CHAPTER THREE (4)

Ah, the old super-mercado, where Toddy brought only the best flautas. They were warm, filled with lard and sodium, but on the first bite all fell away and there remained nothing but the flauta and its reprobate. The thick smell of them hung heavy in the air surrounding the entire corner that housed El Super-Mercado Jose Pancho Velazquez. If one was lucky, who just happened to be passing by, one might catch the very Jose Pancho (called “Panchito” by his friends, though his given name was actually Jose Fransisco Morales Velazques) walking sturdily out of his dumpy but immense superstore, paved with neon green and pink signs that read ¡Ahora: Calabasas 89 centos cada uno! and the like. He wore an extremely fitted suit, though bulgy in girth, and his breath wreaked of brandy – but in a bad economy – vodka. But never, never tequila. “Woudn’t touch that stuff to save my life, ju know? Too many of them Mexicanos drink tequila, and you wouldn’t catch me dead with a bottle of de stuff! Babosos!” he would say, throwing his soft hands in the air and scrunching his perfectly manicured but sweaty moustache. 

Today Ryan had the pleasure of viewing the half-drunken man reach for his keys and begin the search for his car as he stepped from the automatic doors. He first attempted at a Buick, but Panchito, finding that this was indeed the wrong car – or perhaps the wrong keys – screamed some expletive about his wife and tried another. Squirley watched from his beaten, mobile, collections car, amused to say the least. His snaggle tooth peered from his full purple lips as Panchito again failed to unlock the correct car. Green light. Ryan was off.

The buildings began to become more unique as he drove south toward the University. They became colorful and were built without the uniformity of the northern and eastern parts of the city. Some were framed-stucco with hand-carved doors reflecting images of either the Virgin Mary or Jesus himself, little lambs on a pasture being delicately goaded by their master, even particular saints. It was quiet here, though children could be heard screaming for their toys, dogs were barking, sure, but only innocently at cats. A precise tranquility thus ruminated from Little Mexico; Ryan drove through it forgetting his collections, as he always forgot everything in Little Mexico, and was engrossed in the swirl of random colors and enchanting smells.

But as soon as he passed Avenida Mariposa, the iron and metal ran unyielding through out the burro. South Little Mexico (El Sur, as called by the locals – but El Diablito by the Northern Little Mexcio burrowers) was a blot, and ugly black and silver blot in the city. Literal underground tunnels ran untamed underneath the city, trafficking everything from stolen goods to drugs to women. Squirley drove hastily through this sector, but turned left suddenly on La Granada to visit his drug dealer Gato. Perhaps he might be able to sell him a pound or two – after all, there was always time to sell some weed on Campus in between Collections.