CHAPTER 16
“She's not my girlfriend. I find her interesting because she's a client and because she sleeps above her covers. Four feet above her covers.”
Dr. Peter Venkman
Ghostbusters

           
Dog sat on his pillow and watched Woman and the Man called Kyle asleep naked on Woman’s army cot. They seemed content, as if they just had a big meal, and their sleep was motionless. Since acquiring a boost in intelligence, one of the things Dog enjoyed most was the gift of rumination. There were many things Dog took in but did not understand. For instance earlier, when Woman and Kyle were coupled or “fucking” as Dog pieced together from Woman’s many repeated shouts corresponding to what they were doing, he understood the male from behind position, but not Kyle’s slapping of Woman’s hind quarters. Dog imagined trying to do the same to a female and for the life of him, couldn’t understand the benefit. Or get his legs to bend in that fashion. And why did they rearrange themselves in so many different positions? Were things not working right? Was there pain? It was hard to tell by the expressions they were making. And the grunts. And the occasional plea to “God,” Sweet Jesus,” and “Harder.” Some of those positions seemed to make the act harder to accomplish, particularly the one where she laid on top of him, but backwards? That position must’ve been what caused her, “Kitty” to itch so much she had to scratch it really fast. And as for the sniffing around each other’s body parts, well, that’s how it’s done, isn’t it? But they weren’t just sniffing and to Dog he found what she was doing to his body part intriguing, though he wasn’t sure why. It made Kyle’s eyes roll back in his head, for better or worse.
     Dog let out a small harrumph.
     Dog also found it amazing that Woman could wake Kyle from his bash on the head by merely licking his nipples. What about the pain? That was some bash on the head. Kyle came to and immediately started making groaning sounds, which Dog assumed was because of the head wound, but upon reflection, seemed to be more about his nipples.
     Kyle began to stir, snapping Dog out of his pondering. Dog knew they’d be waking up now and wondered what kind of experience awaited him this morning. More of the same? How would Woman explain things? They fell asleep without so much as a word after the “fucking.” Would she hit him in the head again?
     A small groan emitted from Kyle as he sat up, one hand pressed against his forehead. He slowly looked around, trying to orient himself to his surroundings. He came upon Dog, who in turn gave Kyle a quick “What’s happening” head nod. More groaning, causing Woman to stir. Kyle felt the palm sized egg on his forehead, and was about to complain loudly about the pain when he looked down upon Woman’s uncovered bare ass, causing Kyle to slip into a state of bliss.
     A minute later, Woman turned over and looked up at Kyle, who wore the same blissful expression Dog had noted earlier.
     “Sorry about the head wound,” Woman said, reaching up to lightly graze the bump on his forehead.
     “You can wound me anytime,” Kyle said, with a silly grin.
     “That’s sweet. Glad to hear it,” Woman said, as she quickly brought her left knee to the side of Kyle’s head, dropping him once again.
     Woman looked at Dog, who shook his head and gazed out the window at the jungle.
     “I know I know,” she said getting out of the cot. “When am I gonna stop treating men like punching bags.”

****

     There it was, fading into his consciousness. Growing in volume as the swirling colors around him began to take shape. Rectangular pieces of colored light all lined up in rows, the colors fading into each other. Just like looking through a kaleidescope on a sunny day. He began to recognize the words and music sung in that familiar, friendly way.
     “Wastin’ away again in margaritaville/searchin for my lost shaker of salt
     Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame/But I know it’s nobody’s fault.”
     And then, just like that, Kyle Whitman found himself inside of a song. A song he’d long held disdain for from an artist he dismissed with the wave of a hand while standing in the vinyl section of some armpit record store. Hours were spent – days even -  proclaiming what artists or songs spoke to him, informed him, understood him versus those who failed him. Having music snob offs against friend and foe alike. Who begat whom and who stole from who or was paying homage or being ironically plagerized.
     The sphere’s of light took on definition. Rows of bottles lined up behind glass, framed in woodwork that looked salvaged from the Mayflower. Above him a fan turned slowly casting shadows across the dark shiplap and tin patched ceiling. It was a bit cold.
     “But there’s booze in the blender…” Kyle mumbled along with the song.
     “Oh my Jesus, bro,” a voice to his right exclaimed. “Not another pinche parrot head.”
     Kyle smiled, eyes focused now on the ceiling fan.
     “Don’t know the reason, stayed here all season,” he sang, realizing that in fact he was living inside this song and that this song now truly spoke to him.
     “El ocho if you can sing you can hop off my bar, patron.”
     Kyle turned his head to the right and came face to face with Eddie Guzmondo, the owner of the bar Kyle was resting on.
     “How long have I been here?” Kyle asked.
     “Chuco found you by the back door, ese. You were out cold,” Eddie said. “You had a note pinned to your shirt.”
     Eddie, cleared his throat as he put his reading glasses hanging around his neck on, tilting his head back slightly to read the note.
     “Dear Kyle – which I guess is you, patron?”
     “It’s me.”
     “Dear Kyle, it was fun. Hope I didn’t give you brain damage.”
     Jimmy sang, “How I got here I haven’t a clue.”
     “That’s it?” Kyle asked.
     “Thas’ it, patron,” Eddie said removing his glasses to dangle on his dark blue linen shirt. “El Ocho, from the sounds of it, whoever she was, rode you hard and putchoo away wet, holmes. Cerveza?”
     “That’d be great,” Kyle said.
     “Slide off then,” Eddie said turning towards the back kitchen door. “Chuco! Bring us a couple orders of leftover Pernil.”
     Kyle slowly sat up, his head pulsing with a dull ache. He let out a few low moans as he swung his feet over the side of the bar and gradually poured himself onto a barstool. Eddie reached under the bar gave a couple quick twists of the shoulder and produced two chilled bottles of  El Michoacan. He handed one to Kyle and raised his,
     “Sigue durmiendo de ese lado,” Eddie said.
     Kyle nodded as they clinked bottles. The cold beer almost made Kyle gasp. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. The kitchen door swiveled open and Chuco came out with two plates of roasted pork shoulder, rice and beans. The smell made Kyle swoon. Chuco placed the plates on the bar, joining them as well.
     “This Pernil recipe is five hundred years old, patron,” Eddie said leaning down to smell his plate. “So les’ eat up and you can tell me how you ended up on this side of the island, patron.”
     “I didn’t know this island was big enough to have sides,” Kyle said.
     “You wouldn’t believe how many sides, ese. Iss like a Caribbean Rubik’s cube. Les eat.”