I was hauling bags up and down the steps yesterday. “adjudar” a skinny little kid following in my steps said it twice. he had on a pink t shirt without sleeves and his arms jutted out where the pit should be. I fired the kids yesterday after they did nothing but carry a bag take a break, carry a bag, dissapear. carry a bag, not come back. I decided that if I was gonna help wivona, I would do what I could. if she was going to kiss me at night holding her school books, I was going to carry bags. I swiveled my shoulder in towards my chest, the 50lb bag straining my neck, because a soldier in black fatigeues pointed a slim stocked 16 round barrel at my head. I held my breadth and leaned the soft part of my skull against the rotten brick wall down by the road. the kid with the pink tank top, was nibbling the heals to my addidas with little brown curled toes. his legs bent up the wire sandals over the road. there where signs alerted your attention to a black van with thick armored plate and a turret where monkeys made a spectacle of themselves for bits of glass and other land fill. winova stepped into the house with no wall yesterday. I was sitting on the veranda looking at the harbor. happy the german hadnt talked. didnt say a fucking word. thats what I miss about being filthy. about working with your hands and having the cuts and soil to show, men dont bother you. My heavy hand fell on the siamese cats head. his big black furry balls stretched out behind him streaking the favella in a pink missile glory shot. actually I think at this time of day they call it the martini shot, or maybe its martini time. it definately would be, tired sweating and dirty. but I was having a soda, trying to catch my breadth, proud of myself that I had finally figured a way to keep the germans quiet, when winova, came and sat down next to me. she was talking about money. about fifty dollars for brick, she brought egor with her, the 8 year old kid with big teeth that I loved at first site. I spent 120 for a dangerous fuck at the whore house last week, and 50 bucks for brick seemed reasonable. “damme un bessito” I said to her, I wanted to own her, I wanted to own the love that she was about to give before she gave it, I wanted a meal that doesnt end until I leave the table. I wanted it all to be like a surprise, like a dear eating scrub in the tall grass, with a pink macrelel free until I kill it. martini time was over and the blue bulbs that turn the veranda into a jazz disco at night made sugarloaf dissapear, a lone cable car scratched up the braided cable onto winovas goddam good behind. when her tongue went in my mouth , it was hard and mechanical and I thought of high school dances not mothers of good sons, but this is rio I guess. what am I going to do here. what does anyone do here?