This War Called Love by Alejandro Murguía

Author:Alejandro Murguía
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: City Lights Publishers
Published: 2021-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

After a bad day driving I drop by the Slow Club—and sit in the dark cafe, staring at a pint of Pilsner, too tired to think, but I’m thinking this: My whole life? All of it? The big boys squeeze the juice out of a man and spit out the pits. They make lemonade out of you and before you know it, you’re fertilizing a manicured lawn somewhere, and that’s it. What’s it all supposed to mean? It doesn’t seem possible my life is about this. I’m meant for better things, I know it. And Junior, what’s his fate? And the twins or triplets we’re expecting?

Then I think of the crazies on my bus, living without two cents worth of luck, and I see luck is just a matter of degrees. Once, when I was young, a viejito told me that luck has a secret name, luck is not its real name at all, and whoever knows the true name will have happiness in buckets. And for a shot of tequila he’d tell me the true name of luck. But I must have put the name in a vault without a combination ‘cause the next morning I forgot it. And no matter how hard I’ve tried to call it up—something like Anaromana—or close to it, I never get it right. I know ‘cause my luck’s never changed. So there’s no escape for me, and most days I just swallow the bitter brew of my fate and dream of some beach where the beer is always cold.

But responsibility spins a man like a top. So instead of running off to the South Pacific and living naked in the wild with a tropical babe, I go home and avoid the mail, just dump it in a kitchen drawer with the rest of the unpaid bills. I greet Gina like a thief, a quick kiss and I’m out of her face. I put on my sunglasses, plug in my headphones, the volume on max, pop a cut-rate cold one, and slump down in the torn-up La-Z-Boy, frying my brains to Tower of Power, “Diamonds Sparkling in the Sand,” or Santana’s old rock music, “Black Magic Woman.” If my nephew has dropped off a joint, I fire up, play some reggae. I like Bob Marley, no one better than that Rastafari for turning despair into inspiration.

After one of those bad days Gina avoids me till I’m more or less mellowed out. That woman has a heart big as a bus barn. Over dinner, I usually ask how’s the Lotto—any luck? Sometimes she’ll mention some new combination she’s working on, or she’ll say, “Next week, the planets will favor us.” In the beginning I kinda believed her, but when she started bringing home candles and powders from that botanica on Valencia Street, you know, that disco-magic, aerosol spray of Siete Poderes, I knew the bad luck curse of the working class had struck again.

I think it was cutting her long hair into tight curls that

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.