“Get your hands off my fries, Kelly.”
A couple times a month, Nathan’s wife met him downtown for lunch.
“I just want one,” she says.
Nathan slaps her hand away. “The calories still count, even if you don’t order it.”
“How dare you.” It comes out as a growl.
The same call-and-response had played out that morning when Nathan took a chunk out of the butter instead of sliding the knife civilly over the top of the tub.
“It looks like a wild animal mauled it,” she’d said.
“Why does it matter what the butter looks like, Kelly?”
They couldn’t agree if they were a butter couple or a margarine couple. Red grapes or green. Miracle Whip or mayo. One-percent milk or skim.
As a result, the inside of their fridge was a study in both conflict avoidance and American abundance. Their shelves stocked with double rations of nearly identical items.
When Kelly started eating for two, Nathan’s appetite for real estate grew. They consumed online listings of four-bedroom homes with three-car garages and double vanities. They agreed they wouldn’t compromise on that.
Kelly notices a sheen of grease has transferred from Nathan’s hands to his sweating glass of water. He licks the salt off a fingertip for emphasis.
“I gave you a child,” she says. “You can’t share a fry?”

Josie Cellone started her journalism career in small-town newsrooms, covering cops and courts and church bake-offs. Now a second-year fiction student in the Creative Writing MFA program at the New School, she commutes from Pittsburgh, Pa., where she moonlights as a mom of three. She prefers unsalted butter, red grapes and almond milk.

He wants to be done. 
He wants to be done wanting. 
He wants to have been done. These are his wants. He is want, nothing but want and instead he is folding the knives and the forks into the napkins so it looks like the knives and forks are being tucked into a rough white sleeping bags, like they are camping. He does this again; he does this again. The gray plastic tub of knives and the other gray plastic tub of forks will not ever be empty. More and more packets of silverware like each fork and knife have been abandoned alone on a tundra and forced to share a sleeping bag for warmth so they don’t get hypothermic. Body heat, he says to absolutely none.

This is Making the Silverware. This is one of many things he has to do before he can be done. This is side-work and side-work is the worst part of life. The rest of the shift–the enforced uniform and bright green apron, the requirements about how long his hair can be, the necessary big-smiled greetings of overly fat children, the forcing of appetizers onto families that don’t want and can’t afford the extravagances of spinach and artichoke and cheese melted together for forty five seconds in the microwave at the servers’ station—all of that is over for the night. It was terrible and laborious, and he hurts everywhere, but it is here, now, it is the Making of the Silverware that is the worst. It will take him twenty minutes. It will take him an eternity.

In the other room he can hear the bartender going through all his own side-work. The Wiping Down of the Bar, the Cleaning of the Taps, Replacing the Paper That Spools Through the Credit Card Machine Like a Blanched Diseased Tongue. The waiter stops rolling the forks and knives together because he is now, again, overcome with want. The way frosted winds can sweep down an empty avenue at two in the morning on the walk home, covering everything in a cold that is meant only and exclusively for him, the waiter is immobilized wanting the bartender. 

This bartender, in particular, is special. He has a mouth full of real human teeth. His eyes are both the exact same color and shine bright and clear in a well-lit room. There is skin covering every part of his body. And while these aspects might apply to every human on the planet, they somehow apply more to this bartender than the rest of the world. He is the most person the waiter has ever known.

This want for the bartender is visceral. It hangs off the waiter heavy and wet, it drips on the floor and pools around his feet. He is ravenous and his gut is stuffed full wanting. This bartender has biceps that strain the cuff of the short-sleeved shirt when he shakes the cocktail shaker; he has legs and feet that wear shoes, and when he walks, he walks laterally behind his bar. There is a rubber mat beneath him designed to catch all the night’s spilled beer and ice, so the bartender is raised up an inch or two, so he is just slightly taller when he is a bartender than he is when he’s a normal human being.

Without all the diners the restaurant is cold. The air conditioner still assumes there are dozens of people eating and drinking and shouting loud for more iced tea. But there is nothing. It is empty and so the air conditioner is cooling only the absence of people, filling the space they once occupied. It is only the waiter and the bartender and the ghosts of the rest of the world gradually growing colder and colder. 

The waiter stops making the silverware and begins The Marrying of the Ketchups. He pours ketchup from the old bottles into still older bottles of ketchup until the older bottles of ketchup are full to the top with ketchup and they are now brand new bottles of ketchup ready to be put on tables so the next day’s diners will think they’re blessed enough to receive a brand new bottle of ketchup; so they will consider this their lucky day. The waiter uses a funnel to marry; he jams the tip of the cone into the neck of the bottle like he is force feeding the ketchup, the way one might make ketchup foie gras; he feeds the ketchup its own self, a tortuous cannibalistic ritual. 

The waiter once met a boy at a cookout who had a small pet pig with him. The pig’s name was Sir Frances Bacon. While no one was looking, the waiter snuck the pig a piece of ham and the pig devoured it noisily. He fed pig to a pig and the boy who owned Sir Frances Bacon was horrified. This is what the waiter thinks about as he pours ketchup into itself. He thinks about a boy bustling a pet pig up into his arms and storming out of a party. He thinks about how hard it is to storm out of anywhere holding a small pig. The whole party laughed, as the boy stormed off. He remembers wanting the boy with the pig at that moment, almost as much as he now wants the bartender. Wanting to be as angry as the boy was, to be the pig in arms full of itself, wanting to storm out of the party. Old ketchup smells decidedly different from new ketchup. It is sweeter, slicker than a fresh bottle. It comes out just that much slower; it is shy about itself, unsure if it is still good ketchup and the waiter has to knock on the side of the bottle with an insistent palm. Right on the 57, like he was taught.

The bartender is a flirt. He flirts with everyone. Everyone that moves, that drinks, that breathes, he flirts with them all. He is easy about it. Everyone wears his flirting like a soft dusting of flour. It is as easy for the bartender to flirt as it is for him to walk laterally behind his bar, strutting from one end to the other floating an inch and a half off the ground. The waiter wishes he had this capacity for interaction. He wants to be the bartender. And still at the same time he wants the bartender. The bartender is straight and therefore a piece of the waiter wishes he, himself, were straight, while another piece wishes the bartender were not straight. And so, there is now a universe where they switch, and it is the bartender who is queer and it is the waiter who is straight and, in that case,, if the bartender were pining for him the waiter wonders if he would acquiesce.

The bartender is only an assortment of sounds, glasses going in and coming out of a dishwasher; bottles of liquor being picked up and wiped down and put back; water sloshing out of sinks, of refrigerator doors being swept open and closed. At the moment the bartender does not have a name. Yesterday the bartender had one. Yesterday the bartender was a singular entity in the world, with a name and a childhood and an apartment. Today the bartender is an edifice, a cliff-face against which the waiter can throw all his lust. Tomorrow. Who knows what tomorrow’s going to be? The smell from the bar is a sweet syrup. Like oranges left to rot for a year. The waiter imagines that sleeping with the bartender would smell the same. A sickly sticky sweet. This turns him on. It then turns him off that he is turned on by the idea of oranges turned sour. Tomorrow though, tomorrow it will be different. Tomorrow the bartender will have his name back. 

The waiter opens the servers’ fridge where the desserts are kept and looks at the crème brûlée. The crème brûlée looks the way it always does, pale and darker in spots, like a petri dish in a lab experiment, rife with deadly toxin that if mishandled, this one crème brûlée could set off a chain reaction of infection and disease that would wipe out the entire city skyline. He stares at the desserts thinking precisely nothing. They are mandated by the city’s health department to check and verify the quality of the desserts that are stored in the servers’ fridge. But he does not know what he is looking for or how to verify anything. None of the waiters do. So they all open the door once a shift and look at the crème brûlée as if they are making sure it has not become sentient and wandered off to start a new civilization of desserts. This is what constitutes verification. He can safely say that the deserts still exist. 

His want still exists. This desire. This fog. Viscous want heavy with him panting inside of it. Full of all his intended consequences. There is nothing to see outside of this fog. Desire is wanting something so absolutely that it loses a name. that the waiter loses his name as well. He returns to the forks and the knives and rolls and rolls and rolls them into their sleeping bags and concatenates the forms of doneness.
He does it. He wants to do it.
Wants to be done by the bartender.
To have had it done. He did. He wants to have did.
He both wants the bartender and wants to be the bartender and wants to be did by the bartender and he wants to be done with wanting the bartender because want is an oyster that has lost its shell; amorphous and gelatinous unrecognizable without the hard outer crust that keeps it contained. His want untethers him from the world.
The fork looks like it is having its way with the knife. All of the forks piled up are having their ways with knives. There are no spoons. 
The spoons are all left out. 
The poor spoons. 

Tomorrow there will be nothing but names. The world will have a name. The whole of existence will be a catalog of names. Every tree, every frog, every piece of lichen from kingdom to phylum to class to genus to species there will be a litany of names for everything. But at this moment with the dust spiraling around the restaurant, there is nothing to name but the want and the lust. The dust is the cast off of every single diner that evening. The dust is all of the world. All skin flaked off and floating so really it is the world there with the waiter, the whole of the world lusting after this one, single, clear, actual footed and toothed bartender. This is desire. This is the stuff of want. And like that, the bartender leaves. 

It is an absent leaving. It is over the shoulder. It is with a bag that is all black leather and more expensive than the waiter could afford. As he’s leaving the bartender throws behind him the name of another bar. The one he’s going to now. It is neither an invitation to join nor an exclusion. It is simply a fact. 

The waiter stares at the perfectly formed pyramid of silverware, stacked like freshly cut logs might be stacked. Stacked like forty campers fucking in their sleeping bags would be stacked if one ever stacked camping children on top of each other. He’s made this pile of forks and knives only so it may be ripped apart, pulled open, used and dirtied and thrown away to then be rerolled again tomorrow by another waiter who may as well be this same waiter. 

None of these forks will ever again lie with these exact knives, be wrapped in this one napkin. This is a singular experience for all of them. The bartender is gone. The waiter stares at this edifice, this new pyramid of silver. This tower of babel. This hanging garden. 
And he wonders if he is going to follow.

B.C. Edwards is the author of two books, The Aversive Clause and From The Standard Cyclopedia of Recipes. He has written for Mathematics Magazine, Hobart, The New York Times, The New Limestone Review, and others. He has been awarded the Hudson Prize for his fiction and a poetry fellowship from the New York Foundation of the Arts. Edwards currently serves on the board of the Poetry Society of New York and has a directorship at Mount Tremper Arts a non-profit performance residency in upstate New York . He attended the graduate writing program at The New School in New York and lives in Brooklyn with his husband.

“So, what’s my surprise? Spill!” In the voice message, Tai sounded flirty, but Tai always sounded flirty. 

“Coq,” Andi recorded and hit send, waiting for the laughter she knew was coming. 

Tai’s next message was just that: a long, deep cartoon-villain cackle. In the next message Tai was still laughing, but managed to get out: “Liar. If you had a cock, I could stop dating.” Another signature cackle and, “See you at seven, girl.”

“I can get one.” Andi deleted the recording immediately and wondered if spending her entire Saturday dismembering a four pound, “free-range,” plucked and disemboweled “coq,” had somehow broken her brain. It was possible. When she’d been separating the bird one body hinge at a time she’d swung between frantic giggling and dry heaving into the garbage – the small click that meant the bone had snapped from its joint a too-literal reminder that attachments aren’t permanent. But when she had browned the pieces of the chicken, turning them with care, one at a time, to make sure they crisped up evenly, that had been nothing but peaceful, nothing if not an act of love. 

Making the Coq au Vin for Tai was a first. Well, sort of a first. Andi has always brought Tai food, but she has never made her dinner, not like this. When they were fifteen and Tai’s first boyfriend dumped her, Andi stayed up all night making apple cinnamon cookies, which was not a real thing, but something Tai had said one time that she wished was a real thing. After school they’d sat in Tai’s basement on her tie-dye bean bag chairs eating cookies and talking about how much boys sucked. 

Junior year they’d gone camping down by the river and Tai had brought a tent that was much too small, and Andi had pretended not to be tired to avoid the close space. She discovered that Tai didn’t know how to roast a marshmallow without burning it and so she spent the night making Tai a seven course meal of perfect s’mores, lightly browned marshmallows bursting onto melting chocolate all pressed between graham crackers that she warmed on one of the rocks surrounding the fire. When the fire was only a glow Tai had silently leaned over her shoulder, cheek to cheek and shoved the final, sticky bite into Andi’s mouth. Andi’s stomach had dropped so hard she’d choked and Tai had laid back in her camp chair giggling until she cried. 

All night, Andi’d curled into the corner of the tent trying not to think of Tai’s fingers in her mouth or to wonder if her tongue would taste like chocolate and marshmallow. 

 For Tai’s graduation, Andi had made a crepe cake, which she hadn’t known was a thing, but Tai had seen it on TV and freaked out and so Andi figured out how to make one. Tai had come over on Saturday and led with the news that the night before she’d finally fucked Danny as a birthday present to herself even though “he’s a total player, but ohmygod he was really good in bed and whatever I never have to see him again.” And Andi had gone hot, like a lit twist of newspaper was pushing up from her gut into her chest and maybe if she opened her mouth she’d breath fire or something worse, She ran to the kitchen pretending she’d forgotten something. 

She’d gripped the edge of the counter until her fingers hurt and thought about grabbing Tai and fucking her right on the living room floor, of showing her that Danny wasn’t even close to “good in bed.” Even thinking about it started the pins and needles sensation that began at her extremities and worked inward anytime she let her head go there, but by the time Tai had come looking for her, she was taking the cake out of the fridge and Tai had screamed and kissed her on the cheek. Something snapped in her, disengaged her body and mind like a dislocated shoulder joint. The rest of the day she felt hollowed out like a cheap plastic mannequin — unbothered by Tai’s body for the first time in years. It was a relief, and she thought, “this is it, I’m finally over her.” And she wondered if maybe she could finally have her friend back. 

