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Part 8
Like Ships in the Night
By February the schedule of working night and day was getting to me. My eyes were bloodshot and my head felt like a lead weight.
Big Diego wasn’t any help. He lay around in a rut of laziness. It felt like I was raising five children. Only this one demanded sex most nights. And was suspicious of any man who came near me.
He didn’t understand my passion for psychology. For wanting to do something with my life. “Don’t you make enough at that club so you don’t have to work as a social worker? Why work for so little when you could make more doing stuff at the club?”
I tried to explain to him that this would lead to something else. But he just shook his head and drank. Our refrigerator had been free of beer until he moved in. Now it took up so much space there was barely room for food.
What was more, he made me feel guilty. The only good point he ever made was that I was concentrating so much on helping other people’s children that I wasn’t spending enough time with my own.
He certainly spent time with them. Instead of trying to find legitimate work, he stayed at home and spoiled them. They loved him because he never disciplined them. He was a fellow brother. Not a parent. And that made it all the harder for me.
I was thinking about how to resolve this while sitting at a table at Shanghai when an older, chubby man came and sat by me. A waiter was on top of us right away. The middle-aged man ordered us two beers each. He turned to me and began talking in fluent Spanish. He was an American from San Diego, but he spoke Spanish as well as any Mexican.
He told me a little about himself. His name was Albert. His grandparents had lived in Mexico. He still had relatives here. He worked as an engineer in California. He made a lot of money every year and lived on the beach.
After the first beer he finally asked about me. I told him my name was Annie, that’s what I went by at this club. The waiters called me Skinny Annie because there was another, larger one who had worked there for a longer time. I never told anyone about my family.
Typically they didn’t want to know too much about me anyway. So it was easier. This man, while gentler than most, didn’t want to hear too much about me, either. He wanted to talk about his life. His frustrations. His boredom at his job. I identified the problem in my head as mid-life crisis.
I asked him if he felt like he hadn’t accomplished as much as he had wanted. As though he was passed up by his peers. He lit up and said, “Yes! How did you know?” I sat back on the couch and he made himself more comfortable. He told me more about his life. What he wanted. I helped him work his way through it. When we finished our beers he bought a bucket of them. As we drank we became more honest. And he became more open.
Over the next several days I began using this practice on other men in the club. And they opened themselves up to me. Stayed longer. Bought me more drinks. Poured their hearts out to me.
A week later Albert returned at the same time he had come the first week. He bought a bucket of beers and we talked.
It was good practice. But I still didn’t wish to remain at Shanghai. I continued to put in my time at the DIF. Going through heart-break after heart-break. Waiting for the time I would get enough of a raise that I could quit the strip club.
Finally one day I asked Gerard how much he made. It was measured in pesos rather than dollars. He had worked there for decades, and he was still not making enough for me to raise my four children.
When I looked around at other jobs I began to realize that the only jobs near the border that paid enough to raise my entire family involved nudity for the pleasure of men. Or drinking to excess. Usually both.
I began to wonder what sort of future I could possibly have as a social worker. I felt pride I had never felt before. But I would always have to supplement the work with drinking and taking my clothes off. I was occasionally stripping again so I made a little more each night I worked, which gave me enough to be able to take some days off.
Worst of all, I took time away from my own babies. And was barely getting any sleep. If Diego would do something other than getting drunk perhaps I could do something about all of this. But my encouragements were only taken as nagging. Which led to more of him drinking.
I wanted to leave him. He was dead weight. Dragging me down in every way except one. He took care of the kids while I was working. I could not afford to pay someone to care for them. And I would not have them growing up believing a stranger was their parent. I felt stuck. I didn’t know what to do.
I saw the faces of every mother I took children away from. I saw myself in their positions. Without Diego I may be seen as unfit to raise them on my own. With Diego they may be taken away because of his drunken abusiveness.
Pedro, one of the waiters at work, interrupted my thoughts by handing me a small business card with a name on it, ‘Jake Johnson’. The name sounded vaguely familiar. I couldn’t think why. Pedro told me to turn it over and I saw a note written in English on the back of it. “Hello, Nina. I don’t know if you remember me, but we knew each other last year. I am looking for you, and would be interested to see you again. If you get this note, either come to Chica’s to see me, or send a note as to how I can contact you.”
I couldn’t believe it. This was the American whose picture I still had among my family photos in my room. I wanted to go right over to him. But my name was called to dance on stage. I told Pedro to pass the word back to him that I would be there at 9:30.
I went on stage and danced like I had never done before. I smiled with a true radiance. I moved with the energy of a lightning bolt. The staring men didn’t know what to make of me. And when the music was done they surged toward the stage to bring me to their tables. But I gathered up the money. Apologized to them. Then strutted directly to the ladies room. There I looked myself up and down in the mirror. I touched up my make-up and studied my hair. I didn’t care. And neither would he. I just wanted to see him. So I hurried toward the back door which led straight to Chica’s.
I found the men who had passed the information to Pedro. They took me to the table where he had sat. It was near the place where we had met so many times the year before. What had he called it? The table of truth. That was it. But the place had been remodeled and the table of truth was gone... And so was the American.
“He’s coming back at 9:30, like you asked him to,” one of the men said. It was 9:15.
“I don’t want to get in trouble at work,” I told him. That was only partially true. Mostly I hated being here. And it wouldn’t be long before someone was asking me to go upstairs with them. I didn’t want to wait. “Please pass him this note.” I wrote on a napkin in English, ‘Can you give me you phone number and I will call you; or can you coming 9:30 pm to Shanghai Bar please!!!’ I knew my English wasn’t perfect, but the three exclamation points should express what I wanted to say.
Then I went to write my name, but I stopped. These two men who were going to pass the note only knew me from my days at Chica’s. I had gone by two names here. Nina and Vallarta. I signed it Vallarta. Then I returned through the back doors. Anxiously awaiting his arrival.
Nine-thirty came and went. He never showed. I assumed he was running late, and counted down the half hour to 10:00. Still no arrival. I held out hope all the way to midnight. But he never arrived.
Somberly, I returned to the two men at Chica’s. “He came back,” one of them said, “and he left you his number.” They gave it to me. I nodded and didn’t show them my disappointment. Keeping my feelings to myself was a skill I developed over time.
I didn’t know when I would be able to call him. We didn’t have a phone at home. My mother had one. But if I tried to call on her phone it would show as an expensive bill. She would ask. I would be caught. And Diego would find out. I had to find an opportunity when it arose.
That Friday Pedro approached me. “That guy came back the next day,” he told me. “He had your picture and he was looking for you.”
“But I don’t work on Mondays,” I said.
He shrugged. “He’ll probably try to find you this weekend.”
I waited anxiously. When I left at 8:00 on Sunday I felt crushed. He hadn’t returned.
When I worked again on Thursday, Pedro came to me eagerly and said, “Where were you Sunday night? He came back at the same time, 9:30!” I wasn’t always working late on Sundays. Some weekends died out by that time. And I was trying to get home to my babies and sleep before working at the DIF the next day.
I kept his phone number hidden from Diego. This was my one line to him in case all else failed. And I wouldn’t have it destroyed.
This task became easier, however, as Diego began disappearing occasionally. There were times he was supposed to be watching over the children. But he just vanished and no one knew where he went. Little Daddy stepped up to help, but a ten-year-old child should not be expected to have to do that.
For the next few weeks the American kept showing up at the bar when I wasn’t there. I sometimes made excuses to alter my schedule so I could be there when I thought he’d arrive. But he didn’t. He was trying to second guess me. And I him. And it caused us to keep missing each other.
Finally I saved up five dollars American no one knew about. Enough for a phone call from a pay phone. I finished my shopping and went to a booth. I hoped he would answer.
It rang once… twice… three times. He wouldn’t answer. It would cost me the same no matter what. I had no way of telling him to call me back. A fourth ring. “Hello?” came a somewhat confused voice on the other end.
“Hello, Jake?” This whole thing was so surreal. I wanted to make sure it wasn't a wrong number.
“Yes?” He still sounded confused.
I allowed my excitement to jump out. “It’s me! Marri…” I suddenly realized he still didn’t know my real name. “It’s Annie!” No. He doesn’t know me from Shanghai. “Vallarta… Uh, it’s me, Nina!”
There was a pause, during which time I thought he’d hang up. Then, “OH MY GOD! NINA!!!”
We both called out excitedly over the phone. We talked energetically about how good it was to hear one another’s voices. How we couldn’t wait to see each other again. I wanted to see him the next day. But he had something he was doing for the next few days. So we set it for Sunday. “How about six o'clock?” he asked.
“Six o’clock. Okay!” I was so excited. I couldn’t wait. The next day I told Pedro, and everyone else who would listen… Except for customers. And only at work. I didn’t let anyone from home, my mother, my sisters, my children, Diego, nor anyone else in my home-life, know what was happening.
For the next four days I had to keep my excitement bottled up at home. But Little Diego knew something was going on. He asked me about it. I told him to eat his peas.
Saturday night I stayed at work until 5 am Sunday morning. I took the bus home. I was anxious for the evening. I went to church and socialized afterward. But I was too distracted to be good company. I took Little Diego to his friend’s house. Bought some groceries on the way home. Stacked them in their places. And around three o’clock I laid down for a nap. I wanted to look my best when I saw Jake. A couple hours of sleep should do it.
I woke up groggy. The sun was down. It’s always hard to get the spirit moving when it’s not light out. The children were in bed. Diego had fallen asleep as well. It seemed early to…
The clock read ten. My heart stopped. Surely this must be a bad dream. I gasped. Ran through the house grabbing my clothes. I looked in on the children to make sure they were okay. Made sure Diego was there to be with them.
I rushed to the main street a block away and grabbed a cab. I asked him to hurry me to Tijuana while I put on make-up in the car. I could barely see myself in the rear-view mirror. But I squinted as best I could. Jake had come all the way down several times to see me. Maybe he would wait. Fuck, there were twenty or thirty half naked, beautiful women at the club. He had plenty to distract him while he was there. He would wait.
I arrived at the club at 11:00. I looked around, but no sign of Jake. I found Pedro. He looked at me with shrugging shoulders and a confused look on his face. “Where were you?” he asked.
“Is he still here?”
“He left an hour ago. He was really angry. He said he’s never coming back again.”
I nodded. I had to keep my head up with strangers. I never wanted them to see my emotions. I waited for Pedro to leave. Then I sat down on one of the couches and held my head. I had lost him. I pulled out his note. The one with his phone number on it. If I called him again he’d only yell at me and hang up. If he even picked it up at all. It would be a waste of five dollars that could go toward food for my children. I crumpled up the paper and threw it next to a bottle that soon got picked up and tossed with the rest of the junk. I had let a lot go in the past. I could let this go. I refused to cry. I felt a tear begin to crawl down my cheek but I pulled it back into its socket.
A young man with spiked hair who looked like he knew it all stepped up in front of me. “Hey baby,” he said in suave English, “Let’s party.”
I smiled. Made room for him. He sat down and got me a bucket of beers.
This concludes the blog sample chapters of 'The Table of Truth'. I hope you enjoyed it. To purchase the book, go to Amazon at:
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Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 7
Part 7
The Assignment
On my first assignment I sat in the back seat of the car while Gerard and Rosa drove us to the location. The car jolted as we rode cross-country to the Hernandez-Gonzalez home.
It was reported that Eduardo, the father, had taken his son out into the yard multiple times and whipped him. The first time, the neighbors, about 500 meters away, thought he was whipping him with his belt. Though they felt it was excessive, whipping with a belt could be considered acceptable. I cringed at the thought. On closer examination, however, they saw it was a real whip. Their children, who played with the Hernandez-Gonzalez boy, saw the marks on his back. The little girl in the family barely spoke. And it was believed that the sexual screaming noises didn’t come from the mother in the house as she was typically passed out from alcohol.
The house sat beside a dirt road. Most roads in the suburbs of Rosarito are dirt, or worse. This would probably have qualified as worse. The police cruiser pulled up next to us. It was still sometimes hard for me to see a police car. I was trying to get used to working with them rather than hiding from them.
Gerard got out of the car and Rosa turned back to me. “Wait for us to call you over and you will take care of the little ones. There are two. A boy and a girl.”
“I remember,” I told her. She exited the car.
I watched the two social workers and the two police officers near the house. It suddenly dawned on me how difficult this was going to be. To take children away from a family.
The door was opened. I could barely make out what was happening beyond the four bodies crowded around it. I saw heads bobbing slightly. Gerard was speaking with the person who answered the door. I caught a quick glimpse. It was the man. He was becoming more animated. More agitated.
I then saw the boy peaking out of the window. He was ten years old. Diego Jr.'s age. He had no idea what was happening, and he could barely see it from the angle he was standing. So he looked at me through the dirty window. His eyes questioned me about what was happening. I didn’t know what to say in return with my eyes.
I then saw a woman’s hand reach out to him, and he was led away. I got out of the car. I didn’t know what I should do. Should I tell the police? Should I warn Gerard and Rosa? Was the woman making a run for it? Or taking them to the doorway?
Then the police took care of it. They pushed the father. One of them held him down while Gerard and Rosa were led in by the second. The mother’s yelling was heard inside. “No! No!” And as the boy was rushed out by Rosa I could hear her scream, “Don’t take my babies!!!”
I ran forward to meet the boy. I knelt down to his height and looked into his eyes. He looked back at mine with the same questioning look he sent through that window. Then he looked back at the door.
The father was shouting threats from the floor. The mother’s words were no longer audible. The baby girl was screaming. Soon I saw them appear at the door. Gerard was wrestling the girl from the woman’s hands. The police officer was pushing the mother away. Rosa was trying to calm her as best she could by giving the woman her options. I over-heard her say something about leaving her husband and sobering up.
Gerard ran toward me with the girl in his arm and holding the boy's hand. “Get him into the car!” he said hastily.
I grasped the little boy’s hand and said, “Come on.” He resisted only once. But when I tugged slightly on his arm, he followed.
The little girl was placed into the back seat. I followed her in. The mother called out, “Hector!” and the boy stopped. He looked back at his mother. I noticed for the first time a scar on her face. It looked like it was from a knife or a whip.
Gerard was headed for the driver’s seat. But he stopped. He looked at the boy, ready to grab him to throw him into the back of the car if necessary.
I didn’t want to do it that way. I tightened my grip slightly on his hand and said, “Hector.” He looked at me. I gave him the best appearance of confidence and trustworthiness I could. “You need to come with me.”
He looked again at his mother. At the police officers. At what could happen if this got any more messy. He waved to her. Then entered the car with me. I saw silent tears running down his cheeks.
I looked at the mother. She looked back at me. I’ll never forget her saying one word to me. “Please.” I had to look away.
Gerard jumped into the car and drove.
“Wait!” I called. “What about Rosa?”
“She’ll come back with the police. She’s there to calm them down. She’s better at that than I am.”
He drove as quickly as he could along that bumpy ground. The little girl cried and shrieked. Rosa was doing what she was best at. Gerard was doing what he was best at. It was time I do what I was best at. I placed the little girl onto my lap and comforted her.
When we got to the paved road the little girl was shrieking less. I remembered my other charge, the little boy who sat silently staring out the window. I touched his knee. He looked up at me with a drenched face of tears. “We only want to do what’s best for you,” I told him.
“This isn’t what’s best for my momma,” he said. “He’ll kill her now that I’m not there to take the blame for things.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I only put my arm around him and he grasped on to me. “Nobody’s going to kill anybody.”
I don’t know what ever happened to the parents. But I followed the lives of every child we put in an orphanage. These children did okay. They had trouble adjusting. But when it became clear that no one would be torturing or raping them they accepted a new and better life for themselves. But they never stopped missing their parents. Or at least having parents.
The Assignment
On my first assignment I sat in the back seat of the car while Gerard and Rosa drove us to the location. The car jolted as we rode cross-country to the Hernandez-Gonzalez home.
It was reported that Eduardo, the father, had taken his son out into the yard multiple times and whipped him. The first time, the neighbors, about 500 meters away, thought he was whipping him with his belt. Though they felt it was excessive, whipping with a belt could be considered acceptable. I cringed at the thought. On closer examination, however, they saw it was a real whip. Their children, who played with the Hernandez-Gonzalez boy, saw the marks on his back. The little girl in the family barely spoke. And it was believed that the sexual screaming noises didn’t come from the mother in the house as she was typically passed out from alcohol.
The house sat beside a dirt road. Most roads in the suburbs of Rosarito are dirt, or worse. This would probably have qualified as worse. The police cruiser pulled up next to us. It was still sometimes hard for me to see a police car. I was trying to get used to working with them rather than hiding from them.
Gerard got out of the car and Rosa turned back to me. “Wait for us to call you over and you will take care of the little ones. There are two. A boy and a girl.”
“I remember,” I told her. She exited the car.
I watched the two social workers and the two police officers near the house. It suddenly dawned on me how difficult this was going to be. To take children away from a family.
The door was opened. I could barely make out what was happening beyond the four bodies crowded around it. I saw heads bobbing slightly. Gerard was speaking with the person who answered the door. I caught a quick glimpse. It was the man. He was becoming more animated. More agitated.
I then saw the boy peaking out of the window. He was ten years old. Diego Jr.'s age. He had no idea what was happening, and he could barely see it from the angle he was standing. So he looked at me through the dirty window. His eyes questioned me about what was happening. I didn’t know what to say in return with my eyes.
I then saw a woman’s hand reach out to him, and he was led away. I got out of the car. I didn’t know what I should do. Should I tell the police? Should I warn Gerard and Rosa? Was the woman making a run for it? Or taking them to the doorway?
Then the police took care of it. They pushed the father. One of them held him down while Gerard and Rosa were led in by the second. The mother’s yelling was heard inside. “No! No!” And as the boy was rushed out by Rosa I could hear her scream, “Don’t take my babies!!!”
I ran forward to meet the boy. I knelt down to his height and looked into his eyes. He looked back at mine with the same questioning look he sent through that window. Then he looked back at the door.
The father was shouting threats from the floor. The mother’s words were no longer audible. The baby girl was screaming. Soon I saw them appear at the door. Gerard was wrestling the girl from the woman’s hands. The police officer was pushing the mother away. Rosa was trying to calm her as best she could by giving the woman her options. I over-heard her say something about leaving her husband and sobering up.
Gerard ran toward me with the girl in his arm and holding the boy's hand. “Get him into the car!” he said hastily.
I grasped the little boy’s hand and said, “Come on.” He resisted only once. But when I tugged slightly on his arm, he followed.
The little girl was placed into the back seat. I followed her in. The mother called out, “Hector!” and the boy stopped. He looked back at his mother. I noticed for the first time a scar on her face. It looked like it was from a knife or a whip.
Gerard was headed for the driver’s seat. But he stopped. He looked at the boy, ready to grab him to throw him into the back of the car if necessary.
I didn’t want to do it that way. I tightened my grip slightly on his hand and said, “Hector.” He looked at me. I gave him the best appearance of confidence and trustworthiness I could. “You need to come with me.”
He looked again at his mother. At the police officers. At what could happen if this got any more messy. He waved to her. Then entered the car with me. I saw silent tears running down his cheeks.
I looked at the mother. She looked back at me. I’ll never forget her saying one word to me. “Please.” I had to look away.
Gerard jumped into the car and drove.
“Wait!” I called. “What about Rosa?”
“She’ll come back with the police. She’s there to calm them down. She’s better at that than I am.”
He drove as quickly as he could along that bumpy ground. The little girl cried and shrieked. Rosa was doing what she was best at. Gerard was doing what he was best at. It was time I do what I was best at. I placed the little girl onto my lap and comforted her.
When we got to the paved road the little girl was shrieking less. I remembered my other charge, the little boy who sat silently staring out the window. I touched his knee. He looked up at me with a drenched face of tears. “We only want to do what’s best for you,” I told him.
“This isn’t what’s best for my momma,” he said. “He’ll kill her now that I’m not there to take the blame for things.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I only put my arm around him and he grasped on to me. “Nobody’s going to kill anybody.”
I don’t know what ever happened to the parents. But I followed the lives of every child we put in an orphanage. These children did okay. They had trouble adjusting. But when it became clear that no one would be torturing or raping them they accepted a new and better life for themselves. But they never stopped missing their parents. Or at least having parents.
Monday, September 28, 2009
The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 6
Part 6
What’s Best
“I don't want any trouble around my children,” I told him.
“Our children,” he reminded me. I had put them into another room so Diego and I could talk in the living room. I had let him in that far. I didn't want him to stay. But he persisted. “There won't be any trouble with the drug dealers or the cops. I went straight. I told the cops everything they wanted to hear. That's why they let me out early.”
“So now those gangsters are going to come searching for you. They'll come here and the children will be in danger!”
“No they won't,” he said. “They think I got out for good behavior. They've got no idea that I said anything.”
“You're a bad influence on them. How good is a daddy that goes off to jail? I don't want Diego Jr. to grow up like you!”
“I did it all for you, Marisela. I wanted you to have the big house and the money to do what you want. I wanted you to be able to stay at home with the kids and not have to work. But I know now. That wasn't the way to do it. I want to be responsible and take care of my family. I'm done with the drugs. Done with the gangs. I just want to take care of my babies.”
I stopped arguing and considered. I heard a door creek open. The children were leaning further in to hear my reaction. I figured they had been listening all along, but I still told them to close the door and go to bed.
“It's only 5:00,” Diego Jr. said.
“Just do something in there,” I snapped.
Diego wasn't so sharp with them. He crouched down and looked Diego Jr. in the eye. “Diego, my boy,” he said. “Wow, you've really grown. You look as big as a boxer. And Tino. You aren't a baby anymore, are you?”
“What about me?” Mario demanded.
“You're the most handsome of the lot. Are you all taking care of your sister?”
They nodded. I could tell he had gotten through to them immediately. Now I was the bad guy if I didn't let him stay. Their stares at me said it all. And to be honest, I wanted him there, too. I missed having someone beside me to raise the children. To go to sleep with and wake up with. I had gotten used to getting by without him. But having him there brought back all the memories of comfort when he was near.
That night when we were alone except for Mona in her crib, he pulled off my clothes and presumptuously made love to me. I didn't mind. In fact, I missed having sex with someone who wasn't paying. Somehow, having money involved had taken away the fun of sex.
I realized as we came close to climaxing that this was the main reason I had let him back in. Yes, it was for the children. Yes, it was so they would have their father in their lives. Yes, it was for the companionship. Yes. Yes. Yes! But mostly it was so I could make love to one man who would be there in the morning.
While we lay in the darkness I told him he could stay. I told him the children had missed him and would be glad to grow up with him there. But he needed to live up to that trust. Most importantly, I told him that he couldn't imagine the hard times I had gone through while he was in prison.
He merely grunted. Pulled a pillow over his head. And went to sleep.
Buy the book at:
http://www.amazon.com/Table-Truth-Love-knows-borders/dp/1448678161/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1254121723&sr=8-1
What’s Best
“I don't want any trouble around my children,” I told him.
“Our children,” he reminded me. I had put them into another room so Diego and I could talk in the living room. I had let him in that far. I didn't want him to stay. But he persisted. “There won't be any trouble with the drug dealers or the cops. I went straight. I told the cops everything they wanted to hear. That's why they let me out early.”
“So now those gangsters are going to come searching for you. They'll come here and the children will be in danger!”
“No they won't,” he said. “They think I got out for good behavior. They've got no idea that I said anything.”
“You're a bad influence on them. How good is a daddy that goes off to jail? I don't want Diego Jr. to grow up like you!”
“I did it all for you, Marisela. I wanted you to have the big house and the money to do what you want. I wanted you to be able to stay at home with the kids and not have to work. But I know now. That wasn't the way to do it. I want to be responsible and take care of my family. I'm done with the drugs. Done with the gangs. I just want to take care of my babies.”
I stopped arguing and considered. I heard a door creek open. The children were leaning further in to hear my reaction. I figured they had been listening all along, but I still told them to close the door and go to bed.
“It's only 5:00,” Diego Jr. said.
“Just do something in there,” I snapped.
Diego wasn't so sharp with them. He crouched down and looked Diego Jr. in the eye. “Diego, my boy,” he said. “Wow, you've really grown. You look as big as a boxer. And Tino. You aren't a baby anymore, are you?”
“What about me?” Mario demanded.
“You're the most handsome of the lot. Are you all taking care of your sister?”
They nodded. I could tell he had gotten through to them immediately. Now I was the bad guy if I didn't let him stay. Their stares at me said it all. And to be honest, I wanted him there, too. I missed having someone beside me to raise the children. To go to sleep with and wake up with. I had gotten used to getting by without him. But having him there brought back all the memories of comfort when he was near.
That night when we were alone except for Mona in her crib, he pulled off my clothes and presumptuously made love to me. I didn't mind. In fact, I missed having sex with someone who wasn't paying. Somehow, having money involved had taken away the fun of sex.
I realized as we came close to climaxing that this was the main reason I had let him back in. Yes, it was for the children. Yes, it was so they would have their father in their lives. Yes, it was for the companionship. Yes. Yes. Yes! But mostly it was so I could make love to one man who would be there in the morning.
While we lay in the darkness I told him he could stay. I told him the children had missed him and would be glad to grow up with him there. But he needed to live up to that trust. Most importantly, I told him that he couldn't imagine the hard times I had gone through while he was in prison.
He merely grunted. Pulled a pillow over his head. And went to sleep.
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Sunday, September 27, 2009
The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 5
Part 5
Rebuilding
It doesn’t take much to please a man. To a woman a breast is something that has to be covered up with clothing that has to be sized just right. A man will pay large sums of money and risk losing a lifelong relationship just to see them. Often times all I need to do is shake my butt in his face and he empties the contents of his wallet.
This is how I made money to pay for books and classes on psychology. I didn’t mind taking my clothes off on stage. If they were willing to pay money, why not? At least I wasn't fucking them anymore.
I worked at Shanghai Bar dancing and flirting at night. Took classes during the morning. Caught a few hour’s rest in the early afternoon before Diego Jr. and Mario came home from school. Then took care of all the children before putting them to bed and going to work.
My mother helped me a lot in these days. She knew how important this was to me. And she had always hoped I would do something better with my life. She also knew how important it was for me to clear my name. That's why she took the children to Ensenada the day I went to face the people who had threatened to take them away from me. I walked into the offices of the DIF.
Claudia came with me. I was nervous the entire way. I didn’t say a word. I stiffened when the door was opened. I could barely breathe. Every muscle was tense as I walked through. And when it closed behind me I felt like the bars of a jail cell had just shut. And I would never see my children again.
I straightened up and approached the counter. “Can I help you?” the woman at the counter asked. I didn’t know how to respond.
Claudia spoke for me. “We’d like to speak with whoever’s in charge.”
The woman didn’t know how to respond to that. It was a strange way to approach them, I suppose. She picked up the phone and called someone quietly. Was she bringing the police? Would the Federales burst in with their machine guns and make me lie on the ground? I didn’t say a word.
A gentle looking man with a sincere face came out of one of the offices and looked at me. I was surprised to see he was a gringo. Probably an American. “My name's Gerard. Can I help you?”
Claudia looked at me. It was my turn to step up. I grasped the book in my pocket for strength. Then I said to him, “I want to become a socialist.”
His eyes squinted. I had clearly said something wrong. He approached me. I looked away. Had he recognized me? Was he going to hold me down until I told him where my children were so he could take them away?
Then he relaxed his gaze and chuckled. “The people who work here are called social workers.”
“Yes, that’s it,” I said. “How does one get a job here?”
“Well, most people volunteer. Why don’t you come into my office?” He opened the door for me. I looked inside hesitantly. The rooms were getting smaller and smaller. I wondered how many rooms it would be until I wound up in a tiny cell. Cut off from my children forever.
Claudia tapped me reassuringly on the shoulder and sat down in the waiting area. I walked into the room.
Gerard entered and sat down behind a desk. He told me a little about what a social worker does. I could barely hear him. I was still waiting to be confronted. He never did. In fact, his face spoke understanding.
I realized that I wasn’t going to hear him until I got this over with. So I leaned forward and I said, “Okay, let me tell you something. I was on the run from the law not long ago. And from you.” And I told him the whole story. He sat there. Never speaking. Watching me. He rarely blinked.
When I was done, he neither criticized, nor judged me. He just nodded and thought it through.
“I don’t want to lose my babies,” I said. “I will do anything to keep them... Anything.”
“Clearly,” he said, and he leaned back in his chair.
I waited for the verdict. I waited for him to unzip his pants and tell me to be his love slave. I would do it. Every night if I had to. Anything to keep from being separated from my children.
Then he asked simply, “When can you start?” My eyes grew twice their size. “We could use you as a volunteer. We always need more hands. Keep taking those classes, and I'll give you some more books to read, and if you can prove yourself, and if we get an opening, we can see about hiring you.”
