Laughing Through My Tears

by Mia Soto

  Laughing Through My Tears

  Lovely Latinas, Volume 1

  by

  Mia Soto

  Text copyright © 2012 Mia Soto

  All Rights Reserved

  Smashwords Edition

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  F is for Falafel

  1 medium sweet onion, chopped

  ½ red bell pepper, chopped

  ½ green bell pepper, chopped

  5 cloves garlic, chopped

  1 can chick peas, drained

  1T salt

  1t red chili flakes

  Dash of black pepper

  Handful of fresh chopped parsley

  Small handful of fresh chopped cilantro

  5T flour

  1t baking powder

  1t ground cumin

  Vegetable oil

  1 egg

  Pita bread

  Olive oil

  Salt and pepper

  In a large food processor, pulse the chick peas, onion, pepper, garlic, red chili flakes, ground cumin, the egg, salt and black pepper to a chunky, coarse consistency (not pureed!). Add the baking soda, 3 tablespoons of the flour, parsley, and cilantro. Pulse until mixture starts pulling from the sides of the food processor. Add flour up to 5 tablespoons until the mixture is firm enough to handle with your hands.

  Chill for an hour or more. In the meantime make your tzatziki sauce and pita bread. See below for tzatziki. For pita, brush generously with olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste. Bake in a 350 degree oven for about 10 minutes or until toasted.

  Tzatziki

  1 c up of Greek yogurt

  ½ a cucumber, seeded, grated, squeezed dry

  ½ a lemon juiced and zested

  2T of red wine vinegar

  1T finely chopped mint leaves

  Salt and pepper

  2t of finely chopped parsley

  1 large garlic peg finely chopped

  Mix it up!

  Now, for the falafel, using two teaspoons make oblong balls and line on a baking sheet or drop directly into hot vegetable oil to fry until brown on both sides. If you opt for the healthier baking, bake at 425 for about 8 minutes per side or until brown on each side. Drain either on paper towels. Enjoy!

  Florida and traffic are bitter lovers. Traffic is the gospel of Florida. There’s no way around it. People keep moving down here. The sunshine, the lack of state tax, the cheap living - what’s not to love down here? The general lack of oversight and upward mobility brings the absolute worse to the area - carpet baggers and scum. I guess I’m part of the former group. I didn’t grow up here though. I’m from another part of the South. I tried to run away from it all but it sucked me right back in.

  Like any good teenager, I thumbed my nose at my sorry hometown and high tailed it as far away as possible for college. Like any good young adult, I came back to leech away the rest of my parents funds and sanity until I had earned a tenth tier Masters from an eleventh tier college. I lived with my mom while doing my second tour of duty in college. Mom and I together are like nitro glycerin: volatile, dangerous and in need of supervision. I don’t know what I was thinking. Once armed with my useless degrees, I headed to the Big Apple. I was going to take my bite out of the world. I’ve spent a lifetime thinking I was destined for greater things than I actually was. Some days I’m wistful for that idiot who headed off to New York to compete with the Wartons and HBSes of the world. She really thought she was just as good.

  Not today, today I’m stuck in traffic, again, wondering what life would be like as a bartender in Cayman. I still get those ridiculous daydreams even if they are totally un-actionable at this point in my life. I’m on my way to Chevtastic. Can’t believe someone would name a subdivision Chevtastic? Believe it, and it’s not the only of its kind. Florida is notorious for huge, homogenous housing developments. They are filled with plastic look alike homes and plastic look alike people. Everyone who comes to Florida is running from a past that isn’t as pristine as they might let you believe at first. Chevtastic has some prestige because it is one of the first of its kind.

  I’m a personal chef, which sounds a whole lot more romantic at first than it does three years into it. I was running away from my craptastic tour de force in finance and thought I’d explore my creative side. I couldn’t cook, other than one or two dishes. Somehow, I sold myself as the next Emeril. Luckily, I knew enough bull talk from my time in New York that the local yokels of Tampa were easily impressed. When my food wasn’t all that I’d tap danced, I just said something like, “well, Cindy Adams, you know the Post’s gossip columnist, loved it.” That was all they needed. None of them figured out they were running around naked without the new clothes I promised. By the time some of them did, I had figured out how to cook. I mean it isn’t rocket science. Now, it’s become a means to an end in the graveyard of my second Florida experience.

  “Hey, I’m here,” I shout into the speaker at the gate because it doesn’t work very well. Marsha responds, but it sounds like static and UFO signals so I just drive through the opening gates. The first few times I cooked for the Banks I drove right by their home. I didn’t miss the home because it was demure. I’ve been working for them for almost two years, and I’m not sure I’ve seen all the rooms. I missed it because it looks like every other home on the block – just like every other home on the block. I once suggested they tie a fluorescent string around their mailbox, and they almost fired me. So I’ve kept my smart ass comments to myself since then, some of the time.

  “You’re late.” Marsha is waiting for me as I unload my car. She has nothing better to do with her time so she’s always here when I cook. She talks the entire time. It’s exhausting really.

  “I don’t have a set time, Marsha.” I don’t. I come when I can get here. I try to get here between twelve and one. I add, “You could help, you know?”