But six months ago, three weeks after graduation, Tai had taken a turn too sharply and her car had careened into the gully, which at that particular part of the road was fifteen feet deep and filled with kudzu. And now it was Tai’s birthday, the one the doctors never thought she’d see, and she was up and walking and as close to back to normal as she was going to get, and Andi made Coq au Vin because it was the fanciest thing she could find in her cookbook, the only way she could think to fill Tai with the unsayable things that had welled up in her during the weeks waiting for her to wake up. The meat turned a bruised purple in the dark wine and Andi had to swallow again and not think of Tai in her hospital bed the first time they’d let her in to see her. She fished out the bundled the herbs, she’d used white thread because they didn’t keep cooking twine around and that had turned purple too. 

In the Saturday-sleepover thrillers of their childhood, the world was threatened by asteroid strikes and tsunamis and volcanoes, but Andi realized her world was far more fragile –

 could have been blasted, sunk, and burned if Tai had not opened her eyes.Tai showed up to dinner on crutches, laughed at the candle-lit table and the music and the bottle of wine Andi had smuggled in. She hugged Andi hard, sat, and let herself be waited on. 

Andi poured wine, spilled a little – watched Tai wipe it up on her finger and lick it, making a worse mess. She almost knocked over the whole glass trying not to look at Tai’s mouth, at the pink tip of tongue darting out around the pad of her finger. She served: scooping out first, pieces of chicken, then onions and mushrooms and salt pork, then the rich purple red juice on top, finally balancing a slice of baguette on the edge of the bowl, a shaky precipice above a dark sea of carnage. Andi listened to the scraping sound of Tai’s fork on the chicken bones pulling away the soft stringy wine-purple meat, let her eyes lay on Tai’s jawline as she chewed. 

Tai held a pearl onion in her pursed lips and waggled her eyebrows at Andi, who was reminded of the slow, gentle roll of the pan while she’d caramelized the onions and she’d thought  how she wanted to kiss Tai like that, unhurried and careful. She faked a laugh and pretended that she wasn’t imagining what it would feel like to take piece of mushroom and press it into Tai’s mouth, let her suck the juice off of her fingers. Tai reached across the table and squeezed Andi’s hand. Andi wanted to wrap her arms around the sloping shoulders and jutting shoulder blades and say, “I love you more than anything.” She knew she could have, that that was allowed, but also knew intimately the pain of saying one thing and having someone hear another. She squeezed back, let go, scooped out another piece of the bruised chicken, placing it in Tai’s bowl.

Kate Tooley is a writer living in Brooklyn with her wife, cat, and a collection of dying houseplants. Originally from the Atlanta area, she is currently pursuing an MFA in Fiction at The New School. Her writing can be found online at Longleaf Review, Apocrypha and Abstractions, erikafranz.com, and newschoolwriting.org, and is forthcoming in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine.

Privileged and confidential. 

Mark, we discussed this thing with our legal department and this is what we think. This squalid piece of human waste does have a case and this case is fairly strong. 

We all certainly know and agree that our product has absolutely been the best and most successful on the market for generations and, according to any data available, always by considerable margin but who could have ever imagined anyone eating it — and nothing else at all whatsoever — for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and any other meal for five years every day? And not only has this stupid sod been doing that, he also has his every meal documented on video as part of our promotional campaign, The Healthy Challenge, which he had unsuccessfully tried to enter for five years as an official representative of our brand! Turns out, we have literally thousands of applications from this over-inflated little egomaniac turd unearthed in the darkest customer input recess of our marketing department, the most unwelcoming place manned entirely by unpaid interns on a three-months-rotation basis. It looks like this gasbag has been doing nothing else for the past five years but sending those applications to us in the hope of becoming our brand ambassador. Every single one of those applications was, of course, turned down because, as you may well know, our “outside participants” were and are all industry insiders and professional thespians but now this pitiful knob has outstanding evidence of his continuous consumption of our product for all these years! Also, as we encouraged everyone to demonstrate “family values” in any material we asked people to provide, he has many witnesses too — his endless bloody family members, uncles, grannies, parents, siblings, all unspeakably gross — in every single frame of those dreadful videos. I saw some of them. They are utterly nauseous, to say the least, but they all look like indisputably strong backup in support of his case. Everyone agreed on that. 

John suggested that we could categorize this unhealthy devotion to our brand as an undue misuse of our product but we hardly could pursue this avenue, could we? We produce food, kind of, and the use for food is eating it, full stop. No matter how much you eat it, or how often, if you eat the food we produce we can hardly claim that you misuse it, can we? Or can we? 

For the time being, we all came to the conclusion that we must concentrate on the main problem, which is the snood. Michael argued that we must shift the focus to the health problems of that little degenerate. He does seem to have several allergies; one of them — to the festering honeysuckle pollen — could be of particular relevance to us. He is also known to have some other health issues like angst, dry skin, and myopia but I don’t think it would be productive to press on with these matters. The man lived twenty years without any snood and certainly without any wattles. There are plenty of pictures of this moron without them. The evidence is overwhelming. Then he ate our product for five years and all of a sudden lo and behold — he has the snood and the wattles. We all decided that we must start developing a strategy of owning up to it, if only in part. 

Such strategy could be to show how we are trying to minimize the cost of our product in order to feed the poor. We could show that by admitting that we had no time to conclude significant long-term tests. (We must also show that long-term is a relative term). We must show that for the hard-core science no term is a term long enough but that we live in a real world and we must feed billions of people with our product, many of them living on the brink of starvation. This is why we must limit ourselves to practical timelines. Without disclosing what those timelines could be. The situation is desperate. This must be our basic line of defense. We have multitudes of poor people to feed even here, in our own country — and this is our primary responsibility. No one cares about them but us. This could be our motto. We care. We must feed them. We do conduct long-term tests but meanwhile we must feed all the poor. Because people die from hunger all around. Meanwhile we should really start doing something about those long-term tests. Maybe fund a lab or something. Maybe donate a couple of billions to a university so that they create such a lab for us. To show that we really care. 

At the same time, we could propose some money as an undisclosed settlement out of court for this snake. John said a million would do but I don’t really think it could be enough. The man has a massive purple snood over his nose like a giant turkey, and wattles like that of a giant cock, reaching down to his chest. You seen it? It’s quite a sight. Like two giant purple balls hanging from his jowls all the way down to his sternum. I know that some people up there still refuse to look at it but they really should. The man is decorated for life and, as far as I understand the medical part of the situation, no one knows what to do with it. One million is nothing for such thing, it’s trifles. It will only create negative publicity for us. I would suggest at least ten to settle this matter once and for all. 

And we must investigate. Our security team must do their job. What if all this is not a genuine innocent affliction but a hoax, a viral campaign aimed at undermining our market superiority? What if it all originates with the competition? What if they hired this little jerk, and made him eat our product for five year? What if they secretly injected him with some snood-growing hormone? We must dig deeper in this particular direction. 

We should also coordinate our efforts with the milk industry because that pigmy ate our product with milk and this is well documented too. They could also be responsible for this mess. Perhaps not entirely but they could certainly share the blame. Perhaps we could manoeuvre them somehow into becoming liable for the snood while we keep the wattles because the snood has far greater damaging potential in the press. We need some real strategist for that though and I can’t even start to imagine who that person might be. 

Also, we can’t pull the product off the shelves right now; it’s far too popular. But we must do something about it. Another snood and wattles would be disastrous. People also could do this on purpose, to squeeze money from us. It could be a field day for all those deadbeats out there in the streets. It could be a new fad. We must nip this snood thing in the bud. Perhaps rebrand, I don’t know. Or diversify. To look like we caved, on the outside. Re-design this brand in several more iterations. To puzzle all those cretins with their little shopping lists. The opinion up there is that we also should seriously increase our promotional budget. It is not up to date. To compensate for all our expenses we must really increase the demand. 

This way or another but we must stop this craze without much loss on our part. This is the unanimous decision up there. No more snoods. Or wattles. 

Take care, 

Les.

________________________________________

Scarlet liquid runs down my ankle and pools at my heel. I seem to have taken a chunk out of my knee while shaving. I’m not exaggerating either. It really is a proper size chunk. My shaving skills seem to be seriously lacking these days. I mean, when you are cleaning flesh out of your razor, you are doing a piss poor job of shaving for sure.

A river of blood flows along the bathtub and down the drain. It is not lost on me that this is a metaphor for my life. Sighing, I shave the rest of my legs much more carefully. It would appear that the amount of blood I am losing is causing me to be somewhat lighted headed.

Guess my usual morning smoothie is just not going to cut it. Oh no. Blood loss of this magnitude requires a fry up – eggs, bacon, tomatoes, toast…I have to keep my energy up so that I can continue chugging along with my boring and utterly useless life. Any excuse to eat is always a good excuse to me.

Once, after getting a particularly nasty splinter, I convinced myself I needed a chocolate shake in order to recover from the injustice. Getting my period is my excuse to nearly eat half my bodyweight in chocolate (adding in the 10 extra pounds of water weight I gain during that time as well). Drama of any kind, equals a pint of Haagen Dazs or two Magnum bars minimum.

Traffic delays are good for an iced coffee or a latte from the cafe near my job, and a particularly rough commute (i.e. some douchebag in a suit nearly kills me by cutting me off on the highway), constitutes pastry of some kind. Usually apple or pear.  I actually keep a portable hot plate in the trunk of my car, in case I end up somewhere and need to grill something.

I love to eat. Really love to eat. It’s like a religious experience. Sometimes when I walk into a Whole Foods I can almost hear angels begin to softly sing. Could also just be the stereo system come to think of it, but who knows really.

I towel off from my shower carefully avoiding my truly awful new shaving scar. Sticking toilet paper all over it, I limp out of the bathroom to my bedroom. The apartment is dark and quiet as my roommate Daniel is still asleep. It’s not what you think. Yes, he is quite the catch – 6’4”, hazel eyes, dark brown floppy hair, dimples, a nicely defined body and a southern drawl. Whenever I first introduce Daniel to someone, they think that I’m getting laid every which way ‘til Tuesday, having multiple orgasms, and that the air in our apartment must practically crackle with sexual tension. Yes well, that sounds delightful really, except Daniel is batshit crazy and gayer than a May breeze. Well, perhaps batshit crazy is an unfair characterization.

Let’s just say Daniel feels things more deeply than most men. Or women. Or children. Or soap opera characters. Ahem. In his defense, he is truly an awesome friend and if you have been wronged in any way, you can count on him to help you bitch, drink and cry your unhappiness into oblivion better than anyone. You simply do NOT want him to be the one who has been wronged. He’s a Virgo – so that would be defcon 5 (is there one higher? I think we need one higher – I wonder what’s the one for total nuclear meltdown and destruction of the planet…)

Of late though, he’s been in a rather good mood.  He met a gorgeous new man a few weeks ago when we went out for drinks near our place. Brad the Bartender. This is what we call him. Mainly because his name is Brad and he is in fact, a bartender. That pretty sums up anything worth knowing about Brad. Aside from the fact that he is drop dead gorgeous (not just regular gorgeous – there’s a difference), and a bit, well, dumb. (Sorry Brad).

He gets none of our jokes, finds a reason to cry at almost any film (yes, even comedies), and knows nothing about anything. I mean nothing. This man does not have light dinner conversation in his repertoire. He does however, have the body of a Greek statue and can make a damn good dirty martini, so I really must give Daniel a high five for getting some of that as often as possible. Lucky bastard.

Giving my second sigh of the morning, I dress in all black, because you know, it’s the color of my soul, and so that if my shaving wound starts to bleed again, it won’t show up. Should probably put a bandage on it, but that would require effort and I’m all out of any and practically starving. I mean, I’m so hungry I can barely put my makeup on let alone bandage wounds.

Wearing all black in LA is not easy. When I lived in NY – it was the norm. No one batted a mink eyelash if you were wearing all black. Black is considered the color of business, money, sex – style. But not here in Sunnyville, where everyone is blonde, and surgically altered and looking as if they just stepped off of a Viking ship. Daniel joked the other day that I look as if I’m in some sort of cult. I laughed so hard I cried. And then I just cried. And cried. Then Daniel started crying. Then we cried together over several pints of ice cream and chocolate syrup. Then we laughed. Then Daniel gently told me he thinks I might be slipping into a depression and should consider talking to someone about it, with that “Please don’t be upset with me Jess – ‘cause then I will start to cry again” quiver in his chin.

Didn’t know how to react to that to be honest. I mean you see these stupid fucking commercials on television that tell you how depression is supposed to look and feel, before they push all these drugs on you with side effects that sound far worse than why you are taking them in the first place.  And you think to yourself – this is a load of crab – I mean crap, (got to stop thinking about crab legs…) I’m too smart to be “depressed”. Until one day, without warning, you start to resemble the weird person in the commercial, who can barely get out of bed, wears all black, eats like there is no tomorrow and drinks like you’re the guy from The Lost Weekend. You wonder where your life went and why it is such utter shit.

Ravenous, I head to the kitchen where I proceed to cook breakfast. I mean, I go in – scrambled eggs with caviar (relax it’s the cheap kind from IKEA), bacon, tomatoes with basil, hash browns, tea, coffee and toast. I make enough for Daniel and Brad the Bartender just in case he has spent the night and am putting butter on the toast when Daniel walks in wearing nothing but black silk boxers. He stops and looks at all the food and then at me like I’ve gone mad.

