hiding their stoned eyes. Wielding the scariest Uzi's you have ever seen and casting dreadful looks at the cameras.
Beautiful 'chicas' blowing kisses from the rooftops as my car passes while their little ones line up to cheer me on.
Would you say 'that boy has finally joined the world'?
Would you believe that I have finally drunk myself to stupor with the intoxicating margarita of fame and pride?
Or would you pause your judgement for enough time till I come back before you throw your bricks.
For I may have been the special guest of honor invited to the capone of the Fuentès cartel.
My story that spurned the invitation may have gone thus;
Christian, the only son of the wealthy cartel owner, was a little dude in the same school I attend.
With a duffel bag containing his favorite toys always slung across his back, he would take lonely walks down from the class to the waiting black limo at the end of each day since nobody ever wanted to talk to him after being warned sternly by their parents.
Day after day, a piece of Christian faded into the void as there were no friends who could be bold to talk with him as equals.
Uncles passed nights at the house and tried to make small talks when their heads weren't huddled together in business discussions.
Aunties touched his cheeks in affectionate fawns, remarked about his swift growth before telling him to be easy on the little neighborhood 'chicas' and then usually left to join his mother in continuation of their talks which always revolved around the problems peculiar to the Latina community.
Sons of his uncles came around as well and tried to get him to regale them with stories of the men he had gutted with a knife, number of 'Yayo' kilos he had distributed to his school, the number of wild parties he had organized within his home.
When he told them he had painted none of the images they thought of, they tried to get him to smoke some Cubans stolen from their fathers stash but when he politely refused and nudged them towards his drawings of flowers and butterflies, they lost all respect for him since he could not be man enough to paint gory sights of death or the raunchy anatomy of the female body.
Calling him a 'puta' in their minds, they swore never to visit his house. Instead choosing to give flimsy excuses whenever their dads invited them to go visit.
Christian was in disarray and mama knew nothing about it.
Her steamy spaghetti which was always doused in italian pepperica spice could not excite his palettes again.
Weekly gifts of Rolex watches, golden chains and letters from his Dad were received with cold 'thank you Papa' hummed into the phone when his mama put a call through to her beloved 'papi' who could not step on American soil due to the extradition laws that could not cover him.
On a Tuesday morning when the sun shone brightly and wall street traders rejoiced at early gains made by their stocks, Christian decided to slip into the unknown.
With a stash of pills hidden under his hood, he made his way into school and immediately maneuvered his way to the restroom which he hoped would be free of the usual students who were always shit-scared to strike convos with him.
Entering into the restroom, he immediately locked the door and brought out the pills which he laid on the sink.
Cocking his head sideways, he caught a whiff of the scent of molly which had been grounded into powdery form smoked by eager initiates of the frat houses on the school ground.
He offered a mournful nod as he wondered which of the students was beginning a descent into a life of quick highs and destabilizing low moments where reality was a constant bummer that was to be avoided.
He looked around once again.
In careful steps, he removed his Ben 10 customized watch which he had gotten at Disneyland at 10 and placed it into his bag.
A piece of paper then materialized and he begin to write as tears streamed down.
A knock on the door jolted him back to reality.
Two knocks eliciting no reply, the student moved on to another restroom as there was a campus lore that pitched Mr Garrison, the janitor, as a wanton philanderer who used the restroom section to finalize his pleasure deals despite several queries issued by the school board who never quite knew the best way to catch him.
Christian turned back to his ritual and as he made to throw the drugs into his mouth to begin the pilgrimage to the unknown, I jumped out of the hidden place I was and stopped him.
A deer standing still after being blinded with headlights, Christian gazed at the unwanted intruder with a scowl forming.
I could not care less.
First day at school had left me feeling banged up by the regular bullies and the taunts about my color had driven me on a cry mission to the restroom where bouts of tears had been interlaced with mumblings of positive self affirmation which I had copied out from my Bible.
I did a 'two-into-two' quick math and immediately figured out that the dude casting me dagger pointed looks was the 'el-diablo junior' which other students called him in hush tones in the halls.
"Hey bro. I don't think you about to take the right move now."
I said, after giving a mental middle finger to every fears that bid me to stay quiet and ignore him.
"Oh yeah? And why you say that holmes? You know me from somewhere?
He shifted forward as he fired back.
Taking menacing steps which he had seen his uncles take whenever they advanced to the counters in shops where the owners defaulted in the payment of protection fees.
He knew the trick would work as he had always been told that humans are witless beings who always cowered when faced with folks who are suspected to belong to higher Cadres
His tactic did not work as I kept coming.
"Naah bro. I don't know you from anywhere but you are my brother. And I know this ain't the right move cus God don't want you dead.
As I spoke, he retreated a bit and sat down with a quizzed look on his face.
"And how you gon know what the hell God wants. You his padrè or something? Oh, you one of them Jehovah witnesses ain't you?"
His tone was quizzical and harbored a bit of sarcasm.
Still I could sense that his curiosity had left its state of inertia since I had been bold to engage him in little talk.
I smiled and sat down close.
The air auspicious with the deflation of tension.
"I ain't none of that but if you could give me some time, I could tell you a brilliant story and show you where you fit into God's plans"
"Yeah right. Well, you 've got thirty minutes before I bail"
I shifted a little close.
Christian resented the move.
I began the reel of events.
An account of the universe which had started from one word sentence.
He leaned forward and listened intently with a firm gaze boring into my face.
A babyish smile began to spread across my face as I recounted the tales I had been told while in toddlers class back in my country.
Tales of a God who was distressed about the lack of communication with humans.
Tales of a Father who could not bear to wipe out his erring child from his book of inheritance but chose to travel to the den of thieves where the boy was to save him.
Tales of a son who carried on like nothing happened and even shot the father in the belly while laughing and watching him crawl away in anguish.
Tales of a father who died and then came back to life to show the son the victory over death.
Tales of a tearful ending when the veil of foolishness was torn from the son's eyes.
A chord struck within the heart of my listener.
A flood of tears erupted from the broken dam of masculinity which had held it back for years.
With no kleenex in sight, my shoulder became the tissue that wiped his tears.
With no cassock donning clergyman in sight, my ears became the willing confession booth which listened to tales that would give nightmares to Hollywood directors.
Two other students knocked.
We did not care.
A long lost pilgrim turned sojourner was being led back to the path.
And a son was returning home.
The restroom incident sent shockwaves through his whole family.
The reclusive son had returned home and remorsefully narrated the turn of events to his shell-shocked Papa and mama.
Papa had requested for an immediate audience with his boy and flown him home.
Papa has requested another special meeting with the savior of his son to find out the best way he could repay the kindness shown at the time his son was knocking furiously at death's door.
I was flown to Columbia in his father's private jet with the intent of going to tell him about the savior.
A motorcade of Bentley coupes had awaited me at the private hanger of the don.
The public had been told that the saviour of their beloved don was going to pass through the streets and were urged to show their appreciation.
I remained seated on the leather seat wondering how much good the little toddlers class tales had done and how much better the spirit behind the tales would move when it would be recounted to the Don's hearing.
A drug cartel may fall,
But a soul would be saved.
Before you throw that brick of judgement at me, wait till I get home to tell you my side of the story.
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