The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 8

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.

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