The Prism (pt. 1)

 

 

The Prism is home.  Not just for Mark but for many of those who do not feel comfortable in just any bar. “When in Rome…” His friend, Lalo, always said.  Mark’s teenage friend was full of old clichés.  Now, many years later and having gone separate ways, the cliché belongs to him—locked in Lalo’s voice as it chases forever in Mark’s memory.  The outside of the home is simple enough—Four non-descript tin walls with a dark roof and a single lamp over the door.  Making his way from the gravel parking lot to the bar, he hears the jukebox muffled by the walls.  He looks around and counts the cars in the parking lot. 

“Fourteen. Not too shabby.” 

            He walks along the building towards the door noticing the newly installed lights under the roof overhang. 

“Hmm.”

He is even more shocked to find the door outlined in marquee lights, chasing around the otherwise plain off white frame and a canopy over the sidewalk leading up to the door. Mark chuckles.  Gripping the handle firmly, bowing his head, he pulls the door open and goes in.  He always bows his head when he enters the Prism.  Not out any reverence or silent prayer but to shield his eyes from the glaring lamp over the door. The lamp makes everyone squint when they enter the bar and screw up their faces as they try to focus quickly in the dark—everyone except Mark. Once he steps in, the heavy beats of a club song, grossly out of place here, wash over him; he takes in the scene completely unaffected by the switch from extreme light to dark and the jukebox plays, “Where are you my love, where are you my love, I want to know you…”  The bar is as simple inside as it is outside.  A single pool table surrounded by four men—all looking at Mark—sits near the door.  A fluorescent lamp lights the table as trails of smoke snake through the air.  The men wear jeans, baseball caps, t-shirts, and leather—leather vests amid leather worn faces.  In the middle of the pub, a bar with a single attendant dominates the front room.  The bar itself seems swollen against the limited space.  It leaves very little room for people to navigate back and forth. The back room has a much smaller bar and several dartboards.  Mark never cared for such things and consequently found himself in the back room only when he was with his friends.  Tonight, he is alone.   

            “Mark!” calls out Pete, the Bartender. Mark smirks.  Years of coming here has certainly left its mark—like “Cheers,” the sitcom, everyone knows Mark. Everyone?  No—just the bartender.  Mark is a quiet man.  He makes friends easily enough but no more than any other guy. Pete on the other hand, has a following.  Growing up in the height of the racial and sexual revolutions left its impression on him.  Emulating his heroes, Pete has won many a pageant as Tina Turner or Diana Ross but everyone jokingly refers to him as Rosa Parks which isn’t far from the truth in a small-minded town like San Antonio in the 70’s. 

            Climbing onto a barstool, Mark begins the game.  Shifting eyes, fleeting glances, subtle innuendoes—looking for someone interested in passing the night and if he is lucky, maybe a while longer.  Pete places the rum and coke cocktail in front of him.    Throughout the bar couples and groups litter the pub like animals at a watering hole.  His glance takes him into the fixated eyes of another, who happens to be looking his way, jarring Mark to quickly look into his drink. He takes a sip.  Like the sleek wisps of smoke weaving in the air rising to dissipate amid the rafters, Mark feels his courage leave him.  It is so hard meeting anyone.  Outside is even worse.  As Mark stirs his drink, he catches the red light of a neon sign bounce out of his glass.  “Lalo,” he says to himself.  About fifteen years since last he saw Lalo.

 

                        

“Hey lets hide,” Lalo said to Mark with a hint of excitement in his voice. Lalo’s hair could never stay back or rather a lock of it couldn’t.  It always fell forward and curled under his left eye. He wore his favorite run-of-the-mill red jersey with a big blue star outlined in white and faded blue jeans.  He would have made a great lineman.  Not too fat but enough to take the hits and give a few as well. A grin over took Mark’s face as he nodded his approval watching the lock of hair swing about.  Lalo took the lead.  He ran down the street to the corner of the block in a Southside neighborhood, where the Puma St. Automotive Shop lay dormant in the night.  It wasn’t always a shop though; once it was a lot with abandoned cars thrown about.  It wasn’t an official dumpsite but the city had other things to worry about at the moment.  That moment turned into days followed by weeks and then months.  Until one day someone called it the Puma Drive Dump and it kind of took. Finally, when the lot went out of control with cars everywhere, Mr. Zamarripa, the neighbor who lived across the street from the eye sore, bought it out and converted it to his own automotive yard. 