  She looks appalled. “I just had my nails done!” Marsha would never do what she perceives to be the help’s job.

  We’re in the kitchen, and I’m sweating from hauling groceries in the middle of August in Florida. Whoever crossed the border to this state did so between the months of January and March. By the time weather reality set in, they had already built their log cabin and just didn’t have the ambition to move. I’m chopping vegetables while she sips a mineral water at the massive center island.

  “Sean is such an ass.” Marsha is complaining. She’s good at this. “He flushed my two carrot diamond stud down the toilet.” Not sure how big Marsha’s rocks are? Don’t worry. Marsha will declare their size, usually within moments of meeting, and she’s got some big ones.

  “Wow that sucks.” I’m still chopping and wondering if they want me at the church today. I cook for the fathers at a local catholic church. It’s in South Tampa where I live. If they need me then I’m going to have to haul boogie to finish up here in time.

  “I know. We’re going to a gala at the zoo tonight. The mayor is holding it.” She waits a few moments for me to be impressed. I raise my eyebrows hoping that’s enough for her today. It is. “They are going to award Sean with a humanitarian award.”

  Now I do look up. Sean? Humanitarian award? The stunned, “really,” just slips out from me. This is a man who equates social service with rolling down his Hummer windows to taunt the local beggars with talk that they should get a job and stop living off of
his tax dollars. And that’s on a mild day.

  “Yes,” she hisses defensively. “He’s a very caring person.”

  “I know. I can tell.” I don’t look up to see her angry glare. I’m the cook. I see her on the days when she can’t leave the house because of how caring he is. The first time I saw it I tried to help. I kept trying to help until I realized the only person who needed help was me. They are fine with the set up. As long as she gets lots and lots of things, and he gets to pretend he isn’t a complete monster, then alls well, as they say.

  I see Sean pull up in his Escalade. If ever there is a family that proves you have to be a little barrio to drive one of those things, it’s this one. They came into their money by way of professional sports. Sean is an ex-mediocre baseball player. Even mediocre ballplayers make bank. The car is shaking with the booming bass. He smiles at me from the car, and I offer up an empty wave of my hand. I’m in no mood for Sean today. Sean has been trying to get into my pants since day one. Marsha knows it. Sean will bed anything that gives him a howdie do. Marsha knows it. I don’t do married men. That’s all just a little too Lifetime Movie for me. I think it’s why Marsha likes me.

  “Girls,” Sean is beaming his smile for the general gathering, but his eyes are on my butt. I’m wearing a jean skirt that fits nicely over my J-Lo asset, and he clearly likes it.

  “Looking good, Jalapeño.” I won’t explain the nickname. I think you get it. “What’s the good word?”

  “I was just telling Margo about tonight,” Marsha smiles at him. It’s a genuine smile, but there’s always a little fear in her eyes when he’s around. “I wish I had my earrings to wear. They’re so simple they’d go perfect with my dress.”

  His head snaps over to her and then to me and then back to her. We both realize at the same time that crazy Sean has just arrived. “You told her about that?”

  The flint of fear burning low in her eyes flares. Her voice is unsure. “We were gabbing. You know Margo. She doesn’t talk to anyone.”

  “Come with me.” He grabs a fistful of her hair and drags her off the stool. She cries out in pain.

  “Let her go Sean. It’s not a big deal. It was an accident right?” I may have given up trying to get this gold digging idiot to leave her money train, but I’m not about to let the beatings go down while I’m here. At least, I’m not about to let them happen with out putting up a fight. I’m always getting involved where I shouldn’t.

  “Stay out of this,” Sean warns, thinking his crazy routine will work with me.

  “If you touch her while I’m here I will call the police.” I’m speaking with a whole lot more bravado than I feel. Marsha looks stunned and is shaking her head at me trying to will me to shut up. Too late lady, your nut bag husband chose a bad day to take me on.

  He drops Marsha by the door he has been trying to haul her through and starts walking over to me with a low, ominous voice. “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m just telling you what I will do.” Dammit, my voice is shaking, dammit. He smiles realizing I’m not as tough or as brave as I’m letting on.

  He reaches out and pulls me over by the nape of my neck. His fingers are biting into my flesh, and his lips with a hint of scotch lingering are only breaths away from mine. “You’ve got some spunk, Jalapeño. I like it.”

  He tries to force his mouth on mine in a rather shocking turn of events. I knee him hard, and he doubles over. Years of bullying and winning have left him smug and cocksure that there won’t be a fight on the receiving end. He groans in pain. I scramble away, but he grabs for my legs, and I trip. My eye catches the corner of the granite counter which is, thankfully, rounded. It hurts enough as it is. I see stars, millions upon millions of stars. We are both on the ground writhing in pain. Marsha is stunned and crying.

  I struggle to my feet, grab my purse and leave with my hand over my eye. They can keep my things. As far as I’m concerned, they have just received my letter of resignation.

  “Wait, Margo, don’t go.” Marsha is waving me down as I sit in my car admiring my swelling eye. They must have regrouped and are now trying to mend bridges. I’m not in a forgiving kind of mood so I put it into reverse and screech away. Good luck lady. Good riddance psycho.

