Our Mothers' Maiden Names

My Trip to the Dominican Republic!

2012-02-24T13:19:00.003-08:00

They say it came first from Africa, carried in the screams of the enslaved; that it was the death bane of the Tainos, uttered just as one world perished and another began; that it was a demon drawn into Creation through the nightmare door that was cracked open in the Antilles…Fukú—generally a curse or a doom of some kind; specifically the Curse and the Doom of the New World…It is believed that the arrival of Europeans on Hispaniola unleashed the fukú on the world…Santo Domingo might be fukú’s…port of entry, but we are all of us its children, whether we know it or not.

—JUNOT DÍAZ, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

-Bayahibe-

We spent long and lazy hours under a bushy hut attached at the end of the dock, where the water was still shallow and clear enough to see your feet. This was the paradise that fantasies of heaven are made of! Diamonds glistened atop a surface of water, still as a mirror; rays of sunshine melted into my skin; ice-cubes clinked in the glasses of passion-fruit juice. I could’ve floated on that cloud forever—had it not been for the cheesy music like Olivia Newton John and Journey blasting out from every single speaker that was dotted every ten feet of the resort—even on the dock! And the food menu? Hamburgers! Hot dogs! Chicken fingers! Appalled, we marched to the front desk. “Where the hell is the bachata and why are your waiters recommending burgers to us?” we flung up our arms in fury. The food issue no one seemed to have an answer for. But the music could have very well been pinned on the owner. Turned out he was some rich-ass Donald Trump-type dude (from San Francisco of all places). “He’ll fire us on the spot if he hears us playing our music,” the manager shrugged at us.

We checked out two days later, the entire soundtrack of Grease still burning bitterly in our ears like a slave-master’s whip.

-Santo Domingo-

Catedral Primada de América: The last time I was at the Good Will, I tried on a beautiful black wooly coat…only to take it off immediately. There was something horrid that had stuck in that itch of wool; a dark sordidness of energy that lingered, now woven invisibly into the fabric (and perhaps a reason the owner had discarded it in the first place). I couldn’t help feeling this way as we visited the first church ever built in Hispaniola; a dark sordidness of energy lingered, now cemented invisibly into the archaic stones of the church’s walls. So many questions plagued my mind, both a frustration and relief from only sensing the church’s palpable eeriness. Why were there statues of howling wolves clustered in the garden of weeds? Was that a welcome into “God’s home,” or merely a symbol of fear meant to sting into the psyches of the Tainos? Why did the hairs on my neck stand up when I passed the staircase that spiraled downwards into some kind of dungeon that had been barred off to the public? And why did the graves inside the church bear those cryptic skull and bones symbols that made death appear as anything but peaceful?

Walking the perimeter of the church, I touched the archaic stones that had held up these walls for centuries. I felt like I was watching a TV on mute, unable to hear the sounds of copious souls being tortured and killed, only able to see these same walls for what they were now, their silent secrets now eternally cemented into its stone. A newly dead pigeon had been caught in the wire netting that hung around the church’s exterior. Had the poor thing gone mad trying to escape? Had it fluttered its wings so badly that the netting stabbed like scissor blades into its flesh? Or had it given up altogether at that first sign of being trapped—knowing that, inevitably, there really was no way out?

In my dreams, I often find myself back in the childhood house I grew up: a familiar home of comforts with warm smells of dinner, the squeaking swings on the swing-set, my parents’ kiss good night. In my nightmares, I can only imagine pounding myself madly against the stones of the church’s walls, fluttering my wings against the wire net, no escape.

Peace Corps Ceremony: How did I get here? I wondered. I straightened my dress and fluffed my hair, trying to recall the confidence I’d felt when I’d left the hotel room. Still, I looked around me. Champagne glasses clinked. An Olympic-sized pool twinkled in the distance. I was at the U.S. Embassy in the Dominican Republic; the entire week had been a festivity of ceremonies to honor Andres Hernandez, our friend’s late uncle, who’d first established the Peace Corps in the DR in the 60s. This was the reason we’d come here in the first place.

There was laughter, speeches, and lots of shaking hands. “The Peace Corps wouldn’t have been possible without your uncle,” someone had told our friend. And there were tears in his eyes.

Hacienda Hernandez was a special space dedicated just for him at the Peace Corps headquarters, the walls adorned with his bio, quotes, and pictures on the wall. Another round of applause and a drop of a flag revealed a plaque in his memory. Did I also mention that an entire school will soon be named after him?

I was in complete awe. Some people live an entire lifetime and leave the world a little better by planting a tree behind them. Yet some people spend entire lifetimes planting nothing at all, becoming nothing more than merely roots in the ground. Andres had not simply planted a tree to leave his legacy behind—he had planted an entire forest.

The baseball game: Dominican Republic versus Puerto Rico! Last game of the Caribbe series!

I walked into the stadium, my heart trembling at the rush of thousands of people whose roars were like stampeding horse hooves in the humid night air. Ever been to a game in the States, where the music and newscasters stop when the player is up at bat? Well…let’s just say it’s not like that in the DR. The music never stops—you’d think the band-players are on a perpetual Red Bull buzz. Drums, trumpets and bells wailed their batucada mercilessly, as if saluting the full moon that had blown up magnificently in the starless sky. Trompezancos—stilt walkers—rallied the crowd while a trio of girls grinded their hips in orange ~~shorts~~ bloomers. No one seemed to mind the teenagers that were guzzling down bottles of Presidente. Vendors worked the crowd too: “Cerveza!” “Empanadas!” “Quéso!” (Quéso?) I’d never felt so under-dressed in jeans at a baseball game. Women walked around in heels—ten-inch high heels—one might wear to a club, all of them thick as a tree-trunk and in skin-tight pants (with a belt just in case).

We sat next to a class of 11-year olds on a “field trip” who looked at us strangely in our plain jeans and tennies with no cleavage-baring tops, and asked where on earth we were from. “Los Estados Unidos,” our friend answered. “De California.” “Ohh,” they nodded. “Isn’t it cold there?”

After the smoke had cleared the stadium from the fireworks, a free concert was given by the famous bachata singer, El Toro. Thrilled, the ruca sang along to every song, repeating incredulously every ten seconds, “I can’t believe this—it’s El Toro!” The locals spun around in the sizzling heat of bachata, bottles of empty beer broke all around us, and a rico suave playa—who was a whole foot shorter than my ruca—kept begging her to save him the last dance. The ruca and I winked at each other and muffled our laughter, saving it for later at the hotel-room.

The entire experience was definitely a game and a show, with the actual sport of baseball seeming to be the least of everyone’s focus. I wish I could tell you the score of the game—hell, I wish I could tell you who won.

“Tourist Police”: Lord, was she beautiful—and, shockingly, one of the friendliest people we'd met on the trip. She had a brick-house of a body with curves bursting out all over the place, all squeezed into her tourist police uniform. (I wasn’t sure what a “tourist police” did, but the headquarters situated in the center of Zona Colonial was blasting AC.) We asked her for two things: to call us a cab we could be sure was legit, and to answer us why the locals kept calling us “gringas.” (Back home, a gringo/a is a white person.) Sure, our morena skin paled in comparison to the darker, black-skinned Dominicans—but we certainly weren’t gringas.

The officer threw her head back and laughed. We didn’t know what we were laughing at, but hell, it seemed rude not to laugh with her. Here, she explained, a gringo was originally used to describe the white tourists. Then it just carried over to anyone who was foreign, even if they’re Latino. But the black Americans, she raised her brows, well, the locals just scratch their heads at them. They’re not quite sure what to call them.

Our cabbie arrived, wailing along to a Maná song both beautifully and terribly off-key. I couldn’t get the tourist cop’s words out of my head though; I could just picture the Afro-Caribbeans staring at the African-Americans, stumped, searching for the right words to call their distant native brother.

-Las Galeras/Samaná-

(History 101: After the Emancipation Proclamation, an exodus of freed slaves from Philadelphia fled to Samaná around the 1860s. American last names like Johnson and King are still common in this region. Many even spoke English until the dictatorship of Trujillo forced its erasure.)

La Playa: After a three-hour bus ride and a 40-minute cab ride, we trudged down a rocky dirt path that was another 15-minute walk to the beach, our core destination. Supposedly, La Playa was a treasure, the most beautiful beach in the DR. I scoffed to myself, tired, cranky, “this shit better be worth it.” Seriously, how great can a beach be?

Turns out…it was the most stunning beach I’ve ever been to—hermoso. In a vast cove, it was surrounded by a mountainous backdrop with palm trees shooting out of the rocky cliffs. Silky grains of sand tickled my toes. We paid someone 200 pesos to lie out in the lawn chairs, who may or may not have been legit—we didn't care. Exhausted, we melted into sleep with the sun high at its zenith, and awoke to its faint light at the far edge of the sky.

El dueño y la araña: We checked into our bed & breakfast where the owner, a bald French man with black teeth, spoke to us in Spanish—or was it French? His accent was so thick, webbed between both languages, that I could hardly tell. He’d burst into a terrible hissy fit when he found out that, through a miscommunication on behalf of our tour guide, we would only be staying in that spot one night and not two. Flailing his arms, he yelled and cursed in Spanish—or was it French?

I gave him some time to cool off before I paid him our board for the night, only to find him upstairs yelling at the housekeeper.

“De dónde son ustedes?” he asked, blowing smoke in my hair.

“De San Francisco,” I answered. “Pero somos Mexicanas.”
“Ay, México!” he kissed his fingertips. “I have a tortilla maker.”

“Wow,” I squinted up at him.

“And I make the best guacamole you’ve ever had in your life!”

I doubt that, I bit my tongue.

He proceeded to tell me that his recipe for guacamole included a teaspoon of sugar, which I thought sounded disgusting, but handed him money for our board that night and waved adios. Seventy bucks bought us a plain, ordinary, and rather dingy room with beige walls bare of art. In the middle of the night I went to use the restroom, only to find a massive furry-legged spider that might’ve been a young tarantula. Perched upside down on the counter of the sink, its body was the size of a child’s palm with legs that sprawled outwards like broken pipes…I was so scared I felt faint. Obviously, I did what any normal person with a mild case of arachnophobia would do: I held my bladder until we checked into the next bed & breakfast the following afternoon.

“How’d you sleep?” our tour-guide greeted us the next day, annoyingly chipper.

“Sleep?” I yawned.

Whale watching: Whales bigger than the 14 bus surfaced to the top of the ocean—beside us, below us, all around us. Their gigantic dorsal fins glided through the water as if breaking it apart like a knife. It was mating and calving season, and the ocean was a party with the hundred-plus tons of gentle giants blowing fountains out of their blowholes. Our tiny boat was close enough to touch them—what a speck we were to them! They didn’t seem to mind our presence; were hardly fazed at the buzz of our boat’s motor, or the poor seasick kid who’d expelled his entire breakfast overboard. “Bravo!” we yelled, any time they revealed their massive flukes before dipping back underwater. We gasped and applauded madly and oohed and awed like 4^th of July fireworks as they sprung up all around us; I wonder if they translated our humanistic behaviors to utter and complete fascination of them?

I looked up at the sky and down at the ocean...everything was blue for miles around. I felt very small in the universe right then, a sentiment that, on occasion, cleanses me humbly.

My heart beat gloriously inside me.

Sshh! If you’re quiet, you can hear the orchestra of life chanting all around you: the whinny of horses, the cluck-cluck-cluck of bustling chickens, squawking birds rattling in trees, the subtle slither of lizards in the sand, roosters cockadoodle-dooing at dawn—and every hour after. Can you hear it? The sounds of wildlife, of nature’s symphony that inhabits the island?

Coming home: The U.S. customs agent stared blankly at up us. “Unless you’re family, you can only check in one at a time.”

“We’re domestic partners,” the ruca said.

He looked at us strangely, as if we were grasshoppers standing in his line and not humans. “Are you married?”

“No. We’re domestic partners,” the ruca repeated, a tinge of irritation.

“But are you married?”

“No, we’re domestic partners.”

“But are you married?”

“No! We’re domestic partners!”

“But—”

“We’re DOMESTIC PARTNERS!” we both shouted at him in unison.

He gave us the grasshopper look again, then did whatever it is those customs agents get paid to do. Finally, he handed us back our passports as he pawed furtively at his chin; his feebly grown facial hair looked more like rat whiskers than a goatee. “Welcome to America,” he snorted.

“Thanks,” we muttered, a substitution for what we really wanted to say: Go fuck yourself.

---Welcome home, indeed! Stay tuned next week for my adventures on the Mini-bus!

The Dominican Republic

2012-02-03T13:29:00.000-08:00

In just a matter of days, I’ll be melting tanning oil off my body as I sit under a fan of softly swaying palm trees, and sipping frozen drinks with pink umbrellas. If you haven’t guessed already, I’m going on vacation! For two weeks, I’ll be in the Dominican Republic with my ruca and two of my good friends, my “Frisco family.” While I should be squealing like a schoolgirl over her first crush, I can’t help but feel slightly indifferent and I figured out why: Not only does the vacation not seem “real” yet, but I’m not quite sure what to expect…

The reason my vacation probably doesn’t seem “real” is because the winter chill in San Francisco is so poignant, my bones feel like wet washcloths too cold to dry. While the high 60s might be a warm day to some city folks, I feel like a friggin' snowman. Eighty-degree Caribbean humidity is unfathomable! Frozen daiquiris sound absurd! Last night, in my thick winter robe and wooly slipper boots, I held up my bathing suit for the first time in two years and gasped, “I’m going to wear this?” I know my vacation (and the weather) will all be real sooner than I know, and I’ll probably no doubt bake myself silly like a pepperoni sizzling on top of a burning hot pizza, but right now, in a blustering cold city in the middle of winter, paradise still seems like fairytale talk.

Also, I have no idea what to expect from the Dominican Republic. Besides reading Dominican writer Junot Diaz's works so spellbound, I nearly ripped pages for turning them so fast, I have little connection with the DR. Although, isn’t that the beauty of traveling? To go to some exotic foreign place you know hardly anything about, and learn their culture firsthand by actually immersing yourself in it?

I began to think back on some of my other travels and pre-anticipations. Before I studied abroad in Oaxaca, all I knew was that the mole there was off the hook. Now when I think of it, thousands of images and sentiments zap instantaneously back through my mind: I can feel the exuberant buzz swelling through the marketplace, the smells of food, and laughing children running with their trensas trailing behind them like a cape. I recall brilliantly colored alebrijes, exquisite black pottery, tlayudas on the street, señoras in their auténtica blusas, mayates wallowing in cobblestone street puddles. I can still hear the symphony of a thousand birds harmonizing the grand tree of Tule, and reminisce the marvel of feeling like a tiny star in a vast and monstrous galaxy as I overlooked the ancient Monte Alban ruins. Then there was Cuba. Before, all I could think was that the country was an ominous, forbidden place. Now, I remember the dazzling dancers of every café and street-corner in Havana, the magnificence of the Malecón clearing in the early morning fog, classic 50s cars sharing the streets with the over-stuffed gua-guas, and striking women proudly filled with voluptuous curves, untouched by American’s obsession with sickly looking skinniness. There was also Jamaica, an island where I once believed everyone smoked weed and called each other ‘mon.’ When I got there, I realized that everyone smoked weed and called each other ‘mon.’ Ah, the wonderments of travel are simply exhilarating!

While the trip still does not seem real yet, it will be soon enough. Or perhaps that reality will only sink in once I step off the plane and the humid air kinks up my hair fantastically! As for not knowing what to expect, well, I can’t help but think that maybe the unknowing is half the fun of the experience…. In two weeks, just the mere mention of the Dominican Republic will unfurl an entire new world of images and sentiments in my head—all of which I will gladly share with you, dear reader.

Stay tuned in mid-February for my next posting!

Extra note: Did I say Cuba? Silly typo, ha ha! Er…I did mention this was a fiction blog, right?

The Worrywart

2012-01-24T16:42:00.000-08:00

I don’t need anyone to tell me what my problem is—I know what my problem is: I worry too much. I worry about everything, starting with all the careless shit I did throughout the day, to all futuristic things that are completely out of my control: Did the mailman think I was flirting with him today? Did I mail the car payment on time? What will I do if my kids want to play with Barbies someday?

This year, I’m trying not to worry as much. I figure it’ll be better for my health in the long run too. If I’m this worried about life now—like I’m a parent to teenagers—imagine what I’ll be like when I do have them…. Christ, I’ll probably have ulcers by then.

My official worrywart syndrome was put to test last week. Skipping out of the bar for my break, I couldn’t wait to eat my homemade pizza and read this book that's so electrifying, I even find myself reading on BART’s escalators. Before marching into the kitchen, I glanced at next week’s schedule, only to discover that I was scheduled to work a day I don’t normally work—and it was on my ruca’s birthday! I began to choke dementedly, as if my breath were a spindly fish bone, as I checked and re-checked the schedule. There was no way around it: I was working on her birthday, and I was screwed!

Panicking, I fled to my manager, spewing some kind of jumble along the lines of “can’t work!” “birthday”, and “doghouse for days.”

He’d been watching the bar as my cover, and blinked his doubts at me. “Did you request it off?”

“Yeah, but months ago.”

“Are you sure?”

I scratched my head. Now that he mentioned it, I wasn’t.

I offered solutions of switching the shift around but it didn’t look good. School schedule for this bartender, vacation for another…. A couple came to the bar suddenly and my manager turned around to greet them, his signal that the conversation was over, and tough shit.

Sighing, I went to the kitchen. “Sara, como estás?” the dishwasher chirped at me.

“Bien,” I mumbled.

“Sarita! Qué te pasa?” Rafa in pantry asked.

