THE DEAD BODY

In my many years of writing I have told myself that if I can write this story, I can write any story. A journalist faces the challenge of quantity that a novelist or a poet doesn't encounter. The novelist or poet rises to that one momentous occasion and his name is enshrined in the pantheon of artists forever while the hard-working hack has to return to the trenches and go over the top once again pounding out his 500 to 1,000 words. After the meal I go to the bathroom. I sit on the head next to a wastebasket overflowing with soiled tissues. Nothing has changed since my first visit to Mexico. A country that can't flush its toilets can hardly brag about progress. I am deteriorating. For the fourth straight day as I wipe my ass I'm asking myself the same question: Am I bleeding? To my mounting trepidation a huge patch of blood stains the cheap paper. I need tubes stuck up my ass and down my throat. I need my prostate checked. I need my heart monitored. I haven't been to the dentist in two years. On my return to El Bravo there are scantily clad señoritas everywhere. Some don't look much older than 15, but I remember that's when Fabiola commenced her sexual escapades shortly after her quinceañera. She had two lovers servicing her, the high school sweetheart and the Don Juan in Mexico City. I'm full of anxiety. The article stresses me more. I have written thousands of stories and commentaries, and I still face self-doubt when I have to step up to the plate and deliver once more in a key situation. I walk into the air-conditioned newsroom and I by the buzz Fidel is back. I head to his cubicle and his tiny cell is overflowing with other curious staffers. I tap on the window and he waves me in. On the desk are approximately 15 photos Z has taken of the crime scene. Marisol's nude body has collapsed into an indistinguishable mass of decaying flesh and jutting bones. "You should have been there, Tommy." "Fuck you, Fidel! How bad was it? Did it stink?" "I've seen a thousand scenes like this. I do my job. If I felt anything, I felt sad about the waste. You also feel for the family when someone so young dies so violently." "Did Z feel anything for me?" "What do you mean?" "Is there a photo for the Herald? You know I can't use any of this nonsense." "Here!" He pulls out a series of photos ranging from the police chief issuing a statement to a pair of ambulance attendants carrying the shrouded body from the crime scene. "Is that sweet enough for you?" "If you weren't a male and so damn ugly, I'd treat you to a weekend at the Island. I'll see you in 15 minutes when everyone clears out. I'm taking a few of these gruesome photos to inspire me." "Coward." "Writing about reality and living reality, amigo, are two different realities. That's why we need tough guys like you. Plus that smell. It sticks to you worse than a skunk's and nobody' going to fuck you when they can smell death on you." "A woman knows what she's getting when she screws a cadaver like you." "It could be worse. Some poor fucks my age can no longer rise from the dead." In my office I study the pictures. The creative juices are flowing. A man makes love with four generations of the same family. The youngest would have to be 18. Adding 18 years to each generation to arrive at the ages of all four women and to give myself a ballpark figure in which to exercise my talent, the mother, grandmother and great-grandmother would be 36, 54 and 72. These are workable numbers. Our hero is presently 60. He has seduced the 18-year-old to complete the cycle. At 60 his first conquest would have been the 54-year-old whom he would have conquered when he was in college and she was in high school. His next conquest would have been her mother, followed by the grand-daughter and the great grand-daughter. It could be a novella divided into four chapters. Then there is the character who finds himself in a cellar with his dying wife and a young woman who has taken refuge with them after the latest wave of nuclear attacks as the world teeters on extinction. Outside gases have engulfed everything and life is being measured in days, if not hours. He thinks about life as it once was: family picnics, rainy days, cold beer and baseball games. Death is literally at his door trying to seep into his underground escape. His wife is struggling for her every breath and will be dead within hours. His two sons were sent to the Pacific front six months ago where some of the heaviest fighting has been raging and he hasn't heard nor does he expect to hear from them. For those who survive, humanity, and he has no illusions or aspirations about being a part of that unfortunate few, will devolve into a prehistoric state, and yet, as his life is expiring, he looks at the young woman and realizes that he isn't willing to surrender to death because there is yet joy to be squeezed from this earthly experience. As soon as his wife dies, he will screw the teenager who willingly or unwillingly will submit. The story transitions into another protagonist waking up in the afterlife surrounded by