Thursday, March 23, 2006

The Rose of Ocean Blvd.

Consuela. She of the burning eyes.

She was my maid, or she was until I let my towel slip.Then she became me, and I her. True I had let my towel slip in front of the room service guy, a guy they had sent up to fix my networking cable, and a family of six in the elevator, but Consuela, she of the almost procine sensuality, was the only one who had lived under the Arbors of Sensuality long enough to understand my cues. Truly, my halitotis worked as a musk, a musk calibated to reach and move only her.

She became my hotel wife, these three heady days. After paying a not-insignificant fee/dowry to the hotel manager, we entered a very specific sort of cohabitation. There is a word for it, a word I cannot repeat, for Consuela (she of the elephantine buttocks) heard it, it would break her heart would shatter, much like if ball peen hammer hit a sparrow made of marizpan, and discretion is my byword, if only for legal reasons.

I worked during the day, and Consuela (she of the bleeding gums) would be waiting with my pipe, my fez and my medical truss. She would then soak her long hair in warm salt water and swab me, taking special care around my ulcerated fat rolls.

We would order room service, and chat, me pacing the room, her locked in the closet. (She of the eyebrows obsessively plucked out -- a nervous condition that in our three days together I could not cure.)

Today when I rose (I had passed out halfway into my second bottle of cough syrup), all traces of her were gone. I wept quietly.

I noticed she had failed to provide fresh towels before her flight. She owns my soul, but I will not be leaving a tip.

Good bye Santa Monica. Good Bye Consuela (she of the pear shaped goiter.)

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