Beans and Toast

Cleaned, I wandered over to the kitchenette as Lou seemed to be drifting off to sleep on the couch. Having already had my intake of coffee, I opened the mini-fridge and found critical foodstuffs: a bottle of tequila; three bottles of beer, one of them half-empty; and a bag of Doritos, which only a man would stick in the fridge.

I opened the cabinets and found: six cheap plastic dinner plates; five cheap plastic bowls; several coffee-stained mugs; a bag of pinto beans; most of a loaf of bread, which smelled stale, but not moldy; a package of assorted plastic utensils; and, blessedly, a big can of Folgers with filters for the machine.

“I guess we’re going British today,” I said to myself as I placed a bowl of beans in the little microwave and set out a plate with some bread that wasn’t toasted, but stale enough to have a bit of firmness.

After my affirmation that British cuisine sucks, I went back into my bedroom and looked around.

The first thing that I spotted were the heels that I had worn at the auction and wondered if the same man that had undone my dress had been kind enough to remove the heels, not that it really mattered.

Next, I began looking through the boxes on the floor of my room. The first contained a bunch of light bulbs of various sizes and colors, like one might find lighting the stage of a club. The second contained a bunch of CD-Rs that seemed to have been made with a home disc writer and labeled with the names of musicians that I mostly didn’t know. The third was a machine of some kind, labeled “máquina de humo”. Curious, I plugged it in and pressed the power button, but nothing happened, so I unplugged it and put it aside. The fourth box had hundreds of condoms, thankfully unused and still in their little square packages.

With a dejected sigh at not finding anything immediately useful, I folded my bed back into its couch form and discovered a bag, of what was obviously weed, that had fallen into the compartment. I didn’t know what the street value of marijuana was in Mexico, or in the United States, for that matter, but I felt confident that a one-liter bag would be valuable, assuming that I could find someone to buy it. Stashing it back where I found it, I decided it could be useful for funding an escape. And, part of me didn’t want to run the risk of Lou smoking it, since he was obviously inclined to that sort of thing.