Drabblecast 498 – The Sol Searching Fool

By Arasibo Campeche

Sometimes, I was so lonely that I messaged the spam bots back. I often pretended to be someone else, like I was wearing a mask and living another life. The scarf I wore around my face and nose made me feel mysterious and attractive, in addition to protecting me from the New England cold.

A bot with a sexy-anime profile pic DM’ed me on X. The notification sound, combined with my phone vibrating, was a small bird peeping for attention.

Hey! I think we went to school together? What’s your name?

I thought for a second and typed, Bozo the horny clown. I’m looking for something familiar yet exotic.

The bot answered, I knew you remembered me! Click here to see me in a school girl skirt. I’m worried it’s too short!

The exchange was boring already. I blocked the bot and deleted the messages.

#  

To celebrate my tenth Thanksgiving living in Boston, I sat on a wooden bench and watched the Charles River flow by, letting the sound of water relax me. My entire family was still in Puerto Rico.

 I texted the few local friends I’d made throughout the years, but wasn’t close enough to be included in their plans—not close enough to be texted back, I should say. I passed the day smoking overpriced weed, though weed also amplified the auditory pareidolia I had started to suffer from a few years ago; perhaps this was just loneliness learning to talk.

A car blaring loud music drove down the street, and I thought someone had called my name, birds were someone whistling, and the river was shushing me to sleep.

My mom sent a message over WhatsApp. A cartoon turkey danced around, then colorful, twisting balloons, like the ones clowns used to make animals, spelled Happy Thanksgiving.

I typed back, ¡Felicidades, mami! I’m with friends, eating a lot of turkey. The lie sat on my chest like a heavy stone, but I wanted her to think I had some sort of community.

 I took the last drag of the joint before flicking it away. Someone coughed a few feet behind me. It was a mom pushing a stroller—the sound of a squeaky gurney and an infant saying, hola. 

#

I sat on my couch, eating a half-heated frozen pizza and decided to make accounts on half a dozen online dating apps. I had to agree to a bunch of those agreements that no one read. A few I skimmed were about how ALL my data were going to be used to train AI and improve my experience. I said yes. Wasn’t our data all over the place anyway? This was like asking me for Monopoly money. The apps guaranteed all their members were humans.

I got a message in one of the apps from someone whose profile pic was an attractive woman’s body—the face was cut off— in a sexy bikini, but generic enough that it didn’t pull me in for a second glance.

Are you free tonight? I’m alone.

I answered,

Do you think there’s a true you when you’re alone and all the pretending of the day is done, or is it masks all the way down?

The bot took a long time. Maybe it was contemplating what I’d said.

Great! Click on the link below. I’m clean but like dirty fun.

I started uninstalling apps.

An X DM came in. The profile pic was a Taíno sun.  It reminded me of home. I closed my eyes and tasted homemade mofongo and chuletas cancán.

Hi, are you Mickey?

I replied,

No, I’m from Puerto Rico.

That was lame. I was typing, send nudes, when another message came in.

Great! I’m close!

They sent a picture of a house. It was cream colored and looked like the typical house found in a Boston suburb. In the background of the picture, I swore there was a blurry bus identical to the ones that went into the city.

I typed, close to where?

I took a hit from my vape that filled me with excitement. They sent another picture. It was of a woman—with a body so perfect that she could win the Miss Puerto Rico Pageant—wearing a vejigante mask and a red and blue cape over a two-piece bikini. She was grabbing the cape by the edge and her arms were spread out, making the cape look like wings.

Vejigantes were folkloric characters native to Puerto Rico. The masks varied in shapes and sizes, but they all had the same iconic characteristics. The one in the picture was blue with a long snout, and dotted with white paint that still had the brush strokes. Sharp teeth filled the mouth. Two horns curved from each side like plantains. Another horn on the forehead and a smaller one for a nose.  

I stood, exhilarated. This had to be a real person. My scalp felt spiky, then a prickling sensation ran from the top of my head down to my nape.

After the surprise from the costume wore off, I took a few more seconds to take in her curved waist and big breast. The bikini bottom had a Puerto Rican flag stamped on the crotch.

I was too curious now and typed, “¿De dónde eres?”

I don’t speak Spanish. I was born in PR but grew up here.

A fleeting, snobby urge almost made me say something like, what kind of authentic Puerto Rican doesn’t speak Spanish? But I knew my people’s diaspora came from all walks of life.

She sent an address. It was only twenty minutes walking and in the direction of the nice part of town.

Come over the day after tomorrow, she typed.  It’ll give you time to prepare.

What? I asked.

Her response, Dress like a clown. Lol. I’ll send you detailed instructions.

I knew she was real, so maybe she was into weird things. If I said no, I might never get another chance to meet in person. Wasn’t this the purpose of the internet? To meet new people and make new connections, live new experiences.