“Nada,” I shrugged irritably.
My pizza was fabulous—with fresh tomatoes, broccoli, and salty kalamata olives—but I ate it with as much enthusiasm as a soggy leftover burrito. The chapter I was reading was as alluring as ever—the protagonist’s ship has just sunk and he finds himself in a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger—but the words flickered as much excitement to me as a Monday morning, and my eyes rolled dully across the pages.

Not only was I bummed, but I was worried sick about how my ruca would take the news. “You wanna go to Napa? dinner? a party? Gee, that sounds great but I gotta work.” Or: “Babe, you didn’t really want me around on your birthday, did you?”

She was gonna be pissed! She was gonna be crushed! Five birthdays from now, she’d be licking frosting off her candle and snark at me bitterly, “Remember that birthday you had to work?”

Somewhere in the back of my head, I heard another voice peep through. Stop worrying! Things will work out, they always do.

Except when they don’t, my other voice snapped back.

No! That was negative, pessimist thinking. Miracles happen…sometimes. Really, who knows? Maybe someone will come to me, short for rent, and beg me for my shift. Or maybe the restaurant will flood, be filled with water like a fishbowl, and by default I’ll get the day off—although I really don’t think I should hope for that.

Sigh. Worse case scenario, I’d work the shift and my ruca would understand—she’d have to.

My half hour was up. I’d spent my entire break miserable, had hardly remembered what I’d just read, and half of my gourmet pizza was sitting in a massive pile of compost.

As I grunted my way back to the bar, I checked the schedule, desperate to look for someone I might've missed. But as I looked at it, it was as if my name had magically disappeared from the shift. I’d been swapped for a different day—the ruca’s birthday was now wide open!

My manager, now standing at the host desk, straightened his tie and winked his silent You’re welcome.

I was as giddy as gumdrops! I whooped and cheered and beamed! I had the day off, and that was by far the best present I could give to my ruca.

Later in bed, I stayed up for hours agonizing. I’d had the perfect chance to prove myself that I didn’t need to worry, and instead, I'd glummed around as miserable as Eeeyore's rain cloud. Would I ever change? Would I ever learn to have some faith that things work out?

I suddenly realized my irony: I was worried again about worrying when the only thing I should’ve been worried about was losing sleep!

Telling that incessant voice in my head to kindly shut up, I closed my eyes, and melted into peaceful slumber.

Not Your Superwoman

2012-01-18T07:29:00.000-08:00

All winter season, I scoffed arrogantly at the sick people around me—ha! All the snotty-nosed, sniffling, sneezing, headache stricken sick people who had let themselves get sick. Not me! I wouldn’t let myself get sick—I was way too in touch with my body to break down. I cook and eat healthy, exercise regularly, and sleep like I’m still a teenager. While masses of germs hailed like bullets through the air, I, Superwoman, would be immune to all of them and not get struck down. Getting sick was for suckers!

The closing of the holiday season at work was starting to kick my ass like a whip to a donkey. My lackadaisical four-day work week had been stretched to six-day back-to-back work weeks with our biggest mid-January convention wrapping up our busy season. Superwoman was wearing thin. Still, I was convinced that I would not exhaust myself until after the convention had ended…. Not so. Folding like a cheap poker hand, I woke up Monday morning as miserable as a New Year’s hangover. My head felt like a water balloon before it bursts, and slimy trickles of snot gushed out my nose. My usual morning desires like breakfast, hot tea, and a steaming shower to splash my senses awake were diminished into one sole desire: to collapse my head back into my pillow, and sleep for an entire day. Instead, I went to work.

Ordinary lights pulsated like strobe-lights on my pupils, and ubiquitous noise thundered in my ears like heavy metal. My ego was a bit wounded. I was not immune after all; I had become one of them. I had become…sick.

My only relief was calling into work at 7am the next morning, my boss insisting I stay home. Immediately, I fell into sleep’s sweet surrender, overcome by prisms of dreams as my body went to work, exorcising the demon bug out of me. The pockets of time I spent awake were utilized guzzling down pulpy glasses of grapefruit juice, flooding out toxins with copious refills of water, and scalding germs with hot tea. After each waking nap, I slowly un-peeled another layer off myself until I finally woke up feeling…well, better. So I did the two things I always do to uplift my spirits: I wrote and cooked. A note to readers though, that the keyword here is that I did not clean up after myself in the least.

The ruca walked into a kitchen filled with colossal stacks of water and juice glasses, teacups filled with soggy tea bags, and my bowl of half-eaten oatmeal crusty in the sink. “Baby,” I reasoned, trying to explain that cleaning was part of the secondary process of healing.

“You didn’t even make the bed!” she exasperated.

“Well technically, I did just get out of it,” I shrugged.

Indulging in my soup instead of arguing, we slurped down steaming bowls of lemon-spiked caldo with carrots, zucchini and tiny pasta wheels. The lemon coated my throat and steam sizzled into my pores. Something inside me fizzled away as I soaked up my homemade medicine.

I awoke the next morning super early alert, alive, and so chipper you’d think I was actually a morning person. “I guess I am human, after all, and not Superwoman like I tried to be. Everyone gets sick, even healthy people break down at times,” I chatted with the ruca, as I picked out my clothes for the day. “Even though I hate the feeling of becoming vulnerable to something tougher than me, it’s part of life. You know, it made me think of a quote I read somewhere about crying and I translated its same meaning to being sick. Getting sick doesn’t mean you’re weak; it just means you’ve been strong for too long.”

I realized suddenly that my conversation was nothing more than a hokey monologue, and that the ruca was sniffling miserably into her pillow. “You got me sick!” she moaned. “I haven’t gotten sick this entire season!”

More glasses would go unwashed, and the bed would probably go unmade again today. But as the ruca sneezed into a fistful of tissue, I realized that I was right: even the strongest can only be Superwoman for so long.

Jolly Fun Times at the DMV!

2012-01-10T17:40:00.000-08:00

Going to the DMV is about as much fun as getting a root canal. Not that I’ve ever had one, but the contorted grimaces of agony I’ve seen on people afterwards pretty much match those who have spent an entire morning dealing with people who hate you at the DMV. Still, the ruca and I had go. Not only had the plates expired a month before, but I’d been walking around with an expired driver’s license (which apparently, hadn’t been a problem, seeing as no one cards me for a glass of wine anymore).

As soon as we got there, we waited in line to wait for a number to go sit down and wait some more. Some dude with an angry face like a rowled up pug was the security guard. No taller than five feet (which was probably why he was so pissy), he glared at all of us as if we were conspiring terrorists with a nefarious plot to blow up the DMV (one could only fantasize), instead of agro locals who’d all been forced to throw our coffees away at the door. I noticed a very confused mentally ill woman talking to herself as she lugged a tattered blue suitcase that looked like it was from her hitchhiking days in the 60s. The guard growled at her to wait outside until the inside line had moved along, which seemed to terribly upset her. The ruca and I looked at each other. Why does the DMV seem to bring out the worst in people?

They were calling groups A-G with a number like B-25, a random system with about as much rhyme and reason as a Bingo game. We took our seats and waited…and waited. Next to us sat the poor lady with the suitcase who kept asking herself “Why, why, why?” without an answer. Suddenly, the ruca gasped. “We can take care of both registration and your license renewal at the same window, right?”

“Of course we can,” I scoffed. “This is the DM—” Immediately sensing the irony of my words, I shot out of my chair back to the info window to go ask. The only thing more tedious than waiting in line is being told to wait in it again.

Below my eye level in my peripheral vision, I could see someone shouting at me to “sit down.” I debated validating the security guard’s ego by giving him any attention, but decided against it. I had every right as a human being to ask a question without being ordered to “sit” like I was some kind of dog—he was the one with the ugly pug face. He barked at me again. “Sit down!”

“No!” I snarled back at him, swallowing down my boiling temper. “I am not going to sit down! I have a question for this lady.” My space at the info window suddenly opened up, and although the lady assured me that I wouldn’t have to wait in two lines, I was still fuming when I slummed back into my seat.

“Everything okay?” the ruca asked.

“Oh yeah,” I blasted, feeling slightly delirious. “Just having a jolly ol’ time at the DMV.”

Back to the waiting game, not a single D was called for nearly 40 minutes. Growing antsy, we bonded with people around us, who all mostly had Ds and were just as irritated. “Do you have a D?” “How ‘bout you?” “No, they haven’t called a single one.” The guard squinted at us, suspicious of an arising revolt which wasn’t too far off. In fact, we’d grown quite rowdy, hollering “What the fuck?!” every time another B was called. When they finally started calling the Ds, we knew the employees had finally gotten the point and that they in fact did not want their chairs hurled across the room. We cheered madly. Yes, we were that obnoxious crowd. Don’t mess with the D group.

When our D-72 was finally called, the ruca and I jumped out of our chairs and flew to window 19 before anyone could change their minds. A young woman with red and green glittered acrylic tips looked up at us and rolled her eyes. Our thrill at being called was short-lived as we handed over our paperwork along with several hundred bucks for registration, late fees, an unpaid parking ticket with another late fee, and whatever other annoying fee they felt like tagging on, like a human existence fee. My stomach was growling terribly for breakfast as we finished up, but there was one last line to wait in which was also the moment of truth: the photo line for my new license.

Fluffing my hair and glossing my lips, I prayed for that perfect shot. The suitcase lady was behind me again knocking madly on her head, which were my sentiments exactly, but I forced myself to focus; I had to take a good picture—it would be the face I showed for the next four years! When I finally got to the front, a lady with a terrible red dye job and jingle bell earrings snapped at me, “Stand there and smile! Okay on three: One, two, three!” I waited…no flash. I held my perfectly posed smile open revealing a mouthful of teeth…nothing. When the count had finally reached about seven or so, I dropped my frozen face to ask her if she’d taken it when—flash! “Thank you. Next!”

“Wait!” I shrieked. “I think I might’ve blinked, or made a face...can I see it?”

“No,” she said. “New regulations—no one can see their photos.” She looked at her screen at the top-secret picture. “You look…fine.”

“But I’m gonna have it for the next four years! Can’t I at least see it so I can maybe retake it?”

She shook her head, making her earrings jingle. “Sorry,” she smacked, unconvincingly. “NEXT!”

Helpless against a seemingly impossible system, the ruca and I shuffled out, ready for a late breakfast at our fave spot, and micheladas to wash the bitter taste out of our mouths. (The rest of our afternoon had all been determined that first hour.) Although we'd given the DMV almost three hours of our morning, it didn't seem to matter now. We would continue on with our day, and the DMV would continue being…well, the DMV.

Ghosts of Christmas Past (and Now)

2011-12-19T22:56:00.000-08:00

Last Christmas I awoke to the movie scene in A Christmas Story when Ralphie’s dad opens the Fragile stamped box with that infamous leg lamp. “Fra-gee-lay. It must be Italian!” I burst into tears at the realization that I was alone on Christmas Day. Back home in San Diego, my entire family was celebrating without me: my mom would be singing terribly off-key to Christmas carols on KYXY; my younger sister would be trying to weasel my mom into letting her open “just one” present; my older sister would be well on her second cup of coffee, and my dad would be bursting through the door (an hour late), wearing a Santa hat and hauling a garbage bag filled with presents. Even my ruca was down south celebrating with her family, eating pozole and tamales. So I did what I was left alone to do: I went to work and sucked it up.

Like most normal kids who love presents, I always loved Christmases growing up. My only downfall every year was the fact that my younger sister always got more presents than me. (“MOM! Why does Laura have 22 presents and I only have 18?”) Still, it was such an exciting time. Our family would go pick out a tree, then we’d decorate it while listening to Christmas records and sipping hot cocoa with marshmallows. My mom always had the final hand at the tree’s decorations, hung streams of tinsel in the sala, and arranged the nativity scene just so; things were always made beautiful by her touch. My dad would put out his little train that ran around the tree, and I would curl up on the couch and read my Babysitters Club books beside the taka-taka-taka of the miniature locomotive beating over the tracks. Each year he would also groan tiredly and say, “I don’t know about the lights this year, sweetheart,” and each year I would stubbornly go out and hang them anyway until the ladder made him nervous and he came to help. These are the memories that spark like magic through my mind. Joy fell down all around me as if in a snowglobe. The excitement, the thrill—the presents!

I looked forward to our annual family Christmas parties as much as I looked forward to Christmas itself. Our house vibrated with the sizzle of Spanish, and heaping plates of tamales took over the entire table. Tios and primos were in every corner of our casa; the men talked about football while my glamorous tias—all made up beautifully, with their fresh coats of lipstick and clouds of perfume—fussed over how the tamales turned out. Gangs of us kids ran in packs through the house, gulping down handfuls of red and green M&M’s, us girls dolled up in our lil’ red dresses. My closest cousin Karla and I were the designated olive stuffers on the tamale assembly line, and we took great pleasure in finding out who the “winner” was that night who had gotten their tamale stuffed with 10 olives—much to our tias’ annoyance.

Now when I come home, my mom defrosts the tamales that have been frozen from weeks ago. The ornaments I grew up with—“Sarah Bear,” “Baby’s first Christmas 1980,” and a Santa head from my 2^nd grade teacher—are split between both my parents on their artificial trees. I don't hold this against my parents, but it is bittersweet. The fresh burst of pine that once filled the house diminished with my childhood.

This year, my ruca and I joined our friends—our Frisco familia—in their tree decorating ritual. As we listened to the chiquita sing Christmas carols and Katy Perry, I realized that just because I’m not a kid anymore doesn’t mean I can’t still enjoy Christmas. I’ll always hold the Christmases of my childhood very dear to me; now they’ve just evolved. They say the holidays are the “happiest time of the year,” although if you’re already happy of where you are in your life, then the jingle bells and jolliness only magnifies that feeling.

I was lucky to get time off of work this year. I’ll be in San Diego with my family and will spend Christmas Eve with my in-laws. This of course means double family, double tamales, and damn does the ruca's familia know how to get down with some bomb-ass pozole. I will also finally lie to rest the ever-notorious battle of presents between the middle child and the perpetual baby of the family. In the true spirit of the holidays, I promise I won’t get mad if my younger sis gets more presents than me…in fact, I might just encourage it.
Happy Holidays! Felices Fiestas! See you in 2012...

It's not technically our tree, but we can pretend!

"Retarded"

2011-11-21T18:14:00.000-08:00

I was on the bus coming home, the 14 as crowded as ever. Crammed between a clique of teenage girls, I couldn't help but overhear their conversation. “How do you not know how to post a photo on facebook?” one of them was saying. “Seriously, you’re fucking retarded.”

The rest of the girls laughed, even the “retarded” one. I hear people throw that word around a lot, and it always burns me inside. What are people trying to say when they call someone or something retarded? That it is stupid? dumb? incompetent?

As the bus lagged along, I thought about my younger sister. Growing up, I always knew she was “different” somehow. Her almond slanted eyes didn’t quite match mine and my older sister’s rotund peeps. And my parents doted over her with a unique type of fuss, rarely punishing her for doing something wrong. (When she was six, she went through a phase of waking up every morning and dumping boxes of cereal onto the kitchen floor—and not once did she get put in a time-out.) There was other stuff that set her apart from us too: her words didn’t have the same lucidity as mine did, and that smaller yellow bus took her to a different school every morning.

I overheard conversations my parents had with other adults. Words like ‘Down Syndrome’ and ‘Junior Arthritis’ didn’t make much sense to me then. What did an “extra chromosome” have to do with the fact that she was always at the doctor’s, or in and out of hospitals for numerous operations? “She has special needs, her body works differently than yours,” my mother explained. I took it for what it was and all throughout my childhood we were inseparable, always playing together; sometimes school, where I’d teach her colors, or restaurant with PB&J sandwiches, or nursery with our Cabbage Patch Kids. We played like sisters, tattled and fought, loved like sisters, and stuck our tongue out at the other when our mom hugged one of us—the way squabbling sisters do.

Now that I’m older and have moved away, she plays the harmonica on my visits home, as soon as I walk through the door. And when we watch movies cuddled on the couch, she looks adoringly up at me and coos, “I love you, sis.” As I listened to the girls on the bus, I wondered if they would still call each other “retarded” if they would’ve seen the blurry look in my sister’s eyes when my date picked me up on prom night; or if they would’ve been there to sing happy birthday to my sister while she lie bed-rest in ICU, a 50/50 chance of surviving the pneumonia her tiny lungs were fighting…

The bus slammed on its brakes, finally at my stop. I freed myself from the pockets of people and bid the girls a silent adios. They were still laughing, passing around pictures on one of the girls’ phones. I could tell by their innocent happiness that they were not evil or mean-spirited girls in the least. They were just young and maybe not mature enough to realize how painfully ignorant their language was. They were girls who were special though, and loved by someone; they were someone’s daughter and they were someone’s friend. And maybe—and very likely—they were even someone’s sister.

At a cousin's wedding, 2011

The Birthday Dress (& Heels!)

2011-11-15T19:09:00.000-08:00

Every year I buy myself a birthday dress. This year, when I stepped out of the dressing room in a smoldering silver number, my ruca was speechless and the Ambiance attendant swore I looked like a curly-haired J.Lo—so of course I was sold. And because turquoise is my birthstone color, it was only natural that I sought out a pair of turquoise suede heels, right? Now many of you may think I’m going over the top, but considering I wear a boring black uniform to work and dress bundled in layers year-round, I don’t mind giving myself one day to work the hell out of a skin tight firme dress and be able to stop traffic on Mission Street.

