The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 8

Part 8

Like Ships in the Night


By February the schedule of working night and day was getting to me. My eyes were bloodshot and my head felt like a lead weight.
Big Diego wasn’t any help. He lay around in a rut of laziness. It felt like I was raising five children. Only this one demanded sex most nights. And was suspicious of any man who came near me.
He didn’t understand my passion for psychology. For wanting to do something with my life. “Don’t you make enough at that club so you don’t have to work as a social worker? Why work for so little when you could make more doing stuff at the club?”
I tried to explain to him that this would lead to something else. But he just shook his head and drank. Our refrigerator had been free of beer until he moved in. Now it took up so much space there was barely room for food.
What was more, he made me feel guilty. The only good point he ever made was that I was concentrating so much on helping other people’s children that I wasn’t spending enough time with my own.
He certainly spent time with them. Instead of trying to find legitimate work, he stayed at home and spoiled them. They loved him because he never disciplined them. He was a fellow brother. Not a parent. And that made it all the harder for me.
I was thinking about how to resolve this while sitting at a table at Shanghai when an older, chubby man came and sat by me. A waiter was on top of us right away. The middle-aged man ordered us two beers each. He turned to me and began talking in fluent Spanish. He was an American from San Diego, but he spoke Spanish as well as any Mexican.
He told me a little about himself. His name was Albert. His grandparents had lived in Mexico. He still had relatives here. He worked as an engineer in California. He made a lot of money every year and lived on the beach.
After the first beer he finally asked about me. I told him my name was Annie, that’s what I went by at this club. The waiters called me Skinny Annie because there was another, larger one who had worked there for a longer time. I never told anyone about my family.
Typically they didn’t want to know too much about me anyway. So it was easier. This man, while gentler than most, didn’t want to hear too much about me, either. He wanted to talk about his life. His frustrations. His boredom at his job. I identified the problem in my head as mid-life crisis.
I asked him if he felt like he hadn’t accomplished as much as he had wanted. As though he was passed up by his peers. He lit up and said, “Yes! How did you know?” I sat back on the couch and he made himself more comfortable. He told me more about his life. What he wanted. I helped him work his way through it. When we finished our beers he bought a bucket of them. As we drank we became more honest. And he became more open.
Over the next several days I began using this practice on other men in the club. And they opened themselves up to me. Stayed longer. Bought me more drinks. Poured their hearts out to me.
A week later Albert returned at the same time he had come the first week. He bought a bucket of beers and we talked.
It was good practice. But I still didn’t wish to remain at Shanghai. I continued to put in my time at the DIF. Going through heart-break after heart-break. Waiting for the time I would get enough of a raise that I could quit the strip club.
Finally one day I asked Gerard how much he made. It was measured in pesos rather than dollars. He had worked there for decades, and he was still not making enough for me to raise my four children.
When I looked around at other jobs I began to realize that the only jobs near the border that paid enough to raise my entire family involved nudity for the pleasure of men. Or drinking to excess. Usually both.
I began to wonder what sort of future I could possibly have as a social worker. I felt pride I had never felt before. But I would always have to supplement the work with drinking and taking my clothes off. I was occasionally stripping again so I made a little more each night I worked, which gave me enough to be able to take some days off.
Worst of all, I took time away from my own babies. And was barely getting any sleep. If Diego would do something other than getting drunk perhaps I could do something about all of this. But my encouragements were only taken as nagging. Which led to more of him drinking.
I wanted to leave him. He was dead weight. Dragging me down in every way except one. He took care of the kids while I was working. I could not afford to pay someone to care for them. And I would not have them growing up believing a stranger was their parent. I felt stuck. I didn’t know what to do.
I saw the faces of every mother I took children away from. I saw myself in their positions. Without Diego I may be seen as unfit to raise them on my own. With Diego they may be taken away because of his drunken abusiveness.
Pedro, one of the waiters at work, interrupted my thoughts by handing me a small business card with a name on it, ‘Jake Johnson’. The name sounded vaguely familiar. I couldn’t think why. Pedro told me to turn it over and I saw a note written in English on the back of it. “Hello, Nina. I don’t know if you remember me, but we knew each other last year. I am looking for you, and would be interested to see you again. If you get this note, either come to Chica’s to see me, or send a note as to how I can contact you.”
I couldn’t believe it. This was the American whose picture I still had among my family photos in my room. I wanted to go right over to him. But my name was called to dance on stage. I told Pedro to pass the word back to him that I would be there at 9:30.
I went on stage and danced like I had never done before. I smiled with a true radiance. I moved with the energy of a lightning bolt. The staring men didn’t know what to make of me. And when the music was done they surged toward the stage to bring me to their tables. But I gathered up the money. Apologized to them. Then strutted directly to the ladies room. There I looked myself up and down in the mirror. I touched up my make-up and studied my hair. I didn’t care. And neither would he. I just wanted to see him. So I hurried toward the back door which led straight to Chica’s.
I found the men who had passed the information to Pedro. They took me to the table where he had sat. It was near the place where we had met so many times the year before. What had he called it? The table of truth. That was it. But the place had been remodeled and the table of truth was gone... And so was the American.
“He’s coming back at 9:30, like you asked him to,” one of the men said. It was 9:15.