“Lord Almighty, what’s happened?!” he asks dramatically, his eyes peeking up over his hands like a scared child.

“Nothing’s has happened. I just was really hungry. I damn near killed myself with my razor this morning and I needed a decent breakfast to get over the pain” I joke.

Daniel runs over to me, his eyes nearly popping out of his head looking as if he is going to start bawling.

“YOU TRIED TO KILL YOURSELF?! OH LORD ALMIGHTY!!!” He grabs hold of both my arms then picks me up and practically crushes me in a hug so tight I think my wound will start to bleed again. The only thing I can move are my hands which I flap against his hips in an effort to get him to release me since I can’t breathe let alone speak.

“OH NO JESS! I KNEW YOU WERE DEPRESSED BUT I HAD NO IDEA THINGS HAD GOTTEN THIS BAD! WHEN DID THEY GET THIS BAD?! WHAT KIND OF FRIEND AM I THAT I DIDN’T NOTICE THIS?! I’M SOOO SORRY! IT’S OKAY! IT’S OKAY! WE’LL GET YOU SOME HELP! YOU DON’T HAVE TO HURT YOURSELF ANY MORE!!!” he wailed.

I mean full on wailing complete with tears and great big heaving sobs that landed between “I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!” and “I WILL NEVER GIVE UP ON YOU! NEVER!”.

I was actually flattered that Daniel cared that much, but as he was cutting off the supply of oxygen to my brain, I needed him to let go soon or I would surely pass out.

I tried to scream at him but the sounds floated out of me like muffled trumpet notes. Remembering that my legs worked, I kicked him hard in the shin and he dropped me like a sack of potatoes.

“You, freaking, idiot!” I panted out while trying to catch my breath.  I felt as if I had nearly been strangled.

“Why did you KICK ME! I’m only trying to HELP!” He cried whilst rubbing his shin with one hand and wiping away tears with the other.

“Seriously Daniel?! I wasn’t trying to HARM myself! I accidentally cut my knee while shaving you fool!” I walk over to the counter and shove a plate of food at him.

“HERE!” I say between clenched teeth.

“And by the way, I’m NOT depressed, I DON’T need help and you are an absolute SHIT friend. Now eat this breakfast and let’s never speak of this again.” I march out of the kitchen with my plate and what is left of my dignity, and slam everything down on the dining table.

Brad the Bartender saunters out of Daniel’s room, wet and wearing a towel around his waist. That towel which was hanging on for dear life showed me exactly why Daniel will never, ever give him up willingly. Fork suspended in midair I stared in awe. I have never seen a body like that. It was perfect. Not a scar, not a sprig of hair anywhere. Brad is at least 6’5”, bronze, with sun kissed blonde hair and long lean muscles. He must spend every penny of his tips on waxing services, tanning and skin care products. How is this guy NOT a supermodel?

Why agencies bothered to search the four corners of the world to find models when they have something like that right here is beyond me. Brad smiles at me with his blindingly white, perfect teeth, and pushes his wet blonde hair out of his perfect grey/blue eyes.

“Hey Jess! Are you having breakfast?” Clearly nothing gets past Brad. “Yes – there’s a plate in the kitchen for you if you’re hungry.” Brad’s face lit up like a little child on Christmas morning.

“YES! I loooooove breakfast! It’s my favorite thing to eat in the morning!” he said practically running into the kitchen.

I dropped my fork and stared into my imaginary camera with pursed lips. I swear, I needed to secretly film him one day because no one would believe the stuff he says.

“Hey! WOW! You’re here!” I hear him say from the kitchen as if he is surprised to see Daniel. I shake my head with my eyes closed.

“Hey! Yeah, so, um are you really surprised to see me in my own kitchen? Really?” I can hear the sarcasm dripping from Daniel’s mouth from the other room as he says this, so of course I nearly choke on my food laughing to myself.

There are two things that Daniel does better than no one else, drama and cuntiness. He practically has a PhD in both.

“Yeah! I mean you could have been in the bathroom! But here you are!”

Daniel walks out of the kitchen and gives me “The Look”. The look that says “I swear to God Almighty I don’t know how he can be so dumb and so good looking at the same time”. It’s a look I have come to know well since Brad the Bartender has joined our little coven.

Daniel’s originally from Texas, and whenever he references God, which is often, he says “God Almighty”. He sounds exactly like an evangelistic preacher and I never tire of telling him so.  Daniel sits down and watches me intently while shoving a piece of toast in his mouth.  Brad also sits down, his towel straining and “God Almighty”, so are my eyeballs, so I reign it in. Ogling your best friend’s boyfriend is not something one should do – outwardly. Secretly, and in one’s deepest, darkest, sexual fantasies – yes. Just not right in front of him.

Brad starts grinning like an idiot at both Daniel and I, and we stop eating to look at him.

“So, what’s up guys? How we doing this morning?! What’s new?!” he asks Daniel while shoving food in his mouth.

“You mean since 15 minutes ago when we said good morning and you took a shower? Not much sugar.”

Daniel shoves food in his mouth while looking at Brad like he’s nuts. He rolls his eyes then goes back to looking at me like he’s expecting me to slit my wrists with my butter knife. I simply keep eating as if everything was normal.

“Awesome! So, what’s new with you Jess?” Brad asks grinning and chewing.

Daniel shoots him an abridged version of “The Look” only it’s dripping with pity. “Don’t ask her that!” He hisses at him. “Jess is very depressed right now.” I stop chewing.

“I’m not depressed”.

“Yes, yes you are. You don’t realize it ‘cause you can’t see it – you’re on the inside looking out, but we,” he gestures dramatically to him and Brad, “we, are on the outside looking in, and we can see it sugar. And we are here for you. I need you to know that. Okay? We are here for you, whenever you need us. Except for tonight. I promised Brad I would make him dinner since it’s his day off. But you can text me if you need me.”

Daniel shovels more food in his mouth pausing only to breath and give me the piteous suicide watch look again. Brad stops eating and looks from Daniel to me, then from me to Daniel.

“How do you know you are depressed Jess? Did you take a test or something?”

Daniel winces slightly before continuing to chew. I don’t bother to answer and simply get up and drop my dishes in the sink, then walk back into my bedroom and slam the door. I can hear Daniel and Brad talking in hushed tones, but can’t make out all they are saying since my bedroom is way down the hall from the dining table. I catch “She sleeps all weekend” and “Her writing is going nowhere.”, and my breath catches in my chest. I need to get out of there before I hear more so, I shove my phone into my handbag, grab my car keys and exit my bedroom. I stop as Daniel and now Brad both look at me like they feel sorry for me. I roll my eyes and leave while mentally giving them the middle finger.

I don’t need pity. I need a paying writing gig. And I need to get laid. It’s been quite a long time since I’ve had either and I’m starting to get a bit pissed off about it – that’s all.  I’ve been in California for almost four years and no writing jobs and not one single date. The men here don’t even look at me for heaven’s sake and my ego is taking a serious bruising.

Daniel says it’s because I don’t make an effort to get out and meet people, and when I do, I have too much New York attitude so I come across as “off-putting”. Hmmmm. Well, I have to admit, I’m not the quintessential California girl, i.e. I’m not blond or dangerously thin with hospital white veneers, a permanent smile plastered on my face, and the ability to lower my IQ every time the opposite sex comes around, but that doesn’t mean I’m not attractive, or interesting.

I’m 5’9”, with long brown hair, green eyes and tanned skin. People constantly tell me that I look “exotic” which in my opinion means they know I’m not white and are too PC to come right out and ask me what I am. My mom was Puerto Rican and my dad was Black. They’re both dead now, but whenever people know this about me, they instantly tell me how sorry they are for me, then become tongue tied and change the subject.

Anyhow, back to my lack of a sex life, I think it definitely has to be a California thing because I got asked out all the time back in New York. Hell, I was practically harassed daily in the street on my way to and from my neighborhood coffee shop. New York men clearly have better taste. And they don’t seem to mind a bit of attitude on the side. I’m not trying to knock my new-found home. I love SoCal weather. I love the beach. I love driving everywhere (I hated the NY Transit system with a passion that can’t be described). I even love how laid back everyone pretends to be. What I don’t really like is the fakeness.

People are just fake as hell here. Their smiles, their tits, their tans, their supposed talent. Fake, fake, super fake. Which is probably why everyone I become close with here – is from somewhere else. My cell phone chirps with a text and I check it before starting my car.

“Where you at bitch? I’ve been waiting forever! I need you on New York time! No – LONG ISLAND TIME!”

I have to smile because only my friend Dean can call me a bitch and he does. Often. Every time I talk to him, it’s “Bitch, why you wearing black all the time?” “Bitch, you know I don’t eat cheese!” “Bitch, when are you going to let me read your cards?”

Dean is my work husband. 6’3”, with dark brown hair, brown eyes, from Long Island, New York, is a part time tarot reader and calls himself the Italian Stallion. Yes, another 6-footer. Yes, he is also gay, sort of. He’s actually bi but, in NY, that just makes you gay and greedy.

So, basically, I’m a straight woman, surrounded by giant, gorgeous, gay men. The queen of the gays. All that beautiful dick and yet, none for me. In hindsight, this might just be why I can’t get a date in this town. In New York, a woman could have a gay posse and a straight man wouldn’t even blink an eye.

I pick up Dean whose car is in the shop and we head to work. We both work for a tech company that has the newest, latest apps that no one needs, but will probably pay the $9.99 for anyway. Dan and I answer customer service email all day. Not the best job, not the worst job. Pays well, and its low stress and they give us bagels and donuts every Friday. It’s also not why I moved to LA. Which is why every time I walk through the pristine glass doors of my job, my heart breaks just a little. One day, all that will be left is red dust in its place.

After an hour of answering emails I find Dean staring at me intently with a frown. I look around me because obviously he must be staring at someone else, someone who would elicit such a frown.

“Yes bitch, I’m looking at you.” he says with a raised eyebrow.

“Okay. So why are you frowning at me? Is my mascara smudged or something?”

“Because, you seem, and have seemed for a while now, I don’t know, out of it. Sad, but like you are trying to hide it. Depressed is the world I’m looking for. You seem depressed.”

I have to shut my eyes, inhale and exhale deeply. Why does everyone think I’m depressed? Can’t a person be in the throes of questioning their talent, looks and entire existence without being labelled “depressed’? Yes, I penned several great essays that made it into several great magazines and literary journals, yes, I wrote a novel that got decent reviews right out of grad school way back in the mists of time, and now I haven’t been able to even so much as sell a piece of writing to a magazine since I arrived in LA. And yes, my second novel is taking a few years (like 15 years), longer than I anticipated to gain interest, and my agent dropped me log ago. And finally, yes, I have no boyfriend, or dates or even any prospects of any. But dammit – I was not depressed.

Dean stared at me with both eyebrows up and I realize that I didn’t just think all of that, I verbally vomited it out loud. Lord Almighty.  It was not like me to publicly acknowledge feelings. I’ve always considered myself to be half Vulcan until recently. Crying with Daniel while drunk or high didn’t count – everyone is emotionally messy while under the influence. The polite thing to do is brush those pesky thoughts back under your subconscious rug when you sober up, and keep it moving.  But the other day, I found myself crying during a trailer for a rom com and knew something might be amiss. I just refuse to label it “depression”. I was getting sloppy, that’s all. I needed to tighten my emotions up quick before I ended up one of those whack jobs who has their therapist on speed dial. That shit was not for me. Oh no siree – I was too tough for that. I survived New York. LA would not take me out. I was the Snake Plissken of this town. They would all soon see.

“Sweetie why don’t we take a break and I get you a latte. Would you like a nice green tea latte? Maybe some cookies to do with it? Hmmmm?”

Dean was speaking to me in a voice he normally reserved for simple minded children or small ankle nipping dogs, but as he was talking about treating me to food, I was willing to overlook this until I had said latte and cookies in hand.

We headed to our favorite coffee shop nearby. I got my latte and my two cookies (score!) and was ready to head back to work when Dean pulled some straight up intervention bullshit.

“Hey sweetie, let’s sit and chat for a minute – we got time”.

I eyed him suspiciously while chewing my cookie and slowly sat down. I was going to have to mentally prepare myself for whatever tarot card, zodiac sign fuckery he was going to spread on me like frosting. I let the milky goodness of my matcha latte take me to my happy place when Dean leaned in.

“So, sweetie, I think we should talk about the fact that you are dep-” My narrowed eyes cut him off mid word like a samurai sword. Dean must have known that he was skating on thin ice with heated blades, so he changed direction and disarmed me.

“I think we should talk about your writing. What’s going on with your novel? How far along are you? What’s the story about? Are you shopping it around? Looking for an agent?”

At that point, I stopped chewing but couldn’t bring myself to swallow. Dean was asking about my novel. My novel I finished 4 years ago right before I arrived in LA. The novel, I had revised exactly 23 times, and been shopping around all that time and no one was interested in it. Not one editor. Not one agent. No one. The novel that had been rejected from every decent publisher in town.  The novel I once thought would be the best work of my life, but had stopped telling people about. The novel that made me question whether I was just a one hit wonder, whose star had burned bright once and has long since fizzled out like a sparkler you have on the 4th of July.

I didn’t want to talk about my novel, or my writing, or my talent or lack of it. I didn’t want to talk about the fact that I wrote like a madwoman every night, but questioned everything I wrote since no one seemed to want to read it or care about it. I didn’t want to talk about the fact that I was desperate to have someone validate my talent because I had lost faith in it long ago.

My eyes welled up with tears and I rambled off to Dean that I had to go. I was not going to cry in front of this guy – work husband or not. Dean, for once in his life, thankfully, was at a loss for words. He looked at me as if he wanted to spring from his chair and hung me but was certain it would not go down well, so he simply sat there wanting desperately to help in some way.

