Izzy As Is

by Tracie Banister

  “Sounds promising. So, tell me everything that happened between you two, starting with how you met.”

  I fill Topaz in on my meet-cute with Eduardo over the world’s biggest flan, then impress her with the story of how I masterfully manipulated him into giving me a ride home.

  “I should note that his car is a fire engine red Ferrari that is crazy hot, like seriously, you can feel the engine’s speed and power vibrating through your entire body while the car’s in motion and it’s almost orgasm-inducing. As soon as we left his parents’ place, Eduardo asked if I’d be up for going to a club and listening to some music. I suggested La Fiebre in Little Havana, so that’s where we went. The joint was jumpin’, and we had a blast drinking mojitos and salsa dancing the night away (he’s got great rhythm, by the way, which bodes well for his skills in the bedroom). We closed the place down at three a.m., then he took me back to South Beach. We grabbed some fish tacos at Bodega and just hung out and talked for a few hours. By the time they kicked us out, the sun was coming up, so we went for a walk on the beach.”

  “A walk on the beach at sunrise?” Topaz sighs moonily. “Were you holding hands? And did he whisper sweet, Spanish nothings in your ear?”

  “I don’t know. I guess. It wasn’t all sappy and gross like you’re making it sound, though.”

  “It’s not sappy; it’s romantic!”

  “Same difference,” I say dismissively.

  “Ugh, you’re hopeless!”

  “No, I’m pragmatic. You should try it some time, then maybe you wouldn’t keep falling for every loser who tells you your eyes look like puddles of chocolate.”

  “Puddles? That’s not what Kai said in that beautiful poem he wrote for me! He said my eyes were like pools of melted dark chocolate and he wanted to submerge himself in their sweetness.” She sighs again.

  “Was that before or after he forged your name on a check from a client, then cashed it and spent all the money on a month’s supply of Platinum Kush, which you came home to find him smoking with a couple of stoner skanks who were blowing him?”

  “Okay, so maybe our relationship didn’t end well . . .”

  “You cried for two weeks straight! Nacho and I had to pulverize a handful of Lexapro and mix it in with your herbal tea to get you out of bed. And the minute we left you alone, you shaved your head!”

  “Kai was really into my ‘fro, so getting rid of it made sense at the time.”

  “No, it didn’t. You were just doing stupid shit because you were in pain. And why was that?”

  “Because I was in love,” she offers weakly.

  “And what do I always say about love?”

  “It gets you nowhere, but that’s not entirely true. Love can take you to Happy Town when you find the right person.”

  “I can get to Happy Town just as easily by riding the F-train, and I don’t need ‘the right person’ for that, any guy with a working fun-stick will do.”

  “You can’t just leave emotions out of the equation forever, Izzy. I think love’s going to sneak up on you one day and knock you flat.”

  I snort with amusement at the thought. “Yeah, right, me getting all googly-eyed over a guy. That’ll be the day.”

  There’s a knock at my door, which gives me pause because I’m not expecting anybody. I hope it’s not Mrs. Gilchrist with a pamphlet on that singles group at her church she’s always trying to get me to join because its members are “wholesome, young people with good values.” I’m pretty sure she thinks those dweebs can cure me of my sinful ways, but it’s more likely that I’d corrupt the lot of them.

  “Can you hold on a sec?” I ask Topaz. “There’s someone at my door.”

  “No prob.”

  I pad over to the door on bare feet, kicking some discarded pieces of clothing out of the way as I go. I really need to straight up around here . . . one of these days. When I unlock the front door and fling it open, I find a gangly teenaged boy with a bad case of pizza face on my stoop.

  “What can I do you for?”

  He doesn’t respond; he just stares at me, bug-eyed, with his mouth hanging open, which clues me in to the fact that my teal kimono is gaping open in the front and I’m not wearing anything underneath so there’s a lot of boobage on display, probably more than this kid’s ever seen outside of a contraband issue of Playboy.

  I pull the edges of the satiny fabric together so that the girls are better covered, then snap my fingers in front of the boy’s face, saying, “Hello?”

  Startled out of his breast-triggered fugue state, he stutters, “S-s-s-sorry. Are you Isidora Alvarez?”

