My tiny bedroom, which could easily double as a closet, was cloaked in near darkness with only a swath of light from the sorry excuse of a window over my nightstand filtering in. Slowly, the room started to come into focus. And as always, the first thing I really paid attention to was the beat up poster on the wall of “The Kiss by the Hôtel de Ville.”
There was something dream-like about the very famous photograph that pulled me in every time I looked at it. Something special about the couple that were oblivious to the streets full of Parisians as they shared an intimate moment that was captured for all eternity on film. I stared for what felt like the millionth time at the way the woman's head tilted to the left so that her lover could press his lips to hers ever so gently. Or the way he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into him without missing a step. And every morning, for the few blissful minutes that I had to myself, before the chaos of my day got to be so overwhelming that sometimes I barely remembered my own name, I believed that somewhere out there, there was someone just like that man for me. Someone who would not give a damn about where we were and kiss me like it was the only thing he ever wanted to do. Sometimes I would imagine that this mystery man's kiss could stop time, even if for a few precious seconds.
But then I would remember that I was in my crappy apartment in Queens and I didn't have time to date, much less daydream about dating.
“Whatever,” I mumbled and kicked my legs out from under the covers in disgust. Quiet disgust since I couldn't make any noise this early. My little brother Eddie was sleeping in his room across the hall and didn't have to get up for school for another two hours. And our grandmother, who was finally getting over the hump of the worst cold ever, was right next door to my room. At almost seventy-seven years old, she needed the rest more than me.
After I rushed through getting dressed for my shift at the coffeehouse, which started in a little less than an hour, I quietly made my way out of my room and then tip-toed down the hallway to the small kitchen. In the dark, I started prepping the coffee machine so I could make a to-go cup of extra-extra strength coffee.
While I waited for it to finish brewing, I heard the door open from the hallway and then the familiar shuffle of my grandmother's old as dirt slippers getting closer. She turned on the light to the kitchen as I turned around to face her.
“Mija, siéntate y te haré un poco de desayuno antes de irte.”
“Thanks, abuela, but I don't have time to sit down and for you to make me breakfast. I have to leave for work soon.” She ignored my protest and instead opened up the refrigerator.
“You should eat something, mija.” She pulled out a carton of eggs and then added, “It's too long of a day for you to not eat breakfast.”
“Abuela, that's where the coffee comes in,” I said this to her as I was tapping the lever that dispensed the freshly brewed full-of-caffeine goodness into my giant sized travel mug. “All the major food groups are represented right here.”
“No seas tonta, Daphne,” she said and then clucked her tongue at me.
I smiled at her admonishment. “I'm not being silly, abuela. I just don't have time to eat. You know I have to leave in...” I glanced at the clock on the microwave behind me. “In ten minutes.”
“It will take me less than five minutes to make you some eggs that are full of protein and good for you instead of that garbage you're drinking.” She shuffled all of her four-foot tall self over to the oven. “And it will take you five minutes to eat it. Sit down.”
I knew better than to keep arguing with her. So I sat down at the makeshift dining table that was really a card table with legs as rattily and unstable as a newborn calf.
“How are you feeling?” I asked her as the smell of the sizzling butter on the frying pan wafted its way over to me. My stomach grumbled in response.
“Mija, a little cold isn't going to kill me. I've had worse,” she said and went on with her cooking. “I'm more worried about you. What time did you come home last night?”
She gave me a once over with her eyes narrowed as she beat the eggs into submission. I knew that look. It was the one that screamed, don’t you dare lie to me.
“Around one...I think.” My grandmother made a noise of disapproval. “I got some good stuff though. I just need to splice it all together for the next episode I want up by the end of the week.”
“Cariño, tómalo con calma.”
“I am taking it easy, abuela. But I have a deadline to stick to, you know?”
“Sí, I know, Daphne. You still can maybe take it a little easy for your abuela, okay?”
