The Dirty Girls Social Club

by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez

  I concentrate on a rack of compact discs by the door. Boston Pops appears more than once. Chuck once told me, in all seriousness, that Keith Lockhart, the conductor of the Boston Pops, was the most famous celebrity in town. I smiled and nodded because to remind him of all the athletes and pop musicians seemed a waste of time. He wouldn’t have understood. When Kurt Cobain stuffed a rifle in his mouth and went bang, Chuck asked someone who that guy was only after he saw an article in the Washington Post. Every time a new intern comes, Chuck tries to rope them into doing a story that doesn’t exist, about a group of young women called LUGs, which, Chuck swears, stands for Lesbians Until Graduation; it’s an idea that makes Chuck’s undies wet, and so he can’t quite give up on the story, which he saw in Details magazine once and so believes to be true, even though every reporter who has ever gone after it for him has come back with the same news: no such thing as LUGs.

  It wasn’t until Keith Lockhart (who, incidentally, somewhat resembles Chuck Spring and his wife) dressed in leather pants on the cover for his too-late Latin album that Chuck found out who Ricky Martin was. Now he goes around, years too late, singing “Livin’ la Vida Loca,” only he can’t say “vida” and he can’t say “loca,” so he ends up singing “Livin’ Evita Loqua.”

  Chuck has stopped laughing and now he is saying “uh-huh” a million times in a row, and nodding furiously, even though no one can see him but me, and I am trying hard not to. He’s not an appetizing sight.

  I turn around, unsure whether to stay or to go, and take a few paces back from the door. I examine the fax machine outside. I greet the secretary. I suck my upper lip. I whistle.

  I glance over at the table where the co-op students from Emerson College and Northeastern University sit. They are supposed to be sorting mail and taking transcriptions, but mostly it appears that they are making long-distance personal phone calls on the unlimited Gazette dime. The one with the pierced nose and long skirt shouts at the phone and says the same thing over and over. Then she motions for me to come over. I oblige, because there is nothing else to do. Chuck, meanwhile, has begun snort-laughing again. His legs are bouncy as little rubber bands.

  “You’re Nicole Garcia, right?” the co-op asks me.

  “No, I’m Lauren Fernández,” I say. It is the millionth time someone in the building has mistaken me for the only other Hispanic female to work here, an obese, middle-aged food writer who comes in only at night to scribble about broccoli rabe and walnuts, leaving a trail of gourmet potato chip crumbs to the parking lot when she leaves.

  “Sorry,” the co-op says, blushing. “But you speak Spanish, right?” she asks.

  I nod, but feel guilty. It’s not exactly a lie, is it?

  I take the receiver and when I put my ear to it all I can hear are the outside sounds of cars honking.

  “Boston Gazette,” I bark.

  “Us, jes, to Lauren Fernández por please.”

  “Yo soy Lauren,” I say, letting him know he’s found the woman he seeks. Tenth grade, Mr. James, Spanish 2, first floor, Benjamin Franklin School, Carrollton Street, near the crescent turn to Saint Charles. Yo soy, tu eres, él es, ella es, nosotros somos, ellos son. Walking to Burger King after school with Benji and Sandi for french fries, taking the streetcar to the Esprit outlet, spending all our baby-sitting money on plastic purses and canvas shoes. Walking down to Jax and getting fudge, looking out at the river, flirting with the Creole boys in the rugby shirts because they were hotties. Yo soy, tu eres, él es … What was that other one? Vosotros? Do people use that word anymore?

  The person on the other end starts to scream at me in fast Spanish. I can’t catch much, but I get the impression they didn’t like a column I did about sexist behavior at the Puerto Rican Day Parade.

  “Write a letter to the editor,” I say.

  I look around, and there’s Chuck. He has hung up his phone and is annoyed that I am not sitting in the hard wooden chair across from his desk, awaiting his sage advice on all things journalistic.

  He flutters in his khaki pants and suspenders to the doorway to his office. Suspenders, ladies and gentlemen. He makes a jerky, nervous motion to let me know I should not be on the phone at the co-op desk.

  “Be right there,” I sing out, smiling. I apologize to the caller and hang up.

  I return the phone to the astonished co-ops, and move toward Chuck, who greets me by stuffing his busy hands deep in his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “What the heck were you doing over there? Talking to Castro?”