Aside from buying my annual dress, I also make birthday/early New Year’s resolutions. This year is unique though, as my goal will not just be “getting my novel published,” nor will I beat myself up for not getting it published again…

In my late teens, I began writing a coming-of-age novel about three girls who lose their fourth best friend in a car accident. Between the lines of the 518 double-spaced pages is not only a beautiful story, but a decade of my soul’s evolution. Because I played “god” at creating these characters who came to life in my head, I sometimes still feel a weary sense of nostalgia for them that perhaps only a puppet-maker could explain.

While I’ve wallowed in self-pity many years over not getting the novel published, I haven’t given myself credit for the process of simply becoming a writer. Indeed, it has been a journey. I spent an entire year submitting my manuscript to publishing houses, only to find out by one of those how-to Dummy books that unsolicited submissions are about as likely to get read as a letter to Santa Claus. (Talk about feeling like a dummy.) Deciding I needed some experience beefing up my resume, I spent another year interning for a weekly city paper and a magazine. I learned lots of things that year: one, that I’m lousy at fact-checking and that mistakes in print really suck; two, that transcribing is not meant for day-dreamers with ADD; and three—and most importantly—I learned that I didn’t want to work for a magazine or newspaper. Sure, being a food critic forced to sample 20 different ice cream flavors for “research” was fun, but I am a fiction writer. I want to write short and long stories, not only about myself, but about the imaginary people in my head that I breathe life into. (Call me crazy; I call myself a writer.)

This past year, I’ve undergone a major growth spurt in my writing. Starting a blog where I can openly share my work has been monumental. I’ve begun talking with other writers, going to workshops and authors’ talks, and getting on twitter and facebook to advertise myself. I’ve been invited to a spoken word in Albuquerque next year by some down-ass Chicana writers—awesomeness—and even decided recently to go back to school.

While it may have taken lots of time (and many birthday dresses) to realize what type of writer I want to be, I’m not focusing on what I didn’t become over the years or what I haven’t gotten published. Instead, come December 1^st, I will be celebrating what I have become and the fact that I’m continuing on my path…. Having a super firme dress (and heels) to cross that rite of passage in will just be the icing on my birthday cake.

Can I walk in these? Who cares!

Cat & Canary

2011-11-07T17:18:00.000-08:00

Mai, the woman who does my weekly manicures, was putting the final coat on my nails when she noticed the scratch on my arm for the first time. “You have cat?” she asked, in her thick Vietnamese accent.

“Big cat,” I said. “He’s twenty pounds.”

“Twenty pounds?” she frowned, unsure she’d heard right.

“Goodness, that’s a huge cat,” the lady next to me gasped.

Next thing I knew, I was one of those mamas—the one I said I’d never become—showing pictures on my phone of my 20-lb hairball, all of them which probably look the same: Leo rolling on his back like a dog, Leo cat-napping in the sun, Leo and his miniature pal, Babalu the Chihuahua. The technicians laughed at the size of my cat, who’s about as big as a buttered up Thanksgiving turkey, and finished their work. As they set the fans to dry our nails, I continued talking to the lady next to me. Up until then, I’d been avoiding contact with her because, although she’d been kind to the technicians, she’d been a bit high maintenance. (“Can you please not put me in the corner seat; I only use this brand for a top coat; No, no, I don’t want them cut, just filed.”) She wasn’t being rude—she was just particular. Although I suppose that when I’m in my 80s, I’ll probably know exactly what I want too.

“I just love cats,” she gushed. She wore a faux fur cheetah spotted hat, puffy and round atop her head, and blazing blue eyes that’d been freshly made up. “I’ve had them all my life, up till now. I had to put my little girl down last year. She got sick and, well…. I’ve thought about getting another but I’m just too old now. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to get a cat that I’d probably leave an orphan.” I felt struck by this comment, albeit the truth or not, but she hardly noticed my discomfort. “My husband, he knew I was sad after it happened so he went out and bought me a canary—thought it’d be less work. Funny thing is, we found out later they can live up to twenty years.” She chuckled. “He takes care of it though, it’s become his. I suppose I’ll always be a cat lady.”

Her name was Ella and she’d grown up just up the street, on Prospect. I could hardly envision how our Bernal neighborhood looked like in the 30s. (I thought I’d seen the neighborhood change in the decade I’ve been here—she’d grown up with a goat in her yard.) Half a century older than me, she was born in the middle of World War II, and lived her childhood through the Great Depression. She told me about the jobs she’d had working at a plastic factory, and waiting tables at a diner where she’d met her husband over 60 years ago. They’d raised eight kids together—which was as incredulous to me as a 20-lb cat. The kids were grown, she even had two great-grandkids, and one of her sons had died of AIDS. Though she saw her grandkids often, life had become slow, quiet. She and her husband used to go out and play Bingo, but late-night parking was such an ordeal. Now they just stayed home mostly, her husband whistling at the canary while she gloomed without a cat.

Mural by Antonio Z. Chavez, 24th Street

She blinked away watery eyes as she showed me her palms; they were puffy and red from the lupus. Meds helped, but the older she got, the harder it became. “Some nights are so bad, I can’t even sleep,” she sighed. Doctors didn’t know for a long time what it was. Her body was achy and hurt all over, especially after the fourth knee operation. “I’m getting another operation on my hip next week,” she announced, sorely. “That’s why I’m getting my nails done today. Can’t be sitting in a hospital bed in those dreadful gowns and no color.”

I began to realize the apparent gap of generations between us. While the ongoing themes of my early 30s is stuff like starting out my career, finishing school, and anticipating future motherhood, none of those issues were her reality at all. She’d dealt with her coming-of-age long ago, in respect to the times she was in, and had even surpassed many other of life’s eras that I could not even begin to write fiction about. Now her life was left to mostly look back on, without much of the forward part left. How had she made peace with mistakes she’d made along the way? What would she have done differently with her children? What had made life worth living?

Our nails had long been dry, but we kept them in front of the fan anyway, carrying on until a car outside honked. She rose to go. “My husband,” she replied, and gathered her purse. “Well, it was nice chatting with you, dear.”

“Wait,” I called out. I wanted to tell her something, but I didn’t know what. I felt compelled to leave her with something though. It was as if we were both standing on opposite ends of the see-saw: while I was fully ripening into adulthood and watching the world’s doors open for me, the sun had already begun to set on her life. What do you say to that? “Maybe I’ll see you again,” was all I could manage.

She puffed up her furry cheetah hat, and gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “I would hope so,” she winked, and was gone.

The shop was empty now. Smells of food filled the air; the technicians had piled in the back room for their lunch break. I sat still for a long time, frozen underneath shelves of polishes as I imagined the both of us going back to our homes. I would go home and hug my cat, and Ella would go home and sigh at the canary.

Día de los Muertos

2011-10-31T14:29:00.000-07:00

In honor of Día de los Muertos, I’ve written a special tribute to honor those in my life who have passed on.

Aunt Lucy: When I think of you, I think of hot summers in L.A., melting popsicles and sticky fingers, playing your piano off-key for hours, and both my sister and I anxious over breakfast while we waited for that sleeping beauty daughter of yours to wake up. (“Maybe another hour, mijas.”) Growing older, I realized the things that had made you gracious (besides your sophisticated collection of high heels my sister and I envied over); there was always coffee in your home, a sweet to nibble on, and conversation that penetrated a layer deeper than the surface—there was a genuine care of our lives. You were elegant, classy, a strong current always at the core of your essence. I keep a picture of you on my vanity; so when I’m powdering my nose and glossing my lips, I’m reminded of how much I love a woman’s glamour.

David: Smile now, cry later—that’s what was tatted on your chest, with the masks that peek-a-booed out to your neck. Mama always said don’t hang out with no thugs, but for some reason I never had a curfew when I was with you. Your natural charm and the polite, yet un-phony way you greeted my mom got me out of the house. Then, it was joints and 40s galore (good ol’ King Cobra and seedy dime sacks). We sat on the porch steps of your hood, talking, indulging, waiting for life around us to happen. But while monotonous suburbia track-homes towered up around me, I grew restless, itching to escape. You came to say goodbye on my last day, to wish me luck in San Francisco. You were a new man. Your eyes shone as you spoke of your newborn; how you’d held him on top of you and drifted asleep as your hearts beat chest-to-chest. “There’s no feeling like it in the world, Sarah,” you confided. And there were tears in your eyes. A couple months later, my sister and I were sitting on the porch of a bar under an orange tree. I’d just gotten the news from back home about the red light you’d run, and the oncoming car… We guzzled through pints of beer as oranges fell down all around us; it was as if someone were shaking the tree by its roots.

Grandma Celia: We weren’t that close because copious years had already washed over you, like waves over a shell in the sand, until one day the current was strong enough to simply sweep you away. But for the one special day in my childhood that you babysat me, I was your only nieta. In your tiny nest of a home, I shadowed you through the natural rhythms of your routine: novelas in the background, a leisurely stroll over to Safeway (you whistling the entire time), tortillas with queso fresco, “Otra tortilla mijita?” I wanted to know you so badly. How had my own mother looked to you the way I’d always looked to her? What was it in our parallel blood that made us Corral? Did you have that same restlessness that ached inside me too? You were an entity of mystery to me. I yearned for something in you that I could not explain. We sat calmly on the sofa together; you watching your novelas, me watching you.

Nick: At first you were just the new guy that everyone at the pizza parlor gravitated towards. But even after many months, the novelty of you never wore off; you were charming and fit into our tight-knit staff of family beautifully. There were jokes on the assembly line and beat-boxing over side-work. At closing time, all of us slipped quarters in the jukebox and video games, ate leftover pizza and raided the beer-taps, with you always at the center of our attentions. Then one day, an alarm of emergency spewed through us; after you’d gone on break, our delivery driver found your orange jacket on the side of the road before the paramedics in a horrific three-car crash. Days later, we all stood on the side of the street where it’d happened. The traffic of cars was so deceivingly innocent in the morning. I looked behind us, struck by the irony of a fully flourished field of weeds. Four teenagers had lost their lives on one street: you, my friend’s brother, your other friend, and a teenage girl in an oncoming car who was learning to drive for the first time. We stood there, shattered, as cars continued to speed by and weeds continued to grow.

Gustavo: I still choke at the sight of the cherry tree blossoms every spring; earth is revealing her new year of promise to us, and you’re not here to see it. I’d never lived your life, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t understand it. There were many talks about those other years…sometimes you’d cry and sometimes I’d cry with you. On a quest to heal, there were walks in the woods, drives through the city, carne asada at family parties, cookies because my mom always stocked up on your visits, and your favorite: all-day home-cooked meals. There would be beer while you cooked and wine with dinner. Our aromatic laughter seasoned the food as much as chiles and oregano. And now…and now what? Now there is an empty seat at family get-togethers. Now our tamales are missing an essential ingredient. Now I can only love your memory, and love you through your wife and daughter, both of whom I adore. And that love, primo, is unconditional too.

Also, a special bendición to my suegro, who I never had the honor of knowing. Salvador, I’ve loved so much of what remains of you, it’s as if we’ve been familia all along.

Down The Escalator

2011-10-24T17:35:00.000-07:00

The problem with the homeless in San Francisco is that after awhile, the locals become almost immune to caring for them. When they’re zig-zagging the sidewalk like bug-eyed zombies screaming at an invisible dog, we nonchalantly turn up our I-pods and walk past them. When that crazy long haired dude who looks like Jesus flown over the cuckoo’s nest is trying to sell you roses, we politely say no—if we say anything at all.

Today began playing out like any other day as I got on the escalator, coming home from downtown. I saw the same black homeless man downstairs in front of the train station that I see almost everyday. Instinctively, I began to play dumb, looking busy so I’d be too distracted to “see him” as I rummaged through bags filled from my latest shopping spree. Before I could un-wrap a Mac turquoise eyeliner (that I may or may not ever use), something about the man caught my attention: Shuffling nervously, he went up to two other black men—tourists—who were struggling to get their LV decked luggage onto the escalator going up. He cleared his throat…tapped them on the shoulder.

The tourists crinkled their faces like they’d just stepped in dog shit. In front of them, the man was holding up a Street-Sheet. (It’s a monthly paper written by the homeless for the homeless to freely sell for a buck as an “alternative” to panhandling.)

“Street Sheet, brutha?” he asked them. “It’s our special poetry edition.”

The tourists, dressed in ironed polos, black shades, and flecks of silver shining from their necks, swatted at him as if he were a horse-fly in the kitchen. “Nah man, get away,” they thwarted.

“It…it’s only a buck,” he choked at them, clutching lamely at the paper.

The men became angry. They’d just gotten their suitcases on the stairs, and we began to cross each other; me going down, them going up. “Man, get away! Don’t ask me again if I already told your broke-ass no!” “Yeah, man, get your raggedy-ass a real job!”

Their reaction seemed to sting the “bum.” And then, it occurred to me that in all the years I’ve seen him, I didn’t know this man’s story at all; What if he’d had everything at once, and lost it all in one streak of bad luck? Maybe he’d gotten the pink slip from his kindergarten teaching class, and his wife and kids took off with a richer man after the house foreclosed. Without a clean shower, interview clothes, and a legit address to reference, it’d become harder and harder to pull himself back up…and now here he was. I didn’t know this man’s life but what I did know was that he had probably seen himself in those men—with their fancy luggage, polished leather shoes, and Ray-bans, no less. He saw probably what he could’ve been, and maybe who he wanted to be. But the tourists, same skin color or not, did not see themselves in the bum at all. If they had, it repulsed them.

Hollering “stupid-ass bum” and “raggedy-ass motherfucker” all the way to the top, the men’s bodies grew smaller against the backdrop of towering buildings until they disappeared completely out of sight.

I felt terrible as I dragged off the escalator. While people around had gawked and stared, no one made a single gesture of empathy. And then, everything carried on as it was before: Tourists poured out of the station, unfolding their maps and squinting up at the sky; a flock of teens lit up a blunt; a clique of girls smacked me out of their way with their Forever 21 bags.

I couldn’t get just leave and get on the train though. I knew I had to do something. (I wouldn’t leave someone abandoned on the side of the street who’d just gotten hit by a car—how could I leave someone who’d just been emotionally run over?)

Reaching in my purse, I tapped the homeless man on the shoulder.

He turned around quickly, not meeting my eyes. I wondered if they had tears in them. I handed him a five-dollar bill—it was the only money I had, and it was supposed to be my Bart fare home.

As I waited for my good Samaritan-ness to be rewarded with a filling look of gratitude in his eyes, I was stunned instead, that the man snatched the bill out of my hand and pocketed it without even a thank you. When his eyes finally looked into mine, I flinched away like a bird with a wounded wing. His soul seemed to have vanished. His black eyes were hollow—no feeling or emotion attached—and the only thing that made him human was the jittery twitches of his body. He was a dead man walking, his entire livelihood sold to nothing more than his daily fixes of crack or heroin.

As quickly as I’d given him the money, he was gone.

Suddenly, the reality of what I’d done kicked in: I’d just assed myself out of a train ride home!

I fought with some rowdy kids and a lady with a stroller to “sneak” on the back of the bus. The driver rolled her eyes at us, and mouthed what looked like “sons-of bitches” under her breath. My no-hassle 10-minute train ride home had turned into a 45-minute trek across town—and, of course, I picked the aisle seat next to some girl yelling at her boyfriend the entire time that he was “hella stupid” for not calling her back last night.

When I finally got home, I must’ve chugged an entire beer down in one standing. The buzz went straight to my head, smoothing out those rough edges almost instantly. I played Scrabble on my I-phone and dug through my shopping spree purchases, while nibbling on leftover pizza from last night’s delivery. Back to my perky self in no time and buzzed off Blue Moon, I thought back on my deed of the day. And that’s when I realized, who was I to judge anyone on how to get their fix?

Riding a Bike

2011-10-17T02:37:00.000-07:00

The first time my dad took the training wheels off my bike was like a classic T.V. sitcom moment: Dad held my cherry red Schwinn as he sprinted beside me. “Pedal faster,” he instructed. I pedaled faster. “Keep going, sweet-heart!” I did! I kept going, pedaling fast and faster until I was no longer a leaf attached to the branches of his arms; it was just me on my bike, streaking down the sidewalk, a blast of Shirley Temple curls trailing behind me. The rest of my childhood, if I wasn’t reading books (the entire Babysitter’s Club series), or spying on my older, cooler sister, I was on my bike. We lived in a quiet serene neighborhood, and I lived for my parents’ instructions of “Go outside and play.”

For my 6^th grade graduation, I was gifted a 10-speed mountain bike...but something inside me had fizzled away. My leaves had changed. I no longer wanted to ride my bike to spy on the neighborhood “crazy” who had about a hundred animals in her backyard (including a very cool llama, and a one-eyed cat). I no longer cared to ride to the orchards of pomegranate trees, where I would bask in the shade and watch passing clouds in the sky. (I’ve always been a dreamer.) Instead, I became more interested in trying to smoke my first cigarette, and of taking those Does he like you? quizzes from big sis’s Seventeen.

My dad ended up taking the bike with him when my parents divorced; a surefire symbol that the ride of my childhood had ended. Years passed. Over 15. Then last year, on a visit up to San Francisco, my dad strapped a bike onto his jeep, drove it up, and proudly boasted, “Here. A present for you.”

The entire time it had served as a lovely ornament in the garage, collecting dust alongside our friend’s bike. But the other Saturday morning, the ruca suggested we take out the ol’ wheels. At first I thought she was crazy. Frisco streets are a parade of pandemonium! I’ve always been terrified to bike the streets and share with hundreds of busses, Muni trains, camera-snapping tourists spilling out of cable-cars, way-agro cab drivers, and pedestrians who take their ‘right of way’ as seriously as their middle-finger. (Just last week, I saw the 14 slice a rearview mirror clean off a Lexus, while a gang of teens in the back of the bus hollered Boo-yah!) Still, my ruca was determined to soak up the few days of our Indian summer, and pretty soon I was determined too, but also a little bit annoyed with myself; Why (and how) had I grown to be such a freakin’ wuss?

