Mexico, Steeped

Every day for the past two weeks (of my first three in Southwestern Mexico), workmen have come, often returning later with the right parts or tools.

Between five and sixty minutes later, each has emerged victorious, declaring those before him idiotas . Finally, "the toilet is fix," or "the toilet is work now!" they smilingly assure. Fourteen arms, (repairmen, apartment manager, building owner) oft burrowing through the porcelain portal's bowels now look to me as if I am the issue; as if I, miserable renter of the unappeasable, stink-water-breathing ass-dragon, am not only responsible, but representative—God of All Irreparable.

Sole gringo of Calle Severo Diaz , American ambassador by proxy, has summoned the tumultuous sea of Hell to engulf Mexico, one drip at a time.


They no longer want to help, and I really need to take a shit.