Beelzebub Offers Me Candy On El Cajon Blvd.

For me, this is another night of failure in sunny San Diego, the same place they filmed that crappy Anchorman movie. Everyone sees this place as a bright and illuminated paradise where the sun never seems to go on vacation. However, I beg to differ.

I live near El Cajon Blvd., the other side of San Diego where poverty, degradation, and survival are the daily struggle. In the day, this neighborhood is like any other in Southern California, a multi-cultural melting pot, where one can hear about 50 languages spoken while feasting on some of the finest tacos al pastor and steaming bowls of beef pho. But at night, this place vastly changes. At sunset, the streets turn dark, gloomy, and isolated. The light post dim and flicker with every step. You can see litter, homelessness, and fast-moving cars playing the same repetitive rap and rancheras out of loudspeakers with a scratchy bass.

For me, this is another Friday night of attempting to work on my graduate thesis. But after wrestling with the worst writer’s block imaginable and a furious procrastination, I decided to meet my friend Tony. Tony and I both attended the same graduate program and we worked together as teaching assistants for our department.

That night, we had dinner and complained about our research topics. We grilled up some steaks and ate them with rice and beans. Tony loved cooking and we would exchange recipes from time to time. He enjoyed making many foods from south of the border, and he made some flavorful beans for a feisty gringo from Maryland. 

After dinner, we sat in the patio while he smoked a cigarette.

 “Yeah man, I got like three chapters done, but I can’t seem to write the intro,” I say while standing outside of his patio gazing into the clear night sky.

 “I’m having a tough time starting this thing, I’m thinking about changing my topic.” Tony replies while glancing at the clear sky.

 “What are you going to write about this time? The Egyptian Revolution? The Syrian Civil War? The 2009 Housing Crises? God damn!!! You change topics every damn week. Keep this shit up and you may need to transfer to the MFA program. I heard they got this one professor that writes about zombies and pro wrestling.”

“I don’t know, I I’ll figure it out. You worry too fucking much,” Tony replies scratching his head.

 After a couple of hours of kicking back, the beer evaporated and the weed turned to ash. It was late and Tony hinted at me that it was time to, “get the fuck out.”

I took to the dark streets and started to head home to my small roach infested apartment.

 Walking through El Cajon Blvd. at night is always a nightmare. I only lived 1.5 miles away from Tony, but the walk always seemed like a living manifestation of hell. For every step you took, you had to watch your peripherals and your rear constantly, because you never knew what could happen.

A couple of months ago, my girlfriend and I walked through these same streets. We were almost assaulted by some maniac who approached us with his right hand in his pocket. He got close to us and threatened to shoot us. At first, we were scared, ready to give him money. But, when we saw that he kept his hand in his pocket, we called his bluff and walked away, flicking him off. 

Crossing the intersection of El Cajon and 54th street. I had to walk through a row of sleazy motels. A man walks up next to me wearing a white shirt and a pair of blue jeans. He had long grey hair and round glasses. Everything about him reminded me of Tommy Chong, but with a much thinner face and cheek bones that were just dying to escape.

He interrupts me on my path, and starts chatting with me. “Hey, what’s up buddy? You got a lighter on you or what?

I look back at his eyes and see a demonic glance. His bright red intensity captures my attention. But, I choose to look away and attend to his needs quickly, “sure man, I got a lighter back here somewhere,” I tell him as I search through my backpack.

He grabs it and swiftly lights his cigarette, pressing the butt against his red lips. He follows me on my way home, chatting me up about his life.

He tells me that his name is Bub. He has a wife and kids, a good job and a nice house in Normal Heights. However, Bub also tells me that every weekend, he enjoys getting away from the wife, and renting out a motel on El Cajon Blvd. for some private time.

He offers me a cigarette. “Want a smoke, I got plenty?” He tells me.

 “Na man, I don’t smoke cigarettes bro.” I reply back.

 “What you got a lighter for, if you don’t smoke?” he asks in a puzzled manner.

“Well, I smoke a little bit of that bud from time to time,” I reply casually.

“What you smoking that shit for, huh? Don’t you know, weed is bad for you, it’s real fucking poison. Personally, I don’t smoke weed any more, fuck that. That shit fucks with my head, makes me all paranoid and slow. Plus, who wants to eat a tub of ice cream and watch re-runs of Scooby Doo all night?”

Then he pauses, takes another puff, blows it out quickly and carries on with his teaching moment.

“What the fuck do you need weed for? Take it from me buddy, weed is a total waste of time, energy and money. Smoke meth instead. It’s way better than weed. It keeps you up all night and it keeps you up all night, if you get what I’m saying. Plus, you take a hit of meth and you don’t need sleep.  

“I take this shit every day. I don’t see what’s the big deal. Come on now, you’re a smart guy, I can see that you read a lot of books. You should smoke some meth from time to time. Hell it may even help you study.”

Bub keeps rambling about the many benefits of meth. He mentions 4 times how it enhances “stamina.” While talking my ear off, I try my best to exit this conversation without looking frightened or judgmental. I keep in mind that I have my own issues. Plus, who am I to judge this poor little devil.

For a moment, many thoughts enter my mind.

“Wow, this guy is extremely nice,”

 “Maybe meth isn’t so dangerous; maybe it just has a bad reputation.”

“Perhaps people watch too many episodes of Breaking Bad,” I continue to ponder.

“So, what’s happening, you want a hit or what? I got some right now we can light up. First one’s on me,” Interrupting my thought as he extends his hand out.

I continue to contemplate his offer,

“Am I imagining this whole thing? Or did I have too much to drink? It’s kind of hard to tell at this point in the night.”

“I guess I can take one hit.”

“But do I really need, “stamina?”

“I’m fucking confused, maybe I need to stop drinking before I try new drugs, this way I can manage one bad habit at a time.”

“I’m paying all of this money for grad school, but grad school is not preparing me for these situations.”

I stare at him in silence, I focus on his eyes. Dark, crimson and void, I see no reflection when I gaze at his tiny pupils. It’s too late for him, and it’s too late for me. I refuse his offer; shake his hand, with my left hand and walk away confused, perplexed, and without any words to describe the world that I live in.

I go home and crash heavily into my bed. I force myself to sleep, attempting to suffocate what I just went through. I carefully roll from one side to another on my side of the bed, wrestling with my procrastination. Eventually, I tire in this arduous struggle, allowing my dreams to carry me into vast worlds of sleep.

Ramon Jimenez is an educator and writer who resides in Seattle, Washington. Ramon is originally from Inglewood, CA, where his parents migrated to from Jalisco, Mexico. Ramon teaches language arts at an alternative high school in West Seattle and political science at Pierce college in Lakewood, WA. Along with teaching, he also leads a young writers program called, “The Boot,” where youth publish a literary. In his poetry there is space for everyone, from the taqueros of Mexico city, to the bustling outdoor market vendors of Managua. Ramon’s poems are featured in Rigorous Magazine, The Anti-Languorous Project and Alegria Publishing.