Ready to take on a new adventure by the handlebars, I marched my no-guts-no-glory ass outside and did something I hadn’t done in years: I got on a bike. Instantly, my feet re-connected with the pedals, my hands with the brakes. Everything flooded back to me, a déjà vu like haze of my childhood blooming through as an adult. Clearly, this was not a difficult task like recalling the Pythagorean theorem; it was something you could never forget, as easy to remember as—duh—riding a bike.

The wind splashed on my face and whipped at the curls that had escaped from my helmet. Why is that when we get older, we become more afraid? Is it because the more we live in life, the more we potentially have to lose? Or is it because we’ve begun to live long enough to know that we are not invincible? For years I’ve been scared of riding a bike, and even though I didn’t know that fear as a child, it had engulfed me somehow as an adult. I’ll admit that while the thought of eating shit on the Muni tracks is still kinda scary, I was no longer going to let that fear be a reason for not wanting to ride.

The city was the same as any other day, but it all felt completely different on two wheels. I zipped past herds of people packed in coffee shops and sipping mimosas at brunch spots. I watched employees flip their signs to ‘open’ in the window of boutiques. I chuckled at the religious señoras with their Despierta! pamphlets as they stood beside the shouting preachers clutching their bibles. Then, as I pedaled fast and faster, everything became a blur…Yoga mats, grocery tote bags, skaters filming their friends eating shit, pigeons in puddles, murals on schools and liquor stores, a man with no legs and a ‘Jesus Loves You’ sign, Goood Frickin’ Chicken, a tatted-up dude with a pet parrot, the rainbows of Castro, drunks in alleys, March for your rights Oct. 29^th, $8 corte de pelo, Shoe Biz, best Bloody Mary’s in Town!, Free HIV testing, men playing dice, howling kids on playgrounds, Naan-N-Curry, hopeful workers on César Chávez Street, pizza by the slice, pastel colored projects next to exquisite Victorians, seedy strip clubs—XXX, GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS!—pupuserías, boba in your fruit drinks, the gated up GUNS shop, cops interrogating cholos while stoned-ass hipsters tapped their badges for a match, BuY $1 bOOks here!, a new show at the Roxie tonight…the city unfolded before my eyes like a thousand Polaroids as I blew past it. It was an early Saturday afternoon and the streets were as alive as after. I reveled in that same glorious sensation of feeling so alive and new—as if my dad had just taken off my training wheels for the first time.

La Santa Cecilia

2011-10-10T19:50:00.000-07:00

We were off to San Jose, that close yet distant town from Emerald City. It was a Saturday night, the car was filled up with our homegirls, and we guzzled down Fat Tire in coffee thermoses with the same merriment as frat boys doing keg stands. (Except for my ruca, who was designated driver.) We were going to see La Santa Cecilia, a Latino band from L.A. who my ruca has been raving about since she saw their last show. I wasn’t thrilled that she wanted to go again, or rather that she wanted to take me with her. Concerts aren’t really my thing. Besides getting nervous in huge crowds, I don’t dance salsa. Or merengue. Or cumbias. Or…well, you get the point. That’s not to say I can’t dance—indeed, I can bootie-shake like no one’s business. But anything that involves a 1-2-3 step with a partner, a dip, a twist and a twirl, and I am lost. I didn’t grow up salsa dancing at home—I grew up listening to my parents’ Beatles and Elvis, and watching my mom bust the Mashed Potatoes, the Watusi, and the Twist!

Needless to say, going to a concert where I’d spend the evening as a cute lil’ wallflower surrounded by flocks of Latinos who really know how to cut a rug, did not sound like a fun night—but I decided to go. While I powdered my nose and glossed my lips, I promised myself that tonight, I would enjoy a different taste of life out of my comfort zone. After all, I am too young to be a 30-year old “square;” a helpless homebody who’s life is consumed only with work and writing. I needed to break loose a little—live. I needed to color in the black and whites of my soul, and feed myself a new adventure.

We arrived at our destination early. Or maybe the show started late, whatever. Sipping cocktails in the lounge of an uppity hotel, I admired the two striking women sitting next to us who chatted with our homegirls. One was dressed in a stunning autentica blusa with brightly embroidered flowers. A long elegant trensa hung down her back like a crow’s feather. The other woman had cute curly hair and chic framed glasses that would’ve looked silly on me, but looked unfairly cool on her. Conversation flowed easily with them, which is how I quickly found out that they had not come to see the band—they were the band! I took a big gulp of my vodka on the rocks, keeping my cool yet completely blown away. These rockeras were down to earth, cool as shit—raza—and they shared awesome stories of their international travels. We congratulated them on their Grammy nomination for their song, La Negra. I was mesmerized by their humbleness. I was in complete awe of their super chill vibe. I was…already a fan.

When it was time for them to go on, we raised our glasses, threw them back, and made our way inside. Lights simmered low with the spotlights glowing only on the band. All at once, their music filled the room, heating up the hazy club like steam in Mama’s kitchen. Between the guitar and the drums and the accordion, all of the instruments blended together vibrantly, a tie-dye spiral of sounds. The singer’s voice was incredible, switching high notes to low as easy as a snap, her Spanish and Spanglish a melodic sizzle.

The booths along the wall emptied out. Glasses clinked, toes were stomped on. Girls wiggled in their mini dresses and stilettos, their heels skinny as a needle, and eager guys scanned the crowd, searching for whichever girl would say yes to them. Two girls got kicked out for almost fighting, and another girl in the tightest animal print dress I’d ever seen fell face-flat on the floor not once, but twice. (I almost caught her drink on the second timberrr down, but missed.) I was hardly fazed. I didn’t need to know fancy footwork, like salsa or cumbias—my hips were fluid on my body, riding the rhythm of the songs like a surfboard coasting along a wave. Between me and my homegirls shooting up our pulses in sync to the beating songs, a warp of time captured us, and swallowed us away. Too soon they were performing their last song. The slosh of crowd almost turned rowdy, demanding more as they hollered back at them: “Otra, otra!” The band shrugged, giving their fans what they wanted. And their last song they left us with? A beautiful rendition of the Beatles’ Strawberry Fields.

Gratified, I reflected back on the night. I’d not only gotten out of my comfort zone and tried something new, I’d genuinely enjoyed myself. I tossed my arm around my ruca, swaying gently to the final song as the mood shifted to a mellow flutter. And in case you were wondering, I did not bust out the Mashed Potatoes, or the Watusi to this song…just a very mild Twist to my signature bootie-shake.

Check out the band! Here’s a link to their homepage, and a YouTube clip of them. Good luck at the Grammys, guys!

http://lasantacecilia.com/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lSjaTWoTT4I

The Night Run

2011-10-03T19:04:00.000-07:00

Normally, streams of sunshine pour through the capes of leaves that hang from the trees, but tonight, all I could see were their branches, curling out like witch’s fingers. At my insistence, the ruca and I went for a jog after work, except we waited a little too late. The last rays of twilight had flickered away, and the innocent beauties of day felt tainted by the inability to see them at night. Instead, I noticed all the eerie nuances of night-life that thrived on Bernal Hill: cobwebs drooled across street signs; scampers in the bushes kept me on alert; sticks crackled, and dirt kicked up at our feet like puffs of smoke.

We sprinted up the last staircase that leads to the top of the hill where we run one arduous lap. I led the way since I have the keen eyesight of a cat (compensation, probably, for my hearing that’s gone to shit), and I scanned the bushes rigorously, searching for anything unordinary that might jump out at us. Checking back on the ruca, only a few steps behind, a dull flicker hazed her eyes instead of the warm connection I’ve come to love and need from her. I felt that familiar throb inside me that had been tender all week, but I ignored it. If I kept running, it would all disappear eventually, right? The strain of my lungs would exhaust, and start anew without even a trace of memory to mark that pain. Then everything would go back to how it was…wouldn’t it?

The hill itself was dark, as if someone had blown a candle out in the room, but the lights of the city spewed out in front of us. I like to consider this picturesque view my prize for actually making it to the top without passing out, but tonight, a completely different panorama played out before me. The Bay Bridge lit up magnificently, shooting land to land across the water, which was dotted with several lights that bobbed on the bay. The usual sparks of sound that flare up the city had dimmed to nothing more than a distant hum beneath us. On the hill, few people remained, their faces blurred in the blackness as they made their ways home. Some whistled out to their dogs who’d tangled themselves in trails of the hill, others packed up their wine bottles from their sunset picnic, and a pack of high school kids shuffled away, their 4:20 session now long gone.

Continuing on, we breezed easily downhill and through the streets. We neared the last stretch uphill that circles back to the staircases we came from. I usually love this desolate trek, so close to the finish line, but tonight the cautionary whoo-whoo of owls took on the voice of my two angry parents yelling at me in my head: “Why would you go running at night?! What were you thinking? Where is your common sense?!”

Suddenly, the ruca called out to me, her voice a cracked yelp. “Wait!” she gasped, a desperate hunt for her breath. “Wait!”

“Need a breather?” I halted, not thrilled about her timing.

“I…I have something to… to tell you,” she huffed.

“What?”

She approached me, the glisten of sweat shiny on her face.

“I…I’m still upset with you. From our fight last week. I’m just…I’m still hurt.”

I let my lungs exhaust too. Just the mention of the fight swallowed me back to the scene, forgetting the trepidation that, a moment ago, had prickled my skin. While it’s typical for the ruca and I to squabble over regular stuff (“Please don’t borrow my lipstick!” “Do you even know where we keep the mop?” “No I will not wake up at 6am to make you coffee!”), our spats usually extinguish as quickly as they fire up. But every now and then, like last Wednesday, we just can’t let up and we explode, firing at each other like cannons. Maybe it was a crappy over-time/underpaid day at work, maybe it was that hormone raging time of the month when the SPCA commercials are enough to make me cry, or maybe it was the annoying neighbors who sounded like they were bowling upstairs. But I was in a toxic mood, bloated with all the crap of my day, and took it out on my ruca for forgetting her keys (again) and making me wait 40 minutes longer than promised when I’d had plans. Becoming defensive, the ruca lashed out too, and the next thing we knew, a mishap over keys had turned into a full out screaming match with all swords being thrown including “And I’ve told you three times to put the dishes away!”

The choleric duel had taken place a week ago to the day. Though we’d grumbled our apologies and called a truce, we’d carried on the rest of the week as if we were ordinary roommates. Intimacy had become an awkward strain between us, and the cariño had vanished from our usual I love you’s. Like two stubborn turtles hiding irritably in our shells, we’d emotionally withdrawn from each other.

“I’m sorry,” I wheezed. “I was such a (huff, huff) jerk to you. I wish I could...wish I could take it back. But for the record (huff, huff), I’m hurt with you too!”

“I know I was a jerk too,” she panted. “And I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t…fall out of love with me, did you?” I croaked, almost scared to ask the most pivotal question, should one of the answers crush me completely.

“No,” she shook her head. “I just realized I was still hurt (huff, huff) while we were running.”

“We can’t get so out of hand when we’re that furious. (Huff, huff.) We can’t treat each other like punching bags!”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “No punching bags.”

There was nothing we could do to change what had happened. The feeling of regret had to digest through us, like spoiled milk. For some reason though, just acknowledging that we were hurt felt slightly soothing in itself; like we were officially ready to come out of our shells, and look the other in the eye.

I peered down the dark road that winded through the hill, suddenly longing for the familiar comforts of home.

“C’mon,” I coaxed persuasively. “Let’s run the rest of the way.”

A renewed energy shot through us. My body worked through its motions, expelling the sordidness that had poisoned me the entire week. My heart and lungs were firecrackers exploding in my chest, and my calves triggered with heat, like sticks rubbing together before they catch fire.

We weren’t home when we made it back to the staircase, but we heaved a huge sigh of relief anyway, and slapped high-5s. Clambering back down, the lampposts on the staircase had finally turned on, and lit the way home for us.
© Sarah C. Jiménez, All Rights Reserved 2011

Motherhood(?!)

2011-09-26T16:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think I would like to be a mom. Like really like to be one. On the train, babies propped on Mama’s shoulder often gaze back at me, and a fuzzy feeling melts inside me that can only be described as Awww. Yesterday, I saw a woman in Walgreens slap her kid’s head as she told him to “shut his ass up,” and I realized I’d probably be a much better mother than a few that are out there. But motherhood is not my reality—not right now. Not only do I not have the means (or to be quite frank, the sperm), but I will admit the one thing that us women are not encouraged to say, be it the truth or not: I am selfish. I love my life. This life now, the one I’ve created for myself…

I love waking up in the morning, sunlight spilling on my face, with the option to go back to sleep if I like, or to get up and spontaneously plan out my day; maybe take a yoga class, or get a mani/pedi, or pick up some fruit from the farmer’s market. I never have to “arrange” for babysitter, or leave the house with a ten-pound diaper bag—just my ten-pound purse. Also, I’m a bit of a helpless romantic. I love date nights with the ruca, and discussing the profound nuances of everyday life that usually have nothing to do with Sponge Bob Square Pants. When we go out to eat, the first words out of the host’s mouth are not: “Kid’s menu with crayons?” And I’ve yet to experience sitting down to have our waiter crinkle their nose at the sight of a high chair in their section, as if our kid were a skunk.

Most importantly, the reason I am not ready for kids is because I am convinced that I am going to “make it” as a writer in this decade, my 30s. My teens were a rebellious mess filled with “dime” sacks and 40s; my 20s were about getting to know and like myself, lots of traveling, and getting dragged off the barstool after last-call. This era is going to be the decade that my books will be published and my dream of establishing myself as a writer will unravel like a magic carpet setting off to fly. Ideally, I don’t want “making it” to mean I can afford rent without having to bartend for a few weeks. Screw that. I want a shot of snagging that huge house on Russian Hill, rooms with a view, and extra rooms for Mom, Pop, and the in-laws. A separate work studio in the city sounds perfect, with prospects of setting up a writer’s workshop for young kids of color down the line. Sure, it may sound like a long shot, but I’m stubborn as hell and know exactly what I want. I also know I need to work really hard to get there—I need to have that time to myself to work really hard. It wouldn’t be fair to bring in another life knowing that they are not the focus of my most driven desire at that moment. On career day, I want to go to my kid’s school, proud of myself, and say: “My name is Mrs. Jiménez and I am a writer,” instead of “I am an aspiring writer, but for now I’m just a bartender. You kids know what a martini is?”

Aside from waiting for my career to blossom and loving my carefree independence, I confess yet another reason for not having kids: I am terrified. Does anyone else feel me here?! Raising children is a HUGE responsibility! There’s the usual stuff to worry about, like will I be too strict a parent, or not strict enough? What if my kid hates broccoli and fish and bananas and pretty much every single meal I prepare for them? What if little Juanito get his ass kicked at school everyday for having two moms, neither of whom taught him how to play football—or worst, what if Juanito is the school bully? But there are also the even bigger things in life: what if I don’t agree with their lifestyles? My children—whether adopted, or from my womb, or the ruca’s—will obviously be a blueprint of me, but children are not statues that parents are free to sculpt as they wish. While parents may be a child’s most influential impact, we all come wired with our own souls, our unique spirits. Still, how accepting a parent will I be if my kid grows up and decides they don’t want to be a radical revolutionary like Mommy wants, but are content enough to simply pass their life away a stoned-ass couch potato whose only motivation is slanging weed? (And no, Mommy won’t be thrilled about that discount on “dime” sacks!) Or even worst than that, what if they decide to become (gasp) a Republican?! Dear God! What a terrifying leap of faith parenthood seems to be!

If I could, I’d put motherhood off for another decade until I’m 40. But evolution seems a little sexist, and so far has not kept up with a woman’s career. If I don’t start cookin’ that bun in the oven by the time I’m 36, my eggs will probably go extinct. Or be as rare a species as the panda or the great blue whale. I guess I’ll have to cross that bridge when I get there. Because sitting here now, drinking my coffee spiked with Kahlua and wondering how to spend the rest of my day off, adoption in ten years is suddenly sounding like a no-brainer.

Whenever that time comes, and my house of cards is fully built, and the ruca and I have established a cozy nest for the esquincles to call home, maybe then motherhood will call to me with more than just a knock on my door. And I will answer that need, that desire. I will someday be so important to someone else that they will need me for nurture, acceptance, and unconditional love. I will be ready to take on that key role for the rest of my life. For now I have myself to take care of, and a fledgling dream of becoming something bigger than myself. I have my little nest, a cozy one bedroom in Bernal, the ruca to come home to, and a 20-lb cuddly cat who I am not afraid to say I adore. Until the day our mini family grows, and blossoms into bigger branches of life that extend from us, I will be more than happy with this amazing life I have now.

Rick's on the Wharf: Sofia

2011-09-19T17:14:00.000-07:00

This is an excerpt from my 2^nd novel I am co-writing with a friend. The novel is a collection of perspectives from all the different positions in a restaurant. This particular chapter is written from the perspective of Sofia, a manager of the restaurant Rick’s on the Wharf. Enjoy!

As Luke dimmed the lights of the dining room, Sofia straightened up taller and poofed out her hair. This sent a subtle wave of perfume that graced the air around her—although too bad the intoxicating whiff was wasted on the lousy hostess, Gwyn. The dimming of lights from lunch to dinner was the cue that this night, Friday, had officially begun. Friday nights (along with Saturdays) were the nights that any magic—good or bad—was bound to happen. And Sofia would be damned if she wouldn’t be dressed for it in her sexiest animal print.