“You... You're not concerned about my past?” I asked him.
“Well of course I am. Your boyfriend...”
“Ex-boyfriend...”
“He could have landed your family in a lot of trouble. But I'm a good judge of character, and I can see in your face that you're telling the truth. And besides, it sounds to me like you're really dedicated to your children. If you can show that kind of commitment to the kids we work with, then we could definitely use you.”
I was ready to explode with joy. He put up a hand as if to stop me from getting over-excited. “You still need to finish your classes, and I'm not making any promises about a job. But let's start out this way and see how it goes. Is it a deal?”
He stood up and reached out his hand.
I got into the habit of reading a chapter on the bus to work. Then I would sit on the top floor and look down on the men in the club studying the behaviors which had just been described in the chapter. I would then re-read the chapter on the way home to better understand it.
As I had drinks with the men I listened to them talk about their lives back home. I used the Freudian methods of psychoanalysis to ask them questions. To get to the heart of their feelings. I had known that most of them were there cheating on a girlfriend or spouse. But I came to understand why. The loneliness in redundancy. The dissatisfaction. The disillusionment. But most of all, the midlife crisis.
In my class I finished the lessons long before the session was over. I went on to studying what they had in the next chapter. And the chapter after that. I got so far ahead I completed the first year’s courses several months early, and was much of the way through the second year’s courses. By the end of the year I was almost completely through the two year course. It was as easy for me to pick up as English had been, and just as simple to practice.
I worked as a volunteer whenever I could. Filing paper work. Answering phones. Following Gerard around and learning from him. It was most of my life. My mother and sisters were very supportive and helped take care of the children on nights when I was at the club and days when I was in class or at the DIF. Claudia was especially helpful. She offered her help babysitting whenever she could. The kids wondered where I was all the time. But they didn't complain much because they got to know my youngest sister and their cousins better. Sometimes they didn't want me to pick them up because they were having so much fun.
And when I was finished with the classes Gerard hired me as a full time social worker. Just saying those words, “I am a social worker,” made me proud. I was no longer selling myself. And even though I still made money showing my body to men at Shanghai Bar at night, that wasn’t who I was. I was a social worker.
And soon I would make enough that I wouldn't have to work at night anymore. For the time being I stopped dancing and only had drinks with men. I made less money, but that was supplemented by my new day job. “I am a social worker,” I reminded myself every night with a smile on my face. “I'm making a difference in the world. I am a social worker.”
Then Diego showed up on my doorstep.
Rebuilding
It doesn’t take much to please a man. To a woman a breast is something that has to be covered up with clothing that has to be sized just right. A man will pay large sums of money and risk losing a lifelong relationship just to see them. Often times all I need to do is shake my butt in his face and he empties the contents of his wallet.
This is how I made money to pay for books and classes on psychology. I didn’t mind taking my clothes off on stage. If they were willing to pay money, why not? At least I wasn't fucking them anymore.
I worked at Shanghai Bar dancing and flirting at night. Took classes during the morning. Caught a few hour’s rest in the early afternoon before Diego Jr. and Mario came home from school. Then took care of all the children before putting them to bed and going to work.
My mother helped me a lot in these days. She knew how important this was to me. And she had always hoped I would do something better with my life. She also knew how important it was for me to clear my name. That's why she took the children to Ensenada the day I went to face the people who had threatened to take them away from me. I walked into the offices of the DIF.
Claudia came with me. I was nervous the entire way. I didn’t say a word. I stiffened when the door was opened. I could barely breathe. Every muscle was tense as I walked through. And when it closed behind me I felt like the bars of a jail cell had just shut. And I would never see my children again.
I straightened up and approached the counter. “Can I help you?” the woman at the counter asked. I didn’t know how to respond.
Claudia spoke for me. “We’d like to speak with whoever’s in charge.”
The woman didn’t know how to respond to that. It was a strange way to approach them, I suppose. She picked up the phone and called someone quietly. Was she bringing the police? Would the Federales burst in with their machine guns and make me lie on the ground? I didn’t say a word.
A gentle looking man with a sincere face came out of one of the offices and looked at me. I was surprised to see he was a gringo. Probably an American. “My name's Gerard. Can I help you?”
Claudia looked at me. It was my turn to step up. I grasped the book in my pocket for strength. Then I said to him, “I want to become a socialist.”
His eyes squinted. I had clearly said something wrong. He approached me. I looked away. Had he recognized me? Was he going to hold me down until I told him where my children were so he could take them away?
Then he relaxed his gaze and chuckled. “The people who work here are called social workers.”
“Yes, that’s it,” I said. “How does one get a job here?”
“Well, most people volunteer. Why don’t you come into my office?” He opened the door for me. I looked inside hesitantly. The rooms were getting smaller and smaller. I wondered how many rooms it would be until I wound up in a tiny cell. Cut off from my children forever.
Claudia tapped me reassuringly on the shoulder and sat down in the waiting area. I walked into the room.
Gerard entered and sat down behind a desk. He told me a little about what a social worker does. I could barely hear him. I was still waiting to be confronted. He never did. In fact, his face spoke understanding.
I realized that I wasn’t going to hear him until I got this over with. So I leaned forward and I said, “Okay, let me tell you something. I was on the run from the law not long ago. And from you.” And I told him the whole story. He sat there. Never speaking. Watching me. He rarely blinked.
When I was done, he neither criticized, nor judged me. He just nodded and thought it through.
“I don’t want to lose my babies,” I said. “I will do anything to keep them... Anything.”
“Clearly,” he said, and he leaned back in his chair.
I waited for the verdict. I waited for him to unzip his pants and tell me to be his love slave. I would do it. Every night if I had to. Anything to keep from being separated from my children.
Then he asked simply, “When can you start?” My eyes grew twice their size. “We could use you as a volunteer. We always need more hands. Keep taking those classes, and I'll give you some more books to read, and if you can prove yourself, and if we get an opening, we can see about hiring you.”
“You... You're not concerned about my past?” I asked him.
“Well of course I am. Your boyfriend...”
“Ex-boyfriend...”
“He could have landed your family in a lot of trouble. But I'm a good judge of character, and I can see in your face that you're telling the truth. And besides, it sounds to me like you're really dedicated to your children. If you can show that kind of commitment to the kids we work with, then we could definitely use you.”
I was ready to explode with joy. He put up a hand as if to stop me from getting over-excited. “You still need to finish your classes, and I'm not making any promises about a job. But let's start out this way and see how it goes. Is it a deal?”
He stood up and reached out his hand.
I got into the habit of reading a chapter on the bus to work. Then I would sit on the top floor and look down on the men in the club studying the behaviors which had just been described in the chapter. I would then re-read the chapter on the way home to better understand it.
As I had drinks with the men I listened to them talk about their lives back home. I used the Freudian methods of psychoanalysis to ask them questions. To get to the heart of their feelings. I had known that most of them were there cheating on a girlfriend or spouse. But I came to understand why. The loneliness in redundancy. The dissatisfaction. The disillusionment. But most of all, the midlife crisis.
In my class I finished the lessons long before the session was over. I went on to studying what they had in the next chapter. And the chapter after that. I got so far ahead I completed the first year’s courses several months early, and was much of the way through the second year’s courses. By the end of the year I was almost completely through the two year course. It was as easy for me to pick up as English had been, and just as simple to practice.
I worked as a volunteer whenever I could. Filing paper work. Answering phones. Following Gerard around and learning from him. It was most of my life. My mother and sisters were very supportive and helped take care of the children on nights when I was at the club and days when I was in class or at the DIF. Claudia was especially helpful. She offered her help babysitting whenever she could. The kids wondered where I was all the time. But they didn't complain much because they got to know my youngest sister and their cousins better. Sometimes they didn't want me to pick them up because they were having so much fun.
And when I was finished with the classes Gerard hired me as a full time social worker. Just saying those words, “I am a social worker,” made me proud. I was no longer selling myself. And even though I still made money showing my body to men at Shanghai Bar at night, that wasn’t who I was. I was a social worker.
And soon I would make enough that I wouldn't have to work at night anymore. For the time being I stopped dancing and only had drinks with men. I made less money, but that was supplemented by my new day job. “I am a social worker,” I reminded myself every night with a smile on my face. “I'm making a difference in the world. I am a social worker.”
Then Diego showed up on my doorstep.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 4
Part 4
Three Words
I was at the club every day hunting for horny men before any of the other anacondas could take them. I sat in my perch and watched over the jungle. And when I saw the proper prey I swooped in for the kill.
I typically got about four hours of sleep each morning before waking the children and getting the two boys off to school. I then took a taxi with Tino and Mona to the hospital where I paid for my father’s machine and spent some time with him. Someone took him his guitar, probably Berta, and there were mornings when I sat across from him playing as best I could. After a couple attempted songs his eyes lit up. He recognized me. I played my favorite melody that I learned from him. A slow song from Ritchie Valenzuela. His head tilted as he watched me closely. I interrupted the song and went to his side. I didn't care if he would yell at me or punish me or anything. As long as he knew it was me.
His hand slid up to his mask and he removed it. He was breathing on his own. A miracle! But he wasn't smiling. “Are you... still working... there?” he asked.
My head lowered as my heart sank. I nodded. His hand reached out to me. Shaking violently. When he touched my cheek, I felt a thousand earthquakes trembling. But I didn't move. He stroked my cheek slowly. “You deserve better,” he said.
I had promised I would never cry again, and I didn't break that promise. Instead I looked away. Pulled myself together. I felt a tear coming out of an eye and I willed it back into its socket. I looked back at him. “Okay,” I said, placing his mask back on. I brought the guitar close to me and began playing his favorite songs. Lively, and fun. No more pain. No more tears.
I got out of the cab near the club that day and took a look around the neighborhood. On the opposite side of the block is a small street where the whores stand against the walls and taxis drive slowly across so boys can take a look, make their decision, and bring the girls into the cab for a quick suck and a $10 fee. Or go into one of the stain-filled rooms for a quick fuck and a $20 fee. The girls make less money and stand in the cold, but they own their destinies. No club owner to tell them what to do. They also got the guys who were coming out of the strip clubs horny and unsatisfied.
As I stood outside one of the clubs, its name was Shanghai, the door man, a muscular guy with a nice leather jacket, approached me. “You could work in here,” he said. “Make a pretty good living. Wouldn’t have to fuck no one.”
I didn’t know if I wanted to talk to this man. But then again, what did I have to lose? Hadn’t I gone through far worse without blinking an eye? “What’s it like in there?” I asked.
“Come in and check it out,” he told me. We walked inside the curtain.
Red lights smoothed over any flaws on the walls, the floor, the people. The girls were beautiful. Some danced on the bar. Some mingled with the men. Two of them were making out in a shower where men could watch through glass doors. In the center was a long stage where two women swung on the poles and the rings. There were two more levels of this that were open so men could look down on what was happening on the floors below them.
The girls walked on catwalks that had access to these balconies as well as to their dressing rooms where they could change.
The man showed me around the bar. Pointed my attention to the ladies at the tables with the boys. I did this a lot at Chicas, but it was always in preparation for going upstairs. “These girls don’t go anywhere with the boys,” he told me, answering my thoughts. “They just sit down and have drinks with them. You get a kickback, the same way girls do over at Chicas. But we pay more for it. You just keep the guy entertained, and make him want to buy you more beers. We make money. You make money. He gets your company. Probably jacks off thinking about you later. Everyone’s happy. And you don’t have to have sex with them.” He stopped, looking at me intently. “Unless you want to. But if you do, you do it with him privately. You tell him that he needs to leave a tip at the bar to take you out of here for a while. The tip’s usually something like fifty bucks. Then you negotiate your own price with him. There’s a hotel next door that lets you rent by the half hour. But this isn’t a whorehouse, so don’t offer yourself to anyone. And if you don’t want to, don’t do it.”
“Why don’t all the girls outside work in here?” I asked. It seemed a lot safer and cleaner than being outside.
“You’re pretty. It’s that simple. You ever stop being this pretty, we don’t want you here. Keep yourself looking good and you can make a lot of money.”
I told him I’d think about it. Then I went around the corner to work.
I kept working night and day and I drank so much with my customers that I no longer knew if my exhaustion was from being drunk, hung over, tired, or depressed, but I was never in my right mind and I got to where I could barely stand.
I sat in my perch looking over the jungle.
I was in this perch when the American who gave me the book came in again. I had been so anxious to see him, yet when he arrived I felt like falling over. I asked him to sit with me and I held his hand while I looked out over the club and he reminded me that I had promised to go see a movie with him, but as I looked around at the crowds of men I realized how much money I could make for my father's machine. I asked him to wait while I turned one last trick with a regular customer and he did and I left.
The regular customer bought me drink after drink until I was so drunk I’d lost track of reality and he took me upstairs and had his way with me, then brought me down and got his friend and they took me up for a gang bang. I’d rather have been watching a movie, but this got me more than half way to my goal of keeping Father alive one more day so I did anything they asked.
The American confronted me when he was leaving. He was angry and I didn’t blame him. He left, telling me he’d never come back again.
I felt like crying when he walked out the curtain. I had waited so long to see him and now he was gone again... Forever. I couldn't let it show because the other man had more he wanted to do with me and I needed his money so I held it in until I got home.
When I was safely alone in the bathroom I let it all come out in one big explosion. I pulled my hair forward and cried into it. I had promised that I would never cry again. But in the darkness of that night I broke that promise time after time. In bed I opened my eyes and saw his photograph in the darkness. I pulled the picture into bed with me and stared at him. Those understanding eyes. Why couldn't he understand me this time?
It only made sense, though. Everyone leaves eventually. “I am on nobody's side because nobody is on my side.”
Mona stirred. I put the covers over my head and I stroked the man's face on the photograph. Then I looked at my own face in the picture. I placed my finger over it. I no longer wanted to be that person.
The next morning I awoke to his face. I didn’t have the energy to move anymore. So I just lay there. People were counting on me. But I couldn’t budge. I ached everywhere both inside and out. I had drunk so much that there was an ongoing buzz in my head. I never again wanted to turn on a light. Nor get out of this position.
I felt worthless.
I looked at his picture again. I remembered the time we first met. When he asked me what I thought. How I believed. No one cared about these things. No one but him. And now he was gone.
But then I realized something far more important. I cared about what I thought. My own opinions and beliefs began to flood into my mind. I thought about everything from how I felt about the way my family was run to what was my favorite food. I realized that I had a voice. And it was worth hearing.
There would be no more running. No more hiding. I was going to face up to everything and make life better for my kids. My father. Even myself. I determined not only to leave Chicas as soon as my father was well enough to not need so much money, but also to start my own career. Get my life going in the right direction. Set an example for my kids.
I got out of bed. I went to the hospital to see my father. He looked worse. As if the machine was useless. Or killing him. “You look good,” I said.
He smiled, catching my lie. I sat next to him. I found the guitar. Picked it up and played a few chords he had taught me. When I finished, as the music was still fading into the air, he struggled to ask, “Are you still…”
I looked down again. I couldn’t lie to him about it. “Yes. But I’m looking at another place. Somewhere that I don’t have to… to go upstairs with anyone.”
His weak finger touched my chin and lifted it up. Then he said in a gasping voice, “I am proud of you… My beautiful Marisela.”
I had gotten so used to others calling me by my phony names, Nina, Vallarta, it was a relief to hear him say my real name.
Then he struggled to speak. It was something very important for him to say. “One thing... always remember... Three words.” Then he lifted one finger with each word. “No… more… drinks.”
It was what was killing him. And he knew it could kill me if I kept in the direction I was going. It would hold me back from doing all the things I wanted to do. And he knew it. I also knew that I might not be able to live up to such a promise. But he needed me to give it. So I nodded with certainty. “No more drinks. I promise, Father.”
He nodded. Satisfied. Then laid back.
I continued to look at the photograph when I first woke up. And I thought of my father's words. I ordered water whenever possible. I was tired. But not in such a daze anymore.
Then the American who gave me the book came through the curtains of Chicas one last time.
He told me he was saying goodbye. It was better that way. He didn’t need to be drug down into my world. He had a much better one to escape to. But I wanted him to know that he had had a great affect on me. He had changed my life. I could not live in his world of entertainment and luxury. But he had given me the gift of self confidence.
Before he left he asked me one last question. “What is your fondest memory?” I remembered my father with his friends. Music was his life. His passion. His love. I realized that his music spoke to me in a language that words could never do justice to. The notes moved me. They sang directly to my emotions. I told the American about a moment when I sat in the middle of my father and his friends playing their instruments. And I got lost in the memory. When music is that powerful, you don't just hear it. You feel it in every part of your body.
I had to go. I had to make enough money to keep Father alive one more day. And I didn’t want this man to wait on me any longer. So I hopped off the stool and hugged him goodbye. I wanted to hold him. To keep him there forever. But it could never happen. He would go into his world and disappear from mine permanently. But I was determined to succeed. To make something of myself. I didn't know how, but he would hear from me one day.
I didn’t see that man again after that. He changed my life and we moved on in different directions. I sometimes wondered if he was real. If he had existed or if he was just part of my imagination. I kept the picture of us up beside my bed to remind me that it was real. Never has a day gone by when I didn’t think about him.
I returned to the hospital the next day with enough money to pay for another day, and another bouquet of flowers. They told me to wait this time. I sat in the next room for someone to speak to me. I wondered if perhaps someone had paid for the day already. Maybe my mother had worked out a payment plan with them. Maybe the price had gone up. I didn’t know.
A nurse walked in. A male nurse. I had never seen a man do that kind of work. I thought it was for women. He leaned down to me.
“You’re the first family member to come in. We tried to reach your mother by phone, but couldn’t get hold of anyone. I’m sorry Miss Ramos-Nojara, your father has passed away.”
Everything I had worked for, suffered for, struggled for, was gone with those words. It felt like it had all been pointless. The nurse tried to put a hand on me to comfort me. I slapped it away. I didn’t want any man touching me. Never again. I tried to hold in the tears. But the more I tried, the more they poured out until my face was wet. And the sounds from my mouth were almost a scream.
At last I did scream. I went into the chapel and let it all out. I shouted at the statue at the front. Had we not paid our dues? Had we not suffered and given our all? How could he sit up there so indifferently and allow this to happen after all I had gone through? I punched the statue again and again and asked why. How could my efforts go so completely unrewarded?
I don’t remember much after that. I didn’t get out of bed many times. I often just stared at the ceiling. Or sat on the edge of the bed. Diego Jr. took care of the others as best he could. Mother and my sisters planned the funeral. Claudia was angry at me for not being more of a help. But I was empty now. I had given everything I could. I had nothing left.
Berta was the same way. Father had been everything to her. I never knew why. But they shared a closeness I never understood completely. I sat with her, as though somehow by being near her I could gain an understanding only she possessed. Part way through the memorial service she grasped my hand tightly.
The sun had set by the time we walked to the house of my mother. My younger sister Elsa tugged at my shirt and pointed up at the brightest star in the sky. “I've never seen that star before,” she said. “It must be Daddy.”
I didn’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for myself for long. I needed to go back to work. I just stood on my perch and watched over the flock. I didn't go to them. I didn't need to. They came to me. Their hands ready to grasp me. I didn't mess around with drinks anymore. If they wanted to go upstairs, we went upstairs. It was mechanical now. Drop the pants. Give them a quick blow. Get on my hands and knees and count down for twenty minutes. I don't remember what any of them looked like because I never turned my eyes toward them. I didn't care. They were walking dollar bills to me and I was a walking pussy to them. I was on nobody's side and they were not on my side.
I paged through the book the American had given me. This guy Freud talked about how people are driven by their sexual desires. He was right about that. Especially men. I continued to read. It got to where I didn't want to put it down. I was comforted by his words the way some people are comforted by the words of the Bible. I understood what he was saying. I saw it every day. As he explained that men are consistently searching for a replacement of their mothers, I understood them better. I began to forgive. To realize where they were coming from.
In bed with these men, I saw Freud's words in action. Instead of counting down or reciting a mantra, I thought about what Freud would say: “This man who's humping me is only searching for his mother.”
One day my own boys would be searching for me in another woman. Is this the kind of woman I wanted them to be with?
I was through hiding from everything and everyone. Even myself. I wanted a real life. I wanted to face everything I had feared and conquer it. Even though I had been cleared by the police, I had never faced social services. I was still afraid of them taking my children away if they ever learned my past. But I wanted to face them head on. I wanted to clear my name for good. And I wanted a job. A real job. One where I could use my skills. I would prove myself worthy of them by working with them.
I put on my regular clothes. Walked out the curtain. And left Chicas forever.
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Three Words
I was at the club every day hunting for horny men before any of the other anacondas could take them. I sat in my perch and watched over the jungle. And when I saw the proper prey I swooped in for the kill.
I typically got about four hours of sleep each morning before waking the children and getting the two boys off to school. I then took a taxi with Tino and Mona to the hospital where I paid for my father’s machine and spent some time with him. Someone took him his guitar, probably Berta, and there were mornings when I sat across from him playing as best I could. After a couple attempted songs his eyes lit up. He recognized me. I played my favorite melody that I learned from him. A slow song from Ritchie Valenzuela. His head tilted as he watched me closely. I interrupted the song and went to his side. I didn't care if he would yell at me or punish me or anything. As long as he knew it was me.
His hand slid up to his mask and he removed it. He was breathing on his own. A miracle! But he wasn't smiling. “Are you... still working... there?” he asked.
My head lowered as my heart sank. I nodded. His hand reached out to me. Shaking violently. When he touched my cheek, I felt a thousand earthquakes trembling. But I didn't move. He stroked my cheek slowly. “You deserve better,” he said.
I had promised I would never cry again, and I didn't break that promise. Instead I looked away. Pulled myself together. I felt a tear coming out of an eye and I willed it back into its socket. I looked back at him. “Okay,” I said, placing his mask back on. I brought the guitar close to me and began playing his favorite songs. Lively, and fun. No more pain. No more tears.
I got out of the cab near the club that day and took a look around the neighborhood. On the opposite side of the block is a small street where the whores stand against the walls and taxis drive slowly across so boys can take a look, make their decision, and bring the girls into the cab for a quick suck and a $10 fee. Or go into one of the stain-filled rooms for a quick fuck and a $20 fee. The girls make less money and stand in the cold, but they own their destinies. No club owner to tell them what to do. They also got the guys who were coming out of the strip clubs horny and unsatisfied.
As I stood outside one of the clubs, its name was Shanghai, the door man, a muscular guy with a nice leather jacket, approached me. “You could work in here,” he said. “Make a pretty good living. Wouldn’t have to fuck no one.”
I didn’t know if I wanted to talk to this man. But then again, what did I have to lose? Hadn’t I gone through far worse without blinking an eye? “What’s it like in there?” I asked.
“Come in and check it out,” he told me. We walked inside the curtain.
Red lights smoothed over any flaws on the walls, the floor, the people. The girls were beautiful. Some danced on the bar. Some mingled with the men. Two of them were making out in a shower where men could watch through glass doors. In the center was a long stage where two women swung on the poles and the rings. There were two more levels of this that were open so men could look down on what was happening on the floors below them.
The girls walked on catwalks that had access to these balconies as well as to their dressing rooms where they could change.
The man showed me around the bar. Pointed my attention to the ladies at the tables with the boys. I did this a lot at Chicas, but it was always in preparation for going upstairs. “These girls don’t go anywhere with the boys,” he told me, answering my thoughts. “They just sit down and have drinks with them. You get a kickback, the same way girls do over at Chicas. But we pay more for it. You just keep the guy entertained, and make him want to buy you more beers. We make money. You make money. He gets your company. Probably jacks off thinking about you later. Everyone’s happy. And you don’t have to have sex with them.” He stopped, looking at me intently. “Unless you want to. But if you do, you do it with him privately. You tell him that he needs to leave a tip at the bar to take you out of here for a while. The tip’s usually something like fifty bucks. Then you negotiate your own price with him. There’s a hotel next door that lets you rent by the half hour. But this isn’t a whorehouse, so don’t offer yourself to anyone. And if you don’t want to, don’t do it.”
“Why don’t all the girls outside work in here?” I asked. It seemed a lot safer and cleaner than being outside.
“You’re pretty. It’s that simple. You ever stop being this pretty, we don’t want you here. Keep yourself looking good and you can make a lot of money.”
I told him I’d think about it. Then I went around the corner to work.
I kept working night and day and I drank so much with my customers that I no longer knew if my exhaustion was from being drunk, hung over, tired, or depressed, but I was never in my right mind and I got to where I could barely stand.
I sat in my perch looking over the jungle.
I was in this perch when the American who gave me the book came in again. I had been so anxious to see him, yet when he arrived I felt like falling over. I asked him to sit with me and I held his hand while I looked out over the club and he reminded me that I had promised to go see a movie with him, but as I looked around at the crowds of men I realized how much money I could make for my father's machine. I asked him to wait while I turned one last trick with a regular customer and he did and I left.
The regular customer bought me drink after drink until I was so drunk I’d lost track of reality and he took me upstairs and had his way with me, then brought me down and got his friend and they took me up for a gang bang. I’d rather have been watching a movie, but this got me more than half way to my goal of keeping Father alive one more day so I did anything they asked.
The American confronted me when he was leaving. He was angry and I didn’t blame him. He left, telling me he’d never come back again.
I felt like crying when he walked out the curtain. I had waited so long to see him and now he was gone again... Forever. I couldn't let it show because the other man had more he wanted to do with me and I needed his money so I held it in until I got home.
When I was safely alone in the bathroom I let it all come out in one big explosion. I pulled my hair forward and cried into it. I had promised that I would never cry again. But in the darkness of that night I broke that promise time after time. In bed I opened my eyes and saw his photograph in the darkness. I pulled the picture into bed with me and stared at him. Those understanding eyes. Why couldn't he understand me this time?
It only made sense, though. Everyone leaves eventually. “I am on nobody's side because nobody is on my side.”
Mona stirred. I put the covers over my head and I stroked the man's face on the photograph. Then I looked at my own face in the picture. I placed my finger over it. I no longer wanted to be that person.
The next morning I awoke to his face. I didn’t have the energy to move anymore. So I just lay there. People were counting on me. But I couldn’t budge. I ached everywhere both inside and out. I had drunk so much that there was an ongoing buzz in my head. I never again wanted to turn on a light. Nor get out of this position.
I felt worthless.
I looked at his picture again. I remembered the time we first met. When he asked me what I thought. How I believed. No one cared about these things. No one but him. And now he was gone.
But then I realized something far more important. I cared about what I thought. My own opinions and beliefs began to flood into my mind. I thought about everything from how I felt about the way my family was run to what was my favorite food. I realized that I had a voice. And it was worth hearing.
There would be no more running. No more hiding. I was going to face up to everything and make life better for my kids. My father. Even myself. I determined not only to leave Chicas as soon as my father was well enough to not need so much money, but also to start my own career. Get my life going in the right direction. Set an example for my kids.
I got out of bed. I went to the hospital to see my father. He looked worse. As if the machine was useless. Or killing him. “You look good,” I said.
He smiled, catching my lie. I sat next to him. I found the guitar. Picked it up and played a few chords he had taught me. When I finished, as the music was still fading into the air, he struggled to ask, “Are you still…”
I looked down again. I couldn’t lie to him about it. “Yes. But I’m looking at another place. Somewhere that I don’t have to… to go upstairs with anyone.”
His weak finger touched my chin and lifted it up. Then he said in a gasping voice, “I am proud of you… My beautiful Marisela.”
I had gotten so used to others calling me by my phony names, Nina, Vallarta, it was a relief to hear him say my real name.
Then he struggled to speak. It was something very important for him to say. “One thing... always remember... Three words.” Then he lifted one finger with each word. “No… more… drinks.”
It was what was killing him. And he knew it could kill me if I kept in the direction I was going. It would hold me back from doing all the things I wanted to do. And he knew it. I also knew that I might not be able to live up to such a promise. But he needed me to give it. So I nodded with certainty. “No more drinks. I promise, Father.”
He nodded. Satisfied. Then laid back.
I continued to look at the photograph when I first woke up. And I thought of my father's words. I ordered water whenever possible. I was tired. But not in such a daze anymore.
Then the American who gave me the book came through the curtains of Chicas one last time.
He told me he was saying goodbye. It was better that way. He didn’t need to be drug down into my world. He had a much better one to escape to. But I wanted him to know that he had had a great affect on me. He had changed my life. I could not live in his world of entertainment and luxury. But he had given me the gift of self confidence.
Before he left he asked me one last question. “What is your fondest memory?” I remembered my father with his friends. Music was his life. His passion. His love. I realized that his music spoke to me in a language that words could never do justice to. The notes moved me. They sang directly to my emotions. I told the American about a moment when I sat in the middle of my father and his friends playing their instruments. And I got lost in the memory. When music is that powerful, you don't just hear it. You feel it in every part of your body.