I got straight in my car. Didn’t even care it was the middle of the day, and I was still supposed to be at work. I didn’t give a shit, I couldn’t breathe. I needed air and space and calm. By the time I got to the beach, I had stripped down to my tank top and tossed my sandals in the backseat along with my cell phone and purse.

As I sat in the sand, I watched the waves pull out and push back in, smelled the salty air and listened to the sea gulls laugh at my patheticness. Further down the beach people were enjoying themselves and the weather. I simply sat in the sand and watched it all happen and wondered to myself what the hell I was doing there.

Could I even consider myself a writer if no one wanted to read what I wrote? How much longer was I going to keep trying before I realized the jig was up? If I wasn’t a writer anymore, what was I? Just another lame wannabe artist in LA with no talent trying to navigate through life, working, eating, sleeping on repeat until one day, I died? And death – what was that like? Some amazing reconnection to the cosmos, where everything is explained and it all finally makes sense? Or simply deep, dark, never ending, silence?  There was no indication I was sobbing until some surfer dude douchebag came up and asked me if I was “like okay?”.

The sad look he gave me, forced me to get my shit together.

“Yeah, I’m cool. Thanks.”

I wiped my face and attempted a smirk to let know it was okay to vamoose and go sprinkle his pity on some other lonely, crying beach babe. He simply walked a few feet away stuck his surfboard in the sand and sat down looking out at the ocean. Every once in a while, he would look over at me, I guess to check if I was okay. He seemed to have a kind spirit and was clearly trying to in his own way, look out for me so, I relaxed and regretted thinking he was a douche. Maybe Daniel was right. Maybe my New York attitude needed an adjustment.

I sighed heavily and the silent tears rolled down my face as I sat for hours just crying and watched the sky turn from bright white to beautiful jeweled tones and finally darkness.

“Um excuse me, but it’s getting pretty dark out. Can I walk you to your car?”

Surfer dude seemed like he was not going to just leave me to cry myself silly or get accosted on the beach at night, so I slowly got up and we walked silently to my car side by side. I got in and he closed the door for me and gave me a sad, half smile, before walking over to his own car and getting in. I looked at my phone and realized it was almost 9pm and I had about a thousand text messages and missed calls from Dean, Daniel and even Brad. I tossed the phone unchecked onto the passenger seat and drove off while the surfer dude watched me go.

A few hours and several Mexican food truck tacos later, I pull into my parking space and drag myself into my apartment to find both Daniel and Brad anxiously waiting for me. I stand in the doorway as they both walk over to me and wrap their arms around me. All three of us stand there without saying anything. After a moment, I offer,

“I think I’m depressed.”

They hug me tighter.

“I know Jess, don’t worry, we are here for you sugar pie”.

I hug them both back. “Great. I’m depressed and now I want pie.”

The cook slaps a thin rectangle of glossy white dough against an aluminum counter. A loud thwack echoes throughout the small eight by twenty foot restaurant (the kitchen is half of that). He pulls the dough the length of his arms, which is long, and rips it in half. Like all good noodle dishes, this one is made to order. He puts the noodles into boiling water for a few minutes, then tosses them into a tapered sauce pan with lean slow roasted pork belly, pickled cabbage, and chili oil. Red oil, hóng yóu as it’s known in China, is its own condiments genre. Every restaurant, every home kitchen has its own recipe for hóng yóu. Some are spiced with anise and ginger, making them gentler and more flavorful. Others, like this one, are loaded with red chilies flakes and ground Szechuan peppercorns, making them bone searingly spicy.

A cook, one of two in the kitchen, dumps your noodles onto a Styrofoam plate. The red-orange chili oil pools at the bottom of the plate, glistening as it covers every centimeter of the food. The cashier calls your number, plastic tray in hand. You take the cheap plastic tray, a pair of disposable chopsticks, and a handful of napkins to the eating counter next to you. It’s one of two aluminum counters that run the length of the restaurant—one on the right wall, the other on the left wall—five metal and wood stools sit under each counter. The floor is concrete. The walls are white. The front door is cut from a large piece of glass—that also makes up the only window—which light pours through, filling the dining area and compensating for the few circular lights in the ceiling. The wall in front of you has two-dozen laminated pictures each one with a corresponding letter and number combination, the restaurant’s menu. The other wall has articles hung in bright red frames attesting to the restaurant’s quality.

You grasp the chopsticks with your hand and slurp. The shredded, grey pork belly is tender and flavorful. The noodles are wide, dense, and chewy, but the clock is ticking; if not eaten within fifteen minutes, they will soak up too much of the oil and turn soggy.

The edge of your lips tingle. You feel light headed and the urge to double over in pain from the scorch of the hell-oil, but you resist. Your face feels loose, like it’s melting off. You sit up every few seconds gasping for air, patting your forehead with a napkin, wiping the snot from your nose. Everyone’s face is like yours: red, contorting in pain, nose dripping snot. The tray is littered with sticky, crumpled white paper balls.

You take an occasional pull off your Japanese rice beer. The dry crispness fortifies you and you crack on, as they do, funneling noodles and pork belly into your mouth with chopsticks. The light green cabbage provides a crunch; the textural contrast that you want and need, but its relief is temporary. There’s not enough cabbage to extinguish the heat of the oil.  

Every time you eat these noodles you promise yourself that you’ll never eat them again, that you’ll never expose yourself to their heat again. Now, your tenth time eating them, you willingly, lustfully, eat these noodles. In every bite there is pain and pleasure, there is burn and, albeit temporary, relief.

You finish eating, but the burn does not stop; it lingers. The last sips of your beer do nothing to loosen the capsaicin clamped to your taste buds. You dump your tray and walk to the subway. Four blocks away your endorphins take over. Your head goes numb; a cool sensation replaces the burn. You promise yourself that you’ll never eat those noodles again but you know you will.

Joseph Émile Bernard is a food writer living in New York. He is currently finishing his first novel and holds a BA in Writing from SUNY Plattsburgh and an MFA in Creative Writing from The New School. Follow him on Instagram: @notes_from_the_underbelly

It’s a common misconception that monsters prefer human flesh and fluids. You’ve been
on this planet for some time, you’ve heard the rumors. Vampires and vein draining, ghouls and
soul sipping, zombies and brains (or Brians). Sea sirens devouring the hearts of coastline locals
who are tired of getting ghosted by online singles. Giant ogres that give entirely new meanings to
the phrase “I’ve got a bone to pick”, as they floss their molars with the adolescent femurs of
teenage rebellion. Oh, and that whiny camper around the fire—the one who kept complaining
about the ash-to-marshmallow ratio of the smores—you had a feeling he’d be the first one to go
when the Yeti showed up.

“Everyone is out to get me.” This a very typical human philosophy, isn’t it? Have you
ever found an unexplained, lone blue fruitloop all the way over on the kitchen windowsill? Ever
met a zombie that didn’t love cereal? Ever met a monster at all?

There are monsters devouring junk food—ones that love stale Halloween candies, and
others outside the bakery waiting to catch a whiff of doughnuts fresher than sunrise. There are
monsters that make their special guacamole for party guests. Yes, they also uncontrollably weep
while chopping the onions. And yes, the involuntary tears happen on the inside while purchasing
avocados, because they’re also shocked at the significant rise in price and demand. Don’t even
ask about the polarizing opinions on the topic of adding cilantro.

Some monsters are eating the same bland rice dish, for the fourth bland time this week,
because they finally checked on the status of their bank account. Sustainable monsters are going
vegan. They’re plucking fresh tomatoes from the plant basking in the small sliver of apartment
sunlight. Others are caring for beautiful gardens full of herbs and hand-carved birdhouses. There
are brokenhearted monsters that weep into bowls of pasta as the hum of the laundry machine
rinses their towels and bedsheets behind them. Daddy monsters are decorating strawberry
birthday cakes for five-year-old daughter monsters.

Excited monsters wait by the phone, checking their notifications, hoping that the buzz in
their palms and pockets belongs to some special monster—they can’t even eat anything at all.
And of course, there’s that one monster who at the end of the day picks up a dollar slice of pizza.
Because nothing feels as liberating, or as New York City, as walking briskly down the street with
folded food hanging from your mouth like a second tongue.

Elise Burchard is a writer living in New York City. After attending Colorado College, she graduated from The New School with an MFA in Creative Writing and WriteOnNYC Fellowship. Though she has many projects and abandoned Microsoft Word docs floating around—from songwriting to picture books and sketch comedy—her heart, mind, and midnights are devoted to a work-in-progress novel within the realm of contemporary magical realism.

This piece was inspired by her writing mentee, Kayla.