“Sofia, we got a 10-top at 8. Who should it go to?” asked Gwyn.

Sofia scanned the line-up of reservations for the night. “What do we know about them?”

Gwyn clicked on the side notes of Open Table. “Some financial investors…it says they just won something and are looking to celebrate.”

Sofia envisioned the 10-top of businessmen at the end of their work-week looking to celebrate: martinis and calamari for the first course, steak and bottles of wine for dinner, and expensive scotch for dessert. “Hmm. Businessmen, potentially young and attractive…Give ‘em to Lola.”

“Isn’t that slightly bias, Sofia?”
“No,” she snapped. “Listen, honey, this is a tough business. If you want to be a good host, then you gotta learn how to work the door.”

“Look, Sofia, I’m not here for life. I’m only here because my parents said they’d pay for my schooling and rent if I work at least three days a week for my own spending money. Someday when I finish school and get a real job, I’ll look back at this and laugh.”

“Honey, I hope someday you do get a ‘real job’ where you sit behind a desk because you couldn’t make it in this industry. You have zero communication skills and the work ethic of a lazy ten year old who just wants to play video games. I’m sure you’re great at the books, sweetheart, but this industry’s reserved for hustlers who know the art of charm.”

The insult should not have hurt Gwyn, who considered herself far too above the job to work menial pay anyhow, but it did. Sofia was just always so blunt. She’d tried pointing this out to her once, but all Sofia had said was, “Sugar, if you can’t handle the truth, you know where the door is.”

The truth was that if Gwyn were Sofia’s protégé (or if Sofia even liked Gwyn as a person), then she would’ve gladly taught Gwyn some tricks of the trade. First and above all else, the person running the door had to learn their servers’ capabilities. Take Josie for example. Josie was jubilant, wholesome, and was so excited to be a server trainer at Rick’s that she would greet her table with pom-poms if she could. A family of five in San Francisco for the first time would love to have Josie wait on them. In fact there’s nothing she’d love more than to up-sell pink lemonades to kids in “rockin’ ” animal shaped cups. Then there was Elton. Sure, he was 6’5, a complete goof and more than a bit eccentric, but the gentle giant was harmless; he worked his shifts and was content as long as he wasn’t buried. He was even so fascinated by the Europeans that he would actually do okay with them, mostly by saying outlandish shit like, “So is it true that French consider eating snails a delicacy? Cuz if so, then I would’ve been considered, like, a total king of my childhood. Oui oui.” Then there was Ingrid, the vegan yogini hippy. She did best with low-maintenance locals who’d gotten stuck on the Wharf for some reason or other. As long as no one asked her which steak she recommended, she usually did all right.

Sofia knew all her servers better than they even knew themselves. Upon first impressions, she knew immediately who her guests would be best paired with—with the same knowledgeable complexity as she would know how to pair a certain steak with wine. But still, she had to mismatch her guests and servers often. Otherwise, Elton would start complaining that he only got sat with foreigners, and Daniel would start bitching that Lola only got hot young businessmen that he wanted. Besides that, tables would not be properly rotated and server counts would be off. In order to prevent a full-out bitch-fest, Sofia had to take all the rules and throw them out the window throughout the night, which was usually when things would get messy. Elton sucked at taking big parties if he wasn’t teaming with his buddy Jack, Ingrid had no idea how to sell steak and wine to the plush guests in section 5, and Daniel became bitchy with too many old ladies in his section—“hens,” he called ‘em—who slowed down his service with hot tea and lattes. Things would run in a controlled sense of chaos—controlled, of course, because Sofia was responsible for it. But even though she deemed them necessary, those “mismatches” were always foreseen train-wrecks without the servers ever really knowing why.

Sofia knew that running the door was one of the most overlooked, yet tactical positions in the restaurant—why couldn’t Gwyn see the authority she had as a hostess? She had the power to give a couple the tiniest table on 27—the crappy deuce that sometimes the restroom door would hit on the way out. Or she had the power to make their experience by seating them on table 15; the circular elevated booth adorned in velvet in section 5, that was best reserved for guests who wanted to show off their expensive bottle of wine they’d be more inclined to order. Location, so true in the real estate world as a dining experience, was everything. That power to make or break that experience was entirely up to the host. And yet, here this key person Sofia was supposed to have running the door was nothing more than a spoiled trust-fund kid.

Luke joined them just then at the host stand. “Hey, there Gwyn, how you, uh, doin’ today?” he asked, fiddling with his tie. Fidgeting was such a helpless habit with alcoholics.

Gwyn scowled. “I’ve had a headache all day.”

“Aww,” he cooed.

“Drink some coffee,” Sofia smacked, unsympathetically.

“Well if you wanna go home early, you can,” Luke shrugged.

Gwyn lit up. “Really? Oh, that’d be great I have so much homework to do and—”

“Excuse me!” Sofia cut in. “Honey, you can’t go anywhere. It’s Friday night, I need you here.”

“But Luke just said—”

“Luke says a lot of dumb things, but hear me out, you’re staying!”

“Geez, Sofia,” Luke muttered, rocking back and forth on his toes. “I was just trying to—”

“Well don’t,” she interrupted. “Running the house is my business and—”

Two ladies walked up to the host desk just then. On cue, all of them straightened up and smiled their best fake smiles. Well, all of them, except Gwyn.

“Two!” the old ladies barked.

“Take ‘em to 37,” Sofia ordered Gwyn. It was Daniel’s section. He didn’t do well with old ladies and they would’ve been better suited with someone kind like Josie, but Sofia didn’t like their attitude and Daniel had been late.

“Enjoy your dinner, ladies,” she smiled at them.

“Ladies, enjoy,” Luke chimed in, even though they ignored both managers.

Sofia dropped her smile as Luke skittered away and Gwyn took them to their table. Once she returned, Sofia made her rounds. Her heels tapped away across the floor, a slight echo stirring up behind her. She was pleased to see that as she turned the corners of the dining room, her employees were keeping busy. She was no idiot though. She knew more than half of them looked busy when they heard her coming, which was okay by her too. Besides, she already knew who her real work-horses were.

Saul was shining silverware, Dulce was lighting candles, Jack and Elton chatted about last night as they folded napkins, and Ramon was texting.

“Ramon, get off that phone and go help Saul shine silverware,” she snapped. “Daniel, you just got sat.”

“I know,” he grunted, tying his apron with exaggerated irritation. “I seen ‘em dinosaurs stomping in.”

She turned the last corner, finding Luke adjusting employees’ in-times from the morning. “Goddamnit, Luke. If you know competence isn’t your forte, why don’t you let people who are more capable handle the responsibility?” she blasted.

“What?” Luke exasperated, looking confused. It must’ve been too many big words in one sentence.

“Sweetie,” she softened her attack. “Let me handle the door and you handle your…whatever it is you do here.”

He looked sheepish. “Is this about Gwyn?”

“Don’t you think if the girl was deathly sick I would send her home?”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I just…I can’t do anything right today.”

Sofia felt sorry for many people in her lifetime, but never for drunks. It was such a selfish disease. But still, being the nephew of the owner, Luke had more job security than even she herself probably had. And like it or not, she had to learn how to deal with him.

“C’mon, Luke. We’ve got a ton of reservations tonight. But seriously, next time we’re hiring a host, let me do the interviewing okay?”

Not waiting for an answer, she turned the corner, her long zebra faux fur coat waving dramatically behind her as she clapped her hands at everyone sitting and goofing off in the empty back booths.

“C’mon, guys, it’s 5:00! Who are our 5 o’clockers? Get on the floor, detail your section and put those napkins away. Jack, spray some Goddamn cologne on, you smell like cigarettes! Elizabeth, what section are you in?”

“Three,” she rolled her eyes, not pleased.

“Well get in your section three! Come on, let’s go! Hurry up!” She stopped Lola as she was walking away. “Sugar, what’s wrong?”

Lola looked surprised, even though she always wore her emotions clearly. “Nothiiiing.”

“Honey, spit it out.”

She sang like a canary. “It’s Günter. He’s such a jerk to me sometimes. I come in here, I do my job, I do a good job—”

“Honey, I’m gonna stop you right there. Günter was right in telling you that you need to be here at least ten minutes before your shift so you can be ready to go on the floor at the time you’re scheduled—not walk in strolling with a spring in your step two minutes after four, not even changed. If you want Günter to respect your hard work, then show him you can be professional.”

Lola nodded. “Okay.”

“Now come on. You’re one of my best employees. I’m giving you a 10-top of businessmen all looking for steak. I know you can handle it, right?”

Lola lit up. “Oh yes, of course I can!”

“And what’s the rest?”

“Wine, wine, wine,” Lola boasted, all-too-cheerfully repeating Sofia’s motto. “And I don’t mean the bitching.”

“That’s my girl. And where’s your lipstick or your lip-gloss, or whatever?”
“Why, do I need it?”

“You just look a little pale, probably from before our talk. Go to the ladies’ room, freshen up and look your best. You’re my prettiest waitress here, and I want you looking sharp.”

“O-kay! I’m on my way now,” she chirped. She hurried to the restroom, the bounce back in her step.

Sofia applauded herself. She never felt bad that she’d never had children; she had an entire restaurant full of waiters instead. She made her way back to the host desk where Luke was sneaking peeks down Gwyn’s button-down blouse. Now how the hell am I gonna get rid of that host?

The Cat that Never Left

2011-09-08T11:57:00.000-07:00

A scene...

She sat at the door of the vintage shop, her coat a shiny slick of black with slits of gleaming amber eyes. Blinking dully up at us, she did not scurry away from our peddling feet, nor flinch, rather seemed to permit our entrance into her domain.

Inside, amidst treasures and trinkets of many eras past, I momentarily forgot the feline as my fingers tapped away on an old typewriter. I watched as each key jumped its symbol to the center, then back, like fists pounding on screaming chests.

Upstairs in a low-ceilinged attic, a silhouette of a man gazed down at me, pausing his work from the typewriter he was fixing. His face was blocked by a blast of sunshine pouring in from the windows behind him. The brilliant rays lit up the dark wood interior of the shop, and even the floor we walked on that sighed its gentle creaks.

“How much is this?” my ruca asked the salesman. She was in awe over a 1968 Life Magazine of Martin Luther King Jr.—it was the week he’d been assassinated.

“Price should be on the back,” the guy answered, fiddling with some records. “But I think it’s twenty.”

The ruca hooked pleading eyes with me. Twenty bucks seemed a reasonable mark-up from the 35 cents it had sold for back in ’68.

In the middle of the shop were two large phone booths, the kind you’d only see now in old black and white movies with lovers trapped inside them. I was admiring them when suddenly, the air exploded with a burst of melody; a man had started playing the piano. There were no petals at the bottom of the instrument, but he tapped his feet grandly on the floor anyway, keeping beat to his tune. I tapped along myself, feeling like I should be in an old Western saloon, with feisty cowboys drinking whiskey and cleavage busting broads swinging from chandeliers. I watched the pianist, fascinated that the sheets of random scribbles and symbols, like pensive cursive, held the secret to the harmonious sounds that painted the air. I let the music fill me up. A tip in the cup and a helpless jig of my feet and I was back to the front of the store, where the ruca was still running her fingers across the soft creases of the magazine.

The cat was gone.

“Do you want it?” she asked, though obviously wanting it herself.

“Sure,” I nodded, understanding her tie with the King himself; her Capricorn birthday always falls the same week as the notorious leader. Plus, when you’re not born in the most incredible decade of the Civil Rights Movement, such rare tokens are priceless.

We paid for the magazine when the music stopped, and that was when the cat came out again. Her gentle stroll revealed an astute, regal air of pride. Although her body was petite, a tiny paunch on her belly dragged slightly, almost sweeping the floor that the pads of her paws stepped soundlessly upon. I guessed her age to be about a decade old—I’d been around enough cats all my life to know.

“What’s her name?” I asked, nodding towards the door. A black whip of a tail pointed back at us.

“Sasha,” said the man, placing the magazine delicately in a paper bag.

“Does she ever run away?”

A smile spread his lips open, his knowing eyes filled with stories. “Every now and then, she thinks about it. She’ll stretch her paws across the line of the door and you can see her debating, contemplating. It’s like she’s thinking ‘oh freedom! Oh sweet, terrible freedom!’ And then…she changes her mind, comes back inside.”

I could picture her now: contemplating a nomadic life amongst a sea of traffic-filled hipsters in skinny jeans and Converse on Valencia Street, hunting rats out by the dumpsters and fighting feral cats for a warm place to sleep. But here, in her very own castle of polished rustic gems, she is probably fed kibble and canned tuna everyday with fresh changed water, and gets an affectionate pet when in need of cariño. But still—to know the unknown! To journey out onto ventures far beyond the confines of the shop! What escapades she could live—what adventures she’d dare find!

We looked over at her. At her shiny black coat with her ears slightly flat, knowing she was the subject of our conversation. Her tail swooshed softly at attention.

“Wow,” I exhaled, not realizing I’d been holding my breath, or why.

With the iconic King wrapped carefully in the paper bag, we exited the shop, clicking our tongues and cooing our goodbyes at the majestic black creature who sat statuesque at the entrance. Out on Valencia Street, we walked upon the concrete of our own freedom—sweet, terrible freedom—as Sasha gazed silently back at us.

Bruja Magic

2011-09-01T11:33:00.000-07:00

Flashback to Pride, the last weekend of June 2011…

Cousin Edna was blasting Mexican music (and probably freaking out the gabachos upstairs), because that’s what my down-ass cousin Edna does when she’s in town: She fills the house with her bubbling fire of energy, philosophizes about love, life, people and family, and renews her and the ruca’s soul with music they grew up to. It was Pride weekend, San Francisco’s biggest holiday of the year, the house was alive with family and a non-stop ringing phone, and even I was singing along in my best Spanglish to Rocio Durcal as I began reflecting about all of my past Prides over the years. I’ve spent a couple too intoxicated to say my name, a couple as an awesome Samaritan assisting disabled elder dykes in wheelchairs, and several sitting next to Edna in the front row as we watched the ruca perform as MC on stage. Then, it hit me.

“Babe, what’re we doing for the march this year?”

“Well…” the ruca started, in that tone that said she already had conspired some type of plan. Never one for subtleties, she was painting her eyelids a bright tropical turquoise with gold eyeliner, and feathers in her hair to match her pink and red flowered dress. (It’s too bad she’s so hell-bent on saving the world, she’d have made such a great performer.) “I was thinking after we’re done with the rally at the park, we could sit at Delfina, eat some really good pizza, and watch the march pass us by.”

“Delfina?!” I blasted. Delfina is like the crème de la crème of gourmet pizza in the city; a must do at the top of every foodie’s list. But (and there had to be a ‘but’) it was also right in the heart of where the march was going to be passing through. “There’s probably 30,000 people in the city right now. Do you know how many other people probably have that same idea?”

The ruca looked at me, a glare of scorn. “You’re such a pessimist, you know that?”

“I prefer the term being realistic.”

“Realistic?! Ha! That’s funny, coming from someone who lives in the clouds.”

I handed her the eye-shadow brush she was looking for, sticking my tongue out at her.

“Your pessimism aside,” she continued, “Would you want to watch the march from there if we had the chance?”

“Or course!” I piped. It was true that the ruca had a genius idea about watching the parade while dining at one of the best spots in town, but those kinds of miracles only happen to holy people who walk on water. “I just don’t wanna get my hopes up for something that seems nearly impossible.”

“You watch,” she said. “I’ll find a way to make it happen.”

“What’s going on?” Cousin Edna asked, walking into the room.

“We’re just talking about what to do after the rally,” I filled her in. “Your cousin wants to eat at this spot where the parade is going through and watch it passing by.”

“Oh,” she said, rubbing the ruca’s coconut lotion on her arms. “Will that place be hard to get into?”

We arrived at Delfina’s before going to the park to scope out the scene for later. I was stuffing a salchicha wrapped in tocino in my mouth while the ruca did the talking: “No reservations? Show up and sign our name in? How long a wait?”

I shook my head, grilled cebollas dangling out of my mouth like monster tongues. Even with all the odds seemingly against us, the ruca was determined. I didn’t want to tell her that I’d already resolved on watching the show from the sidelines, and getting trampled by thousands of rainbow flags rippling through the masses.

We crossed the street to the park where we could hear blasts of taiko drums thundering through the air. The park burst at its seams with all kinds of people: butchy dykes in leather vests, glittery-eyed femmes, androgynous lezzies, tutus and chains, pink and purple mohawks, bouncing boobs in every letter and number size imaginable, and taut cherubic-esque booties hanging out—and, of course, the ever sweet incense of skunk, sweating its fumes throughout the park.

Picking a spot close to the stage, we laid out a blanket where we met up with friends and made new ones as scores of scenes played out in front of us. Marga Gomez, the notorious comedian, was working the crowd, saying that there was a new 2-floor lesbian club opening right in the heart of Castro. Our attention piqued, we all eyed her onstage as she hit us with her punch-line: “It’s called TRADER JOE’S!”

We walked along the top of the park, alongside the Muni tracks where some of the more hardcore dykes were soaking up as much booze as they could, concealed under the denseness of shade. Women everywhere and all around us kissed in their own celebrated sanctuary, captured in the exhilarating aura of open love. How cool it was that so many lesbians from all over the world made a pilgrimage to San Francisco for this one special day, and here we just drove right up the street for it!