“I don’t want to get in trouble at work,” I told him. That was only partially true. Mostly I hated being here. And it wouldn’t be long before someone was asking me to go upstairs with them. I didn’t want to wait. “Please pass him this note.” I wrote on a napkin in English, ‘Can you give me you phone number and I will call you; or can you coming 9:30 pm to Shanghai Bar please!!!’ I knew my English wasn’t perfect, but the three exclamation points should express what I wanted to say.
Then I went to write my name, but I stopped. These two men who were going to pass the note only knew me from my days at Chica’s. I had gone by two names here. Nina and Vallarta. I signed it Vallarta. Then I returned through the back doors. Anxiously awaiting his arrival.
Nine-thirty came and went. He never showed. I assumed he was running late, and counted down the half hour to 10:00. Still no arrival. I held out hope all the way to midnight. But he never arrived.
Somberly, I returned to the two men at Chica’s. “He came back,” one of them said, “and he left you his number.” They gave it to me. I nodded and didn’t show them my disappointment. Keeping my feelings to myself was a skill I developed over time.
I didn’t know when I would be able to call him. We didn’t have a phone at home. My mother had one. But if I tried to call on her phone it would show as an expensive bill. She would ask. I would be caught. And Diego would find out. I had to find an opportunity when it arose.
That Friday Pedro approached me. “That guy came back the next day,” he told me. “He had your picture and he was looking for you.”
“But I don’t work on Mondays,” I said.
He shrugged. “He’ll probably try to find you this weekend.”
I waited anxiously. When I left at 8:00 on Sunday I felt crushed. He hadn’t returned.
When I worked again on Thursday, Pedro came to me eagerly and said, “Where were you Sunday night? He came back at the same time, 9:30!” I wasn’t always working late on Sundays. Some weekends died out by that time. And I was trying to get home to my babies and sleep before working at the DIF the next day.
I kept his phone number hidden from Diego. This was my one line to him in case all else failed. And I wouldn’t have it destroyed.
This task became easier, however, as Diego began disappearing occasionally. There were times he was supposed to be watching over the children. But he just vanished and no one knew where he went. Little Daddy stepped up to help, but a ten-year-old child should not be expected to have to do that.
For the next few weeks the American kept showing up at the bar when I wasn’t there. I sometimes made excuses to alter my schedule so I could be there when I thought he’d arrive. But he didn’t. He was trying to second guess me. And I him. And it caused us to keep missing each other.
Finally I saved up five dollars American no one knew about. Enough for a phone call from a pay phone. I finished my shopping and went to a booth. I hoped he would answer.
It rang once… twice… three times. He wouldn’t answer. It would cost me the same no matter what. I had no way of telling him to call me back. A fourth ring. “Hello?” came a somewhat confused voice on the other end.
“Hello, Jake?” This whole thing was so surreal. I wanted to make sure it wasn't a wrong number.
“Yes?” He still sounded confused.
I allowed my excitement to jump out. “It’s me! Marri…” I suddenly realized he still didn’t know my real name. “It’s Annie!” No. He doesn’t know me from Shanghai. “Vallarta… Uh, it’s me, Nina!”
There was a pause, during which time I thought he’d hang up. Then, “OH MY GOD! NINA!!!”
We both called out excitedly over the phone. We talked energetically about how good it was to hear one another’s voices. How we couldn’t wait to see each other again. I wanted to see him the next day. But he had something he was doing for the next few days. So we set it for Sunday. “How about six o'clock?” he asked.
“Six o’clock. Okay!” I was so excited. I couldn’t wait. The next day I told Pedro, and everyone else who would listen… Except for customers. And only at work. I didn’t let anyone from home, my mother, my sisters, my children, Diego, nor anyone else in my home-life, know what was happening.
For the next four days I had to keep my excitement bottled up at home. But Little Diego knew something was going on. He asked me about it. I told him to eat his peas.
Saturday night I stayed at work until 5 am Sunday morning. I took the bus home. I was anxious for the evening. I went to church and socialized afterward. But I was too distracted to be good company. I took Little Diego to his friend’s house. Bought some groceries on the way home. Stacked them in their places. And around three o’clock I laid down for a nap. I wanted to look my best when I saw Jake. A couple hours of sleep should do it.
I woke up groggy. The sun was down. It’s always hard to get the spirit moving when it’s not light out. The children were in bed. Diego had fallen asleep as well. It seemed early to…
The clock read ten. My heart stopped. Surely this must be a bad dream. I gasped. Ran through the house grabbing my clothes. I looked in on the children to make sure they were okay. Made sure Diego was there to be with them.
I rushed to the main street a block away and grabbed a cab. I asked him to hurry me to Tijuana while I put on make-up in the car. I could barely see myself in the rear-view mirror. But I squinted as best I could. Jake had come all the way down several times to see me. Maybe he would wait. Fuck, there were twenty or thirty half naked, beautiful women at the club. He had plenty to distract him while he was there. He would wait.
I arrived at the club at 11:00. I looked around, but no sign of Jake. I found Pedro. He looked at me with shrugging shoulders and a confused look on his face. “Where were you?” he asked.
“Is he still here?”
“He left an hour ago. He was really angry. He said he’s never coming back again.”
I nodded. I had to keep my head up with strangers. I never wanted them to see my emotions. I waited for Pedro to leave. Then I sat down on one of the couches and held my head. I had lost him. I pulled out his note. The one with his phone number on it. If I called him again he’d only yell at me and hang up. If he even picked it up at all. It would be a waste of five dollars that could go toward food for my children. I crumpled up the paper and threw it next to a bottle that soon got picked up and tossed with the rest of the junk. I had let a lot go in the past. I could let this go. I refused to cry. I felt a tear begin to crawl down my cheek but I pulled it back into its socket.
A young man with spiked hair who looked like he knew it all stepped up in front of me. “Hey baby,” he said in suave English, “Let’s party.”
I smiled. Made room for him. He sat down and got me a bucket of beers.

