Devilcountry by Craig Spivek Read Free Book Online Page B

it in black ink.  Sometimes they’d put a ten or a twenty dollar bill in.   But only
sometimes. Cops were always the big tippers.  Go figure.  This
time he was driving to Carin’s who lived down La Cienega, not in the hills.
 He had hatched a slight plan.  If his plan worked he’d never have to
drive into the hills atop Devilcountry again.

 
    Geraldo’s cousin, Julio, was the son of a
popular doctor and herbalist back in Mexico.  Julio lived in the heart of
Latino Anaheim. Julio loved being amongst his raza .  He was short
and stocky, and looked like a linebacker, but he was brilliant in what he could
do with medicine. He had studied it for a while, and when he came to America he
was pre-med at U.C. Irvine. But he hated it.  Julio felt western medicine
to be too stringent in its practice.  It had no means of catering to the
soul.   Particularly the indigenous soul.  He
had learned herbology from his Tia and knew several-hundred different
remedies pharmaceutical companies would kill for but Julio preferred to keep a
low profile.  He knew the drug companies would just steal the recipes and
destroy the forests and lands where the herbs grew.  Julio felt until a
drug company could sit down and show respect, guarantee a contract, and pay up
front, they would be shit out of luck.  Julio had no sympathy for American
corporate medicine.  None.  He would rather work for the cartels.
 At least they showed respect and paid.  
    Julio created his own practice, catering to the
undocumented workers and went into business.  He made an off-the-books
fortune.  And as a gift to Geraldo upon his arrival in America he treated
him to a full day at the greatest place on Earth:  Disneyland.  Julio
knew he could teach his cousin about American culture and the American journey
in one day by visiting the Magic Kingdom.
    Disneylandto Julio, was like Mecca, and he was its humble pilgrim.  Geraldo was told it is
custom for all new arrivals to journey to the Magic Kingdom.  Everyone had
gone: uncles, nephews, grandkids, parents .
 Geraldo didn’t want to be rude so he piled into his Uncle Victor’s Chevy
van with Julio and all the family and headed roughly twenty blocks south.
  
    “We’re going to a holy place, Geraldo.  A
place where white people worship their God, and this God demands tribute.”
 Geraldo knew Julio was crazy.  Always had been, but Geraldo was
grateful for the couch Julio had offered, and Julio was grateful to the God
that America had offered.  It was important to Julio to show respect.
 And pay tribute.  Julio had Mayan blood. Shaman’s
blood.  His mother was Mayan; never a day went by when she didn’t
remind Julio of his heritage and their teachings.  He was brilliant with
Algebra and healing, but his real passion was for guiding people on spirit
journeys, and Disneyland was the perfect hunting ground.  
    Julio continued his sermon as the Chevy shook
and bumped forward.  “Their God has big, mouse ears.   Un Ratone. ”  Geraldo knew whom Julio was
talking about.   They knew about Disneyland in Mexico.  But he’d
better play dumb.
    “Their God is a huge, talking rat that stands
erect and blows fire and sees into your soul.  It knows your every fear
and fantasy and will take you on a journey!” screamed Julio with proper
dramatic effect.  Geraldo tried not to laugh as Julio yelled and screamed.
 He was hamming it up for the kids in the backseat.  Geraldo became
curious to see the monuments these gringos had created that Julio was describing.
 He’d heard about Disneyland and had seen most of the movies.  But
being there for real seemed exciting to him.  He wondered if it compared
to the ruins in Mexico, or down in Belize.  Geraldo and Julio’s ancestors
had built entire amphitheaters and pyramids and dedicated them to the Sun God.
 Anything the white man had built would pale in comparison.  
    In the parking lot, under the sign that read YOU
ARE PARKED IN SLEEPY, the