The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 4

Part 4

Three Words


I was at the club every day hunting for horny men before any of the other anacondas could take them. I sat in my perch and watched over the jungle. And when I saw the proper prey I swooped in for the kill.
I typically got about four hours of sleep each morning before waking the children and getting the two boys off to school. I then took a taxi with Tino and Mona to the hospital where I paid for my father’s machine and spent some time with him. Someone took him his guitar, probably Berta, and there were mornings when I sat across from him playing as best I could. After a couple attempted songs his eyes lit up. He recognized me. I played my favorite melody that I learned from him. A slow song from Ritchie Valenzuela. His head tilted as he watched me closely. I interrupted the song and went to his side. I didn't care if he would yell at me or punish me or anything. As long as he knew it was me.
His hand slid up to his mask and he removed it. He was breathing on his own. A miracle! But he wasn't smiling. “Are you... still working... there?” he asked.
My head lowered as my heart sank. I nodded. His hand reached out to me. Shaking violently. When he touched my cheek, I felt a thousand earthquakes trembling. But I didn't move. He stroked my cheek slowly. “You deserve better,” he said.
I had promised I would never cry again, and I didn't break that promise. Instead I looked away. Pulled myself together. I felt a tear coming out of an eye and I willed it back into its socket. I looked back at him. “Okay,” I said, placing his mask back on. I brought the guitar close to me and began playing his favorite songs. Lively, and fun. No more pain. No more tears.
I got out of the cab near the club that day and took a look around the neighborhood. On the opposite side of the block is a small street where the whores stand against the walls and taxis drive slowly across so boys can take a look, make their decision, and bring the girls into the cab for a quick suck and a $10 fee. Or go into one of the stain-filled rooms for a quick fuck and a $20 fee. The girls make less money and stand in the cold, but they own their destinies. No club owner to tell them what to do. They also got the guys who were coming out of the strip clubs horny and unsatisfied.
As I stood outside one of the clubs, its name was Shanghai, the door man, a muscular guy with a nice leather jacket, approached me. “You could work in here,” he said. “Make a pretty good living. Wouldn’t have to fuck no one.”
I didn’t know if I wanted to talk to this man. But then again, what did I have to lose? Hadn’t I gone through far worse without blinking an eye? “What’s it like in there?” I asked.
“Come in and check it out,” he told me. We walked inside the curtain.
Red lights smoothed over any flaws on the walls, the floor, the people. The girls were beautiful. Some danced on the bar. Some mingled with the men. Two of them were making out in a shower where men could watch through glass doors. In the center was a long stage where two women swung on the poles and the rings. There were two more levels of this that were open so men could look down on what was happening on the floors below them.
The girls walked on catwalks that had access to these balconies as well as to their dressing rooms where they could change.
The man showed me around the bar. Pointed my attention to the ladies at the tables with the boys. I did this a lot at Chicas, but it was always in preparation for going upstairs. “These girls don’t go anywhere with the boys,” he told me, answering my thoughts. “They just sit down and have drinks with them. You get a kickback, the same way girls do over at Chicas. But we pay more for it. You just keep the guy entertained, and make him want to buy you more beers. We make money. You make money. He gets your company. Probably jacks off thinking about you later. Everyone’s happy. And you don’t have to have sex with them.” He stopped, looking at me intently. “Unless you want to. But if you do, you do it with him privately. You tell him that he needs to leave a tip at the bar to take you out of here for a while. The tip’s usually something like fifty bucks. Then you negotiate your own price with him. There’s a hotel next door that lets you rent by the half hour. But this isn’t a whorehouse, so don’t offer yourself to anyone. And if you don’t want to, don’t do it.”
“Why don’t all the girls outside work in here?” I asked. It seemed a lot safer and cleaner than being outside.
“You’re pretty. It’s that simple. You ever stop being this pretty, we don’t want you here. Keep yourself looking good and you can make a lot of money.”
I told him I’d think about it. Then I went around the corner to work.
I kept working night and day and I drank so much with my customers that I no longer knew if my exhaustion was from being drunk, hung over, tired, or depressed, but I was never in my right mind and I got to where I could barely stand.
I sat in my perch looking over the jungle.