A stroll should help to clear his clouded mind; he thinks. Unsettled,
threading slowly on West Broadway; he walks south. People pass by him in both
directions. The hot August sun intensifies when it reflects on display windows
and the crystal and metal of restaurant doors.
The street rhythm carries him by the side of a bay window. A blackboard,
words written on it with white chalk read:
HELP WANTED
Bartender Needed
Should I?
He takes a peek through the glass door. A man behind a long counter
polishes glassware. The bar is empty, he comes in.
“Hey, are you hiring?”
“Yes we are.”
“Are you busy?”
“Well, not really, we’re not now but…we hope to get busy.” He speaks
with uncertainty. “You know, we opened just two weeks ago.”
No action, no money. I need action.
A shrill starts faintly at the mouth of the glass the man polishes, it travels
across the empty restaurant and boomerangs, it pierces his ears.
“Where’re you from?” The bartender inquires.
“New York, East Village.”
“I mean…what’s your background?”
“Mexican.”
“You don’t say! My name is Phillip.”
“Hi Phillip, my name is Alejandro, nice to meet you…you can call me Alex.
Phillip, I need a busy place, a real busy place. I don’t want to have time to
think.”
“Tell you what, better you talk to Mrs. Howard, she badly needs people
that speak Spanish. You speak Spanish don’t you? You’re familiar with
Mexican food, aren’t you?”
“This is a Mexican Restaurant? You’re kidding me! What’s the name?”
“CINCO DE MAYO”
Pictures of Zapata, Villa, Pershing and peasant soldiers of the 1910
Revolution crowd the wall opposite the bar.
How did I miss all this crap when I came in?
“Gee, Phillip, those pictures and the name of the restaurant don’t fit.”
“Isn’t Cinco De Mayo when the Mexican Revolution started?”
“No, not exactly. It commemorates a battle Mexicans won but everything
went downhill after that. I really don’t see why you would commemorate after
you got your ass kicked.”
“Nobody knows that around here,” says Philip implicitly.
“Maybe, still it’s not right…and I don’t care.”
This is disgusting I should just go.
“Is the food any good in here?” He asks looking at the exit door.
“I think it is the best I ever had, but the truth is it doesn’t look like Mexican
food to me, but what do I know!”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Phillip.” Alejandro is puzzled.
“Look, why don’t you wait a bit, Mrs. Howard will be here any minute. I’m
sure she’ll hire you on the spot. Have you waited on tables?”
“Yes but I don’t know if I want to do that, I’d rather work the bar.”
“Well wait, she’s a very interesting person. Will you excuse me, I have to
go to the dishwasher and get another glass-rack, I’ll be right back, don’t go.”
Mrs. Howard may be a very interesting person but how can she name this
restaurant CINCO DE MAYO and hang Bravo’s pictures all over the wall? It’s
ridiculous!
It didn’t take long after he found himself alone for thoughts about his wife
and her lover to creep up in his mind, inflicting an inner torture that he had
endured for over a year. For six to eight months prior to confirming her affair,
rapid changes were happening; patterns being broken and most important: sex.
They were making love alright but he was the only one getting off. That
marvelous sex that for many years they had enjoyed traveling in unison to reach
a climax, was suddenly gone. She performed in any way or position he asked of
her, but she rarely had an orgasm and that drove him nuts.
He suspected but couldn’t get himself to believe she was having an affair.
He thought, up until then, that this was it! He was going to grow old with her and
have a meaningful life. Now, he himself was transforming from a man that
exuded confidence to a paranoid weakling. He tracked her, demanded account
of her whereabouts. There were many instances he caught her lying.
“Stop it! You’re badgering me, you’re insane!” She would say and he
wanted to believe her but her excuses didn’t add up.
“You told me last week you went to Saint Marks Cinema to see MR.
GOOD BAR and I found out it was APOCALYPSE NOW showing!”
“Oh my God, are you a detective now tracking every move of mine? Am I
not free?”
He never minded where she went or who she was with, he trusted her.
Their relationship was based on trust, love and desire for each other, but, she
had fallen out of love and she wouldn’t accept it because she cared for him.
She did not realize how bad the situation was. She was drinking, taking speed to
go to work and downers when she arrived home.
Alejandro’s suspicions were confirmed one afternoon when she came
home smelling of alcohol and quickly jumped into the shower. As soon as she
got out of the bathroom he sat her down on the couch and questioned her.
“I told you I took a ballet class and then went to a café for a bite and had
a couple wine glasses with a friend!”
“Who?
“This girl from class. She wanted to chat and instead of coffee we
decided to have wine.” She lied blatantly, it was routine by now to do so.
“You are inebriated!”
“No, I am not! Oh I can’t take this shit anymore. You are hallucinating!”
And again his head would spin, asking himself if she was right.
What happened next was the moment that would be engraved in his mind
forever, an image that made him cry every day for at least two years.
The white cotton robe she was wearing slipped open from her hips down
exposing her legs. In the inner part of her thigh just below her vagina, a
mucous, wobbly matter was visible and just about to drop. It was sperm!…
dripping, her lover’s come whose dick had just been inside her. He was
paralyzed, his mouth and eyes wide open fixed on her thigh. She noticed him
and looked down herself. In horror, she tried to wipe it off. She run away to the
bathroom.
Every piece of furniture, plants, picture frames, his beloved cuckoo clock,
everything that belonged to them, artifacts and bric-a-brac they collected for ten
years living together, seemed to float about the room…then crash, and
disintegrate. He closed his eyes and laid back on the purple velvet couch, tears
sprouted as the truth revealed itself.
She came back from the bathroom sobbing uncontrollably and sat down
beside him, they embraced and held each other for a long time, peace fell on
them for the first time since she had started her affair. But, it was not over, her
affair did not end, and Alejandro’s knowledge of it was just another step in his
way to the edge of insanity.
“Damn! Damn!” Alejandro whispered swiveling a bit on his stool and
stooping over the bar counter. “I can’t cry anymore. Please God, help me! Take
these awful thoughts off my mind. I know she’s with him now, I can feel it, they
are fucking… that old bastard is on top of her…Oh God, please!” Alejandro
begged.
The wind was taken out of him on this last thought, his empty stomach
took a blow. Just then Phillip came back chewing food and carrying another
glass-rack. Alejandro’s eyes were swollen with tears sliding over his cheeks.
“Are you alright?” Phillip asked on noticing his glassy eyes. “What’s
wrong?”
“Nothing…I just had a loss. I was thinking about it. I’m fine now, I’m okay,
thanks.”
Alejandro paused as he spoke, he wiped his tears and recovered rapidly.
The mere presence of another person helped control his emotions.
“Sorry, is there anything I can get you?”
“Can I see a menu?”
“Of course.”
The flat-gray paper and elegant letters were pleasing and on unfolding it
his swollen eyes began to dance.
“Mejillones? Pollo Almendrado? Mixotes! Alambres, Rollos de Lenguado,
Menudo! This is incredible!”
“Is it a good menu?”
“Good? It’s wonderful! Gee, Phillip, nothing makes sense in here.”
“So you’re familiar with these dishes, huh?”
“Yes, this menu is great!”
“It’s not selling.”
“Oh, you must have terrible waiters. This is SOHO they have to sell.”
“The waiters don’t know the dishes either.”
Who is in charge of this freaking place?
A lady in a light-brown sleeveless dress, fittingly loose, a brown leather
bag strapped to her right shoulder and few books in her left arm, comes in.
“Hi Phillip. So humid out there I thought I was not going to make it. A
glass of water please.” She continues on to a small desk and unloads books
and bag on it.
“Tall glass of water, Mrs. Howard. This gentleman is looking for a job, he
loves your menu!”
“Is that so? No me diga. You are Mexican, aren’t you?”
“Yes I am, but you quickly become a New Yorker to survive.”
“True. Still I can tell you are Mexican and I bet from the North.”
“My mustache gives me away.”
“No, it’s not your mustache, it’s your stance, most southern Mexicans
show humbleness when first introduced and you don’t.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. Come, let’s sit down.” Mrs. Howard rolls the glass between
her hands then drinks some. “Ah, so you like my menu.”
“I noticed you serve Menudo.”
“The reason I have it is to please Mexicans like you. You know how to
make it?”
“Yes I do.”
“I had a lover you remind me of, he was from Sonora, a good man and
wonderful lover. Would you like to taste my menudo?” Alejandro, startled, nods
as Mrs. Howard summons a waiter and orders a bowl of menudo.
Mrs. Howard was born in Cuba and she was not proud of it. She had
married Mr. Howard and when she divorced him she kept his name. She
claimed to be española de pura sepa although born in Cuba because her father,
a newsman, was at work there. Some rumored she came to New York City very
young with her mother who became a chorus girl at the COPACABANA.
Mrs. Howard had a simple concept of mankind. There were two kinds of
people: those who liked and enjoyed eating, whom she called food-people, and
those who ate only for sustenance, non-food people.
The waiter arrives with a bowl of menudo.
“Where are the garnishes? Chopped onion and radishes, oregano and
warm tortillas?” She asks the waiter, imploring more than admonishing. “I tell
you, I have so much trouble finding help” she says as the waiter returns with
garnishes.
Alejandro rolls a tortilla and slurps a full spoon, he closes his eyes, sits up
and remains still for a few seconds. His mind travels to Calzada Madero where
there was a restaurant he and his fellow college students would end up after a
night out of debauchery and a bowl of menudo would straighten them up.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?” Asks Mrs. Howard.
“No, I mean yes. This is incredible I’m eating this and it is unexpected…I
mean, I’m in New York, I’m not in Mexico!”
“You mean it tastes like Mexico?”
“It certainly does. Oh this is so soothing!”
“Ah, you make me happy, that’s all I need to know. Please eat.” Mrs.
Howard urges him and he responds, eating with gusto. Meanwhile she opens a
book, reads, and observes Alejandro.
This man enjoys food, I love the way he eats, I bet he’s a good lover too,
Oh if I were twenty-five years younger.
“So, you would like to work for me.”
“Philip tells me you’re not busy but your menu is wonderful. I would like to
help you sell it.”
“Well I know you’re Mexican and you like my menu but do you know the
restaurant business?”
“I do. I prefer the bar but it looks like you need help on the floor.”
“Why don’t you come for dinner tonight and taste some of my dishes,
won’t you?”
“Of course, may I bring my wife?’
“You’re married? Oh. It’s so hard to find single men like you! Of course
you may bring your wife.”
“Actually she works tonight. Is tomorrow alright?”
“Sure. Come around 7.”
“Thank you so much, you made me feel good, the menudo was
excellent.” Mrs. Howard smiles as he heads out.
“Thank you, Philip,” Alejandro waves.
“We will see you later, won’t we?”
“Yes, I’m coming for dinner tomorrow.”
“Great! By the way I didn’t know Mexicans kicked our butts in that one
battle.”
“It was not American butts we kicked Philip, it was French butts. We
kicked the Frenchies.”
“Oh, that’s better.” Says Philip somehow relieved.
As he stepped out into the street he took a deep breath and exhaled the
hot Summer air. He headed north and passed by the Broom Street Bar where he
ate a hamburger patty in pita bread for the first time. Something basic and
fundamental had just happened: he was feeling human, not like a wounded
animal as he often described himself to himself. Ever since he found out about
his wife’s affair his ego and self-esteem had been demolished, he felt ugly and
useless. Mrs. Howard’s menu lifted up layers of his country’s culinary spectrum
and reminded him of how vast, rich and beautiful it was. He felt proud, at least
for now.
They arrived to the restaurant about 8 pm. On their way there he implored
her to stop seeing Frog-face as he spitefully had nick-named her lover. She
denied she was seeing him and begged Alejandro to compose himself; this was
a very important evening. She had detected his enthusiasm about Mrs. Howard
and this was good because she wanted him to pull himself together. She was
looking for a way out of their relationship. He had become, emotionally and
economically, a burden on her. He ranted, cried and threatened her. He had not
worked for months; he was a wreck. She had not intended for this situation to
develop this way. Now she was in control and she could be reckless without
even trying. She would tell him: “I met Black-Eyed Susan, we had dinner last
night. You would really like her, she was worried about being fired but Stefan
told her it was just a Ludlam’s ploy to keep her in line” or “Stefan is writing a
book on Richard Forman and his theater. They are good friends, I met him, he is
strange” or “we went to Theater For The New City and saw an awful play but
you should have seen how many people kissed Stefan’s ass.”
“Of course those assholes are going to kiss his ass, he’s the son of one of
the greatest playwrights of the century and he owns the rights to his work. But
don’t you see he introduces you as a sex trophy and not as an actress and
dancer? Are you stupid?” Alejandro was right, Stefan paraded her proudly as a
mistress less than half his age.
She had fallen out of love with Alejandro and insisted on being friends,
she needed a friend. The dreams they once had had not been fulfilled, and it
was time to face it. However, she did not love Stefan, but his touch. His ways
and adoration for her magnificent body had liberated her from the hold Alejandro
had on her for over 10 years, a hold that was unnatural due to her nature; she
was a very promiscuous woman and Alejandro, a sensual and erotic man
himself, had been in heaven reveling in her promiscuity. He was hooked and
unable to let go and now the man she had wanted so much and whose pride
and valiant ways she so admired had just become a pathetic human being.
Mrs. Howard spotted them as soon as they entered the restaurant and
greeted them. “I’m so glad you were able to come.”
“Hello, Mrs. Howard. This is my wife Elizabeth.”
“Hi.”
“How are you? Welcome, you do complement each other, you are a
beautiful couple.”
“Oh, you are so kind, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Let me see, I want you to sit over there. Please order as many dishes as
you want, I want you to taste as much as you can. I will join you later, have a
good time.”
The waiter spoke unintelligible English, it was embarrassing. He recited
specials and all he could properly pronounce was the name of a dish in Spanish.
Alejandro picked up his accent: he was a Spaniard. Alejandro ordered drinks in
Spanish and the waiter’s face lit up.
“Hostia! Vos hablais castellano? que güevon soy yo, tratando de hablar
esta lengua de mierda que no entiendo. Un escocés con agua mineral y una
margarita. Pida lo que quiera yo vuelvo en seguida.”
“What would you like to eat?”
“Hmm, fish, I feel like eating Mexican fish.”
“There is not such a thing.”
“I know, I’m kidding you, you order for me.” She tells him as she holds his
hand and smiles. Alejandro places the menu to the side fixing his eyes on hers
and rubs her hand with his thumb. There is silence, he begins to withdraw.
“Please don’t. Don’t think about it anymore. You just…” the waiter arrives
with drinks and Alejandro orders. Appetizers and entrées come rapidly with
flavors that awaken their sense of taste. She is able to get him out of his dark
world. Elizabeth is relieved and much more so when Mrs. Howard joins their
table.
“Well, what do you think?” Mrs. Howard asks.
“Delicious! Everything so far has been wonderful,” exclaims Elizabeth.
“I’m impressed. How did you get hold of all these dishes?” Asks
Alejandro.
“Oh” Mrs. Howard sighs and reminisces, “my husband worked in Mexico
and we were often invited by Mexican high society to dinner. The dinner parties
were so dull I would go to the kitchen, incredible beautiful kitchens, talk to the
cooks, who were always women, and write down recipes and ask a million
questions.”
“So this menu reflects how rich people eat in Mexico.” Elizabeth asserts.
“Most of it” retorts Mrs. Howard, “but you will find things in this menu
from the streets of Mexico. Oh, Mexico, there is no better place than Mexico!
Are you ready for dessert? May I suggest Crepas de Cajeta, okay?
“Crepas? That sounds like crepes, that’s French?” Elizabeth states.
“Honey, Maximilian and Carlota brought their chefs and bakers, one of
many influences on our food.” Alejandro responds quickly.
“Well, will you work for me? Will you let him work for me?” Mrs. Howard
asks Elizabeth playfully.
“Of course, he can start right now,” she responds.
“How about tomorrow? Come and observe. I’ll order dessert for you.”
Mrs. Howard tells them as she leaves the table.
Felix and Arturo, both Spaniards from Asturias, wait on tables bussed by a
young girl. Felix takes most customers that trickle in early to the vast former
auto-garage turned restaurant. When asked what is the best dish in the menu
Felix points to the most expensive, he pads the check and presents it with an
ever present warm smile. Arturo just suffers, he can’t get anything right but the
busgirl who speaks perfect English saves him every time. Both waiters were
schooled in the West Village and W14th Street Spanish restaurants that, like
most ethnic restaurants in New York City, are a microcosm of injustice as in the
old countries.
“I love the way Felix approaches a table and serves it. I want you to
observe him because that is the way I want my customers treated.”
“Mrs. Howard I have observed Felix and I think he is a terrible waiter, also
he shouldn’t take all the tables that come in early.”
“But you just started today and were supposed to observe.”
“And I did!”
“Well, do you want to work?” She asks timidly, she wants him to stay.
“Yes I do. Your food is fantastic and you are in the right place to sell it.”
“I don’t think Felix is a bad waiter” Mrs. Howard insists, “and if you work
for me I want you to get along with him.”
“Mrs. Howard I like Felix, I can get along with him but you have to rein him
in or he will hurt the business.”
Oh my God, Mrs. Howard doesn’t know a thing about the front of the
house but what a wonderful kitchen. I’ll stick around and see.
Alejandro and Mrs. Howard develop a working relationship and let each
other know bits and pieces of their private lives, but nothing that would reveal
Alejandro’s inner turmoil. Strolls after work, late snacks at ODEON, ideas about
how to serve, practically, Nouvelle Mexican in SOHO. Mrs. Howard was a great
observer and learner, indeed she had observed Mexican customs and food at
various levels.
Mrs. Howard, by her account, had become a bag-lady, the notorious
street characters that invaded Manhattan in the early ’70’s. How had she
