The crumpled notes and faded receipts taking up space instead of actual cash in my wallet, which were intended to remind me of errands and nagging acts of commerce that ought to be transacted before I skip town for the next couple of months, are unceremoniously discarded into a wastebasket under the washbasin along with several pairs of earplugs. My shins still smarting from the mosh pit, I polish off the last of my tacos and feel grateful for this little bit of time and space I could carve out just to myself amid the din and clamor of the concert.
I feel terrible for the two poor kids who were the only ones that I saw earlier at the sonidero in the carnitas place as well as this punk show in the back of a taqueria. Perhaps not attuned to the difference in energy between the two crowds, they made a beeline toward the stage and hovered at the periphery of the mosh pit just long enough for one of them to be struck by the flying fists of the moshing slammers—whose arms swung round and round like a parody baseball pitcher winding up for a throw—and one of the two wound up on the floor, and subsequently in one of the taqueria booths being nursed by the beer vendor with some ice cold Modelos pressed to their cheek.
This is my last weekend here. Three nights before the eve of my departure, there are dozens of things that I ought to be taking care of, but I’m glad that I get to be here instead. Daily humdrum life is better saved for Monday mornings and Tuesday afternoons, and even Wednesday evenings en route to the airport…
