A thousand eighty-proof needles burning through my skull. Another hangover.
Sliding off the fancy hotel bedspread, I walk on lamb's legs to the Cusqueña beer cans stacked like a tabletop modern art exhibit. All empty. Oh well. I look around and grab an opened Inca Kola bottle, then head out to the terrace to check out the skyline.
Basking in the sunrise from the preteenth floor at one of Lima's finest hotels, I spy a man in the park down below. He appears to be enjoying an impromptu drunken Tai Chi and burpee workout, dressed like a refugee from an eighties South American discoteca. His ample gut bounces out of his multi-colored leisure suit when he dances unsteadily in the middle of a greenbelt that's undoubtedly the favored toilet for every stray dog within a three mile radius.
After a five-minute performance, our hero finishes his wine bottle with a flourish, before collapsing into a stone cold deep sleep.
Between flat belches of Inca Kola, I rub my aching temples like a savantless idiot.
Cross-cultural shock therapy. I've launched myself smack dab into the capital of a country I know nothing about. What's next?
What were those god-awful noises bellowing throughout the night? The sounds of my Pisco-soured brain imploding? Or perhaps Peru has lurched into a state of anarchy? Maybe a nice South American coup like the ones the mainstream propaganda outlets like to gloss over?
I imagine myself bunkered down inside the giant egg-shaped jacuzzi, training an AK-47 past the 'Love Ewe' sex doll and bricolage of toiletries towards the front door. On the other side, a steely-eyed 'El Generalisimo' stands to the front of his death squad, twerks his pencil-thin mustache and yells through gold-plated teeth in a Ricky Ricardo accent, "Openz up, Americano! We know you are in there! Viva la Revolucion!"
I knew I should've put that 'Do Not Disturb' sign back on the door.
Time to appraise the room. I paid for a one-time, fuck-it-all send up to greet the country in style, and this suite delivers. It boasts a public-cinema-sized wall-mount TV, a modern polycarbonate chair with a remote control I'm deathly afraid to touch, and a giant purple bed with a ceiling mirror in case I want to blow kisses to myself while I masturbate.
I place the Inca Kola bottle on the table next to the oversized bed and take a chair. A deep breath of stale, hotel air. Sweat beads roll down my cheeks. The nagging, negative vibe just won't die. My stomach moans, then a burp fills my mouth with an acid-washed slurry.
Toilet time. Now.
Siphonic flushing sounds. The Big Spit's over. Finally. The porcelain is so cold, yet so comfortable. I rise like a zombie king from the throne, wipe my watery eyes, and stare into the bathroom mirror. A stooped cartoon caricature of my father squints back at me:
A paunch that's lost its will to defy gravity, wafer-thin lips, a greying hairline, a bony nose, huge bags under blood-red slits for eyes, all composed on a pufferfish face that makes me look like a sick mole.
Pretty normal, methinks.
Have I committed the biggest blunder in my life? My surroundings are hip, yet I feel like I'm some modern day Falstaff on a Truman Show reality TV channel entitled 'Doug's Fucked Up!'.
I plop down into the club chair, wiping spittle off my chin with a grimy bath towel. Am I genetically predisposed to these lame fuckarounds? Cursed? A botched DNA experiment between a near-sighted hermit crab and a eurotrash pimp?
How did I get here?