Back where I started. Broke, renting out rooms to refugees fleeing Central America and fugitives from US justice–people with no stake in society. Lalito suggested we stop calling the place an Inn or Hotel and start calling it a safe house. I paid him and the rest of the help and somehow have about 60 pesos left to my name. It seems that the quality of our clientele here at our little impromptu Bed or Breakfast is going down with every check-in. People from the states with no luggage except hastily packed backpacks who ask if they can install Linux on all of your computers and use Russian ip misdirects wherever they go on the web. At least the hackers tend to pay their bills. Almost 40 percent of people who come here seem to leave in the middle of the night. They scale the riot gate and take off, despite the broken shards of glass we put down on top of the gate. It’s meant to keep people from getting in, but have a problem similar to what Castro and the Soviet East faced during the darkest days of the Cold War. People fleeing our comfortable establishment and then writing horrible reviews about us on the internet.

Teresa found an empty pizza box in a guestroom early yesterday morning while she cleaned and changed the sheets. Inside, she found a turd wrapped inside a condom. There was an empty bottle of vaseline in the trash can. It’s not much of a mystery to put together. It’s not exactly a sodoku puzzle. I can figure out exactly what they were doing, or attempting to do. That doesn’t bother me. We should all be able to do what we want in the privacy of our bedrooms. That’s a given for me. If I don’t want to do anything but turn a fan on high and sleep in the blacked out windows I should be able to do that. Even if it means I sleep 10 hours a day. I’ve had exes who couldn’t stand that. They’d be up every day at 5 am no matter what time they went to bed and no matter how much they had to drink or drug the night before. I can’t do it. I’ve read that maybe 5 or 10% of the population do not get hangovers. I’m in the 5 or 10 % of the population that must be on the other end of the bell curve. That’s one reason why I rarely drink any more. It’s just such a mind fuck trying to function on too little sleep and with a hangover. My brain starts to make errors and see things with all available paranoia. It’s not fun. And drinking itself is fun for the ten minutes you realize that you’re suddenly drunk and you decide to have another one.

There are no guests scheduled to arrive until September 3rd. If that stays true then I will have about a dollar and a half to feed myself with every day until then.

I watched a lousy movie that was made from a great book last night. It was Charles Portis’ “Norwood.” The movie didn’t make a whole lot of sense. I guess it’s hard to translate compelling internal dialogue into anything that makes sense onto a screen unless you allow that character’s motivations to be spoken. If not, the movie turns into a lot of WTFs and why did he justs?

My clothes are falling apart, especially with the rainy season here. The humidity eats at cloth like moths. A sign of prosperity here is having white shirts that are actually white. My whitest shirt is kind of a blueish gray, the color of earth you pull up while digging a water well, usually after a layer of gravel and right before you hit water.

All day now, thoughts of escape come in and out of my mind. Half of those thoughts of escape are more like ideas for the least painless suicide I can imagine. The worst thing in life has to be failing at even suicide. Another friend of a friend killed himself a few weeks ago. This guy was much braver than I am, I think. What am I really contributing to the world? I’m hardly fostering a better understanding of cultures here at the Zika Inn.

 

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