"Oh, you'll get over it...eventually."
-- La Payasa de Lomas
"Hey Louie, get up!"
Gloria's voice swept across the small room. Through sleep- drenched eyes, I barely made out the outline of my sister's body, framed by a clutter of boxes, clothes and opened dresser drawers. Unable to move out of the way, I felt a shoe bounce off my head. Gloria ran out of the room in fits of laughter. Another morning after.
It appeared to be a special morning with a sort of pleasing compassion. The tree leaves against the window glimmered green with veins of chlorophyll blood. Birds chortled in the branches, sounding like laughter. Sunlight oozed through window blinds.
The room, the size of a jail cell, was separated from the rest of the garage by unfinished sheets of wallboard. On every section of wall space were murals painted in acryllic and spray-paint, with fiery colors and images of vatos locos, three- dimensional crosses and serpents writhing through dripping syringes. Various scribblings covered the door and table tops.
I arose from a bed of old blankets on the floor, bumped a toe on the bottom of the dresser and almost stepped into a pail of piss. Somehow, I made it outside, greeted by the moist dawn air.
Limping toward the back porch, the smell of huevos estrellados (two grade double-As, looking at you) cleared the tangle of thoughts which lingered from the night's turmoil of dreams. I made it across the back yard to my mother's house and entered through a wrought iron door.
"Sorry about the shoe, "bro," Gloria said as she glanced up from the dining table with a grin. "Couldn't help myself."