The Vagabond

El Vago

If we wish to better our people we must not only start with ourselves, but we must educate the proletariat. Beer and fags are cheap. But books aren't. Do you not see a problem? - Sergio Gomez

With a mixture of trepidation and excitement I rang the door bell to the Hostel de la Craneo in Mexico City. I waited for a response; but it was several long seconds before a dark skinned Mexican dressed in a white button down shirt and jeans greeted me at the door. When though only thirty or seconds had passed, I grew slightly anxious at the daily; I didn’t endure a 48 hour sleepless bus ride for nobody to be at my destination.
“Bienvenidos! I’m Edgar and I manage this place,” he said, extending his hand.

I shook his hand and entered the hostel. A quick look around revealed crude murals of skulls and cacti on the walls. In the kitchen there was graffiti from the past guests, such as the intro to Eminem’s _ Yellow Brick Road_ and a quote by Sergio Gomez formally of the band K-Paz de la Sierra about the need to “educate to the proletariat.” But what the hell was I doing in the Distrito Federal the first place? I had abandoned the cultural destitution of American suburbia in search of adventure. Armed with a Teaching English as Foreign Language certificate, I was ready to change my life and perspective and maybe even the world. I didn't change the world but the former two changed dramatically as you’ll soon see.
My accommodations were a strange little room on the second floor. There were two bunk-beds, but I was the only inhabitant of the room. At the foot of the bunk-bed opposite mine were four filthy mattresses standing on end, including one with Winnie-the-Pooh like figures printed on it. The only other furniture was a wardrobe with the door broken and a plastic chair stained black on the seat. It was dump, but it was a place to stay for a while.
###
The next day my head pounded and my back hurt, but I was glad to be in a house of sorts and off that damn bus. After descending the creaky stairs slowly and carefully, I found the other guests sitting on the couch in the common room. Champion’s League Football was on the television; the Glasgow Celtic against Barcelona. On the table was a sort of on an unfolded omelet with potatoes.

“This is a Spanish Tortilla,” explained Jose'. Jose' was a Spanish hippy dressed in loose, green hemp pants made up of a patchwork of different shades of green with a drawstring across the waist and a Barcelona football shirt. His hair was in filthy dreadlocks.

“No thanks. I'm not hungry.” This tortilla looked a little strange to me; eggs with pieces of potato in it didn’t whet my appetite.

“We are a great family here, don’t be shy. Eat!”

I was convinced, rather easily I will admit. My fist meal in Mexico tasted of eggs and undercooked potatoes. It was terrible from the taste and wonderfully nourishing at once.

The doorbell rang. I mouthed the words “Fuck-off” to “Ding-dong” of the bell. While I wasn’t exactly in a bad mood, I didn’t want more people around. Edgar went to answer the door.

“EDGAR!” said a loud female voice.

“Ah, Alice. Welcome. Come on in.”

Alice looked the part of a burned out hippie, aged and emaciated by too many drugs and too many parties. She had severely cracked and infected and unkempt and frayed hair.

“Are you ok?” asked Edgar. He hesitated, as if searching for the correct word. “You seem...tired.”

“Esta bien.” She seemed by her inflection to be making a point of using Spanish. “Edgar, my amigo will be coming mañana.”

“Ok, perfect. What’s his name?”

“Adolfo. He’s a great guy that I met in Beverly Hills outside my father's jewelry store.”

“Is he a businessman?”

“Oh he doesn’t need to work at all.”

“Very interesting.” There was more than a hint a of suspicion in Edgar’s voice.
That night we had a party of sorts. Edgar played bootleg Tears for Fears CDs. Annoyingly, he insisted on playing _ Everybody Wants to Rule the World_ over and over again. A dark but nearly tasteless piss beer called Indio was served.
Edgar decided to regale us with a story about how Tear for Fears stayed at at the hostel. “Why would Tears for Fears stay at this hostel?” I asked. “Why didn't they just stay at a fancy hotel?”