                    Running along the broken curb, Lalo and Mark found the loose board in the fence that the large Honeysuckle bush hid from the rest of the world.  Only the kids of Puma St. knew where to find it.  It was Tino’s turn with the flashlight and he had already counted to a hundred.  Making his way from the corner of the street, he began his hunt for the other players.  The game was an upgraded version of hide-and-go seek.  Except it was played at night.  The seeker, armed with a flashlight, was charged with finding everyone within the confines of two restrictions: the seeker had to stay on the street and had to call out by name whoever he spotted.  Mark held the loose plank as Lalo scurried into the automotive yard.  Mark followed.

                    “You know this is against the rules,” Mark commented, “we can’t hide indoors or behind anything larger than a parked car.”

                    Lalo fell to one knee and began to whistle, “It’ll be our little joke.  If he can’t find us or anyone else, then he’ll be hunting all night.” Lalo’s voice betrayed his mirth at the idea of Tino searching all night long.  From around the corner charged Max, the Rottweiler custodian of the Puma Drive Dump.  However, Max knew the boys since before he was weaned from his mother so he dashed without malicious intent instead, with high-pitched whines and pawing.

                    “How’ya doing Max?” Lalo rubbed his hands over the dog’s floppy ears. 

                     “So where are we gonna hide?” Mark inquired making it a point to rub the dog’s ears as well.

                    “Up there!” Lalo pointed to five cars stacked on each other.  The pinnacle of the metal mountain was a beat up ‘79 Monte Carlo with a purple front end against a brown body.   

                    “Terry!” shouted a voice from up the street.  The boys quickly scrambled to the top car. They jumped in the back seat and ducked down.  Mark lay pinned under Lalo as they both struggled to hear Tino.  Silence followed. 

                    “I think he’s still lookin’,” commented Lalo, “we better stay here just in case.”  Mark didn’t protest.  As far as he was concerned, he never wanted to move from this spot.  He realized his feelings for Lalo when during a game of football, on an ordinary afternoon, Lalo tackled Mark and Mark felt a tingling sensation where Lalo touched him.  Even Lalo jumped back rather quickly as if he had been shocked.  Neither one of them ever spoke of it.  The young age of fifteen brought awareness to Mark that hit most children his age, but his desires did not lead him to Dona, Michelle, or Destiny, instead they led him to Lalo.  Now Lalo was lying on top of Mark and almost instantly, the craving began.  The hot, torrid desire to reach out and touch Lalo was almost overwhelming.  The hair on the back of Mark’s neck stood on end as Lalo’s breath bore down on him.  “Just lay still,” Mark told himself. The seconds turned to long minutes that stretched into hours as he tried to soak everything he felt from Lalo’s body into his memory.  Then his ears rang.  A buzz sounded as comprehension dawned on Mark.  Lalo was touching him!  Along his side, Lalo stroked his flank moving his hands up and down becoming more confident in his actions.  Mark turned himself around to face Lalo.  Lalo lifted himself up so Mark could move but then settled down again once Mark rolled over.  Lalo’s hair covered his face and hid his eyes in darkness.  They both lay motionless for a moment waiting for the other to respond.  Lalo’s breath was tight and controlled. 

                    “Destiny, is that you,” Tino called out from up the street. 

                    Lalo reached up to Mark’s shirt and began to unfasten the buttons.  He pulled the shirt away.  Lalo then sat up and pulled off his own shirt.  Dropping it to the side, he settled on unfastening his belt buckle.