Mexican Monkey was over the other day. We went mountain biking even though every muscle and tendon in my body cried, "Enough!" I had not been on a bike in over a month until last Wednesday and did thirty-five miles with friends. Still sore from that I went out with Mom and the Boyfriend on Saturday, telling Mexican Monkey that I would ride mountain bikes with him on Sunday.
It was easy to tell him that because he said he was off to Palm Springs for a wedding involving military personnel. I was going to bank that Mexican Monkey would be too hungover to leave Palm Springs but he didn't get drunk.
The little fucker somehow stayed sober. I don't know how, but he did and showed up bright and sassy on Sunday Morning and it was I who had a hangover, rubbing every sore limb on my body and feeling confident that Mexican Monkey was happy, somewhere, in Palm Springs. If it wasn't for such a beautiful day, I would have enticed him with tequila sunrises but instead, mounted my steed and rode with the outlaw.
We had fun, great weather and all these runners were out, running up and down the hills. One more handsome and buff than the other. Two were definitly gay. Most assuredly for straight boys don't run downhill like a girl. The one in lead almost took off with his hands flying every which way like a coochie-coo dancer, the boyfriend followed with an eye on Birdman's tight little butt.
We were watching them from the platform. A base of some building that once stood there, probably a fire tower when they were in use. They use helicopters now for everything, including watching for fires, That chop-chop noise in the sky is unavoidable anywhere near Los Angeles. The sea was like glass from our perch. A mist rose from the ocean and covered just a small lower portion, making Catalina stand out like a mystic island. The sun warm and comforting along with the joint I smoked watching like an eagle from our high-point.
One runner, that tried to keep up with us earlier on the trail, ran up to the platform while we were sitting there. It was like an Olympic god dropped in. Just the taste of his sweat would send a mortal to the River Styx. He caught his breath and we caught ours. Mexican Monkey was thinking we could take him, possibly entice him with something, but I couldn't see anything we had that would. "Say, fella, wanna drink from my plastic water bag?"
Nope, don't think so.
Just being near to one so beautiful had made my day. Mexican Monkey was thinking of capture, I'm sure of it but the bandit made no move toward the Great Beauty. I know why too. The beauty of something free to be what it is. Now, Mexican Monkey lets his boyfriends be free as well. Even though they do bad things, he lets them. Funny too because he takes them to a bar that is within walking distance of a friends crash-pad, gets them drunk and tells them, "Let's crash at Mark's." But on the way, with Mexican Monkey grabbing every part of their body and squeezing and telling them what he has planned, they somehow find their car instead of Mark's.
The latest boyfriend was arrested for drunk driving last weekend, passed out at a light. The one before was arrested for drunk driving while trying to get away from Mexican Monkey's tail. Twice. And Mexican Monkey spent a Christmas weekend in jail for getting into a fight at the same bar he intoxicates his prey.
He is such a bad monkey. A bandit. A desparado and that's why we were attacked by Indians later that night.
Such a wonderful night. A warm winter night with the barbie cooking burgers and the two of us getting high on gin. Oh what a delightful night, until the Indians attacked. Mexican Monkey had sobered enough to drive and left for home. In a fret and a bother he stampeded back to the patio where Wally and I were enjoying the quiet of having Mexican Monkey gone but there he was, fighting mad.
"Mike! Mike, come look. Come look at what your neighborhood brats did."
I reluctantly got up and walked out with him screaming he was going to the neighbors and demand the blood of children. We walked to the street side of his truck. The front tire had an arrow sticking out of the side. A god-damn, arrow with feathers and when the monkey pulled it, out came the hiss of air.
He wants blood, and as I looked at the arrow and how it stuck into the tire, I noticed two things, one the arrow was not cheap, it was a quality made weapon and the angle was almost straight on, as if someone driving down the street was shooting the arrow.
This hood, if any brat did have a bow and arrow in it, was from Wal-mart not Sports Chalet. I suspected the rich-kids from the crusty side of Encino were at play. But then another thought came to me--why just the monkey's truck. No other truck or car on the street had an arrow sticking out of it. Could it be a pissed off boyfriend?
"Indians" I said.
"Huh?"
"Indians. It's obvious. You probably rode over one of their sacred spots up in the hills and this is payback."
"Those fuckers." Mexican Monkey snorted and called a tow truck.
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