The Book of Mark

It was hotter than Satan’s armpit that day and a young soldier was sitting at his desk sorting through paperwork, knowing a new bunkmate was on his way but not much else. His former bunkmates Svenson and Furillo had “left” in body bags after an IED up on Route Irish in the spring. Sniper, that’s what he had his aim at (pardon the pun), and he could spot a shaving nick on an NCO from thirty meters away.

His name was Mark Antonio Miller, half Mex, half Tex.

At 6’3 and broad-shouldered, he looked plenty tough from the neck down. His regulation cut was dark and coarse, but it hadn’t done a damn thing about the Pretty Face problem. “Movie Star,” they would holler cross the mess hall, “Romeo,” and sometimes “Bambi,” on account of his big brown eyes and full lips. Thankfully the square jaw saved him from being a full-blown Tinkerbell.

He put the papers down and turned around.

The door opened with a creak and sunlight flooded the room. In came a man built like a prize bull. He had high cheekbones in a pockmarked face, a slicked-back cowlick bleached blond over roots black as coal, roses and sugar skulls crawling up his tanned arms. A duct-taped duffel hung in his hand, a boom box round his neck like some MTV rapper, and Lord have mercy – a shirt red like the devil’s backside after a hot sauce eating contest.

He filled up the whole room with color, like a cartoon lion had swaggered into a funeral.

The duffel hit the floor as he stopped at the threshold. The pockmarked face split into a grin.

–Hola, guapo! I didn’t expect to find such a sexy güero in this dusty old barracks, did I?

–I’m your new bunkmate, Héctor Alejandro Rodríguez de la Huerta – call me Sunny!

There is a building in the South Bronx, a six-story walk-up made of red bricks with a faded sign above the entrance: Heaven Apartments. It’s not a place where you want to live; it’s a place where you end up.

This Wednesday, an ordinary man in a grey suit and a well-groomed mustache was glancing up at the crumbling facade. He looked like a banker or perhaps a businessman who had lost his way.

He entered the graffiti-stained building, keeping his hands clear of the railing as he walked up the stairs. The smell of urine and greasy food made his nose wrinkle, and he cringed at the sound of moaning. At the end of the hall on the third floor, he paused in front of apartment 3C and a filthy welcome mat: Homo Sweet Homo. Someone had improved the text and design with a five-cent marker, adding a dick and balls.

He tried the doorbell. Broken. There was nothing except for a thin, wavering note of a harmonica somewhere inside. Grimacing, he knocked instead. The harmonica choked off. Then came the sound of shuffling footsteps, like a chained ghost struggling to advance. The deadbolt unlatched and the door creaked open, chain still in place. Peering through the crack was a pair of dark, bloodshot eyes.

–Now, who in tarnation are you?