Identity Interrupted
Copyright © 2021 by Meriam Rodriguez
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and book reviews. For more information, email:
Making Vintage Press
[email protected]
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021907802
ISBN: 978-0-578-88798-2
Anniversary paperback edition June 2021
Book design by Meriam Rodriguez
Cover Image by Paulina Barasch
ISBN: 978-0-578-88798-2 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-0-578-88799-9 (ebook)
www.meriamrodriguez.com
This is dedicated to the lovers that have lost themselves while trying to be loved.
Inspired by true events.
PARTY GIRL
The planet must be off-axis again. It’s the only logical explanation that pops into mind while resurrecting from the dead and falling through a vertigo spiral – too many tequila shots last night. I reach over for my cell phone to see what time it is, but it’s not on the nightstand. And the spin in my brain isn’t allowing me to send out a search party for it.
My mother, a short bulldog of a woman, is yelling at my father downstairs. There’s a rage that dwells in her bones, causing her to spontaneously combust daily. This current aggression taken out on my dad is because I came home at 6 a.m. It’s a chaotic symphony of racked dishes, cabinets getting slammed, and weighted footsteps pacing back and forth below my room. By the time she makes it to my door, the storm is full speed.
“You can’t keep living in my house like this!” she yells.
The vibration of her words puts pressure on my brain as the need to learn my limit screeches in with a hangover. I can tell by the beads of sweat forming on the tip of my nose, the flush in my fingertips, and the vertigo I mentioned earlier. Mami is now a blurred figure in the corner judging me.
I have some job interviews lined up for today. The first one started a few minutes ago. It doesn’t look like I’ll be making the others either, not the way I’m feeling.
Ugh! I promise never to drink again if you take this feeling away, I proclaim to the hangover gods.
My prayer goes unanswered. The alcohol sitting in my stomach is now making its way back up. Within seconds, I’m purging the spirits and memories of a night I can hardly remember. Shit. I can’t think of anything after that fifth shot, which was around midnight. What happened after that?
My legs are unsteady as I wash my face and brush out the stale taste in my mouth. Mami takes my efforts as an opportunity to continue her rant.
“What you did this morning has to stop. You’re an adult now,” she says.
“This is what people my age do, ma!” I protest, knowing damn well I’ve been overdoing it since becoming single again.
“They also work and pay bills.”
“Can we please not do this right now? I don’t feel good.”
“Of course, you don’t feel good. ¡Si estaba más borracha que el Diablo!” she declares.
“Drunker than the devil” is her way of making me feel sinful when I drink too much. When she wants to put me down for smoking weed, she’ll call me a tecata. She just doesn’t get it. My mother was never a party girl. Her judgment of me comes from the fact that the wildest she ever got were wine coolers and drag races back in the day.
“All I’m saying is you better find a job and move out soon.”
“Okay, ma. Fine. Please stop,” I beg, my legs still wobbly.
Reading the expression on her face tells me there’s more to say, but she retreats to the kitchen. Her voice bears calmer energy as I hear her venting to my aunt on the phone. Titi Chachi, her best audience, is always interested in hearing about my most recent offenses. They usually spend hours on the phone talking about family bochinche with my name in heavy rotation.
Titi calls me later in the day.
“Hi, twisted!” (Her term of endearment for my sexual preference.) “Are you still feeling sick?”
She then patronizes me for stressing my mother out. The intention is always hard to decipher between random jokes. I can never tell if she’s serious or not.
“Why do you keep partying so much? You know your mother is a loca.” she continues. “Besides, you can’t find a husband if you’re always on the streets.”
“I think that’s actually how a lot of women find their husbands, Titi.” I snap back.
These talks lead to taboo remarks and questions about lesbian sex. Her lack of a filter makes it easy to express myself freely until she starts talking about what she would do with a hot actor from a novela or some cute doctor she met. Once the jokes get too dirty, I check out.
“All right, it was good talking to you.”
She laughs at me.
“Too much?”
“Definitely too much. I love you, Titi. Bendición.”
“Que Dios te bendiga. Bye.”
Despite being angry at me, Mami makes a big pot of sancocho. This chunky stew is well known in the Latino community to be a cure-all, especially for my current state. After getting seconds, I feel like a brand-new person, and so does my mother. Her fury has eased as we all lounge in the sala with warm bellies and Monday night football. No matter how much trouble I get into or how many arguments we have, it’s never long before my parents are spoiling me again.
Home is a small house in the South Bronx that they bought ten years ago through a local church’s affordable housing program. They’re not religious by any means. Mami is always daring God to come down himself if he has a problem with her ways. I usually take a few steps back when she does this, in case she gets struck by lightning. I know that’s fucked up, but you don’t test boundaries with the big guy like that.
My parents have been together since Papi returned from the Vietnam War. When I asked him to tell me their love story, he threw out a dad joke of her following him home one day, not the fairytale I was hoping to hear. Romantic or not, they’ve been married for thirty years, and it somehow works. You might even say they’re living the American Dream, but I use their marriage as a marker for what I don’t want in a relationship.
