Yellow Camaro Chapter 4

Chapter 4

I brush my teeth smiling at my reflection. I feel warmth from bathroom open window. I jump into a yellow dress, make my bed, ready my backpack and stride to breakfast table. I pour cheerios into my bowl, pour milk from fridge and quickly spoon my meal complete. I race out door leaving house mother to read her catholic book on sofa. I rush down stairs into empty streets. I walk down hill a mile to stand at aqueduct tower overlooking gardens, circle highway where buses from other cities arrive and people depart to the train station. It’s main entrance to Segovia and only exit. I marvel at aqueduct archways that used to carry water from distant mountains. Stone is resilient. It doesn’t whither or fade. It ages and chips but never loses its potency. Only war can destroy megalithic stone structures.

            It’s 6:30am. Pasha isn’t here. Class starts at 7:30am. Twenty minutes pass. I begin to walk to school. It’s a twenty-minute walk uphill. I see shops open, people retrieve bread for the day and a horseman riding in streets before walkers begin their day. I’ve seen this horseman before. He rides his horse near my house a lot. He adores his silky brown stallion. They are kindred spirits. He’s an isolated old man with a friendly mustache, wavy brown hair and round tummy.

Everybody has somebody. He doesn’t have a wife or adult children. He ignores chatty people grouping in familiar patterns. He’s spontaneous, abrupt and shocking. He doesn’t follow routine of mundane. He’s a renaissance, a rebel, a timeless melody. He doesn’t whither or fade. He's getting old and maybe a little tired but he’s ravening still for human progress. I’ll call him Raven because he’s mysterious like ancient stone, knowledgeable about wispy land like wisemen and enduring like red roses.

I ponder about red roses growing all around Segovia. Who planted them? Did they seed themselves? Why are there so many? Segovia is a brown hawk rising towards mountains. Green fields of enormity entrance city stone with mystic’s spider web. That’s why I am drawn here. There’s something visionary about this brown hawk’s nest. It has memories of war, religious intolerance, monarch tyranny and yet doesn’t give into delusion, suffering or human distance from human spirit. It preserves what is within soil. I hope Raven is happy.

“Rosa! Rosa! Rosa!” Pasha interrupts my dreamy walk.

I turn. He stops to catch his wild breath.

“Sorry. My father and I got into a fight.”

“No problem. Walk me to school,” I wink charismatically.

“Sure,” Pasha’s smile is sweetgrass blowing in warm wind.

“What school do you attend?”

“I attend University of Segovia.”

“Oh I thought it was only for natives.”

“My mother is Spanish.”

“What does she look like? I’m sure she’s beautiful,” I try to imagine a woman with long brown hair, smooth olive skin, sincere smile and kind eyes.

“I don’t know. She left my father when I was a baby.”

“I’m sorry,” my amusement drops into empathy.

“It sucks. I think my father still hurts.”

“Wait. Your father is here. Is he leader of your group?” There is giant man with honey dark brown skin, round empirical eyes and deep hunter’s voice. Everyone in Tennessee group daydreams of him sexually. His big muscles and physical power remind me of a navy seal. He’s scary authoritative and talks fear into young minds. University of Arizona dare not upset him. His reign of terror is unmerciful.

He’s a leader of boisterous college kids for a reason. He knows how to lasso wild things back into correct pastures. He’s a cowboy and we’re his bucking wild horses. He must have a lot of energy to deal with unctuous, uncontrollable and hot heated teens becoming adults.

“My dad is Jose,” Pasha is anxious to reveal the truth.

“Jose is…”

“Yeah I know. Most people find him embracive.”

“I was going to say sexy,” I try not to lick my lips sarcastically.

Pasha pushes me to side, causing me to lose balance. I smile eagerly. He wraps his bear arms around my shoulders from behind. We wrestle like rambunctious cheerful siblings.

Pasha walks me to school doors. He hugs me. Tennessee classmates pass with gossipy glares. Nobody from Tennessee can get Arizona group to attend disco with us. Arizona students are recluse, uppity and rich. Since my face can’t reach above Pashs’s chest, I sniff his chest. Pasha nests his face into my afro wilderness.

