Esperando el milagro: Square one

[A writing project in gestation...]

“If you’re reading this, there’s a good chance you’re a rapist or a murderer. Then again, you might just be a drunk checking in for the night. Most likely though, you’re the guy with the blank stare who shoves the food under the bars twice a day. In any event, you probably won’t understand a word of this. Not that I understand what’s going on, why I’m here, or even who the fuck I am…”

Jesús pointed to the last four-letter word with a smile. He worked at a KFC in South Carolina for two years, so he knew all about the eff bomb. He handed me the roll of toilet paper and bid me adieu. He was off to meet someone who maybe knew someone who knew about a job out on the oilrigs. The roll of papel higiénico was just as he had described. Black ink. Covered from the first sheet to the hollow tube with English. “Bathroom graffiti” was my first thought when I heard about it. Apparently his nephew, who lives in a tiny coastal town, found the roll months ago in an abandoned building. It had become quite the little conversation piece. When word spread that Jesús was putting up a couple of Americans, the roll made its way to our little pueblo for official verification and translation. One square in, and the hair was standing up on the back of my neck. This was certainly not your typical restroom literary fare. No blowjob solicitations or racist diatribes. Silly as it sounds, it felt to me as if I had just been given a map leading to buried treasure, or an ancient scroll that foretold my destiny. So it was with heightened anticipation that I ran my fingers around the roll until I found the edge again. In less than an hour the whole strange story unspooled before my eyes.

My best guess is that it’s a work of creative fiction, perhaps written as a lark by someone on vacation, or by a graduate student, or the spouse of a graduate student (like myself). Students have been coming down here for years to study the Mayan artifacts, and I can’t be the first gringo to come down here with a notebook and the intention to write. The toilet paper thing is a nice twist though. I certainly don’t think the thing is an actual cry for help, that someone really woke up in a prison cell with a head injury, not knowing what they did or how they got there. I mean, amnesia? Come on now. You’ll see when I have time to transcribe the rest of it. It’s obviously a short story, and not a particularly imaginative one at that. But the fact that a roll of toilet paper covered in English handwriting has somehow found its way into my hands—now that’s pretty remarkable. I haven’t been in the pueblo two full weeks and already I have something extraordinary to write about.

I’m hoping these nine months will be more than just a break from having to go to work every day; more than a chance to catch up on some reading, writing and guitar playing; more than an opportunity to learn Spanish and experience Mexican culture. Those things are enough to make it all worthwhile, but still, I’m hoping for something else, something big, something totally awesome that will change everything. The Scroll of Charmin, regardless of its quality or authenticity, is, by its mere existence, pretty fucking awesome. I can’t think of a better way to begin…