Dispatch from Drew

The absence of new posts on Grating Space can be explained by two things: the fact that I have been working seven days a week at the BA Herald because everyone else in my department quit (more on this later) and because my brother, Drew, has been in town and I’ve been busy entertaining him. I’ve got more coming soon, but until then here’s an excerpt from a mass email he sent out from my computer that I stole without his knowing it. Ha!

“Something I imagine goes through a lot of people’s heads their second or so night in Buenos Aires”
(Title by Nate)

It’s hot in my room at the hostel, right on the edge of stifling. The first thing I notice when I open my eyes is that I’ve acquired a new roommate at some point. Bright sunlight slants through the glass door next to my bed and casts shadows on a backpack, a pair of hiking boots, a sports bra and towel hanging on a bedpost. I’m lying flat on my back and I’m still wearing my clothes from the night before. Now the pain — a horrible pressure right behind my eyes that seems to expand and compress my skull at the same time. My throat is raw and my chest feels squeezed. I roll over on my stomach and crush an empty pack of cigarettes — oh yeah, right. It’s 3:57 in the afternoon.

Roll out of bed and put my feet on the floor. Ooh, wait, too fast. Lie back down. Try again — there, that’s better. Stain on my shirt: vodka con Speed, South America’s energy drink. Speed is sickly green, syrupy, and could whip a whole four-pack of Red Bull in a fight. It comes in a steel can with metal walls too strong to crush with one hand, like the liquid inside might eat through normal aluminum.

Sit for a second and stare at the floor. Dig through my suitcase for ibuprofen caplets bought in a pharmacy yesterday. Ten days in Buenos Aires, ten ibuprofen in a pack, for ten pesos. Stash the pills back in my suitcase under my Buenos Aires map. North is never up on maps of Buenos Aires, I remember Andrew telling me last night — they always put the river at the bottom so north points down at the corner. Irish Andrew, who works at the newspaper with my brother. Andrew and my brother have been at work for two hours by now, hopefully they feel better than I do.

(ed. note: Drew neglects to mention, because it hadn’t happened yet, that a few days later he found his same female roommate spread-eagled, totally passed out on top of her covers without pants or underwear on. He just averted his eyes and snuck out of the room, hoping she would wake up or at least unconsciously pull some sheets over herself before the maid or anyone else came in. I told him he had neglected his hostelmate duty, and that he should have sucked it up and woken her up to let her know she was exposed, so as to allow her to fix the problem. This, of course, is kind of dangerous: She would have probably either been super grateful or she would have screamed. It’s these kinds of uncertainties that make life worth living.)

(ed. note 2: My friend said two people in a hostel room in which she was staying in Uruguay kept her awake all night having sex. In the morning they were lying naked, completely exposed and asleep on one of their beds. She took the liberty, since they had stopped her from resting, of taking a number of photographs of them in their compromised position. It was good fun until she tried the flash and woke them both up with the first burst. Tough one to explain yourself out of.)

**

I’m sitting with my brother outside of Kim y Novak. Nate’s roommate, Lucian, told him before we left that some woman had called and left him a message but he couldn’t understand what it was — Lucian’s Spanish is pretty poor. Apparently, “some woman” was Nate’s boss, telling him not to come in until two, and it’s eleven thirty now. So we’re sitting outside watching two stray dogs weave around tables on the sidewalk outside. Nate slurps from a can of Speed. I take a blurry digital picture. The night is humid, but not oppressive. Caroline arrives.

Caroline is 27, Korean, small, and pretty. Following her are a young-looking Colombian in baggy clothes and an unhappy-looking girl with black hair. The Colombian is Tino, whom Caroline wouldn’t shut up about the night before. Tino this, Tino that, Tino’s really into hip-hop and I NEVER meet Latin guys who are into hip-hop. Tino. I’m at the corner of Peru y Tino. I’ll have a vodka con Tino. We’re going to this really cool club called Club Tino. Tino.