  “The one and only.”

  “A customer paid me a hundred bucks to deliver this to you.” He proffers a hot pink gift bag with some haphazardly arranged orange tissue paper sticking out of its top.

  “You work at Publix?” I query as I take the bag. That’s the grocery store a few blocks from my house, and I recognize the green polo shirt/black pants combo he’s wearing as being the uniform of the bag boys there.

  “That’s right. I’ve seen you there. You always buy margarita mix and tortilla chips.”

  “Uh huh . . .” I’m peeking in the bag, trying to determine what it contains other than tissue paper, but the contents must be buried at the bottom because I can’t see a thing. I need to get inside and rip this puppy apart. “Well, thanks for this.” I raise the bag in the air. “Since you already got a hundred bucks and a peep show out of the deal, I’m not going to tip you. See you ‘round the produce aisle.” Taking a few steps back into the foyer, I push the door closed.

  Bringing the phone back up to my ear, I inquire, “Did you hear that?”

  “Yep. Your rich, new boyfriend sent you a gift.”

  “I have to give him points for resourcefulness since a grocery store is one of the few places that’s open this early on a Sunday morning.” I set the bag down on the coffee table in the living room.

  “So, what’s in the bag? I’m dying here!”

  “Relax, woman. All will be revealed in good time. I’m going to put you on speakerphone so that I can use both hands.”

  “Okay . . .” I reach down into the bag and my fingers touch something cold and a little wet. “ . . . the first item is some Häagen-Dazs passion fruit ice cream. The mojitos we drank at the club last night were passion fruit, so I guess this is a reference to that.”

  “Love it! What else?”

  I stick my hand back in the bag and extract . . . “A CD by Los Amantes Latinos. That was the band playing at La Fiebre. I really liked their music! I don’t know when Eduardo had a chance to buy this for me. He must have done it when I went to the bathroom because my bladder was about to explode from all the mojitos.”

  “Very thoughtful of him!”

  “Let me see what else . . .” I return to the bag once again, and my fingers land on something glass. “Huh, it’s a candle in a jar,” I report after pulling the object out.

  “What’s the scent?”

  I turn the candle around so that I can read the label. “Beach Walk.” I remove its lid, which makes a loud, suction-releasing pop, and take a whiff. “Smells wonderful, like the ocean and something citrus-y.”

  I root around in the bag some more. “I think that’s it,” I declare when I don’t feel any other items.

  “There’s no card?”

  Turning the bag upside down, I give it a good shake and a business card with some writing on the back falls down onto the table. “There’s a note.” I pick it up and read aloud, ‘Isidora, looking forward to making more memories with you tonight. Besos, Eduardo.’”

  “I know you’re not going to do it, so I will.” Topaz warns me before she lets out a high-pitched squeal. “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod! This guy is too much—so thoughtful, so generous, so romantic—”

  “Do you want to date him?” I deadpan.

  “I would if he weren’t already totally smitten with you. Aren’t you just a little bit flattered that he went to so much troubl
e to let you know he had an amazing time last night and was thinking about you?”

  “I do appreciate the gesture, because it tells me that I’ve got Eduardo firmly on the hook and now I just need to reel him in sloooowly, which is what you do with a big fish.” I know this because my father is an aficionado of marlin-fishing, and he can wax rhapsodic about the process of catching them for hours on end.

  “I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just compare this incredible guy who ticks all your boxes to a large, scaly sea creature.”

  “Hey, if the dorsal fin fits . . .,” I trail off, smirking.

  “Like I said, you’re hopeless. Eduardo mentioned seeing you again tonight. What’s on tap?”

  “Dinner at Artisan at seven. He has to make an early night of it because tomorrow is his first day as COO of Sandoval Spirits.”

  “Artisan—wow! I heard that the entrées start at forty dollars there.”

  “I know. It’s very posh and exclusive. I don’t know how Eduardo’s going to get us a reservation on the day of, but he told me that he knew somebody who knew somebody and not to worry about it.”

  “This man just gets dreamier by the minute!”