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The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 7

Part 7

The Assignment


On my first assignment I sat in the back seat of the car while Gerard and Rosa drove us to the location. The car jolted as we rode cross-country to the Hernandez-Gonzalez home.
It was reported that Eduardo, the father, had taken his son out into the yard multiple times and whipped him. The first time, the neighbors, about 500 meters away, thought he was whipping him with his belt. Though they felt it was excessive, whipping with a belt could be considered acceptable. I cringed at the thought. On closer examination, however, they saw it was a real whip. Their children, who played with the Hernandez-Gonzalez boy, saw the marks on his back. The little girl in the family barely spoke. And it was believed that the sexual screaming noises didn’t come from the mother in the house as she was typically passed out from alcohol.
The house sat beside a dirt road. Most roads in the suburbs of Rosarito are dirt, or worse. This would probably have qualified as worse. The police cruiser pulled up next to us. It was still sometimes hard for me to see a police car. I was trying to get used to working with them rather than hiding from them.
Gerard got out of the car and Rosa turned back to me. “Wait for us to call you over and you will take care of the little ones. There are two. A boy and a girl.”
“I remember,” I told her. She exited the car.
I watched the two social workers and the two police officers near the house. It suddenly dawned on me how difficult this was going to be. To take children away from a family.
The door was opened. I could barely make out what was happening beyond the four bodies crowded around it. I saw heads bobbing slightly. Gerard was speaking with the person who answered the door. I caught a quick glimpse. It was the man. He was becoming more animated. More agitated.
I then saw the boy peaking out of the window. He was ten years old. Diego Jr.'s age. He had no idea what was happening, and he could barely see it from the angle he was standing. So he looked at me through the dirty window. His eyes questioned me about what was happening. I didn’t know what to say in return with my eyes.
I then saw a woman’s hand reach out to him, and he was led away. I got out of the car. I didn’t know what I should do. Should I tell the police? Should I warn Gerard and Rosa? Was the woman making a run for it? Or taking them to the doorway?
Then the police took care of it. They pushed the father. One of them held him down while Gerard and Rosa were led in by the second. The mother’s yelling was heard inside. “No! No!” And as the boy was rushed out by Rosa I could hear her scream, “Don’t take my babies!!!”
I ran forward to meet the boy. I knelt down to his height and looked into his eyes. He looked back at mine with the same questioning look he sent through that window. Then he looked back at the door.
The father was shouting threats from the floor. The mother’s words were no longer audible. The baby girl was screaming. Soon I saw them appear at the door. Gerard was wrestling the girl from the woman’s hands. The police officer was pushing the mother away. Rosa was trying to calm her as best she could by giving the woman her options. I over-heard her say something about leaving her husband and sobering up.
Gerard ran toward me with the girl in his arm and holding the boy's hand. “Get him into the car!” he said hastily.
I grasped the little boy’s hand and said, “Come on.” He resisted only once. But when I tugged slightly on his arm, he followed.
The little girl was placed into the back seat. I followed her in. The mother called out, “Hector!” and the boy stopped. He looked back at his mother. I noticed for the first time a scar on her face. It looked like it was from a knife or a whip.
Gerard was headed for the driver’s seat. But he stopped. He looked at the boy, ready to grab him to throw him into the back of the car if necessary.
I didn’t want to do it that way. I tightened my grip slightly on his hand and said, “Hector.” He looked at me. I gave him the best appearance of confidence and trustworthiness I could. “You need to come with me.”
He looked again at his mother. At the police officers. At what could happen if this got any more messy. He waved to her. Then entered the car with me. I saw silent tears running down his cheeks.
I looked at the mother. She looked back at me. I’ll never forget her saying one word to me. “Please.” I had to look away.
Gerard jumped into the car and drove.
“Wait!” I called. “What about Rosa?”
“She’ll come back with the police. She’s there to calm them down. She’s better at that than I am.”
He drove as quickly as he could along that bumpy ground. The little girl cried and shrieked. Rosa was doing what she was best at. Gerard was doing what he was best at. It was time I do what I was best at. I placed the little girl onto my lap and comforted her.
When we got to the paved road the little girl was shrieking less. I remembered my other charge, the little boy who sat silently staring out the window. I touched his knee. He looked up at me with a drenched face of tears. “We only want to do what’s best for you,” I told him.
“This isn’t what’s best for my momma,” he said. “He’ll kill her now that I’m not there to take the blame for things.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I only put my arm around him and he grasped on to me. “Nobody’s going to kill anybody.”
I don’t know what ever happened to the parents. But I followed the lives of every child we put in an orphanage. These children did okay. They had trouble adjusting. But when it became clear that no one would be torturing or raping them they accepted a new and better life for themselves. But they never stopped missing their parents. Or at least having parents.