I had to go. I had to make enough money to keep Father alive one more day. And I didn’t want this man to wait on me any longer. So I hopped off the stool and hugged him goodbye. I wanted to hold him. To keep him there forever. But it could never happen. He would go into his world and disappear from mine permanently. But I was determined to succeed. To make something of myself. I didn't know how, but he would hear from me one day.
I didn’t see that man again after that. He changed my life and we moved on in different directions. I sometimes wondered if he was real. If he had existed or if he was just part of my imagination. I kept the picture of us up beside my bed to remind me that it was real. Never has a day gone by when I didn’t think about him.
I returned to the hospital the next day with enough money to pay for another day, and another bouquet of flowers. They told me to wait this time. I sat in the next room for someone to speak to me. I wondered if perhaps someone had paid for the day already. Maybe my mother had worked out a payment plan with them. Maybe the price had gone up. I didn’t know.
A nurse walked in. A male nurse. I had never seen a man do that kind of work. I thought it was for women. He leaned down to me.
“You’re the first family member to come in. We tried to reach your mother by phone, but couldn’t get hold of anyone. I’m sorry Miss Ramos-Nojara, your father has passed away.”
Everything I had worked for, suffered for, struggled for, was gone with those words. It felt like it had all been pointless. The nurse tried to put a hand on me to comfort me. I slapped it away. I didn’t want any man touching me. Never again. I tried to hold in the tears. But the more I tried, the more they poured out until my face was wet. And the sounds from my mouth were almost a scream.
At last I did scream. I went into the chapel and let it all out. I shouted at the statue at the front. Had we not paid our dues? Had we not suffered and given our all? How could he sit up there so indifferently and allow this to happen after all I had gone through? I punched the statue again and again and asked why. How could my efforts go so completely unrewarded?
I don’t remember much after that. I didn’t get out of bed many times. I often just stared at the ceiling. Or sat on the edge of the bed. Diego Jr. took care of the others as best he could. Mother and my sisters planned the funeral. Claudia was angry at me for not being more of a help. But I was empty now. I had given everything I could. I had nothing left.
Berta was the same way. Father had been everything to her. I never knew why. But they shared a closeness I never understood completely. I sat with her, as though somehow by being near her I could gain an understanding only she possessed. Part way through the memorial service she grasped my hand tightly.
The sun had set by the time we walked to the house of my mother. My younger sister Elsa tugged at my shirt and pointed up at the brightest star in the sky. “I've never seen that star before,” she said. “It must be Daddy.”
I didn’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for myself for long. I needed to go back to work. I just stood on my perch and watched over the flock. I didn't go to them. I didn't need to. They came to me. Their hands ready to grasp me. I didn't mess around with drinks anymore. If they wanted to go upstairs, we went upstairs. It was mechanical now. Drop the pants. Give them a quick blow. Get on my hands and knees and count down for twenty minutes. I don't remember what any of them looked like because I never turned my eyes toward them. I didn't care. They were walking dollar bills to me and I was a walking pussy to them. I was on nobody's side and they were not on my side.
I paged through the book the American had given me. This guy Freud talked about how people are driven by their sexual desires. He was right about that. Especially men. I continued to read. It got to where I didn't want to put it down. I was comforted by his words the way some people are comforted by the words of the Bible. I understood what he was saying. I saw it every day. As he explained that men are consistently searching for a replacement of their mothers, I understood them better. I began to forgive. To realize where they were coming from.
In bed with these men, I saw Freud's words in action. Instead of counting down or reciting a mantra, I thought about what Freud would say: “This man who's humping me is only searching for his mother.”
One day my own boys would be searching for me in another woman. Is this the kind of woman I wanted them to be with?
I was through hiding from everything and everyone. Even myself. I wanted a real life. I wanted to face everything I had feared and conquer it. Even though I had been cleared by the police, I had never faced social services. I was still afraid of them taking my children away if they ever learned my past. But I wanted to face them head on. I wanted to clear my name for good. And I wanted a job. A real job. One where I could use my skills. I would prove myself worthy of them by working with them.
I put on my regular clothes. Walked out the curtain. And left Chicas forever.
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Friday, September 25, 2009
The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 3
Part 3
Please Stay With Me
In my family, as with most people in the neighborhood where I grew up, there is no distinction between homes. We enter and exit one another’s houses freely. And often stay overnight if it gets late. We always have blankets and pillows available for anyone who might want to stay.
I was eleven when my aunt Zora was pregnant with her first child. I had been to her place many times in the past. But not recently because of her pregnancy. Her husband Pablo said I could come over any time. Even when Zora was away in the hospital. But I never felt comfortable around him alone. I didn’t know why.
After Zora returned from the hospital with her new baby, she asked me to come visit. I didn’t take the invitation seriously. But then she begged me. “Please, Marisela. You are my favorite niece. Please come visit me. I can’t get out much.”
I didn’t understand why she wanted me to be there so badly, but I was flattered by her desire to see me. So I went.
Pablo was in the other room watching television most of the time while we sat on Zora’s bed playing with the baby. It was such an amazing sight, looking into this child’s eyes. An entire human being was in there. One that would have experiences of its own. Opinions of its own. Thoughts of its own. Its little fingers grasped onto anything it came close to. As though it was exploring the world through touch. I knew right then that I would want one of these some day.
Zora kept inviting me, and I kept coming. She left a pillow and blanket on the couch for me to use. I began sleeping there almost as much as I slept at home. My mother and father were fine with it. They knew that I helped with the baby. That I was a good support for Zora. Something Pablo wasn’t always good at. Many men in my neighborhood didn't help raise the children. They saw it as women's work.
After a while it became too much for me. Some days I felt as though Zora was using me. I was a child. I should have been out playing with my friends. But she kept begging me to come over. Giving me guilt when I wanted to do something else.
Many nights when I slept on the couch, I could hear a noise coming from their room. She whimpered and occasionally screamed. I thought maybe Pablo was beating her. So I peaked inside. They were on the bed and Pablo was moving around on top of her. My aunt looked like she was in pain. Lying on her back with her legs spread. But she didn't seem to be resisting. So I did nothing about it.
I asked a friend about this. She explained that men have this extra item between their legs. She told me that it grows. And then they put it inside of the hole that girls have.
The thought was disgusting. I determined never to let a man be inside me like that. This thought was confirmed every night that I heard my aunt screaming in the next room.
Once I awoke in the middle of the night to find Pablo standing at the opposite end of the couch. He was naked, and that extra thing my friend had talked about hung between his legs. It was long. I couldn’t believe how much hair was strung around it. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it as it stood there. Like a third leg.
When he saw I was awake the thing stiffened. And lifted forward. Like a finger pointing directly at its intended target… Me. And then he followed it toward me.
I lifted the covers over my lips. Frightened as he came closer. When he reached the couch at the point where my waist lay, I lifted the cover to my nose.
He sat down. His unit still pointing toward me. His naked butt against my hip. Where was my aunt?
I lifted the cover above my eyes and could see no more. When I felt his strong hand lower onto my waist, I lifted the blanket the rest of the way over my head.
From that moment forward I could only feel him as he crawled onto the couch. He would crush me below his weight! I was scared to die. I was even more afraid of what else would happen.
I felt the blanket lifted from my legs. I felt his hands touch the naked skin of my feet.
Then I felt his body get on top of mine. That long unit of his touching my legs. I hoped my panties would stop it from getting past my hole. I hoped his big belly wouldn’t crush me.
I hoped it wouldn’t hurt.
Then I heard my aunt shift in bed. I could hear her lean over. Sigh. Then she shifted as though feeling the bedspread. She could tell Pablo had left. He lifted off of me and left the room. I stayed below the covers. A minute later I heard her moaning and whimpering.
When she invited me over again, I didn’t go.
Please Stay With Me
In my family, as with most people in the neighborhood where I grew up, there is no distinction between homes. We enter and exit one another’s houses freely. And often stay overnight if it gets late. We always have blankets and pillows available for anyone who might want to stay.
I was eleven when my aunt Zora was pregnant with her first child. I had been to her place many times in the past. But not recently because of her pregnancy. Her husband Pablo said I could come over any time. Even when Zora was away in the hospital. But I never felt comfortable around him alone. I didn’t know why.
After Zora returned from the hospital with her new baby, she asked me to come visit. I didn’t take the invitation seriously. But then she begged me. “Please, Marisela. You are my favorite niece. Please come visit me. I can’t get out much.”
I didn’t understand why she wanted me to be there so badly, but I was flattered by her desire to see me. So I went.
Pablo was in the other room watching television most of the time while we sat on Zora’s bed playing with the baby. It was such an amazing sight, looking into this child’s eyes. An entire human being was in there. One that would have experiences of its own. Opinions of its own. Thoughts of its own. Its little fingers grasped onto anything it came close to. As though it was exploring the world through touch. I knew right then that I would want one of these some day.
Zora kept inviting me, and I kept coming. She left a pillow and blanket on the couch for me to use. I began sleeping there almost as much as I slept at home. My mother and father were fine with it. They knew that I helped with the baby. That I was a good support for Zora. Something Pablo wasn’t always good at. Many men in my neighborhood didn't help raise the children. They saw it as women's work.
After a while it became too much for me. Some days I felt as though Zora was using me. I was a child. I should have been out playing with my friends. But she kept begging me to come over. Giving me guilt when I wanted to do something else.
Many nights when I slept on the couch, I could hear a noise coming from their room. She whimpered and occasionally screamed. I thought maybe Pablo was beating her. So I peaked inside. They were on the bed and Pablo was moving around on top of her. My aunt looked like she was in pain. Lying on her back with her legs spread. But she didn't seem to be resisting. So I did nothing about it.
I asked a friend about this. She explained that men have this extra item between their legs. She told me that it grows. And then they put it inside of the hole that girls have.
The thought was disgusting. I determined never to let a man be inside me like that. This thought was confirmed every night that I heard my aunt screaming in the next room.
Once I awoke in the middle of the night to find Pablo standing at the opposite end of the couch. He was naked, and that extra thing my friend had talked about hung between his legs. It was long. I couldn’t believe how much hair was strung around it. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it as it stood there. Like a third leg.
When he saw I was awake the thing stiffened. And lifted forward. Like a finger pointing directly at its intended target… Me. And then he followed it toward me.
I lifted the covers over my lips. Frightened as he came closer. When he reached the couch at the point where my waist lay, I lifted the cover to my nose.
He sat down. His unit still pointing toward me. His naked butt against my hip. Where was my aunt?
I lifted the cover above my eyes and could see no more. When I felt his strong hand lower onto my waist, I lifted the blanket the rest of the way over my head.
From that moment forward I could only feel him as he crawled onto the couch. He would crush me below his weight! I was scared to die. I was even more afraid of what else would happen.
I felt the blanket lifted from my legs. I felt his hands touch the naked skin of my feet.
Then I felt his body get on top of mine. That long unit of his touching my legs. I hoped my panties would stop it from getting past my hole. I hoped his big belly wouldn’t crush me.
I hoped it wouldn’t hurt.
Then I heard my aunt shift in bed. I could hear her lean over. Sigh. Then she shifted as though feeling the bedspread. She could tell Pablo had left. He lifted off of me and left the room. I stayed below the covers. A minute later I heard her moaning and whimpering.
When she invited me over again, I didn’t go.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 2
Part 2
I am on Nobody’s Side
I had to let the children go outside to get exercise and play. I'm sure they went out while I was at work. I worried every minute they were away. Every minute I was away. I worried that they would be picked up by the police. That they would be kidnapped. That they would get lost. That they would find something better and not want to come home. That someone would hurt them. That they would hurt themselves. I worried that they would find me at work. I forbade them to make friends. I told them this was temporary. But I couldn't tell them for how long. My sisters had told me I could come home soon. But when?
I tried to keep the children inside as much as possible. The best way to do this was to show them movies. They saw a lot of them. Everything from adventures to documentaries. I stayed up fascinated by stories about hunters, like sharks, lions, and anacondas.
I found a group of DVDs called 'The Lord of the Rings' that lasted twelve hours. The many times they would watch it and re-watch it bought me a lot of time. We all sat in the bed together staying up late enthralled by this other world. A place where people were not hidden away in a small room. A world where there was no upstairs business I had to hide from my kids.
I enjoyed Golem. I could understand his addiction to the ring. I was drinking enough now that I felt the same pull to alcohol. But Treebeard was my favorite. The walking tree. His slow speech and wise eyes drew me in. But then he said something that I felt deep in my heart. When one of the little men asked him what side he was on, he said, “Side? I am on nobody’s side because nobody is on my side.” That was it! That was how I felt! Nobody is on my side. So why should I be on anyone else’s side?
It helped me cope with my job. When I was angry with a customer, or the bar, I protected myself from the pain by reminding myself that I am not on their side because they are not on my side. Suddenly everything felt better. I was emotionally distant from anything that could hurt me. I was in it for myself. And for my children. And that was all that was important in the world. Counting down now was replaced by my mantra, “I am on nobody’s side because they are not on my side.”
Whenever I walked to work my nose reminded me why I was doing it. The tasty smells of carne asada were like clouds I walked through. And I knew that it was waiting for me and my family when I came out.
One day, on my way in, I noticed how many men were working outside the clubs for pennies as shoe shiners, magazine sellers, and many were beggars. I was suddenly very glad that I was young and pretty enough to be a prostitute, working inside and easily making enough to survive on. That was when I became okay with what I was doing.
That same day I stood near the back of the club doing what I often did, watching people. Men are easy creatures to understand, but it still fascinated me. The different ways in which they went about doing basically the same things. Each one thought they were the first. Each thought they were unique. But they were all the same.
Sometimes in the room I would go through the man’s stuff. Not to steal it. I was fascinated with what they carried. Gum. Cigarettes. Business cards from every profession. Photos of their loved ones. Their family. Some had fake IDs. A trucker kept key chains from every state. I remember one from a place called Nebraska that had a cow with a skirt on it. Any time they had souvenirs I tried to look at them and imagine what those places must be like. Many of the men brought condoms. They probably thought they would have to supply them.
On this particular day I couldn’t get the man beside me to be interested in getting me a drink. Or fucking. So I wasn’t bothering him. He walked away. I glanced over to see who was next. He looked over at me at the same time. We both did a double take. It was my father! My hands raised to my mouth in surprise. I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or angry.
He was less torn. “What are YOU doing here!” he asked furiously. He grasped my arm. “Your mother and I didn’t raise you to be a whore!” He tightened his grip and started toward the door.
I yanked back. “What about you? You shouldn’t be here either! You’re supposed to fuck Mom, not these chicas!”
He stopped, still grasping my arm. He knew that he had been caught every bit as much as I had. He knew that if I told Mother he would be in more trouble than I. He could lose everything. “I won't tell her if you don't,” he said. He let go and took another long swig of his beer.
We both leaned against the wall trying to think about what to say next. “Have you seen the movie about that pilot?” he asked. “It stars the guy from that boat movie you really love.”
“Leonardo Di Caprio.”
“Yeah. Yeah. He’s a really good actor.”
My eyebrows furrowed. How could he be thinking about something like that right now? Thousands of questions raced through my mind. But I couldn’t get any of them out. I had never wanted to think of him and mom and sex. But I knew that that’s where it was supposed to happen. Would he tell my mother about this place? Would he tell everyone in the family? If so, would I tell about him being here? How else would he know that I’m here? If they did find that out, what would happen to the family?
We both stood against the wall in fear, each one waiting for the other to move first. As if that would make the one still standing less guilty.
Then someone else decided for us. A boy with a buzz cut and a letter on his jacket strutted up to me. He took my hand and said, “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”
I followed him. Didn't look back until I was half way through the room. At last I did. Daddy wasn't looking at me. He was finishing a swig of his beer. He handed it to a waiter in one hand and grabbed a girl with the other just before the crowd of bodies got between us.
We saw each other a few more times after that. He bought us both a drink and we talked. It wasn't the place I had imagined connecting with my father. But it was the first place where we got to know one another as adults. I asked him several questions for the first time. Where had he met my mother?
In school.
What attracted him to her?
Her beauty. And her strength. She had approached him first.
What did he enjoy in life?
His music and his girls.
What were his dreams, and where did he steer away from them?
He was living that dream. He didn't like to think of what else could have been. He was fine with who he was and where he was in life.
He asked me why I was in that place. I made the one rule we both lived by. We wouldn't talk about the club. Neither of us would ask why we were there. And neither would talk about this with Mother.
I could see in his eyes two emotions. A respect for me as an adult. An equal. Someone he had never truly known before. And also a disappointment that I had not lived up to being more.
The visit became a weekly event. Every Tuesday he came in and checked in on me. I made sure I wasn't with a customer at that hour. I didn't want him to see me doing what I did there.
I at last broke my own rule. I had to know why he had come to this club. Did he not love Mother anymore?
“Oh. I love her more than ever,” he said. “I would give anything just to spend my life with her.”
“Then why...” I started.
He lifted a hand. “People think that men who seek out other women are evil at heart. That they don't love their spouses. That's not true. I'm not going to excuse anyone who cheats, least of all myself. But it's not that a man falls out of love. For us, love and sex are two separate things.”
I had noticed this from other men who made their excuses before sex. They usually talked about their wives or girlfriends. They said they still loved them. They just needed to feel a little variety. Have a little fun outside the relationship. It didn’t change the way they felt about the woman they loved. After sex, though, they rarely spoke at all. They usually put their clothes on as quickly as possible without looking at me and hurried from the room.
These small conversations I had with my father during that week drew us closer than we had ever been. They reminded me of the good times. When I was much younger. I had been too young to really appreciate him. Now we spoke to one another as equals. As friends. I found that I really did love this man. I saw why Mother built her life with him. There was a nobility in him. A unique way of looking at the world. But it was buried inside him, sometimes unable to come out and show itself. We drank together. Sometimes I stopped him before he drank too much.
After work one day I took him to the hotel to see the kids. They screamed with excitement to see their grandfather. They jumped all over him. He took us all to a restaurant downstairs where we feasted on tacos and took some home with us.
The following Tuesday he didn't arrive at the club. I was confused. And a little worried. I thought perhaps my mother had discovered what was happening and was keeping him at home. Yelling at him. I would have hoped it wasn't anything worse. But I couldn't imagine anything that would be worse than that.
I left the club and went to a pay phone at the corner. I called Claudia, uncertain what to say. I didn't want to tell her Father had come to the club. So I tried to ask around that. See if perhaps something had happened around home.
She told me that Father was in the hospital. He had been sick for some time. But he was hiding it from the rest of us. I had noticed no signs in all of the visits.
Claudia took me to see him in a Tijuana hospital. He was hooked up to a bunch of machines, including a respirator over his mouth. Berta was already there. She was staying by his bed even more than my mother, who was working overtime to pay for everything. When she looked up at me entering the room, I saw that her eyes were red. Bloodshot from hours of staying up late. Or stress. Or crying. Or all of it.
They told me that he was doing better. That he would be ready to go home soon. But I could hardly believe it. He didn't look like himself. His skin had changed color. More pale. He had deep circles under his eyes, which rested on me. And that was the hardest part. Though he was weak and suffering, he didn't seem concerned about his condition. He instead just looked at me... disappointed.
I didn't say much to him. What could I say? He just looked at me with those knowing eyes. After Claudia told him various things about her own life, she and I left Berta and he alone and walked into the hallway.
“The doctors say he drank too much,” she told me. “His liver is almost destroyed. We're taking him home, but we're going to need to watch over him and make sure...”
“Can I come home, too?” I asked quickly.
Claudia hesitated a moment. “You can never go home to live with Mom and Dad again,” she said. “They have Elsa to take care of. You'll give them five more kids to raise.”
“Five? I have four.”
“And you. You need to grow up, Marisela. Find your own place. Make your own way. Do you have a job?”
“I... Yes.”
“That place?”
“Yeah.”
She looked away. Sucked in a deep breath. She nodded, then looked back at me. “I saw a few places for rent. I'll see what I can do.”
After Claudia went home I walked alone. It was late and many of the halls were empty. The rooms were quiet. This was very different from the hallways I was used to. Soon I came upon a small chapel with a statue of Jesus on the cross at the front. I walked in and stared at it a moment. On the way to the hospital, Claudia had told me that Mother had turned to religion once things got bad for Dad. I didn't know if that was right. To turn to this only when things went wrong. But I had found myself doing it before. And now I was doing it again.
I got on my knees. The way I had seen others do it. I felt a little stupid. But no one else was around. I folded my hands and looked up at the statue. I saw the shape of the cross and remembered that you're supposed to do something with your hands. Make a shape or something. So I moved my hand in the air like I was drawing a cross and then looked up at Jesus. I prayed for Daddy. For my family to be like normal again. Then I begged him to please bring me someone who is on my side. Anyone.
Two days later a man was in the room with me. He stopped fucking me and started asking questions. He wanted to know about me. My feelings. My opinions. No one had ever asked my opinion before. No one had ever challenged my mind. Made me think of things. When he asked what I would like to do for a job, I told him I was interested in psychology because I liked watching people. Studying them. Trying to understand them. I understood this man the least. Men always just wanted to get naked and start fucking as quick as possible. But not him. When he looked into my eyes I felt like I could melt. I was afraid because he made me feel things I hadn't felt for anyone before.
After he left I thought I'd never see him again, but he had changed my life. I began thinking about my own future, what I would do after things were cleared up with the police in Rosarito. I would get my children's lives on track. But perhaps I should get my own life on track, too. Perhaps I should find some other line of work. I couldn't do this forever. Sometimes I saw an older prostitute in the brothel. It was a sad sight. Anyone over 30 needed to start looking to retire. And over 40 it was just plain pathetic.
The man returned, and I jumped into his arms. No man had ever returned. Not for me. Not for anyone else I knew. He wanted to know more about me. So we sat at a table he called the table of truth where we had to tell each other our real feelings. Our real thoughts. We shared ourselves with each other. The way he talked, the things he asked me... I knew myself better when I was around him. I felt better about who I was.
Claudia talked with social services and found that the case Diego was involved in was closed. The police were no longer looking for me. As long as I stayed out of trouble, I could come home.
It was a relief to move back into the hills of Rosarito with my family. They all lived within a few blocks of one another. Their little community. And now I would be part of it again. The children were happy also to be close to my younger sisters, nieces and nephews. We gathered at the house of my mother on every occasion we could.
My children started school again. They quickly became entrenched in a group of friends. Everyone in my neighborhood walks, or shares taxis together, so everyone knows each other. The restaurants in my neighborhood are open to the sidewalk so people are social even when passing by. It was good to be reconnected like this again.
The man returned to Chicas a third time. He had taken me seriously about wanting to be a psychologist. Most of the time people laughed when I told them I had dreams. He brought me a book. I read from it every opportunity I got. Now that I was taking a taxi or bus all the way from Rosarito I had the time. Sometimes I had to write down a word and ask someone who understood English better than I did what it meant.
Sometimes that person was my father, who I visited after work. He was the first to teach me to speak the language. If he had not pushed me, I probably would not have learned, and I would not have the hope this book was bringing.
Men sometimes bought flowers for me at work, and I gathered them in the back into a bouquet. Then took them with me to the dark hospital late at night. Visiting hours were over, but no one seemed to care. When I asked him random questions about obscure words in the book, he answered, but he asked me why. I usually told him I was just curious. But at last I told him I was interested in studying psychology. I showed him the book, and he smiled. Proud at last.
When I got home late that night I took the book mark out. It was a photograph of me with the American. I sighed his name, “Oh Jake.” Things had gotten better ever since he appeared in my life. Was he an angel? Had he been sent to turn my life around? Or was he just a gay man who didn't notice other women that he passed by to see me? Was there something wrong with him that he cared so much about my opinions? I didn't care. For whatever reason, things were better. Even things he had nothing to do with. For the first time since I was a child, I had hope. I taped the photograph of him and I to the wall next to the pictures of my family... In the middle, in fact. In front of all the other photos.
I looked at my four sleeping little angels. They deserved better. They deserved a better mother. One with a real job. One they could look up to. I swore to them, though none of them heard it, that I would give them that.
Every night I fell asleep looking at this photograph, and it gave me hope. Every morning I woke up to it, and it gave me strength.
I looked into school. How much it would cost to study psychology officially. It was cheap enough that I could pay for it through my work. I began to save a little more every day.
Then Father's health took a turn for the worse. He had to be put on a dialysis machine. It cost $500 a day, more than anyone in my family had. I used every penny I had saved and it just paid for a day. I didn't know how long Daddy would need this. But we had to pay to keep him alive for as long as it took. I began working overtime every day. I didn't discriminate. If it had a penis, I walked up to it and convinced it to take me upstairs. I tore through that brothel like a hurricane. As soon as I was done with one, I was searching for another. I wouldn't leave until I had all the money I needed to pay for his machine.
I continued to gather the flowers that men bought me to create bouquets for my father. I placed them on the shelf near him and sat by his side. He didn't recognize me, but I stayed with him nonetheless. Berta was usually there and gave me reports on his deteriorating health. When she left the room I would talk to him about the conversations we used to have in the club. He didn't remember. He just stared at me.
One night Mom was there instead. It was the first time we got a chance to talk with each other. “Too many drinks,” she said. “I'm never having another drink again.”
I remembered all the drinks we had together and suddenly felt horribly guilty. I might have killed him. But I didn't dare tell Mother. Instead I asked her if she knew how long he would need the machine.
“I don't know,” she said. “He might not be able to come off of it.”
Inside I panicked. What would we do if that was true? I slept only a few hours a night as it was. And mother would learn that a babysitter was raising my children. And she'd learn where I was and what I was doing, and-
“I think your father was having an affair,” she said suddenly.
“How could you think that?” I asked ashamedly.
“Before he went into the hospital, he spent a couple extra hours in Tijuana every Tuesday before coming home. I don't know what he was doing, but I know that he wasn't at work anymore.”
I swallowed hard. I looked over at Father and saw he was asleep. There would be no saving me from this. I either had to let her continue to fear, or tell her where I was. Or...
“He was with me,” I told her. She looked at me surprised. “We met for lunch. I work as a stripper, Mama. I'm sorry, but it's the only way I can pay for all of this.”
She looked away, clearly upset and disappointed in me. I was glad that I hadn't told her what I really did. She would have probably needed a machine and a place right next to Daddy.
“Is that where you get enough money to buy a bouquet like this?” she asked.
“I get those for free. Men throw them at me.”
“I thought men threw underwear at strippers.”
“They throw those, too.” I laughed. She didn't seem amused, but I kept laughing, and soon she smirked, then broke a smile, then laughed. We shared in the laughter together.
“So he knew?” she asked.
“Yeah. He saw me go into work one day. I asked him not to tell you, so we met and talked every Tuesday during my lunch break.”
She just nodded. A moment later I could tell she was thinking about something hard, like she was discovering something in her mind. “Do you feel powerful? Standing there in front of all those men?”
I thought about it a moment. I had not considered this, but it was true. The first time I had to go up on stage to dance I was more afraid than when I went to a room with a man. This was dancing without any clothes on in front of a hoard of men. One of my friends at the club had shown me how to grasp the pole when I spun around it. She showed me how to climb. How to slide upside down while spreading my legs. It was like a gymnastics event. “They give me a 10.0 score then, right?” I had said, laughing in her face. Freya was her name. The one with the Egyptian hair. And we laughed together a lot until one day she just disappeared. I never knew what happened to her.
But it was true. When I marched in front of those men, when I strutted on that stage above them, regarding or disregarding their vacant stares at my leisure, I knew power I had never felt. In my neighborhood, the boys were always in charge. As a girl you never questioned their authority. But here... I was the master, and they the slaves. I took their money and strolled away without ever looking back.
“Yes,” I said, and suddenly I realized why she was asking. She had grown up in this culture that said a woman's place was to support the man. Women weren't asked their opinions because men didn't believe they had any. She had never known what it was to be admired and desired by crowds of onlookers.
But then, as I looked at the way she stared at her husband there in that room where he could do nothing in return for her, I knew that she had what I didn't have. What I perhaps would never have. She had love. True, unconditional love.
Buy the book at:
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I am on Nobody’s Side
I had to let the children go outside to get exercise and play. I'm sure they went out while I was at work. I worried every minute they were away. Every minute I was away. I worried that they would be picked up by the police. That they would be kidnapped. That they would get lost. That they would find something better and not want to come home. That someone would hurt them. That they would hurt themselves. I worried that they would find me at work. I forbade them to make friends. I told them this was temporary. But I couldn't tell them for how long. My sisters had told me I could come home soon. But when?
I tried to keep the children inside as much as possible. The best way to do this was to show them movies. They saw a lot of them. Everything from adventures to documentaries. I stayed up fascinated by stories about hunters, like sharks, lions, and anacondas.