  “Speaking of dreams, I need to hit the hay and get my ten hours of beauty sleep so that I’ll look my best for my date tonight. So, I’ll say, ‘Adiós.’”

  “Later. And just so you know, I’m positively emerald with envy.”

  “As you should be,” I say with a chortle, then disconnect the call.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Try Paquito’s guava barbeque chicken wings! They’re sweet and spicy, just like me!”

  Helping myself to one of the sauce-slathered wings on the platter I’m holding, I take a bite, then lick the messy remnants from my lips and fingers in a manner that’s borderline pornographic. Of course, my little show attracts every male eyeball in the immediate vicinity, and soon I’m descended upon by at least a dozen of the testosterone-driven creatures.

  “One each, fellas! Don’t be greedy,” I say as hairy hands start snatching the wings. “If you like what you’ve tasted, you can get a basket of ten for just $9.99 right here.” I jerk a thumb at the booth behind me where there’s already a sizable line thanks to my very effective advertising.

  Leering at me, a bushy-bearded man with tattoo sleeves asks, “Will you feed them to me, darlin’?”

  “They don’t pay me enough for that,” I retort, then turn on the five-inch cork heel of my wedge sandal and stroll over to the booth where Paquito and two girls clad in cropped yellow T-shirts decorated with the restaurant’s logo are dishing out wings. I’ve got on a midriff-baring yellow tee too, but mine has HOT!!! with flames shooting out of the letters emblazoned across my chest and WINGS on the back.

  “I need more samples,” I tell Paquito when he glances over at me, frowning because God forbid I should abandon my wing-pimping post for two seconds. “That last group wiped me out.”

  He redirects his attention to the customers while I surreptitiously sneak a look at my cell phone. Ugh! Only 8:45. So, I’m not even halfway through my four-hour shift at this wingding. Ha! See what I did there? It’s an event that I’m pushing chicken wings at, so it’s a wingding. I really am too clever, not that anyone around here would appreciate my sophisticated wordplay. They’re all too smashed. This is Miami’s Eighth Annual Brew at the Zoo, after all, where over a hundred different beer-makers pass out free samples to rowdy partiers while live music is played and food vendors like Paquito hawk (ha—another bird pun! I am on a roll!) their wares so that folks can have something to put in their bellies besides alcohol.

  I’ve never been much of a beer drinker myself, preferring fruity cocktails or the occasional glass of wine, so the sour, yeasty smell that’s filling the air and wafting off everyone’s breath is kind of nauseating to me, especially since it’s such a humid night (May in Miami—whatcha gonna do?) and everyone’s schvitzing as my agent, Marty, would say, which means there’s a lot of B.O. mixed in with the aroma of beer.

  Speaking of Marty, I may very well kill him the next time I see him. He acted like this gig with Paquito was going to be an easy two hundred and fifty bucks. “Just stand in front of the booth, stick your chest out, and make people want to buy wings,” he said. It sounded like a decent promo modeling job, but it’s ended up being the demeaning equivalent of waitressing at Hooters (my worst nightmare!) except I get ass grabs instead of tips. Not that I can blame these drunk losers for wanting to touch the merchandise since my curve-ilicious backside is looking even more tempting than usual in these distressed denim cut-offs I’m wearing.

  I return to my post with a fresh pile of chicken wings and a big (fake) smile plastered on my face. That smile doesn’t last long as I’m soon approached by two dude-bros in the standard uniform of their kind (cargo shorts, flip-flops, and sports-themed tees—NASCAR and the Dolphins), with plastic cups of foamy beer in each hand.

  “These lip-smacking good guava barbeque chicken wings will make those beers taste even better. Try one.” I offer them the platter.

  The guy to my left drains one of his beers, tosses the cup over his shoulder (litterbug alert!), then grabs a wing. He makes quick work of it with his front teeth, rotating the bone while devouring the meat like a beaver whittling down a tree trunk.

  “Ooooo-weeee!” he exclaims, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth rather than taking a cocktail napkin from the stack in the middle of the platter. “That sauce has got a kick to it.”

  “Too hot for you to handle, huh?” his friend baits him.

  “I’m not the one who cried big baby tears when he bit into a poblano the other day.”

  “It burned my tongue!”

