GUIRI GONE BAD

Getting thrown in the slammer. Booked on lewd behavior. I can’t believe it happened to me.

I’m under constant risk of being gypped, seduced and physically assaulted. It’s rough. Enough to make my balls sweat. That’s why every third day or so I need a little R‘n’R. On this hard luck day the chiringuitos in Barceloneta were calling me. More specifically, a frosty jug of sangría.

Enjoying my first few drops, soaking in my first rays of Mediterranean sunshine I noticed him. This tourist who didn’t look quite right. Like Bill Gates in a Cash Converters, he didn’t belong.

It’s on account of this turncoat guiri that I’m in bad with the bulls. In the squirrel cage with gypmeisters and punks of the common variety.

…

I sported my casual threads. A flower print shirt I got on shore leave in Manila. That was many years and pounds ago. So it stretches a bit around the love handles. Don’t matter. It’s classy.

I was lounging in one of those aluminum things that passes for a seat. In a chiringuito. Despite my girth, the narrow and uncomfortable dingus, I was enjoying the early summer drone. The chicas on the boardwalk, in the sand. That poppy music they listen to. Invigorating. Youthful. I pulled on my Ducado, ordered my third pitcher of sangría. The smoke was green. The chicas were topless. The virulent underbelly of crime in a haze of spiked vino tinto.

I spotted a guiri about 30 feet in front of me. I mean, he was obvious. Red baseball cap looking like he bought it ten minutes earlier. Pilot’s shades. Sport jacket over white tee. Lime-green shorts over spindly varicose legs. Of course, requisite camera. Some kind of tourist, I thought. Sheesh. I felt the urge to warn him about the dangerous criminal activity. The oblivious fool.

So I was thinking this tenderfoot might as well be wearing a sign that says “TOURIST, MUCHO DINERO” when I saw it. He was real nervous. Kept looking around. Like a little bird. A bird on acid more like.

He made these little mincing steps through the sand mounds and greased up bodies. Then he held his camera at arm’s length. Angled the camera so it would take a picture of whatever was to his side. And lower down.

Shimmying up in my seat I saw him standing above three topless chicas. Too involved in their pretty selves to notice. Ah, my little bonitas. And the salacious behavior of this shameful louse. He did his sly mincing walk, about ten paces, paused, did the sideways thing with his camera. Snap. Snap. Snap. And those chicas. Not a clue.

If the gypmeisters weren’t enough. Perverted guiris snapping pictures of topless chicas. Endangering the glory of Spanish beaches. Snap. Snap.

I got up, clasped the waitress’ hand with scratch for the sangría and then some. Walked casually towards the perv. Shadowing him was easy. He was hypnotized. Lusty. Shamefully snapping away. I got within ten paces of him for a running start. That’s the way you do it. Wild and unpredictable. The pervs and gypsters never know what hit ‘em.

I charged him. Planted my size eleven hard, real hard, on his saggy guiri ass. He sputtered forth something approximating “Oh my!”, while his camera wheeled through the air. He lunged forward and did a face plant on a chica’s culo.

The chica screamed. The guiri rolled off. I grabbed his camera and stood over him, my foot on his little bird chest. I made a megaphone with my hands so everybody could hear:

“One thing I can’t stand. Tourists gone bad. Ruining topless tradition with perverted antics!”

The chica kept screaming. From the shock. Understandable. On the boardwalk a mosso squad car screeched to a halt. Two cops got out, ran towards us. Billy clubs drawn.

“Al suelo, vostoros dos!”

On the ground? Both of us? I couldn’t believe it. My foot off him for one instant and the guiri took to running. I ran after him. His camera still in hand. The coppers were not more than four strides behind us.

I wiped out on some brat’s sand castle. Both bulls tackled me. Twisted the nippers on. Tight. They took me to the squad car. Slammed me in like a filthy hophead.

…

So. I’m behind bars, booked on lewd behavior and resisting arrest. For trying to save topless sunbathing.

This lady copper with a beady eyes walks up to the cell. Calls out my name:

“Señor Kovaks?”

Her voice is about as pleasant as the icy water slapping against your nads.

“Si?” I respond.

“Libertad.”

I hit the streets of lower Barceloneta cold sober, straight as ace-deuce-trey-four-five. I head up to my barrio for a nerve-soothing drink.

You can’t trust anyone in this goddammed burg.