She was already putting the plate of scrambled eggs with a slice of buttered toast in front of me. I tucked right in. As much as it made me feel guilty having my grandmother make me a plate of food, I wasn't stupid enough to ever turn it down. Because whatever she cooked was not only made with love, but also always delicious.
I had been living with my maternal grandmother since the day I was born. My mother wasn't ever that great at being a mom, so my abuela stepped in and had been taking care of me since I can remember. When I was ten years old, my mother died after complications from the birth of my little brother, Eduardo. My dad, who was barely around to begin with, split for good right after that. I have very little memories of my mom and even less of my dad. I don't feel sorry for myself or anything like that, because my grandmother has gone above and beyond the call of duty fulfilling the role of both parents, and I adored her. She has not only instilled in me a work ethic that most people my age wouldn't understand, but she's always been my biggest supporter and cheerleader.
Born in Cuba, my grandmother immigrated to the United States with her parents in the early fifties, when she was barely a teenager herself. The first boy she ever kissed on her eighteenth birthday would be the man she would eventually marry. And nine months after saying “I do,” she gave birth to her only child, a daughter, and my mother. My grandfather died from a heart attack before I was ever in the picture. My abuela never remarried; never even glanced at another man after he was gone. She was too busy working two, sometimes three jobs so that she could support my little brother and me. Taking a break or relaxing wasn’t something she ever did. But it all caught up to her eventually, because right as I was set to graduate high school, she suffered a minor stroke. Luckily, she recovered, but it was enough to change the course of all of our lives forever. I put aside my dreams of being the first one in our family to go to college and instead started working to support our little family. At first, my grandmother was against it. But with her health on the decline, it really was the only option so that we could keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.
Nowadays, I'm the one leaving before dawn to work the early shift at a hipster-ish coffeehouse that my best friend Derek owns called Perkatory and is only a few blocks from our apartment. Around ten o'clock in the morning, my shift ends and I come home to check on my abuela for an early lunch. Then, on every day, other than Sundays and Thursdays, I take a subway…or two, to Macy's in Mid-town Manhattan where I work in the cosmetics department until closing.
Am I always tired?
Sure, but this was my normal and all I’ve known for so long that I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I had actual free-time. And complaining about it would be a waste of time because who the hell would listen to me? Plus, I was too freaking busy to complain.
“I wish that I could help, mija,” my grandmother said suddenly. “I feel so useless to you and your brother.”
“Abuela, you are not useless. You worked like a dog for as long as I can remember. It’s your turn to take it easy and my turn to take care of you and Eddie.”
As soon as my baby brother’s name was mentioned, my grandmother crossed herself and then kissed her fingers. “Your brother, mija, he’s going to send me to the grave earlier than I planned.”
“What did he do this time?” I asked, just before I took my last bite of toast. She was reaching for my plate, but I was fas
ter and headed for the sink to wash it myself. “Do I need to have another talk with Eddie?”
My brother Eddie was now going to be the first Rodriguez in our family to go to college in the fall. He was an amazing artist. The kid was so talented that sometimes I couldn’t believe half the stuff he created with his hands. Whether it was a pencil drawing or a painting, there was no doubt that Eddie had inherited some freak artist gene that came from somewhere in our blood line we still hadn’t been able to figure out. But, he was also prone to being an asshole, as baby brothers usually were. And being an asshole to me was one thing…I was a big girl, and I could take it. Being an asshole to our grandmother? Hell to the no!
My grandmother shuffled over to sink where I was hand drying my plate. She nervously looked towards the hallway to make sure my brother’s door was still closed before she ratted him out. “No, no, no, it’s not like that, Daphne. You know how he spends too much time with that boy from down the street and it worries me a little bit.”
“God, I hate that kid! He’s such a little prick.”
My grandmother lightly smacked me on the back of my head. “Watch your mouth, young lady.”