The afternoon passed leisurely. After our friend Wanda sang onstage, our clique of four—Cousin Edna, our homegirl Viva, the ruca and me—began to pack up. It was early, and we had about an hour to go before everyone in the park filed out for the march that would take over the streets. We headed back to Delfina where we put our name on a wait-list that was longer than Santa’s “Naughty List.”

I sighed, getting my butt comfy on the curb where I’d probably be sitting for the next few hours.

Names got called out for the restaurant, though I did not get my hopes up. My stomach began to churn, that salchicha I had macked down earlier no longer filling me up. I was getting hungry, thirsty, and had to pee. And I was really ready for a drink, having held out all afternoon. Tables came in and tables got bussed, people wined and dined and watched the crowd. I wanted to be one of them so badly: wanted to be the one on the inside looking out, watching the thousand wonders uncoil before my eyes over courses of food and glasses full of wine. I realized suddenly that I really have grown up. All I was looking for was a mellow way to party, and celebrate my own personal pride with the intimate family of people I’ve created for myself. I consider Cousin Edna just as much my cousin as I do the ruca’s, and I’m just as attached to Viva and her partner as I am to morning coffee and my daily writings. The realization of my own personal blooming evolution left me deep in thought. I was proud that I no longer felt the need to be ‘that wasted chick’—like the one in the street who was puking next to me. Sagacious and reflective, everything felt at peace. Well, everything but my growling stomach, and my parched dry mouth, and the lingering stench of vomit, I guess.

All at once, a thunder of engines ripped through the crowd and clusters of dykes on bikes zoomed down the street, their shiny machines dazzling all the more with hot chicks clasping onto them from behind. High passing fives were slapped as they strolled down the limbo line, followed by the roller derby girls, their swiftness an almost oblivious blur that zipped down the street. The rest of the on-foot parade would be catching up shortly, but for now an antsy anticipation spread through the fans of people like a wild itch. The calm before the storm only seemed to promise a grander finale.

I was beginning to get poked and pushed and shoved, with an uneasy feeling of claustrophobia coming over me, when all of a sudden, in a majestic and surreal wave of brilliance, the host called out, “Sarah for 4!”

I looked at my gente, my peeps, as I giddied incredulously at the ruca. “Sarah, like me?”

“Yes!” she squealed, pushing me forward. The server was already standing over our table—by the window! It was the best spot in the house: a front-row view of the march sashaying by us with the interior warmth of the oven just steps from the kitchen. Baked herbs of basil and toasted parmesan were emanating from the ovens and tickling my taste buds. We could hardly believe our royal flush of luck as we settled in, the ruca with a knowing look in her eye, proud of her bruja magic.

Wine was poured and poured some more, and the food was nothing less than incredible: a classic Margherita, mushroom pizza with truffles, sides of collard greens drenched in seasonings, and fresh sprigs of oregano served on the side to garnish. The service was super attentive and genuine. While engaged in conversation, we watched as the entire march passed us by; flags swirling, signs held up, screaming frenzies of fanatics, and tiny tots wearing tops that said I love my two Moms.

Between glugs of wine, I felt a little ashamed at myself for not having any faith in my ruca’s manifestation at being able to make things happen. I have to remember that when you want something so badly, the universe can aspire to make it happen for you: whether it’s front row seats to the biggest show in the city, or getting my books published. (The latter I have to remember not to lose hope in, and to continue manifesting my talents going golden!) As I dipped my cherries in a creamy dish of mascarpone for dessert, I could feel the ruca tap me underneath the table. I already knew what she was going to say. And beating her to the punch, I said it for her. “Yes, my love. You did tell me so.”

© Sarah C. Jiménez 2011, All Rights Reserved

Date Night

2011-08-22T20:09:00.000-07:00

Bananarama had nothing on my cruel summer. I’d been working the last three weekends in a row, and between the ruca traveling, we hadn’t had a weekend off together in almost six weeks. My harmonized routine life of writing, down-time, and spending time with my honey had been exchanged for over-time and a backache.

Needless to say I was looking forward to some quality time with the ruca. We were excited that we were finally going to have a Wednesday night together for a romantic date. It was the happy place in my mind I went to all weekend at work, sloshing drinks to tourists, and concentrating very hard on not losing my mind when the 100^th person of the day asked me how much it costs to ride the cable cars to Fisherman’s Wharf. I was physically behind the bar; it was my body, in person, making dozens of Bloody Marys, upselling appetizers and bottled water, and ordering burgers for tourists who always eat burgers back home but have “never had a burger in San Fran.” (Wow.) It was me, all me, on auto-mode at work and smiling through my funk. But my mind was miles away, on the other side of the dining experience I was giving, and seriously pondering if vampires and humans have more flexibility in their schedules than the ruca and me.

Wednesday night came.

I dressed in my new jeans and pink peep-toe heels, with my signatory bob of curls looking as spastic and fabulous as ever. We opted for Blue Plate, one of our favorite restaurants in the city, that we gained across-the-street-access to when we moved into our Bernal neighborhood. The food there is unique and delicious, the outside patio is warm under heat lamps in a garden, and it’s just one of those special gems that makes San Francisco such an awesome foodie town. Plus, we’d be able to drink a whole bottle of wine and stumble home without worrying about driving—score.

There was a wait when we got there, but not seemingly long. Most of the tables in the front room are situated close together and we noticed a couple by the window that was almost finished with their meal. I requested that booth. (Yes, even in the industry I am one of those people who will request and wait for the best spot in the house. Shit, if I’m paying for a $70 dinner, I wanna at least have the privacy to talk dirty.) One of the double doors stayed open for passing traffic, so we squeezed into the corner of the closed door. We were trying to take up as little space as possible, and conveniently, in each other’s arms.

Standing in the tiny nook we’d established for ourselves, the chaos of our everyday lives seemed to slowly melt away. I temporarily forgot that my streak of writing had dried up like an empty martini glass, or that our house was filled with heaps of laundry that was indistinguishably clean or dirty, or that I hadn’t worked out in weeks, leading to a slight paunch on my pansa filled with junk food. None of that seemed to matter, in each other’s arms, glassy eyes sparkling as if we’d already had a toast. I wanted to kiss the ruca all over; to smell her hair and rub my cheek into hers the way lions play. But PDA embarrasses her, and even I no longer feel the need to stick my tongue down her throat to prove to people she’s mine. So I said all these unspoken actions in my eyes: that I loved her; that I missed her; that work would always be work, but that we would always come back to each other, the same way we’ve been doing for the last 6 years.

We talked about what we would do when we’d have the luxury of more time together: “Let’s paint the living room.” “Wake up early and take a walk on Land’s End.” “You know I’ve never been to Angel Island?”

I sighed, spying on the table behind us. They’d finished paying the tab long ago and were just sitting there, staring at the table without any conversation or even eye contact. It was an older lady and a younger man who might’ve been her son. I didn’t want to be rude but I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at the lady. She caught my attention because she looked so unhappy. Being behind the bar dealing with so many people a night, I’ve learned to be very intuitive about people. I can instantaneously pick up another person’s excitement, their nervousness, their dominance and insecurities. I’ve even felt a couple stone-cold people that were sinister enough to send chills up my spine. This lady wasn’t just in a bad mood. She carried a chronically miserable vibe, maybe even to the point of being mentally ill. I almost didn’t want to sit in that same booth, should she leave any residual angst lingering behind.

More time passed, close to 20 minutes. The ruca and I were getting hungry but we smiled patiently at each other, assured that the suspense of waiting was only building up the anticipation of the awesome dinner we were about to have. The sad lady in the booth slowly rose to her feet. Behind us in the other booth by the window, a mother and her two kids were signing the check as well. I felt like we were next in line to ride the roller coaster, except better because I already knew which bottle of wine we wanted.

All of a sudden, before exiting, the lady stopped right in front of us. Her odious eyes were dark as ditches, and the rage spewing off her body was nearly as visible as steam above a boiling pot of caldo. I could feel her daunting energy of wrath reaching out to slap me in the face. She waved a bent and bony finger at both of us, her fury nearly unfathomable as she screamed, “GET A ROOM!”

I laughed, instinctively, a nervous laughter, as I waited for hers to come; for my instincts to be wrong altogether, for her face to crack open with a smile while she covered it with something else like, “Just kidding, you guys are so cute,” or something.

But…nothing.

She darted out the door quickly, a slight hobble to her aged step.

The ruca and I looked at each other. We were stunned speechless, an unusual reaction from the ever-witty ruca, and charismatic me, who can usually charm my way out of anything. We were frozen though, paralyzed, a sinking feeling flooding our chests. Get a room—really? Was she insane? We weren’t even making out—we hadn’t even kissed!

“She wasn’t joking, was she?” I gasped.

“No,” the ruca said, a meager croak. The lady was getting into her car, parked right out front. The young guy wasn’t even with her. He was following her out front, steps behind, a sheepish smile to his face.

If I were still a young, ghetto and feisty kid, I might’ve run after her and shanked her tires. Or stuck out my heel to trip her down the stairway, watching her brittle bones snap like twigs. Or at least gone off on her and called her a miserable old hag who was too ugly inside and out to ever be loved. But shock had stunned me still. She’d taken away my voice, my only defense. Besides, what good would it have done to have shouted every name in the book at her? She had already spit her misery out at us. The damage was done.

“That…hurt,” the ruca uttered, the emotion of it dashing in her eyes.

“I know,” I said. “I feel the same way.”

We were disgusted. Humiliated. Swarms of questions racked our minds: Would she have said that if we weren’t gay? Was she mentally ill? Who the hell does she think she is—yelling at strangers over an innocent affection?!

The host, who’d we’d been kindly chit-chatting with bounced back to her small corner of a stand, tapping buttons on the computer.

“Um, excuse me?” I cleared my throat suddenly. “Are…are we being offensive, standing here in each other’s arms?”

“Of course not, why?”

We told her what happened. She seemed genuinely confused, almost as if she didn’t believe us. “But this is San Francisco,” she said.

Exactly. This is our home. Our sanctuary. Any kind of love bashing—gay or straight—isn’t supposed to happen. Not here, not in one of the most progressive and radical cities in the world.

We felt low, deflated. Our spirits had plummeted down too far to bring them back to that euphoria we’d shared earlier, but lord did we try. The host, who was super sweet and apologetic, thankfully sat us in the booth where the mother and kids had been. Our server, who found out what had happened, was extremely gracious also, even bringing out an appetizer on the house: a plate of padron peppers with goat cheese and tiny sliced almonds, toasted to a crunch. They were incredible. The ruca and I smiled tenderly at each other, hands clasped tightly together as we put on our strong faces. It was our date night, after all, the night we’d waited so long for. No one should’ve been able to take that from us.

Our glasses of wine were filled and re-filled until the bottle was empty. Dinner was hearty and unique as ever. I had the fried chicken with creamed corn, and a jalapeno buttermilk sauce that I could’ve taken a bath in. The ruca opted for a veggie dish: a turnover stuffed with leeks and a bright zest of cherries atop a bed of red quiona. We enjoyed our meals and each other’s company the best we could, keeping a steady flow of conversation so as not to think about that pink elephant that had stricken us. We really did try to have the best date night ever. But the truth is, when someone casts that much hatred at you, sometimes not even the best meal can un-break your heart.

The Wise Drunk

2011-08-12T13:24:00.000-07:00

I wasn’t wearing a mini skirt or heels. I wasn’t busting out a handful of cleavage, nor was I wearing some tight white bootie pants, but still, the group of guys hanging out on the corner all began to hoot and holler as soon as I walked by. I was running late, shoes untied, in my work uniform for God sakes, and still, I could feel their eyes on my ass checking out my bootie, while the alpha of the four called out, “Damn girl, you lookin’ good today! Wassup with you, you got a boyfriend? How ‘bout just a minute to talk? Hey, where you going, Ma, why you so mad—come back!”

I was seething, and still annoyed when I got to work. We were nearing the end of happy hour when one of my regulars, Louise, came in. Louise must’ve been a hot ticket back in her day. I’m sure her scraggled tangles of grey were once long blonde locks, and that her cracked and wrinkled skin, like a parched and dried up desert, was once rosy and smooth. She’s been “75” for the last four years, but judging by her extensive knowledge of the Roaring 20s, I think she’s probably closer to 90.

The other bartenders can’t stand her. She’s louder than a cheerleader with a megaphone, her caked-on makeup is always melting off her face, and the woman doesn’t laugh—she cackles. I kind of like her though. She’s funny. Who cares that she’s a little tacky and that her outlandish wardrobe is kitschy, to say the least? She’s got great stories about traveling the world: like living in Paris with a young hot stripper; meeting her third husband drunk in a hot-air balloon above Rio; and getting asked by Hugh Heffner to model for him before the magazine mogul was a mega pimp. Most of her stories are probably exactly what they sound like—full of shit—but what kind of writer would I be to not appreciate some decent fiction?

Louise was already lit when she came in, staggering in from the bar next-door, where the bartenders have told me that the third martini they make for her is nothing more than chilled water—stirred, not shaken—with a splash of gin.

“HEY SERENA!” she shouted. She once heard my bar-back calling me ‘Sarita,’ my Latino name with the primos, and misheard. I probably should’ve corrected her a long time ago, but for some reason I don’t mind. (There’s this prick who comes in sometimes who doesn’t believe I “look” like a Sarah, and only calls me Juanita. Now that’s annoying.)

“Hey there, Louise. Manhattan or martini today?”

“Manhattan, please! The cheap bottom of the barrel happy-hour crap with a dash of Bitters, just the way I like it.”

I began preparing her cocktail as the entire bar turned to stare at the newcomer who was about ten decibels louder than everyone else. Louise either didn’t notice the weight of so many appalled eyeballs on her, or didn’t seem to care. I’d like to say that she’s so loud because she’s losing her hearing, but being liquored up 24-7 probably doesn’t help her case.

I dropped a cherry in the manhattan, placing it in front of her. “Thanks, Serena! You’re alright, kid!” she cackled. “How’s life?!”

“Fine,” I sighed, making margaritas for the cocktailer’s drink ticket.

“Aw, shucks, you don’t gotta lie to me. Hell, I don’t care if you’re in a bad mood or not—you’re human, right? Besides, no one expects bartenders to be as cheerful as you usually are anyway. Least when you are, it’s a bonus cuz you’re so damn cute!” She took a big slurp off the top of the glass, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she set it down. Her purple eyeliner had smudged down into the dark bags under her eyes, and her ruffled neon green blouse had an obvious mustard stain right down the middle. The woman was as loopy and sane as the Mad Hatter, and still, I leaned in suddenly, needing an ear for my girl-talk. “Louise, do you think it’s disrespectful when guys try to pick up women on the street? I mean, did you ever have that problem or…do you…still?” (The latter I added mostly to be nice.)

“Do I look that lucky? Jesus, I wish they still did! I haven’t gotten cruised since they landed that guy on the moon!”

“But didn’t you find it offensive? It’s so sexist of men to think they can say whatever they want to women, don’t you think?”

“Bah. All those fellas who are dumb enough to hoot and holler at a hot babe on the street usually know she’s outta their league anyway—that’s why they do it. They’re mad that they’re too slimy to get the looker broads they want, and even if they do got themselves a keeper at home, they’re too big of idiots to realize it. See, back in my day it was more of a man’s world. Men were the bread-winners. They ruled their wives, they were head of the families, Jesus, they ruled the friggin’ country! Times have changed. Us women are more independent, dammit. We have our own careers, our own lives, and Lord almighty, we are not ashamed of our sexuality—ha! Just look at that Kim Kardashy babe—man, what a fox!” she croaked. “Meanwhile, those few men who are insecure enough to feel the need to control us know that they’re losing that power they once had over us. You better believe they’re freaking out! They’re just trying to assert their presence, you know, remind us that it’s still their world—so they think.”

“I don’t care if they have a security complex. Those cat-calls are so annoying.”

“Honey, one day, when the cat-calls stop, and no one on the street stops to stare at you anymore, and your chest is sagging down to your belly-button, and your ass looks like a marshmallow right before it burns for S’mores, then you’ll wish you were young and beautiful again. Then you’ll be old as dirt like me and sitting on the other side of the bar, telling some young hot ticket that a buncha scumbags thinking you’re cute should be the least of your worries.”

Louise was slurring terribly and a small string of drool was yo-yo-ing up and down her bottom lip, but I did have to admit one thing: Louise was truly and genuinely right. Reading between the lines of men who cat-call, these men are simply saying that they don’t know how to express their admiration of a beautiful woman, and that they fear they’re losing their inability to be needed by us. (Hel-lo? Perfect example right here.) Maybe the day that all the hooting and hollering does stop, I might be wishing that it never had—that I could be still be that young full-of-life vixen, annoyed by perverse men’s attractions towards me.

I looked at Louise. Who knew a century old drunk still had some words of wisdom left in her?

“Here, you want me to get even with those stupid boys for you—will it make you feel better? Watch this.” She twisted around, finding a young couple at a cocktail table behind her, drinking the margaritas I’d made and chowing down on ahi tuna. “Hey, you!” Louise called out to them. “Yeah you, you young hottie! Boy, are you a looker. Is that your girlfriend or your sister?”

The guy swallowed a piece of his sashimi whole, looking stricken. You’d think someone was asking him a job interview question. “She’s my…uh, fiancée.”

“Jesus Christ, that figures. Hey, you ever wanna try your luck with an older woman, you just let me know. I ain’t rich yet, but my psychic says I’m gonna win Bingo any day now! Hey, you—sweetheart! You’re a lucky gal, you know that? Boy, what a fox you got. Cheers to you kids!” The entire bar tipped their drinks down their wide-open mouths. I shook my head, trying not to laugh. This was just a typical hour with Louise.