Caroline’s from New York, a food columnist and part-time cocktail waitress at Kim y Novak. She met my brother at the bar. Unhappy-Black-Hair is Flo, an Aussie who’s wandered the world for the last four years. I can’t tell what she’s upset about — she tells me that she’s underdressed because Caroline is wearing heels and she’s wearing sandals. Everyone tells her she looks fine, Tino tells her in Spanish.

Drinks downstairs. My brother’s setting up his DJ equipment, the four of us are sitting in white leather captain’s chairs around a low table. It’s dark and there are creepy-looking drippy eyeball things painted on the walls. The whole club is white and red. The music is loud. My brother’s boss yells at me for lighting a cigarette.

Staring off into space, not really listening to Caroline tell Flo a story about riding the subway with rich people. Tino stares into space politely from the other side of the table. Tino has a beard — a chinstrap-and-moustache combination that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to grow. His looks much better than mine. I’m not irritated, just a trifle jealous. I tell Caroline this. She giggles, then immediately leans over and tells Tino. I wish I hadn’t spoken. Flo still looks unhappy.

Apparently it’s Caroline’s friend Sam’s birthday tonight and they’re celebrating across town and she invites me to come along. I look at my brother, drag-and-dropping away on his laptop, quickly contemplate a night sitting here, and eagerly accept. My brother is more than happy to get me out of his hair, which at the moment is getting tousled by Bosco, the flamboyantly gay and drunk bar owner.

Cab ride across town, and I have no idea where I am. Tino asks me what I do for a living and I try to explain to him that I am an Army officer, a combat engineer, a “Sapper.” Tino is impressed, but unfortunately I misspoke and instead of saying “Zapador,” or Sapper, I said “Zapatero,” who is the Prime Minister of Spain, or the Spanish word for shoemaker. Tino’s still impressed. Lights blur outside my window. A quick exchange in Spanish, a turn signal, a squeak of brakes, and we’re here.

Sucre is a restaurant/bar that looks like the kind of place Christian Troy would hang out in. We meet Sam, the birthday girl — 28, Chinese, slim, also pretty. With her are Irish Andrew, his friend Seamus, Sam’s boyfriend, and another guy, whom I’m told is “the coke dealer.” Andrew and I go to the bar, which is thirty feet high of backlit liquor bottles. Above us is the catwalk to the upstairs restroom. I make a note to take a picture from the catwalk looking down on my next piss break. Andrew tells me the bit about the Buenos Aires map. I tell Andrew a story my brother told me, about an Argentine trying to convince an increasingly frustrated Irishman at the Herald that “thirty cattle heads” means the same thing as “thirty head of cattle.” I take a piss. I take a picture.

We walk down the street to Rumi, a club that Sam likes. Somewhere we’ve picked up three more guys and I’m mentally preparing for a long stand in line, but we’re whisked right in. The velvet rope clinks down and strands four girls in short skirts behind us. The doorman hands me a coupon good for a discount on the cover charge, which is still thirty pesos. Inside is dark and deafening. The bass from the music is so strong that the loose fabric on my clothes is vibrating. I realize I’m leaning on a speaker disguised as a table. A drink for everyone — vodka and tonic for me, Andrew drinks beer, the girls split a bottle of crappy champagne. Time flies. Tino has decided to coach me on the finer points of picking up Argentine women. I try to convince two girls that I’m a doctor. We drink some more. Argentine women slink around the floor. Argentine men circle like sharks in dress shirts. I dance badly. Caroline and Sam disappear then reappear. Five in the morning — I’m so drunk I can’t understand English, much less Spanish. The lights come on.

Tumble out into the street, and mercifully it’s still dark. I can feel myself starting to shut down. There’s a discussion of where to go next but I don’t contribute. Sam and Caroline are flushed, Tino’s got his arm around me, Flo is finally smiling. We cram into a cab, and I still have no idea where I am. My head is heavy. Days later we’re piling out on to the sidewalk in front of someone’s apartment building. I’ve had enough. I double-cheek everybody then flag down a cab of my own. Piedras y Humberto Primo, I slur. We drive for days and I am awoken by the sound of my head bonking on the window. That will be fourteen pesos. Upstairs. Blackness. It’s 6:32 in the morning.

Oh, brother.