As if to convince me, another picture came in. It was closer up, and I recognized the beach in the background. She was wearing a tight white bikini, but more importantly, she held a frozen piña colada with a cherry inside in one hand, and a fried alcapurria in the other. She was biting into the alcapurria’s tip. Her eyes were closed and her skin seemed to drink in the bright Caribbean sun.

This was in Piñones, PR, she wrote.

I was sold.

#

I stood in front of my bathroom mirror with all my clown gear in the sink. I donned the red and yellow jumpsuit, then applied the bright red lipstick she’d told me to buy. I looked like a behind-the-scenes Joker. I used the makeup applicator to dab white face paint on my cheeks, chin, and forehead. I inspected myself in the mirror and decided I’d done a professional job.

My phone vibrated. I was happy to ignore bots, freed from them even. A long buzz. It was a call. Was it her? No. It was my grandmother from back home, Face Calling. I answered before considering how I looked.

 Instead of an awkward silence, my grandmother guffawed. She sounded like an out of breath donkey.

“Look!” she said to someone out of view. My grandpa and aunt peeked in like excited children and started laughing. The laughters merged into a Puerto Rican laugh track. Their faces flickered and started melting through my unshed tears. I covered my mouth with my splayed hand, fake coughed, and squeezed my tears out with my fingers. I doubt they noticed. Letting them see me crying while made up like a clown would make them switch gears to pitying and comforting me, like one would a puppy that had peed on the carpet and whimpered after you yelled. That would be too humiliating to handle.

“I’m volunteering for the church kids,” I said. 

“The weekend after Thanksgiving?” my aunt asked. I clenched the fist that wasn’t holding the phone. Why was she so nosy?

“I think it’s great you’re making kids laugh,” my grandma said. “When are you going to have your own?”

 My spirits lifted up a bit and I said, “I hope soon.” We said love you and hung up. I felt better. How couldn’t I? Look at the adventure I was about to go on. This would be hilarious to me years from now, and maybe I’d be sharing the laughs with a beautiful Puerto Rican woman I coincidentally met online.

 As a final touch, I proudly put on the puffy green wig.

#

No one heckled me on the walk to the woman’s house, but it was freezing cold. I begged the universe for ten seconds of a mid-July Puerto Rican sun. The kind that prickled and burned your skin. I’d stand naked under that sun and feel utter happiness.

I knocked on the door and the woman from the pictures opened it. She didn’t have the mask on and wore sweat pants and a t-shirt, but even under the loose clothes I could make out the sculpted body underneath. Her skin was brown, but her eyes blue. The unfamiliar combination made my heart leap. This woman was perfect.

“So, what’s your name?” I asked and pulled down my wig into place.

“Giggly,” she said, then giggled and covered her mouth with both hands as if trying to stop the laughter from spilling out.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Mickey?” I said in a joking way. The lie was obvious but playful. I needed to be careful and not share too much information. This was a real person. What if they were a psycho and learned how to stalk me because I overshared?

“You’re so dumb,” she said and smiled. “Come in.”

“Can I vape inside?” I asked. Getting high would help my nerves.

“Sure. You’re the one getting popcorn lung. Have fun at the carnival.”

Masks covered the walls, each perfectly straight. I couldn’t see tape or glue residues. The masks were placed on the wall with the same care my great aunt took to hang her crucifix.

At first, they were venetian, then larger as we walked deeper into the house. Although they gradually increased in size, the themes weren’t consistent: kabuki masks side by side with masks of Mickey Mouse. Vejigante masks of different colors and sizes further into the hall; I could smell the coconut husks used to make them. The hallway became living room and a giant-headed Cabezudo mask that resembled Giggly sat on a faux wood table in the middle. The tragicomedy mask duo rotated on a big screen that hung from the far wall.

For a moment, I considered that whoever had arranged the masks had done it for the sake of the effect and not out of pure interest. That their approach had been performative and not passionate. The setup was more like a museum than someone’s house; it felt too organized to be genuine. But I was too excited, exhilarated even, to worry about that.

“I’m going to get us some beer,” Giggly said. “A big glass of Puerto Rican Medalla sound good?”

I smiled and nodded. When was the last time I’d had Medalla? Years maybe. They sold them in Massachusetts, but why trigger nostalgia and think of old times alone?

She came back with two frosted glasses brimming with beer.

“I was worried you weren’t real for a bit,” I said and drank.

She laughed. “Me too. What do you do for work?”

“I’m a waiter. But looking for other jobs. I left school because I needed money,” I said.

“I hear ya. School is too much time for too little reward,” she said. “As long as you work hard, things work out in the end.”

“Exactly,” I said. She was really listening. For the first time in years, I was in the moment, and my mind was quiet.

She lit a joint. “Want to smoke a bit of the genuine, unprocessed stuff?”

“Yes,” I said, and put my vape in the jumpsuit pocket, feeling a little self-conscious. I took a deep drag of the joint and exhaled a smooth birthday-hat shaped cone of smoke. “This weed is delicious,” I said and took another long drag.