She turned back around, finished proving her point. “You think he likes me?” she winked.

“Not as much as his fiancée does, I’m sure.”

The girlfriend was raising her empty glass, hooking eyes with the cocktailer. “Another round please.”

“Serena, before happy-hour ends, I’ll take another one of these cheap and delicious bottom of the barrel happy-hour manhattans with a dash of Bitters. Christ, do you know how to make a cocktail. Swear to god those gebrones next door are just blowing smoke up my ass with those drinks they call martinis.”

“Sure. But your glass is still…” I stopped myself, just as Louise knocked back the rest of her cocktail, finishing off the cherry as her final touch. I was already stirring the next manhattan for her when she dropped the cherry stem she’d tied in a knot back into the empty glass.

“Thanks, Serena! You’re alright, kid!”

I thought about what Louise said all night through work, and even afterwards, walking down Powell Street back towards BART. My patience was tested as I approached a pack of guys, smoking menthols and smacking away on corn-nuts, while people-watching the flocks of inebriated tourists zig-zagging down the street. The one holding a bag of Pampers whistled back the rest of them did the bootie check. I walked on, carrying my head high. Louise’s loopy grin was still cemented in my mind, and so was that poor harassed fiancée who had looked so completely terrified.

I know I still live in a man’s world, but I wouldn’t change my own power of being a woman for anything. If this is the luck of the draw that a beautiful young woman has to deal with, so be it. After all, in a world full of knockdowns, it's resilience that truly makes up that bewitching magic of a woman.

An Ordinary Wednesday

2011-08-05T02:29:00.000-07:00

The eggs in front of me are scrambled. The bacon is crispy, just the way I like it. A sift of steam trails above my coffee mug, and a medley of fresh fruit sits deliciously pretty in a quaint bowl, like a perfect still life waiting to be captured on canvas. I should be eating; should be feeding myself as I prepare for a busy lunch shift in the bar today. But all I can do is stab at my melon with a fork, and crumple my bacon into tiny pieces—unable to expel this morning’s image out of mind.

Earlier this morning, the ruca and I were driving to work down 3^rd Street. It’s a route that brings you from the industrial streets of Bay View to the monumental ballpark, then into downtown where clusters of shiny polished skyscrapers pop up dramatically, like rifles raised at the sky. Stopping at a red light, I was suddenly stunned by a growing crowd gathered in the street, a pale panic glazed across their eyes. Behind them, a car had flipped over, was literally upside down, with a white puff of airbag enveloping someone inside the vehicle. A lady, or rather a Good Samaritan, was trying frantically to find a way to pull the person out, even though the top of the car had nearly crushed flat into the pavement. It looked as if the driver was going too fast down the busy one-way, lost control, and flipped over. There was no way even the most determined strength of manpower could get someone out of that rubble. If the person were still alive, they would have to await their fate at the Jaws of Life.

People had come out of the neighboring buildings, stopping to point, waiting for the deafening wail of sirens to drone out the monotone slur of the city. Even as the light turned green and the hesitant pack of cars inched forward unsurely, at a notably slower speed, the sinking feeling seemed to remain. How could we go about our day now, knowing someone’s body was literally crushed beneath tons of metal with daggered shards of glass stabbing into them?

It was an ordinary Wednesday morning, like any other Wednesday. I usually work an afternoon lunch shift this day and drive in with the ruca, glad that we later will enjoy a weeknight off. Leo is always a pest in the morning, impatiently waiting his feeding time, and those last few minutes of scrambling out the door have been known to get frantic. Leaving the house today was a smooth transition. We sang along to 80s pop on Pandora, left at the perfect time window, and glided smoothly in and out of rush-hour traffic without hitting any potholes or cussing anyone out for cutting us off. No major mishaps today. It was just another Wednesday morning, a handful of many, and yet on this particular start of the day, someone’s entire existence was radically altered: their life was either lost completely, its soul evaporating into that unknown place where souls trail off to (if at all), or that person will survive only to endure in a decrepit shell of a body. Either way, their life will never quite be the same, both emotionally and physically. (And here I thought the most unusual part of my morning was that leaving the house on time seemed so effortless!)

It felt almost selfish of me to be so full of life in a healthy body, able to feel the coolness of the morning drizzle slowly melt away, able to walk effortlessly through the bustle of the kitchen and into the dining room where I have prepared my untouched meal in peace. How lucky I am. How fortunate I am that the world is at my fingertips. I almost feel guilty for such fortune, but why? I was not the one driving like a maniac. I was not the one driving recklessly and spun my car out of control. Still, it could happen to anyone, even me. I could feel the compassion for this shattered life bleeding inside me, the gush of grief flowing through my veins.

Finally, I listen to the other voice in my head, telling the other ravaging thoughts in my head to shut up for just a moment so it can say what it wants to in peace. I bow my head somberly, above my breakfast plate. Let my mind rest and go dark like a blanket of sleep covering my busy brain until all that is left is my core; a crescendo of sympathies and hopes, its stringing lullaby reserved only for my mind to recall, and the electric waves that manifest the magic of the universe.

When I open my eyes, I have drifted back, stirring gently as if waking up. I could’ve been meditating high above cliffs overlooking the ocean, or lying lazily in a hammock surrounded in fields of poppies. Instead, I am sitting in the back booths, on table 95 to be exact, staring at my plate of breakfast and creamed coffee with a dusted wisp of canela.

I am lucky to be whole. To feel the radiance of my soul beating like a thousand bongo drums inside me. When it is my time to go, I hope others will realize that their simple and complex breaths of life are truly precious, and to live fully—exultantly—in a world that we are lucky enough to pass through in merely a blink of time.

I let myself nourish my body, guilt free, and eat…finally. I do not even care that my coffee has nearly turned cold, and my soggy eggs have began to ooze. To me, it is a perfect breakfast on a lovely Wednesday morning.

Me & the Crying Cat

2011-07-18T16:51:00.000-07:00

Leo, my cat, would not stop crying. I can take a little kitty whine here and there, but he had literally been on a roll for the last three days nonstop. Last night he wouldn’t let me fall asleep for hours, then he woke me up in the middle of the night, then he woke up this morning—a wail ten times more obnoxious than my alarm.

Rowr, rowr, rowr, rowr, rowr, rowr, rowr.

Crying.

Over and over and over. For hours.

I knew what he wanted. He wanted to go outside but I wouldn’t let him. There’s a ton of feral cats out there and these guys are raggedy, scarred and tough. I’ve seen one of the tabbies, who’s missing an eyeball, literally leap up a 6ft. fence, no problem—20-pound Leo can barely jump up the bed. The poor guy doesn’t stand a chance against them. It’d be like throwing Steve Erkel into a bar full of Crips. “You’re not going outside!” I yelled at him. I was trying to relax on the couch but his crying was making me slightly delirious. Maybe because I felt like crying too…

A couple months ago, I met a writer at an open mic in the city. After amazing conversation, she asked to see some of my work. I couldn’t believe it. Me? Send my writing to her—an established, renowned writer?! I polished several of my stories mercilessly: reading and re-reading them until there was not a single detail I could think of to edit. When the ‘message sent’ popped up on my screen, I felt like I’d just run a hundred mile marathon. And indeed, my brain had.

I wasn’t bummed when I checked my email 14 times a day those first two days with no response. She was busy, I told myself. She had a life. I checked my email profusely for a week and two weeks after, even running to the computer to see if I’d missed any messages those 4 minutes I’d escaped to the bathroom. I politely sent another email weeks later as a follow-up, and offered to re-send my work if I had not done it correctly. More time passed: nada. Was I that bad a rookie that I did not even deserve a response? Or did she just get swallowed up in a blizzard that spit her back out in the Bermuda Triangle?

I was bummed but not broken as I excited myself over my next possibility. A local paper was looking for queer-themed short stories to publish. I spent an entire afternoon scripting my synopsis about the stories I’m working on, a brief bio as requested, even including a link to my blog. I haven’t heard back from them. I won’t hear back from them. In the writer’s world, an acknowledged rejection is diplomatic. All other forms of it usually come as nothing at all.

Leo was crying louder than ever. His whole mouth opened wide as he shouted his one desperate request in my face: ROWR!

I clutched my head on the couch, trying to calm myself. Boo-hoo, so I got another rejection to add to my pile of manuscript rejections that, together, are probably thicker than my own novel. I’m a sensitive person but I can’t let myself get sensitive about my work. I told myself when I chose this profession that I would need to grow a skin tougher than an alligator’s. Consider people’s critiques sensibly, but never let them break me. You should hear the voice in my head; I’ve seen pissed off football coaches be nicer to their players than the coach in my head is with me. “Big deal! Crying’s for babies! Pick your whiny ass up and try again! No one said this shit would be easy.”

ROWRRR!!! Leo cried.

Sometimes I look at the “regular” 9-5ers in my bar. How easy it almost seems. To go to a job in those spiffy suits, and to have a steady salary where your method of payment isn’t indicative on how well you kiss ass for a decent tip. Benefits, vacation pay, enough to support your family: a regular job. It all seems so easy. Why then, can’t I bring myself to do it—to give in and live that good ol’ classic American dream? Because. I can’t. I have this yearning inside me that’s only soothed once its words are spewed out and onto a page, toyed with, manipulated, placed in a certain rhythm the way notes in a song harmonize. People read the words, probably have no idea how many times I’ve read and re-read the same sentence—scrutinizing every last comma and giving the illusion that the metaphors I pull from my mind like a rabbit out of a hat is merely effortless. If my work flows as smoothly as rainwater gushing downstream, I have done my job as a writer. And while I may envy the simple life of one who is not an artist, I would not trade my skill, my talent, my passion, my artwork for anything in the world. Do flowers wish to be ordinary weeds? No! I will never settle for complacency simply because it is easier. What a baby I was being, whining about a couple measly rejections! That was the coach inside yelling at me, telling me to toughen up, get over it, and move on. I began crying and when it called me a wimp for crying, I began crying even more, with Leo of course crying next to me.

“What do you want?” I pleaded with him, even though I knew. I looked outside. It was cold, the sky covered in spongy clouds of grey that promised rain. I thought of the lions I’d seen caged in some hotel in Vegas the week before. The most magnificent creatures you’d ever seen…depressed in a tiny enclosure as an attendant poked them with sticks to try to play ball for the crowd. I looked at Leo and sighed. “You’re lucky those lions almost made me cry,” I muttered.

I’d barely opened the door when he made a dash for it. Ran outside so fast and downstairs into the mini garden where his tail flicked back and forth excitedly. Sniffing flowers and rubbing his whiskers on the feathered sprouts of grass that shot out of the ground, he finally seemed content. Someday I’ll have my own kids and will have to watch them burn some steam off at the playground. For now, I have Leo.

Settling down on the steps of the deck, I pondered these tornadoes in my mind, my frustrations wringing out inside of me like soiled rags. I smeared the ooze of my tears across my face.

All of a sudden, I felt something pulling at me—that tug people feel when someone’s staring at them. I looked up, curious to the source of it. The city’s gloom of fog still loomed above, but in a small patch of blue, a huge balloon shot across the sky. What struck me at seeing it was not just that it was a plain ol’ balloon, but that it was a butterfly; an icon that, before they became incredibly stylish, I used to be obsessed with. It could’ve been any passing balloon, but as my eyes drained themselves silly on the porch steps aching for some kind of sign to continue pursuing this nearly impossible dream, I let myself be selfish, and say, ‘that butterfly floating across the sky was just for me.’

I wondered if it was an angelic wink from my cousin Tavo, who always encouraged my writing before he passed away; or my Aunt Lucy who was always so tender and kind, and would’ve wanted me to go on. Or maybe if it was just a reflection of me: of my hope, and all the manifestations I’ve put into the universe to someday “make it” as a writer. My heart soared as the butterfly twisted, floating up, up and upwards, capturing what little sunlight was left and shining from it magnificently.

Then, almost as quickly as it had come into my vision, it disappeared, the phantom of fog concealing it away under its cape.

It was cold, and I began to shiver. Leo had had his 20 minutes in the yard. I scooped him up in my arms and brought him inside. He did not resist, fuss or even cry.

After dinner, I sat back down at the computer and began to write this story. I finished my first draft (a whopping 8 pages, single spaced). Half of it will be cut out, and the rest will be insanely crafted and detailed, much like Edward Scissorhands would do on a huge shrub. Four hours have passed—it could’ve been half an hour for all I knew. This story, the tears, everything has spilled out of me. My simple omen has been the kick I need to continue on, and to tell that coach in my head to be a little kinder. Someday I’ll be successful. Someday people will actually purchase my work, and I’ll have achieved a sense of establishment. For now, I have my youth, my stories, blessings in the sky, and most importantly: a quiet cat purring next to me.

Pride? Hey Ya!

2011-07-06T13:29:00.000-07:00

Friday night, baby!! I was getting out of work and into a cab to meet my peeps at the Wild Side West, an old saloon-themed dive in Bernal that’s usually filled with cute lesbians guzzling down booze and playing pool. It was a crappy night at my bar. I made $50 less than I’d wanted, and was still irked over some English dude who stiffed me twice, then had the Euro balls to ask me where the nearest strip joint was. Whatever. It was Gay Pride weekend, cousin Edna was in town, and the celebration was kickin’ off tonight with drinks, chisme, tacos later at the taco window, and all the unknown theatrics that can happen in-between.

All of a sudden, sitting in the back of a Luxor cab, that song came on. Not just any song—that song:

“1,2,3, uh! My baby don’t mess around because she loves me so and this I know for shooo. But does she really wanna but can’t stand to see me walk out the doooor.”

It was OutKast, the Hey Ya! song that came out back in ‘03. I wiggled like a kid under my seatbelt in the backseat, pleading with the cabbie. “I love this song—turn it up!” The driver, a young blonde who was zooming around as if the cab were his Porsche, glanced at me from the rearview mirror. He shrugged, figured why not, and kindly bumped the shit outta the song in the janky cab stereo, static and all.

“Don’t try to fight the feeling cuz the thought alone is killing me right nooow. Thank god for mom and dad for sticking two together cuz we don’t know hooow. Heeeeey yaa! Hey ya!”

Como se dice ‘time warp?!’ I was a young pup again, fresh to Frisco and back in the days when I first lived with my sister in a cute-ass spot on Capp and 24^th. In the cab, I was watching the lights down Mission Street pass me by: past the old theaters that look like sandcastles you dribble at the beach, past The Beauty Bar and Doc’s Clock with inebriated hipsters and Priders spilling out of ‘em, past the waves of rainbow flags that had color-coated the entire city. But the song had swallowed me back in time, and I was back on Capp Street, blasting my stereo and dancing with my ex-novio: a fine-ass Chilango from DF. I was still in the girl-crushing phase in that era, had never even set eyes on the ruca, and didn’t think that someday I could actually be (gasp!) a gay.

“Hey ya! Don’t want to meet your daddy! Just want you in my Caddie!”

The chimes of the xylophone! Andre’s sexy croon! The harmonious beats burst and bubbled up inside me. I sang along to myself in the backseat, not shy in front of the cabbie cuz I’d already had two shots to chase down my beer before I’d left work. I remembered the first night I’d met my ex. Everyone at the restaurant was excited, giggling over the quiet new cook who worked the grill. The straight girls were flushed—“Ohmygod, I think he smiled at me!”—and even the gay boys were bouncing around extra cute, suddenly helping the expos run all their food. The ex was tall, surprisingly thin for a guy, with a smooth wave in his hair and creamy skin that should’ve been more tainted from all the liquor and substance absorbed late night after hours.

“Hey ya! Don’t want to meet your momma. Just want to make you cum-a!”

When he chose me out of the entire staff of girls (and boys) who were flinging themselves at him like kids under a bust-up piñata, I felt as if I’d been crowned Prom Queen. I’ve always been beautiful, but I hadn’t grown into my true beauty yet; hadn’t learned to twist my essence from the inside out to truly make it shine. Back then, I was still measuring beauty by how great I looked standing hand-in-hand with a guy who looked like he’d missed his calling as a Calvin Klein underwear model.

“Heeeeey yaa!...Now what’s cooler than being cool? Ice cold!”

The break-up would’ve gone smoother if there hadn’t been lying and cheating, and lying about the cheating. I hadn’t been heart-broken in so long that the torture was almost foreign to me: waking up in tears with my pillow still soggy from them from the night before; revisiting all of our old stomping grounds: “Ohmygod, he kissed me right there in front of the liquor store once!” “Waaaa! He told me ‘I love you’ for the first time at that bus stop!” What a mess. It took me months to bounce back to my perky self, and even longer not to growl at every Gemini I met. (Grrr…those two-faced sons of—)

“Now I wanna see ya’ll on your baddest behavior! Lend me some suga, I am your neighbor! Shake it, shake it…Shake it like a Polaroid picture!”

I hadn’t thought about the ex in forever, hadn’t had a need to. Time had cured my long ago broken heart until there was no longer a single flutter at the mention of his name. But right then, riding backseat with a cabbie who floored the yellow on Cesar Chavez as if Armageddon was one stop-light behind us, I realized one thing: I wasn’t nostalgic for the ex, nor was I heartbroken. I was actually sincerely and genuinely happy about it. If I hadn’t gotten my heart stomped on like some old recycled soda cans, I would’ve never met the ruca… Would’ve never kissed her that day on the 4^th of July six years ago, and thought to myself “this is the one.” Would’ve never had the chance to fall asleep spooning her soft hips every night, and wake up in those early ambiguous hours of morning only to reconnect again. Everything from my past has led me to where I am now: here. Con ella, la ruca.