“They were tired of acting like big stars,” explained Edgar in voice suggesting he explained this many times before. “They just wanted to travel like everybody else, like a backpacker. So about a month and half ago I heard the bell ring and imagine my surprise when it was Tears for Fears!”

“I was already staying here a month and a half ago,” said Jose'. “I didn't see Tears for Fears on that couch!”

Edgar sighed. “Don’t you remember? You went to Pub Ireland that night, but I stayed here to watch the place. About three in the morning I heard the bell ring. I thought 'Who the hell is ringing the bell this late?' At first I didn't answer it and thought it was just a drunk idiot who would go away. But they kept ringing the bell. When I answered, it was Tears for Fears! We had some beers and they sang some songs for me and they checked out the next night.”

“I would have seen them, no? Even if I was at Pub Ireland when they came, I
would have seen them when they checked out or during the day.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. José had gone a little too far in disproving the Tears for Fears story.

Edgar broke the silence. “I tell you that Tears for Fears was here!” He turned toward me. “You like Tears for Fears?”

“No. Are they even still touring together?”

“You are not an American. They are an American band and you aren’t an American if you don't like them!”

“I think they’re English. Besides, even if they were American it doesn't mean that I automatically have to like them. Do you like all Mexican bands?”

There was a knock at the door.

“Maybe my amigo is here early,” said Alice. “Listen, he is a great guy. But sometimes he’s a little strange. “

I wondered what this burned out hippy would call strange.

Edgar simply said “Strange?”

“Well,” began Alice. “Don’t let his looks scare you. He’s really gentle and protective.” She paused for a pregnant moment. “That is if you’re that way to him. Also don’t even act like you want to fuck me, or they’ll be a fight.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem about the last part,” I said. It was snide, but the comment just slipped out.

Edgar shot me a slightly dirty look and went to answer the door.

“Is Alice here?” said an extremely nasal voice. With every syllable stretched out. “I’m Adolfo. Alice is expecting me.”

“Enter, guey” said Edgar with some hesitation in is voice. Guey is a Mexican Spanish word that nominally means “dude” but other times seems to act more like an oral punctuation mark.

There were loud clumping noises that grew steadily louder and closer. Soon a bizarre indigenous-looking Mexican appeared in the living room. He looked homeless with his clothes in tatters. The clumping sound came from the plaster cast on his foot. His eyes were an almost unnatural green color and seemed to betray a deep sorrow.

“Adolfo!” Alice hugged him tightly. “I’m glad you could make it this soon. You’re feeling better, no?”

“I am very thirsty. But after this work, I’ll be strong again. No more goats.”
Jose' and I looked at each other and shrugged at their strange conversation. To say Alice misrepresented her strange guest would be an understatement.

“So, where do you normally live?” Edgar quizzed. “In Beverly Hills? You don’t look live you live in Beverly Hills.”

“Where I wake up is home. Now this place will be my home.”

“I see,” said Edgar slowly, his lips forming a frown. “Where do you come from?”

“Leave him alone!” said Alice.

“No,” said Adolfo. “I can answer him. I was a rancher from Chihuahua.”

“A rancher?” said Edgar, sounding a bit confused.

“I was, shall we say, goat herder. I can make a living off goats alone.” Agitation was becoming apparent in his voice.

“A goat herder? Alice says that you didn't even have to work. I thought you were rich.”

Adolfo’s eyes almost seemed to gloss over. A little lip appeared on his lower lip, as if he bit it.

“Why don’t you go to the room, hon?” said Alice in voice one would use to calm an overexcited child. “It’s the room up the stairs and on the left.”

Adolfo nodded and went to the room muttering obscenities under his breath. I thought it was may imagination at the time, but there seemed to be growling noises mixed in with profanity.

“Fucking naco,” said Edgar with disdain. Naco is Mexican slang for a low class, vulgar person.

“Look,” said Alice, “How I told you I met him is true. His leg broke when he fell down a flight of stairs running from them running from immigration agents.”