I found a group of DVDs called 'The Lord of the Rings' that lasted twelve hours. The many times they would watch it and re-watch it bought me a lot of time. We all sat in the bed together staying up late enthralled by this other world. A place where people were not hidden away in a small room. A world where there was no upstairs business I had to hide from my kids.
I enjoyed Golem. I could understand his addiction to the ring. I was drinking enough now that I felt the same pull to alcohol. But Treebeard was my favorite. The walking tree. His slow speech and wise eyes drew me in. But then he said something that I felt deep in my heart. When one of the little men asked him what side he was on, he said, “Side? I am on nobody’s side because nobody is on my side.” That was it! That was how I felt! Nobody is on my side. So why should I be on anyone else’s side?
It helped me cope with my job. When I was angry with a customer, or the bar, I protected myself from the pain by reminding myself that I am not on their side because they are not on my side. Suddenly everything felt better. I was emotionally distant from anything that could hurt me. I was in it for myself. And for my children. And that was all that was important in the world. Counting down now was replaced by my mantra, “I am on nobody’s side because they are not on my side.”
Whenever I walked to work my nose reminded me why I was doing it. The tasty smells of carne asada were like clouds I walked through. And I knew that it was waiting for me and my family when I came out.
One day, on my way in, I noticed how many men were working outside the clubs for pennies as shoe shiners, magazine sellers, and many were beggars. I was suddenly very glad that I was young and pretty enough to be a prostitute, working inside and easily making enough to survive on. That was when I became okay with what I was doing.
That same day I stood near the back of the club doing what I often did, watching people. Men are easy creatures to understand, but it still fascinated me. The different ways in which they went about doing basically the same things. Each one thought they were the first. Each thought they were unique. But they were all the same.
Sometimes in the room I would go through the man’s stuff. Not to steal it. I was fascinated with what they carried. Gum. Cigarettes. Business cards from every profession. Photos of their loved ones. Their family. Some had fake IDs. A trucker kept key chains from every state. I remember one from a place called Nebraska that had a cow with a skirt on it. Any time they had souvenirs I tried to look at them and imagine what those places must be like. Many of the men brought condoms. They probably thought they would have to supply them.
On this particular day I couldn’t get the man beside me to be interested in getting me a drink. Or fucking. So I wasn’t bothering him. He walked away. I glanced over to see who was next. He looked over at me at the same time. We both did a double take. It was my father! My hands raised to my mouth in surprise. I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or angry.
He was less torn. “What are YOU doing here!” he asked furiously. He grasped my arm. “Your mother and I didn’t raise you to be a whore!” He tightened his grip and started toward the door.
I yanked back. “What about you? You shouldn’t be here either! You’re supposed to fuck Mom, not these chicas!”
He stopped, still grasping my arm. He knew that he had been caught every bit as much as I had. He knew that if I told Mother he would be in more trouble than I. He could lose everything. “I won't tell her if you don't,” he said. He let go and took another long swig of his beer.
We both leaned against the wall trying to think about what to say next. “Have you seen the movie about that pilot?” he asked. “It stars the guy from that boat movie you really love.”
“Leonardo Di Caprio.”
“Yeah. Yeah. He’s a really good actor.”
My eyebrows furrowed. How could he be thinking about something like that right now? Thousands of questions raced through my mind. But I couldn’t get any of them out. I had never wanted to think of him and mom and sex. But I knew that that’s where it was supposed to happen. Would he tell my mother about this place? Would he tell everyone in the family? If so, would I tell about him being here? How else would he know that I’m here? If they did find that out, what would happen to the family?
We both stood against the wall in fear, each one waiting for the other to move first. As if that would make the one still standing less guilty.
Then someone else decided for us. A boy with a buzz cut and a letter on his jacket strutted up to me. He took my hand and said, “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”
I followed him. Didn't look back until I was half way through the room. At last I did. Daddy wasn't looking at me. He was finishing a swig of his beer. He handed it to a waiter in one hand and grabbed a girl with the other just before the crowd of bodies got between us.
We saw each other a few more times after that. He bought us both a drink and we talked. It wasn't the place I had imagined connecting with my father. But it was the first place where we got to know one another as adults. I asked him several questions for the first time. Where had he met my mother?
In school.
What attracted him to her?
Her beauty. And her strength. She had approached him first.
What did he enjoy in life?
His music and his girls.
What were his dreams, and where did he steer away from them?
He was living that dream. He didn't like to think of what else could have been. He was fine with who he was and where he was in life.
He asked me why I was in that place. I made the one rule we both lived by. We wouldn't talk about the club. Neither of us would ask why we were there. And neither would talk about this with Mother.
I could see in his eyes two emotions. A respect for me as an adult. An equal. Someone he had never truly known before. And also a disappointment that I had not lived up to being more.
The visit became a weekly event. Every Tuesday he came in and checked in on me. I made sure I wasn't with a customer at that hour. I didn't want him to see me doing what I did there.
I at last broke my own rule. I had to know why he had come to this club. Did he not love Mother anymore?
“Oh. I love her more than ever,” he said. “I would give anything just to spend my life with her.”
“Then why...” I started.
He lifted a hand. “People think that men who seek out other women are evil at heart. That they don't love their spouses. That's not true. I'm not going to excuse anyone who cheats, least of all myself. But it's not that a man falls out of love. For us, love and sex are two separate things.”
I had noticed this from other men who made their excuses before sex. They usually talked about their wives or girlfriends. They said they still loved them. They just needed to feel a little variety. Have a little fun outside the relationship. It didn’t change the way they felt about the woman they loved. After sex, though, they rarely spoke at all. They usually put their clothes on as quickly as possible without looking at me and hurried from the room.
These small conversations I had with my father during that week drew us closer than we had ever been. They reminded me of the good times. When I was much younger. I had been too young to really appreciate him. Now we spoke to one another as equals. As friends. I found that I really did love this man. I saw why Mother built her life with him. There was a nobility in him. A unique way of looking at the world. But it was buried inside him, sometimes unable to come out and show itself. We drank together. Sometimes I stopped him before he drank too much.
After work one day I took him to the hotel to see the kids. They screamed with excitement to see their grandfather. They jumped all over him. He took us all to a restaurant downstairs where we feasted on tacos and took some home with us.
The following Tuesday he didn't arrive at the club. I was confused. And a little worried. I thought perhaps my mother had discovered what was happening and was keeping him at home. Yelling at him. I would have hoped it wasn't anything worse. But I couldn't imagine anything that would be worse than that.
I left the club and went to a pay phone at the corner. I called Claudia, uncertain what to say. I didn't want to tell her Father had come to the club. So I tried to ask around that. See if perhaps something had happened around home.
She told me that Father was in the hospital. He had been sick for some time. But he was hiding it from the rest of us. I had noticed no signs in all of the visits.
Claudia took me to see him in a Tijuana hospital. He was hooked up to a bunch of machines, including a respirator over his mouth. Berta was already there. She was staying by his bed even more than my mother, who was working overtime to pay for everything. When she looked up at me entering the room, I saw that her eyes were red. Bloodshot from hours of staying up late. Or stress. Or crying. Or all of it.
They told me that he was doing better. That he would be ready to go home soon. But I could hardly believe it. He didn't look like himself. His skin had changed color. More pale. He had deep circles under his eyes, which rested on me. And that was the hardest part. Though he was weak and suffering, he didn't seem concerned about his condition. He instead just looked at me... disappointed.
I didn't say much to him. What could I say? He just looked at me with those knowing eyes. After Claudia told him various things about her own life, she and I left Berta and he alone and walked into the hallway.
“The doctors say he drank too much,” she told me. “His liver is almost destroyed. We're taking him home, but we're going to need to watch over him and make sure...”
“Can I come home, too?” I asked quickly.
Claudia hesitated a moment. “You can never go home to live with Mom and Dad again,” she said. “They have Elsa to take care of. You'll give them five more kids to raise.”
“Five? I have four.”
“And you. You need to grow up, Marisela. Find your own place. Make your own way. Do you have a job?”
“I... Yes.”
“That place?”
“Yeah.”
She looked away. Sucked in a deep breath. She nodded, then looked back at me. “I saw a few places for rent. I'll see what I can do.”
After Claudia went home I walked alone. It was late and many of the halls were empty. The rooms were quiet. This was very different from the hallways I was used to. Soon I came upon a small chapel with a statue of Jesus on the cross at the front. I walked in and stared at it a moment. On the way to the hospital, Claudia had told me that Mother had turned to religion once things got bad for Dad. I didn't know if that was right. To turn to this only when things went wrong. But I had found myself doing it before. And now I was doing it again.
I got on my knees. The way I had seen others do it. I felt a little stupid. But no one else was around. I folded my hands and looked up at the statue. I saw the shape of the cross and remembered that you're supposed to do something with your hands. Make a shape or something. So I moved my hand in the air like I was drawing a cross and then looked up at Jesus. I prayed for Daddy. For my family to be like normal again. Then I begged him to please bring me someone who is on my side. Anyone.
Two days later a man was in the room with me. He stopped fucking me and started asking questions. He wanted to know about me. My feelings. My opinions. No one had ever asked my opinion before. No one had ever challenged my mind. Made me think of things. When he asked what I would like to do for a job, I told him I was interested in psychology because I liked watching people. Studying them. Trying to understand them. I understood this man the least. Men always just wanted to get naked and start fucking as quick as possible. But not him. When he looked into my eyes I felt like I could melt. I was afraid because he made me feel things I hadn't felt for anyone before.
After he left I thought I'd never see him again, but he had changed my life. I began thinking about my own future, what I would do after things were cleared up with the police in Rosarito. I would get my children's lives on track. But perhaps I should get my own life on track, too. Perhaps I should find some other line of work. I couldn't do this forever. Sometimes I saw an older prostitute in the brothel. It was a sad sight. Anyone over 30 needed to start looking to retire. And over 40 it was just plain pathetic.
The man returned, and I jumped into his arms. No man had ever returned. Not for me. Not for anyone else I knew. He wanted to know more about me. So we sat at a table he called the table of truth where we had to tell each other our real feelings. Our real thoughts. We shared ourselves with each other. The way he talked, the things he asked me... I knew myself better when I was around him. I felt better about who I was.
Claudia talked with social services and found that the case Diego was involved in was closed. The police were no longer looking for me. As long as I stayed out of trouble, I could come home.
It was a relief to move back into the hills of Rosarito with my family. They all lived within a few blocks of one another. Their little community. And now I would be part of it again. The children were happy also to be close to my younger sisters, nieces and nephews. We gathered at the house of my mother on every occasion we could.
My children started school again. They quickly became entrenched in a group of friends. Everyone in my neighborhood walks, or shares taxis together, so everyone knows each other. The restaurants in my neighborhood are open to the sidewalk so people are social even when passing by. It was good to be reconnected like this again.
The man returned to Chicas a third time. He had taken me seriously about wanting to be a psychologist. Most of the time people laughed when I told them I had dreams. He brought me a book. I read from it every opportunity I got. Now that I was taking a taxi or bus all the way from Rosarito I had the time. Sometimes I had to write down a word and ask someone who understood English better than I did what it meant.
Sometimes that person was my father, who I visited after work. He was the first to teach me to speak the language. If he had not pushed me, I probably would not have learned, and I would not have the hope this book was bringing.
Men sometimes bought flowers for me at work, and I gathered them in the back into a bouquet. Then took them with me to the dark hospital late at night. Visiting hours were over, but no one seemed to care. When I asked him random questions about obscure words in the book, he answered, but he asked me why. I usually told him I was just curious. But at last I told him I was interested in studying psychology. I showed him the book, and he smiled. Proud at last.
When I got home late that night I took the book mark out. It was a photograph of me with the American. I sighed his name, “Oh Jake.” Things had gotten better ever since he appeared in my life. Was he an angel? Had he been sent to turn my life around? Or was he just a gay man who didn't notice other women that he passed by to see me? Was there something wrong with him that he cared so much about my opinions? I didn't care. For whatever reason, things were better. Even things he had nothing to do with. For the first time since I was a child, I had hope. I taped the photograph of him and I to the wall next to the pictures of my family... In the middle, in fact. In front of all the other photos.
I looked at my four sleeping little angels. They deserved better. They deserved a better mother. One with a real job. One they could look up to. I swore to them, though none of them heard it, that I would give them that.
Every night I fell asleep looking at this photograph, and it gave me hope. Every morning I woke up to it, and it gave me strength.
I looked into school. How much it would cost to study psychology officially. It was cheap enough that I could pay for it through my work. I began to save a little more every day.
Then Father's health took a turn for the worse. He had to be put on a dialysis machine. It cost $500 a day, more than anyone in my family had. I used every penny I had saved and it just paid for a day. I didn't know how long Daddy would need this. But we had to pay to keep him alive for as long as it took. I began working overtime every day. I didn't discriminate. If it had a penis, I walked up to it and convinced it to take me upstairs. I tore through that brothel like a hurricane. As soon as I was done with one, I was searching for another. I wouldn't leave until I had all the money I needed to pay for his machine.
I continued to gather the flowers that men bought me to create bouquets for my father. I placed them on the shelf near him and sat by his side. He didn't recognize me, but I stayed with him nonetheless. Berta was usually there and gave me reports on his deteriorating health. When she left the room I would talk to him about the conversations we used to have in the club. He didn't remember. He just stared at me.
One night Mom was there instead. It was the first time we got a chance to talk with each other. “Too many drinks,” she said. “I'm never having another drink again.”
I remembered all the drinks we had together and suddenly felt horribly guilty. I might have killed him. But I didn't dare tell Mother. Instead I asked her if she knew how long he would need the machine.
“I don't know,” she said. “He might not be able to come off of it.”
Inside I panicked. What would we do if that was true? I slept only a few hours a night as it was. And mother would learn that a babysitter was raising my children. And she'd learn where I was and what I was doing, and-
“I think your father was having an affair,” she said suddenly.
“How could you think that?” I asked ashamedly.
“Before he went into the hospital, he spent a couple extra hours in Tijuana every Tuesday before coming home. I don't know what he was doing, but I know that he wasn't at work anymore.”
I swallowed hard. I looked over at Father and saw he was asleep. There would be no saving me from this. I either had to let her continue to fear, or tell her where I was. Or...
“He was with me,” I told her. She looked at me surprised. “We met for lunch. I work as a stripper, Mama. I'm sorry, but it's the only way I can pay for all of this.”
She looked away, clearly upset and disappointed in me. I was glad that I hadn't told her what I really did. She would have probably needed a machine and a place right next to Daddy.
“Is that where you get enough money to buy a bouquet like this?” she asked.
“I get those for free. Men throw them at me.”
“I thought men threw underwear at strippers.”
“They throw those, too.” I laughed. She didn't seem amused, but I kept laughing, and soon she smirked, then broke a smile, then laughed. We shared in the laughter together.
“So he knew?” she asked.
“Yeah. He saw me go into work one day. I asked him not to tell you, so we met and talked every Tuesday during my lunch break.”
She just nodded. A moment later I could tell she was thinking about something hard, like she was discovering something in her mind. “Do you feel powerful? Standing there in front of all those men?”
I thought about it a moment. I had not considered this, but it was true. The first time I had to go up on stage to dance I was more afraid than when I went to a room with a man. This was dancing without any clothes on in front of a hoard of men. One of my friends at the club had shown me how to grasp the pole when I spun around it. She showed me how to climb. How to slide upside down while spreading my legs. It was like a gymnastics event. “They give me a 10.0 score then, right?” I had said, laughing in her face. Freya was her name. The one with the Egyptian hair. And we laughed together a lot until one day she just disappeared. I never knew what happened to her.
But it was true. When I marched in front of those men, when I strutted on that stage above them, regarding or disregarding their vacant stares at my leisure, I knew power I had never felt. In my neighborhood, the boys were always in charge. As a girl you never questioned their authority. But here... I was the master, and they the slaves. I took their money and strolled away without ever looking back.
“Yes,” I said, and suddenly I realized why she was asking. She had grown up in this culture that said a woman's place was to support the man. Women weren't asked their opinions because men didn't believe they had any. She had never known what it was to be admired and desired by crowds of onlookers.
But then, as I looked at the way she stared at her husband there in that room where he could do nothing in return for her, I knew that she had what I didn't have. What I perhaps would never have. She had love. True, unconditional love.
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Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 1
CHAPTER TWO
Part 1
Counting Down
It’s easy to fuck for money. Especially when you don’t think about it. You bend over. Put your mind on something else. And wait for him to finish. It helps when you've had a lot to drink. It loosens you up. Numbs the senses. You don’t want to seem uninterested, so you move around a lot. Make some noises like you’re loving every thrust. I try to always have a little Red Bull. It picks me up. And it's free. The boys are always paying. They don't notice their money going when they have tits to look at. Almost. I leave just enough mystery to make them take me upstairs. They'll have to pay for heaven.
I try to ignore the fact that I don’t want to be there. Failing that, I try to remember why I’m there. I think of my children. How much food I can buy with the thirty dollars I’m making. I keep going for them.
I try to avoid giving head. I hate the smell. The hair. Sometimes the choking, especially when they grab my hair. I try to please them and get them on the bed as soon as possible. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I can get another client and another thirty dollars.
If a man is rough, or strange, like he wants hot wax poured on his penis, I try to avoid him when I see him in the club again.
I don't orgasm anymore. I haven't had an orgasm since I started. A couple times I came close. When I liked a guy. A nice guy. Well, nice at first. They were the nicest gentlemen in the world while we sat and had drinks. But after we fucked, they didn't want to have anything more to do with me. They wouldn't even look at me. Pretty soon I stopped romanticizing about anyone. And all the sex I had was just fucking for dollars. And I soon forgot the feeling of a sexual climax.
I prefer doggy style. So do most of my customers. They like to fuck like animals. I like looking away from them. Sometimes they forget they're human. Sometimes, especially when they're drunk, they act like they have something to prove inside me. And it hurts like hell. I always use lube. But sometimes even a whole bottle isn't enough, so I count down the minutes until we're done. I begin when we enter the room. Thirty minutes left. The clothes are off. Twenty-five minutes left. On the bed, twenty minutes left. By the time it gets rough there are usually only ten minutes left, and I count them down by the individual minutes. I look at my watch and I concentrate on that.
There's a mirror at the head of the bed. I don’t know why they put it there, but I often watch myself in it and remind myself how I came to this point in my life.
The first time I had sex, the first time I had real sex, was when I was 14. My boyfriend Diego told me I had to do it if I really loved him. I did love him. I wanted to prove that to him. I didn’t know much about sex, but I knew I wanted to try it.
The first few times hurt a lot. I don’t remember if I screamed or cried, but I remember that I felt like I was being ripped apart. When it was over I always told him that I liked it, while I hoped it would get better.
And it did. We sneaked away every chance we got and found some private place where we could make love. Sometimes we sneaked away from school. Other times from church. We mostly told our parents we were going to someone else's home and found some place where no one could see us. There are a lot of empty houses lying behind broken down fences in the hills of Rosarito where we lived. I learned to relax into the enjoyment of it. Soon I was the one pulling him aside. There wasn’t much else to do anyway, and most girls I knew were having sex long before they were 15.
But then the price of it came. I had started menstruating when I was 13, and suddenly it stopped. I asked my mother what was wrong. She told my father. He was so furious I thought he might attack me.
He didn't. It was worse. He just told me how disappointed he was with me. It was a quiet sadness in his eyes. I would rather he have lashed out at me. Hit me. Spank me like I deserved. Make me a child again and take away this enormous responsibility I was about to have. At least yell at me. But he didn’t. He just shook his head at me pitifully, telling me with his face that I had let him down. “You have ruined your life,” he said. “You could have achieved many great things, but this child will keep you from them.”
I began crying. I cried for several days. Not because of what was happening to my life. But because Father made me realize how much me and my sisters must have ruined his life by being born.
He and my mother were in their teens when they began having children. He could have been a great musician. He could have traveled the world, seen many things, and maybe even been famous, but he had stayed with my mother and taken care of us children. The shame I suddenly felt realizing that we had probably ruined his life, as now mine would be ruined with my stupidity!
He found me crying and he comforted me. I never told him I was crying for him.
Diego and I moved into an apartment together. We no longer had to sneak away. But as my belly got bigger, I began to wonder if he was sneaking away from me. He claimed to always be looking for work. But it didn't seem right that he would be searching after 7:00 at night.
I spent much of my time reading about babies. Preparing myself to be the best mother Mexico has ever seen. I also read about giving birth. Every health tip I could find to make sure it came out of me healthy and safe. One of the books suggested I get injections of multivitamins. So every day I gave myself a shot into the butt. I had trouble sitting straight some days, leaning over in the chair while Diego looked at me strangely. Thinking on how the baby would come out, I knew that it was all worth it.
I was not the only pregnant girl in school. As I walked down the halls, I noticed many other girls my age with their bellies getting bigger. They sometimes stopped and smiled and showed off to each other. I have always been more reserved, so I didn’t join them. But I would often watch them and listen to the tips and suggestions they were giving each other.
Pregnancy was so common among the girls in my school that I began to wonder what my father had meant by saying I had ruined my life. It wasn’t like girls in my neighborhood had much else to look forward to. We were expected to grow up and be taking care of children by the time we were twenty. A few girls studied hard, and were hated for it. One girl got straight tens, and the girls beat her mercilessly. They said she thought she was better than everyone else.
I knew I was on the right track when Barbara, the most popular girl in school, showed up with a big belly. Her friends squealed with delight that she would soon be a mother. She was a beautiful girl with long, flowing black hair and large eyes. And her boyfriend was strong. Muscular. He was handsome and he worked on cars. Her baby would certainly be gorgeous.
The most painful thing I ever felt was giving birth. It is one of the hardest things for a woman to do. Harder still for a 15-year-old girl. I held tight to my sister's hand on one side, and Diego on the other. I fell back almost unconscious when it came out.
I was in a daze. Looking up at the white ceiling. I could faintly hear everyone swooning happily. I heard a faint cry. A little voice.
Then he was held above me. A cherub. An angel. I thought I had died and he was welcoming me to heaven. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Never in my life have I been so in love with any being than this person lowering down to me. I didn't know it was possible to love anything so much.
He was placed in my arms. I looked into the eyes of the most amazing creature on earth. Diego had already named him… Diego Jr.
I stayed at home taking care of Diego Jr. for several months. Diego said he had found work, but it was at strange hours. Some days he would sleep in and leave in the middle of the day. Other times he would leave in the middle of the night. He told me not to ask him about his work, and so I didn’t. He paid the bills and brought home food. All I cared about was the baby.
But the bills were not always paid on time. When the electricity went out for the second time, I decided that wherever Diego got his money, it wasn’t reliable. Spring was coming, so I asked my mother to watch over Diego Jr. and I took a job at a restaurant on the main thoroughfare of town where tourists regularly passed on their way to or from the night clubs.
One week every spring our little neighborhood became the most popular spot on earth for rich college students who came in from the United States waving their dollars around. It seemed like everyone on earth was crowding in our area. We were the gateway to their enjoyment. They left chaos, garbage, and lots of money in their wake.
The worst job was cleaning the bathrooms, which I managed to avoid most of the time. I wore tight shirts that always caught the boys’ attention. Girls didn’t like it, but they weren’t the ones paying. Even boys who were there with their girlfriends found a hidden moment to slap me on the butt while the girls weren’t looking. If the boys were caught by their girlfriends, they simply said they were drunk and the girls excused them for it. In any case, I got away with a bigger tip.
We tried to stay open and work as many hours as we could during this time. Everyone in the town tried to harvest as much money out of these party goers as they could to hold them over the rest of the year, much like a farmer brings in the crops to last his family over a winter. Prices were higher for the out-of-towners than they were for locals. If we charged each other the same amount, we would all starve. But those who came into town had lots of money that were given to them by their parents. And whatever they lost they would recover when they returned.
I don’t know what makes their green paper more valuable than our coins, but their value makes them powerful. I kept my mouth shut and made the money. Because money equaled food for my child.
One morning we came in to work and found the place vandalized. Someone had broken the lock, opened up the doors, and gotten inside. They had stolen all the money, which wasn’t a lot. But the worst part was that they had smashed the TVs, stolen the liquor, and broken some chairs. Those were worth more money than what we had in the register. They even vomited all over the floors.
The police were no help. They had seen what happened, but someone paid them to not arrest the vandals, and they let them go. The owners couldn’t complain. They had to start over and keep going as if nothing had happened. This sort of thing occurred every year. The owners of restaurants had to take this into account when taking stock of their profits.
The crowds of the spring are both a blessing and a curse to those of us who live in Rosarito.
I spent every moment I could spare with my boy. He was the reason I did everything. Whenever life was hard, I always thought of him. I pampered him beyond reason. I would do anything to keep him safe. To make him happy. It kept me going.
The first time it got cold I bundled him up so tightly in so many clothes and blankets I almost smothered him. My mother yelled at me when she saw this and threw the blankets off. He was coughing for air. “You have to let him breathe!” she scolded. I began taking Diego to her a lot so my mother could observe. I never told her this was why I wanted her to see him, of course. I didn't want her to know that I needed any help.
My oldest sister Berta had a daughter a couple years older than Diego. She gave me a lot of clothes and baby things that she wasn't using any more. They had mostly been handed down to her from our mother after our youngest sister was through with them. We had another sister also, between Berta and I, who had no children. But after she saw the excitement and joy Berta and I had, she began talking to her boyfriend about marriage. I don't think he liked us very much.
The three of us spent most of our time fawning over our two children. Our youngest sister, Elsa, was only four, but she wanted to be a part of the mothering, too, so we made it a family affair. We had grown up competing with each other, fighting over the stupidest things, but now we grew closer than ever.
I never had many friends. I always kept people at school away at arm's length, so my family was all I had most of the time, and even when I fought with my sisters, they were still my best friends.
They didn't like Diego Sr. Whenever he came into a room they were in, he barely acknowledged them, and he usually sat back with a beer and an attitude like he owned the building. Berta pointed out how disgusting it was that he would put a hand down the front of his pants. I didn't know if it was a new habit, or if it was something he always did that I made a point of ignoring. Berta was always less patient than me. And she was never shy about telling me what she thought. She had kicked her own boyfriend out of their house when he tried to run her life. And now he lived in Tijuana while she made enough money painting condos.
But she was right about Diego. I kept hoping he would turn around. I kept wanting him to be the type of warm husband and father I had always pictured. The kind my father had always been for us.
It happens gradually. Selling out to a man like that. First you give into an argument that you don't think is important. You find yourself accepting problems you think are little and ignoring that they are large red flags. You allow a little more. Then a little more every day until it's overwhelming. The next thing you know, you're compromising everything you are for a man you no longer know.
Berta insisted I should give up on him. But I couldn't.
Claudia, the sister closest to my age, was the first to notice Diego Jr. taking his first steps. We were all busy with other things, food, diapers, laundry. But Claudia almost always had her eyes on the babies. I think she wanted to have them more than any of us. That was why it was ironic she had none. Or maybe it was because she had no children that she was so focused on ours. Whatever the case, she gasped with joy and we all turned around to see little Diego standing triumphantly on the cement floor. Wobbling a little. Reaching out for something to grasp. Finding none, he began to kneel.
But Claudia knelt down to his level. “Come on, sweetheart,” she said. “Come on.”
He looked at her. I stepped up behind her. Little Diego looked up at me. And he rose so quickly I thought he would leave his pants on the ground. He swayed a little. Like he was doing a dance. Then he put one shaking foot forward. He confirmed his footing. Then he put another foot forward. We all squealed with delight and Elsa ran into the room to share the moment with us. We went completely silent. The patter of his bare feet against the floor were the only sounds. I beamed with delight.
He began to fall forward and I jumped past Claudia to catch him. I scooped him up in my arms and spun him in the air while my sisters applauded. It was the proudest moment of my life thus far.
I told Diego Sr. about the miracle later that night. He just grunted and shrugged. I began to realize that Berta was right. But he was the father of my child now. And I had a duty to fulfill.
My child was a miracle. But one was enough. I did not want another. Especially with how little help Diego was. He provided some money. But that was about it. And even the money wasn't always very much.
I had been very cautious with birth control ever since I understood it. After I got pregnant, I learned as much as I could. No one ever taught me about it. It was a taboo subject at school. Mother and father did not speak of it with any of us. So now I got some books and read from them. They first suggested not having sex. But that was out of the question. Second, they suggested condoms, but Diego refused to wear them because he didn’t like how they felt. Third, they suggested a pill that would keep me from getting pregnant. I was very careful and made sure to take one of these pills every day.
But then I stopped taking them. I had changed my mind. I wanted a second child. I wanted Diego Jr. to grow up with someone he could rely on, the way I relied on my sisters. I told Diego my feelings and he didn’t respond. I took it as a yes. The next night that he wanted me, I opened up to him freely. I exploded with joy. The anticipation of a full family, of a brother or sister for little Diego filled me with a radiance that can’t be matched by any other kind of orgasm. I felt big Diego fill me up, and I couldn’t wait.