  I should laugh, but I don’t. I used to try to laugh at Chuck’s jokes, but it always sounded so forced that he would just look sort of hurt. Finally, I stopped trying, partly because it wasn’t worth the eye wrinkles.

  “Have a seat,” he says. The glass coffee table between my seat and the expansive desk is littered with fashion magazines. A copy of the New York Times sits in one corner, the Washington Post on the other. This is the second-rate newspaper editor’s secret to trend coverage: read other papers and magazines and if they’re saying it’s hot, it’s hot. And you must use that exact word, “hot.”

  I notice that underneath a stack of papers on Chuck’s desk is a Playboy magazine. Actually, several copies. Several Playboys. Damp and wavy on the sides like they’ve been dipped in … I don’t want to know.

  “Uh, Chuck,” I say, staring. Pointing. He gets even more nervous than before, laughs, and stirs things around on the desk with his frantic hands.

  “Oh, that. Just left over from Bob’s story on that big hulking wrestler from Framingham who was in Playboy. That’s nothing. The others, those are from Jake’s story on Nancy Sinatra that time in Playboy. You know. Just leftovers. I was curious after reading the story, er, I mean, do you think those pictures are real? A lady her age? I mean, my God. She’s probably older than my wife!”

  I cross one leg over the other, and think about all of the buttery things in the windows of the Kenneth Cole store. I lace my fingers together and notice my nail tips have grown out and look cheesy and chipped. Note to self: Make manicure appointment. I take a deep breath and lift myself higher in the chair, try to look natural.

  “So, how are you? You happy?” he asks. It’s not so much a question as an instruction. I better be happy. Everyone in Chuck’s world is happy. Smile through the indigestion of life, sweeties, drink champagne and drive a foreign car.

  Chuck nods and says that’s good. We stare at each other for a moment with nothing to say. I do believe he hates me. Then he puts his loafered feet back up on the desktop and plants his hands behind his head. Despite the creases at the edges of his eyes, he still looks fresh out of a tennis club somewhere.

  “I need to ask you about something,” he says. It is the usual prelude to the psycho-spiritual flogging I am regularly subjected to here. My neck starts to hurt. Then my head. Then my left eye.

  He continues, “I’ve been getting a lot of letters and calls about that last column you did, the one on your musician friend and the Indians and genocide and all that … stuff.”

  “And?”

  “I want to talk to you as a friend here, not as your editor.”

  Uh-oh.

  “You’re a good writer, a strong writer. That’s why you’re here.”

  “But …?”

  “But sometimes I think your opinions are a little too strong and they get in the way of whatever point you’re trying to prove.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t think what happened in New England or Mexico was exactly genocide. The Holocaust in Germany was genocide. Lots of the Indians died because they hadn’t been exposed to white man’s diseases before. It wasn’t intentional.”

  I think about answering, but decide against it. Smile, smile, smile.

  “You put people on the defensive by attacking them all the time. You come across too opinionated.”

  “I’m a columnist. I’m supposed to be opinionated.”

  “Sure, but you undermine your arguments by coming out so …
combative.”

  I’m Cuban trailer trash. What do you want from me?

  “I understand. It won’t happen again.”

  “Everyone just thinks you’re too angry. They feel like you’re preaching all the time.”

  “Okay, well thanks for telling me,” I say with a forced smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” New shoes. New comforter. Breathe.

  “It’s a good idea to run your ideas past a few people before you pursue them, so you don’t write anything daffy again. We were talking in the morning meeting about it, and most of the editors think it’s a good idea for you to focus more on your life and less on politics and history and that sort of thing. No one wants to see you self-destruct here.”

  That sort of thing? I nod. “Point taken. I appreciate it.”

  “Good. You know, the columns you write that people like the best are those ‘hey girlfriend’ kind of things.” He actually tries to snap his finger in front of his face like a character from a black sitcom on the WB.

  “Anything else?”

  “Just a couple things. You okay with all this? You look upset.”

  “I’m fine. No, really. I am.”

  “We on the same page?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good. Say, have you met that new editor, over in Health/Science?”

  I nod. I know who he means. That black editor, that’s what he means. Black female editor. He assumes we’ll have much in common.

