Page 44 of The Delivery

When I look over at Tommy, he’s done taking pictures with his phone and has resumed popping more pills into his palm. He’s got a whole pharmacy in his Luis Vuitton fanny pack that I’d make fun of him for if I were halfway in the mood.

“Stop flipping out. Rocco and I don’t have to go back today. We can take a day or two off and help you find him.”

“Thank you! And FYI, I’m not flipping out, technically. I’m just emoting and that’s okay. Healthy, actually.”

“You’re sooooo healthy. That’s what I think of when I see you. The epitome of health.”

“Ha. Ha. You look great too, like you got run over by a dump truck. So how the hell do we find him?”

“You graffiti him back. Or tag him or whatever they call it. You send your message back to him via street art. I’ve seen it before in movies. We just have to get to a paint store.”

“Holy shit! You’re a genius! We’ve got to get to a paint store and talk to the people that work there. They might know where to find him! How many stores can there be?” Wait, didn’t we already have this conversation? How long have we been standing here turning in circles?

“A shit ton, that’s how many. It would probably only work if we happened to run into him while he was buying some paint. But we’ll try that, and if it doesn’t work, we’ll tag him back.”

We get back in the car and Tommy texts Rocco the updates while I lower the window and stare at the painting. I can see his pain in it, almost smell the terror of the young boy. It’s something that might scare me if I didn’t also see his blazing conviction and the strength that it holds. I look at his self-portrait, and I fall in love with him a little bit more.

CHAPTER 21

Back at Paradise, I sleep away the rest of the day. I wake up as dusk falls and go next door to check on my friends. Coming into their cozy boudoir, the television is chatting loudly, both Tommy and Rocco are curled up on the bed engrossed in the television. Between the two of them lies a greasestained brown paper wrapper of fresh fried pork skin—or chicharrón as Tommy called it. Rocco looks up and winks at me quickly patting the bed beside him. The program has gone serious, at least according to the music. It appears to be a black and white dramatic reenactment. A fallen beauty queen, some type of tragic accident.

“What are you guys watching? Want to go drive around and look for Mozey?”

Rocco winks again only to look back at the screen and Tommy bites his knuckle nodding, on the brink of tears.

“What the hell are you guys watching?”

“Laura,” they say in unison not breaking hypnotized eye-contact with the television.

“Who’s Laura?” I ask, grabbing a crunchy pork skin.

“Kind of like, Cristina, but even better!” Tommy says and sips an orange soda through a bright green straw.

“Talk show? The only Spanish one I know is the gossip one with the fat guy and the skinny lady that’s actually called “the fat guy and the skinny lady.”

“El gordo y la flaca,” they say in unison again. Their eyes are all glassy. They must be on something.

“I guess I’ll see if Coco is around. Hey, what’s the deal? Are both of you totally fluent in Spanish?”

The two of them nod, not taking their eyes away from whatever they’re watching. I can’t help but think it must be a really good one and maybe I’m missing something.

“So what’s it about?”

“An orphaned Mexican beauty queen who needs a new kidney,” Rocco says licking his fingers.

“Sounds fascinating,” I say sarcastically realizing there’s no way to get their attention. My new best friends are special and they do come with certain proclivities, especially when they’re as high as they are now. Maybe they’ll help me tomorrow.

“Okay. I’ll check you two later. I’ma drive around in circles and see if I can find Mozey.”

The next morning at the front desk, Claudia—in a flowered housecoat and curlers—comes up with a list of ferreterías or hardware stores in the area that likely sell spray paint. Tommy is hell-bent on searching today. He dragged me out of bed at six in the morning. Rocco agreed to stay one more night, and Claudia told them they can have the room for free.

I’m not quite sure how I met up with these men or who the hell they really are or why they’re agreeing to be my friends, but I take a deep breath and thank God I met them. I love that they love me and are eager and willing to accommodate my infatuation and fully encourage what may, for all they know, be a completely delusional fantasy.

Back in the room, Tommy styles my hair with an ungodly amount of hairspray and applies more dark eye shadow to my lids in one sitting than I’ve worn in my lifetime.

“So glamourous,” Tommy drawls as he fluffs my bouffant.

“I look like a drunk panda bear. It’s too much. He’ll never recognize me.”

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