Cinco de Hongo

The uncanny valleys of Central Florida infringe on any concept of reality, cultural holiday or not. The plastic, shiny, town of Doctor Phillips is known for golf courses of unnatural greens and surgeons specializing in augmenting humanity and nearby theme parks providing false escapes from harsh normalities. And Doctor Phillips is known for Rocco’s Tacos, a temple built for the worship of trademark branded Mexi-carnality. Today, Rocco’s high priestesses in red lipstick & raven hair have spilled out of the temple into the annexed parking lot for a street party. Rocco de Mayo. Every mariachi in town is here. They had no choice, having been thrown in a van and held captive by Rocco only to be released this afternoon like wedding doves singing cuu-cuu-cu-ruuuuu paloma! Santa Muerte has risen from the underworld with her skeletal goons on stilts. Salt & lime & triple-sec are rubbed into our hangover wounds. The asphalt is slick with taco meat spilt from your mishandled tortilla shell. 

I am in my element.   

But not everyone is. As I float along the tumultuous currents, I spy a dude who looks vaguely familiar. We make eye contact. I judge him harmless, give him a nod hinting at possible recognition then move my attention elsewhere. He’s still staring at me. Unblinking. Christ man, at least lick your eyeballs. I suspect he is a part of Daisy’s entourage. There are a dozen of them here. Her little fucklings, Daisy calls them. Her followers. They mostly consist of reformed former lovers. Daisy’s discarded boyfriends, rinsed, recycled. And they bring their current tagalong girlfriends. Themselves cheap imitations of Daisy: if the forbidden fruit does not hang low enough, pickup whichever fruit has fallen. Daisy’s sister is here. And then there is this dude. Not sure where he fits in. He looks lost. Disheveled. Panicked. He’s the look of a domesticated dog – neutered, mannered by design – who’s been loosed into the wild. 

Hey Buck, I say to the lost dog. You alright?, I ask. 

Shit, it’s you, he says. He then insists he’s not Buck. What is it you said?, he asks me. I shrug at the guy. Dunno bro, I say. No, he says, no, no, it was about the ouroboros. The serpent sucks its own cock as the Mobius strippers gyrate, he says. 

Oh man, you are fucked, I say with calm subtly. I wonder what chemical cocktail Daisy has him on. 

No, he shakes his head. And laughs. Fuck, he says. The Maya Apocalypse already happened and we missed it. Yeah, well…, I say to him, no one expects the Spanish Inquisition. Buck laughs at the Monty Python reference. His laugh trails into a whimper. He covers his face with his hands to hide from the world around him. 

Come on, dude, I say to him. Let’s get you a bottle of water and a place to sit in the shade. I guide him to a free table and leave him to whichever fresh hells he’s stepped into. He’s not my fucking responsibility. Especially if he is one of Daisy’s little fucklings. He knew what he was signing up for. 

I don’t mind most of Daisy’s collection of misfit toys. They’re all a little off, but entertaining when not entirely unbearable. Privileged. Moneyed class. Idle hands. She’s gathered them from the cobblestoned streets of nearby Winter Park where they shuffle about aimlessly where the feral peacocks roam. They are alumni from Rollins College or scooterers from the Vespa bar she frequents or patrons of the Mini Cooper dealership she handles marketing for. Of course, I associate without being among their ranks. I’m no fuckling. Daisy clarified how I am different. You’re rental class, babe, she once told me. They all have yacht rock daddies, she said of her fucklings, but you’re here like a flaming tumbleweed. No one knows what to make of you, Daisy said. She liked that about me. It made me worth keeping around. 

As far as Daisy?, she is what your proctologist has been warning you about. She is a kitchen sink kind of woman. If you want to keep up with her, you’re going to have to go all-in. Scorched earth policy. Burn bridges, poison wells, don’t return calls from mum. My pal and confidant, Tusk, once met Daisy at a downtown Orlando art gallery. Dang dude-bro, Tusk said to me. She’s a loaded baked potato. You better tuck in that bib, Vic. She’s more than you’re bargaining for.

I leave the street party for the cool interior of Rocco’s Tacos where Daisy’s sister has procured a table. Daisy has reserved a chair for me at her side. Look who’s her favorite boy today: this guy. She doesn’t introduce me to her people. Which is fine. I’d soon forget their names anyway. Names like bubbles of flat champagne. And yet it is Daisy who is the amnesiac. Late night phone calls she doesn’t remember the next day. This is why you shouldn’t mix Ambien with your whiskey nightcap before bed. Promises cannot be broken if they were never made, she’d say, having forgotten prior night pledges. Her Ambien-induced amnesia is enough to ask: who is the real Daisy? The chaos-embracing urban cowgirl she presents to the public? Or the vulnerable kindred spirit whose confessions only come when her sleep aid lowers her defenses? 