“Sorry, abuela.” I rubbed the back of my head with a smile. “But it’s true. That kid, Joey is a p—” I caught myself before I cursed again. “I mean a jerk.”
Joey, the prick around the corner, was a couple of years older than Eddie. He had dropped out of high school and devoted himself to being a juvenile delinquent on a full-time basis. He had been arrested a couple of times, according to neighborhood gossip for who knows what. And he had a complete and utter lack of respect for anyone and anything. I wasn’t sure when and how Eddie started hanging out with him, but I was tired of it. Eddie had always been a straight-A student, very outgoing and friendly, and helpful when it came to my grandmother. But lately, it felt like I kept hearing him mention Joey name. It worried me just as much as it worried my grandmother. And it kind of pissed me off, too. Because here I was busting my ass to take care of him, and he thanked me by hanging out with the felon around the corner who thought he was going to be cast in the sequel to Carlito’s Way.
It broke my heart a little to see the look of worry in my abuela’s eyes as we discussed Eddie. I knew she would never have mentioned it to begin with if she weren’t concerned about it. So I put on the best fake smile I could and tried to ease her fears.
I reached out and rubbed her arm gently. “I’ll take care of it, abuela, I promise.”
“Gracias, I know you will, Daphne.”
I wasn’t sure how I would make it so that Joey would be out of Eddie’s life, but I would have to think of something quick. The last thing he needed was this type of distraction especially since Eddie was only a few months away from graduating. Maybe I could redirect his attention elsewhere. To where and what exactly, I had no idea yet. I wanted to sigh with frustration because this was just one more thing to tack onto my ever-growing to-do list that I didn’t have time to do anyway.
With that, I kissed my grandmother on the cheek and told her not to worry anymore. She smiled as she watched me in silence while I zipped up my jacket and then whipped the hoodie over my head. Grabbing my to-go mug of coffee in one hand as I held my keys in between my fingers like Wolverine in the other, I said one last goodbye to my grandmother and headed off into the pre-dawn darkness of the streets of Queens to job to number one.
“This isn’t Starbucks, sir,” I said, for what felt like the millionth time this week.
The customer’s face turned incredulous. He scanned the menu above my head as if there were help to be found there to his obviously misguided trip to this little rundown coffee shop in Queens rather than an actual Starbucks. But, of course, no such luck. Because, as I had already told him and the countless customers before him during the morning rush hour and pretty much every day of the week since I’ve been working here for the past few years, that this was not a Starbucks.
“You do sell coffee, don’t you, Miss?” he asked, still staring at the menu.
“Yes, of course we do, sir, it’s a coffee shop.”
“How difficult can it be to make a quad-half-caf-venti-three pump-vanilla-three-pump-hazelnut-soy-extra-hot-no-foam-with-whip-cream-and-cinnamon-sprinkles-latte?”
“Very difficult, sir,” I answered. “Impossible, really, since we don’t make those kinds of coffee drinks here. Sorry, sir.”
I could tell he was getting more upset with each passing second with the way the veins on the side of his neck started to bulge, and his face began to turn a shade of beet red. Geez, people were really serious about their Starbucks coffee. Especially this guy. Finally, he sighed in resignation and gave the menu another quick sweep with his eyes.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll have the Derek Special. Large. To go.”
“Coming right up, sir.”
Turning around, I tried hard to suppress the laughter bubbling in my throat while I made his drink. See, the Derek Special wasn’t all that special at all. It’s just decaffeinated coffee brewed with chai something-or-other tea leaves that Derek came up with after watching one too many episodes of Friends.
Derek was a bit of a character, and just being around him made me feel better. He was a damn good best friend. We had been through a lot since we met in junior high school—crushes, boyfriends, girlfriends, and back to boyfriends. He always had my back, and what I loved most about him was how he could cut through all the bullshit and give it to me straight. He was the only person who knew how much I had secretly hoped to maybe one day go to college. I never dared talk to my grandmother about it since I knew that it would upset her more than she already was about me not pursuing a higher education.
