Tranvestite Park
(A little something to hold you over as I finish writing “The Real Shit.”)
“The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.”
-Joseph Conrad
The fall of 2003 was a truly unique time of my life. The tree’s rich with autumn’s Midas touch, the malls resonating with the fervent songs of holiday consumerism; the jovial spirit of the holidays had infected the people of Houston like a plague of newborn puppies. If anyone were to witness such a spectacular period of love and prosperity as this particular Equinox, it could be easy to see how they could come to believe that the rabid bear, that is the inescapable darkness of the human mind, had finally fallen victim to the deep slumber that is winter hibernation. In fact, I would imagine that they would be completely horrified if they knew the truth. For evil had not slept that season and it’s acts of depravity were witnessed by no other than my own eyes.
I was fifteen at the time and, due to various complicated circumstances, I had been, once again, imprisoned by a hostile force of good intentions… The Twelve-Step Program. It was not that the time was not eventful. Hell, it was downright enjoyable at times. It just wasn’t, in my opinion, necessary and it often led to more trouble then an alternative lifestyle would have allowed. All of that is really irrelevant though. All that you really need to know that, as a result of the boredom that is the life of a well-behaved and sober teenager, I decided to forego an adventure that would completely rock my perspective on humanity and life itself.
It was in all respects a normal Friday night. Well, at least for someone who lived off of Wirt and 59 in Houston. The air was filled with the romantic howls of Hispanic hermaphrodite sirens, their songs of lust and addiction echoing through the subtropical canyon of concrete and steel. A thin cloak of condensation enveloped all that was left exposed nature’s unforgiving wrath. By all means, if curiosity had not managed to infect our hormonally imbalanced souls, this night may have been like any other. Unfortunately, such good fortune failed to present and like a cat that had climbed to far up the tree, escape from my own naïve curiosity’s wrath was impossible.
My friend, (let’s just call him) David, and I were bored. There was really nothing to do. We couldn’t drink. There was nothing on television. We were too awake to go to sleep. We were just flat out bored. Of course, when two young men are left to their own devices, they tend to come up with the worst fucking idea possible. In this case, it was to ask the Hispanic hermaphrodites selling their “personal company” on the corner, if they would play Monopoly with us. This would, as you probably expect, prove to be a very bad decision.
We got into David’s car and rolled on down the street. There was a cop parked by the trannies and he, I would imagine in retrospect, was probably busy being viciously mauled by them. Naïve to this warning of the potential danger that lied ahead, we continued to roll into the flea market of lascivious desires.
As we coasted into the parking lot, the prostitutes’ gaze quickly turned from vacant to feral, and as David lowered the window of his ’95 Chevy truck, their gaze became predatory.
They swooped upon the car like vultures. Their talon-like claws grasping whatever soft flesh they could find, their feral cries signaling their herd that a fresh meal had arrived.
“Te gusta loque mi miras?” cried one.
“Que quieres hacer con migo? Te gusta chingar mi cara? Se pienso que te gusta eso, gringo.” Shrieked another.
This seemingly great idea had clearly been poorly thought out. These were not normal humans. These hollow shells of humanity were destitute of their humanity, cursed with a primitive appetite for drugs so intense they had begun to resemble veloci raptors more than man.
The look on David’s face, as well as my own, made obvious how frightened we were feeling as we looked towards each other. Flabbergasted with the horrifying nature of the situation at hand, David laid his foot heavily onto the gas pedal and somehow managed to free us from what would most definitely be, certain death.
Their reptilian like claws scratching the glass of his truck, their demonic squawks paralyzing our auditory senses, we were filled with a paralyzing fear as we retreated. This, of course, did not keep them from chasing us.
They’re skeletal, track mark littered legs racing like those of a cheetah, our minds galloping with the dread of a wounded gazelle. Their intentions were clearly not benign. They were predatory. They had the scent of profit and as they salivated from their hunger for heroin, meth, and/or crack. They were not going to end their pursuit until they had fulfilled their hunger.
“Puedes hacer la chis en mis chiches?” barked one in desperate pursuit.
We really thought we weren’t going to make it. Yet, as the apartment complex’s gate closed behind us, the thunderous pounding of our hearts began to wane in intensity.
“Estas hijo de tu pinche madre.” Shrieked the disheartened harlots, as we ran to the entrance of David’s apartment in a panicky haste.
Although we knew we were finally safe, we still remained emotionally paralyzed by the bone-chilling experience we had just endured. We spent the rest of the night silent in a near catatonic state. We had no interest in revisiting the events that had just occurred. That’s normal for anyone though, I imagine, who has just visited “Tranvestite Park.”