I was in this perch when the American who gave me the book came in again. I had been so anxious to see him, yet when he arrived I felt like falling over. I asked him to sit with me and I held his hand while I looked out over the club and he reminded me that I had promised to go see a movie with him, but as I looked around at the crowds of men I realized how much money I could make for my father's machine. I asked him to wait while I turned one last trick with a regular customer and he did and I left.
The regular customer bought me drink after drink until I was so drunk I’d lost track of reality and he took me upstairs and had his way with me, then brought me down and got his friend and they took me up for a gang bang. I’d rather have been watching a movie, but this got me more than half way to my goal of keeping Father alive one more day so I did anything they asked.
The American confronted me when he was leaving. He was angry and I didn’t blame him. He left, telling me he’d never come back again.
I felt like crying when he walked out the curtain. I had waited so long to see him and now he was gone again... Forever. I couldn't let it show because the other man had more he wanted to do with me and I needed his money so I held it in until I got home.
When I was safely alone in the bathroom I let it all come out in one big explosion. I pulled my hair forward and cried into it. I had promised that I would never cry again. But in the darkness of that night I broke that promise time after time. In bed I opened my eyes and saw his photograph in the darkness. I pulled the picture into bed with me and stared at him. Those understanding eyes. Why couldn't he understand me this time?
It only made sense, though. Everyone leaves eventually. “I am on nobody's side because nobody is on my side.”
Mona stirred. I put the covers over my head and I stroked the man's face on the photograph. Then I looked at my own face in the picture. I placed my finger over it. I no longer wanted to be that person.
The next morning I awoke to his face. I didn’t have the energy to move anymore. So I just lay there. People were counting on me. But I couldn’t budge. I ached everywhere both inside and out. I had drunk so much that there was an ongoing buzz in my head. I never again wanted to turn on a light. Nor get out of this position.
I felt worthless.
I looked at his picture again. I remembered the time we first met. When he asked me what I thought. How I believed. No one cared about these things. No one but him. And now he was gone.
But then I realized something far more important. I cared about what I thought. My own opinions and beliefs began to flood into my mind. I thought about everything from how I felt about the way my family was run to what was my favorite food. I realized that I had a voice. And it was worth hearing.
There would be no more running. No more hiding. I was going to face up to everything and make life better for my kids. My father. Even myself. I determined not only to leave Chicas as soon as my father was well enough to not need so much money, but also to start my own career. Get my life going in the right direction. Set an example for my kids.
I got out of bed. I went to the hospital to see my father. He looked worse. As if the machine was useless. Or killing him. “You look good,” I said.
He smiled, catching my lie. I sat next to him. I found the guitar. Picked it up and played a few chords he had taught me. When I finished, as the music was still fading into the air, he struggled to ask, “Are you still…”
I looked down again. I couldn’t lie to him about it. “Yes. But I’m looking at another place. Somewhere that I don’t have to… to go upstairs with anyone.”
His weak finger touched my chin and lifted it up. Then he said in a gasping voice, “I am proud of you… My beautiful Marisela.”
I had gotten so used to others calling me by my phony names, Nina, Vallarta, it was a relief to hear him say my real name.
Then he struggled to speak. It was something very important for him to say. “One thing... always remember... Three words.” Then he lifted one finger with each word. “No… more… drinks.”
It was what was killing him. And he knew it could kill me if I kept in the direction I was going. It would hold me back from doing all the things I wanted to do. And he knew it. I also knew that I might not be able to live up to such a promise. But he needed me to give it. So I nodded with certainty. “No more drinks. I promise, Father.”
He nodded. Satisfied. Then laid back.
I continued to look at the photograph when I first woke up. And I thought of my father's words. I ordered water whenever possible. I was tired. But not in such a daze anymore.
Then the American who gave me the book came through the curtains of Chicas one last time.
He told me he was saying goodbye. It was better that way. He didn’t need to be drug down into my world. He had a much better one to escape to. But I wanted him to know that he had had a great affect on me. He had changed my life. I could not live in his world of entertainment and luxury. But he had given me the gift of self confidence.
Before he left he asked me one last question. “What is your fondest memory?” I remembered my father with his friends. Music was his life. His passion. His love. I realized that his music spoke to me in a language that words could never do justice to. The notes moved me. They sang directly to my emotions. I told the American about a moment when I sat in the middle of my father and his friends playing their instruments. And I got lost in the memory. When music is that powerful, you don't just hear it. You feel it in every part of your body.