The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 6

Part 6

What’s Best


“I don't want any trouble around my children,” I told him.
“Our children,” he reminded me. I had put them into another room so Diego and I could talk in the living room. I had let him in that far. I didn't want him to stay. But he persisted. “There won't be any trouble with the drug dealers or the cops. I went straight. I told the cops everything they wanted to hear. That's why they let me out early.”
“So now those gangsters are going to come searching for you. They'll come here and the children will be in danger!”
“No they won't,” he said. “They think I got out for good behavior. They've got no idea that I said anything.”
“You're a bad influence on them. How good is a daddy that goes off to jail? I don't want Diego Jr. to grow up like you!”
“I did it all for you, Marisela. I wanted you to have the big house and the money to do what you want. I wanted you to be able to stay at home with the kids and not have to work. But I know now. That wasn't the way to do it. I want to be responsible and take care of my family. I'm done with the drugs. Done with the gangs. I just want to take care of my babies.”
I stopped arguing and considered. I heard a door creek open. The children were leaning further in to hear my reaction. I figured they had been listening all along, but I still told them to close the door and go to bed.
“It's only 5:00,” Diego Jr. said.
“Just do something in there,” I snapped.
Diego wasn't so sharp with them. He crouched down and looked Diego Jr. in the eye. “Diego, my boy,” he said. “Wow, you've really grown. You look as big as a boxer. And Tino. You aren't a baby anymore, are you?”
“What about me?” Mario demanded.
“You're the most handsome of the lot. Are you all taking care of your sister?”
They nodded. I could tell he had gotten through to them immediately. Now I was the bad guy if I didn't let him stay. Their stares at me said it all. And to be honest, I wanted him there, too. I missed having someone beside me to raise the children. To go to sleep with and wake up with. I had gotten used to getting by without him. But having him there brought back all the memories of comfort when he was near.
That night when we were alone except for Mona in her crib, he pulled off my clothes and presumptuously made love to me. I didn't mind. In fact, I missed having sex with someone who wasn't paying. Somehow, having money involved had taken away the fun of sex.
I realized as we came close to climaxing that this was the main reason I had let him back in. Yes, it was for the children. Yes, it was so they would have their father in their lives. Yes, it was for the companionship. Yes. Yes. Yes! But mostly it was so I could make love to one man who would be there in the morning.
While we lay in the darkness I told him he could stay. I told him the children had missed him and would be glad to grow up with him there. But he needed to live up to that trust. Most importantly, I told him that he couldn't imagine the hard times I had gone through while he was in prison.
He merely grunted. Pulled a pillow over his head. And went to sleep.

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The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 5

Part 5

Rebuilding


It doesn’t take much to please a man. To a woman a breast is something that has to be covered up with clothing that has to be sized just right. A man will pay large sums of money and risk losing a lifelong relationship just to see them. Often times all I need to do is shake my butt in his face and he empties the contents of his wallet.
This is how I made money to pay for books and classes on psychology. I didn’t mind taking my clothes off on stage. If they were willing to pay money, why not? At least I wasn't fucking them anymore.
I worked at Shanghai Bar dancing and flirting at night. Took classes during the morning. Caught a few hour’s rest in the early afternoon before Diego Jr. and Mario came home from school. Then took care of all the children before putting them to bed and going to work.
My mother helped me a lot in these days. She knew how important this was to me. And she had always hoped I would do something better with my life. She also knew how important it was for me to clear my name. That's why she took the children to Ensenada the day I went to face the people who had threatened to take them away from me. I walked into the offices of the DIF.
Claudia came with me. I was nervous the entire way. I didn’t say a word. I stiffened when the door was opened. I could barely breathe. Every muscle was tense as I walked through. And when it closed behind me I felt like the bars of a jail cell had just shut. And I would never see my children again.
I straightened up and approached the counter. “Can I help you?” the woman at the counter asked. I didn’t know how to respond.
Claudia spoke for me. “We’d like to speak with whoever’s in charge.”
The woman didn’t know how to respond to that. It was a strange way to approach them, I suppose. She picked up the phone and called someone quietly. Was she bringing the police? Would the Federales burst in with their machine guns and make me lie on the ground? I didn’t say a word.
A gentle looking man with a sincere face came out of one of the offices and looked at me. I was surprised to see he was a gringo. Probably an American. “My name's Gerard. Can I help you?”
Claudia looked at me. It was my turn to step up. I grasped the book in my pocket for strength. Then I said to him, “I want to become a socialist.”
His eyes squinted. I had clearly said something wrong. He approached me. I looked away. Had he recognized me? Was he going to hold me down until I told him where my children were so he could take them away?
Then he relaxed his gaze and chuckled. “The people who work here are called social workers.”
“Yes, that’s it,” I said. “How does one get a job here?”
“Well, most people volunteer. Why don’t you come into my office?” He opened the door for me. I looked inside hesitantly. The rooms were getting smaller and smaller. I wondered how many rooms it would be until I wound up in a tiny cell. Cut off from my children forever.
Claudia tapped me reassuringly on the shoulder and sat down in the waiting area. I walked into the room.
Gerard entered and sat down behind a desk. He told me a little about what a social worker does. I could barely hear him. I was still waiting to be confronted. He never did. In fact, his face spoke understanding.
I realized that I wasn’t going to hear him until I got this over with. So I leaned forward and I said, “Okay, let me tell you something. I was on the run from the law not long ago. And from you.” And I told him the whole story. He sat there. Never speaking. Watching me. He rarely blinked.
When I was done, he neither criticized, nor judged me. He just nodded and thought it through.
“I don’t want to lose my babies,” I said. “I will do anything to keep them... Anything.”
“Clearly,” he said, and he leaned back in his chair.
I waited for the verdict. I waited for him to unzip his pants and tell me to be his love slave. I would do it. Every night if I had to. Anything to keep from being separated from my children.
Then he asked simply, “When can you start?” My eyes grew twice their size. “We could use you as a volunteer. We always need more hands. Keep taking those classes, and I'll give you some more books to read, and if you can prove yourself, and if we get an opening, we can see about hiring you.”
“You... You're not concerned about my past?” I asked him.
“Well of course I am. Your boyfriend...”
“Ex-boyfriend...”
“He could have landed your family in a lot of trouble. But I'm a good judge of character, and I can see in your face that you're telling the truth. And besides, it sounds to me like you're really dedicated to your children. If you can show that kind of commitment to the kids we work with, then we could definitely use you.”
I was ready to explode with joy. He put up a hand as if to stop me from getting over-excited. “You still need to finish your classes, and I'm not making any promises about a job. But let's start out this way and see how it goes. Is it a deal?”
He stood up and reached out his hand.
I got into the habit of reading a chapter on the bus to work. Then I would sit on the top floor and look down on the men in the club studying the behaviors which had just been described in the chapter. I would then re-read the chapter on the way home to better understand it.
As I had drinks with the men I listened to them talk about their lives back home. I used the Freudian methods of psychoanalysis to ask them questions. To get to the heart of their feelings. I had known that most of them were there cheating on a girlfriend or spouse. But I came to understand why. The loneliness in redundancy. The dissatisfaction. The disillusionment. But most of all, the midlife crisis.
In my class I finished the lessons long before the session was over. I went on to studying what they had in the next chapter. And the chapter after that. I got so far ahead I completed the first year’s courses several months early, and was much of the way through the second year’s courses. By the end of the year I was almost completely through the two year course. It was as easy for me to pick up as English had been, and just as simple to practice.
I worked as a volunteer whenever I could. Filing paper work. Answering phones. Following Gerard around and learning from him. It was most of my life. My mother and sisters were very supportive and helped take care of the children on nights when I was at the club and days when I was in class or at the DIF. Claudia was especially helpful. She offered her help babysitting whenever she could. The kids wondered where I was all the time. But they didn't complain much because they got to know my youngest sister and their cousins better. Sometimes they didn't want me to pick them up because they were having so much fun.
And when I was finished with the classes Gerard hired me as a full time social worker. Just saying those words, “I am a social worker,” made me proud. I was no longer selling myself. And even though I still made money showing my body to men at Shanghai Bar at night, that wasn’t who I was. I was a social worker.
And soon I would make enough that I wouldn't have to work at night anymore. For the time being I stopped dancing and only had drinks with men. I made less money, but that was supplemented by my new day job. “I am a social worker,” I reminded myself every night with a smile on my face. “I'm making a difference in the world. I am a social worker.”
Then Diego showed up on my doorstep.

