The Cat that Never Left

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.

 © Sarah C. Jiménez 2011, All Rights Reserved

Bruja Magic

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

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.

© Sarah C. Jimenez 2011, All Rights Reserved

The Wise Drunk

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.

© Sarah C. Jimenez 2011, All Rights Reserved

An Ordinary Wednesday

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.

 © Sarah C. Jimenez 2011, All Rights Reserved

Me & the Crying Cat

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.

© Sarah C. Jimenez 2011, All Rights Reserved

Pride? Hey Ya!

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.

© Sarah C. Jimenez 2011, All Rights Reserved