It was enough to ask… who is the real…? Who is…?, what?, I’m losing my train of thought. Who is the real salsa before me. There is this sour tomatillo green sauce shimmering from the overhead light. And this smokey chipotle which, for a moment, I wonder if it is composed with the remains of a sacrificial virgin’s heart. Oof. I feel good. I hold up my Corona. I’ve barely drank much more than the neck, but I feel real good. Are you okay?, Daisy asks me. Yeah, I say, this might be the best beer I have ever had. Are you sure you are okay?, she asks. I’m great, I insist, but I don’t know who keeps feeding me chips & salsa. Daisy studies my eyes for a moment before saying, babe, you are feeding yourself chips & salsa. Oh, okay, I nod. That would make more sense. Are you fucked up?, Daisy asks. Are you freaking out?, she asks. I look across the table at Daisy’s sister, who gasps at me. Oh my god, the sister says. But what does she owe her god? What do any of us owe our creators? And why would I be freaking out?, I ask. 

No one at the table is laughing. Then where is all the laughter coming from? Oh!, it’s me. I am laughing. Why would I be freaking out?, I wonder. From the mushrooms, Daisy says. What mushrooms?, I wonder. Daisy’s sister repeats, oh my god. He doesn’t know, the sister says of me. Daisy, the sister says. Daisy, did you not tell him? Oh my god. 

I look between the sisters. What debts have come due? What do we owe the gods? And what mushrooms?, I ask. Que hongos? Mushrooms. In the chocolate. The chocolate I ate. An hour ago. Oh my god, the sister says. Dios mio, I say. Am I freaking out? Daisy you are fucking evil, her sister says. Daisy’s eyes are concerned. She squeezes my wrist. Don’t make a scene, she says. 

No. Of course not. No scenes. Exit stage left. I stand up. I’m very tall. I’m fucking looming. Looming. Drifting away. Whoa. I grab the edge of the table as my ankles float up, out from under me, rising above my hips, above my head. The salsas are bubbling in their bowls. All the fucklings point their fuckling eyes at me. A forty-eyed monster. Some god’s debt-collector knocking on the door. I want to address them. I want to excuse myself. I want to say something witty to these people. Daisy’s fucklings. But I have no power of speech. There are words in my head, but they cannot find their way to my tongue. I don’t excuse myself. I walk away. Yes. Go freak out elsewhere. Don’t freak out in front of Daisy’s fucklings. Don’t make a scene. 

I’m walking. Completely natural. Nothing to see here. Everything is natural. All natural. Granola. 

What do I do? Dad always said if you fall overboard, don’t let go of your paddle. Okay. Okay. 

Sixteen creeping Jesuses, why are there so many mariachis? Sweaty browed. Mustachioed. Am I singing along? Stop singing. How do I even know the lyrics? The words come to me. Into my earhole. I’ve discovered the akashic records. I know everything. At least every mariachi song. 

I am tripping. Think! Elements of the world come into extreme focus one particle at a time. I hear the flap of a monarch butterfly’s wing. Hola mariposa! I guess I can speak Spanish now. Vaya mandanga? Vaya con dios. Vaya conmigo. Why are these songs so fucking sad? Think! God damn it, Vic, only you can regain control of your mind. What do we do? Don’t let go of your paddle. I’m overboard, floating through the street party, looking for a river bank to climb up. I want to lick a river stone. Naturally. 

There are a thousand people around me. I can’t avoid them. I am rooted. My legs are mushroom trunks. Anchoring me into the earth. Mis hongos!

At least no one can see me. Only this fucking guy. Look at this fucking guy. What does he know? He’s got fucking secrets. Look at his face, melting above that guayabera shirt. He approaches and takes off his sunglasses to examine me. One perked eyebrow. Looking under the microscope at me. Hey Buck, he says. You alright?

Oh shit! I laugh. It’s you, I say. He doesn’t get it. This inside joke we share. Don’t you get it? I am not Buck. And any moment now you’re going to say that one thing. What is it you said? About the ouroboros? A snake sucking its own dick like a twisted Mobius strip? 

Oh man, he says. Not laughing. He still doesn’t get it. He says, you are fucked. 

Ha!, I laugh. Someone started a Maya Apocalypse and forgot to invite me. He mentions the Spanish Inquisition. I laugh again. Oh shit. That would be bad. Will they throw me in the dungeons? Just because I am a motherfucking warlock? Shit. But they can’t capture me. Because I am a motherfucking warlock!

I’m okay. I am sitting in the mud. In the shade. I am alone. But I haven’t let go of my paddle. I’m just waiting for my dad to come find me downriver. 

Thousands of people are dancing at the end of the world. And I have a front row seat. I am going to be here for a while. The world is ending, but I am not going anywhere. 

Te gustaría más hongos? Follow Vic to Mexico in The Oaxaca Screwjob: an Infernal Night of Lucha Libre