I was thrilled to find I was pregnant again. Little Diego would have a brother! We named him Mario, after big Diego’s father. But he would be our last child. Diego made it clear. I agreed.
I worked extra hard at the restaurant. I flirted freely with the boys. I discovered the power I could have over them. The energy in a slight “accidental” touch, or as I brushed past them. The allure of a glance. The magnetism of a strut. The desire of ever tighter clothing. Most of all, I learned how easy men are to figure out. To manipulate out of money. They’re simple creatures with basic desires. As long as I made them think they were achieving those desires the money poured in.
We moved into a trailer park. It was larger than the apartment. Once Mario grew older he might even be able to have his own room.
Things got even better when an American company moved into town to make a movie about a giant ship called the Titanic. I watched these wealthy people go in and out. They left good tips and I didn’t always have to flirt with them. Most of the time they seemed too tired to care.
I wanted to take big Diego to look at the spectacle. The gigantic boat was beautiful. The excitement around it so energetic. He wasn’t interested. So I took little Diego to see, along with Mario in the stroller.
I pointed the ship out to Diego Jr. “Do you see that boat?”
“Yeah. That's why we came, isn't it?”
“Yes. And do you know why I wanted to show this to you?” He shook his head. “Because one day you and I are going to sail away on that boat together. We'll sail away into the distance until no one can see us.”
“Not even Mario?”
“Don't be silly! Mario will be with us.”
“And Daddy?”
“Of course... Daddy.”
Soon after, the ship was gone. And so were all the people making the movie... And so was their money.
A few months later I was pregnant again. I didn’t understand it! I was certain I always took the pills. Every day.
I was frightened. We could not handle a third child. But it was too late. If I was an American girl, perhaps I would have gotten rid of it. But where I lived, that was unthinkable. And illegal.
Diego was furious. We could barely handle the responsibilities of two children. How were we going to handle a third? I didn't understand his anger. I took care of the children. I did everything. And when I was busy, my sisters did the rest. Diego did nothing. I suppose he didn't like so much money going to feed them. I was having more and more difficulty explaining to him that we needed less money to go toward beer and more toward food.
He hit me... First with the back end of his hand, then with the front end. A fist clenched tightly that struck my cheek with all his might. He pressed me up against the wall, demanding I tell him it wasn't true. When I refused, he placed my arm against a hot stove and gave me a permanent scar.
I went to live with my parents. My younger sister still lived at home, so it was crowded with all of us, two children, and a third on the way. But we did the best we could. They were just happy I no longer had Diego in my life.
He came by sometimes shouting for me. Both of my parents told him I wasn't there. That in any case he should leave or they will call the police.
“I love you!” Diego shouted one time past them. “I love my children! Come back to me!” My father rose the guitar above his head as if to strike him and Diego ran. But his words got through to me. I began regretting.
Diego Jr. was old enough to ask questions now. He asked me where Daddy was. Why had I left? The less he understood, the more he resented me.
Father came home exhausted every night with his guitar in hand. He usually had a couple drinks, even when the doctors told him he had a bad liver and needed to stop. He said that he needed the beers to unwind. He began teaching me how to play. He sat me in his lap and showed me the chords. He played all day for work, but he was so passionate about the music that he continued to play for us at night. I often heard him play privately for my mother. An American song called 'Pretty Woman'.
It was the bright part of any day when he came home and played something lively for us to sway to, or softly for the children to fall asleep to. Many of his songs were in English. His favorites were from a Mexican who sang American songs, Ritchie Valenz.
Berta had also learned to play, though she wasn't as good as Daddy. She visited a lot with her daughter. Her boyfriend and she were back together, and he came sometimes, too. And by the size of her belly, another member of their family would soon join along.
She sometimes took the guitar and played a tune, inspiring Daddy to take it back and play a song he suddenly remembered. She often sang along as he played. She was open and honest about all of her feelings. And she made it clear just how much she worshiped him.
Daddy made me practice English. He would turn to me and say, “Open the door.” When I returned the gaze confused, he made the motion and would not leave me alone until I opened the door. He then told me to “close the door,” and did not stop bugging me until I closed it. The orders became more complicated, but he would not play his guitar for us until we understood what he was saying in English and do as he asked. In this way I learned the language quickly. The look of pride on his face was far more incentive than a grade in school could ever have given me.
Speaking of school, by this time I had long since dropped out. But my mother was adamant about me completing it. Education, especially for girls, was very important to my mother. She told every one of us that we would have to stand on our own two feet, and that we should never rely on men. Not even if they are our husbands. I wondered if Father found that offensive. But when she said things like that around him, he just went on doing whatever he was doing.
She made me go to night classes while she took care of my children. Elsa was beginning school, and I often saw her coming home while I was going to school. She would hop up and wave excitedly to me. She found it thrilling that we were learning out of the same building.
It was supposed to take me three semesters. But I made Mother proud when I returned with a diploma in two.
I'll never forget that day, because as I showed her one treasure, I found that I had another on its way. Holding my diploma high, my water broke and I began screaming. I dropped my diploma into it. Someone grabbed it and someone else grabbed me and put me in a chair. I could hear someone else calling a taxi.
The cab driver didn't know what he was in for. I only saw his eyes in the rear view mirror, but they were filled with panic as he dashed through the bumpy streets to the hospital. I thought the baby would come out with black and blue lumps from being jostled around in the cab.
At the hospital, my father was by my side stroking my forehead. “Mi bella Marisela,” he said calmly as I pushed, screaming in pain. It didn't show on my face, but his efforts did wonders for me deep inside.
I named the baby after him, Tino.
The house was too crowded with all of us. I had to get out. But my tips had gone down ever since my pregnancy started to show. Even after the birth my body wasn't as tight as it had been. The men were always more willing to part with their money when they were attracted to me. As though giving me more money meant they had a better chance of sleeping with me. I had let them think that and flirted it up with them. But now they didn't care. And the money was drying up.
I began exercising after work. I watched what other people did and I tried to mimic them. I felt like a fool sometimes, stumbling. But the more I watched the people who were successful the better I got. And I felt my body getting into shape. I felt better in general, too. I had more energy. More spirit.
Every day, on my way to the gym, I passed a tattoo parlor. I would peak in and look past the customer wincing on the table at the art on the walls. It was beautiful.
I began noticing that some of the other waitresses had tattoos in “special spots.” Usually on the smalls of their backs reaching down into their pants. The boys often ran their fingers down the tattoos while they talked with the girls. And the waitresses let them because they knew that a five dollar bill was usually waiting for them at the end of the conversation. It was an investment.
I entered the tattoo store the next time I was passing by. It was near closing time. The place was empty of customers. I studied the art on the walls, recognizing the work from the waitresses. They were templates placed on dozens of people.
I spied the tattoo artist watching me from the next room. He was a man with long hair and thick arms. His body was covered with his own work. I asked him about the designs, and he described each like it was his child. Some of them were Chinese characters. Others were designs he’d gotten out of a catalog.
I looked down at the table where a sketch book sat open to a page. On it was the drawing of a butterfly struggling to be free. It wasn’t as well drawn as the rest, but I felt a connection to it. I could relate with that animal, struggling to be free and see the world.
I interrupted the man and pointed at the design on the page. “How about this one?”
He explained that it was his private sketch pad, and that he had just been doodling.
“Can you draw it on my back?” I asked.
“I suppose I could do it. It’s not one I usually do. So it's going to be harder.”
“So it's completely unique?”
“Yes.”
“Would you do it? For me? Just me? And never put it on anyone else.”
“Well, if I’m not going to put it on anyone else, that makes this one more valuable.”
I squirmed. I could barely afford to do any design, let alone a more expensive one. I had hoped to flirt my way into having a cheaper tattoo, not a more expensive one. “How much is it going to be?” I asked, tensing.
“I suppose I could give it to you for free,” he said with a smile.
“Really?” I was so surprised. No one gave anything for free. Not even when they were helping each other. The man’s face was beautiful when it grinned. So refreshing. It was one of those rough faces that put you at ease when it relaxed. He walked to the front door and closed it while I exclaimed, “Thank you! Thank you! What do we do?”
He walked back up to me, still smiling, and stopped just in front of me. “First,” he said, “You have to suck my dick.”
I froze. I thought he was telling me to get lost. I felt so bad. So rejected.
Then he unzipped his pants and I knew he was talking literally. “You suck my cock, and I’ll paint the butterfly on your back.” That beautiful, refreshing smile was replaced by the serious scowl of a businessman.
I looked at the design. I knew that having it tucked into the back of my pants would catch the attention of men from across the room. That the tips would increase. This was just one thing. I could do it quickly. Get it over with. But that would make me a whore. Or would it? Whores took money for sex. This would be in exchange for a service. Was it really the same? I had to think about it. I excused myself and hurried for the door.
“I can't say the offer will be any good tomorrow. I'm horny now,” he said.
I looked at him a moment, then opened the door and walked out. It was like a different world outside. One where I could breathe. Everyone walked by calmly. Like nothing evil could ever happen.
But how evil was this really? I looked into my purse. At the sparse tips. No one cared what I did or didn't do. No one would care if my children starved. I looked back at the store. At the lights being turned out. I closed my purse, held it tight, and walked back inside.
I had only given head to one man in my life.
“On your knees,” he told me with a smile. I did as he ordered.
I only knew what pleased one man.
He unzipped his pants and let them drop with the underwear. His penis pointed at me. It reminded me of something from a long time before.
I had promised myself I would only have sex with men that I loved. I had hoped it would only be one man, the man I would marry.
The tattoo man saw my hesitation and grabbed my head. He helped me start. I did as he ordered. I closed my eyes and pictured my children eating a feast.
When I opened them again I realized he wasn't grasping so hard any more. The tattoo man was so lost in the moment he had all but forgotten me. I began to realize how much power I had over him. It was the same power I had always had over Diego, but never dared to use. The tattoo man looked at me furiously. I grasped his penis with my hand to remind him what he could have if he obeyed me.
“I want two colors on it,” I told him.
“That's extra,” he responded. I could see him panting. How much he wanted me to continue. I released my hand and began to turn away. “All right! All right!” he exclaimed. “I'll give you three colors if you want. Just...”
I slowly moved my lips to his penis again. I blew on it, and he looked away. Moaning. I licked it and he shook. Almost screaming. When I put my mouth on it again I had full control over his emotions.
That's when I learned how I could control men. That's when I learned how easy they are...
And that's when I learned how to count.
For the next hour, while I lay on his table and he drew on my back, I stared at the floor in numb silence. I tried to ignore the bitter taste in my mouth by thinking of what I would eat with the money I saved. I hoped it would help at the restaurant.
It did. Boys sometimes grabbed at my back pocket and yanked me toward them so they could touch the tattoo. I felt occasional slaps on the butt by boys who thought they were the only ones clever enough to come up with that. But they all tipped. Sometimes they even stuck dollar bills into the back of the pants by the butterfly. Some of them were drunk enough to stick large bills and we’d eat for a week off of it.
I always explained the tattoo as an investment. Which it was. I never explained how I earned it. And I never walked by that parlor ever again.
Diego Jr. began asking about his father again. He missed him. He had started school and all of his friends had fathers who lived at home with them. Why did he have to hide from his?
One day Diego Jr. came home with a guilty look on his face. At first I thought he had gotten in a fight, or did something wrong at school. But I later learned that his father had come to see him. He had told Diego Jr. not to tell me. So I had to learn about it from a teacher. From that moment forward I told little Diego that if he wasn't home thirty minutes after school he was grounded.
Diego Jr. followed my orders. A couple weeks later I was awoken in the middle of the night by whispers at the window. Diego Jr. was there talking with his father. Asking him questions. Wanting to know about his past. “Diego, get out of here before my father wakes up,” I hissed at him.
“Marisela, please don't send me away,” he whispered. “I've changed. I've got a job. A good job. And a house. You'll be proud of me. It's a house on the beach.”
“On the beach?” I asked. This wasn't the lazy Diego I had known. That is, if he was telling the truth.
“That's why you didn't hear from me for a while. I went back and cleaned up my life. I'll be a good father. I will. Please, Marisela. This is the only thing I've ever done right in my life. Let me do it again.”
I looked at Diego Jr.'s pleading face. I didn't love Diego anymore, but how could I refuse him his own children if he truly had cleaned up his act? Worse yet, how could I deny the children their father?
I went to the house. He had been telling the truth. It was about the size of my parents' home, but it was four rooms all to ourselves. The patio let out straight onto the beach. We had a view of the ocean. The calming sound of the waves could put us all to sleep every night. I always loved the ocean for that very reason. The slow rhythm of it.
And Diego seemed different. Proud of what he was doing for a change. But most importantly, the children were happy around him. He boxed with Diego Jr. and Mario and held Tino like the most fragile of eggs.
My father begged me not to go to him. He told me this was all an act to get me back. That things would change once I was there. I became angry and yelled at him. I told him to go to hell and stormed away. I disregarded the hurt look on his face. He deserved it.
That night I made wild love to Diego. It was partly to make up for the time we had lost. But also it was to spite my father. How dare he tell me I'm wrong? This was right. This was SO right!
I didn't pay much attention to what Diego did for a living. He didn't want me to know. Any time I asked, he told me not to worry about it and gave me a small wad of cash. I probably knew all along what he was doing, but I turned away. I quit my job at the restaurant so I could take care of the children full time. Diego had enough to take care of us all. So we didn't need anything more.
The houses on either side of us were mostly owned by Americans who only occupied them for short spurts. Most of the time we had the beach to ourselves, which gave Diego the privacy he needed to do his business. He often met his clients next to the wall of one of these empty houses. They walked out of sight and I never saw what they did.
We lived further from my family than we had before. So I didn't see them very often. I began to miss them. But none of my sisters or parents felt comfortable around Diego. Berta and Claudia came by a couple times. But as soon as Diego entered the room, they began making excuses and left.
My father never even called. I noticed that he was partially right about Diego. Once I was in the house he no longer made efforts to please me. He was typically more interested in his beers than how my day went. I couldn't ask him about his. That was the secret job he didn't want me to know anything about.
I figured it out, though. One day he let me see some of his leftover “supplies.” He taught me to sniff it in a rolled up peso, and we fell backward on the bed, our heads in the clouds. I think I heard the children knocking at the door later that evening, but I didn't want to leave my comfortable nirvana.
The next morning I found out why they had been knocking. Tino's diaper needed to be changed, and Diego Jr. had gotten poop all over the floor trying to do it himself. I put the white stuff away and never looked at it again.
His business apparently began to pick up steam when an American who could smuggle the goods across the border partnered up with Diego.
I tried to save every peso and dollar I had. But typically the money never passed through my hands. Diego began enjoying more of his own “supplies” and much of the rest of the money went to beer. It was all I could do just to keep Diego Jr. from drinking it.
When there was nothing in the refrigerator I confronted Diego. I reminded him that he promised that he had changed. His response was to hit me... several times.
It was time to leave again, this time for good. But how was I going to convince the children it was the right thing to do? They would never forgive me. I could live without Diego's love, but I could never live without theirs. I knew a woman who divorced her husband. She went to my mother's church. She and her ex moved to opposite sides of town. After the divorce was final she only saw her children every other week. She didn't do anything those weeks she was alone. Just laid on her bed and cried. Then her husband moved out of town and she had to live without them every other month. We never heard from her during those months.
Then I missed my period. It couldn't be happening again. I was always so certain to take my pills. I never missed a day. Yet it was happening whether I believed it or not. I got a home test and it came out positive. I bought a second one. And a third. I begged them to tell me different. But they didn't.
I went to my mother's church. After she was gone, of course. After everyone was gone. I went to the front and fell to my knees. I begged Jesus, who I hadn't paid attention to for a long time. I begged him to say it wasn't so. I begged him to turn back the clock, to put me back. To place me in myself before it all started... Before I was eleven.
And then I realized that I was doing the worst thing I ever did in my life. I was wishing away my children. I jumped to my feet and ran out. As though the man hanging on the wall was responsible. As though he had threatened to take my children from me. I ran home and I grasped Diego Jr. and held him tight. He squirmed, unaware and annoyed. But I held him regardless.
I tried to find a good time to tell Diego. A time when he was in a good enough mood he wouldn't beat me out of anger. He seemed cold. Distracted by something. It took me off guard and I put off telling him. Then he didn't come home until late on most nights. He didn't notice me. Even when I lay naked under the bed and stretched out one leg to entice him. I had decided that if I wasn't going to leave, if I was going to stay for the sake of the kids, I might as well make it enjoyable. But even that night he walked past me, lay down on the bed and fell asleep.
The next time I was at the Oxxo buying milk I noticed a few people staring at me. Rosarito is a small town where everyone knows each other's business, often before the people who are being gossiped about. Apparently I was the one being talked about this time because they looked away whenever I turned toward them. In times like this it's usually your family that gives you the bad news. And this was no exception. Berta finally told me that Diego was running around behind my back. She could hardly hide the smirk on her lips.
And it wasn’t just one affair. He was sleeping with several girls. It became more widely known what he did for a living, and they were all excited by his recklessness. I wanted to go to each one of them and punch them in the face. They knew he was still living with me. And they purposely played around with him behind my back. They humiliated me. I wanted to return the favor.
But my belly was beginning to show. And I couldn't risk damaging the baby. I was beginning to have back pains. I was often sick in the mornings. And I even had trouble sitting because I was giving myself multi-butt-vitamin injections again.
One of the girls didn't know I was home all the time. She came knocking at the door and I answered, Tino in my arms. As she stammered, I placed little Tino into his brother's arms, punched the bitch in the nose, then calmly closed the door and took Tino back into my arms again.
I finally confronted Diego and he denied it. Of course. I stopped sleeping with him. I slept on the floor. The couch. Anywhere he wasn’t. I kept meaning to leave, but I could never bring myself to take the children away. Part of me somehow wanted to work things out. Another part of me knew I couldn't. But I could not imagine life without him. More importantly, that same part of me didn't want the children to grow up without their father. I stayed with him in spite of my entire being.
Sleeping away from him seemed to work. He humbled himself. Stopped disappearing. And acted like a boyfriend again. He even started referring to me as his wife. I suppose by law I was since we had lived together for more than a year and had children together. I couldn't help but notice that he never got a ring. But at least he took a better interest in the lives of the children. And at last he noticed what was happening to my body. He wasn't angry. He was too apologetic to be angry.
The baby turned out to be a girl. She was simply a work of art. A painting made in heaven. I named her Mona after the Mona Lisa. I didn't even ask Diego. This was my little girl.
My family was around me again, my mother, Elsa, my two older sisters. Claudia now had a daughter. Berta had a second son. They swooned over my fourth born the way we always did over every baby. My father was there, too. It was the first time I had seen him in a long time. He looked older. Pale. I barely noticed at the time, though. I was in such a daze of exhaustion and euphoria.
I held Mona aloft as though presenting the new queen. She cried, and we all laughed to one another. My father stepped forward and pet her on the head and I pulled her slowly back down. He smiled at her. Then at me. I always felt lost in that smile. He put his hand on me the same way he had put it on Mona. Like I was the baby now. That was the first moment I noticed how he looked. The shakiness in his hand gave it away.
“She's a little miracle,” he told me.
“Yeah,” I replied. “They're all miracles. And tomorrow I'm getting my tubes tied so I don't have any more little miracles.” We shared a laugh together.
Then Diego pulled her away from me. “Careful!” my father scolded. But Diego was being careful. He knew how to hold a baby. He folded his arms under her shape and stared at her.
“We'll name her after my mother-”
“No!” I snapped. “Her name is Mona.” He began to open his mouth, but I leaned forward, my eyes ablaze with the fury that came with giving birth. “Her name is Mona and that is final.”
He backed down. “Fine,” he said, handing, almost tossing her back to me. “She's your kid.”
I suddenly wondered something I had never thought of before. How had Diego been treated as a child? His mother was almost certainly insane. She sat in front of the television most of the time. Except for the moments of rage when she would rise and throw things at whomever she was mad at. Or whoever was closest. He had two older brothers who took out their frustrations at the world on him. They told him they were teaching him to be a man. It was an excuse for them to beat on him. He never knew his father. Except that he heard he beat his wife’s ex-boyfriend almost to death. That’s how they had gotten together. That’s how Diego was born. And then the bastard disappeared. Diego vowed that he would never do that. Never abandon his family.
This was the reality Diego had grown up in, and I only saw the result of a child who came out of that kind of existence. I pitied him.
The pity didn't last long. When I got home I could barely walk. Which made it nearly impossible to chase the boys around. Especially while I was holding the new baby. Diego didn't help. Most of the time he wasn't there. And when he was, it was like taking care of a fifth child. He was needy. Lazy. Completely self-involved. I was too busy to notice if he was high. But he was downing several beers at any given moment.
It was Diego Jr, now eight, who stepped up and helped. He became known as Little Daddy. He was far beyond his years in maturity and intelligence. The multi-butt vitamins were finally paying off!
The best part of me and my sisters all having children is that they got to play together. We all became closer in motherhood than we ever had been as children. We shared ideas, experiences, and what we learned. I left my children with them, but neither left their children with me. They didn’t trust Diego. It was okay. Four children was all I could handle anyway.
Occasionally Diego would forget to pay the electric bill and I would have to go pay to turn the lights back on. Once that happened on a cold, windy night when it was too late to do anything about it. We would have to accept it until we could do something about it in the morning. I began wondering again why I was staying with him.
I pulled out the candles and lit a couple. Tino was frightened. I held him close along with Mona. Little Daddy, being the man he was, held Mario close to himself. The wind howled outside, making the night more chilly and frightening. We huddled together. We lit a candle on the floor between us.
“I'm scared,” Mario whined.
“Don't be, darling,” I told him. “Changes in life are opportunities for something new. This storm has given us the opportunity to tell a story. Look at me, Mario. Listen. Once upon a time there were three little pigs and they were all building houses.”
“How do pigs build houses?” Mario asked.
“Don't be stupid,” Little Daddy scolded. “With bricks and stuff.”
“I'm not stupid! You're stupid!”
“Nobody's stupid!” I told them, my hands out. “We're all smart, just like the pigs who made their houses, but not all out of brick. Only one of them did. The rest made them out of straw, and paper, and stuff like that.”
“Why would anyone make their house out of paper?” Little Daddy asked.
“Because they're pigs,” Mario blurted from his lap. They laughed together. It's amazing to me how brothers can be at each other's throats one moment, then laughing together the next. We sisters were close, but when we got angry with each other we held a long grudge.
“But then a big, bad wolf came along,” I continued. “He wanted to eat the pigs! He came to the first house and said, 'Let me in! Let me in! Or I will blow your house down!' And the little pig said, 'Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin!'”
“They had beards?” Mario asked.
“These pigs did. So the wolf huffed, and puffed, do it with me.” We all took a big breath and the children copied me. “And he blew the house down!” We all blew. The candle went out. Mona screamed.
“Is our house going to blown down?” Mario cried.
“No,” I assured him, rocking Mona. “That was just the wrong fairy tale to tell.” I lit the candle again.
A knock came at the door. A sudden and loud cracking at the wood. We jumped at the sound. I told Diego to go answer it. He took Mario with him and together they opened the door.
It was Berta. “Is your mother here?” she asked hastily. Little Daddy led her to me. Not a long distance. Her form moved briskly through the dark. And when her face appeared in the candle light it revealed fear. “You must leave here right away,” she said urgently.
“Why?” I asked.
She looked briefly at the children. Lifted me up and led me away from them. I continued to hold Mona, but left the boys by the candle light. I could hear Tino beginning to whine. But Little Daddy looked after him.
“Diego has been caught selling drugs.”
“Where? How?”
“I don’t know. But the Federales are on their way. They’re going to arrest you and take your children away. They’re not here yet because they’re stopping at the DIF to get a social worker to take them.”
“No one’s going to take my babies!” I cried out to her. I was too loud and Mario began to cry.
“No one’s going to. We won’t let them. But you have to come with us right now!”
We blew out the candle and ran to the car. Mario’s crying became a bellow. He wanted to get his toys. His dolls. His favorite possessions. To him they were like real living beings. Like pets. But if he went back for them we would probably lose each other. I told him no. We hurried out to the waiting cab.
A couple blocks down the road we saw two police cars and an unmarked federal car pass by, their lights blazing. Home was gone.
The paved road gave way to the dirt roads in the hills where most people in Rosarito live. To the home of my parents. The place I grew up where I would now be hiding my children.
We rushed inside and the kids took refuge in the guest bedroom. My mother had known we were coming and prepared it for us. My father only shook his head.
For the next few days my sisters created an entire spy network. Watching for the police. Trying to get information about Diego. He was in serious trouble. He could only get a lighter sentence by telling on other people who might come back and hurt him. I couldn’t visit him. I couldn’t even go into town. I had to remain hidden.
The entire family pulled together and brought groceries for me and my kids. My father played with the grandchildren. Made them feel like nothing was going wrong. It almost made me feel like everything was okay. Or was going to be.
But reality caught up with us a week later. Berta, who lived next door, came to the house hurriedly. The look on her face said it all. I knew it was time to move on.
We stayed with Claudia and her husband for a few days. Our children got to know one another as they never had before. Neither Claudia nor her husband looked happy to have us there. This could get them in trouble. But she kept us hidden nonetheless. I was grateful.
Me and the boys slept in one bed together, while Mona, dearest Mona, slept in a cradle.
After a couple weeks Claudia’s husband was willing to pay the fee of a hotel if we would just stay there instead of live with them. He put us up in one of the nicest places. The Hotel America in Tijuana where the police would hopefully not search for us… And a long way from the rest of the family. It was none too soon, either, for a day after we left the police arrived on their doorstep looking for me. Looking for answers I couldn’t give them. And looking to take my children away.
Now all five of us slept in one bed together. We ate in bed together. We played in bed together. There was only one chair and a table, a bathroom, and the large bed we spent most of our time in. No one was allowed out without the whole group traveling together. And then we only walked down the hall and back. Usually to get ice.
We occasionally caught a glimpse of other customers. They were usually tourists passing through. But a number of times I saw women in tight, revealing outfits passing by either with a man, or going to a door and knocking. Diego Jr. liked to stare and I turned his face away from it. Some nights we could hear them in the neighboring rooms. I turned up the sound on the TV. But I couldn't cover up the pounding on the walls. Mario asked me what it was. I told him it was someone hammering.
“But why are they moaning?” he asked.
Tino gave a better answer than I could. “Because they're ghosts, stupid!”
Food was brought to us by my family. Usually Claudia. Sometimes by my mother, who made the thirty minute trek from Rosarito to see me. When questioned, they all explained that I had gone to cross the border into America with the children. And they didn’t know if I had made it or not.
I wondered about Father. Why had he not come? But I didn't ask. I was angry that he wouldn't visit me. And I didn't want him to know I missed him. In my better days, I imagined that he was staying at home to fool the police while my mother and sisters sneaked food and information to me.
Weeks passed. I sometimes felt like a prisoner. But I had my children. And nothing was more important than that. I was frustrated. But I was also grateful to my sister and her husband for taking care of me.
At first the children were very patient about hiding away. To them it was like an adventure. Diego Jr. continued his role as Little Daddy, leading the others in tales of imaginary explorations. His guidance led them to wide open spaces in distant lands so the confined space wasn't even noticeable. It was a miracle that this kept them occupied for several weeks. But after a while even a child's imagination dries up. They need real space. I told them that if we were seen we would be separated. That kept them from going outside. But it also made them cry. Something had to be done.
Then came the fateful day that changed everything.
I opened the door wide for Claudia, anxiously awaiting the food she was bringing. She wore a grave expression on her face. And Berta stood behind her.
“Can Diego take care of his brothers?” Berta said.
“Why?” I asked.
“We need to talk.”
“You'll be able to go home soon,” Claudia told me. I brightened at that.
Berta never cracked a smile. “We need to talk first,” she said.
I told Diego to take care of the others while the three of us walked outside. I made sure the door was locked, and walked outside with them.
“Daddy's in the hospital,” Berta told me in the car. We were driving somewhere in downtown Tijuana. I didn't know where. Claudia was driving. Her eyes fixed as though frightened of something.
“Oh my god!” I exclaimed. “How can I help?”
“By not being a financial burden,” Berta answered. “You need to find a job, Marisela.”
“If you do, we can help you go home,” Claudia said. She was trying to see the bright side.
Berta was unmoved. She continued to speak in that monotone voice. Eyes always forward while Claudia drove. “We found a job that pays well for someone with your experience.”
“My experience?” I asked. What kind of experience did I have? “What is it?”