  “Have you seen the car she drives?” he asks in a conspiratorial whisper. He actually puts one hand to the side of his mouth, the way they do when whispering in cartoons.

  I have, indeed, seen her car. It’s a green Mercedes. She also dresses well and sometimes wears hats. She’s from Atlanta.

  “How do you think a woman like that can afford a car like that?” he hisses. Chuck senses something in my body language or facial expression, perhaps, and retracts, somewhat. “I’m not saying, I mean, you know, those people have just as much right as anyone else to buy as nice a car as they want …”

  “Of course,” I say.

  Chuck changes the subject.

  “So tell me about this Dominico thing,” he says. He flips through a Vanity Fair magazine as he speaks. The rest of his body language tells me already that he’s not interested. He is interested in breast implants, sex scandals, and, well, that’s about it.

  “Well, here’s the deal,” I begin. I place one hand on each of the armrests, and it’s a conscious gesture because my inclination in all of these meetings is to curl up in a ball and hide. I explain the issue. “Puerto Ricans and Dominicans have a lot in common. They’re both from Caribbean, Spanish-speaking lands, they have similar cuisine, a lot of the same values. But there’s this Balkan-like hatred one group has for the other.”

  “They’re from the same kind of country. Why do they hate each other?”

  I pause. Do I dare correct him? Must. Do. It. “Puerto Rico’s not a country.” I smile, try not to seem “combative” or “daffy.”

  He rolls his eyes and nods fast, as if he can’t be bothered right now with petty details, flips faster through the magazine. “You know what I mean. You’re getting into that political territory again. We don’t want that.”

  “I know, I know, but that’s a big part of the reason they hate each other. They’re both here in Boston in huge numbers, fighting in many cases for the same low-paying jobs, living in the same neighborhoods. Because they’re American by birth, Puerto Ricans get government assistance, Dominicans don’t. Dominicans have legal immigration issues, Puerto Ricans don’t.”

  He looks up, confused. “Why wouldn’t Puerto Ricans have immigration issues?”

  “Are you serious?” I ask.

  “This is what I’m talking about, Fernández. You just get on these weird tangents that only make sense to you.”

  “Because they’re American by birth, Chuck. Puerto Rico is a United States territory.” They don’t teach that at Harvard?

  “So they can just come here? That’s not true, is it?” He looks unsteady, nauseated.

  “They’re born here. They don’t come anywhere. That’s what territory means. They’re as American as you are, except we don’t let them vote in presidential elections unless they live on the mainland.”

  “Oh. Really? That can’t be right.”

  “It’s true.” Don’t sigh, Lauren, don’t roll your eyes. Smile, sister, smile.

  He shrugs as if he still doesn’t quite believe me, and says, “Go on. But I’ll tell you right now I still think it’s not personal enough. I want people in your column, flesh and blood people that real people can relate to.”

  “Okay. So Dominicans have their stereotypes about Puerto Ricans, like that they’re lazy or the women are too independent, and vice versa. Puerto Ricans have their stereotypes that Dominicans are all drug dealers or overly macho.”

  Chuck is nodding furiously in his discombobulated way, waiting for me to finish. I wonder to myself what it would be like to someday have an editor who actually would not, upon seeing me, begin to whistle the jingle from the Chi-Chi’s restaurant commercial.

  I do my best to explain it all.

  Chuck makes the “just smelled a fart and I’m a toddler” face. This is too complicated for him. He doesn’t like the idea. “I don’t think to the average reader there’s any difference between Dominicos or Porta Ricans. If they don’t get what you’re saying in the first graph, Lauren, they’re not going to read on. This is a newspaper, not a textbook. Give them real girls with real problems. This is Lifestyles, not Metro.”

  “Puerto Ricans and Dominicans will get it,” I say. “If you care. If this paper cares.” Why did you say that? Bad Lauren, combative Lauren. Slap, slap.

  “Don’t start with that again. We already talked about this. Your column should be fun, light, accessible. It’s meant as a syncopated counterbalance to all the dreary stuff in the rest of the paper. No politics. Okay?”

  “Sure, okay.”

  A co-op peeks her head in the door and tells Chuck that his wife is on line four. In one gesture he lifts the phone, presses line four, and continues talking to me, waving one hand about as if conducting a symphony. “Something light, something fun. You know, ‘you go girl,’ sassy. Entertaining. Hi, honey?”