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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The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 3

Part 3

Please Stay With Me


In my family, as with most people in the neighborhood where I grew up, there is no distinction between homes. We enter and exit one another’s houses freely. And often stay overnight if it gets late. We always have blankets and pillows available for anyone who might want to stay.
I was eleven when my aunt Zora was pregnant with her first child. I had been to her place many times in the past. But not recently because of her pregnancy. Her husband Pablo said I could come over any time. Even when Zora was away in the hospital. But I never felt comfortable around him alone. I didn’t know why.
After Zora returned from the hospital with her new baby, she asked me to come visit. I didn’t take the invitation seriously. But then she begged me. “Please, Marisela. You are my favorite niece. Please come visit me. I can’t get out much.”
I didn’t understand why she wanted me to be there so badly, but I was flattered by her desire to see me. So I went.
Pablo was in the other room watching television most of the time while we sat on Zora’s bed playing with the baby. It was such an amazing sight, looking into this child’s eyes. An entire human being was in there. One that would have experiences of its own. Opinions of its own. Thoughts of its own. Its little fingers grasped onto anything it came close to. As though it was exploring the world through touch. I knew right then that I would want one of these some day.
Zora kept inviting me, and I kept coming. She left a pillow and blanket on the couch for me to use. I began sleeping there almost as much as I slept at home. My mother and father were fine with it. They knew that I helped with the baby. That I was a good support for Zora. Something Pablo wasn’t always good at. Many men in my neighborhood didn't help raise the children. They saw it as women's work.
After a while it became too much for me. Some days I felt as though Zora was using me. I was a child. I should have been out playing with my friends. But she kept begging me to come over. Giving me guilt when I wanted to do something else.
Many nights when I slept on the couch, I could hear a noise coming from their room. She whimpered and occasionally screamed. I thought maybe Pablo was beating her. So I peaked inside. They were on the bed and Pablo was moving around on top of her. My aunt looked like she was in pain. Lying on her back with her legs spread. But she didn't seem to be resisting. So I did nothing about it.
I asked a friend about this. She explained that men have this extra item between their legs. She told me that it grows. And then they put it inside of the hole that girls have.
The thought was disgusting. I determined never to let a man be inside me like that. This thought was confirmed every night that I heard my aunt screaming in the next room.
Once I awoke in the middle of the night to find Pablo standing at the opposite end of the couch. He was naked, and that extra thing my friend had talked about hung between his legs. It was long. I couldn’t believe how much hair was strung around it. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it as it stood there. Like a third leg.
When he saw I was awake the thing stiffened. And lifted forward. Like a finger pointing directly at its intended target… Me. And then he followed it toward me.
I lifted the covers over my lips. Frightened as he came closer. When he reached the couch at the point where my waist lay, I lifted the cover to my nose.
He sat down. His unit still pointing toward me. His naked butt against my hip. Where was my aunt?
I lifted the cover above my eyes and could see no more. When I felt his strong hand lower onto my waist, I lifted the blanket the rest of the way over my head.
From that moment forward I could only feel him as he crawled onto the couch. He would crush me below his weight! I was scared to die. I was even more afraid of what else would happen.
I felt the blanket lifted from my legs. I felt his hands touch the naked skin of my feet.
Then I felt his body get on top of mine. That long unit of his touching my legs. I hoped my panties would stop it from getting past my hole. I hoped his big belly wouldn’t crush me.
I hoped it wouldn’t hurt.
Then I heard my aunt shift in bed. I could hear her lean over. Sigh. Then she shifted as though feeling the bedspread. She could tell Pablo had left. He lifted off of me and left the room. I stayed below the covers. A minute later I heard her moaning and whimpering.
When she invited me over again, I didn’t go.