Derek was also the best at looking at the bright side of things. For instance, when my life couldn't possibly get any worse, about seven months ago, I walked in on my now ex-boyfriend, Tony, having sex with one of his neighbors from his apartment building, who he is now having a full-on relationship with.
Did I mention that neighbor was a dude?
Yep, the hits just kept on coming.
I didn't have any issues or hang-ups with homosexuality in the slightest. Derek actually bats for the other team. But I defied anyone, man or woman, to have your significant other leave you for someone of the same sex. It was a little head-trippy to say the least.
Yeah, sure there were signs all along that he was interested in men, but I brushed them aside. Like the time we were watching Neighbors, and Tony asked me to rewind a lot of the Zac Efron partially clothed scenes. I wasn't complaining because Zac Efron needed to be saluted for the wildcat he had turned into. I honestly thought that my ex was doing this for my benefit because he knew how much I had a little thing for Zac. But, in addition to the wildcat issue, he had a very real and very scary obsession with Barbra Streisand. And he kind of knew all the words to “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It),” by Beyoncé…and he might have learned the entire dance to it too because it was his all-time favorite song.
I know, I know…I was stupid for not seeing what was right under my nose all along.
But Derek, never one to mince words or coddle me, said, “Girl, bye. He likes dick, so what? There are starving children in Africa to worry about instead of his scraggly ass.”
He had a point.
Needless to say, I had been burned so badly by my ex-boyfriend that I had decided to take a break from men altogether. To be honest, it worked out for the best, since I really didn’t have time for any type of relationship to begin with.
“Miss, how much longer will this take?” This came from the Starbucks crazed customer behind me, still waiting on his Derek Special. I sighed quietly to myself as I put the finishing touches on his drink.
“Coming right up, sir,” I said. I turned back around and offered him his cup. “That will be three dollars and fifty cents.”
He huffed and puffed under his breath in outrage at the price while fishing out his wallet from the inside jacket pocket of his top of the
line designer suit. I had to contain the urge to roll my eyes and even went so far as to thank him for his measly nickel that he dropped in my tip jar before he turned on his heel and left the store in a rush.
“Another day, another dollar,” I mumbled as the bell over the door rung heralding his exit.
I guess things could be worse.
Who was I kidding?
I was twenty-five-years old, spending most of my time working, jilted by my gay ex-boyfriend, and barely getting any sleep because my other “job” had me staying up even later than I should on most nights.
It wasn't really a job. But it was something for me, something that I wanted to do, so I was doing it, and with Derek's help, of course, because the man had some serious connections all over the city. On the nights I could squeeze it in, I ran a YouTube channel about New York City nightlife. Kind of like a video-blog where I reviewed bars and clubs all over Manhattan and the five boroughs if the place had enough hype. I came up with the idea after seeing some crappy television show hosted by this rich and arrogant guy named Max Allen. It never made any sense to me that some silver-spoon fed, entitled D-list celebrity type asshole could give an every-day-person, like myself, advice on where to go out in the city. His rich blood didn't have the limited budget that most people had. So, I thought, why not try doing the same thing, but from a shoestring budget perspective. It’s been almost a year that I’ve been taping the segments, and I’m so happy to see that my videos kept getting viewed over and over again. The only problem was with Max himself. He kept following me around like a lost puppy dog or something. And he gets all pissed off with me whenever he actually talks to me, as if I stole his thunder or something. Like last week, when I went to this new-ish club in Mid-town that Derek had put in a word with the owner for me to get on the guest list, I almost ran right into Mr. Max-A-Million himself. He was hooking up with some blonde chick in the bathroom. So gross and skeevy. Last time I checked, Max didn’t own the idea of reviewing clubs. That’s what freaking Yelp was. But that was Max for you.
The Better Man (Allen Brothers Series Book 2) Page 3