  He swivels his chair until his back is to me. And with that, I am dismissed.

  … Consider today’s column a shout-out to all the lazy boyfriends out there, girlfriends. Guys, you’ve got less than a month to get your girl something perfect for Valentine’s Day; and please, don’t do flowers or chocolate—again. While you’re out there shopping, here’s a little something to think about. Saint Valentine was a Roman priest who, in spite of a decree from Emperor Claudius II to refrain from allowing soldiers to marry, continued to conduct weddings. Ah, the power of love! And as a reminder to all you ladies who might, upon receiving a box of dimestore chocolates from a dashing Casanova, consider doing the deed: Valentine was sainted for standing up for the glory of commitment.

  Don’t give it up unless he plans to stick around.

  —from “My Life,” by Lauren Fernández

  usnavys

  LAST YEAR, JUAN took me to San Diego for Valentine’s Day. We got to visit Amber in Los Angeles and see that bleak little hole where she lives with that freaky Mexican rat man, but that was the only highlight of the trip. I hinted then that I expected him to take me somewhere better next time, so this year he arranged a European trip. He said he wanted to take me to Rome, the birthplace of Valentine’s Day. We leave today.

  When I pick Juan up at his apartment, he looks shocked to see all the bags I’m taking. That’s how small he thinks. It makes me crazy, ay, m’ija. I’m serious. I’m only bringing two large apparel cases—Vuitton—one small suitcase for handbags, gloves, scarves, and shoes, a makeup box, a carry-on, my travel purse, a Kate Spade tote with plenty of room for my bottled water, magazines, CDs, and snacks. “We’re only going for a long weekend,” he says. “Do yo
u have to bring all that?”

  Yes, I wanted to say, but a long weekend in Rome. It’s supposed to be a Valentine’s gift, but it was too expensive, he says, to actually go to Rome on Valentine’s Day. Plus, he wants to be around for the rehab center’s Valentine’s dance. So we’re celebrating in early January. Tacky, no? But that’s how it always is with Juan. I just rolled my eyes under my Oliver Peoples sunglasses and didn’t say anything because I told myself (and Lauren) that I’d be nice to Juan this time. Lauren reminded me that Juan saved his pennies for a long time to get this for me, and I should appreciate it, as she said, on a percentage scale. The percentage of Juan’s income it takes to get us to Rome for four days is big. I get it. I get it. I get it that he’s broke. Just kidding! God, you take everything too serious sometimes, m’ija. If I really cared how much money Juan made I wouldn’t be here at all. To be honest with you, I love this man. I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone in all my life. That’s what’s so scary.

  I don’t even want to tell you what Juan brought. One small green plastic suitcase, Samsonite, with a big gash in the side. I was mortified. Mortified. He wanted to pick me up in his loud Volkswagen Rabbit, the one without heat, with the crusty windshield wiper blades that smear everything up and paper coffee cups all over the floor. I was, like, uh-uh, no way. I may act ghetto, but I ain’t that ghetto.

  I picked him up in my BMW, which didn’t really seem right to me, under the circumstances. But I’m being nice, remember? And he was there, waiting outside on the street with that sad little luggage and his hair parted in the middle and those JCPenney shoes he thinks are “nice.” Oh. My. God.

  Juan’s good-looking until he tries to look good, if that makes sense. His hair, when he leaves it alone, curls up and looks attractive in a mad scientist way. His beard looks attractive if he lets it go for a couple of days. He almost looks like his hero, Che Guevara. His black-framed glasses—which I picked out for him, thank you very much—make him look smart and interesting. But when he thinks he has to make an effort to look presentable, it screws everything up for him. He slicks his hair down like a third grade boy, shaves his beard so you can see his weak chin. And all those cuts he gets from the razor? The nene never did learn to shave. He wears contact lenses that irritate his eyes so he ends up looking like he’s been crying or drinking all day. He wears polyester “slacks” he thinks look nice instead of the jeans and sweatshirts he’s comfortable in. I’m not telling you anything I haven’t already told him. But does he listen? No. But don’t get me wrong. I think he’s incredibly handsome, m’ija. He rocks my boat. I just wish he had more money. Is that a crime?