descended to insanity, after a great life in Mexico into the streets of New York
City is uncertain, but the loss of a son to an overdose of heroine, the addiction
of the other and the absence of Mr. Howard may have helped it. In emotional
distress she visited Peter Kump’s culinary school and the chef reluctantly
accepted her on the condition she would do all dishes after class, “I love
washing dishes, chef Kump, it is the best therapy.” She was in.
The restaurant morphed into beautiful shades of white, gray and pink
walls. Snake plants and Bromeliads hung from the high ceilings. Three sections
with at least 60 chairs each, a long bar and a waiting area with cocktail tables
defined it.
New York magazine hits the stands a sultry Monday with a cover story
about the culinary evolution and proliferation of Mexican and Japanese
restaurants in Manhattan. Journalist Barbara Kostikyan declares CINCO DE
MAYO the best Mexican restaurant in New York City. She forgets to inform the
public that the restaurant is closed on Mondays and hundreds of ‘foodies’ that
religiously follow food critics are disappointed when they find the restaurant
lights out. Tuesday the restaurant is packed by 7 pm. Felix and Arturo are
overwhelmed, panic sets on them, they run in circles. Alejandro can hardly take
care of his section as he urges bartender and cooks to deliver his orders. About
250 diners come in that night and not all are served, many leave disgusted
because of tardiness or non-arrival of food and drinks. Alejandro and Mr.
Howard leave the restaurant that night, stunned. They walk slowly west towards
the Hudson River.
“We need waiters and bartenders.”
“Yes we do!”
“Should I call an agency?”
“Anybody, we need bodies. It will take me a few days to train them but I
can do it, I promise you I can.”
“You were so calm tonight in the midst of chaos!”
“Mrs. Howard, Felix and Arturo don’t cut it, they collapsed!”
“Everybody was running, you were walking.”
“You don’t run in a restaurant, it’s dangerous!”
Wednesday at noon three people come in and they are hired on the spot,
they are summoned to report at 4 pm for work. By 7:30 pm Arturo quits, he just
walks out. Things get worse as customers walk out but the ones that get served
rave about the food.
“Alejandro, I don’t know what to do but we have to learn to serve all these
people.”
“If you give me the authority I will get the floor together.”
“Can you do it?”
“Yes, but I have to do the hiring and the firing.”
“Is that all it takes?” Mrs. Howard asks with disbelief.
“No, we have to implement all things we have been talking about. I know
the mechanics of good and efficient service to deliver volume. Your kitchen is
ready, the front of the house has to integrate into it. The bar has problems too,
but I can fix it.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to Jerry.”
Next day, Thursday, the restaurant is packed, by 9 pm. the kitchen runs
out of must entrees, the bartenders freeze due to demand of drinks by waiters
and a three-deep line of customers at the bar waiting for tables. The place
becomes a war zone, people walk out and leave, the ones waiting grab the
tables that empty to never be served or be served appetizers ordered by the
ones that left. Mercifully the night ends. Jerry, the owner, calls for a meeting.
“I called this meeting to let you know that as bad as it looks, it’s not that
bad. We have 200 reservations for tomorrow, 250 for Saturday and just as many
for Sunday. We have to pull together and Mrs. Howard and I believe that
Alejandro is the man to pull us through. So, from now on he is in charge of all
floor operations and we should listen to him and do as he says.”
*
Alejandro is 12 to 14 hours out of their apartment, Elizabeth is glad. They
see each other in the early afternoon for two hours when he comes home for a
break and brings her lunch. She gives him a blow job and when she is horny
she masturbates as she blows him, he loves it; her moans and muffed final
screams as she comes with his cock in her mouth is glorious to him. He naps for
30 minutes, gets up and takes a quick shower and leaves.
*
Stefan Brecht routinely leaves the city in May for his country house in
Massachusetts and returns in October. Only extraordinary circumstances make
him come to Manhattan in the dog days of Summer. He pressures Elizabeth to
break away, to end her marriage and join him, but she refuses. There are two
women in Stefan’s life that Elizabeth is intent on cutting down first: one is his
daughter, and the other a long time ago lover and now faithful companion whose
business he subsidizes. Elizabeth and Stefan are locked in a battle of wills and
sexually hooked on each other. She needs a friend and erroneously she
confides in Alejandro.
“We were at a restaurant with his daughter and she and I asked for the
same special. The waiter comes back and says there is only one special left.
The old jerk does not ask, he just hands me the menu and asks me to choose
something else and his daughter gets the special! I was so mad.”
“He did the right thing; his daughter comes first.”
“He could have asked if I minded.”
“Do you think I want to hear stories about you and his family?”
“I left him; I don’t want to be with him anymore.”
“You say that because he is away.”
“No. I mean it.”
“You know I haven’t been inside you in a long time, you are faithful to
him.”
“C’mon Alejandro I suck your cock every day!”
“I know, you just get me off.”
“I get off with you.”
“Not all the time.”
“What do you want from me? Do you want to fuck me in the ass? Fuck
me in the ass. Do you want to jam me? Jam me!”
“I want to make love.”
“Oh honey, please stop. Don’t torture me, I’m sorry, I just can’t right now.”
“You belong to him now. I can feel it, I can feel when you are with him.”
“I told you I am not seeing him anymore!”
“You saw him a few weeks ago.”
“How do you know?”
“I went to the studio and you were not in class. I knew you were lying to
me when you said you were going to class, you went to his room at the Chelsea
to fuck him.”
“I did not! Okay, I saw him and I went to tell him I didn’t want to see him
anymore. He wants me to leave you and he wants to continue with his bull-shit.
We fought and argued.”
“You fucked him. Didn’t you?”
“Oh Alejandro, is that all you care about whether I fucked him or not?”
“Arguments don’t matter, what you do with your body matters and what
you do with him you don’t do with me anymore.”
“Why did we start talking about this?”
“You started it.”
“It’s getting late and you have to go back to work. Let’s not talk about it
any more, pretty please.” Suddenly Elizabeth playfully grabs his crotch and
fondles him, unzips his fly, unbuckles his belt and pulls down his pants. His stiff
cock springs out, she goes down on her knees and picks lint and a hair from the
head of his cock and masterfully sucks it. A torrent of mixed emotions, desire
among them, drive his hands to her shoulders, his brain commands to push her
away but his right hand slowly travels to the back of her neck and his left hand
softly strikes her hair. He abandons himself to pleasure and thinks of Stefan,
wishing he was there to watch her giving him head.
*
It takes Alejandro four weeks to establish a system; kitchen, bar and floor
are in harmony. The crew is a mix of aspiring young artists and adventurers and
three Mexicans from Cuernavaca, all trying to make it in New York City, they
perform well.
Incredibly Alejandro never discussed with Mrs. Howard or Jerry payment
for his work. The restaurant is sailing and they sit down to discuss Alejandro’s
situation.
“I’m very pleased with the work you have done,” Jerry asserts.
“Look, I will supervise from the floor, I will work in all positions, collect tips
and I need a salary.”
“Alejandro thinks he can spot all problems by working all floor positions.”
Mrs. Howard adds.
“That’s fine with me, So what do you want?”
“$650 per week.”
“I can’t do that. Why don’t you take the best station as a waiter and I
pony up $50 per week for supervising and scheduling personnel.”
“No, they will resent me and they won’t be happy about it.”
“Alejandro thinks that personnel working in harmony will result in excellent
service and that is what I want.” Mrs. Howard intercedes.
“I don’t care about the waiter’s happiness, besides, they are all making
good money now.”
“There will not be balance if I do what you suggest, it won’t matter how
much money they make. It’s a matter of fairness.” This asshole wants the crew
to hate me. He doesn’t know what harmony is in the workplace.
“You are asking for manager’s salary and I already have a manager, right
here, Mrs. Howard is my manager, she asked me to put you in charge and I did
it, she insisted. I thought you had made a deal with her.” Jerry says flatly.
“Yes Jerry, but Alejandro has done a wonderful job and he should be
paid.” Mrs. Howard insists.
“Okay, I will pay him. The job is done, we are rolling. Why should I pay
two managers? Take the best station and $50 per week, that’s the best I can
do.” Jerry finalizes.
“No, the workers will not respect me if I do that.” Alejandro also finalizes.
“Let’s call it quits then.”
“That’s fine with me. I can’t work under your conditions.”
“Okay, wait a few minutes and I will settle with you. I’ll be right back.”
“Alejandro don’t be stubborn, take his terms, we’ll see what we can do
later. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Mrs. Howard implores.
“Do you know what Jerry’s nickname is in the kitchen?”
“Yes I know, my cooks call him “El Perro.”
“They are right, he is a dog. It’s amazing how simple people that don’t
speak English can sense it, I didn’t. I know he is a pig, the way he approaches
customer tables cigarette in hand, ashes flowing all over, it’s disgusting. Mrs.
Howard, I’m sorry I wish I could stay; I’m going to miss you. Beware he is going
to give you a big bite, it takes a person without scruples to do what he is doing
to me. He’s a pit bull and he looks it.”
Jerry comes back, his brutish face sporting a smile; an envelop in hand he
gives to Alejandro. “That’s $2,600 for four weeks. If you need a letter of
recommendation let me know.”
“Thanks. Your restaurant is working like a Swiss clock and it cost you
$2,600. Not bad, not bad at all. Good bye Mrs. Howard and good luck. Great
food, it was a pleasure.” Alejandro leaves with his integrity intact.
“Jerry that was not good. Alejandro did a great job and we should have
kept him.”
“I’m paying you as a manager, should I take what he wants from your
salary?”
Mrs. Howard is left with a bitter taste, not only she just lost a fine
employee, but a companion that already understood her dining philosophy
better than anybody. Alejandro was right: two months later Mrs. Howard was
fired and the restaurant she created and Alejandro helped to flourish, the best
Mexican restaurant in New York City, was now in the hands of a speculator.
Elizabeth’s agent calls begging her to cover the day-shift for a dancer that
didn’t show up for work in Brooklyn, “I’ll make it up nicely for you honey-bunny,
please don’t let me down.” She gets ready in a hurry and writes a note for
Alejandro who soon will be home for lunch: ‘Sorry I missed lunch have to go to
work see you tonight I’ll be home 9 pm.’
Alejandro walks east on Houston Street crushing the money inside the
envelop, the fruit of four weeks of labor, and feels desecrated. An impulse to
throw the envelop in a garbage can is suppressed when he remembers the night
one of his plays opened and all proceedings from the box office were burned in
an act of defiance to Capitalism in the arts. Some actors complained then and
this time he did not want Elizabeth to do so, it was going to be hard enough to
explain his dismissal. His pace is so slow he becomes an obstacle to people
walking in the same direction. He crosses streets carelessly inciting the ire of
motorists who show him the middle finger, “asshole” and “fuck you.” He arrives
to St. Marks Place, a group of kids sit on the sidewalk just off the news stand on
3rd. Avenue. The leader wears huge blond spikes, tattoos, black cut-off sleeve
t-shirt; he is Sid Vicious. The girls, one with purple highlights and jet-black hair,
another shaved with five or six earrings in each earlobe and the next with black
stockings full of holes, black miniskirt, short hair and a silver stud pierced
tongue is Nancy. They all wear black combat boots and have been camping out
in the East Village all Summer. September is around the corner and these kids
will soon go back home to New Jersey, Connecticut, or California and next time
they come to New York City probably they will be working on Wall Street or
Madison Avenue. A man with a white turban and blond goatee zooms by on a
bicycle riding against traffic. Alejandro follows the turban, it becomes a comet
when seen against the majesty of the red stone of Copper Union Building in the
background. A man with well developed pectorals and biceps comes out of the
news stand; he wears a wife-beater and tight jeans, frowns at the punk kids and
winks an eye to Alejandro, then crosses the street and enters The St. Marks
Baths. The day shift whore that stands at the corner of 10th St. and 3rd. Avenue
comes out of the St. Marks Hotel with a ‘john’ who hurries away, she crosses
the street and passes by Alejandro and the kids. Alejandro follows right behind
her as if letting her guide him home. Once at her corner she leans against the
wall and lights up a cigarette, Alejandro says “hello” and she responds with a
warm “how are you,” he smiles and continues walking; home is just a building
away.
The two locks to the entrance door to their apartment are on; it means no
one is home. He immediately is agitated, insecurity takes him over, he finds
Elizabeth’s note. He wants to believe she went to work but he doubts.
Whenever he doesn’t know where she is; his imagination propels a stampede of
thoughts as if conjured by the Devil himself. He picks up the telephone:
“Chelsea Hotel.”
“Room 1010, please.”
The telephone rings and rings, there is no answer. The concierge comes
back “I believe Mr. Brecht is out of town.”
“Thanks.”
He steps out to the street and walks hurriedly, he sees nobody and
observes nothing, he talks to himself out loud and reaches Billy’s on 6th Avenue.
He has never been inside the topless joint, he made it a point not to go to
whatever club Elizabeth worked but point or rules do not count any more, he
has to find out and goes in.
The dancer on stage is not Elizabeth, he asks the barmaid: “Is Georgia
dancing today?”
“No, she’s not, I think she works Thursdays.”
“Thank you.”
Alejandro leaves Billy’s and wants to go to The Hockey Puck, the other
club in Queens she works. All he knows is it is on Northern Boulevard across
from the cemetery. He runs home and frantically searches for the telephone
number in Elizabeth’s phone book.
‘Is Georgia working today?”
“No, she’s not here.”
“Thank you.” A sudden wind coils in his throat and nostrils, he emits a
chilling howl born deep in his diaphragm. She lied!
She always lied but her lies were inoffensive and funny; now, her lies hurt
all the time. Alejandro paces from room to room, sits down, gets up, paces
again and talks and swears and cries. He gets a black felt pen from his desk
and writes graffiti all over the four walls of the living room. He writes at least ten
times ‘The Fucker Is Back’ and runs out to the street again.
He needs to talk or be with someone. He finds himself in front of OTB on
14th Street and enters the parlor. He trusts and likes horse players. They display
their emotions shamelessly and are firm in their opinions although they are
wrong most of the time. It is a dark Tuesday and the only track available to bet
on is Finger Lakes. Ron, Bob and Steve argue and compare choices for the late
Daily Double, Alejandro jumps into the fray to no avail; his brain is over-heated
and his heart beats so fast he breaths through his mouth at intervals.
The OTB parlor empties, Alejandro is alone again and adrenaline increases
his impulse to run. He crosses Union Square diagonally and jogs north on Park
Avenue to 59th Street and turns left toward 5th Avenue. He is now walking,
taking deep breaths because of fatigue. Central Park is in front of him,
Sherman’s gilded statue, the Plaza Hotel and F.A.O. Schwartz go unnoticed, he
is oblivious to the physical beauty of those landmarks, his eyes only look for a
clock that will tell him how long until 9 pm.
The sun sets and it makes no difference in Manhattan, the city lights and
the interior illumination of sky-scrapers flood into the streets to replace it. It is 8
pm. He heads back home talking loudly to himself. No one pays attention -it is
not an anomaly- this is a city that sometimes makes a person speak loudly to no
one in particular.
This time only one lock is on; she is home. He enters like a bull coming
out of darkness ready to question her whereabouts.
“Alejandro! What are you doing home so early, why did you write on the
walls? What is wrong with you?” She asks; her voice quivering.
“He’s back, isn’t he?”
“Who is back?”
“The Fucker, Frog-face, the man you like to fuck! Did you make love to
him all afternoon, is there anything left for me? Did you get your rocks off?” He
rapid-fires.
“Oh Alejandro you are so crazy! I just came back from work.” She is
chocked up.
“You were not working! I went to Billy’s and called The Hockey Puck, you
were not there!
“I was at a bar in Brooklyn.”
“Show me your cunt! I’m sure it is filled with his dirty come!” Elizabeth
breaks up crying, she falls on her knees.
“Oh God please help me! My agent called me, he asked me to cover for
some one that didn’t show up for work; he offered extra money so I took the
job.” She’s crying uncontrollably.
“Where were you?” His bullying intensifies as he hovers over her.
“I told you, in Brooklyn!” She continues between heavy sobs, “I had a fight
with customers…they wanted me to do really lewd things…they were friends
with the manager and…it got really hot…I thought they were going to hurt me. I
just ran out, I was lucky the subway station is right by the club, I saw a cop and I
stayed next to him until the train came…and then I come home and find this
mess,” a chilling cry erupts, “I can’t take it anymore…I’m about to have a break
down and you are just so crazy! I want to go home!” She falls to the floor.
“This is your home!” he screams.
“No, it’s not my home anymore; it’s hell!”
“I thought you were with him.” He begins to withdraw his bullying.
“I told you I’m not seeing him!”
“Yeah, that’s because he’s not in town.”
“Oh Alejandro, please, stop, please.” She begs of him trying to recover
her composure and calmly goes to the bathroom. She drops three valiums in her
mouth and returns to the living room. Alejandro sits covering his face with both
hands.
“What are you doing in here? Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“I lost my job.”
“Oh no, it can’t be!” News of his dismissal mounts on Elizabeth’s battered
soul like fire on brush.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get another job.” Alejandro tries to embrace her but she
rejects his arms.
With no will to go on, Elizabeth heads to the bedroom and collapses on
the bed, she lays on her stomach, her sobs are almost muted. Alejandro sits by
her; relieved she was not with Stefan, he does not dare to move or touch her for
about ten minutes. He asks if she would like to have dinner but there is no
response, she is knocked out; the valiums have taken their effect. He lays down
by her womb in a fetal position.