The religions that so many lonely and desperate people clung too had never swayed me into believing. Now, I was convinced that there must be something out there. If not heaven and hell, just pockets or spaces where circumstance and coincidence could lean in your favor if you suffered enough. Perhaps loneliness was not a spiral down into despair, but more like a horseshoe. Once you travelled far enough into loneliness, you’d come out the other end into companionship and joy.

“Thanks. I grow this strain myself,” she said. “It’s my favorite. Let me show you my room.” She stood and grabbed my hand. In the ten seconds it took to get to the bed, my clown suit was like a circus tent around my crotch, and I was ready to pounce on her like a starving tiger.

She grabbed my erection and started stroking me.

“Is this too fast?” I asked, but most of the blood I needed to think was filling my penis.

She pulled down her own pants, then underwear and lay on the bed in a happy baby position. My pulse pounded on my throat like pressurized confetti threatening to blow my head open. I was so high; I swore she glowed with a warm liquid light that sloshed inside of her body. The smell of sweat and sex drowned out that of my wig, of the makeup, and everything else that was fake in this universe.

The sex was the best of my life. She knew all the right moves—when to squeeze, lick my neck, bite my ear. I barely minded she was into clown sex. I stared at the ceiling right before finishing and sent a silent thank you to the divine power that had decided I finally deserved this.

#

“Giggly,” I called out after opening my eyes. No answer. All of my clothes were there. My wallet still had the few dollars that had been there for months, and my phone was on the floor. Even my vape was in my jumpsuit’s pocket. So, this wasn’t a super convoluted scam. Not that I carried anything worth stealing.

Giggly had probably gone to get food or something. I decided to text and ask where she was. The feeling of love was already budding in me, sprouting from what I’d thought to be a dry and barren substrate, but I wasn’t a teenager, so I’d keep it to myself for now. I didn’t want to spook her.

I had a text message waiting.

Thank you for participating in the Surprise!!! AI Program. Our graph neural network can process ALL of your data and is designed to bring you a unique experience that only you’d understand and enjoy! At Surprise!!! we deliver the experience our clients need before they know it themselves. It is our goal to bring you the joy and relaxation much needed for you to keep being a productive member of society. Welcome to the future!

You were hosted by the Chuckles & Giggles team. Please respect our hosts privacy and don’t attempt to reach out to them. Your Surprise!!! was unique and carefully tailored. So, it’s not reproducible. Below is a note from your host.

Please do not respond to this message, since it is AI generated.

“Hey not Mike 😊. Thanks for the great time and awesome conversation. I can tell you think lots!! This Surprise!!! was free because the program is still new and being tested. But if you feel like leaving me a tip and review, please go to the link below! Thanks again for clowning around with me.

PS if you really liked the weed, it’s actually from the store down the street. Also, I’m not from PR but I did go once. I loved it!

Bye!”    

White drops fell on the phone before I realized I was crying.

Rough nails of bestial laughter clawed the inside of my skull like a dog burying its waste. I knew the noise wasn’t real, but it was so clear. I ran to the living room and kicked and stomped on the cabezudo mask until it was unrecognizable.

I got dressed after some of the anger passed, then sat in the couch and sucked on my vape like a glass-cleaning fish on the side of a fish tank.

 Despite taking the longest pulls I could manage, I wasn’t getting high.

The door opened and a short brown woman walked in. She was rolling in a bucket full of water and a mop. Why was it people like me always in retail, in cleaning services?

“Leave,” she said. It sounded like leaf.

“Hablo Español,” I said.

She rolled her eyes and shrugged as if she didn’t care. “You no belong here. Leave. You no belong here.”

“Can I use the bathroom and wash my face?”

“No!”

I stood and made my way to the door.

“Hey! Sad clown.” She yelled and pointed at the pulped paper mâché and said, “You pays.”

I heard tu país or your country at first. She was right—or at least the version of her that lived in my head. I needed to go back home.

The Surprise!!! program had spied on me and singed the sweet, slick smell of sex into that of burnt grease. I considered if they could somehow read my thoughts. Perhaps the pockets of magic in the universe were real, but not for me to use, only to consume. Lap up the few drops allowed to me like an abandoned, starving cat.

 Had they recorded us? Would they show my video to investors? An executive would say, Hey, look at this Hispanic guy dressed as a clown and having the time of his life. Our product breaks cultural barriers.   

I walked outside, still in the wig and makeup. I fucking deserved it. Laughter echoed down the street, but when I looked back, I saw no one. More laughter. A door slammed.  I ignored them. I wanted to be alone now. Being alone was better than bad company.

As soon as I got back to my apartment, I’d buy a plane ticket back home. There were only lies here. If it was the same back home, at least I’d do it in Spanish.

A cackle of hyenas ran laps in my head. I closed my eyes and saw them. They laughed

and foamed at the mouth. The circular, concentric laps became smaller as their paths traced all the way down to my throat. I tilted my head up, stared at the cold sun, and screamed to let them out.