Reyes Returns
“Whatcha writing, white-boy?” Reyes asks me.
“I’m writing a story about how filthy and poor India is and why you don’t want to visit,” I said.
“You are always complaining about India. Didn’t you derive at least some spiritual benefit from the place? I mean, you’re Buddhist, right?” he said, wiggling his pug nose in disgust. His brown eyes were bloodshot after a long night of tequila, Tecate and football.
“Indians are Hindhu, you ugly Mexican. “And No,” I said. “I didn’t go to India to find myself spiritually or to hang out in an ashram or learn the meaning of life or any of that nonsense.”
“Why did you go, then?” He asked.
“Cuz it was there.”