There isn`t a place I can run to, where I can out run my shadow.
The girls name is Helenia. We met on the north side of Las Vegas. She was eating small squares in small porportion from an even smaller bag of cheeze-its. “I wanted barbaque Fritios” she exclaims, while leaning half boxed in between the phone booth and the rusty red brick of P+C`s exterior. Helenia tilted the remainder of the bags content toward the sky, allowing an avalanche of crumbs to christen her chin and black slip knot T-shirt. Her vioce sounded as if someone was squeezing her throat as she spoke. Helenia asked me why my vioce is so raspy. We stood as two components in a microphone. Helenia asked me if I was a native of Vegas. Her inquiry was most likely due to the fact that a large percentage of las Vegas`s population has migrated from some other origin. I replied “born in Syracuse” but people say I must have gypsy blood on account of my inability to stay in one place for to long. To which she replied “My family comes from Mexico City” Then with eyes finally removed from the empty bag of Cheeze-its she asks”have you ever been”? To which I replied “No” do they have barbaque Fritios in Mexico City? I`m not quite sure Helenia replied through laughter “I`ve never been ether. But they`ve got`em at the Seven Eleven down the street. I`m not a big fan of Fritios, plane or barbaque, but I don`t suppose I should denie you the pleasure on such a mundane afternoon. “What`s your name” Helenia asked me with a half cocked grin that becomes deal sealing. “I`m just Guy” I answered and I think I`ve worked worked up a hunger for Cheeze-its.