Juan Valenzuela is a playwright, theater director and short story writer.  Since 1974 he has worked in the off-off and way-off Broadway arena. His last adventure was as artistic director and manager of The YIPPIE Museum and Café at 9 Bleecker Street. He currently makes his money in the film and TV industry as a background actor and occasional bit parts.

Outside my bedroom, the eerie emptiness feels vast and haunting. Since all the windows face north, and the back of the house is surrounded by high trees, it never gets direct sunlight. Everything is gray. It feels a bit like a black hole, vacuous and suffocating. I think, So this is what it looks like at the start, and quickly turn on all the lights the way I’m used to, before I could feel the fear my mom insisted I would feel being home alone. In the living room, a ceiling lamp that is never turned on stands guard in the center, and four spotlights connected to dimmer switches are always set to low, leaving the room clouded in a warm darkness. Three plump, chocolate couches flank a maroon rug and dark mahogany and granite coffee table. A large TV is mounted above a matching mahogany mantle. It seems to buzz faintly in confused anticipation. In the kitchen, brightness prevails. White tiles sweep through the long expanse. Eight small spotlights mounted into the ceiling are almost always set to high. Old walnut cabinets, now faded to a light mauve surround a formica counter the color of gravel.

I’m hungry and the house smells like nothing. I weigh my options. I could pick something up, or order something in, but I realize that spending my weekdays at an office in New York has spoiled me. I once tried to see if we had Seamless in New Jersey; the answer is yes with an asterisk—Panda Express or Papa John’s abound, our usual small-business haunts like the China Express or Palumbo’s, curiously absent. I stifle a craving for pho or tibs wat, open the fridge. I could throw some turkey on pita or melt a mozzarella stick, and grab some chips, my usual Saturday lunch, but somehow I don’t want to do any of these things. Closing the fridge, I look to the stove, polished, everything neatly in place, untouched for the last week, waffling, and I realize what I’m not smelling.

I don’t remember the last time this stove was off.

My mom started cooking and baking when my grandmother died ten years ago. It started as a way to grieve—day and night in the kitchen kneading dough to replicate Teta’s famous fino recipe, boiling chickpeas for fresh hummus, teaching herself baklava at four in the morning—but quickly became a practicality, a need to feed a family that’s been magically sustained by Teta for years while she worked, and eventually became a passion that would burn your ears off if you made the grave mistake of engaging her in the topic. If I happen to drift through the kitchen while my mom is cooking, it’s like getting pulled into a gravitational orbit. She tells me to stir this, taste that (and adjust accordingly), but mostly she just talks.

“The trick is to put the onions in while the oil is hot. Otherwise they’ll overcook and lose their flavor and texture. But you also have to keep stirring as soon as you drop them. They can burn in a second.”

“An adha is your secret weapon. You can practically grind one up and throw it into any dish.”

“You gotta be really careful with yogurt. It can overflow at any moment. That’s why I use this thing. There’s one in your Hope Chest, so don’t worry. Come here, let me show you how it works.”

“You can’t use fresh bread with fet’te. It’ll just turn into mush. That’s why it’s always a good idea to keep old bread in the freezer.”

I never get to cook. But I guess theoretically I know how.

I open the fridge again, the cabinet with the three rotating tiers of spices, the pantry, and then do it all again. I start pulling out jars, smelling them, laying them out on the counter open, trying to decide which flavors go together. I keep digging, bypassing all the typical spices, the allspice, the 7-spice, the cloves and nutmeg, cardamom and turmeric, past the Italian herbs on the second tier, past the steak and fish seasonings on the third tier, until I find the curry powder and rosemary. One pungent and earthy, one sweet and spicy and layered, neither like anything my mother ever makes, and I’m suddenly sure they’ll work perfectly together. With chicken of course, potatoes, carrots. Peppers? Maybe. Broccoli? No, no. Onions? Of course.

Digging for supplies, I realize that even though I’ve lived in this house for 30 years, I have no idea where anything is. On any other day, the pots are already on the stove, the Pyrex already prepped on the counter to be filled and placed in the oven, the meats already defrosting near the sink. It takes thirty minutes, but I finally manage to gather and prep everything I need. With a large pan on the stove, a mountain of chopped onions laying in wait, and one of my mom’s aprons tied around me, I take a deep breath and click, click, click, set fire to my canvas. I grab the bottle of oil set next to the stove and twirl it over the pan, waiting for the drizzle to come. Nothing. Shit. I look around me for a moment, unsure how to proceed, slightly panicked because the fire is burning—I can feel the heat at my belly button—but stopping doesn’t seem like an option. I study the smaller, matching oil bottle, debating, cringing. Could olive oil work for this? Without a second thought, I grab the smaller bottle and swirl that over my pan to no greater luck. The hell? Finally I concede that the flame must be snookered for the moment. I step back and consider abandoning the entire project, but find myself more annoyed by the prospect of figuring out a home for my onion tower and my microwave-defrosted, cubed chicken breasts. A quick scan of the pantry confirms I have no idea where the large bottles of vegetable and olive oil are stored. And the thought of the fresh hell of a dual-lecture/interrogation I’ll incur if I try to call my mom right now stops me dead in my tracks.

Hovering in the center of a tiled expanse in front of the pantry, the deflowered kitchen to my right, further to my left, past the dark living room, the safe haven of my bedroom where I could go now, close the door, and pretend I’m not in an alternate universe where I’m alone in a giant suburban colonial in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, I study the popcorn ceiling, the dust along the molding above the pantry, the space above the fridge—

Of course.

My oil. An old one liter Coca-Cola bottle, worn and flimsy, a vintage circa 1997 if I’d have guessed by the design on the weathered iconic red label, double-wrapped in dusty black shopping bags so it could safely transport overseas without spilling, filled with oil freshly extracted from the oldest olive tree in the world. It sat above the fridge in that state untouched since the day Maya brought it for me from Palestine, following a rather mysterious text message from a sim card she never told me she’d had during the trip.

+972 59-934-6732

Mon, Jul 10, 4:27 am

you dont need a man to be Palestinian! haha. your gonna love what I brought you though

Every day since, my mother would look at the bottle, probably more angry that it looked so unsanitary in her routinely polished kitchen than that it was being left unused, and would look at me hopefully. Just leave it, I would respond simply, as I made my way to my room to decompress after yet another long day. (The irony is that regularly falling asleep on the bus from New York to New Jersey every night left me more tired than awake.)

        “It can’t just stay there forever,” she’d called to my back one evening, when I’d tried to make a beeline from the garage door straight to my room.

        “It doesn’t go bad though, does it?” I asked, or hoped. I was standing in the middle of the family room, slumped under the weight of my stuffed messenger bag, bladder full, giving my mother leaning against the sink at the far side of the kitchen my most withering look. I could smell spaghetti sauce cooking, the tomato and beef and seasonings wafting across the divide, making me hungry, and could just see from my angle that another pot was already on the stove getting water ready for the spaghetti waiting nearby in a measuring cup. My mom knew not to ask me which noodle I want with bolognese. She turned in my direction, red silicone spoon in hand, her hip latched to the stove, so that our conversation continued across a thirty-foot divide. The bedroom was just ten feet behind me.

        “What,” she scoffed and laughed, “you want me to put it in your Hope Chest?” her sarcasm punctuated by the fact that I actually have one that’s been collecting for years, a closet full of kitchen, bathroom, and some bedroom supplies for the day I finally open a home.

“Maybe!” I answered. It was only half sarcastic. “I’ll use it. I just…want it to be special.”

        “You waiting to cook it for your man?”

        I gave her stink eye and she laughed.

        “Can we at least get it out of the bags?” she called as I turned back to my room, but I didn’t respond. I knew she was already moving on.

Now I study the bottle, standing sentinel, surrounded by a congregation of trays, baskets, and other lesser-used accoutrement. The truth is, the thing makes me just a little angry. The way it stands there, hovering, like it’s mocking me.

Maya and I were supposed to take that trip together. I’d discovered it by happenstance, through a mailing list I didn’t know I’d signed up for. A handful of donations to the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund, and suddenly I had access to insider information. Sitting under a headlamp getting a deep conditioning treatment during my weekly salon trip, sometime last summer, I was skimming through my emails when I saw it, a trip called Know Thy Heritage, which further digging told me was ostensibly and unofficially a version of Palestinian Birthright. I forwarded it to Maya right away and we both agreed that we’d apply. We had no doubt in our minds that this trip would be an exception to the rule that “Our girls don’t sleep outside the home until they’re married.”

Because this was different. This was Palestine. That elusive, faraway place we grow up being told is home. Generations pass without seeing it, but still we say we are Palestinian. Neither of my parents had ever visited the country, my grandparents having fled Jaffa, our hometown, in 1948 during the Nakbe. But when I’m asked where I’m from, what I am, the answer is always the same. I grew up learning about the orange groves that filled the port city, a bustling metropolis of industry and commerce, how you could smell the citrus all around you, even inside the closed doors of your house. How my great-grandfather would come home from work in the afternoons carrying cartons of oranges, and the whole family would feast on the abundance. I knew about the olive trees that lined the mountains, how no matter how proximal the supply—from Lebanon, Jordan—the imported oil would never be as good as Palestinian oil. We watch the news, pay attention to when an intifada happens, or how many children are arrested or killed on a given day, how many homes are stolen; though admittedly, I often repel this information, to the constant agitation of my mother. Palestine would always be ours. So we knew our parents wouldn’t bat an eye at us going there and we were right. If anything, they were jealous.

But then, shortly after putting in my application, I met Mohammed #2. Two months later we were engaged, another two months and we’d started planning our wedding. three months after that it was over before it started. During this time, we got the calls for our interviews; Maya took hers, I waffled. Mohammed didn’t seem to allow for the same exceptions and concessions my parents made. He wanted me to dress more modestly than my parents did. He was visibly uncomfortable when I traveled for work one night to attend a market research session. And even though he was from Palestine, a relatively new immigrant, I sensed he wouldn’t be okay with me traveling without him, even there, especially since the trip was scheduled for after our wedding date. Two months after we broke up, I got laid off from my job, but it was too late. Maya was invited to be a part of Know Thy Heritage. She decided to go without me. I told her I was happy for her.

I peel away the plastic bags to reveal the (also dusty) Coca-Cola bottle underneath. It’s filled almost to the rim with the greenest oil I have ever seen. The oil looks like liquified gold set to the backdrop of a rainforest, shining iridescent under the eight kitchen spotlights. I find a box of wipes under the sink and glide a cold, damp sheet around the bottle in a slow spiral, coming back to the top to scrub the ridges of the cap. Then with washed hands I pull at the seal, listening for the faint fshh of released air and the smell hits me instantly.

