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.