Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen

We’ve got a lot of time to kill until nine tonight. I’ve got my fingers crossed that Juanita is on the level and we’ll actually meet Emilio. I’ve got to do something with Boner. There’s no way I’m bringing him back in there and letting the large evening crowd fight over his boner. What should I do? I can’t just leave him alone somewhere; I’ve got to figure out someway to hide his boner. Josefina’s tried everything; she taped it down ― or up might be a more accurate direction. She even crammed Boner into one of her old panty girdles but he yelled so loud that we concluded that we’d rather look at his boner than hear him whine. We didn’t want to hurt Boner, just make him a little more presentable to …

I know what we’ll do. Wow, I’m now interrupting myself, what does that tell you. I don’t know but I’ll think about it as soon as I solve this boner problem.

I know, I’ll get a costume, a professional costume, for Boner, something that hides his boner and doesn’t make him yell in pain. We check the Yellow Pages again, this time for costume shops.

“Good afternoon sir, how may I be of assistance?” parrots a snooty, middle aged sales clerk as we walk into the first costume shop on our list.

“We’re looking for a costume that hides or disguises a particular affliction my colleague is cursed or blessed with depending how you …”

Boner interrupts me by dropping his sweatpants and exposing his boner in all of its glory. The sales clerk gasps, covers her mouth as if she’s hiding a grin and falls back into a chair. She soon regains her composure and stands.

“I see your problem sir. What sort of costume do you have in mind?” she asks without taking her eyes off Boner’s boner.

“Anything that protrudes out over his lower abdomen and covers his large erection will work. I imagine something like the sort of thing sports team’s mascots wear. They all seem to favor a large bilious lower body. Then again, I like the costumes worn by the characters that …”

She interrupts me with her eyes still glued to Boner’s boner. It’s as if she is transfixed. “We do have an egg costume, a Humpty Dumpty costume. I’m sure it will do the trick.”

She leads Boner back to a dressing room dragging this funny-looking egg outfit while I’m left to rummage through her large collection of pirate costumes. They are only gone for a few minutes when I hear, Mimi kuja, Mimi kuja through the closed door of the dressing room. Should I interrupt or should I let Boner have his fun? Boner’s Mimi kujas are getting louder and higher in pitch. Maybe I should break this up before our sales lady gets too far into whatever she’s doing to Boner … then again …

I finally decide to intervene when Boner screams out the loudest Mimi kuja, Mimi kuja I’ve ever heard. I push open the door and find our prim and proper sales lady on her knees in front of Boner. I clear my throat to get her attention, “Ahemmm.”

She stops her vigorous activity, moves her head away from Boner, takes a deep breath, rises to her feet, turns to face me and says, “I thought I might solve his problem the old fashioned way. It always worked on my Arthur.”

The two of us wrestle Boner into this giant egg outfit. The sales clerk reaches into the costume to make sure there is clearance enough for his boner. She seems to take an exceptionally long time to perform this simple task. I think I know what’s happening when Boner starts his Mimi kuja, Mimi kuja routine again. She seems embarrassed by his moaning even though I’m sure she doesn’t understand Swahili.

The costume covers his boner as well as everything else. Only his legs and arms are exposed. His head is encased in a see-through black top hat.

“This will do nicely.”

“Takatifu fuck,” is Boner’s only comment.

Humpty Dumpty and I show up at El Cerdo Rosado at five minutes past nine. We walk into the now crowded bar and no one takes any notice of a guy in an egg costume. I guess they get all kinds in here. We both belly up to the bar this time and order two beers. I take a big gulp of my beer before I realize that Boner can’t drink through the mesh opening in his see-through top hat. I give him a “tough luck” sort of look and he responds with, “Takatifu shit.”

I look around the room and see Juanita. She’s/he’s sporting a big shiner that she’s/he’s done her/his best to cover up with makeup and she’s/he’s wearing a new short sexy dress that accentuates her/his well defined ass. She/he is signaling me with her/his eyes and subtle arm gestures. She/he is pointing to a slick looking Latino in an overly shiny — must be silk — gray suit and this lavender and white-striped tie. He looks like a younger Ricardo Montalbán all dressed up for his role in Fantasy Island. Apparently we’ve found Emilio Sanchez.

Emilio and this tough looking guy — he must be his bodyguard or driver or both — stand on the outer perimeter of the dance floor as if they’re looking for someone. Finally this young sissy-looking guy comes up to Emilio. They whisper back and forth for a couple of minutes then Emilio, followed by his tough guy and then the sissy, all parade to the door. I don’t know whether to interrupt him before or after whatever they’re going to be doing outside. I decide that he might be in a better mood after. Boner and I try to tail them as nonchalantly as one can in a Humpty Dumpty suit.

The tough guy opens the back door of a dark Mercedes for Emilio and the sissy then climbs into the driver’s seat. The car windows are so dark that we can’t see what’s going on inside so we stand there and I do my best impression of a guy with a serious egg fetish.

Picture this, I’m standing in the parking lot of a crowded Mexican gay bar on a busy boulevard in the middle of one of America’s largest cites waiting for a drug lord, or whatever he is, to finish receiving or giving a blow job, or maybe even something more difficult to imagine, with my arm around Humpty Dumpty and I’m trying to look cool.

Two definitely gay guys come strolling through the parking lot holding hands when they spot Humpty Dumpty.

“It looks like all of the King’s horses and all of the King’s men got your ass back together again. I’ll bet the King’s men were a real blast but what did you do with all of those horses? Ha, ha, ha.” They both laugh like their little joke was funny and continue on into the bar.

I guess smart-asses come in all kinds, even the Mexican-American-homosexual variety.

About 20 minutes later the rear door of the Mercedes opens and the sissy climbs out adjusting his jeans. He says a muted goodbye and before he can shut the door, I grab it and stick my head into the car.

“Excuse me sir, I don’t mean to intrude at this somewhat delicate moment but I was told by my friend Chui that you are the man to see here in Phoenix. Let me back up a bit. Two days ago — I think it was two days ago — I hosted the visit of my friend Chui and his colleague, a man who called himself Gustavo, at my humble home along the US/Mexico border in New Mexico. Each of these men was carrying a large backpack of goods, goods that I assume they were importing into the United States. We awoke yesterday to find Gustavo and both backpacks missing along with my soul mate Josefina. Let me assure you sir, I have no interest in the contents of the backpacks and have no motive other than finding my beloved Josefina. I am hoping that …”

“Why should I help you, asshole?”

“For three reasons, Señor. First, because telling me would harm no one and be of little consequence to anyone but me and Humpty Dumpty here, and secondly, it would be a small payment for all of the kindness and respect I show your mules as they cross my property to deliver their cargo to you. And thirdly, I will tell everyone about your frequent visits to El Cerdo Ro…”

“Okay, okay, just shut the fuck up. I’m not saying this is true, but maybe this guy, the one you call Gustavo, your old broad and a fucking goat might have been here yesterday. They might have had some goods to sell and I may have paid them one half of their asking price. And I may have told them to see my colleague Jose Verde in Chatsworth, California for the other half of their money. Now you answer one question for me. Who’s the fucking fruitcake in the egg outfit?”