How did it come to this?
Methwaukie. A derelect suburblet nestled on the outskirts of Portlandia. The Dark Bar. A windowless public for-profit insane asylum lit with old neon beer signs and juiced to the tits with poison-swilling sports geeks, pool hustlers, video poker junkies, and Methodists.
"Boraclay?" Gus, my Argentino-American doppleganger in crime and drunken spirit monster, slams down his J & B shot then ashes his cigarillo. "Whats the flucks a Boraclay?"
"Boracay" I chuckle. "At first I thought it was some Middle East backwater." I nod and paw at my PBR pounder. "You know, big oil money, but no . . ." My boney pointer finger stabs at the grimey tabletop. ". . . it's a sliver of rock and white sand jabbed smack dab into the Philippines' vital tourism aorta."
What's this squishy stuff underneath the writer's booth? Dark Bar Rule Number One: Never look down.
"Well, flucking bonito, Duck, but why?" Gus belches theatrically, then lights up a death stick and sits back, spewing a long pungent blue cloud between the hockey-puck-sized gaps in his teeth.
Good question. No sense bringing up the long-distance blind date. Reeks of desperation. "Why not? I've flailed my entire adulterated life in the western hemisphere, why not Southeast Asia?" Blurred memories. Yesteryears lost beneath the time stamp of adolescence, followed by a dismal product launch into adulthood. "Besides, I got a weird email from a high school chum." Gus laughs as I swat the stench from my nostrils. "Well, not really a chum . . . more of a co-survivor. Dong-eun Kwon."
"¿Qué?" Gus raises an ungroomed eyebrow and gulps his beer, then, after a spastic belch, places his glass next to an overfilled ashtray, making ample room for his breakfast nacho.
"Little Korean dude, shorter than me . . ."
"That's no weird."
"Who rocks a mohawk mullet, listens to the Plasmatics and sucks at math."
"Aye."
"Yeah. The star quarterback cashed in all his athlete privilege chits by cheating off the only Asian in class that couldn't wrap his head around commutative algebra."
"Aye, stereotripes can hurt. Lets the buyers be awares."
"Yeah. Tanked our football season. Afterwards, the cheer team made up racist chants while the varsity squad took turns beating the crap out of him in a conga line under the bleachers during a pep assembly for School Pride Day."
"Ouchitos. Aye, sounds like the futbalistas shoulda's mixed valium suppositories with they steroids." Gus absent-mindedly taps his cigarillo's ashes into his beer, then takes a deep swig.
Didn't see THAT one coming. "Oh. . .kay? Anyways, Dong and I became fast and only friends, bonding over our social war wounds." Everybody brags about how they won every fight, but somebody has to tell the other side of the story.
Wait, is it gum under the table? Maybe glue? "After spending sophomore year in traction, the Donger joins the photography club, gets weird and then gets . . . even. Roams the halls in an over-sized wool Soviet Army trenchcoat with an old Nikon dangling from his pencil neck. Strolls into the cheerleaders locker room for an impromptu fashion shoot. Boom. Expelled."
"Aye, sounds like a dreamer." Gus curls a big, fangless grin.
I glance down at the green smear covering my hand. Ugh. Yep. Dried boogers. Never, ever look down. "Years later it turns out his parents were big in Filipino real estate." Where's that napkin? "I don't know how he knew how bad I'm drowning in the American shit show, but he sends a virtual life-preserver: Forget the past. Come to Boracay. Help him run a hotel. The Manila Dahlia. A solid do over."
I look up as Gus disengages his pointy finger from deep inside the crook of his left nostril. A shudder. "Or I could stay here and smoke crack? What do you think?"
"But Duck, you don't knows anythings 'bouts hotels. You is incontipent." He looks around listlessly for a missing napkin before slathering the snot on the table's underside, then pushes away his massive, half-eaten plate of nachos and leers at the twin towers of stacked cocktail glasses on our flanks. "¿Listo?"
I want to puke, but play it casual. The Law of the Bro Code. "Oh, I'm more than ready." My best Jack Nicholson psycho grin and a nod at the towers. "The question is, are you?"
"Dios mio, Duck, I is borned ready." He crosses himself, solemly. "Besides, a hearty brexfast is bueno for mi kundalini."
Craning my neck towards the bar back, I raise my hand, but Gayle, the Pippy Longstockings mixologist, is way ahead of me, ambling over with a small fire extinguisher and a blowtorch. "Hey, Dougie."
"Hi." Gus and I grab our straws. "So, what do you think? Eek out the rest of my life here in this three-ring prison clown country disguised as a shopping mall or . . . make an Usain Bolt to southeast Asia for fun in the sun and sand in Boracay?"
Gus puckers his lips like he's gambling away his unemployment check at the video poker machine. "Eh, is a no blainer. Takes it from The Gustradamus . . . " The familiar smile. Rows of rotting teeth. ". . . Adios Duck y makes lots of juicy notes."
"Notes?" I take a deep breath and nod to Gayle. She smiles mischievously, then lights the Sambuca and Coffee Liqueur on fire and pours it over the stacked glasses. Blue flames lick around us as we dip into the concoction, sipping furiously before the straws melt. Dual Flaming Lamborghinis. Breakfast of champions.
"Sí. I feels a great Argentino-American novel comings on, just readied to be ejasculated out." Belch. "Duck, you is no hung chicken. So don't makes a fools of yourselfs like last times."
I wince.
Gus exhales a thick, viscous smoke cloud from his nostrils and jabs his cigarillo at me. "Takes confidence with yourselves. Remembers, when push sniffs the glove, you is a killer, Duck."
He extends his boney digits for a handshake, but I pull back, not having any of his snotty good cheer. After some seconds, he manages a weak cough, then gives an awkward thumbs up.
A deep exhale. "Don't you worry, Gus. I'll make us proud."