“I’ll see you later,” Pasha begins to turn to walk medieval streets like a knight with a heavy, shiny and magical sword of universal truth.

“Is your group coming to Seville with us?”

Pasha nods, yes. His smile is teenage spirit.

I run into school building. Hours glide on my hand watch. I want minutes to slow down. Why does time feel rushed? We walk to buses. I search for Pasha. I hope he’ll sit beside me. He’s nowhere to be found. Professors push me into bus. It’s time to leave. Bus is about to pull off when Pasha runs wildly with his backpack jumping. Bus door opens. He searches for me. He hops into seat beside me. Bus rolls forward. Jose gives Pasha a stern glare.

“What kind of stories do you want to write?” I ask Pasha.

“Romance. Not the kind back home. American romance is saturated with capitalism, consumerism and materialism. Don’t get me wrong, America is great but I’m searching for something…”

“Visionary? What is romance to you?”

“I like Nicolas Sparks. Do you read his work?”

“Yes. My favorite is A Walk to Remember.”

“Romance is meant to be of the soul and not ego. It’s meant to awaken our courage and strengthen our authenticity. It’s heavy like stone and yet it doesn’t fall from grace and dwell in darkness of self-importance. It’s hard to express romance when the mind is consumed by endless superficial wants. Like Jole. He knew you from before and he wasn’t afraid to admit it.”

“From before?”

“Before this lifetime.”

“Like reincarnation?”

“Don’t you believe in reincarnation? You ought to if you’re searching for something visionary,” Pasha’s breath is arrhythmic. His heart is racing. He’s anxious but it’s different from before. Something is unexpressed, pent up, a dam not meant to be there.

“I believe we’re eternal like roses. We have a life and it fades back into darkness. Within soil a new seed is conceived and we grow differently. Each version of ourself is connected. There are numerous herbs with different meanings but they all stem from the same seed.”

“It’s karma that ties reality together.”

“Do you believe in karma?” Pasha’s depth arouses me.

“Of course. I believe reality comes from our mind. It’s complicated and yet so simple when we let go of our fears. Everything we do has a consequence.”

“Do you believe in ancestral karma?”

“Yes. My father was abused by his father. My father abused me when I was young.”

“Does he still?”

“One day I stood up to my father. I punched him. He never hit me again. I’m learning to forgive him but I’m angry. Sometimes my anger gets the best of me. Men in my family bottle up their emotions until it erupts. Volcanic explosion destroys everything in its wake. I’m trying to break that masculine dysfunction.”

I stare out window. Pasha stares at me. We drive into Seville, city of glory, prestige and valor. Condominiums are immense, brown, white and red is a constant color scheme, cobble stone streets remind me Roman empires and Egyptian legacies. There is palm trees, tiny cars, catholic churches, sensual restaurants and museums of million dollar art transporting me to era of Leonardo da Vince. Bus stops in square. Pasha grabs my hand and we run out of bus into wide open square surrounded by castles and marigold sun. There are garden labyrinths waiting to be unlocked, bountiful orange trees waiting to be plucked and soulful musicians waiting to enchant our hearts.

“What are you doing?!!” Jose shouts at us from bus.

“We need to use the restroom!” Pasha shouts back not letting go of my hand.

Students follow our lead and calmly head towards restrooms. We’re too far out of reach for anybody to track us. Pasha takes me to a café with a lot of pastry. It’s all voluptuous and juicy. People sit at round tables reading a book, writing on laptop, chatting with friends, eating decorative pastry or alone in thoughts staring out window at square of superb majestic majesty where gold chariots, queens and kings and showy lords’ prance.

Pasha runs me to restroom hallway. He smiles as we enter separate bathrooms. Once I finish, I race out of café. I play hide and seek. I hide near a water fountain for a prince to render his heart to my evergreen soul. It’s a giant pool with coins bound to its shallows. I see Pasha looking around. I don’t want to make it too hard for him. I see other students herding back to bus area. I climb onto water fountain. Pasha runs at me. I stand like a matriarch. He jumps onto water fountain and stands beside me like my royal king. We stare out at our subjects dignified and proud.