Claudia stopped in front of a building. As Berta stepped out of the car, I looked at the front door. It was a red curtain with several men sitting on stools in front. I craned my neck to get a look at the sign overhead. Chicas. I knew this place. A whorehouse. Berta opened my door. “No!” I screamed, pulling back from her.
“Marisela,” Claudia said, trying to sound comforting. Berta only reached in at me.
“I won't go!”
“Marisela, calm down,” Berta said as she continued to reach at me while my legs kicked at her.
“We're not making you do anything,” Claudia told me. She was trying to be reassuring with her voice, but I could hardly be tamed while Berta was grasping at me.
“Do you know what they do in there?” I shouted at them.
“Yes,” Berta said sternly. “They do what they have to do.”
“I'll find something else!”
“What else?” Berta demanded. “What are you trained to do? You barely graduated high school!”
I looked away, unable to breathe. I let my guard down and didn't notice Berta reaching in for me again until she had my arm and was pulling me out. I grasped at Claudia's seat, begging her not to make me go. I screamed and I cried. Claudia looked away, holding back the tears.
“Think of your kids!” Berta said as she pulled me out. “How are they going to eat?”
“I'll find something!” I cried.
“It's too late!” she said, and finally yanked me out of the car. She stood in front of the open doorway and pointed into the club. “Go make money for your children!”
People were staring now, but I didn't notice. Berta jumped back into the passenger seat and I leaped at the door. Clawed at the window. Begged to be let in. “Drive,” Berta told Claudia. But Claudia couldn't move. She was crying almost as much as I was. But her tears were silent.
Mine were howls as I scratched, trying to get in. “Don't leave me here!”
“Drive!” Berta insisted, and Claudia threw it into gear. They drove away down the road. Past the line of strip clubs and brothels. I chased. I ran past the beggars. The prostitutes. The vendors. The street peddlers. I ran into the middle of the street and chased her car for a couple blocks until they disappeared around a corner. I crumpled onto the side of the road and cried. My eyes were too filled with tears to notice how many people were staring at me.
Berta and Claudia had abandoned me. They were my sisters no more.
When I was eleven my Uncle Pablo showed me that no one can be trusted. Not even family. I learned it first from him. And finally from my sisters.
I stumbled back to the hotel room. I would find something. Anything but what they were suggesting.
I returned ragged and exhausted. Diego Jr. was there serving food to his brothers and sister. He had concocted a sort of dip using beans, a couple kinds of meat and blue cheese dressing. The others dipped their favorite chips into this, from corn chips to Fritos. Many of these had landed on the floor. My eyes grew large and though I thought my legs wouldn't carry me another step, I found the strength to run to Diego Jr. and yank the bowl away from him. “What the hell are you doing!” I shouted. “Why are you using so much food for one meal! That's not even healthy! Mario! Fritos inside bean dip? What are you thinking?”
Tears welled up in Diego Jr.'s nine-year-old little eyes. “I tried my best, Mommy.” He ran and locked himself in the bathroom and I heard the heartbreaking sobs for an hour. It was weeks of pent-up frustration. I felt like crying myself, but when I looked into the eyes of the others I knew I couldn't. I pulled myself together and handed the dip back to them. I picked up Mona and gave her her baby formula.
Over the next few days the situation got worse. I tried to give less food to make it last longer. But the less I gave, the more impatient they grew. And the more they wanted to escape and wander the town where they would be picked up, and I would lose them. So I gave more food and it got used up.
I thought for certain there would be a restaurant that could take me. I had all of that experience in Rosarito. And here in Tijuana there were plenty of restaurants serving hungry tourists. In Rosarito we only had one busy week a year. Here the tourists traveled through every day. There was only one place I went that could actually use someone. But there was a stack of applicants two inches high, and most of them could provide addresses and references. All I could give was a hotel room.
Claudia didn't come anymore with food. No one came. I began mixing food in strange assortments. We all gave them new names. Sometimes the kids liked the newness of it, sometimes they didn't and I had to listen to endless complaints. These complaints grew louder. And I was afraid someone would hear.
We had to get more food. It was as simple as that. I walked out to try for a job again. Maybe I could get work at a market where I could get discounts. As I stepped out the front door, I was stopped by the hotel manager. “When is your sister coming back?”
“I don't know.”
“Well your rent for the week is past due by several days. I've got to get that soon or we've got to clear you out.”
“Okay,” I said.
“And don't try to sneak out without paying. I know you don't want police trouble, but that's just who I'll call if you try anything.”
It was worse than I thought. Not only did I need money to eat in the future, I needed to pay for shelter for the past or we'd be arrested. I was more frightened than I had ever been in my life as I walked down the uneven sidewalks of downtown Tijuana. The women stood along the walls holding their bare shoulders as the wind pelted them. They were cold, but they couldn't put on their jackets or else the bare shoulders of the girl standing next to them would attract the next customer. Their teeth chattered as they clicked their tongues at passing men. Their shivering legs stuck out, almost tripping passers to get their attention.
I stepped past a couple of these ladies into a market. I asked the manager if they were hiring. He barely looked at me as he told me they weren't. His shoulder was as cold to me as the wind outside. I thanked him and walked further into the store. His eyes never lifted toward me. The cans of food and shelves of meat stood invitingly before me. It was there for the taking. The man wasn't looking at me. He had been rude. He was careless. He deserved to be robbed.
I looked around me and only noticed a concave mirror near the ceiling. It doesn't do much good when the manager isn't watching it. I couldn't believe what I was doing when I lifted a can from the shelf. My hand shook as I stared at it. Better work fast. I looked at the manager again. He was lost in... something below the counter. His eyes weren't on me. The door was just past him. I could pick up some meat, throw it all in my jacket pockets and be out before he knew what happened.
Then a noise raised behind me. Apparently just another customer talking to the person he was with, but it was enough to cause me to jump. I dropped the can and hurried out the front door.
Outside I caught my breath, pulling myself together. Maybe this was just a trial run. I could try a different store.
“You all right?” came a voice from the doorway. I looked up to see one of the prostitutes standing there. She was older. At least she looked older. It could have been the cigarette she was rolling in her fingers. Her breasts were like giant pairs squeezed behind a tight black corset until they were ready to burst. Her body was thin, but not frail. Her eyes spoke a world weariness and wisdom I recognized, but could not place my finger on.
“Yeah,” I said. “I'll be fine.” Then I realized why I recognized her. “I know you from the hotel.”
“Oh yeah, you've got four kids, right?”
“Yes!” I said, beaming.
“Yeah, they're cute.” She looked away and sucked on her cigarette. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. “Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“Shoot.”
“How much do you get paid?”
She blew out smoke. “Twenty dollars American. That's to start. But I always offer them more once they've seen my tits. More services, more money. They don't even know they're spending it.”
“Oh,” I replied.
“Needing more money for your kids?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“I've got a daughter that needs braces.”
“Aren't you afraid she'll see you out here?”
“She isn't allowed to come anywhere near here. I'm making sure she gets an education so she won't have to. You looking to join the line?”
A police car passed by at that moment. I turned away from it. Then back to her. She looked straight at me. She knew. “You'll be wanting to work inside then. Try one of the massage parlors. You can start out light. You have to split the money with the owner, but they'll bring in the customers. Best of all, you're inside.” She held herself, shivering. I could see the goose bumps all over.
I went right away to the line of brothels where my sisters had dropped me off. One of them said 'Massage Parlor' over the door in red neon. While every other building had a marquee overhead, this was just a cement front with a door and stairs beyond.
But the top of the stairs opened up to the look of a fancy hotel. Dim lighting revealed ivory tables, marble floors, and gold-plated frames. Someone with taste decorated this place.
A man in an expensive suit was helping a customer choose among a line of girls dressed like they belonged on a Catholic school yard. The light hit their bodies but avoided their faces. They each stood at attention, their arms behind their backs. The man in the suit was courteous, speaking softly as though they were in a sacred hall. The customer, dressed in blue jeans and a brown jacket, swayed a little as he studied each one. The manager expressed the qualities of several of the girls as he led the man down the line.
When they reached the end, the man in the brown jacket looked back at them. Focused on their breasts. He reached out for one of them and she pulled back.
“Ah, ah,” the gentleman in the suit said. “No touching the merchandise until you've bought it.”
The man in the jacket nodded. Then studied a moment longer. At last he pointed at one of them.
“Great choice,” the manager said. He snapped and the other girls left. “Right this way,” he said, pointing to one of the rooms. And they approached it. But before they could enter, the manager stepped up next to him. Clearing his throat, he held out his hand.
The man in the brown jacket pulled out his thick wallet. From it he removed a large wad of bills. The kind of rolled up wad Diego used to carry. He handed a portion of it to the manager.
“Enjoy,” the manager said, patting him on the back, and they disappeared together, closing the door behind them.
I met the manager at the desk as he put the money away. His attitude changed dramatically as soon as he saw I wasn't a customer. “What do you want? A job?”
“Yes,” I said. “Can you tell me what you do here?”
“Do? You satisfy customers. Whatever they want. You have to work it out with them, of course. The more you do for them, the more they'll give to you. Turn around.”
“What?”
He leaned over the desk impatiently. “Turn around.”
I stared at him a moment longer, then, timidly, turned in place.
“Hmm. That's a nice ass. We could probably make something off that. Come here.”
He motioned to one of the rooms that was open. I watched him nervously. I think I took a step forward before I heard a yelp from one of the rooms. It sounded like a yelp of pain. I couldn't be sure.
“That's Maria. She makes a lot for what she does. Come in here.”
I felt cold, as though the chill air outside had followed me. I continued to hear the woman screaming. It didn't sound like pleasure. But it was rhythmic. I walked into the dark room. He closed the door. Turned on the overhead. It was blinding after getting used to the dimness of the entry.
“Take off your pants,” he ordered. I didn't move for a moment. “You want to work in here or you want to go back out to the street. I said take off your pants!” I quickly unbuckled my pants and let them drop to the ground. I held my chest as if it was exposed and I closed my eyes. “And your underwear,” I heard him say. This was not the warm manager that had talked to the man in the blue jeans. I looked at him questioningly. “I've got to make sure you're not a guy.”
I grasped my underwear and pulled it forward to show my vagina to him. I could hear the screams in the other room getting louder as he yanked my panties further and looked down into them. “That's a nice pussy,” he said. He looked into my eyes. The charm began to appear in his face. “Real nice.” His hand reached down into my crotch and the charm disappeared, replaced by a scowl of greed. I didn't know what to do as I felt him fingering me. I grasped my breasts again and held in my tears. He didn't notice. He didn't care. He just felt around a moment. “Any diseases?” I shook my head. “We'll have to have you checked. Listen.” His finger pressed inside me several times while he gave me instructions. “When you get in the room, you start off giving him a massage and you listen to what the guy wants. If you can do it, you do it. If you can't, you don't. It's as simple as that. But if the customer gets angry, decides to leave, you don't get paid shit. Understand? So the advice I give you, suck his dick, let him ride you every which way, let him spray all over your face, let him touch you, let him lick you... You let that mother fucker fuck you six ways from Sunday and you enjoy every moment. You do that, sweetheart, and you'll fit in nice.”
He pulled out his finger and spanked my bottom. “Now put your pants back on. We'll give you an outfit and you can pay us back.”
As I put my pants back on I stammered with my words, but I had to say them. “Can... Can I start right now?”
He looked me over, thinking. “What size are you?
“Two.”
He thought a moment. “I've got a size one. You can squeeze into that until we get something else.”
It was funny to dress up as a Catholic school girl as I was neither Catholic, nor had I finished school.
I was in the next lineup. I was hoping to get picked, if, for no other reason, than just so I could take the tight clothes off. I wasn't. I quickly learned the worst part of this job. It's not the sex. It's waiting to be picked for the sex.
When at last someone picked me, a cold chill ran through my body. I felt both relieved and scared to death. I went to the room with him. Luckily, he was as inexperienced as me, and he was waiting for me to start everything. So I began with a massage before I even brought up the subject of doing something more. I didn't ask him what he wanted. I thought that if I led with a suggestion, I might be able to control the situation better. “You want...” I made a stroking gesture with my hand. “From my hand?” I had said it in English. It was hardly what Father had intended when he taught me the language, but it was coming in handy.
He nodded excitedly. He seemed relieved that I was leading. It was my first lesson in learning that they are as nervous about me as I am about them. More so, even. I never feared another customer after that. Except the ones that got violent.
He turned over and I pulled down his pants. He was so nervous and excited that he climaxed before he thought to ask me to do anything more. The next several visits were the same. I had only seen three penises before in my life. And now I was seeing dozens of them. I was fascinated with the way they looked. I began categorizing them in my head. There's straight as a board, crescent shaped, flat or wide, long and thin, I call these the ticklers. Some of them have strange little ridges. Others ripple down like wax dripping off a candle. They're hard to grasp.
I was giving a job to a “hook” penis, as I called it, the kind that almost rolls back on itself, when the man gasped, “Climb on.” I hesitated. “I'll pay you,” he said. “Twenty bucks.”
I knew the ladies here got paid at least fifty, probably more. “Eighty,” I said.
“Eighty?” he asked outraged. I stroked just under the soft pink portion, the area I knew that turned Diego on. This seemed to be a universal spot for men. And it was with this one. “Okay! Eighty. I'll get it from my wallet in a minute. Just climb on.”
I looked at his wallet. It was thick enough. He had the money. I looked back down at the hook. It wouldn't be a problem. But I knew that what I was about to do I could never take back. Perhaps it would be wrong for me to ever enter a church again. But the church was not feeding my children.
I pulled out the condom and wrapped his penis in it. I placed his thing between my legs. I had to search for a moment to make it fit. Then I lowered on it slowly. He didn't wait. He grabbed my arm and thrust into me. It hurt... like sandpaper was being rubbed inside me. I called out like I had heard the other women calling out and knew it wasn't all from pleasure.
But then it did begin to feel better. I loosened up and started to enjoy it. I had never known any man like this except Diego, and nothing could be harsher than his cave man thrusts. This man called me beautiful. He called me a goddess. Then he said a word in English I did not understand. “Gorgeous.” I thought he had said the Spanish word “Gorga,” which means “fat.” I looked at him, shocked. Perhaps it was the alcohol I had drunk, or maybe I had had enough, but I did something I couldn't believe I did. I slapped him. A moment after I had, I calmed enough to realize what terrible trouble I was in.
But he didn't get angry. He looked at me. Shocked. Then, oddly, a smile crossed his lips. “Do that again!” he told me.
“What, this?” I tapped my hand against his cheek.
“No! Slap me! Really mean it!”
I slapped him again.
“Oh yes!” he cried out. “Harder!”
I began slapping him harder with both hands. He thrust into me and I screamed as I hit him. We were both screaming and fucking and slapping and enjoying it. Then he turned his face and was met by one of my hands. It cracked him directly in the nose, and blood poured out. He screamed in agony and grasped his face. Blood was oozing through it.
I yanked away from him. He stumbled off the bed. Unable to see, he crashed around the room. Blood was getting all over him. All over the room. He screamed. I screamed. I wrapped the bed sheet around me and ran out of the room, still screaming.
That was the last time I worked there. I didn't even get paid for the job. I needed something else to bring in the money. On the street I looked at the line of brothels. Across from the massage parlor was Chicas, the place my sisters had “recommended.” I stood before the curtain considering. The music pulsated outside. The men on the stools stared at me. I could feel their eyes looking up and down my body. I could feel them undressing me with their minds. I had done it once... twice if you counted the tattoo man. “How much do I get per trick?” I asked one of the men. He pointed at a man with a mustache, the manager. “You charge sixty bucks. They pay eleven for the room. You keep thirty.”
“Forty,” I said, giving my best poker face.
He shook his head. “This is non-negotiable.”
I hesitated a moment, hoping he'd fold before I did. He didn't. Men were coming and he was about to switch his attention. “Okay,” I said.
“You've got to get completely naked and give them a blow job,” he told me seriously.
I took in a breath and blew it out. “Okay.”
“Fine. Come back when you're ready to start work.”
“I'm ready now.”
“No one's going to hire you dressed like that.”
The men stepped past me. The manager checked their IDs. I looked at the sleeves of my shirt. Then tore them off. The manager looked at me and saw what I was doing. He stared a moment. Then pointed at the top of his shirt. I got the hint. I ripped the top of my shirt down to my breasts. It wasn't pretty, but it was revealing. He looked me over one more time, then motioned his head to the curtain.
My eyes had to adjust to the darkness inside. There was a stage in the middle. Would I have to dance, too? When I was a little girl, my mother had sent me to ballet. I don't think she intended it to be used like this.
Among a crowd of women I saw a familiar face. Barbara. The most popular girl in school. She had had a child while in high school, and I heard that she had two more afterward. I had also heard that her boyfriend skipped town. She was probably there for the same reason I was. I rushed to her hoping she could help me.
She looked at me. I smiled. The moment she recognized me, she walked away. I tried to follow, but she stopped. “Don't come near me,” she said sternly, then continued away. I was alone.
I went to a corner and stood awkwardly. Held myself for comfort. I saw many of the women trying to entice the men. Walking to them. Smiling. Rubbing their fingers over their shoulders. Clicking their tongues. I would rather the men come to me.
One woman kept looking at me. Her hair was short, her skin dark. She looked like an Egyptian. She didn't say anything, just stared at me with a look that said she realized I was new. I felt relieved when a man came and took her upstairs, but when she returned she walked up closer and kept staring at me. I knew she was waiting to make fun of me. I held my head up with pride and tried to look away from her.
“You'll want to wear something more revealing,” she said.
I relaxed and looked at my clothes. “Yeah, I thought so,” I replied. “The bar doesn't give us anything?”
She shook her head. “The boys'll probably ask you to have a drink first. You speak English?”
I nodded.
“Good. Charm them as much as you can. That way they'll buy more drinks. And after they're all liquored up, they'll take you upstairs. It shouldn't take you more than 15 minutes per drink. The more you have, the more money you'll make. The waiter will give you a ticket. Whatever you do, don't lose them. You hand them in at the end of the night for money. Sometimes you make more from the tickets than you do upstairs.”
“Don't you get really drunk?”
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. Usually when my friends said that they laughed like it was some great joke. She was stoic. “It helps when you go upstairs. Drink as much as you can before that. And when you do go, don't laugh at them! Don't laugh about any part of them.”
I was quiet for a moment. So was she. “You did?” I asked.
She broke out with a chuckle. “Once. I won't make that mistake again.” We shared a laugh together. “You've got a good laugh,” she said. “Use that as much as you can.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“And don't ever get close to any of them. They're your customers. That's all. No matter what you feel for them, don't.”
I thought I would be passed up all night. Waiting was still the worst part of the job. Half of me wanted to be picked, and half did not. Until several hours passed and I didn't get picked. Then the part of me that needed money took over completely. I would have fucked a monkey if one had approached me with thirty bucks.
Then the moment of truth arrived. He was a fat man with a beard. But those weren't the first things I noticed about him. The first thing I noticed was his wedding ring. I wondered where this wife must be. What she must think. If she was sleeping alone tonight.
We had drinks together. Every drink gave me a ticket that was worth three dollars and fifty cents to me as long as I didn't lose it. Three American dollars. This was a whole day's pay in other places around my home in Rosarito. But this was Tijuana where men would empty their wallets for a look at what I see in the shower every day. He stammered as he spoke English to me. He made constant excuses for himself. Blaming the reason he did this on a bet he had with some co-workers. I just listened. It was fascinating. Like the man with the hook penis, he was more afraid than me. That helped me relax. So did the beers. I did as my friend told me, one every 15 minutes. But the real money would come when we went upstairs, and I didn't know for certain if it was leading there, or if he was wasting the time that I could be spending with a paying customer.
I zoned out of his excuses and wondered what my kids were doing. I hoped Little Daddy was living up to his name.
At last the fat man brought me back by suggesting we go upstairs. I stood up immediately and we left.
We were both new to this, though I didn’t tell him I was. When we arrived at the counter to get a room I didn't know what to say. And he didn't know what to ask. I think we both turned red.
“Name?” the person at the counter asked. I looked at the man who was renting my body for a half hour. I kept reminding myself of that. He's renting the body. Not me.
“I think he means your name,” he said.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. Maybe this wasn't the man's first time here. “My name?” I thought quickly. Claudia used to call me her Little Niña, which meant little girl in Spanish. I was like a little daughter to her. “Nina,” I told him.
The man at the counter looked around at a group of shelves whispering, “Nina. Nina...”
“I don't...” I stopped myself, afraid that revealing I was new might lose me a customer. But I had no choice. I needed whatever he was going to hand me. “I don't have anything here yet.”
“First time, huh?” the man said, breaking the mask.
“Hot dog!” the customer said. “I get to break your cherry!” He didn't run.
The man at the counter gave me a towel. A sheet. A bar of soap. A condom. He told me a room number. He nodded with a look on his face that said, 'Good luck.' I nodded and carried everything to the room.
It was small and dark with a lamp to one side and a square, hard bed in the middle. Before I had time to take it all in the man was naked, standing before the door. His penis was already growing. “Well?” he said impatiently. “Aren't ya gonna get naked?” It was as if all his fear and kindness was gone. Replaced by a demanding drunk.
As I knelt down to give him head, I left my body. For a moment I was looking down on myself. On my knees in front of a stranger. I was embarrassed. Ashamed. I saw myself for the first time as a true whore.
When I was a child I had seen myself as a teacher. Or an oceanographer. Or both. I saw myself swimming with whales and saving dolphins. I had stared down a shark at the aquarium where there was glass below the surface of the water and you could watch them. They seem dead in the eye to most people. But I saw a soul there. More recently I had seen myself as a psychologist. Saving lives through insights and advice. But no...
There I was kneeling before a man like he was my king with my mouth wrapped around his unit. When he was ready for more he propped me onto the bed. Onto my hands and knees. And stabbed into my vagina from the back. I couldn't avoid looking at myself again because there was a mirror at the head of the bed. So I stuffed my face into the pillow and thought of my reason for being there. My little children.
I began a habit that would continue for all the time I worked there. I counted down. Thirty minutes. This session is only thirty minutes. I can take that. Twenty minutes. Only twenty minutes left. What's taking him so long? Fifteen. God, I can’t take any more!
Later I would wash up. I would look at myself in another mirror. I would spit on myself. And I would break down crying. I would cry for hours, unable to control myself. I would fall on the floor and hate every molecule in my body. I would curse the day I was born. And I would curse my sisters. I swore they were my sisters no more. I would sob and moan. And when I had no more tears left, I would rise up and look at myself in the mirror. And I would swear that I will never cry again.
Ten minutes left.
Part 1
Counting Down
It’s easy to fuck for money. Especially when you don’t think about it. You bend over. Put your mind on something else. And wait for him to finish. It helps when you've had a lot to drink. It loosens you up. Numbs the senses. You don’t want to seem uninterested, so you move around a lot. Make some noises like you’re loving every thrust. I try to always have a little Red Bull. It picks me up. And it's free. The boys are always paying. They don't notice their money going when they have tits to look at. Almost. I leave just enough mystery to make them take me upstairs. They'll have to pay for heaven.
I try to ignore the fact that I don’t want to be there. Failing that, I try to remember why I’m there. I think of my children. How much food I can buy with the thirty dollars I’m making. I keep going for them.
I try to avoid giving head. I hate the smell. The hair. Sometimes the choking, especially when they grab my hair. I try to please them and get them on the bed as soon as possible. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I can get another client and another thirty dollars.
If a man is rough, or strange, like he wants hot wax poured on his penis, I try to avoid him when I see him in the club again.
I don't orgasm anymore. I haven't had an orgasm since I started. A couple times I came close. When I liked a guy. A nice guy. Well, nice at first. They were the nicest gentlemen in the world while we sat and had drinks. But after we fucked, they didn't want to have anything more to do with me. They wouldn't even look at me. Pretty soon I stopped romanticizing about anyone. And all the sex I had was just fucking for dollars. And I soon forgot the feeling of a sexual climax.
I prefer doggy style. So do most of my customers. They like to fuck like animals. I like looking away from them. Sometimes they forget they're human. Sometimes, especially when they're drunk, they act like they have something to prove inside me. And it hurts like hell. I always use lube. But sometimes even a whole bottle isn't enough, so I count down the minutes until we're done. I begin when we enter the room. Thirty minutes left. The clothes are off. Twenty-five minutes left. On the bed, twenty minutes left. By the time it gets rough there are usually only ten minutes left, and I count them down by the individual minutes. I look at my watch and I concentrate on that.
There's a mirror at the head of the bed. I don’t know why they put it there, but I often watch myself in it and remind myself how I came to this point in my life.
The first time I had sex, the first time I had real sex, was when I was 14. My boyfriend Diego told me I had to do it if I really loved him. I did love him. I wanted to prove that to him. I didn’t know much about sex, but I knew I wanted to try it.
The first few times hurt a lot. I don’t remember if I screamed or cried, but I remember that I felt like I was being ripped apart. When it was over I always told him that I liked it, while I hoped it would get better.
And it did. We sneaked away every chance we got and found some private place where we could make love. Sometimes we sneaked away from school. Other times from church. We mostly told our parents we were going to someone else's home and found some place where no one could see us. There are a lot of empty houses lying behind broken down fences in the hills of Rosarito where we lived. I learned to relax into the enjoyment of it. Soon I was the one pulling him aside. There wasn’t much else to do anyway, and most girls I knew were having sex long before they were 15.
But then the price of it came. I had started menstruating when I was 13, and suddenly it stopped. I asked my mother what was wrong. She told my father. He was so furious I thought he might attack me.
He didn't. It was worse. He just told me how disappointed he was with me. It was a quiet sadness in his eyes. I would rather he have lashed out at me. Hit me. Spank me like I deserved. Make me a child again and take away this enormous responsibility I was about to have. At least yell at me. But he didn’t. He just shook his head at me pitifully, telling me with his face that I had let him down. “You have ruined your life,” he said. “You could have achieved many great things, but this child will keep you from them.”
I began crying. I cried for several days. Not because of what was happening to my life. But because Father made me realize how much me and my sisters must have ruined his life by being born.
He and my mother were in their teens when they began having children. He could have been a great musician. He could have traveled the world, seen many things, and maybe even been famous, but he had stayed with my mother and taken care of us children. The shame I suddenly felt realizing that we had probably ruined his life, as now mine would be ruined with my stupidity!
He found me crying and he comforted me. I never told him I was crying for him.
Diego and I moved into an apartment together. We no longer had to sneak away. But as my belly got bigger, I began to wonder if he was sneaking away from me. He claimed to always be looking for work. But it didn't seem right that he would be searching after 7:00 at night.
I spent much of my time reading about babies. Preparing myself to be the best mother Mexico has ever seen. I also read about giving birth. Every health tip I could find to make sure it came out of me healthy and safe. One of the books suggested I get injections of multivitamins. So every day I gave myself a shot into the butt. I had trouble sitting straight some days, leaning over in the chair while Diego looked at me strangely. Thinking on how the baby would come out, I knew that it was all worth it.
I was not the only pregnant girl in school. As I walked down the halls, I noticed many other girls my age with their bellies getting bigger. They sometimes stopped and smiled and showed off to each other. I have always been more reserved, so I didn’t join them. But I would often watch them and listen to the tips and suggestions they were giving each other.
Pregnancy was so common among the girls in my school that I began to wonder what my father had meant by saying I had ruined my life. It wasn’t like girls in my neighborhood had much else to look forward to. We were expected to grow up and be taking care of children by the time we were twenty. A few girls studied hard, and were hated for it. One girl got straight tens, and the girls beat her mercilessly. They said she thought she was better than everyone else.
I knew I was on the right track when Barbara, the most popular girl in school, showed up with a big belly. Her friends squealed with delight that she would soon be a mother. She was a beautiful girl with long, flowing black hair and large eyes. And her boyfriend was strong. Muscular. He was handsome and he worked on cars. Her baby would certainly be gorgeous.
The most painful thing I ever felt was giving birth. It is one of the hardest things for a woman to do. Harder still for a 15-year-old girl. I held tight to my sister's hand on one side, and Diego on the other. I fell back almost unconscious when it came out.
I was in a daze. Looking up at the white ceiling. I could faintly hear everyone swooning happily. I heard a faint cry. A little voice.
Then he was held above me. A cherub. An angel. I thought I had died and he was welcoming me to heaven. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Never in my life have I been so in love with any being than this person lowering down to me. I didn't know it was possible to love anything so much.
He was placed in my arms. I looked into the eyes of the most amazing creature on earth. Diego had already named him… Diego Jr.
I stayed at home taking care of Diego Jr. for several months. Diego said he had found work, but it was at strange hours. Some days he would sleep in and leave in the middle of the day. Other times he would leave in the middle of the night. He told me not to ask him about his work, and so I didn’t. He paid the bills and brought home food. All I cared about was the baby.