  “Said the girly man.”

  “You’re the girly man; you listen to K-pop!”

  “Which is awesome unlike that twangy country shit you’re always playing!”

  They’re almost nose-to-nose now, breathing heavily and glaring at each other.

  “Good grief. Just make out already!” I say in exasperation.

  Whipping their heads to the side, they both stare at me goggle-eyed. “We’re not gay!” the dude-bros protest in unison.

  “Could have fooled me. Lots of sexual tension here.” I wave my free hand in front of them. “Why don’t you buy some hot wings and talk about it?”

  Looking dumbfounded, they tromp off to join the line for Paquito’s.

  “That was an interesting sales technique,” Zane says, with an amused smile as he walks up to me, with Topaz and Nacho in tow.

  “I just call ‘em like I see ‘em,” I counter sassily.

  “I was picking up homo emissions from them, too,” our group expert on gay chimes in, “but they were in deep denial, like twenty thousand leagues under the sea deep. P.S. I am loving this whole trailer park trash look on you. You are working those denim cut-offs, girl. They should start calling them Izzy Alvarezes instead of Daisy Dukes.”

  “Yeah, I need to get a picture of you in this get-up.” Z pulls out his iPhone.

  “Me, too!” Topaz raises her cell. “I’ll Facebook and Instagram the pic and tag you, Iz.”

  “No!” I shriek, holding my hand up in front of my face.

  Nacho’s threaded eyebrow lifts questioningly. “Since when don’t you like having your picture taken?”

  I peek through my fingers to make sure there are no longer any camera phones trained on me before lowering my hand and replying, “Since I don’t want Eduardo to know I’m model-slumming it.”

  My boyfriend of three weeks might be under the mistaken impression that my career is going well and when I tell him I’m “working,” that means I’m doing a photo shoot or walking a runway. And I’d like him to keep right on thinking I’m in-demand and killing it professionally as that’s part of my allure. If he were to find out that I’m not getting the good modeling jobs anymore and I’ve been reduced to flaunting my assets in order to sell bar food at what is essentially a large-scale kegger, he might sta
rt wondering if I’m a gold digger, which I suppose I am technically, but I don’t want Eduardo to view me as such.

  “You think he’d have a problem with this?” Topaz twirls her finger around, indicating the party-hearty event we’re at.

  Before I can answer, a blitzed reveler stumbles into Nacho, sloshing his drink on the latter’s linen shirt and knocking them both off-balance. Z has to reach out a hand to steady them both. “Sssssorry, man,” the drunkard slurs his apology, then staggers away.

  “Good thing I didn’t really like this shirt,” Nacho says, reaching for a cocktail napkin so that he can mop up some of the spill, which reminds me that I’m supposed to be working, not socializing.

  Shoving the platter at my friends, I say, “Take a wing, you guys. I don’t want Paquito to give me any grief about not doing the job he’s paying me for.” I swear I can feel that slave driver’s eyes burning a hole right through the extra-small T-shirt on my back.

  “Yummy,” Topaz murmurs approvingly after sampling her chicken wing.

  “So, what’s this crap about you worrying your boyfriend wouldn’t approve of you working at Brew at the Zoo? You’ve never cared what anyone thought of you or what you did before.” Z eyes me with either concern or suspicion, I’m not sure which, but his third degree about my relationship with Eduardo makes me feel squirmy and defensive.

  “That’s because I’ve never dated anyone whose opinion actually mattered to me before. Eduardo’s put me on a pedestal, where I’d like to stay. He’s always dated women who were beautiful, classy, and successful.”

  “Well, you got one out of three,” Nacho says, with a smirk.

  “Screw you, Queer Eye!” I bite back. “I can be classy.”

  “You shouldn’t have to pretend you’re something you’re not for a guy, Iz. You’re making an honest buck here, and there’s nothing wrong with that.” Zane tosses his wing bone and napkin in the closest trash can.

  I really don’t want to argue the point with him since he’s not fully aware of what’s going on. I am playing in the big leagues with Eduardo and I have to do everything I can to make him think I’m his ideal mate. If that means embellishing the truth or being vague about what my modeling jobs entail, so be it.