Jose is shouting for everyone to return. We must stay together. It would be a headache if anyone got lost. We use what’s up app to communicate. Using international texting and calling adds up to astronomical money. Jose and other professors tame our beastly desire to roam free. It’s safer when we’re organized and follow the rules. I admit, it’s no fun dealing with irritated professors. They can be hot heated more than teenage fever.

We orderly follow plan for today’s excursion. We go to a museum art, walk streets marveling at Roman architecture and eat lunch. Luckily, house mother put chocolate pudding in my lunch pack with ham cheese sandwich, a green apple and grapes. I devour chocolate pudding slowly trying to soak my tung in sweetness. Pasha watches me eat as he consumes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an orange and bag of lays. I have a giant water jug. I gabble water. Pasha touches my cheek clearing away crumbs of sandwich.

We move again, always shifting, always walking. Stillness can’t last long when journey has a lot of places to go. We go to a castle and explore its gothic style construction. There is something largely witchy about gothic architecture. There’s an eerie knighthood deathly power, soul entrapping and heavenly symphony transporting me to battles for salvation cloaked in Vatican red robes with long pointy hoods oddly similar to KKK hoods. Cheeker tile floors, arching ceilings and walls made of thick stone remind me of chess except in game of nobility nobody wins. It’s all savage and uncanny. I honestly don’t want to be a noble man if it means I have to surrender my soul to a catholic church that condemns Mary Magdalene and defames her title of Apostle of Apostles basically meaning she’s first apostle. Since she’s a woman that can’t be credited in a world where women are sex slaves for men.

Tops of castles are like knives stabbing the sky. Walls are clearly made to withstand a beating and towers are a continuous reminder that death can’t be escaped. We’re all going to die and yet we still fight death. We fight against our human nature. Who would want to live forever? Being a vampire is a terrible existence. It’s a trap. To never grow, change or transform is wacko and only for creepos.

We get an opportunity to explore on our own in small groups. We’re all above eighteen so we shouldn’t need professors everywhere we go. Pasha takes me on a tiny boat ride. We canoe a manmade river that takes us in circles. It’s at a different square. There are a lot of squares where people conjure in festive collaboration. There is always a market place. Market places are tribal currency allowing creative producers to earn an earnest living for their talents and skills. It reminds me of tribal days in America before corporations took control. Human beings are meant to be artsy producers not just autopilot consumers. Human beings are meant to share with each other and support each other’s creative livelihood. In today’s world, we’re all dependent on oligarchy disguised as democracy and can’t see that we’re being persuaded out of democracy back into stone ages where monarchs always rule and the people always lose.

Pasha rows. It’s exhausting him and yet he’s muscular and can take the heat. Our ride finishes like exiting a carnival ride. We’re both sweating. Pasha takes me to a different water fountain. Its water looks so refreshing. I’m grueling with desire to swim in an ocean. Pasha stands on water fountain. I follow him.

“Why do you attend University of Segovia? I know you speak Spanish fluently.”

Pasha looks out at distance sensing sun revolving towards red and purple.

“My father wants me to be a translator.”

“I thought you wanted to be a writing?”

“I write Spanish short stories.”

“You’re a poet?”

“Yes, but not like Jole. His words belong to a man whose been in love before.”

“Haven’t you been in love before? I’m sure you have. Everyone likes you.”

I recall University of Arizona group of fourteen being excited to go to discos with Pasha. They follow him like dogs chase cats. Except he’s a snow leopard. His power, command and superior education makes him an elder and a charmer. He’s more evolved than the rest and yet blends in like a chameleon.

“People like me because of my father. And, no. I haven’t been in love.”

“You’ve never dated or kissed someone?”

“There was this girl sophomore year. We met at a party. I was drunk and sad. My father lost his teaching job. The school was cutting back. My father made it hard for me to relax. I knew her from middle school. We sort of grew up together though we never hanged out. She was beautiful. She kissed me. We started making out and I woke up next day in a strange bed naked with her naked body beside me. The taste of her was fleshy like body fluids that lost its sweet essence. I was pissed with myself. I spiraled into a desperation, more like alcoholism. I went to rehab. Kids at school had awful thoughts about me. They called me messed up, jaded, damaged. Aren’t we all? I found my way. Going to University of Arizona and staying in a dorm away from my father helped me find myself.”