The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 2

Part 2

I am on Nobody’s Side


I had to let the children go outside to get exercise and play. I'm sure they went out while I was at work. I worried every minute they were away. Every minute I was away. I worried that they would be picked up by the police. That they would be kidnapped. That they would get lost. That they would find something better and not want to come home. That someone would hurt them. That they would hurt themselves. I worried that they would find me at work. I forbade them to make friends. I told them this was temporary. But I couldn't tell them for how long. My sisters had told me I could come home soon. But when?
I tried to keep the children inside as much as possible. The best way to do this was to show them movies. They saw a lot of them. Everything from adventures to documentaries. I stayed up fascinated by stories about hunters, like sharks, lions, and anacondas.
I found a group of DVDs called 'The Lord of the Rings' that lasted twelve hours. The many times they would watch it and re-watch it bought me a lot of time. We all sat in the bed together staying up late enthralled by this other world. A place where people were not hidden away in a small room. A world where there was no upstairs business I had to hide from my kids.
I enjoyed Golem. I could understand his addiction to the ring. I was drinking enough now that I felt the same pull to alcohol. But Treebeard was my favorite. The walking tree. His slow speech and wise eyes drew me in. But then he said something that I felt deep in my heart. When one of the little men asked him what side he was on, he said, “Side? I am on nobody’s side because nobody is on my side.” That was it! That was how I felt! Nobody is on my side. So why should I be on anyone else’s side?
It helped me cope with my job. When I was angry with a customer, or the bar, I protected myself from the pain by reminding myself that I am not on their side because they are not on my side. Suddenly everything felt better. I was emotionally distant from anything that could hurt me. I was in it for myself. And for my children. And that was all that was important in the world. Counting down now was replaced by my mantra, “I am on nobody’s side because they are not on my side.”
Whenever I walked to work my nose reminded me why I was doing it. The tasty smells of carne asada were like clouds I walked through. And I knew that it was waiting for me and my family when I came out.
One day, on my way in, I noticed how many men were working outside the clubs for pennies as shoe shiners, magazine sellers, and many were beggars. I was suddenly very glad that I was young and pretty enough to be a prostitute, working inside and easily making enough to survive on. That was when I became okay with what I was doing.
That same day I stood near the back of the club doing what I often did, watching people. Men are easy creatures to understand, but it still fascinated me. The different ways in which they went about doing basically the same things. Each one thought they were the first. Each thought they were unique. But they were all the same.
Sometimes in the room I would go through the man’s stuff. Not to steal it. I was fascinated with what they carried. Gum. Cigarettes. Business cards from every profession. Photos of their loved ones. Their family. Some had fake IDs. A trucker kept key chains from every state. I remember one from a place called Nebraska that had a cow with a skirt on it. Any time they had souvenirs I tried to look at them and imagine what those places must be like. Many of the men brought condoms. They probably thought they would have to supply them.
On this particular day I couldn’t get the man beside me to be interested in getting me a drink. Or fucking. So I wasn’t bothering him. He walked away. I glanced over to see who was next. He looked over at me at the same time. We both did a double take. It was my father! My hands raised to my mouth in surprise. I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or angry.
He was less torn. “What are YOU doing here!” he asked furiously. He grasped my arm. “Your mother and I didn’t raise you to be a whore!” He tightened his grip and started toward the door.
I yanked back. “What about you? You shouldn’t be here either! You’re supposed to fuck Mom, not these chicas!”
He stopped, still grasping my arm. He knew that he had been caught every bit as much as I had. He knew that if I told Mother he would be in more trouble than I. He could lose everything. “I won't tell her if you don't,” he said. He let go and took another long swig of his beer.
We both leaned against the wall trying to think about what to say next. “Have you seen the movie about that pilot?” he asked. “It stars the guy from that boat movie you really love.”
“Leonardo Di Caprio.”
“Yeah. Yeah. He’s a really good actor.”
My eyebrows furrowed. How could he be thinking about something like that right now? Thousands of questions raced through my mind. But I couldn’t get any of them out. I had never wanted to think of him and mom and sex. But I knew that that’s where it was supposed to happen. Would he tell my mother about this place? Would he tell everyone in the family? If so, would I tell about him being here? How else would he know that I’m here? If they did find that out, what would happen to the family?
We both stood against the wall in fear, each one waiting for the other to move first. As if that would make the one still standing less guilty.
Then someone else decided for us. A boy with a buzz cut and a letter on his jacket strutted up to me. He took my hand and said, “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”
I followed him. Didn't look back until I was half way through the room. At last I did. Daddy wasn't looking at me. He was finishing a swig of his beer. He handed it to a waiter in one hand and grabbed a girl with the other just before the crowd of bodies got between us.
We saw each other a few more times after that. He bought us both a drink and we talked. It wasn't the place I had imagined connecting with my father. But it was the first place where we got to know one another as adults. I asked him several questions for the first time. Where had he met my mother?
In school.
What attracted him to her?
Her beauty. And her strength. She had approached him first.
What did he enjoy in life?
His music and his girls.
What were his dreams, and where did he steer away from them?
He was living that dream. He didn't like to think of what else could have been. He was fine with who he was and where he was in life.
He asked me why I was in that place. I made the one rule we both lived by. We wouldn't talk about the club. Neither of us would ask why we were there. And neither would talk about this with Mother.
I could see in his eyes two emotions. A respect for me as an adult. An equal. Someone he had never truly known before. And also a disappointment that I had not lived up to being more.
The visit became a weekly event. Every Tuesday he came in and checked in on me. I made sure I wasn't with a customer at that hour. I didn't want him to see me doing what I did there.
I at last broke my own rule. I had to know why he had come to this club. Did he not love Mother anymore?
