miércoles, marzo 15, 2006

New Mexican Fiction (3)
Modelo a seguir, colega conspirador en eso de apoderarnos del mundo y gurú personal, Pepe Rojo no sólo es alguien que admiro mogollón, sino además uno de mis mejores amigos. Y uno, me parece, de los mejores escritores de su generación:

Pepe Rojo was born on Chilpancingo, a small town halfway between Mexico City and Acapulco, in 1968. So far, he's published a short story collection, Yonke (Junkyard), a novel, Punto Cero (Point Zero), has been included on several anthologies and has won a couple of national short story awards. Were I forced to define his work, I would say it is as J.G. Ballard zapping a TV while playing videogames. The next is a excerpt from his short story Ella se llamaba Sara (Her Name Was Sara), a disturbed tale abour suburban punk rockers and teenage violence that turns into an organic horror story, very Lovecraft-esque in a postmodern fashion. By the way, the title refers to a corny pop love song from the seventies.

Her name was Sara
"We're fucked up, we're fucked up", hummed Sara while we ran desperately through unfamiliar dark streets. The bad guys were behind us. Well, not that bad. After all, Sara had thrown a brick through the windshield of the car of one of the guys (six, ten, twenty, thirty, I swear there was an army of them!) but then again, the guy had earned it. You don't say "What a waste of a woman, fucking tomboy" to a girl like Sara. She just smiled and told me "let?s better scram from this party".

Outside, she ran to get a brick and shattered with it the windshield of a car parked in front of the hosts' house. Obviously, they came out to see what happened, but we were already running because, as usual, we didn't have a car. So, we ran till we felt our hearts pounding their way out of our chests. It was far from unusual. I still bear two scars thanks to a guy Sara had insulted that decided that my head should kiss passionately the pavement five times. The first two, I still can recall in detail, the other three I only know about because Sara told me later. Such were the inconveniences of being Sara's only friend. There are guys so stupid that they think that if a woman offends them, they have the right to beat the crap out of the woman's friend companion. As it often happened.

So we ran randomly around suburban streets, trying to constantly change our paths to dodge our chasers' cars. We were lost, We were still far from any major avenue where we could catch a bus and they were riding at least four cars. Besides, they were really pissed off.

"Next time, you better slash their fucking tires", I said and she tried to smile, but couldn't. We were tired, and it seemed like this time we were going to buy the farm. We didn't hear their cars. It was a matter of luck. We could reach a bus and sleep on our beds or get caught and then who knows what would happen.

"Shit. You didn't even tell me what you were going to do!"

"Fuck off, you're such a sissy. Besides, if I told you, you wouldn't let me do it. Just shut up, forget it and walk faster."

Every time we heard a car we ran to hide behind a tree till it drove by. Night was calm, though it was cold.

"Anyway, it was you the one who wanted to come to this party" said Sara. "I've told you a thousand times I hate suburbs' parties. All you see are stupid rich kids."

She kept annoying me. She was quite a sight. She was soaked on sweat, her eyes bright by the adrenaline overdose. She was cute. Well, not only cute, she was gorgeous and that's not a word I'm fond of. The worst was that she was as beautiful as the girls on the commercials. Just like the imaginary picture of the perfect daughter that every father has in mind. She couldn't hate it more. She had a problem with her beauty. That's why she'd shaved her head. That?s why she always used baggy pants. "So no one peeps my ass", she used to say. That?s why she'd pierced her tongue and her belly buttom. That's why she had three earrings on each ear and was saving money to pierce her nipple. I thought that sooner or later she would pierce her vaginal lips, too. She always replied to this: "Fuck off, how tacky! What would my children think? And what a bummer for birthing!", and bursted into laughter. Curiously, the more she mutilated her body, the prettier she looked, the harder it was no to notice her.

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