El Tiburón/Roberto Bolaño
Today I rode a micro pirata from Tobalaba to Cumming. Three people manned the helm, lit by blue neon, sweeping up disaffected workers from sidewalks and streetcorners before the infrequent, cumbersome and packed white and green buses could pass them by.
It was called El Tiburón and went to the Plaza Maipu.
It was painted all black and lacked a taillight and a bumper. The black curtains were pulled closed and flapped in the wind penetrating through windows broken by projectiles. All black. Cumbia sounded tinny from the back seats. It was exciting and felt normal. They turned it down when we stopped to pick up passengers. The air smelled different, talcum powder, cigarrettes and marijuana. I imagined the smell of the freshly showered women who just got on and sat in the front, not passing me by.
I wish there was a video game I could play based on the micros. Hurry, time is running out.
Fluorescent Modernity awaits.
Roberto Bolaño is dead and books have kinetic spirit.