I had to go. I had to make enough money to keep Father alive one more day. And I didn’t want this man to wait on me any longer. So I hopped off the stool and hugged him goodbye. I wanted to hold him. To keep him there forever. But it could never happen. He would go into his world and disappear from mine permanently. But I was determined to succeed. To make something of myself. I didn't know how, but he would hear from me one day.
I didn’t see that man again after that. He changed my life and we moved on in different directions. I sometimes wondered if he was real. If he had existed or if he was just part of my imagination. I kept the picture of us up beside my bed to remind me that it was real. Never has a day gone by when I didn’t think about him.
I returned to the hospital the next day with enough money to pay for another day, and another bouquet of flowers. They told me to wait this time. I sat in the next room for someone to speak to me. I wondered if perhaps someone had paid for the day already. Maybe my mother had worked out a payment plan with them. Maybe the price had gone up. I didn’t know.
A nurse walked in. A male nurse. I had never seen a man do that kind of work. I thought it was for women. He leaned down to me.
“You’re the first family member to come in. We tried to reach your mother by phone, but couldn’t get hold of anyone. I’m sorry Miss Ramos-Nojara, your father has passed away.”
Everything I had worked for, suffered for, struggled for, was gone with those words. It felt like it had all been pointless. The nurse tried to put a hand on me to comfort me. I slapped it away. I didn’t want any man touching me. Never again. I tried to hold in the tears. But the more I tried, the more they poured out until my face was wet. And the sounds from my mouth were almost a scream.
At last I did scream. I went into the chapel and let it all out. I shouted at the statue at the front. Had we not paid our dues? Had we not suffered and given our all? How could he sit up there so indifferently and allow this to happen after all I had gone through? I punched the statue again and again and asked why. How could my efforts go so completely unrewarded?
I don’t remember much after that. I didn’t get out of bed many times. I often just stared at the ceiling. Or sat on the edge of the bed. Diego Jr. took care of the others as best he could. Mother and my sisters planned the funeral. Claudia was angry at me for not being more of a help. But I was empty now. I had given everything I could. I had nothing left.
Berta was the same way. Father had been everything to her. I never knew why. But they shared a closeness I never understood completely. I sat with her, as though somehow by being near her I could gain an understanding only she possessed. Part way through the memorial service she grasped my hand tightly.
The sun had set by the time we walked to the house of my mother. My younger sister Elsa tugged at my shirt and pointed up at the brightest star in the sky. “I've never seen that star before,” she said. “It must be Daddy.”
I didn’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for myself for long. I needed to go back to work. I just stood on my perch and watched over the flock. I didn't go to them. I didn't need to. They came to me. Their hands ready to grasp me. I didn't mess around with drinks anymore. If they wanted to go upstairs, we went upstairs. It was mechanical now. Drop the pants. Give them a quick blow. Get on my hands and knees and count down for twenty minutes. I don't remember what any of them looked like because I never turned my eyes toward them. I didn't care. They were walking dollar bills to me and I was a walking pussy to them. I was on nobody's side and they were not on my side.
I paged through the book the American had given me. This guy Freud talked about how people are driven by their sexual desires. He was right about that. Especially men. I continued to read. It got to where I didn't want to put it down. I was comforted by his words the way some people are comforted by the words of the Bible. I understood what he was saying. I saw it every day. As he explained that men are consistently searching for a replacement of their mothers, I understood them better. I began to forgive. To realize where they were coming from.
In bed with these men, I saw Freud's words in action. Instead of counting down or reciting a mantra, I thought about what Freud would say: “This man who's humping me is only searching for his mother.”
One day my own boys would be searching for me in another woman. Is this the kind of woman I wanted them to be with?
I was through hiding from everything and everyone. Even myself. I wanted a real life. I wanted to face everything I had feared and conquer it. Even though I had been cleared by the police, I had never faced social services. I was still afraid of them taking my children away if they ever learned my past. But I wanted to face them head on. I wanted to clear my name for good. And I wanted a job. A real job. One where I could use my skills. I would prove myself worthy of them by working with them.
I put on my regular clothes. Walked out the curtain. And left Chicas forever.
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