hundreds of women. "Who are these people?" he asks St. Peter. "Look closer." He recognizes his ex-wives and former lovers although the majority of them are strangers to him. He also notices his younger sister. "I don't understand," he says. "All these women, at one time or another, were your sexual partners," says St. Peter. "And how many are there?" "There are 1,033." "God damn! I mean gosh darn. I broke a 1,000. I must belong to a select company." "Unfortunately, most the members of your select company, like the rich, don't make it through the eye of a needle. These women, by a simple majority, will determine whether you spend eternity in heaven or hell. Each will give her testimony and at the end of the presentation a vote will take place." "This may take a long time." "You have entered eternity. Time no longer exists. It's either pleasure or pain." I return to Fidel's office and he chases away the lingering gawkers. He appreciates these prep sessions as he supplies me with the details for my stories because they help him organize his article into the most sensationalistic presentation possible. Before I grill him, I listen while he reviews his notes. "How long had the body been there?" "The chief speculated that after raping and strangling her in the car, they dumped her body in the field." "Was she nude?" "There wasn't a stitch on her." "Why didn't they do a better job of disposing the body?" "They panicked. These crimes of passion tend to be very sloppy. They're not thinking and they leave a trail a mile-wide." "Could you identify her by looking at her?" "You saw the photos. Animals had eaten most her face and body." "How did they know it was her?" "The accomplice confessed and told the authorities where they could locate the body. And the police called the father who identified her by her watch and ring." "How did he react?" "He didn't do much but bow his head." "Did you get a comment from him? In fact, I haven't look at all your photos. Did you get a shot of him?" "There's a few of him. He said that the time had come to give his daughter the burial she deserved. He added that Marisol had been every father's dream and that she would always remain in his heart." "Did you ask him about his feelings toward the suspects?" "There aren't any suspects. They are the killers. In Mexico they are guilty until they can prove themselves innocent. He said that the authorities had assured him justice would be served." "Where did they find the body?" "It was past the ten-mile mark to the beach. I'm surprised that the police hadn't searched there earlier because the mafiosos dispose of their victims in that area. It's pastureland and nobody lives in that area. The two were banking on the longshot that the authorities might think the druglords were responsible for the murder." "Who found her?" "A young boy herding his goats." "What are the funeral arrangements?" "They'll have a vigil tonight at Esperanza Funeral Home and internment tomorrow." "And the killers? What is their situation?" "They are in solitary confinement. They wouldn't last a day with the general population." "Will there be vigilante justice among the inmates?" "Eventually." "What's the judicial process?" "They will be arraigned with a formal murder charge as well as other charges for their criminal actions." "What will be their fates?" "Since there is no death penalty, they will receive life with no possibility of parole although the accomplice could receive a lighter sentence since he assisted the authorities and didn't participate in the rape and murder. Neither of the families is sufficiently wealthy or well-connected to do much for them. I don't know how long they will survive in confinement, but the remainder of their lives won't be pleasant." "Historically, how big is her death in terms of public reaction?" "I can't remember the people this mesmerized by a murder. Unlike your run-of-the-mill murders that don' touch the community's kids, this has traumatized thousands of families. Parents and their children are watching news and reading the newspapers in order to keep up with the latest events." "What are your children's names?" "Mayra and Miguel. Why?" "I may have to attribute comments to them. You don't mind, do you?" "I don't, but what about your prestigious newspaper?" "My bosses don't know what's going on in Brownsville, let alone here. By the way, what was the shepherd's name?" "Is he going to pontificate on the murder too?" "It's not about the messenger. It's about the message." "Cipriano Hinojosa." ""Anything else?" "This was curious. About five meters from Marisol's body was a dog nursing puppies. I thought it was odd that they were there." "Maybe they were the animals that were feeding on her. In death there is life. Thanks, Fidel. Eres fantástico. Drinks and dinner are on me early next week. I wouldn't mind stepping back into the Bikini Club and checking out the young things." We shake hands. I retreat to my office, close the blinds and put Bach on the CD. It is exactly two. As the boxing announcer says: "Let's get ready to rumble."