Tauroctony

I was scrubbing at dried organic rice when one of the more focused of the new girls at my work mentioned that the rodeo was in town.

"That sure is interesting," I told her, even though it really wasn't.

I didn't like the rodeo, and I knew that our relationship would never blossom the way it could potentially have if she didn't mention her infatuation with the rodeo.

It was like when the Cheesegirl didn't understand my metaphor linking NASCAR to sex. She'll probably become a judge when she's older.

I knew something was up, because when I was downtown 'socializing' in bars the other night, something like my 13th or 14th day straight drinking/drunk, I noticed a large influx of young, drunk people asking me where I'm from. I didn't start in this city, and most likely won't end here unless of course that pain in my side really is my liver, not a bruise from when I crashed my bike a week ago like I've convinced myself. Foreign. But I live here, which set me apart from the drunk married couple that kicked my ass in pool.

I figured the commotion must've been over one of the music festivals this city holds each year. But that's a week away. The rodeo was in town.

Watching bulls get individually slaughtered for sport under the Mexican sun is the closest I've ever come to attending a rodeo. That was another lifetime ago. I didn't consume two mamosas made with champagne available on the corner drugstore everytime I left the house. A beer and bourbon before work. 2$ beers across the street during lunch break. Bottle of wine at quitting time. The bulls would get exhausted and collapse before their brains were thrusted with a thin sword. Like a toothpick in the free cheese samples at the new H.E.B. There's a sign out front that says it's the pride of the whole avenue. And it's true.

Another new girl at my work was sitting in a boat and had the chance to save her drowning friend from sea monsters. But her mother wouldn't let her off the boat. She dreamed this last night and woke up crying. She asked me what it meant. Shrugging, I suggested that perhaps her friend was an alcoholic.

She said, "No, he's just European."

"Maybe it was the strange place you were sleeping at." I said. "Before I had a bed, I slept on the floor and it gave me the weirdest dreams of my life."

These days I dream about the first real job I had as a manager of a buzzing capitalism store. They're not nightmares, but they're scary because in the dreams I am relieved. I also drank during that job, because I could. Not because I had to.

I left the bullfight three-quarters of the way through. I assume it was almost over, although they could've continued for hours more, who knows. But I grew tired of the show. And slightly disgusted with myself for paying some pesos to experience it. I'll probably stop drinking for the same reasons, but hopefully not until I get fired from my job because of it.