But the bills were not always paid on time. When the electricity went out for the second time, I decided that wherever Diego got his money, it wasn’t reliable. Spring was coming, so I asked my mother to watch over Diego Jr. and I took a job at a restaurant on the main thoroughfare of town where tourists regularly passed on their way to or from the night clubs.
One week every spring our little neighborhood became the most popular spot on earth for rich college students who came in from the United States waving their dollars around. It seemed like everyone on earth was crowding in our area. We were the gateway to their enjoyment. They left chaos, garbage, and lots of money in their wake.
The worst job was cleaning the bathrooms, which I managed to avoid most of the time. I wore tight shirts that always caught the boys’ attention. Girls didn’t like it, but they weren’t the ones paying. Even boys who were there with their girlfriends found a hidden moment to slap me on the butt while the girls weren’t looking. If the boys were caught by their girlfriends, they simply said they were drunk and the girls excused them for it. In any case, I got away with a bigger tip.
We tried to stay open and work as many hours as we could during this time. Everyone in the town tried to harvest as much money out of these party goers as they could to hold them over the rest of the year, much like a farmer brings in the crops to last his family over a winter. Prices were higher for the out-of-towners than they were for locals. If we charged each other the same amount, we would all starve. But those who came into town had lots of money that were given to them by their parents. And whatever they lost they would recover when they returned.
I don’t know what makes their green paper more valuable than our coins, but their value makes them powerful. I kept my mouth shut and made the money. Because money equaled food for my child.
One morning we came in to work and found the place vandalized. Someone had broken the lock, opened up the doors, and gotten inside. They had stolen all the money, which wasn’t a lot. But the worst part was that they had smashed the TVs, stolen the liquor, and broken some chairs. Those were worth more money than what we had in the register. They even vomited all over the floors.
The police were no help. They had seen what happened, but someone paid them to not arrest the vandals, and they let them go. The owners couldn’t complain. They had to start over and keep going as if nothing had happened. This sort of thing occurred every year. The owners of restaurants had to take this into account when taking stock of their profits.
The crowds of the spring are both a blessing and a curse to those of us who live in Rosarito.
I spent every moment I could spare with my boy. He was the reason I did everything. Whenever life was hard, I always thought of him. I pampered him beyond reason. I would do anything to keep him safe. To make him happy. It kept me going.
The first time it got cold I bundled him up so tightly in so many clothes and blankets I almost smothered him. My mother yelled at me when she saw this and threw the blankets off. He was coughing for air. “You have to let him breathe!” she scolded. I began taking Diego to her a lot so my mother could observe. I never told her this was why I wanted her to see him, of course. I didn't want her to know that I needed any help.
My oldest sister Berta had a daughter a couple years older than Diego. She gave me a lot of clothes and baby things that she wasn't using any more. They had mostly been handed down to her from our mother after our youngest sister was through with them. We had another sister also, between Berta and I, who had no children. But after she saw the excitement and joy Berta and I had, she began talking to her boyfriend about marriage. I don't think he liked us very much.
The three of us spent most of our time fawning over our two children. Our youngest sister, Elsa, was only four, but she wanted to be a part of the mothering, too, so we made it a family affair. We had grown up competing with each other, fighting over the stupidest things, but now we grew closer than ever.
I never had many friends. I always kept people at school away at arm's length, so my family was all I had most of the time, and even when I fought with my sisters, they were still my best friends.
They didn't like Diego Sr. Whenever he came into a room they were in, he barely acknowledged them, and he usually sat back with a beer and an attitude like he owned the building. Berta pointed out how disgusting it was that he would put a hand down the front of his pants. I didn't know if it was a new habit, or if it was something he always did that I made a point of ignoring. Berta was always less patient than me. And she was never shy about telling me what she thought. She had kicked her own boyfriend out of their house when he tried to run her life. And now he lived in Tijuana while she made enough money painting condos.
But she was right about Diego. I kept hoping he would turn around. I kept wanting him to be the type of warm husband and father I had always pictured. The kind my father had always been for us.
It happens gradually. Selling out to a man like that. First you give into an argument that you don't think is important. You find yourself accepting problems you think are little and ignoring that they are large red flags. You allow a little more. Then a little more every day until it's overwhelming. The next thing you know, you're compromising everything you are for a man you no longer know.
Berta insisted I should give up on him. But I couldn't.
Claudia, the sister closest to my age, was the first to notice Diego Jr. taking his first steps. We were all busy with other things, food, diapers, laundry. But Claudia almost always had her eyes on the babies. I think she wanted to have them more than any of us. That was why it was ironic she had none. Or maybe it was because she had no children that she was so focused on ours. Whatever the case, she gasped with joy and we all turned around to see little Diego standing triumphantly on the cement floor. Wobbling a little. Reaching out for something to grasp. Finding none, he began to kneel.
But Claudia knelt down to his level. “Come on, sweetheart,” she said. “Come on.”
He looked at her. I stepped up behind her. Little Diego looked up at me. And he rose so quickly I thought he would leave his pants on the ground. He swayed a little. Like he was doing a dance. Then he put one shaking foot forward. He confirmed his footing. Then he put another foot forward. We all squealed with delight and Elsa ran into the room to share the moment with us. We went completely silent. The patter of his bare feet against the floor were the only sounds. I beamed with delight.
He began to fall forward and I jumped past Claudia to catch him. I scooped him up in my arms and spun him in the air while my sisters applauded. It was the proudest moment of my life thus far.
I told Diego Sr. about the miracle later that night. He just grunted and shrugged. I began to realize that Berta was right. But he was the father of my child now. And I had a duty to fulfill.
My child was a miracle. But one was enough. I did not want another. Especially with how little help Diego was. He provided some money. But that was about it. And even the money wasn't always very much.
I had been very cautious with birth control ever since I understood it. After I got pregnant, I learned as much as I could. No one ever taught me about it. It was a taboo subject at school. Mother and father did not speak of it with any of us. So now I got some books and read from them. They first suggested not having sex. But that was out of the question. Second, they suggested condoms, but Diego refused to wear them because he didn’t like how they felt. Third, they suggested a pill that would keep me from getting pregnant. I was very careful and made sure to take one of these pills every day.
But then I stopped taking them. I had changed my mind. I wanted a second child. I wanted Diego Jr. to grow up with someone he could rely on, the way I relied on my sisters. I told Diego my feelings and he didn’t respond. I took it as a yes. The next night that he wanted me, I opened up to him freely. I exploded with joy. The anticipation of a full family, of a brother or sister for little Diego filled me with a radiance that can’t be matched by any other kind of orgasm. I felt big Diego fill me up, and I couldn’t wait.
I was thrilled to find I was pregnant again. Little Diego would have a brother! We named him Mario, after big Diego’s father. But he would be our last child. Diego made it clear. I agreed.
I worked extra hard at the restaurant. I flirted freely with the boys. I discovered the power I could have over them. The energy in a slight “accidental” touch, or as I brushed past them. The allure of a glance. The magnetism of a strut. The desire of ever tighter clothing. Most of all, I learned how easy men are to figure out. To manipulate out of money. They’re simple creatures with basic desires. As long as I made them think they were achieving those desires the money poured in.
We moved into a trailer park. It was larger than the apartment. Once Mario grew older he might even be able to have his own room.
Things got even better when an American company moved into town to make a movie about a giant ship called the Titanic. I watched these wealthy people go in and out. They left good tips and I didn’t always have to flirt with them. Most of the time they seemed too tired to care.
I wanted to take big Diego to look at the spectacle. The gigantic boat was beautiful. The excitement around it so energetic. He wasn’t interested. So I took little Diego to see, along with Mario in the stroller.
I pointed the ship out to Diego Jr. “Do you see that boat?”
“Yeah. That's why we came, isn't it?”
“Yes. And do you know why I wanted to show this to you?” He shook his head. “Because one day you and I are going to sail away on that boat together. We'll sail away into the distance until no one can see us.”
“Not even Mario?”
“Don't be silly! Mario will be with us.”
“And Daddy?”
“Of course... Daddy.”
Soon after, the ship was gone. And so were all the people making the movie... And so was their money.
A few months later I was pregnant again. I didn’t understand it! I was certain I always took the pills. Every day.
I was frightened. We could not handle a third child. But it was too late. If I was an American girl, perhaps I would have gotten rid of it. But where I lived, that was unthinkable. And illegal.
Diego was furious. We could barely handle the responsibilities of two children. How were we going to handle a third? I didn't understand his anger. I took care of the children. I did everything. And when I was busy, my sisters did the rest. Diego did nothing. I suppose he didn't like so much money going to feed them. I was having more and more difficulty explaining to him that we needed less money to go toward beer and more toward food.
He hit me... First with the back end of his hand, then with the front end. A fist clenched tightly that struck my cheek with all his might. He pressed me up against the wall, demanding I tell him it wasn't true. When I refused, he placed my arm against a hot stove and gave me a permanent scar.
I went to live with my parents. My younger sister still lived at home, so it was crowded with all of us, two children, and a third on the way. But we did the best we could. They were just happy I no longer had Diego in my life.
He came by sometimes shouting for me. Both of my parents told him I wasn't there. That in any case he should leave or they will call the police.
“I love you!” Diego shouted one time past them. “I love my children! Come back to me!” My father rose the guitar above his head as if to strike him and Diego ran. But his words got through to me. I began regretting.
Diego Jr. was old enough to ask questions now. He asked me where Daddy was. Why had I left? The less he understood, the more he resented me.
Father came home exhausted every night with his guitar in hand. He usually had a couple drinks, even when the doctors told him he had a bad liver and needed to stop. He said that he needed the beers to unwind. He began teaching me how to play. He sat me in his lap and showed me the chords. He played all day for work, but he was so passionate about the music that he continued to play for us at night. I often heard him play privately for my mother. An American song called 'Pretty Woman'.
It was the bright part of any day when he came home and played something lively for us to sway to, or softly for the children to fall asleep to. Many of his songs were in English. His favorites were from a Mexican who sang American songs, Ritchie Valenz.
Berta had also learned to play, though she wasn't as good as Daddy. She visited a lot with her daughter. Her boyfriend and she were back together, and he came sometimes, too. And by the size of her belly, another member of their family would soon join along.
She sometimes took the guitar and played a tune, inspiring Daddy to take it back and play a song he suddenly remembered. She often sang along as he played. She was open and honest about all of her feelings. And she made it clear just how much she worshiped him.
Daddy made me practice English. He would turn to me and say, “Open the door.” When I returned the gaze confused, he made the motion and would not leave me alone until I opened the door. He then told me to “close the door,” and did not stop bugging me until I closed it. The orders became more complicated, but he would not play his guitar for us until we understood what he was saying in English and do as he asked. In this way I learned the language quickly. The look of pride on his face was far more incentive than a grade in school could ever have given me.
Speaking of school, by this time I had long since dropped out. But my mother was adamant about me completing it. Education, especially for girls, was very important to my mother. She told every one of us that we would have to stand on our own two feet, and that we should never rely on men. Not even if they are our husbands. I wondered if Father found that offensive. But when she said things like that around him, he just went on doing whatever he was doing.
She made me go to night classes while she took care of my children. Elsa was beginning school, and I often saw her coming home while I was going to school. She would hop up and wave excitedly to me. She found it thrilling that we were learning out of the same building.
It was supposed to take me three semesters. But I made Mother proud when I returned with a diploma in two.
I'll never forget that day, because as I showed her one treasure, I found that I had another on its way. Holding my diploma high, my water broke and I began screaming. I dropped my diploma into it. Someone grabbed it and someone else grabbed me and put me in a chair. I could hear someone else calling a taxi.
The cab driver didn't know what he was in for. I only saw his eyes in the rear view mirror, but they were filled with panic as he dashed through the bumpy streets to the hospital. I thought the baby would come out with black and blue lumps from being jostled around in the cab.
At the hospital, my father was by my side stroking my forehead. “Mi bella Marisela,” he said calmly as I pushed, screaming in pain. It didn't show on my face, but his efforts did wonders for me deep inside.
I named the baby after him, Tino.
The house was too crowded with all of us. I had to get out. But my tips had gone down ever since my pregnancy started to show. Even after the birth my body wasn't as tight as it had been. The men were always more willing to part with their money when they were attracted to me. As though giving me more money meant they had a better chance of sleeping with me. I had let them think that and flirted it up with them. But now they didn't care. And the money was drying up.
I began exercising after work. I watched what other people did and I tried to mimic them. I felt like a fool sometimes, stumbling. But the more I watched the people who were successful the better I got. And I felt my body getting into shape. I felt better in general, too. I had more energy. More spirit.
Every day, on my way to the gym, I passed a tattoo parlor. I would peak in and look past the customer wincing on the table at the art on the walls. It was beautiful.
I began noticing that some of the other waitresses had tattoos in “special spots.” Usually on the smalls of their backs reaching down into their pants. The boys often ran their fingers down the tattoos while they talked with the girls. And the waitresses let them because they knew that a five dollar bill was usually waiting for them at the end of the conversation. It was an investment.
I entered the tattoo store the next time I was passing by. It was near closing time. The place was empty of customers. I studied the art on the walls, recognizing the work from the waitresses. They were templates placed on dozens of people.
I spied the tattoo artist watching me from the next room. He was a man with long hair and thick arms. His body was covered with his own work. I asked him about the designs, and he described each like it was his child. Some of them were Chinese characters. Others were designs he’d gotten out of a catalog.
I looked down at the table where a sketch book sat open to a page. On it was the drawing of a butterfly struggling to be free. It wasn’t as well drawn as the rest, but I felt a connection to it. I could relate with that animal, struggling to be free and see the world.
I interrupted the man and pointed at the design on the page. “How about this one?”
He explained that it was his private sketch pad, and that he had just been doodling.
“Can you draw it on my back?” I asked.
“I suppose I could do it. It’s not one I usually do. So it's going to be harder.”
“So it's completely unique?”
“Yes.”
“Would you do it? For me? Just me? And never put it on anyone else.”
“Well, if I’m not going to put it on anyone else, that makes this one more valuable.”
I squirmed. I could barely afford to do any design, let alone a more expensive one. I had hoped to flirt my way into having a cheaper tattoo, not a more expensive one. “How much is it going to be?” I asked, tensing.
“I suppose I could give it to you for free,” he said with a smile.
“Really?” I was so surprised. No one gave anything for free. Not even when they were helping each other. The man’s face was beautiful when it grinned. So refreshing. It was one of those rough faces that put you at ease when it relaxed. He walked to the front door and closed it while I exclaimed, “Thank you! Thank you! What do we do?”
He walked back up to me, still smiling, and stopped just in front of me. “First,” he said, “You have to suck my dick.”
I froze. I thought he was telling me to get lost. I felt so bad. So rejected.
Then he unzipped his pants and I knew he was talking literally. “You suck my cock, and I’ll paint the butterfly on your back.” That beautiful, refreshing smile was replaced by the serious scowl of a businessman.
I looked at the design. I knew that having it tucked into the back of my pants would catch the attention of men from across the room. That the tips would increase. This was just one thing. I could do it quickly. Get it over with. But that would make me a whore. Or would it? Whores took money for sex. This would be in exchange for a service. Was it really the same? I had to think about it. I excused myself and hurried for the door.
“I can't say the offer will be any good tomorrow. I'm horny now,” he said.
I looked at him a moment, then opened the door and walked out. It was like a different world outside. One where I could breathe. Everyone walked by calmly. Like nothing evil could ever happen.
But how evil was this really? I looked into my purse. At the sparse tips. No one cared what I did or didn't do. No one would care if my children starved. I looked back at the store. At the lights being turned out. I closed my purse, held it tight, and walked back inside.
I had only given head to one man in my life.
“On your knees,” he told me with a smile. I did as he ordered.
I only knew what pleased one man.
He unzipped his pants and let them drop with the underwear. His penis pointed at me. It reminded me of something from a long time before.
I had promised myself I would only have sex with men that I loved. I had hoped it would only be one man, the man I would marry.
The tattoo man saw my hesitation and grabbed my head. He helped me start. I did as he ordered. I closed my eyes and pictured my children eating a feast.
When I opened them again I realized he wasn't grasping so hard any more. The tattoo man was so lost in the moment he had all but forgotten me. I began to realize how much power I had over him. It was the same power I had always had over Diego, but never dared to use. The tattoo man looked at me furiously. I grasped his penis with my hand to remind him what he could have if he obeyed me.
“I want two colors on it,” I told him.
“That's extra,” he responded. I could see him panting. How much he wanted me to continue. I released my hand and began to turn away. “All right! All right!” he exclaimed. “I'll give you three colors if you want. Just...”
I slowly moved my lips to his penis again. I blew on it, and he looked away. Moaning. I licked it and he shook. Almost screaming. When I put my mouth on it again I had full control over his emotions.
That's when I learned how I could control men. That's when I learned how easy they are...
And that's when I learned how to count.
For the next hour, while I lay on his table and he drew on my back, I stared at the floor in numb silence. I tried to ignore the bitter taste in my mouth by thinking of what I would eat with the money I saved. I hoped it would help at the restaurant.
It did. Boys sometimes grabbed at my back pocket and yanked me toward them so they could touch the tattoo. I felt occasional slaps on the butt by boys who thought they were the only ones clever enough to come up with that. But they all tipped. Sometimes they even stuck dollar bills into the back of the pants by the butterfly. Some of them were drunk enough to stick large bills and we’d eat for a week off of it.
I always explained the tattoo as an investment. Which it was. I never explained how I earned it. And I never walked by that parlor ever again.
Diego Jr. began asking about his father again. He missed him. He had started school and all of his friends had fathers who lived at home with them. Why did he have to hide from his?
One day Diego Jr. came home with a guilty look on his face. At first I thought he had gotten in a fight, or did something wrong at school. But I later learned that his father had come to see him. He had told Diego Jr. not to tell me. So I had to learn about it from a teacher. From that moment forward I told little Diego that if he wasn't home thirty minutes after school he was grounded.
Diego Jr. followed my orders. A couple weeks later I was awoken in the middle of the night by whispers at the window. Diego Jr. was there talking with his father. Asking him questions. Wanting to know about his past. “Diego, get out of here before my father wakes up,” I hissed at him.
“Marisela, please don't send me away,” he whispered. “I've changed. I've got a job. A good job. And a house. You'll be proud of me. It's a house on the beach.”
“On the beach?” I asked. This wasn't the lazy Diego I had known. That is, if he was telling the truth.
“That's why you didn't hear from me for a while. I went back and cleaned up my life. I'll be a good father. I will. Please, Marisela. This is the only thing I've ever done right in my life. Let me do it again.”
I looked at Diego Jr.'s pleading face. I didn't love Diego anymore, but how could I refuse him his own children if he truly had cleaned up his act? Worse yet, how could I deny the children their father?
I went to the house. He had been telling the truth. It was about the size of my parents' home, but it was four rooms all to ourselves. The patio let out straight onto the beach. We had a view of the ocean. The calming sound of the waves could put us all to sleep every night. I always loved the ocean for that very reason. The slow rhythm of it.
And Diego seemed different. Proud of what he was doing for a change. But most importantly, the children were happy around him. He boxed with Diego Jr. and Mario and held Tino like the most fragile of eggs.
My father begged me not to go to him. He told me this was all an act to get me back. That things would change once I was there. I became angry and yelled at him. I told him to go to hell and stormed away. I disregarded the hurt look on his face. He deserved it.
That night I made wild love to Diego. It was partly to make up for the time we had lost. But also it was to spite my father. How dare he tell me I'm wrong? This was right. This was SO right!
I didn't pay much attention to what Diego did for a living. He didn't want me to know. Any time I asked, he told me not to worry about it and gave me a small wad of cash. I probably knew all along what he was doing, but I turned away. I quit my job at the restaurant so I could take care of the children full time. Diego had enough to take care of us all. So we didn't need anything more.
The houses on either side of us were mostly owned by Americans who only occupied them for short spurts. Most of the time we had the beach to ourselves, which gave Diego the privacy he needed to do his business. He often met his clients next to the wall of one of these empty houses. They walked out of sight and I never saw what they did.
We lived further from my family than we had before. So I didn't see them very often. I began to miss them. But none of my sisters or parents felt comfortable around Diego. Berta and Claudia came by a couple times. But as soon as Diego entered the room, they began making excuses and left.
My father never even called. I noticed that he was partially right about Diego. Once I was in the house he no longer made efforts to please me. He was typically more interested in his beers than how my day went. I couldn't ask him about his. That was the secret job he didn't want me to know anything about.
I figured it out, though. One day he let me see some of his leftover “supplies.” He taught me to sniff it in a rolled up peso, and we fell backward on the bed, our heads in the clouds. I think I heard the children knocking at the door later that evening, but I didn't want to leave my comfortable nirvana.
The next morning I found out why they had been knocking. Tino's diaper needed to be changed, and Diego Jr. had gotten poop all over the floor trying to do it himself. I put the white stuff away and never looked at it again.
His business apparently began to pick up steam when an American who could smuggle the goods across the border partnered up with Diego.
I tried to save every peso and dollar I had. But typically the money never passed through my hands. Diego began enjoying more of his own “supplies” and much of the rest of the money went to beer. It was all I could do just to keep Diego Jr. from drinking it.
When there was nothing in the refrigerator I confronted Diego. I reminded him that he promised that he had changed. His response was to hit me... several times.
It was time to leave again, this time for good. But how was I going to convince the children it was the right thing to do? They would never forgive me. I could live without Diego's love, but I could never live without theirs. I knew a woman who divorced her husband. She went to my mother's church. She and her ex moved to opposite sides of town. After the divorce was final she only saw her children every other week. She didn't do anything those weeks she was alone. Just laid on her bed and cried. Then her husband moved out of town and she had to live without them every other month. We never heard from her during those months.
Then I missed my period. It couldn't be happening again. I was always so certain to take my pills. I never missed a day. Yet it was happening whether I believed it or not. I got a home test and it came out positive. I bought a second one. And a third. I begged them to tell me different. But they didn't.
I went to my mother's church. After she was gone, of course. After everyone was gone. I went to the front and fell to my knees. I begged Jesus, who I hadn't paid attention to for a long time. I begged him to say it wasn't so. I begged him to turn back the clock, to put me back. To place me in myself before it all started... Before I was eleven.
And then I realized that I was doing the worst thing I ever did in my life. I was wishing away my children. I jumped to my feet and ran out. As though the man hanging on the wall was responsible. As though he had threatened to take my children from me. I ran home and I grasped Diego Jr. and held him tight. He squirmed, unaware and annoyed. But I held him regardless.
I tried to find a good time to tell Diego. A time when he was in a good enough mood he wouldn't beat me out of anger. He seemed cold. Distracted by something. It took me off guard and I put off telling him. Then he didn't come home until late on most nights. He didn't notice me. Even when I lay naked under the bed and stretched out one leg to entice him. I had decided that if I wasn't going to leave, if I was going to stay for the sake of the kids, I might as well make it enjoyable. But even that night he walked past me, lay down on the bed and fell asleep.
The next time I was at the Oxxo buying milk I noticed a few people staring at me. Rosarito is a small town where everyone knows each other's business, often before the people who are being gossiped about. Apparently I was the one being talked about this time because they looked away whenever I turned toward them. In times like this it's usually your family that gives you the bad news. And this was no exception. Berta finally told me that Diego was running around behind my back. She could hardly hide the smirk on her lips.
And it wasn’t just one affair. He was sleeping with several girls. It became more widely known what he did for a living, and they were all excited by his recklessness. I wanted to go to each one of them and punch them in the face. They knew he was still living with me. And they purposely played around with him behind my back. They humiliated me. I wanted to return the favor.
But my belly was beginning to show. And I couldn't risk damaging the baby. I was beginning to have back pains. I was often sick in the mornings. And I even had trouble sitting because I was giving myself multi-butt-vitamin injections again.
One of the girls didn't know I was home all the time. She came knocking at the door and I answered, Tino in my arms. As she stammered, I placed little Tino into his brother's arms, punched the bitch in the nose, then calmly closed the door and took Tino back into my arms again.
I finally confronted Diego and he denied it. Of course. I stopped sleeping with him. I slept on the floor. The couch. Anywhere he wasn’t. I kept meaning to leave, but I could never bring myself to take the children away. Part of me somehow wanted to work things out. Another part of me knew I couldn't. But I could not imagine life without him. More importantly, that same part of me didn't want the children to grow up without their father. I stayed with him in spite of my entire being.
Sleeping away from him seemed to work. He humbled himself. Stopped disappearing. And acted like a boyfriend again. He even started referring to me as his wife. I suppose by law I was since we had lived together for more than a year and had children together. I couldn't help but notice that he never got a ring. But at least he took a better interest in the lives of the children. And at last he noticed what was happening to my body. He wasn't angry. He was too apologetic to be angry.
The baby turned out to be a girl. She was simply a work of art. A painting made in heaven. I named her Mona after the Mona Lisa. I didn't even ask Diego. This was my little girl.
My family was around me again, my mother, Elsa, my two older sisters. Claudia now had a daughter. Berta had a second son. They swooned over my fourth born the way we always did over every baby. My father was there, too. It was the first time I had seen him in a long time. He looked older. Pale. I barely noticed at the time, though. I was in such a daze of exhaustion and euphoria.
I held Mona aloft as though presenting the new queen. She cried, and we all laughed to one another. My father stepped forward and pet her on the head and I pulled her slowly back down. He smiled at her. Then at me. I always felt lost in that smile. He put his hand on me the same way he had put it on Mona. Like I was the baby now. That was the first moment I noticed how he looked. The shakiness in his hand gave it away.
“She's a little miracle,” he told me.
“Yeah,” I replied. “They're all miracles. And tomorrow I'm getting my tubes tied so I don't have any more little miracles.” We shared a laugh together.
Then Diego pulled her away from me. “Careful!” my father scolded. But Diego was being careful. He knew how to hold a baby. He folded his arms under her shape and stared at her.
“We'll name her after my mother-”
“No!” I snapped. “Her name is Mona.” He began to open his mouth, but I leaned forward, my eyes ablaze with the fury that came with giving birth. “Her name is Mona and that is final.”
He backed down. “Fine,” he said, handing, almost tossing her back to me. “She's your kid.”
I suddenly wondered something I had never thought of before. How had Diego been treated as a child? His mother was almost certainly insane. She sat in front of the television most of the time. Except for the moments of rage when she would rise and throw things at whomever she was mad at. Or whoever was closest. He had two older brothers who took out their frustrations at the world on him. They told him they were teaching him to be a man. It was an excuse for them to beat on him. He never knew his father. Except that he heard he beat his wife’s ex-boyfriend almost to death. That’s how they had gotten together. That’s how Diego was born. And then the bastard disappeared. Diego vowed that he would never do that. Never abandon his family.
This was the reality Diego had grown up in, and I only saw the result of a child who came out of that kind of existence. I pitied him.
The pity didn't last long. When I got home I could barely walk. Which made it nearly impossible to chase the boys around. Especially while I was holding the new baby. Diego didn't help. Most of the time he wasn't there. And when he was, it was like taking care of a fifth child. He was needy. Lazy. Completely self-involved. I was too busy to notice if he was high. But he was downing several beers at any given moment.
It was Diego Jr, now eight, who stepped up and helped. He became known as Little Daddy. He was far beyond his years in maturity and intelligence. The multi-butt vitamins were finally paying off!
The best part of me and my sisters all having children is that they got to play together. We all became closer in motherhood than we ever had been as children. We shared ideas, experiences, and what we learned. I left my children with them, but neither left their children with me. They didn’t trust Diego. It was okay. Four children was all I could handle anyway.
Occasionally Diego would forget to pay the electric bill and I would have to go pay to turn the lights back on. Once that happened on a cold, windy night when it was too late to do anything about it. We would have to accept it until we could do something about it in the morning. I began wondering again why I was staying with him.
I pulled out the candles and lit a couple. Tino was frightened. I held him close along with Mona. Little Daddy, being the man he was, held Mario close to himself. The wind howled outside, making the night more chilly and frightening. We huddled together. We lit a candle on the floor between us.
“I'm scared,” Mario whined.
“Don't be, darling,” I told him. “Changes in life are opportunities for something new. This storm has given us the opportunity to tell a story. Look at me, Mario. Listen. Once upon a time there were three little pigs and they were all building houses.”
“How do pigs build houses?” Mario asked.
“Don't be stupid,” Little Daddy scolded. “With bricks and stuff.”
“I'm not stupid! You're stupid!”
“Nobody's stupid!” I told them, my hands out. “We're all smart, just like the pigs who made their houses, but not all out of brick. Only one of them did. The rest made them out of straw, and paper, and stuff like that.”
“Why would anyone make their house out of paper?” Little Daddy asked.