Pasha overthinks his vulnerability, second guessing himself. His eyes turn to weary and his smile drops into self-doubt. I jump into water fountain. Pasha eyes widen like a cold plunge. He jumps in after me. I feel so much brighter. Intense heat kills brain cells, draining our life force. Pasha dives under water. I follow him into shallow depths. He finds a coin. It’s from 1940s. He hands it me. I throw it back.

“It’s not good to take coins. It meses with the vibration.”

Pasha looks at his hand watch. “We got to head back.”

We climb out of water fountain before security guards see us. We head back to main square. We line up at bus and climb in one by one as Jose counts each head. Jose stops us noticing our clothes are wet. He lets us pass. He’s too tried to worry about what we did.

I sleep in bus. My head presses against window. I gruel from exhaustion. Everyone is passed out. Pasha rests his hand on my shoulder. He gruels. Sunset falls over fields like oceans and cities like continents. We arrive at Segovia square with aqueduct greeting. It takes everyone long minutes to wake up. I open my eyes and notice Pasha is alert and ready to pounce.

We falter into streets. Professors leave us to do whatever. A small University of Arizona group huddles around Pasha. Older students depart. Not everyone can handle all day and all night joy ride. There are about four students that cling to Pasha. Joe, Olive, Rebecca and Evans. They’re all spritely and rebellious.

Joe is gay. His love for men is genuine and yet he’s never had a boyfriend. He’s Mexican with black hair, white skin, dark eyes and short height. He speaks Spanish fluently. He’s quirky, silly and a party animal. Olive is a sweetheart, girl next door, virginal empress with long blonde hair, bright green eyes and Marlin Manroe soft voice and high intelligence. Rebecca is Hispanic. I’m not sure where she’s from. She’s mixed. She grew up speaking mostly English and knows little of her Latin heritage. She has thick long black hair, olive skin, Japanese eyes and solemn smile. She’s serious, timid and yet goes everywhere Pasha goes. She usually stands awkwardly in corner at discos watching and waiting for right time to strike. She’s pent up like a man who hasn’t had sex in three decades. Evans is an athlete. He’s received tens of thousand-dollar scholarships for soccer. He’s mixed blood like me. His dad is white and his mom is Colombian. They met in college. He’s best in class, asks many questions and cares deeply about others. He’s a humanitarian, the giver. I admire his ambition to volunteer in desolate places to help displaced people recover.

Everyone in this world is displaced. We’ve all been thrown out of our homelands into difficult places. We’ve all had to survive desperate times. Of course, it’s way more rigorous for African Americans, Native Americans, Hispanics and Jews. Basically colored people and women in general were more of a target for discrimination, prejudice and unfairness. I never think about white supremacy. I’m part white.

I remember my mother taking us to south Virginia. We were visiting my grandfather. We stopped at a McDonalds to use restroom. I didn’t have to go. I stayed in car and shouted out window for mother to get me fries. At same time, a 1970s faded blue chevy rolls in with four redneck dudes with hunter’s grass clothing, cigarette teeth and porno eyes. They didn’t like me calling a white woman mother. I remember a chill in the air as if all joy, hope and love was killed from the world. It was icy and bleak, making me think of Earth before it had seeds of beauty when Earth was just a rock and nothing more. Those men were carnal, flesh and nothing more as if their teen spirit was stripped from them and replaced with ideologies, doctrines and belief systems that poison the mind.

Rebecca hands out red bull for everyone to take a shot. I throw it down my throat. It burns me wide wake. We stride towards discos in alley where misfits and mischief accumulate. We go to Pasha’s usual spots. I see Tennessee students. Lily and Rachel glare at me with Lola and Jeremy. I’m only person from our group accepted into University of Arizona group. It bugs them. I was in exile for whatever reason and now I’m adored.

Very quickly everyone gets drunk. Joe keeps buying me shots. I’ve never had fruity drinks or shots. My experience of alcohol is terrible, drinking gin or vodka straight. I’m not sure why I’m drinking. I’ve never been drawn to alcohol. I always tried to stay away for its power of influencing people to be apathic, unruly and rageful. Night moves very slowly when intoxicated. Maybe that’s why people drink. It makes me hyper focused on my feelings, thoughts and yet everything is murky. My head starts spinning. I nearly pee myself before I make it to restroom. Pasha notices I can barely stand at restroom line.