My older brother, Kelvin Jr., has just gotten back from serving boot camp in the Marines. It was his dream since he was a little boy in the cadets. Once he was there, though, he hated it.
“The drill instructors are pricks,” he told us the night he came back.
I think the real reason was that he missed his girlfriend, Vero.
My younger sister, Winnie, is “kid goals.” Her teachers love her, and she never gives my parents any trouble. Her favorite pastime is re-enacting dance scenes from classic films. The most practiced one being the iconic jump in Dirty Dancing. It includes Winnie using the coffee table as a dance partner. She gets just enough momentum to catch the perfect slide across the top and holds the pose.
Then there’s me. No matter what my mother tells you, I am a constant delight. Yeah, sure, growing up, my teachers always complained about me, but that was because I was in a Catholic school that expected us to be robots. One teacher told me my charm would buy me fifteen minutes, and I was doomed after that. She was a nun, but they can be assholes, too. I personally think they should be allowed to have sex, so their frustrations don’t get taken out on students. Despite all of this, I turned out okay.
If it wasn’t for my mother, we’d be living in a suburban town in Jersey somewhere. Papi didn’t want to raise us in the Bronx. It
was her that found out about the program and convinced him to stay close to our grandmothers.
Mamá, my maternal grandmother, lives ten minutes away, behind Yankee Stadium. Abuela, my paternal grandmother, lives twenty minutes away in Washington Heights.
We’re close enough if either of them needs my parents. Papi agreed, and it was a done deal. My parents are “ride or die” like that with each other and everyone else. You can call them with an emergency any hour of the day, and they’ll drop what they’re doing to get to you.
Growing up, we’d all get packed in the car for spontaneous visits to Titi Chachi in Connecticut and help her with things around the house. They would also lend the family car to neighbors and wire money to family in Puerto Rico, even when they struggled. Mami is a magician at balancing the budget on my father’s sole income. The agreement between them was always straightforward; he earns the money, and she holds down the fort. Like I said, they make it work.
When we first moved here, I remember being intimidated by the tall buildings that surrounded our little cluster of cookie-cutter houses. I never knew what projects were until then. For some reason, I don’t remember seeing any when we lived up by Fordham Road. These massive housing complexes didn’t exist in the small towns of Connecticut that we were shipped off to every summer, either. They’re aggressive, towering over us like bullies. This house looks extra tiny in comparison, but it’s home, our home.
I didn’t get much done today, but tomorrow I’ll find a job and become a productive member of society. For months now, I have spent most of my nights at clubs, drinking and dancing until dawn. Papi being the bankroll to my party girl ways.
“Don’t tell your mother,” he always whispers to me.
“I won’t, I promise.”
Then a pinky swear to make it official.
There’s nothing more transcendent than being on a dance floor full of sexy people, feeling ourselves while letting the music take us away.
The abandonment.
The sweat and grinding.
Bodies bouncing to the beat.
I love this city’s club scene. It’s my favorite escape, but the real world is calling, and asking Papi for money is getting old. Quick. I feel ashamed every time I come to him, but all that matters in those moments is getting to the party.
After accepting the loss of my phone, I remember that I’m still clueless about what trouble last night brought us. It started with a pre-game at Sammy’s – that’s my best friend, my closest confidant, and the funniest person I know. She doesn’t fall into our society’s standard of “good looking,” but I swear she can have anyone with her charm and sense of humor. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Sometimes, she even outshines me when flirting with girls, but I feel like a proud poppa seeing her in action.
Everything started with a bottle of Jose Cuervo before heading out to our favorite club, Krash. A bottle of tequila goes a long way when you don’t have a job and are trying to save money on drinks. By the time we left, things were already pretty blurry. Hopefully, Sammy remembers what happened. Either way, it’s time to get my life together. Tomorrow will be another day of arguments if I’m not out looking for work.
A sudden urge to create a plan of action baits me back to my room. Down the Craigslist rabbit hole, I go. Uninspired, my search leads me to other job forums, boards, and sites that come to mind. I don’t meet the qualifications for most of them asking for some experience or a degree.
I then pull out a copy of the Village Voice from my backpack. The Voice is a free newspaper that has everything you can think of in it. Men seeking women, men seeking men, weight loss programs, HIV testing, and ways to explore all types of fantasies. Everything weird, fun, lucrative, and dangerous in this city has six degrees of separation to these pages, from concerts to sex workers, to how and where to donate your eggs for $8,000. I thought about doing this once, but they only wanted White and Asian donors. I wonder if it’s because these two demographics tend to be in higher income and performance brackets or because Hispanics and Blacks don’t have those traits that society idolizes. Diabetes in my family would’ve canceled me out, anyway, so it was a short trip down that road.
I keep reading my options:
GUITAR LESSONS
Maybe I can be a rock star! Wait, I don’t like leather pants or eyeliner. And I can’t play an instrument or sing for the life of me. Next.
