Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

Hurricane Season

<  It Came to Pass After This

by Matthew Dexter                      Taking Leave  >

 

It all started when the neighbors began collecting dog turds on their terrace. Not one or two either; we’re talking dozens, and their desecrated second-story patio is not that large to begin with.

I am at the mercy of the wind. At first I didn’t know what that smell was. But reading in the baking afternoon sun soon became so intolerable after a couple days I leaned over the palapa railing and connected the dots on the adjacent villa: separated from our own humble, rented, two-story abode by a mere meter. Lost in the black labyrinth of festering dog feces, my nostrils puckered at the degenerates poisoning our ethereal air: an American expatriate and a Mexican woman, married. They are a reflection of my wife and me, only older and grosser; don’t love animals as much as we do.

And now they’re only inches away, lingering on the second story adjacent to the horizon of the Pacific Ocean: with all that majesty and cobalt vastness. So I load my car with crap once more and check to make sure there’s no breathing room between all my stuff. Then I finish my business. Ring their doorbell, run like the wind. An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth. A poop for a poop. I wait for a reaction…but only the wind, waves, and traffic whizzing by.

 

 

Silent, stoic, the old woman wakes with the crimson sunrise and waits for her cow pie collection to grow as her dogs build more mounds by the hour. A bucket of feeble warm bleach and hope splashes in a wave of excrement. Water pours downward from her balcony, steam stink rises from the concrete. The dog mess disappears over her second story ledge, splashing against the freshly immaculate window of our bedroom below, as ancient history merges with the future; we are all connected like dog excrement.

Outside the air is clean after the flood. But the snow-white puppy barks as the Mexican maid makes her teenaged daughter clean the apartment like Cinderella. It’s our final moving day, my wife and I nothing but fertilizer in the wind. Our villa is nearly empty. Jesus Christ. All that remains on the neighbors’ terrace are two black turds connected. And the puppy going nuts to the musical beat of Young Jeezy through my headphones.

 

published 12 February 2011