“Oh. I love her more than ever,” he said. “I would give anything just to spend my life with her.”
“Then why...” I started.
He lifted a hand. “People think that men who seek out other women are evil at heart. That they don't love their spouses. That's not true. I'm not going to excuse anyone who cheats, least of all myself. But it's not that a man falls out of love. For us, love and sex are two separate things.”
I had noticed this from other men who made their excuses before sex. They usually talked about their wives or girlfriends. They said they still loved them. They just needed to feel a little variety. Have a little fun outside the relationship. It didn’t change the way they felt about the woman they loved. After sex, though, they rarely spoke at all. They usually put their clothes on as quickly as possible without looking at me and hurried from the room.
These small conversations I had with my father during that week drew us closer than we had ever been. They reminded me of the good times. When I was much younger. I had been too young to really appreciate him. Now we spoke to one another as equals. As friends. I found that I really did love this man. I saw why Mother built her life with him. There was a nobility in him. A unique way of looking at the world. But it was buried inside him, sometimes unable to come out and show itself. We drank together. Sometimes I stopped him before he drank too much.
After work one day I took him to the hotel to see the kids. They screamed with excitement to see their grandfather. They jumped all over him. He took us all to a restaurant downstairs where we feasted on tacos and took some home with us.
The following Tuesday he didn't arrive at the club. I was confused. And a little worried. I thought perhaps my mother had discovered what was happening and was keeping him at home. Yelling at him. I would have hoped it wasn't anything worse. But I couldn't imagine anything that would be worse than that.
I left the club and went to a pay phone at the corner. I called Claudia, uncertain what to say. I didn't want to tell her Father had come to the club. So I tried to ask around that. See if perhaps something had happened around home.
She told me that Father was in the hospital. He had been sick for some time. But he was hiding it from the rest of us. I had noticed no signs in all of the visits.
Claudia took me to see him in a Tijuana hospital. He was hooked up to a bunch of machines, including a respirator over his mouth. Berta was already there. She was staying by his bed even more than my mother, who was working overtime to pay for everything. When she looked up at me entering the room, I saw that her eyes were red. Bloodshot from hours of staying up late. Or stress. Or crying. Or all of it.
They told me that he was doing better. That he would be ready to go home soon. But I could hardly believe it. He didn't look like himself. His skin had changed color. More pale. He had deep circles under his eyes, which rested on me. And that was the hardest part. Though he was weak and suffering, he didn't seem concerned about his condition. He instead just looked at me... disappointed.
I didn't say much to him. What could I say? He just looked at me with those knowing eyes. After Claudia told him various things about her own life, she and I left Berta and he alone and walked into the hallway.
“The doctors say he drank too much,” she told me. “His liver is almost destroyed. We're taking him home, but we're going to need to watch over him and make sure...”
“Can I come home, too?” I asked quickly.
Claudia hesitated a moment. “You can never go home to live with Mom and Dad again,” she said. “They have Elsa to take care of. You'll give them five more kids to raise.”
“Five? I have four.”
“And you. You need to grow up, Marisela. Find your own place. Make your own way. Do you have a job?”
“I... Yes.”
“That place?”
“Yeah.”
She looked away. Sucked in a deep breath. She nodded, then looked back at me. “I saw a few places for rent. I'll see what I can do.”
After Claudia went home I walked alone. It was late and many of the halls were empty. The rooms were quiet. This was very different from the hallways I was used to. Soon I came upon a small chapel with a statue of Jesus on the cross at the front. I walked in and stared at it a moment. On the way to the hospital, Claudia had told me that Mother had turned to religion once things got bad for Dad. I didn't know if that was right. To turn to this only when things went wrong. But I had found myself doing it before. And now I was doing it again.
I got on my knees. The way I had seen others do it. I felt a little stupid. But no one else was around. I folded my hands and looked up at the statue. I saw the shape of the cross and remembered that you're supposed to do something with your hands. Make a shape or something. So I moved my hand in the air like I was drawing a cross and then looked up at Jesus. I prayed for Daddy. For my family to be like normal again. Then I begged him to please bring me someone who is on my side. Anyone.
Two days later a man was in the room with me. He stopped fucking me and started asking questions. He wanted to know about me. My feelings. My opinions. No one had ever asked my opinion before. No one had ever challenged my mind. Made me think of things. When he asked what I would like to do for a job, I told him I was interested in psychology because I liked watching people. Studying them. Trying to understand them. I understood this man the least. Men always just wanted to get naked and start fucking as quick as possible. But not him. When he looked into my eyes I felt like I could melt. I was afraid because he made me feel things I hadn't felt for anyone before.
After he left I thought I'd never see him again, but he had changed my life. I began thinking about my own future, what I would do after things were cleared up with the police in Rosarito. I would get my children's lives on track. But perhaps I should get my own life on track, too. Perhaps I should find some other line of work. I couldn't do this forever. Sometimes I saw an older prostitute in the brothel. It was a sad sight. Anyone over 30 needed to start looking to retire. And over 40 it was just plain pathetic.
The man returned, and I jumped into his arms. No man had ever returned. Not for me. Not for anyone else I knew. He wanted to know more about me. So we sat at a table he called the table of truth where we had to tell each other our real feelings. Our real thoughts. We shared ourselves with each other. The way he talked, the things he asked me... I knew myself better when I was around him. I felt better about who I was.
Claudia talked with social services and found that the case Diego was involved in was closed. The police were no longer looking for me. As long as I stayed out of trouble, I could come home.
It was a relief to move back into the hills of Rosarito with my family. They all lived within a few blocks of one another. Their little community. And now I would be part of it again. The children were happy also to be close to my younger sisters, nieces and nephews. We gathered at the house of my mother on every occasion we could.
My children started school again. They quickly became entrenched in a group of friends. Everyone in my neighborhood walks, or shares taxis together, so everyone knows each other. The restaurants in my neighborhood are open to the sidewalk so people are social even when passing by. It was good to be reconnected like this again.