“Oh, so he was an illegal immigrant,” I said with disdain. “From the look of it, it was probably dealing drugs.”

José scoffed. “Typical American attitude, you hate illegal but your fucking economy would collapse without them. “

“What bullshit! That’s an oversimpl….”

“Of course it is. Think though. It’s not politically correct to hate Mexicans, so you channel the buried racism to the 'illegals'. “

“Get ‘im!” cheered Alice.

“You’re no better. When you are bored with your toy Adolfo, you’ll go back to your rich father and play Paris Hilton in your Mercedes.”

“That’s not true! I really love him!”

“Why?”

“He gives me something no American boy ever has!”

“Nothing about his personality? See, he’s a toy for you.”

Alice stormed off to her room.

“Jose' was right,” said Edgar. “The naco gave her drugs and she thought it was a good time. That’s why she looks like this, but her daddy’s dinero will buy her the best medical treatment in the world.”

I turned toward Jose' “How can you be a socialist? The people you claim to represent get insulted and you say nothing?

“I am a socialist. I fight the corporations; I was in the demonstrations against privatizing the oil, which is against the Mexican Constitution. But this man is a naco,” José answered. “He’s not a worker.”

As the night wore on, Indio beer flowed like sewer water. Edgar danced with his shirt off with the bottle in his hand, beer splattered all over the floor. The alcohol was taking its toll on Edgar. Two big bottles of beer and Edgar could barely stand. His dancing became stumbling; he tripped over the couch several times.

“You know what your problem is,” said Edgar his words extremely slurred. “Why do you criticize me calling him a naco? You hate Mexicans. You despise our brown skin!”

“No, I don’t. Why would I come here if I hated Mexicans?”

“You lie!” He fell on the couch and stayed there for several seconds in a kneeling posture.

“Edgar,” said Jose' “I don’t think he hates the Mexicans. His mind is just filled with capitalist ideas.”

That wasn't entirely right. I don’t believe in socialism, but I didn't go around thinking about capitalism all the time either. But I wasn't going to argue with the person that could possibly calm Edgar.

“I say he hates all Mexicans!” Edgar stumbled to his feet and punched the wall. The plaster crashed in and bits of it flew everywhere. Edgar pulled his hand from the hole without a word. He picked the larger pieces of plaster off the floor and tried to reassemble the wall. Without another word, I went to my room and locked the door behind me.
###
Alice and Adolfo were in the room behind mine. The two rooms weren't separated by a proper wall, but by a piece of plywood painted white to match the real walls. With this very thin divide between the rooms, I could make out nearly every word of their conversation and smell their noxious marijuana smoke. They didn’t even have good weed; it was rank and made me want to vomit.

“You must be thirsty,” said Alice to her companion. “You must drink.”

“Please,” said Adolfo. “I'm dying. The goats are not enough. Thank God or the Devil for tomorrow’s full moon.”

There was a slight popping sound followed by a gasp and a moan.

“Una momento, love. We need to be more careful than this.”

All I heard for the rest of the night was a mixture of reggae and moans.
The music was so loud that covering my ears didn't block it out. The CD music was playing on a loop it became maddening. But it had the effect that Alice intended: whatever perversion was happening in the room could be anybody’s guess. But the pair seemed to belong together.
###
The next afternoon, I was Alice was making coffee in a peculiar little pot on the stove. It was small and constructed of metal in two pieces screwed together.
“What did you hear last night?” asked Alice. Her breath was putrid. It
wasn’t just normal bad breath, but it smelled like a mixture of rotten meat and old blood.

“Well your music was a bit too loud,” I answered, hoping this would be the end of the conversation.

“And nothing else?” said Alice in a suspicious tone.

“Sexo covered up with music,” offered Jose'.

“I see, “said Alice in a mysterious tone of voice.” Do you know what tonight is? It’s the night of the full moon. They say the moon drives men to madness and transforms them into beasts.”