“Because they're pigs,” Mario blurted from his lap. They laughed together. It's amazing to me how brothers can be at each other's throats one moment, then laughing together the next. We sisters were close, but when we got angry with each other we held a long grudge.
“But then a big, bad wolf came along,” I continued. “He wanted to eat the pigs! He came to the first house and said, 'Let me in! Let me in! Or I will blow your house down!' And the little pig said, 'Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin!'”
“They had beards?” Mario asked.
“These pigs did. So the wolf huffed, and puffed, do it with me.” We all took a big breath and the children copied me. “And he blew the house down!” We all blew. The candle went out. Mona screamed.
“Is our house going to blown down?” Mario cried.
“No,” I assured him, rocking Mona. “That was just the wrong fairy tale to tell.” I lit the candle again.
A knock came at the door. A sudden and loud cracking at the wood. We jumped at the sound. I told Diego to go answer it. He took Mario with him and together they opened the door.
It was Berta. “Is your mother here?” she asked hastily. Little Daddy led her to me. Not a long distance. Her form moved briskly through the dark. And when her face appeared in the candle light it revealed fear. “You must leave here right away,” she said urgently.
“Why?” I asked.
She looked briefly at the children. Lifted me up and led me away from them. I continued to hold Mona, but left the boys by the candle light. I could hear Tino beginning to whine. But Little Daddy looked after him.
“Diego has been caught selling drugs.”
“Where? How?”
“I don’t know. But the Federales are on their way. They’re going to arrest you and take your children away. They’re not here yet because they’re stopping at the DIF to get a social worker to take them.”
“No one’s going to take my babies!” I cried out to her. I was too loud and Mario began to cry.
“No one’s going to. We won’t let them. But you have to come with us right now!”
We blew out the candle and ran to the car. Mario’s crying became a bellow. He wanted to get his toys. His dolls. His favorite possessions. To him they were like real living beings. Like pets. But if he went back for them we would probably lose each other. I told him no. We hurried out to the waiting cab.
A couple blocks down the road we saw two police cars and an unmarked federal car pass by, their lights blazing. Home was gone.
The paved road gave way to the dirt roads in the hills where most people in Rosarito live. To the home of my parents. The place I grew up where I would now be hiding my children.
We rushed inside and the kids took refuge in the guest bedroom. My mother had known we were coming and prepared it for us. My father only shook his head.
For the next few days my sisters created an entire spy network. Watching for the police. Trying to get information about Diego. He was in serious trouble. He could only get a lighter sentence by telling on other people who might come back and hurt him. I couldn’t visit him. I couldn’t even go into town. I had to remain hidden.
The entire family pulled together and brought groceries for me and my kids. My father played with the grandchildren. Made them feel like nothing was going wrong. It almost made me feel like everything was okay. Or was going to be.
But reality caught up with us a week later. Berta, who lived next door, came to the house hurriedly. The look on her face said it all. I knew it was time to move on.
We stayed with Claudia and her husband for a few days. Our children got to know one another as they never had before. Neither Claudia nor her husband looked happy to have us there. This could get them in trouble. But she kept us hidden nonetheless. I was grateful.
Me and the boys slept in one bed together, while Mona, dearest Mona, slept in a cradle.
After a couple weeks Claudia’s husband was willing to pay the fee of a hotel if we would just stay there instead of live with them. He put us up in one of the nicest places. The Hotel America in Tijuana where the police would hopefully not search for us… And a long way from the rest of the family. It was none too soon, either, for a day after we left the police arrived on their doorstep looking for me. Looking for answers I couldn’t give them. And looking to take my children away.
Now all five of us slept in one bed together. We ate in bed together. We played in bed together. There was only one chair and a table, a bathroom, and the large bed we spent most of our time in. No one was allowed out without the whole group traveling together. And then we only walked down the hall and back. Usually to get ice.
We occasionally caught a glimpse of other customers. They were usually tourists passing through. But a number of times I saw women in tight, revealing outfits passing by either with a man, or going to a door and knocking. Diego Jr. liked to stare and I turned his face away from it. Some nights we could hear them in the neighboring rooms. I turned up the sound on the TV. But I couldn't cover up the pounding on the walls. Mario asked me what it was. I told him it was someone hammering.
“But why are they moaning?” he asked.
Tino gave a better answer than I could. “Because they're ghosts, stupid!”
Food was brought to us by my family. Usually Claudia. Sometimes by my mother, who made the thirty minute trek from Rosarito to see me. When questioned, they all explained that I had gone to cross the border into America with the children. And they didn’t know if I had made it or not.
I wondered about Father. Why had he not come? But I didn't ask. I was angry that he wouldn't visit me. And I didn't want him to know I missed him. In my better days, I imagined that he was staying at home to fool the police while my mother and sisters sneaked food and information to me.
Weeks passed. I sometimes felt like a prisoner. But I had my children. And nothing was more important than that. I was frustrated. But I was also grateful to my sister and her husband for taking care of me.
At first the children were very patient about hiding away. To them it was like an adventure. Diego Jr. continued his role as Little Daddy, leading the others in tales of imaginary explorations. His guidance led them to wide open spaces in distant lands so the confined space wasn't even noticeable. It was a miracle that this kept them occupied for several weeks. But after a while even a child's imagination dries up. They need real space. I told them that if we were seen we would be separated. That kept them from going outside. But it also made them cry. Something had to be done.
Then came the fateful day that changed everything.
I opened the door wide for Claudia, anxiously awaiting the food she was bringing. She wore a grave expression on her face. And Berta stood behind her.
“Can Diego take care of his brothers?” Berta said.
“Why?” I asked.
“We need to talk.”
“You'll be able to go home soon,” Claudia told me. I brightened at that.
Berta never cracked a smile. “We need to talk first,” she said.
I told Diego to take care of the others while the three of us walked outside. I made sure the door was locked, and walked outside with them.
“Daddy's in the hospital,” Berta told me in the car. We were driving somewhere in downtown Tijuana. I didn't know where. Claudia was driving. Her eyes fixed as though frightened of something.
“Oh my god!” I exclaimed. “How can I help?”
“By not being a financial burden,” Berta answered. “You need to find a job, Marisela.”
“If you do, we can help you go home,” Claudia said. She was trying to see the bright side.
Berta was unmoved. She continued to speak in that monotone voice. Eyes always forward while Claudia drove. “We found a job that pays well for someone with your experience.”
“My experience?” I asked. What kind of experience did I have? “What is it?”
Claudia stopped in front of a building. As Berta stepped out of the car, I looked at the front door. It was a red curtain with several men sitting on stools in front. I craned my neck to get a look at the sign overhead. Chicas. I knew this place. A whorehouse. Berta opened my door. “No!” I screamed, pulling back from her.
“Marisela,” Claudia said, trying to sound comforting. Berta only reached in at me.
“I won't go!”
“Marisela, calm down,” Berta said as she continued to reach at me while my legs kicked at her.
“We're not making you do anything,” Claudia told me. She was trying to be reassuring with her voice, but I could hardly be tamed while Berta was grasping at me.
“Do you know what they do in there?” I shouted at them.
“Yes,” Berta said sternly. “They do what they have to do.”
“I'll find something else!”
“What else?” Berta demanded. “What are you trained to do? You barely graduated high school!”
I looked away, unable to breathe. I let my guard down and didn't notice Berta reaching in for me again until she had my arm and was pulling me out. I grasped at Claudia's seat, begging her not to make me go. I screamed and I cried. Claudia looked away, holding back the tears.
“Think of your kids!” Berta said as she pulled me out. “How are they going to eat?”
“I'll find something!” I cried.
“It's too late!” she said, and finally yanked me out of the car. She stood in front of the open doorway and pointed into the club. “Go make money for your children!”
People were staring now, but I didn't notice. Berta jumped back into the passenger seat and I leaped at the door. Clawed at the window. Begged to be let in. “Drive,” Berta told Claudia. But Claudia couldn't move. She was crying almost as much as I was. But her tears were silent.
Mine were howls as I scratched, trying to get in. “Don't leave me here!”
“Drive!” Berta insisted, and Claudia threw it into gear. They drove away down the road. Past the line of strip clubs and brothels. I chased. I ran past the beggars. The prostitutes. The vendors. The street peddlers. I ran into the middle of the street and chased her car for a couple blocks until they disappeared around a corner. I crumpled onto the side of the road and cried. My eyes were too filled with tears to notice how many people were staring at me.
Berta and Claudia had abandoned me. They were my sisters no more.
When I was eleven my Uncle Pablo showed me that no one can be trusted. Not even family. I learned it first from him. And finally from my sisters.
I stumbled back to the hotel room. I would find something. Anything but what they were suggesting.
I returned ragged and exhausted. Diego Jr. was there serving food to his brothers and sister. He had concocted a sort of dip using beans, a couple kinds of meat and blue cheese dressing. The others dipped their favorite chips into this, from corn chips to Fritos. Many of these had landed on the floor. My eyes grew large and though I thought my legs wouldn't carry me another step, I found the strength to run to Diego Jr. and yank the bowl away from him. “What the hell are you doing!” I shouted. “Why are you using so much food for one meal! That's not even healthy! Mario! Fritos inside bean dip? What are you thinking?”
Tears welled up in Diego Jr.'s nine-year-old little eyes. “I tried my best, Mommy.” He ran and locked himself in the bathroom and I heard the heartbreaking sobs for an hour. It was weeks of pent-up frustration. I felt like crying myself, but when I looked into the eyes of the others I knew I couldn't. I pulled myself together and handed the dip back to them. I picked up Mona and gave her her baby formula.
Over the next few days the situation got worse. I tried to give less food to make it last longer. But the less I gave, the more impatient they grew. And the more they wanted to escape and wander the town where they would be picked up, and I would lose them. So I gave more food and it got used up.
I thought for certain there would be a restaurant that could take me. I had all of that experience in Rosarito. And here in Tijuana there were plenty of restaurants serving hungry tourists. In Rosarito we only had one busy week a year. Here the tourists traveled through every day. There was only one place I went that could actually use someone. But there was a stack of applicants two inches high, and most of them could provide addresses and references. All I could give was a hotel room.
Claudia didn't come anymore with food. No one came. I began mixing food in strange assortments. We all gave them new names. Sometimes the kids liked the newness of it, sometimes they didn't and I had to listen to endless complaints. These complaints grew louder. And I was afraid someone would hear.
We had to get more food. It was as simple as that. I walked out to try for a job again. Maybe I could get work at a market where I could get discounts. As I stepped out the front door, I was stopped by the hotel manager. “When is your sister coming back?”
“I don't know.”
“Well your rent for the week is past due by several days. I've got to get that soon or we've got to clear you out.”
“Okay,” I said.
“And don't try to sneak out without paying. I know you don't want police trouble, but that's just who I'll call if you try anything.”
It was worse than I thought. Not only did I need money to eat in the future, I needed to pay for shelter for the past or we'd be arrested. I was more frightened than I had ever been in my life as I walked down the uneven sidewalks of downtown Tijuana. The women stood along the walls holding their bare shoulders as the wind pelted them. They were cold, but they couldn't put on their jackets or else the bare shoulders of the girl standing next to them would attract the next customer. Their teeth chattered as they clicked their tongues at passing men. Their shivering legs stuck out, almost tripping passers to get their attention.
I stepped past a couple of these ladies into a market. I asked the manager if they were hiring. He barely looked at me as he told me they weren't. His shoulder was as cold to me as the wind outside. I thanked him and walked further into the store. His eyes never lifted toward me. The cans of food and shelves of meat stood invitingly before me. It was there for the taking. The man wasn't looking at me. He had been rude. He was careless. He deserved to be robbed.
I looked around me and only noticed a concave mirror near the ceiling. It doesn't do much good when the manager isn't watching it. I couldn't believe what I was doing when I lifted a can from the shelf. My hand shook as I stared at it. Better work fast. I looked at the manager again. He was lost in... something below the counter. His eyes weren't on me. The door was just past him. I could pick up some meat, throw it all in my jacket pockets and be out before he knew what happened.
Then a noise raised behind me. Apparently just another customer talking to the person he was with, but it was enough to cause me to jump. I dropped the can and hurried out the front door.
Outside I caught my breath, pulling myself together. Maybe this was just a trial run. I could try a different store.
“You all right?” came a voice from the doorway. I looked up to see one of the prostitutes standing there. She was older. At least she looked older. It could have been the cigarette she was rolling in her fingers. Her breasts were like giant pairs squeezed behind a tight black corset until they were ready to burst. Her body was thin, but not frail. Her eyes spoke a world weariness and wisdom I recognized, but could not place my finger on.
“Yeah,” I said. “I'll be fine.” Then I realized why I recognized her. “I know you from the hotel.”
“Oh yeah, you've got four kids, right?”
“Yes!” I said, beaming.
“Yeah, they're cute.” She looked away and sucked on her cigarette. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. “Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“Shoot.”
“How much do you get paid?”
She blew out smoke. “Twenty dollars American. That's to start. But I always offer them more once they've seen my tits. More services, more money. They don't even know they're spending it.”
“Oh,” I replied.
“Needing more money for your kids?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“I've got a daughter that needs braces.”
“Aren't you afraid she'll see you out here?”
“She isn't allowed to come anywhere near here. I'm making sure she gets an education so she won't have to. You looking to join the line?”
A police car passed by at that moment. I turned away from it. Then back to her. She looked straight at me. She knew. “You'll be wanting to work inside then. Try one of the massage parlors. You can start out light. You have to split the money with the owner, but they'll bring in the customers. Best of all, you're inside.” She held herself, shivering. I could see the goose bumps all over.
I went right away to the line of brothels where my sisters had dropped me off. One of them said 'Massage Parlor' over the door in red neon. While every other building had a marquee overhead, this was just a cement front with a door and stairs beyond.
But the top of the stairs opened up to the look of a fancy hotel. Dim lighting revealed ivory tables, marble floors, and gold-plated frames. Someone with taste decorated this place.
A man in an expensive suit was helping a customer choose among a line of girls dressed like they belonged on a Catholic school yard. The light hit their bodies but avoided their faces. They each stood at attention, their arms behind their backs. The man in the suit was courteous, speaking softly as though they were in a sacred hall. The customer, dressed in blue jeans and a brown jacket, swayed a little as he studied each one. The manager expressed the qualities of several of the girls as he led the man down the line.
When they reached the end, the man in the brown jacket looked back at them. Focused on their breasts. He reached out for one of them and she pulled back.
“Ah, ah,” the gentleman in the suit said. “No touching the merchandise until you've bought it.”
The man in the jacket nodded. Then studied a moment longer. At last he pointed at one of them.
“Great choice,” the manager said. He snapped and the other girls left. “Right this way,” he said, pointing to one of the rooms. And they approached it. But before they could enter, the manager stepped up next to him. Clearing his throat, he held out his hand.
The man in the brown jacket pulled out his thick wallet. From it he removed a large wad of bills. The kind of rolled up wad Diego used to carry. He handed a portion of it to the manager.
“Enjoy,” the manager said, patting him on the back, and they disappeared together, closing the door behind them.
I met the manager at the desk as he put the money away. His attitude changed dramatically as soon as he saw I wasn't a customer. “What do you want? A job?”
“Yes,” I said. “Can you tell me what you do here?”
“Do? You satisfy customers. Whatever they want. You have to work it out with them, of course. The more you do for them, the more they'll give to you. Turn around.”
“What?”
He leaned over the desk impatiently. “Turn around.”
I stared at him a moment longer, then, timidly, turned in place.
“Hmm. That's a nice ass. We could probably make something off that. Come here.”
He motioned to one of the rooms that was open. I watched him nervously. I think I took a step forward before I heard a yelp from one of the rooms. It sounded like a yelp of pain. I couldn't be sure.
“That's Maria. She makes a lot for what she does. Come in here.”
I felt cold, as though the chill air outside had followed me. I continued to hear the woman screaming. It didn't sound like pleasure. But it was rhythmic. I walked into the dark room. He closed the door. Turned on the overhead. It was blinding after getting used to the dimness of the entry.
“Take off your pants,” he ordered. I didn't move for a moment. “You want to work in here or you want to go back out to the street. I said take off your pants!” I quickly unbuckled my pants and let them drop to the ground. I held my chest as if it was exposed and I closed my eyes. “And your underwear,” I heard him say. This was not the warm manager that had talked to the man in the blue jeans. I looked at him questioningly. “I've got to make sure you're not a guy.”
I grasped my underwear and pulled it forward to show my vagina to him. I could hear the screams in the other room getting louder as he yanked my panties further and looked down into them. “That's a nice pussy,” he said. He looked into my eyes. The charm began to appear in his face. “Real nice.” His hand reached down into my crotch and the charm disappeared, replaced by a scowl of greed. I didn't know what to do as I felt him fingering me. I grasped my breasts again and held in my tears. He didn't notice. He didn't care. He just felt around a moment. “Any diseases?” I shook my head. “We'll have to have you checked. Listen.” His finger pressed inside me several times while he gave me instructions. “When you get in the room, you start off giving him a massage and you listen to what the guy wants. If you can do it, you do it. If you can't, you don't. It's as simple as that. But if the customer gets angry, decides to leave, you don't get paid shit. Understand? So the advice I give you, suck his dick, let him ride you every which way, let him spray all over your face, let him touch you, let him lick you... You let that mother fucker fuck you six ways from Sunday and you enjoy every moment. You do that, sweetheart, and you'll fit in nice.”
He pulled out his finger and spanked my bottom. “Now put your pants back on. We'll give you an outfit and you can pay us back.”
As I put my pants back on I stammered with my words, but I had to say them. “Can... Can I start right now?”
He looked me over, thinking. “What size are you?
“Two.”
He thought a moment. “I've got a size one. You can squeeze into that until we get something else.”
It was funny to dress up as a Catholic school girl as I was neither Catholic, nor had I finished school.
I was in the next lineup. I was hoping to get picked, if, for no other reason, than just so I could take the tight clothes off. I wasn't. I quickly learned the worst part of this job. It's not the sex. It's waiting to be picked for the sex.
When at last someone picked me, a cold chill ran through my body. I felt both relieved and scared to death. I went to the room with him. Luckily, he was as inexperienced as me, and he was waiting for me to start everything. So I began with a massage before I even brought up the subject of doing something more. I didn't ask him what he wanted. I thought that if I led with a suggestion, I might be able to control the situation better. “You want...” I made a stroking gesture with my hand. “From my hand?” I had said it in English. It was hardly what Father had intended when he taught me the language, but it was coming in handy.
He nodded excitedly. He seemed relieved that I was leading. It was my first lesson in learning that they are as nervous about me as I am about them. More so, even. I never feared another customer after that. Except the ones that got violent.
He turned over and I pulled down his pants. He was so nervous and excited that he climaxed before he thought to ask me to do anything more. The next several visits were the same. I had only seen three penises before in my life. And now I was seeing dozens of them. I was fascinated with the way they looked. I began categorizing them in my head. There's straight as a board, crescent shaped, flat or wide, long and thin, I call these the ticklers. Some of them have strange little ridges. Others ripple down like wax dripping off a candle. They're hard to grasp.
I was giving a job to a “hook” penis, as I called it, the kind that almost rolls back on itself, when the man gasped, “Climb on.” I hesitated. “I'll pay you,” he said. “Twenty bucks.”
I knew the ladies here got paid at least fifty, probably more. “Eighty,” I said.
“Eighty?” he asked outraged. I stroked just under the soft pink portion, the area I knew that turned Diego on. This seemed to be a universal spot for men. And it was with this one. “Okay! Eighty. I'll get it from my wallet in a minute. Just climb on.”
I looked at his wallet. It was thick enough. He had the money. I looked back down at the hook. It wouldn't be a problem. But I knew that what I was about to do I could never take back. Perhaps it would be wrong for me to ever enter a church again. But the church was not feeding my children.
I pulled out the condom and wrapped his penis in it. I placed his thing between my legs. I had to search for a moment to make it fit. Then I lowered on it slowly. He didn't wait. He grabbed my arm and thrust into me. It hurt... like sandpaper was being rubbed inside me. I called out like I had heard the other women calling out and knew it wasn't all from pleasure.
But then it did begin to feel better. I loosened up and started to enjoy it. I had never known any man like this except Diego, and nothing could be harsher than his cave man thrusts. This man called me beautiful. He called me a goddess. Then he said a word in English I did not understand. “Gorgeous.” I thought he had said the Spanish word “Gorga,” which means “fat.” I looked at him, shocked. Perhaps it was the alcohol I had drunk, or maybe I had had enough, but I did something I couldn't believe I did. I slapped him. A moment after I had, I calmed enough to realize what terrible trouble I was in.
But he didn't get angry. He looked at me. Shocked. Then, oddly, a smile crossed his lips. “Do that again!” he told me.
“What, this?” I tapped my hand against his cheek.
“No! Slap me! Really mean it!”
I slapped him again.
“Oh yes!” he cried out. “Harder!”
I began slapping him harder with both hands. He thrust into me and I screamed as I hit him. We were both screaming and fucking and slapping and enjoying it. Then he turned his face and was met by one of my hands. It cracked him directly in the nose, and blood poured out. He screamed in agony and grasped his face. Blood was oozing through it.
I yanked away from him. He stumbled off the bed. Unable to see, he crashed around the room. Blood was getting all over him. All over the room. He screamed. I screamed. I wrapped the bed sheet around me and ran out of the room, still screaming.
That was the last time I worked there. I didn't even get paid for the job. I needed something else to bring in the money. On the street I looked at the line of brothels. Across from the massage parlor was Chicas, the place my sisters had “recommended.” I stood before the curtain considering. The music pulsated outside. The men on the stools stared at me. I could feel their eyes looking up and down my body. I could feel them undressing me with their minds. I had done it once... twice if you counted the tattoo man. “How much do I get per trick?” I asked one of the men. He pointed at a man with a mustache, the manager. “You charge sixty bucks. They pay eleven for the room. You keep thirty.”
“Forty,” I said, giving my best poker face.
He shook his head. “This is non-negotiable.”
I hesitated a moment, hoping he'd fold before I did. He didn't. Men were coming and he was about to switch his attention. “Okay,” I said.
“You've got to get completely naked and give them a blow job,” he told me seriously.
I took in a breath and blew it out. “Okay.”
“Fine. Come back when you're ready to start work.”
“I'm ready now.”
“No one's going to hire you dressed like that.”
The men stepped past me. The manager checked their IDs. I looked at the sleeves of my shirt. Then tore them off. The manager looked at me and saw what I was doing. He stared a moment. Then pointed at the top of his shirt. I got the hint. I ripped the top of my shirt down to my breasts. It wasn't pretty, but it was revealing. He looked me over one more time, then motioned his head to the curtain.
My eyes had to adjust to the darkness inside. There was a stage in the middle. Would I have to dance, too? When I was a little girl, my mother had sent me to ballet. I don't think she intended it to be used like this.
Among a crowd of women I saw a familiar face. Barbara. The most popular girl in school. She had had a child while in high school, and I heard that she had two more afterward. I had also heard that her boyfriend skipped town. She was probably there for the same reason I was. I rushed to her hoping she could help me.
She looked at me. I smiled. The moment she recognized me, she walked away. I tried to follow, but she stopped. “Don't come near me,” she said sternly, then continued away. I was alone.
I went to a corner and stood awkwardly. Held myself for comfort. I saw many of the women trying to entice the men. Walking to them. Smiling. Rubbing their fingers over their shoulders. Clicking their tongues. I would rather the men come to me.
One woman kept looking at me. Her hair was short, her skin dark. She looked like an Egyptian. She didn't say anything, just stared at me with a look that said she realized I was new. I felt relieved when a man came and took her upstairs, but when she returned she walked up closer and kept staring at me. I knew she was waiting to make fun of me. I held my head up with pride and tried to look away from her.
“You'll want to wear something more revealing,” she said.
I relaxed and looked at my clothes. “Yeah, I thought so,” I replied. “The bar doesn't give us anything?”
She shook her head. “The boys'll probably ask you to have a drink first. You speak English?”
I nodded.
“Good. Charm them as much as you can. That way they'll buy more drinks. And after they're all liquored up, they'll take you upstairs. It shouldn't take you more than 15 minutes per drink. The more you have, the more money you'll make. The waiter will give you a ticket. Whatever you do, don't lose them. You hand them in at the end of the night for money. Sometimes you make more from the tickets than you do upstairs.”
“Don't you get really drunk?”
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. Usually when my friends said that they laughed like it was some great joke. She was stoic. “It helps when you go upstairs. Drink as much as you can before that. And when you do go, don't laugh at them! Don't laugh about any part of them.”
I was quiet for a moment. So was she. “You did?” I asked.
She broke out with a chuckle. “Once. I won't make that mistake again.” We shared a laugh together. “You've got a good laugh,” she said. “Use that as much as you can.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“And don't ever get close to any of them. They're your customers. That's all. No matter what you feel for them, don't.”
I thought I would be passed up all night. Waiting was still the worst part of the job. Half of me wanted to be picked, and half did not. Until several hours passed and I didn't get picked. Then the part of me that needed money took over completely. I would have fucked a monkey if one had approached me with thirty bucks.
Then the moment of truth arrived. He was a fat man with a beard. But those weren't the first things I noticed about him. The first thing I noticed was his wedding ring. I wondered where this wife must be. What she must think. If she was sleeping alone tonight.
We had drinks together. Every drink gave me a ticket that was worth three dollars and fifty cents to me as long as I didn't lose it. Three American dollars. This was a whole day's pay in other places around my home in Rosarito. But this was Tijuana where men would empty their wallets for a look at what I see in the shower every day. He stammered as he spoke English to me. He made constant excuses for himself. Blaming the reason he did this on a bet he had with some co-workers. I just listened. It was fascinating. Like the man with the hook penis, he was more afraid than me. That helped me relax. So did the beers. I did as my friend told me, one every 15 minutes. But the real money would come when we went upstairs, and I didn't know for certain if it was leading there, or if he was wasting the time that I could be spending with a paying customer.
I zoned out of his excuses and wondered what my kids were doing. I hoped Little Daddy was living up to his name.
At last the fat man brought me back by suggesting we go upstairs. I stood up immediately and we left.
We were both new to this, though I didn’t tell him I was. When we arrived at the counter to get a room I didn't know what to say. And he didn't know what to ask. I think we both turned red.
“Name?” the person at the counter asked. I looked at the man who was renting my body for a half hour. I kept reminding myself of that. He's renting the body. Not me.
“I think he means your name,” he said.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. Maybe this wasn't the man's first time here. “My name?” I thought quickly. Claudia used to call me her Little Niña, which meant little girl in Spanish. I was like a little daughter to her. “Nina,” I told him.
The man at the counter looked around at a group of shelves whispering, “Nina. Nina...”
“I don't...” I stopped myself, afraid that revealing I was new might lose me a customer. But I had no choice. I needed whatever he was going to hand me. “I don't have anything here yet.”
“First time, huh?” the man said, breaking the mask.
“Hot dog!” the customer said. “I get to break your cherry!” He didn't run.
The man at the counter gave me a towel. A sheet. A bar of soap. A condom. He told me a room number. He nodded with a look on his face that said, 'Good luck.' I nodded and carried everything to the room.
It was small and dark with a lamp to one side and a square, hard bed in the middle. Before I had time to take it all in the man was naked, standing before the door. His penis was already growing. “Well?” he said impatiently. “Aren't ya gonna get naked?” It was as if all his fear and kindness was gone. Replaced by a demanding drunk.
As I knelt down to give him head, I left my body. For a moment I was looking down on myself. On my knees in front of a stranger. I was embarrassed. Ashamed. I saw myself for the first time as a true whore.
When I was a child I had seen myself as a teacher. Or an oceanographer. Or both. I saw myself swimming with whales and saving dolphins. I had stared down a shark at the aquarium where there was glass below the surface of the water and you could watch them. They seem dead in the eye to most people. But I saw a soul there. More recently I had seen myself as a psychologist. Saving lives through insights and advice. But no...
There I was kneeling before a man like he was my king with my mouth wrapped around his unit. When he was ready for more he propped me onto the bed. Onto my hands and knees. And stabbed into my vagina from the back. I couldn't avoid looking at myself again because there was a mirror at the head of the bed. So I stuffed my face into the pillow and thought of my reason for being there. My little children.
I began a habit that would continue for all the time I worked there. I counted down. Thirty minutes. This session is only thirty minutes. I can take that. Twenty minutes. Only twenty minutes left. What's taking him so long? Fifteen. God, I can’t take any more!
Later I would wash up. I would look at myself in another mirror. I would spit on myself. And I would break down crying. I would cry for hours, unable to control myself. I would fall on the floor and hate every molecule in my body. I would curse the day I was born. And I would curse my sisters. I swore they were my sisters no more. I would sob and moan. And when I had no more tears left, I would rise up and look at myself in the mirror. And I would swear that I will never cry again.
Ten minutes left.
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