Secretas! (Figuras # 3)

Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 9
July 14 - 20

We walk into Bershka together, me and my lady. Every time I come into this place, I want to flee, huir, run out screaming, or at least punch a blond girl wearing a polka-dot tank top. They’re like wolves in here. So little space, so much clothing. “Baby,” I say, “I’m going outside to roll un porro.” Yes . . . it’s true.
Portal d’ Angel is full-isimo. This isn’t a place I’ve come to find a unique Barcelona personaje, so I’m not really looking. I turn left down a less conspicuous street as I break a cigarrette apart and spill its contents into my palm. I put the rolling papers behind my ear and glance to the left at a skater/surfer shop advertising rebajas. They better rebaja that shit some more because I still can’t afford it; not after spending 20 bones on this little chunk of chocolate.
So there I am, reaching into my pocket for the aluminum foil wrapped goodies, when a fellow guiri approaches. He’s wearing a souvenir shop t-shirt that says San Diego across the front. He's wearing some long “jorts” (half jeans, half shorts = jorts) and the perfect guiri sandals, cheesy, brown, and clunky. Then, this guiri does a funny thing. He, too, reaches into his pocket, pulls something out, opens it, and says, “policia.”
Mierda.
The bastards! Secretas. I’ve been warned about these dudes. But they really are good. He looks so damn guiri. The predictable question follows. What do you have in your pockets? Please empty the contents into the trunk of the car (the car that, 3 seconds ago, seemed so harmless now has flashing po-po lights). It seems like you were going to roll a porro. No shit, Sherlock. My denial lasts about 30 seconds, lasts until super-secret-guiri­-cop number two starts putting on black leather gloves. “We can do this here, or we can go down to the comisaria.”
I’m not getting out of this. And even the idea of a holding cell in foreign countries scares the caca right out of me. Aqui esta lo que buscas, I say, as I pull the little block out of my pocket and hand it over. To my surprise the rest was rather painless. Mean secreta went and sat in the front seat with my California driver’s license. And nice secreta and I chatted.
Having hashish or marijuana for personal use is ok, in your house, he explains. But once you leave your house, no. As he fills out my future Spanish police record, I start to laugh. Que? I point to the part where he’s written, Sustancia de color maron, posiblemente haxis. I can tell you right now that it’s hash, and shitty hash at that. He laughs. He’s alright, this wolf in sheep’s clothing. So I point to what had once been mi chocolate and ask him, “Can I keep it?” “No.” “Half?” “No.” Damn.
I meet my girl back in Bershka, and hand her my new police report. She’s pretty nice about it, and laughs it off after a minute. Maybe because it happened to her too a few years back. “He came up to me dressed like a vagabundo (a bum) and I was flipando. You can’t be policia! Eres un puto vagabundo.” Guess again guiri-lover.