“You’ve never drank before,” Pasha is worried and protective.

“Not since I was thirteen. I never drank because my friend’s mother died from drinking too much, liver failure,” my words slurp and stutter. I grip wall, sliding closer to restroom. Finally, when it’s my turn to use single restroom, Pasha goes in with me.

“No! You can’t come in, silly,” I laugh at Pasha’s strict look.

Pasha grabs my body and guides me to toilet, shutting door behind us. Women frown assuming we’re about to have sex in female restroom. He helps me pull down my underwear. I lift my dress and sit on toilet. Pasha stares.

“I can’t go when you’re looking,” I laugh. Pasha turns around. Sound of water relaxes Pasha’s nerves. I flush toilet. Pasha helps me pull up my underwear.

“I can do it myself!” I slap Pasha’s hand.

I wash my hands, humming at reflection of Pasha in mirror. “You are very beautiful like sunrise over Segovia field of roses.” Pasha blushes.

I start playing with water. Splashing mirror. I start drinking water. Pasha pulls me away.

“Rosa, that water is gross. It’s time to go home,” Pasha is grumpy and commanding.

“Why aren’t you drunk, silly?” I hiccup.

“I have high tolerance to alcohol. Clearly you don’t. I’m not going to let you pass out and get a concussion,” Pasha grabs my body and forcefully takes me through flashing neon lights, crowd of sweaty dancers, away from bar of seductive men and devilish women and out into fresh moonlight air. Pasha gives Joe, Olive Rebecca and Evans a look of departure. They collide into streets like shooting stars.

Walking streets uphill has never felt so exhilarating. Moonlight is blueish white and very bright. Pasha keeps me balanced. I stare at full moon with my head dropped back. My head is heavy. I can barely keep it up.

“I have to pee!” I begin to squat in street. Pasha pushes me into alley. Spaniards causally walking by glare at my drunkenness with disapproval.

“What’s wrong with her?” Joe asks Pasha.

“You bought her too many drinks. She’s not used to drinking. It’s a system overload.”

“She needs food,” Rebecca tries to be helpful.

“Where are we going to find food, in trash canes? Everything is closed.” Pasha is sharp and feisty. Rebecca gives him a dirty look.

“You don’t have to be an asshole, Pasha. I’m just trying to help,” Rebecca stands her ground.

“I’m just scared,” Pasha releases tension.

“And I thought you weren’t scared of anything,” Olive speaks like a fairy from Stonehenge.

“Why are you scared? She’s fine,” Evans speaks clear headed.

“She obviously doesn’t know where she is or what’s going on. She’s an innocent. I don’t want her first experience to be bad.”

“Like yours,” Evans speaks bringing up unwanted memories for Pasha.

“What happened your first time?” Olive asks Pasha not knowing much about his past.

“I drunk and drive. I crashed into the lake.”

“Damn, that’s insane,” Rebecca speaks.

“I could have killed someone,” Pasha is raging. He’s red faced and aggressive. He breathes deeply cooling himself down, returning to charming state of being.

I’m out of my mind. I have no idea where I’m walking and who I’m with. We manage to get uphill. Pasha sits me on bench. Joe left pack twenty minutes ago, safely entering his temporary home. Evans walks Olive home. Professors made us promise to stay in groups and not go places alone, especially at night. Being drunk makes things worse. It’s moth to a flame. Creepos are moths and we’re the flame.

Pasha doesn’t want to leave me alone but doesn’t want Rebecca walking home by herself.

“No! Don’t worry! I’m a big girl. I only live two blocks away. Stay with her,” Rebecca speaks shaking off intoxication with ease.

“Goodnight,” Rebecca walks away.

Pasha helps me up. We walk through alley that’s a short cut to my condominium. We’re interrupted by two Spanish men, both with dungeon heights and Dracula venomous stares. They are not in their body like demonic possession. They’re not from around here. They’re passing through. Pasha holds me firm. My mind is already asleep. I vomit on ground.

“I don’t feel well,” I whisper.

Two men are very intrigued by my weakness. They huddle around Pasha.