“Old superstition,” I said. “They’re interesting, but you can’t really believe such stuff.”

“Indeed,” said Jose'. “Transforming into beasts? Just medieval legends that are
the result of rye contaminated with ergot.”
“Oh, it’s true alright.”
###
That night Edgar, José and I were sitting on the couch. The beer flowed again and Manu Chau was blasting from the stereo. I had some doubts about attending this little party after last night, but Edgar assured me that he didn't really think I hated Mexicans and what happened last night would never happen again.

Adolfo and Alice strolled into the living room.

“Hola,” said Alice.

“Hola,” I said, trying to be polite. I liked that word. It almost sounds cute if spoken by somebody with a slightly high or soft inflection with the silent “H.”

“Last night you played your music too loud and smoked marijuana,” said Edgar very pissed off. “Get your things and get out! Both of you!”
“We just need one more night,” pleaded Alice.

“Señor, we won’t do it again.”

“No,” said Edgar. “Get the fuck out! I can’t have somebody like you in my hostel!” He pounded his fist on the coffee table and then pushed Adolfo.

Alice and Adolfo looked at each other. Alice nodded slowly.

The strange couple stripped stark naked. Before I had a chance to react to their behavior, huge bite marks on both their bodies caught my attention. Adolfo’s bite scar was on his stomach, indeed it seemed half his belly consisted of scar. Alice’s left nipple was bitten off and replaced by a hideous scar.
“What did I tell you before?” said Adolfo. “I told you where I wake up is home. Now this place is my home.”

The pair began to transform. I screamed, and tried to flee but was frozen in fear. Their spines distended and stretched out, their mouths and noses elongated to create a muzzle and their eyes went yellow.

Canine teeth sliced through the meat of my shoulder and I fell to the floor howling with pain. My shirt became saturated with blood.

The smaller of the creatures, probably Alice, placed its muzzle in a strangle hold over Edgar’s neck. Edgar reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife; but it was too late. The other creature buried its muzzle in Edgar’s gut and tore out intestines and tilted its horrible head to the sky as it devoured them snapping its bloody jaws.

Mercifully, I lost consciousness at this point. My mouth tasted of blood when I awoke to a scene of gore. Edgar and Jose' both had empty orifices where their guts should be. Both bodies had their heads bitten off and the floor was slick with blood. Alice and Adolfo were nowhere to be found; that’s was just as well since I didn’t know what I was meant to do if I did find them: kill them or join them. In my mind, I pieced together the puzzle after some hours. Adolfo claimed to be in charge of goats and there was a legend of the chupacabra or goat sucker. It couldn’t be what I thought it was; I thought at first, the chupacabra was some weak werewolf reduced to feeding off goats. But the more I thought on it, the more the theory made sense to me.

In all werewolf legends I’ve heard, the trait is passed on by a bite. The festering wound that will not heal on my shoulder is reminder of that. I clean it everyday, but by each morning I awake to bloody sheets. That’s not the worst of it. I would pray to God that it was! I first me dreams were of Adolfo and his mate Alice beckoning me to join them, to follow them. Now my nights are filled with feverish dreams of blood and death and wolves. In the dreams I see the world from behind yellow eyes as I hunt humans in a pack of three. Now I hide myself from my fellow man lest my strange and horrible secret be known from the peculiar habits that I’ve picked up like eating meat raw. That is if men are even my fellows anymore; even in human form I no longer feel like a human being but a creature both greater and more terrible. On the rare occasions that I do venture out, I hear the word “naco” whispered behind my back.

Now I fear and pray for the next full moon. Will I be aware of what’s happening as I plow my muzzle into the tender flesh of man or awake the next day to know of bestial, wanton acts of cannibalistic feasting only from the newspapers and television? If I am aware of what I’m doing, will I react with horror or joy? My mind repeated those strange questions over and over and they became my obsession. The moon will be right tomorrow and my questions and my appetite will be satiated.