Truth be told, until very recently, I hated olive oil. I’m only now starting to tolerate the taste of it, recognizing its appropriate place in mediterranean foods, but rarely do I actually appreciate it. I don’t know if it’s because this bottle came from Home or if it’s because this is one of the nicest things Maya’s ever done for me, or if the oil actually is different, but I am mesmerized. I stick my nose as close to the opening as I can without touching it, contaminating it, and I inhale deeply. An audible groan seems to release directly from my chest, ricocheting against the staticky TV and echoing across the walls of the empty suburban New Jersey colonial.

I close my eyes, and I feel my body fall, as though in a dream, and land with a start on my feet. I am standing in a valley. The sun is high in the sky, its rays falling on my shoulders like a silk cape, sending heat down my spine. Salty sweat beads hang from my lips. Hard sand shifts underfoot and lands in my sandals, exfoliating my skin as I walk through a narrow, winding pathway; sharp yellow burrs, spread among the branches and stems, threaten to make Swiss cheese of my toes. I am flanked on both sides by dusty green foliage—trees and trees and trees sloping down the valley to my right and scaling the mountainside to my left. A fruity smell, earthy and bitter and buttery, wraps around me, making me salivate. Scraggly olive trees with long, skinny leaves and bulbous green marbles canopy us intermittently. Us. I am not alone. Small feet scurry in front of me, as though laying down a path for me to follow, but I am not lost. I’ve taken this path many a time. My heart fills with warmth. I reach an arm out and touch a leaf, feel its velvety texture, then let my fingers graze the branches along the path, like passing through water or wind outside a moving car, as I walk along. We turn a corner and there it is.

I gasp and my eyes fly open. Eight white spotlights blind me as I look upon the familiar shadowed room with the dark couches and the buzzing TV. Salty sweat beads hang from my lips. My heart flutters in my chest, pushing against my rib cage as I stare blankly across the quiet, empty house. The image of that towering, sprawling arbor with its wide-reaching canopy of leaves and glistening bulbs sits just behind my eyes, not like an imagining, but like a memory. What had just flashed through my mind was not the obscure picture Maya tried to show me of the oldest olive tree in the world. It was not anything I’d ever seen before. And yet, it was like I was standing there, right there. But…where?

I look down at the bottle in my hands, sitting on the granite countertop. I sniff the air again, and make a decision.

The chicken is still applicable, though not ideal in this form. The onions, of course. I’ll have to store the potatoes, which’ll be a pain. And the carrots will just have to be my lunch. I tuck the curry and rosemary back in their spots at the back of the third tier, and from the main tier pull down the spices I’ll need for dinner.

I’m going to make maftool.

Maftool is the name of the grain contained in the dish known as Israeli couscous, which is in truth, neither Israeli nor couscous (couscous is the tiny grain found in Moroccan food). In the traditional Palestinian dish of the same name, we take those little balls and cook them down in a hundred spices, letting them simmer over seared chicken that sits at the bottom of a pot, so it absorbs all the naturally-occurring stock. It’s a dish as comforting as it is explosive, so comforting that we grow up being told it’s Arabic macaroni, and we believe it.

The smell of cloves and cardamom and nutmeg and allspice and turmeric and safflower and cumin and cinnamon and paprika surround me like a warm blanket, as I portion out the amount of each I need. I set the maftool to simmer in a pot on a corner eye, until it expands and fluffs up into soft, little puff balls. The fire on the main burner is back on, now under my mom’s largest skillet. I take a breath, lift the Coca-Cola bottle from the counter, careful not to squeeze the flimsy plastic, and slowly tip it over the hot skillet.

A green molten drizzle lands on the black surface with a crackle and steam comes up in curlicues. I take another deep breath through my nose and I swear I see a tree forming in the curls of smoke rising from the pan. Soon the onions are sauteed, the chicken seared, and the boiled maftool settled on top like an upside-down layer cake, all of it cooking down in the spices until the flavor reaches deep, through the bones, and into every molecule in the pot.

Once it’s cooked, I’ll scoop the maftool into a Pyrex pan, laying the chicken pieces on top like a jigsaw puzzle. I can hear my mom saying, “The trick is to pour some of the juice into the pan so it doesn’t dry out in the oven, but make sure you leave some to put on your plate.”

The house doesn’t smell like nothing anymore. Every corner is coated, radiating the most aromatic maftool I’ve ever smelt. And for a moment, the house doesn’t feel scary, my aloneness doesn’t feel scary. I feel… serene.

Tonight, when my parents come home, it’ll feel like I’m serving them, like I’m a real adult.

Siham “Sam” Inshassi is a fiction writer currently finishing her MFA at The New School. Her work focuses on culture and identity politics, both in the home and beyond, tapping into her own identity as a first-generation Palestinian Arab-American Muslim female. She’s a passionate advocate for the Palestinian cause and immigrant and refugee rights. You can find her on Twitter @saminshassi.

The border fence, the Rio Grande (or Río Bravo) and “La Mojada” (by Mark Clark). Seen from Brownsville, Texas. Photograph by Virginia Ramos (Hope Park, 2010-).

He was drunk by late morning, as usual.

Toni watched from the kitchen. She constantly worried about where she would go, where she would live after having spent her whole life caring for that family, cooking for them, cleaning for them, and being the Mexican nanny of the boy kings, man-kings in the Southmost part of Texas. Toni had only been 16 when she decided to cross that big river as a mojada, escaping from her ghosts and from the hopelessness of her homeland. She had given that family the best years of her life.

Now that Los Señores had died, it was only her, her kitchen and that drunken man-king she helped to raise. He was once her consentido, her favorite one, and now he was her only hope. She should have left just after Don Eduardo had died. But Toni had nowhere to go. She couldn’t go back to Mexico and live in the countryside, en el ejido, on the other side. She couldn’t go back to the poverty, the place where her relatives hurt her.

“You’ve ruined my life,” Norma screamed at him. “Look at yourself, you look like a fool. Bobo, pendejo, pinche borracho! I’d rather go back and teach at the community college or at the new “Rio Grande University” and take care of my former students; they need me more than you do: so much potential, so much promise in a place that finally hires bilingual BA’s.”

“I need you mamita,” he said in his usual Spanglish. “No me dejes solo. Te amo, te necesito [Do not leave me alone. I love you, I need you]. Please Mamita, please”. He almost cried, but instead swallowed his drink very fast. “We are made for each other. You know we have good times together. And I’ve been able to hold the liquor better. People hardly notice the drinking. Casi ni se nota!”

Norma shook her head in disbelief. “Don’t notice? Of course they notice. Can’t you tell their disrespect? Their disgust? I think their thoughts for you are beginning to rub off on me. My friends ask me what I’m still doing with you.”

“You could move in with me, Mamita, permanent. Tu y yo juntos, tu y yo aquí. My brothers have their own homes; they don’t need the house; this house is your house, yours and Toni’s house.”

Although blurry, his eyes showed some panic in that once handsome face deteriorated by a life of craziness, unhappiness, and excess. This argument seemed worse than all the others. Mamita was determined to leave this time. He was on his last legs with this woman too: no job, but outstanding tickets for what should have been DUI’s written by those friendly cops for whom his surname went a long way.

Toni loved living in that big house, her home for almost five decades, una hacienda in this little border town near the big river. In the back of the house, a resaca flowed from the river that was connected to the Gulf of Mexico. It was like living in a park, with palm trees all around the place, flocks of noisy and shiny green parrots, and flowers of different colors bursting from bushes all year around. She had been lucky all these years. Al otro lado, things would have been very different, and not in a good way.

Toni had nine sisters and brothers, a stupid mother and a drunken father. She used to take care of her siblings while her older sisters worked as maids with rich families in Matamoros or on the other side—and they sent money, but they never came back. And Toni did the same. But before she left, Toni used to cook for her brothers and sisters, for her drunken father and for her stupid mother. There she became the best cook among the best. There she learned to make tortillas a mano [from scratch], and also enchiladas, burritos, frijoles charros, tamales fronterizos, and also salsas of different types.

Toni remembered the dusty, dry brown scorched earth where she and her siblings were raised. Her parents could barely scratch a living for their big family from that piece of land, unproductive and dry. Her father worked at a ranch part of the year. Her mother spent the whole day raising kids, hauling water to the house, keeping everyone clean. Water there was always hard to find and heavy to carry.

Norma, in exasperation, shot back at him.  “This house? I don’t need to live here. I have money too. My apartment suits me well. It’s a place to escape from you, borracho infeliz. And I’ve stayed with you, supporting you, and seeing you falling at this house. I don’t need you or your house. I’m out of here.”

Toni had nowhere to go. She had no papers, no education certificates, no youth, no pride, and no land. She was old; her energy was spent. She rarely went out except to shop at that small and smelly HEB located in old downtown, where only Mexicans shopped. She had given this family everything. She was entitled to something—at least a nice place to live her remaining years. If Norma didn’t stay here, keep that drunken fool alive, and justify this big house as a home, Toni’s living arrangements would be in jeopardy.

Toni thought about her childhood, or the little childhood she had before she grew up to work and bring the little money from her job as a maid.  She went to school, but didn’t even finish la escuela primaria. Toni vaguely remembered learning about history, but there was a topic she remembered relatively well: the U.S. invasion of Mexico—or when her country lost half of its territory that ended up being gringoland, or part of the United States. Many fronterizos like Toni had learned, since elementary school, that lesson really well. That topic fed her resentment; a resentment against that family, against drunken men, against successful women like Norma, and against the United States. Toni still remembered at times her history textbook that talked about El Coloso del Norte—the country that had to steal and cheat to take more than a half of Mexico’s land. For Mexicans this was an “invasion;” and for los gringos it was a war: the Mexican-American war. With talk of war, los gringos thought they could justify the looting, or a very, very unfair deal to get Mexico’s land.

Toni chuckled to herself with resentment, but the words came out. “This very house and land, once part of Mexico.” She felt entitled to it for that reason too.

“What’s that noise,” he and Norma both asked together.  “Is Toni around?” he asked. “We’d better lower our voices. She lives here too. Let’s have Toni make a good meal for us. We’ll feel better after some food is in our stomachs. Then we can talk about it again later. You know I need you. Mamita, please.”

Sighing, Norma said, “Well, okay. I’ll shower and then let’s eat.”

Toni would cook for Norma to make her stay. Toni began planning the meal, its ingredients and special herbs. Toni wanted to make something that Norma would love. Norma was vegetarian, but loved Toni’s spices, her salsas. Toni would prepare calabacitas rellenas, and enchiladas verdes; no meat, only cheese, salsa roja for calabacitas, salsa verde for enchiladas. This lunch would be especial–pico de gallo, guacamole, frijoles charros and hand-made blue corn tortillas.

Toni’s kitchen was full of jars, with all types of herbs and roots: oregano, ruda, chamomile, eucalypt, cola de caballo, ginger, tomillo, lavender, tila, mate, dandelion, ginkgo biloba, you name it. If someone has a headache or a stomach pain, Toni what to give. And Toni also knew the best herbs and roots for love spells, Eve roots, Adam roots, hibiscus, jalap root, patchouli, rose, rosemary, and toloache.

She kept the toloache hidden. Toni knew toloache could be dangerous: if a person sweats too much, if her heart beats too fast, if she wants to vomit, if she’s dizzy, she’s taken too much.  Toni heard of someone even hallucinating or dying from toloache.

A special meal for Norma, she thought, while she took out the ingredients. Y un ingrediente más, un ingrediente especial.  She opened the magic drawer, singing to herself about the herb to add. “Toloache para Normita, toloache para la Mamacita.” Toloache, the love poison, would make Norma forget, make her love the man, maybe just for a while, but for a while she will not leave. One dose as needed. But this was not the first time.

“Porque el amor cuando no muere mata, porque amores que matan nunca mueren.”  When love does not die it kills, and loves that kills never die, Toni sang. “Toloache can make you love, but Toloache can also kill,” Toni remembered her grandmother’s words.

When the meal was ready, Toni served it, watching as Norma bit into the one of the calabacitas rellenas. Norma smiled.

“We’ll always be together. Don’t worry,” she said to the man.

Guadalupe Correa-Cabrera
Guadalupe Correa-Cabrera (Ph.D. in Political Science, The New School for Social Research) is Associate Professor at the Schar School of Policy and Government, George Mason University. Her areas of expertise are Mexico-US relations, organized crime, immigration, border security, and human trafficking. Her newest book is titled Los Zetas Inc.: Criminal Corporations, Energy, and Civil War in Mexico (University of Texas Press, 2017; Spanish version: Planeta, 2018). She was recently the Principal Investigator of a research grant to study organized crime and trafficking in persons in Central America and along Mexico’s eastern migration routes, supported by the Department of State’s Office to Monitor and Combat Trafficking in Persons. She is now working on a new book project that analyzes the main political, cultural, and ideological aspects of Mexican irregular immigration in the United States and US immigration policy entitled “Illegal Aliens”: The Human Problem of Mexican Undocumented Migration. At the same time, she is co-editing a volume titled North American Borders in Comparative Perspective: Re-Bordering Canada, The United States of America and Mexico in the 21st Century (in contract with University of Arizona Press, forthcoming Spring 2020). Dr. Correa-Cabrera is Past President of the Association for Borderlands Studies (ABS). She is also Global Fellow at the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars and Non-resident Scholar at the Baker Institute’s Mexico Center (Rice University).

Kathleen Staudt
Kathleen (Kathy) Staudt, Professor Emerita, recently retired from the University of Texas at El Paso where she taught courses on borders, women, and politics for forty years and became an adopted fronteriza. Active in social justice community and women’s organizations, her latest of twenty books is Border Politics in a Global Era: Comparative Perspectives.