Fango Sucio

Fango Sucio was not a special person. There would be no obituaries for him in the paper; there would be no consternation or throngs of wailing women, and children, who due to genetic connections, and sexual conquests which some men have longed lived in infamy. Understand this, it was not that he was not loved, or that he did not achieve anything. In our circles, he was famous, mostly because he was able to remain a stick twig despite consuming ungodly amounts of food. I once saw Fango devour what must have been a steak that was cobbled from the entire mass of a record Texas steer, and two hours later there he was complaining about hunger, and of course we all watched him eat another big meal. He had become legendary for it. Fango, other than having a voracious appetite, was a lovable person; he made you smile, said little funny quips, and occasionally got a chuckle out of the crowd. He was good with the ladies, but only in comparison to the rest of us. As we were for the most part outcasts, with no financial means to be called eccentric, and of course were unable to garner attention from overwhelmingly beautiful women. On some rare days we would get lucky, some beautiful woman with esteem issues, or had one too many to drink, and she would make the mistake of finding one of our lines charming, and she would bed one of us. Of course, the next morning she probably regretted it, and of course probably tried to go fix whatever esteem issue, or swore off the devil’s libation. We on the other hand would rave about our legendary ability to have bedded her. We would retell the tale, and laugh about it, until our friends tired of hearing about the rather few galactic conquests, would rib us endlessly, and of course the story was dropped and replaced by theirs or another from our group.
The biggest connection amongst this group was sports, but being men that is not shocking, we talked about every sport, what our city teams could do better, who we liked in the various leagues, why we thought this team was better, this player an all time great, or the chances of our city teams, and the offseason moves they should make to improve our various teams. This conversation was of course held at the one pub cheap enough for all of us to afford a drink. They had one dollar beers, and even better they were usually empty except on the days where Chicago cubs’ fans or some other die-hard sports fandom would invade the place. On those days we usually avoided the place, as though we loved sports, we were not raging devotees of our teams, we enjoyed talking about sports, and we just did not live our life by it. This of course was misnomer because we talked sports, consumed it, and probably our lives revolved around it, the only difference was we did not have altars of worship, and or even fit in with the mobs of the fandom that usually invaded our bar. On these days we drank at one of our friend’s basement, or apartment, or we got drugs, simple recreational drugs, mostly Weed, and occasionally if we just got paid, we might splurge for some cocaine. This was usually an adventure, and again was where Fango shined. He always seemed to know which guy we could go to get some stuff, and not be ripped off, and Fango’s high class stuff was what we aspired to, but his recreational stuff was middling, and not overwhelming.

It was on one of these trips that Fango gained acclaim from the outside world, which he had always had amongst us. In his typical fashion, it was not through any extra effort or through any special needs for attention. He was with us rolling down the street; albeit we were all high. There was a street reporter on the street, which happened to be interviewing the throngs of people passing one of the many replaceable places that took the spot an all too soon forgotten place in Wrigley. We were headed to our bar, when the reporter stopped us assuming us to be patrons of this new place. We all shied from the spotlight preferring our anonymity for we were in truth in the ethereal universe, and were too paranoid, too unsure, or just too busy with whatever the trip effect was on us.
Fango stepped to the microphone, and coolly said; “A tool shed, meant only for tools, and broken women.”
The reporter smiled, and asked him to elaborate. Fango, clutched at his suspenders pleased with himself and a smile that seemed divine; like I said earlier , “this bar is a shed, meant to house all the tools in the city, so the rest of us normal people can avoid them. “
The reporter glanced at him, and said ‘thank you’
Fango replied, “No thank you pretty lady. I love you on that show, and it is the only reason I watch.”
The reporter smiled, and gave him her autograph.
Fango, walked towards us, as we cheered him, and he walked triumphantly towards us, and needless to say that was the topic of conversation for the whole night. We buzzed like bees, and we combined our trip with drunkenness, not caring for the sun, or tomorrow’s effect.

The next day, I woke up with jackhammers, and an understanding that there were worse fates in life than death. Between, the pounding headaches, and the ringing of the phone, that jolted me from what felt like a coma. I pick up the phone;
Hello,
Turn to channel 23, the speaker said,
Who is this? I said irritated
Its Sas man, just turn it on.
I held the phone to my ear, searched for the remote, swearing under my breath, cursing my headache, cursing god, cursing any and all who thought it was a good idea to mix a trip with too much alcohol.
I managed to locate the remote, turn to the channel, and it was on commercial. You woke up for a commercial,
Sas replied, dude just wait Fango is on the TV
I was like no shit, he is, how did he get on the TV.
Sas replied, I have no clue,
The show came off commercial, and there was Sucio’s voice on the phone. He was talking to the owner of the club last night who seemed to be inviting him to visit his place, and he could see all his patrons were upstanding people and not the tools like he suggested. Sucio laughed, and agreed to the offer. I and Sas giggled like girls, forgetting for a moment that our bodies were going through excruciating agony. We called everyone we knew, and even called Sucio, but his phone was busy, and we no doubt figured that all our other friends had called him, and they were no doubt talking to him about his being on the TV.
We would have rushed over to Sucio’s place, but the agonies that our bodies were going through soon won over, and I spent the rest of the day hugging my toilet, and begging a god that I had long shunned and had no belief in, for mercy, and repentance. I prayed, I bargained, and I promised everything I could under the sun. At that moment, it was all true, at that moment I really believed he listened. But, I would soon forget all this, and I would be back on the horse drinking and tripping.
Fango went to the bar the next weekend, and we went with him, and for the first time we were treated as VIPs, we got free drinks, and women even pretended they liked us. For one night, they veiled their true distaste, and we reveled in it. Fango, in particular enjoyed this much more than we did. We left the bar as soon as it closed, and we all went home. We assumed Sucio’s fame was over; at least we got a night from it, and we were pretty happy with that.

I awoke the next day, feeling a bit different, I had tasted the better life, and I enjoyed it. I called Sas on the phone, to tell him that this was what we should be doing daily. This was what we were to aspire to. The ability to enjoy life to its fullest, have women who were truly beautiful, not enhanced by mind altered states, or the fact they were there to take pity on us, and were outcasts just like we were. This and much more I felt I would tell Sas. I would lay one of my philosophical rants on him, I would shake him to the core and foundations would crumble, and we would like essential forces of this damned universe, move our unwilling group forward. But, Sas called me back. Sucio died this morning. Suddenly, I lost all my will, I lost all my strength, words deserted me, and I could not say anything. I could not cry, nor could I laugh, I walked to the sink of the bathroom next to my room. I tell Sas to hold on, I let the faucet run, and I took a big swig of it. I expected to do what it has always done, quench biological mechanisms. Even in this moment it failed, I could only take another huge gulp using my hands as trough, I drank some more. Then I spoke to Sas, I wanted to know why? I wanted to know what the reason was. But he said the doctors think it was the widow maker. Heart attack, I said Sucio? He was a twig, he was healthy. Sas said perceptively, none of us are healthy. He told me of the funeral arrangements. I said I would be there.
That night Sucio was supposed to go back to the show, they called, and his family told them the news. The person from the station said their condolences, and we tried to watch the show. But, they had another person’s review. There was no mention of Sucio, no condolences, no acknowledgment that his life had mattered on some level to them. It was what we had all suspected all along. The good life was great, but it took one of us. We could not survive it long, for Sucio, it was one night. For the rest of us, it was the writing we had already heeded. An unnecessary reminder, but at least we drank again, we tripped again, and we laughed again. It was all we could do to send our sweet Sucio home.