  *****

  I’m driving again because that’s what we do around here when my phone rings. It’s Iris the maid from the church.

  “Oye mulatta.” I have no idea why she calls me mulatta, but it doesn’t bother me.

  “Di me,” I say as I floor the pedal. Letting out steam with irresponsible driving was a whole lot more fun when I wasn’t driving an SUV.

  “Dey don’ need ju tonight,” she says in her thick accent. Iris has been in the country from Dominican for almost thirty years and can speak English about as well as I can speak Spanish. This isn’t saying very much.

  “Of course.” It’s going to be that kind of day. I work on a contract basis at the church so if I don’t cook I don’t get paid. “Well I guess I’ll see you Monday.” I also don’t cook for them over the weekend.

  “Si mi hija. Buen fin de semana, amor. Besos”

  “Tambien.” I disconnect. She refuses to speak English to me. She’s appalled that my parents are from Belize and none of their three kids can negotiate their way out of a Cuban restaurant - not even if our lives depended on it. It’s that whole immigrants not wanting to appear like immigrants thing. Or something like that, who knows? Seems I have the afternoon off so I dial Mom.

  “Hey Mom, how’s it going?” I can hear banging in the back ground.

  “Oh fine, how are you?”

  “I just quit Marsha and the church doesn’t need me. I was hoping to run before I come over.” There is a long pause.

  “You quit,” she asks. “Oh, Marga. You can’t see anything through. You need the money. I can’t give you any.”

  “Have I asked you for one penny Mom?” This is my mom. She has money, plenty of it. We grew up in a privileged home that many Americans only dream about, and no it didn’t come from drug dealing. She’s from a small island off the coast of Belize. Her family made a pretty nice fortune fishing the waters dry. The money rolled in like refried beans on tortillas. Then the seas dried up, and the government stepped in. The woman has money. Not that I’m asking for any of it. “I’m going running. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “Ok. Oh you know, Marga, you’ll never believe who called today! Jan-Jan. She’s getting married.” This is my mom. Mom can always put aside her biting criticism long enough for some family gossip, always.

  “Again,” I say as I swerve to avoid oncoming traffic.

  “Yes, she said to invite you. She didn’t send you an invitation because she didn’t have your address.” That’s how it works in the Latin crowd. A verbal invite is as good as the real deal.

  “Ok, well I’ll look at it tonight. Talk to you later.” She hangs up. Mom doesn’t believe in saying good bye. I don’t know why. I dial Camilo.

  “Run?” I make a few crazy turns and end up headed towards the bay.

  “Naked?” I can almost see him saying this as he lounges on his art deco couch in front of his movie screen sized TV.

  “I’m going on Bayshore. I’ll be clothed. You’re free to come however you want.” I hear him laugh.

  “When?”

  “Half hour?” I’m trying to reach my ipod which just fell over onto the passenger well. I don’t know why I have some of these songs programmed in. I can’t drive to bad music.

  “See you there, gorgeous.”

  Half hour later I’m on Bayshore stretching and waiting for him. On the day of my wedding anniversary I can think of no better person to celebrate with than the first guy I no holds barred screwed after the divorce. I’d use a nicer word, but there just isn’t one that better describes what we did that day. I was running, and he came up next to me and started talking. I don’t talk while I run. I just run. When he couldn’t drag a conversation out of me, he kept pace. I could tell he was humoring m
e and that he could run faster and longer than I could at the time so I finally stopped.

  “What do you want?” I snapped. Running is my de stress moment. It’s the pain in my side takes the pain in my life away time.

  “I want to know your name.” He was smiling and barely flushed with his hands on his narrow hips.

  “I’m running.” I looked like a beet. I was still really out of shape.

  “I know,” he said.

  He has that great, thick, sexy, Spanish accent. He is pure Colombiano: blond hair, hazel eyes, hot body, tall. For all of my dysfunctional need to deny my heritage and hide behind my few gringa features, I have a thing for the Latinos. And this one was well worth it. We ran forever that day. I was sick by the time we came back over from Davis Island. He rubbed my back as I bent over trying to control my breath and remember my name.

  “If you run like that every day, you will be in shape soon,” he said trying to encourage me.

  “I don’t have time to run like that every day.” I stood up and started to walk away, but he stopped me by the hand.

  “I live right there.” He pointed at a high rise of luxury apartments. It was one of the city’s nicest. “Let’s have some…water.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. He was so transparent, but I went anyway. I love them Latin, and he proved to me why that day. I couldn’t have hand picked a better man to move on from my ex with. He did things to me I’d only read about. And I let him. He was all hombre in bed. He drove, and I went along for the ride. After eight years of fumbling and generally bad sex, it was a well needed reward for the pain of divorce.

  It took me a long time to understand why American men don’t dance, and why they hide behind adolescent hazing whenever they are approached with an offer to do so. And the lesson all boiled down to that one three hour tutorial by Camilo. After that day, we’ve only been running partners and little more. He keeps trying, but I have things in my life that make a mindless dalliance with Camilo off limits. And that is all he and I would ever be, mindless, mind blowing sex.