“Hey, can we have your girlfriend for the night?” a boxer type speaks.

Pasha keeps pushing me forward hoping ignoring them will save us.

“Come on!” drunk man grabs my arm.

Pasha pushes him off me. I’m incoherent.

Boxer type shoves Pasha away from me. Pasha’s violence switches on. He punches boxer type hard. Drunk man fights Pasha. Pasha viciously wrestles with two men. He gets knocked in head. He hits the ground.

Boxer man and drunk man who are faceless to me, pull me towards fields near my house. Everything is blurry. I can barely walk straight and my head is pounding. I remember this field. For a moment, I am elated until I realize I’m not with Pasha. I’m with strange men. I start fighting them. They push me to ground. I try to scream but boxer man covers my mouth. I feel my underwear coming off and my dress dripping. Everything goes dark.

Boxer type’s pale white skin, almond shaped Arabian eyes and crushing muscular density dissolves. Drunk man with green eyes, bark of tree rough skin, shaved grainy head evaporates. They drop out of existence. They’re faulty programming, a rotten seed, a simulation designed to block journey forward. They don’t get to traumatize me. I am an alchemist. I turn coal into diamond. I turn copper into gold. I turn pain into purpose always because I am the red rose. I’m resilient.

My eyes open. My phone alarm goes off. I look out open window at speck of light turning dark fields into red, orange and purple. I’m wrapped in covers. I turn off alarm. I feel unwell. I turn over to see Pasha sleeping beside me with his arm around me. His grip is tight. He’s burdened and sleeps heavy. I barely remember last night. Everything is vague and elusive. All I know is that I need a cold shower and food. Pasha flutters eyes open. He retrieves an energy bar from pocket and hands it to me to eat. He reaches by beside table and grabs a glass of water and aspirin. He encouraged me to take pill and drink water to completion. I follow his orders. He looks wounded and achy.

“I feel so embarrassed. I was awful. Wasn’t I? I ruined your night. I’m not a good drinker,” my words are heavy lifting off my chest.

Pasha says nothing. He pulls me into his body. I turn to face his face. I feel his pelvis on my pelvis.

“Did we?” I realize Pasha changed me into night gown.

“No. I wouldn’t do that to you,” Pasha’s heartbeat is steady and comforting. His breathing sucks me into his vortex.

“What happened? Did I vomit all over someone? Did I pee my pants? Did I kiss a stranger?”

Pasha smiles with grace and relief.

“Tell me the truth,” I command.

Pasha’s smile drops into grin. “There were two men last night. They tried to…harm you. We stopped them.”

“We?”

“Joe, Olive, Rebecca and Evans came running to help.”

“A sign of a wolf pack,” I smile at Pasha’s grief and inner distaste with himself.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you don’t drink. We gave you so many drinks. It could have killed you,” Pasha’s eyes water. He holds back tears. His face is red. His breathing turns shallow and panicky.

I touch Pasha’s face gently. I soothe his anxiety, fear and self-aggression.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Pasha’s breath and mine are the same. We breathe together. He pulls his belly then chest to mine. I crawl into a ball burying myself into his long body. He wraps his body around mine like a cocoon. I unravel myself and kiss his lips. Its fast and hasty. Pasha smiles maturely. He kisses my cheek.

“You don’t want to…” I pull away.

“I want to kiss you. I just want it to be perfect,” Pasha touches my lips with his fingers, mapping every curve, line, dry spot, wetness. He brings his fingers to his lips. His mouth opens slightly as he breathes. I can feel his erection. It’s hard point presses into my pelvis. Pasha does not hide it. He smoothly touches my breasts, feeling my heart energy. It gives him shivers and warms his blood. He pulls way not wanting to be taken over by desire. He’s patient.

There is a knock at my door.

“Estas listo?” House mother needs me to eat breakfast soon so I’m not late to school.

“Did you sneak in?” I ask Pasha.

“I don’t think she’ll care. My father knows her from other trips. She’s been a house mother for many years.”

I laugh wildly to wind galloping into my room from open window. Pasha touches my face, painting a picture of a rose. His fingers drawl its form over my forehead, cheeks, nose, lips. He kisses my lips like a kitchen puck the ground. It’s a tease but it’s special.