belize in the dark

We can call him Al.
This is the name he used in Belize City.
I\'m not going to improve it.
He was dressed in sour clothes.
Washed jeans and white tennis shoes look like they are in their 50 s.
Wearing a polo shirt, he appeared on the balcony of the seaside hotel, allowing himself to enter a small single room with almost no large stalls in the public bathroom.
The day before, the hotel was packed with usually disorganized backpackers and day trip tourists: a terrible Austrian, a clean-
Canadian fried chef Mormon from Florida, a pair of dusty, beautiful hippie women from the Netherlands.
Now they are all gone, go to Guatemala by bus or take a water taxi to Kay.
They all look secular and road value, but I can imagine going back to the United States and selling home appliances in casual pants and designer brands at a strip mall.
Others look like they are traveling here.
Looks like he was caught here.
No matter who named it the beachside hotel, it was optimistic.
If the wind is right, you can smell the sea from the second floor, and if the palm leaf section provides a view on the tin roof and adjacent alleys, you may see the Caribbean shining.
But knock on your fake tooth bottle on the balcony railing and you will take a taxi instead of sunbathing.
Right next to the common area in front of the lobby, there is a room with six beds and one of them is mine.
The bunk beds share a wall with Al\'s room. ---------------------
Shortly after he entered his small room, Al came back, stepped down the stairs, walked out the door to Prince Street and disappeared on the sidewalk.
Al was quiet after leaving.
I sat at a table in the public area and took notes for the story of the belizi firefighters.
As soon as the strong wind blows, the palms rattle like rain.
Across the street from the Prince, a little old man, whose face was a dry pecan, sat under an orange Ovaltine hat in a chair in the sun.
From time to time he spoke to a woman who was ironing under the shadow of the big white palace, which dominated the garden.
The woman is like an oil bucket wrapped in a huge white apron, stretched out from her belly, like a sail full of wind.
Their soft voice floated across Prince Street and was uploaded from the screen.
A local reporter drove me to a beach club where we sat one
Overlooking the sky table, eat French fries and salsa with coriander and large raw conch.
I noticed a man standing alone in front of the railing with his hands in his pocket against the wind. It was Al.
Behind him, disco lights lit up the empty dance floor.
The reporter and I left soon.
Several dancers were painted on the floor.
Al was on the side, hanging backwards.
Return to the hotel at 12: 30 a. m. m. I have six-
Own bunk bed dorm.
I took some notes on the diary and settled down to sleep. ---------------------
I woke up after a while.
Someone is groping for the door.
Al\'s back with a friend.
A woman giggled.
The wall between us is covered with one --inch boards;
With the penetration of the sound, several light strips of the line are sent.
I heard the shop creaking and the woman\'s voice.
Switching between Spanish and Creole, she sounded happy, lazy and drunk, with a purring voice.
Al began asking her for special help.
She smiled drunk with drun, but one thing was still firm: \"Condoms, condoms.
He protested calmly and urgently.
She mentioned a child and asked for more tequila.
I heard her drink.
This time again, she insisted quite loudly that he produce condoms.
He booed her, but soon I heard the clicking of the wrapping paper.
It gets quiet.
I heard the weight shift. Still no words.
More movement.
There\'s trouble.
He made another request. She demurs --
It will taste bitter.
\"He gave her another sigh.
Soon, she was in a loop from a vague, honest one.
She committed suicide with bles.
Then she lit up and asked for the bathroom.
Al pointed to her in the hall, and she hid in his room when she urinated loudly.
Then I can see her under my door.
She drifted around in public areas.
The chair creaked and the newspaper crackled.
Very quiet for a long time.
Finally, Al climbed out of his room.
Then a harsh whisper: \"What the hell are you doing!
\"He coaxed her back to his room.
But now she wants to go.
\"This place is poison for me,\" she said . \".
She asked if she could get the newspaper.
\"Stay, I will have sex with you in the morning,\" Al said . \".
\"You have to wake me up.
\"I can go to you,\" Al said with hope . \".
\"I don\'t have this clean place.
Then she gave a wry smile.
\"But I will be more relaxed there,\" Al said . \".
The woman said nothing.
Al spoke again.
\"I\'m going to Kay Cowell tomorrow. Meet me.
\"Can I have a taxi fee ? \"lem-o.
\"He took her from the stairs to the door and looked at her comfortably all the way.
The door clicked.
I heard him go back to his room.
I heard the sound of condom packaging and heard him covered with tequila.
He then walked down the hall to the bathroom.
My diary is on the floor next to my bunk.
I keep taking notes in the dark.
I pressed the light on my watch. It\'s 2:30 a. m.
I feel a little guilty about these notes.
But you find yourself looking at two people through a dark window driven by two very different kinds of despair, and you think you should turn it into some kind of fable.
I am disgusted with a man who can\'t use her, who will at this time let a woman in Belize relax and let her weave into a sleeping baby on an ugly street.
But the story is about the deals we all do, about the hungry people who drive us sneaky and crazy, into the dark places where we live, just to get some time in the light.
The world is separated. Al and the woman were brought together by twins. -not twin --needs.
This is a lonely world.
Under the cover of darkness, we face directly what we despise.
We want to hide them, but more importantly, we want them.
Al was still in the bathroom when she came back.
She is knocking at the door. \"Al! Al! Al!
\"The hybrid dog, who was lying at the table all day, began to scream as people came and went, silent and calm.
Now she rang the bell.
Downstairs, the door slammed.
Omar and the manager were swearing at the woman and shouting at her to ask her to leave.
She called Al.
His shadow slipped past my door.
I could feel him holding his breath as he walked out of the gate into the room, but she had found him. \"Al! Al!
\"The lock on his door was knocked in place.
Now I hear the boss.
\"It\'s the Man in Room 1!
His voice reached the foot of the stairs.
\"Man, you bring her in and let her go now!
Call her home!
\"Al\'s room is still a grave.
The door downstairs-
Continue with a bang
Omar opened the door and the woman put her foot into jamb.
The angry owner grabbed a machete and chased her in the dark.
Quiet for a while.
Then the owner spoke again from the foot of the stairs.
\"If you want a fucking brothel, go to a fucking brothel!
\"Then it will always be quiet. ---------------------
Al left in the morning.
I rode a circle north.
I think when I get home, I will write this off-track event as a farce.
But it doesn\'t seem funny.
I thought he would fly here for scuba diving and snorkeling.
Then I thought of the story of my flying here to fish, a slum peeps with urgent traveler\'s checks and home tickets.
Scribbling on my bunk, scratching the edge of this little story, I\'m doing something of my own.
When one\'s fantasies burst, I sat in the front row and found myself looking back at my indiscretion.
If they are revealed, will I live in a different way or just more challenges.
All of us feel stupid about our needs.