“Heeeeey yaa! Hey ya!”

The cabbie turned left on Cortland and passed the coffee shop where we stumble out of bed and go to sometimes, then past the Stray Dog Bar, and finally pulled over to the side as the song faded out to the last Hey Ya!.

I over-tipped homeboy, handing him a five like I was a balla when a standard three bucks would’ve sufficed.
“Thanks, man,” I waved.

“You take care,” he nodded.

I passed the smokers out front, still talking about the Giants game, and pushed open the door. Behind the pool table and behind the wall of the fireplace—where glitzy antique high-heeled shoes are nailed into it—was the crowd of my friends: drinks being raised in cheers and their first few rounds already toasting up inside them, all of them fuzzy and helplessly elated. “Sarah!” “Sara!” “Sarita!” they all called out to me.

I wanted to run but forced a cool strut over to them, where I distributed hugs and besos and saved a big smooch on the lips for the ruca for last.

“Ready to celebrate Pride weekend?” she asked, once I’d ordered my round.

“Hey ya!” I grinned, the silly, loving goof I am.

Drunk-ass Chicks on BART

2011-06-16T15:04:00.000-07:00

One of my pet peeves is when people don’t answer my direct question. You’d think I’d grown up with a drill sergeant of a dad or something, seriously. Yesterday at my bar, I asked some dude if he was over 21 and he said, “I have an I.D.” I repeated my question in the same tone. He said, “My birthday’s next week.” I wanted to pull my hair out. Really, what’s so hard about answering a simple yes or no question? Turns out it’s not always so easy to answer direct questions, and I got a taste of my medicine recently.

I was riding BART to work and torturing myself by reading Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, since I didn’t read it in 6^th grade like “everyone else did”—according to the ruca. I was on the last pages, concentrating very hard on not crying when Lennie is asking George about the rabbits while George has a gun in his hand. My silent torment was broken as four girls who looked like they’d barely turned 21 stumbled aboard—wasted—with the drunkest of the four plopping down next to me. She was easily three hundred pounds. Now I’m in no way a fat-a-phobic like most of America. In fact, I think most of America is disgustingly obsessed with the anorexic look, and I also think that trains, planes and BART make their seats too small to begin with anyway. (Plus, anyone who knows me knows the ruca's got hips like no one's business.) What bothered me about homegirl sitting next to me was that she spread herself completely out, opening her legs and thrusting me and my book and my lunchbox and uniform against the wall. Then she let her head roll back on the cushioned seat, facing me, and began to snore. Her alcohol rancid breath spewed through the air of the clammed up train—I half expected a handful of flies to be dazing lazily around the invisible cloud. And her friends? Sitting right next to her, taking pictures with their phones. The one with the shirt that said Nasty Girl schemed, “Wait till everyone sees this shit on facebook.”

I was appalled. Sure I’ve been dumb and drunk and 21 before so I couldn’t really judge, but I also couldn’t move: my legs and nose were pressed against the window, and my rosemary ham and swiss-cheese sandwich was smushing like a pancake. I only had two stops left, about four minutes, but her breath was making me nauseous. I snorted tiny breaths through the coolness of the window, but the reek still found a way to spiral to my nose. I tried breathing through my mouth, but I could still feel the rancidness spoil on my lips. Her friends were all laughing, just sitting there taking pictures as she began to drool. Jesus Christ, all I wanted was to finish my book! But no— this drunk-ass chick who’d probably just drank the bar dry at the Kilowatt was ruining my tragic good-cry ending! What about the rabbits, George? What about the rabbits?!

We stopped at Civic Center. I should’ve gotten up but I froze; just sat there doing nada as the train filled up with 9-5ers off work going back to East Bay. I planned my exit route since my stop was next: she’d have to wake up as soon as I tapped her. Then she’d get up and move for me. Easy. Least it should’ve been.

The doors closed. The seats of the train had all filled up and some of the suits and skirts with briefcases were left standing. I put my plan into action. I stood up, the first of everyone on the train to stand, and very politely tapped the drunk.

“Excuse me?” I said. “I need to get off.”

She snorted. The three friends looked at me, bored.

“Umm,” I tapped her again, poking harder. “Hello? Can you please get up? I have to get off.”

Nada. An entire mariachi band could’ve been serenading Mi Cielito Lindo for her and homegirl wouldn’t have batted an eye. I was getting worried. Her legs, white and bare in cut-off daisy dukes, were completely blocking any chance I had of squeezing by in front of her.

Desperately, I looked at her homegirls. “Your friend needs to move,” I snapped.

Nasty Girl looked at me, her hair highlighted with blocks of blonde and black. “Jessie,” she said, snapping her hot pink acrylic nails in her face before she gave her a little slap. “JESSIE!”

Zzzz-snort-zzzzz…

The train was approaching Powell, the screech slowing down.

The friend looked at me. “Just climb over her.”

What? Oh come on. I’m not the 21-year old borracha—how did I get sucked into their world? Still, I had no choice. The train was about to stop and pretty soon people would be flooding on and filling up. Fuming, I climbed over her, stretching out one long leg and swinging around her, completely awkward as my purse fell off my shoulder and onto her lap. I felt slimy and sordid as I pinched my fingers like claws to pick it up—except it slid on the sweat of her thighs and into the crack of her legs. I finally grabbed it as she slurred some kind of moan and the three friends cracked up hysterically, either at her or at me or at both of us while they snapped away on their phones.

I couldn’t hold back any longer. “You guys are some fucked up friends,” I hurled at them.

Blonde and black and skunky-haired, Nasty Girl glared up at me, her heavy-coated pink glossed lips looking like shiny puss on her mouth. “Who the fuck asked you?” she retorted.

And since I hate not answering a direct question, I fumbled, not having an answer as all the standing suits stared blankly at us.

I was stumped. Who had asked me? Not one of those broads had asked for my opinion, not at all.

Seeing that they’d caught my weakness, all three friends laughed again as the train pulled to a stop, jerking us passengers slightly. There was already a mob of people impatiently waiting for us to get off so they could get on. I cut my losses, even though I hated the burn of humiliation for simply trying to school some 21-year olds with my 30-year old wisdom. The doors opened.

It wasn’t until people began shoving on and shoving off that my response came to me. I yelled like a crazy person as I got pushed like a fish swimming upstream against its school: “I don’t need to be asked, you girls need to be told!” I hollered, and made it out the train by seconds, the door almost snagging at my shoelace. I looked back, feeling quite proud of myself. From the windows, the friends were still laughing—as they held up the worn and torn copy of the book I’d somehow left behind.

The train’s engine roared loudly and pulled away, growing smaller in the tunnel until all that was left was its fading red light. “But what about the rabbits, George?” I squeaked weakly to myself.

And that, I did not have an answer for.

Bizcocho

2011-06-09T12:51:00.000-07:00

Back in the days when my Spanish was barely Spanglish, and the only Spanish I did know was from picking up random drunken words stumbling down Revolución in T.J., I had what you would call a “pocha moment.” I’d just moved to the city and was making $35 a shift on busy nights as a food runner with $750 rent (which by city standards is actually cheap). As broke and hungry as I was, I pimped myself out to the alpha chef behind the line, Julian, a handsome, arrogant Michuacano. Flirting mercilessly with him, I batted my lashes, giggled like a school girl and ate up my rewards later: tender roasted rack of lamb, shrimp pasta pomodoro, chicken marsala with garlic mash and creamed spinach. Hey, don’t judge. You would’ve busted the femme fatale role too if your broke-ass was at home eating corn tortillas with peanut-butter for the fourth day in a row. Once Julian left, the umbrella of protection I was shielded with ended, and Lucho, his quiet scornful nemesis took over.

Lucho made it clear that he wasn’t smitten by my charm. I’d been polite enough to him all those months, but hadn’t showered him with the same doting I had for Julian, a devoid that would not lift his resentment over me. One day, when I passed him the tenajas for the fries, he said “Thank you, bizcocho.”

Bizcocho…I’d heard that word before. It was a sweet bread you dipped in your coffee—like a biscotti. But why were the other cooks suddenly snickering?

“What does that mean?” I demanded. “Es un sweet bread,” he shrugged innocently. “Because you sweet.”

Since I didn’t know any better, I took it for what it was.

One day, one of the new Latino room-service guys overheard Lucho calling me bizcocho across the line. Appalled, he pulled me aside. “Do you know what they’re calling you?”

“Sweet bread,” I answered matter-of-factly. “It’s cuz I’m sweet.”

He himself snickered, then whispered the meaning in my ear.

Well, there’s no direct translation, really. But slang-wise, the closest you can come up with is that the sweet bread symbolically means a woman’s…

“Mother FUCKER!” I roared, blasting into the kitchen and hurling a bowl of fries onto the floor. (I can be quite hot-headed at times, a trait that either works for me or against me.) “I know what that means now!”

Lucho just laughed. “It’s sweet bread,” he shrugged coolly. “Because you sweet, bizcocho.” The cooks were all on the floor, rolling. This is the entertainment people get when they live at work.

“Stop calling me that right now!”

“No,” he said plainly. “It’s your nick name.” He handed me a fresh bowl of fries to continue my work.

For weeks after, the name bizcocho trailed behind me everywhere. I didn’t want to squeal to my gabacho managers because they were hesitant to put a woman behind the line to begin with—expos are mostly a male dominated position. I wanted to prove them wrong and hold off long enough until I got the “experience” they wanted from me to be promoted to the floor serving. With servers whining over making a hundred bucks on slow nights, that was where the money was at. And no one—not even a punk cook—was going to stand in the way of my money flow.

My respect in the kitchen was at an all-time low. Every time I forced myself to go to work, I felt like Carrie at prom being incessantly ridiculed: “They’re all gonna laugh at you, they’re all gonna laugh at you.” And being that I was too proud to ask for food, I was also hungrier than half the city’s squandering pigeons.

Something had to give and finally the answer came, but timing was everything. I waited an entire six days for the opportune moment, then pounced like a patient bullfrog snapping at a fly when it approached. It was a Saturday night, the kitchen was packed, and all the cooks were standing around admiring Lucho’s new phone that had a camera. Big technology in those days.

“Let me take a picture of you, bizcocho,” he said.

I grinned to myself, setting out ramekins to dry. “Let’s do it…Anchovy.”

He stopped, looked up at me. A pause fell across the kitchen: no servers asking for re-fires, no food that had to be plated. Not one expo ticket printed on the sauté or pantry line, and not a single soup ladle stirred. The thousand actions that give life to a kitchen halted in those very exact seconds that Lucho and I sneered silently at each other: him full of pride and need for respect, me full of my own.

“What you call me?” he seethed.

“Oh, it’s your new nickname. Anchovy,” I repeated simply. “You know, like that disgusting salted dead fish they put on top of pizza. Cute, huh?”

Lucho’s face twisted and creased, spit flying from his mouth like he’d just warped into a rabid wolf. He had deep wide set Mayan eyes, indigeno looking, and a long ponytail that hung down his back. He was handsome, no doubt. But the defeated look that scorned his eyes now was anything but charming.

“Don’t call me that!”

“No,” I decided, enjoying the two minutes of torture that was almost equivalent to my entire month. “It’s your new nick name, Anchovy.”

The cooks were nudging each other hysterically now, “coño’s” flying left and right. “Anchovy!” they busted.

“Basta!” Lucho fired, bellowing.

I glared back. I could be quite threatening at times, call it the wrath of a woman. “Fine, I’ll stop. But quit calling me bizcocho!”

He nodded. The cooks were still rolling at his feet. “Algo más?”

“Yes,” I declared. “I’m starving.”

He took a big gulp, probably of his pride. “Pollo o pescado?”

I got promoted to the floor eventually and Lucho moved on as well; the restaurant business is transient like that. The other day out of the blue, I happened to think of him and wondered if he ever thought of me too. I wondered if he ever silently scowled when his friends joke about ordering anchovies on their pizza—or better: If he ever sulks when he does eat a bizcocho, wondering why its sweetness is gone as he dunks it into his coffee.

Split Pea Soup & Chicharrón

2011-06-03T11:02:00.000-07:00

I should’ve been writing because writers write—even when they have writer’s block or just plain laziness block—they write something. So was I? Nope, not at all. I spent my entire afternoon flipping through pages of an astrology book, fascinated, skeptical, and completely wasting time.

This is what I concluded: I’m a Sagittarius sun, Libra moon, and Scorpio rising. Sag’s are notorious for being infected with a chronic disease called Foot-in-the-Mouth syndrome, leading me to say mindless shit like: “Damn those pants make your ass look huge!” Or “Have you ever noticed how bad your breath stinks after eating curry?” (Hmm…and I’d always just considered myself honest.) Luckily, my Libra-ness can charm my way out of my messes while my Scorpio is supposed to make me silent and cool…Yes, I confess that aside doing laundry, this is how I spent my day.

I picked up the ruca from work later and we got home to find our neighbor blocking our driveway—again. And not by a hair or a couple lousy inches, but literally half of his black SUV’s ass rearing into our garage. The ruca and I looked at each other through clenched teeth—it was the second time this week. She had to run an errand and would be back in an hour. “If his ass ain’t moved by the time we get back, shit’s gonna hit the fan.”

“My Sag wants to get fired up and kick his ass, my Libra wants to politely ask him to move, and my Scorpio wants to flatten all his tires in the middle of the night,” I babbled.

She looked at me as if I was crazy. “What?”

“Nothing,” I shook my head. “Can you hide my astrology when you get home?”

I had an hour to cook dinner and to think about how I would deal with the situation. I hate confrontation. Awhile back, I agonized for days over how to tell a co-worker she’d hurt my feelings by calling me “too sensitive.” (Once I realized the irony of it though, I had a shot of whiskey and drank it off.) Seriously though, I’d rather be taking out the garbage or scrubbing the toilet than dancing around the inevitable awkwardness of, “Uh…we need to talk.” I wondered how I’d cower today as I set the preparations out for dinner.

Now anytime I cook, I pour energy into what I am making and depending how I feel at the moment, it tends to parallel my emotion—very like water for chocolate-ish. If I’m feeling romantic, my spicy shrimp linguini is exquisitely seductive. If I’m sad or doting on a memory, my picadillo is woefully intense. (Once I made the mistake of cooking veggie burgers while arguing, and both me and the ruca got the runs later.) I was still driving myself astrologically neurotic, but was feeling quite powerful as I rehearsed things I would say to our neighbor when the confrontation would go down.

I sautéed garlic and onions and added chiles, oregano and cumin seeds. I would tell our fellow neighbor—a huge towering Samoan man that makes Giants’ Pablo Sandoval look petite—that he had no right to block our driveway. “We’re neighbors and shouldn’t have to ask you to give back what is rightfully ours.” Or: “We pay a lot of money for the garage, and would appreciate being able to park there without asking you to move all the time.” Or: “Dude, seriously? Next time your ass is gettin’ towed.”

Oh, the confrontation! The butterflies in my stomach that came from sticking up for myself! Could I do it? Yes! My Sag told my scaredy-cat Libra. Just be blunt and out with the truth! Don’t even think about it so much, I coached myself. I rinsed the green peas and added them to the broth of sautéed onions and garlic, then shredded chunks of chicharrón so the smoky flavor of pork would melt together with the peas. I’m a 30 year old woman, I’ve dealt with harder things in life than how to tell a pesky neighbor to move his stupid car, I concluded, and cut up chunks of potatoes and carrots to toss in the boiling pot.

An hour passed. The spicy smell of peas and grasa tickled the buds of my mouth as I set the comal for tortillas. The ruca would be home any minute.

The peas had softened. The chicharrón had shredded. The carrots and peas added the perfect burst of texture. My soup was a strengthening soup and would give me the power I needed to take charge, to diplomatically “go off”—and to not be such a fucking wuss for god sakes.

Outside, the ruca honked.

I ran to the door. Her eyebrows were raised, frustrated that the SUV big enough to transport an entire football team was still there. I waved a reassuring hand at her. “I got this.”

Marching upstairs, an entire monologue memorized in my head—“Rightfully ours…our space…appreciate it if…shouldn’t have to ask”—his wife answered the door. She seemed to open it wider for me, as if inviting me in for the first time.

“Uh…parked in our driveway,” I mumbled.

She called out to her husband as I fled back downstairs to hide my cowardice. Still, I was not giving up. I would stand tall, tell him exactly how I felt. Get everything off my chest and give him a piece of my mind. I made the strengthening soup, damnit!

The neighbor hobbled out the door and down the stairs, an obvious limp dragging at his leg. “Hey there!” he called out, friendly as old chums at a Sunday picnic. “Sorry ‘bout the car!” he said, and got into the SUV.

Sag, Libra, Scorpio pushover…none of it mattered. Because over the roar of his engine, the only thing one could hear that came out of me was a pathetic croak: “It’s alright.”

The ruca tasted the soup.

“Whaddayou think?” I asked her, like I always ask do when I’m extra proud of something.

She rolled her eyes to the back of her head, a mind numbing face to show she approved. “It’s delicious,” she said, dipping her tortilla in it. “Absolutely phenomenal.”

I tasted it myself. It was spicy, strong, a smoky flavor of grasa and a reminiscent breath of cumin. It was my powerful soup—even if I didn’t always feel that way myself. Sure, there are things about me I wish I could change. But even if I could, would I really want to? If I got rid of all the things about myself that drive me nuts—my wussiness, my foot in the mouth-ness, my Sag or Libra-ness or Sarah-ness or whatever you want to call it—would I be here right now, tasting this cathartic and mind blowing soup?

“Should I have made it spicier?” I asked.

“No. It’s perfect as it is.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, slurping down the next spoonful. “I guess it is.”