MEMPHIS QUEVEDO NEEDS AN ACCORDION FILE ORGANIZER SAYS THE COURTS

Memphis brought along a sturdy, transparent plastic bag where he kept all the files relating to the custody of his daughter, Genesis Paloma. Memphis worked construction in Hartford, CT for himself, meaning he was contracted out by foremen to erect drywall or assist with new floor lays. Memphis works hard, his face works hard to dissuade people from thinking that he works hard, but the rough ridges of his palms, the toil ramparts etched into his manila construction boots say it all. That morning, he left on a train from Hartford to the Atlantic Blvd. station in Brooklyn. The ride took him close to three hours during rush hour, but he didn't mind; he got a seat in Hartford and the rest of the ride he could devote to staking people out and reading their lives, trying to decipher the litany of clues that comprise the average humanoid.

Since moving to Hartford from Brooklyn two things had happened. Memphis was now able to save a little scratch. And, Genesis Paloma had suddenly come back into his life, after having been sequestered for seven years by her Mother, that Caribbean witch of a wife, Griseldes Pura. Don't get me wrong. Memphis loved women with an intense humiliation; sometimes, he felt there was more coitus in some good old-fashioned humiliation than there was in some good old-fashioned coitus. But seven years ago, Griseldes escaped to Florida, Kissimmee or some shit, with Genesis. Memphis spent the better half of those years taking little trips to Jersey to look for his little girl around the holidays when Memphis knew Griseldes was going to be home and of course bring Genesis. I wish I could tell you that it happened just like that. That Griseldes just clenched her daughter and woke up the next morning in Kissimmee; you and I know that things don't happen like that. There is a wearing down, an egression of resistance, a devolution of para adelante that happens.

His name was Dennis Machado and he did not like the way the Marine Corps Drill Seargents talked to him. He knew humiliation and he knew fear, but fearmiliation was a completely new feeling. He didn't like it, but knew that he had to keep mum. At the first sight of land (a.k.a. weekend pass), Dennis was going to hop on the first greyhound and go to the first international airport and buy a ticket to Puerto Rico. He though that the was the last place the Marine Corps would want to look, even though his father was Puerto Rican and his father's father had been Puerto Rican. He didn't care, he thought, I'll just go the fucking Yunque and we'll see if esto commemieldas are going to come after me or not. Dennis Machado stood on the verge of one of the biggest decisions in his life. I mean we all know the stories about what the U.S. Government can do if you join their team and then renig on your membership. They can fuck up shit in your life so that your children pick up the pieces. We all know that, but Dennis, Dennis was either too proud or too intoxicated with the personal rebuke, the great dis, he was laying down on the U.S. Army.

It took him a couple of days to reach el Yunque in Puerto Rico, but the place held a power much like homebase. Once you were enticed into it's folds, there was no leaving. It was like Jamaica, but in Venus Fly Trap Formula. El Yunque was the most amazing, exotic, and primordial jungle palace left on the Western Hemisphere. It was like Goa without the Hinduism, like Malibu without the Capitalism, like Eden without the big guy fumbling with the satellite key in the sky. But, we are getting ahead our of ourselves. Today, I just wanted to cover Dennis' foray into the Yunque and how Memphis lost Griseldes and Genesis for seven year. Yeah, today, I wanted to put something down, but not spoil it too much. And I have gone and given you so much that I must apologize because here I was going to relate to you why Memphis should get one of the those accordion organizers, and all I've managed to do is distract you from the real issue.