The man returned to Chicas a third time. He had taken me seriously about wanting to be a psychologist. Most of the time people laughed when I told them I had dreams. He brought me a book. I read from it every opportunity I got. Now that I was taking a taxi or bus all the way from Rosarito I had the time. Sometimes I had to write down a word and ask someone who understood English better than I did what it meant.
Sometimes that person was my father, who I visited after work. He was the first to teach me to speak the language. If he had not pushed me, I probably would not have learned, and I would not have the hope this book was bringing.
Men sometimes bought flowers for me at work, and I gathered them in the back into a bouquet. Then took them with me to the dark hospital late at night. Visiting hours were over, but no one seemed to care. When I asked him random questions about obscure words in the book, he answered, but he asked me why. I usually told him I was just curious. But at last I told him I was interested in studying psychology. I showed him the book, and he smiled. Proud at last.
When I got home late that night I took the book mark out. It was a photograph of me with the American. I sighed his name, “Oh Jake.” Things had gotten better ever since he appeared in my life. Was he an angel? Had he been sent to turn my life around? Or was he just a gay man who didn't notice other women that he passed by to see me? Was there something wrong with him that he cared so much about my opinions? I didn't care. For whatever reason, things were better. Even things he had nothing to do with. For the first time since I was a child, I had hope. I taped the photograph of him and I to the wall next to the pictures of my family... In the middle, in fact. In front of all the other photos.
I looked at my four sleeping little angels. They deserved better. They deserved a better mother. One with a real job. One they could look up to. I swore to them, though none of them heard it, that I would give them that.
Every night I fell asleep looking at this photograph, and it gave me hope. Every morning I woke up to it, and it gave me strength.
I looked into school. How much it would cost to study psychology officially. It was cheap enough that I could pay for it through my work. I began to save a little more every day.
Then Father's health took a turn for the worse. He had to be put on a dialysis machine. It cost $500 a day, more than anyone in my family had. I used every penny I had saved and it just paid for a day. I didn't know how long Daddy would need this. But we had to pay to keep him alive for as long as it took. I began working overtime every day. I didn't discriminate. If it had a penis, I walked up to it and convinced it to take me upstairs. I tore through that brothel like a hurricane. As soon as I was done with one, I was searching for another. I wouldn't leave until I had all the money I needed to pay for his machine.
I continued to gather the flowers that men bought me to create bouquets for my father. I placed them on the shelf near him and sat by his side. He didn't recognize me, but I stayed with him nonetheless. Berta was usually there and gave me reports on his deteriorating health. When she left the room I would talk to him about the conversations we used to have in the club. He didn't remember. He just stared at me.
One night Mom was there instead. It was the first time we got a chance to talk with each other. “Too many drinks,” she said. “I'm never having another drink again.”
I remembered all the drinks we had together and suddenly felt horribly guilty. I might have killed him. But I didn't dare tell Mother. Instead I asked her if she knew how long he would need the machine.
“I don't know,” she said. “He might not be able to come off of it.”
Inside I panicked. What would we do if that was true? I slept only a few hours a night as it was. And mother would learn that a babysitter was raising my children. And she'd learn where I was and what I was doing, and-
“I think your father was having an affair,” she said suddenly.
“How could you think that?” I asked ashamedly.
“Before he went into the hospital, he spent a couple extra hours in Tijuana every Tuesday before coming home. I don't know what he was doing, but I know that he wasn't at work anymore.”
I swallowed hard. I looked over at Father and saw he was asleep. There would be no saving me from this. I either had to let her continue to fear, or tell her where I was. Or...
“He was with me,” I told her. She looked at me surprised. “We met for lunch. I work as a stripper, Mama. I'm sorry, but it's the only way I can pay for all of this.”
She looked away, clearly upset and disappointed in me. I was glad that I hadn't told her what I really did. She would have probably needed a machine and a place right next to Daddy.
“Is that where you get enough money to buy a bouquet like this?” she asked.
“I get those for free. Men throw them at me.”
“I thought men threw underwear at strippers.”
“They throw those, too.” I laughed. She didn't seem amused, but I kept laughing, and soon she smirked, then broke a smile, then laughed. We shared in the laughter together.
“So he knew?” she asked.
“Yeah. He saw me go into work one day. I asked him not to tell you, so we met and talked every Tuesday during my lunch break.”
She just nodded. A moment later I could tell she was thinking about something hard, like she was discovering something in her mind. “Do you feel powerful? Standing there in front of all those men?”
I thought about it a moment. I had not considered this, but it was true. The first time I had to go up on stage to dance I was more afraid than when I went to a room with a man. This was dancing without any clothes on in front of a hoard of men. One of my friends at the club had shown me how to grasp the pole when I spun around it. She showed me how to climb. How to slide upside down while spreading my legs. It was like a gymnastics event. “They give me a 10.0 score then, right?” I had said, laughing in her face. Freya was her name. The one with the Egyptian hair. And we laughed together a lot until one day she just disappeared. I never knew what happened to her.
But it was true. When I marched in front of those men, when I strutted on that stage above them, regarding or disregarding their vacant stares at my leisure, I knew power I had never felt. In my neighborhood, the boys were always in charge. As a girl you never questioned their authority. But here... I was the master, and they the slaves. I took their money and strolled away without ever looking back.
“Yes,” I said, and suddenly I realized why she was asking. She had grown up in this culture that said a woman's place was to support the man. Women weren't asked their opinions because men didn't believe they had any. She had never known what it was to be admired and desired by crowds of onlookers.
But then, as I looked at the way she stared at her husband there in that room where he could do nothing in return for her, I knew that she had what I didn't have. What I perhaps would never have. She had love. True, unconditional love.

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