WORK FROM HOME STUFFING ENVELOPES
No, thank you! Paper cuts hurt like hell.
BIKE MESSENGERS
I write down the contact information for five messenger listings.
WAITRESS NEEDED - WILL TRAIN
I’m not crazy about this section, but I write down a few places that sound cool. The pages that follow catch my interest, even though it’s not quite what I’m looking to do. They include ads for everything you can think of for swingers, voyeurs, Trans women, chicks with dicks, Gals Next Door, big booty-little boobs, vice-versa, a gay male dating site, something called Putas Pussy Village, and “real women from Europe.” There are pictures of unreasonably gorgeous-looking people attached to each listing. I wonder how many of them have workers that really look this hot, now hyper-aware that my curiosity has officially triggered.
The next page has smaller boxes that look similar to the classifieds, except these are for jobs in the sex industry.
EXOTIC DANCERS AND SEXY BARTENDERS
FOR STRIP CLUBS
Another box is hiring for Shiatsu and Swedish massages. Hmm, I bet happy endings are included.
I shake my head, unamused with my frat-boy humor. Then a cryptic entry catches my attention:
TLC ROLEPLAY & FANTASY
Contact Becca @ 212-555-3842
(Btwn 11AM-6PM)
The force is strong with this one. It makes me linger. I’m not sure if it’s the words “roleplay & fantasy” or because it’s so vague, but reading them excites me.
What is this?
I peel myself away and read some others that are just weird and turn the page. The monthly horoscope is way off and has nothing to do with my current life – something about the coldest winters serving a higher purpose.
Ambition doesn’t spark when your career options are bike messenger or waitress. Tomorrow is going to be a depressing day, but it’s officially time to get back into the rat race.
JOB HUNTING
The pillow shields my face from jagged barbs of sun breaking through the curtains. There’s a silence assuring me that everyone is gone for the day. Getting out of bed is more of a challenge with all of this quiet solitude.
Naturally, I end up in Papi’s garden in the backyard. His small storage shed is the perfect place to hide away and smoke the good earth... God’s Lettuce. Followed by meditation until the growl in my tummy sets me off-kilter for some munchies. A bowl of colorful marshmallow cereal satisfies the need for a sugar rush.
Whoever said potheads are lazy should do a study on me. Once I get that feeling of excitement in the pit of my stomach, I’m ready to make some calls. With the house phone in hand, I focus on my list. A couple of rings later, a man with a raspy smoker’s voice picks up, then goes into a full coughing attack. He sounds like he’s choking. I feel like I should do or say something to help, then consider hanging up but choose patience instead and wait. He finally clears his throat, drinks something, then tries to speak normally. I can tell the itch is still tickling his throat.
“Sorry ‘bout that. Jaguar Courier, how can I help you?”
“Hi, yes. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. What can I do for you?” the man replies with an attitude. His misery crackles through the phone.
“I’m calling about the ad for bike messengers.”
He starts coughing again, but this time it doesn’t last as long.
“Do you have any experience?”
“No, but I do have a
general knowledge of the city.”
“Okay, what avenue divides east from west?”
“East from west? Um, Broadway?”
I’m not one hundred percent sure, but it sounds about right.
“No, 5th Avenue. Where does Madison Avenue begin and end?” he tries again.
I take a long pause, trying to buy myself some time. I have no idea what the answer is. I’m clearly not doing well here.
Think. Madison Avenue…
“Starts at 14th Street and ends at 138th?” I ask, guessing.
“Wrong. It starts at 23rd Street and ends at 138th. Sorry kid, two out of three gets you into the office for an interview. Study a map and call back when you think you’ve got it.”
“Thank y--”
He hangs up mid-sentence. So much for Jaguar Courier.
I get a similar response on the next call.
“Some experience necessary, hon’.”
There are still others to call, but rejection sucks, so I save face and move on. Twice in less than a couple of minutes is good enough for today. Looking back at my list, all the waitress positions are in-person interviews. Serving food is the last job I want. The moment I have some entitled brat talking down to me, I’ll be flicking pennies at them.
Okay, relax and think about it. It’s your best option for a quick hire and fast money. You could be working by tomorrow. My pep talk works until the roleplay and fantasy ad comes to mind again. It’s currently 10:18 a.m., and they said to call between 11 a.m. and 6 p.m.
The thought lingers as I get dressed.
My outfit consists of the only skirt in my closet, paired with a white button-down shirt. Mami made me buy it last month for my cousin Maddie’s birthday party. Her exact demand was, “I want you to look like a girl for once.” Of course, Papi defended me, and it broke into an all-out war.
Guess who won?
It doesn’t matter because I eventually wore the damn skirt to keep the peace between them.
My hair gets tied back into a high ponytail. A classic, professional look, I think to myself. Yeah, professional. For waitressing and maybe a “roleplay & fantasy” job. I search the newspaper for that little square and take down the name and phone number. When I call, a girl named Ana answers.
Identity Interrupted Page 1