I went into the bathroom—I’ve always thought you can tell everything about a house from the bathroom, like you can tell everything about a man from his shoes. I sat down on the toilet and inspected the room. It resembled a steel urn. It had one of those special showers, the kind you only see in hotels and spas. I looked at myself in the mirror; my eyeliner had run a little and my eyes looked sunken. I attempted to fix it with my fingers but it was a futile effort, so I just pinched my cheeks to give myself a false blush.
When I returned to the living room, I tried to serve myself more champagne. The first two bottles were already empty, so I emptied the third into my glass. “Let’s go when you finish that.” Miguel didn’t fit in that environment either, we looked like we’d been photoshopped in. The chandeliers on the ceiling were reflected in his plastic lenses. He held the glass with both hands, one on the base and the other on the stem, tapping his rings against it. Champagne bubbles are fatal for a beer drinker. Only half of his hair was tied up in a bun. I laughed and told him that we had the same hairdo, touching his hair and scratching his beard. “Let’s get out of here.” With that whisper, I could tell that Migue had bad intentions, and more alcohol in his body than he knew how to handle.
We put our glasses down on the table and went to say goodbye. Migue grabbed my hand, which was strange. We weren’t a handholding couple—we weren’t a couple, period. We went down the spiral staircase—which, thanks to the champagne, seemed like the swirling of a giant toilet—and right out onto the cobblestones, this time heading up the San Justo hill. I asked Migue to stop for a second, the ties on my espadrilles had come undone. He stopped, crouched down, and tied them for me with all the calm and care in the world. I had no idea what time it was.
“Whose apartment is that?”
“Well, it’s Julito’s.”
“No, but who does it belong to?”
“I already told you.”
“Migue, that kid is like seventeen.”
“Nineteen.”
“And what does he do?”
“He manages.”
“It must come from his family then—what do his parents do?”
“Dunno, they’ve got an art gallery or something.”
He got all gallant and opened the pickup door for me. I could barely climb in, it’s too high for my short legs, and champagne doesn’t typically make you more skilled at anything.
“Are you good to drive?” I asked.
“Sure.”
We turned onto one of the little streets, Luna or Sol, I always confuse them. But we kept ascending.
“Aren’t we going?” I was confused.
“Yes.”
He pulled over to the side of the road, and started texting. I began looking all around, it seemed like we were just waiting to be mugged. Soon, a bum appeared, with a backpack, shorts, infinite beard, and bare feet. Migue rolled down the window. I’d seen him roll down the window other times to give them money, or tell them to find some shoes in the back of his truck. Oh, Migue, not today.
The guy opened the door, removed his backpack, got in the pickup, settled in, shut the door, and greeted us. Migue locked the doors and put his hand on my thigh, as if telling me to stay calm. He took a manila envelope out of the glove box. The guy pulled a package from his backpack, a brick wrapped in plastic. He set it down between my seat and Migue’s. Migue picked it up, unwrapped it, and pulled out a heavy green brick. I couldn’t believe it, it was like a bar of gold, but it was weed.
They shook hands, and the guy slipped the manila envelope in his backpack and said, “Buenas noches, miss.” And he got out.
“Sorry you had to be here for this,” Miguel said
“Sorry? You know the position you put me in?”
“You know I—”
“That you smoke weed, like all the time? Yes. Did I expect you to deal drugs with me in the car? No!”
“It’s no big thing.”
“Start the car, let’s go. And don’t take me around San Juan doing stupid shit, I need you to bring me home, and that’s it.”
* * *
There were cops diverting traffic in the middle of San Juan. On the other side, the streets are one-ways. So we ended up taking the longest way around—not along the coast, not by the docks, but in the interior. We went right through the intestines of the old city.
The silence in the car was almost as tempestuous as the music in that mansion apartment. Migue fiddled with the air-conditioning, trying to defog the windows. It had rained most of the night and the city was damp, cold, and foggy. He had let his hair down, and he drove with his right hand while resting his head on his left. When we got out of the walled city, the only noise was our breathing and the swoosh of the tires over the wet tar. Free of the cobblestones, at last we could move at a decent speed.
I looked out my window as we moved away from Old San Juan and returned to the city like the rest of the mortals. I was more sad than angry about what had happened. Migue was generally a good guy, and many times I’d wondered if our thing was going somewhere. I was savoring the journey without destination that we were on, and his hands always made me happy, so I enjoyed the coming and going without thinking of dates or reasons. But what had happened that day was forcing me to make a decision, to draw lines, define things—the opposite of everything we were.
I heard a deep gasp, as if Migue were reading my mind. I turned to look at him and his brow furrowed. He pushed back from the steering wheel to plant himself in the seat and stretched out his right arm as if he could protect me from flying out the windshield. The world was moving in slow motion. I felt a violent lurch and almost hit the dashboard. The screeching of tires broke the silence. When I managed to look up, I saw the silhouette of a man, then the details of his face growing clearer—coming closer and closer, as if focusing binoculars—until I could recognize the panic in his eyes, and then the impact came. I closed my eyes. I still heard the screech of the tires and the impact, again and again, pulsing from jaw to sternum. I opened my eyes and looked at Migue. He didn’t have his glasses on, and he was covering his face with his hands with their many rings. “What do I do? What do I do? WHAT DO I DO!” He ran his hands over his forehead and pushed his hair back, over and over. When I dared to look out the windshield, I saw the body on the ground. It was wet and his face was looking in the other direction. His clothes were dark. It was impossible to know whether or not he was breathing. Migue unfastened his seat belt and unlocked the doors.
“What’re you doing?”
“I’ve gotta take him to the hospital.”
“Miguel, you’re crazy.”
“We can’t just leave him lying there.”
“You know how much we had to drink?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“We could go to jail, Miguel.”
“No way, it was an accident.”
“An accident? If we’re unlucky enough to have killed the bum, it’s like homicide, Migue, seriously.”
“What does it matter that he’s a bum?”
“He’s got no family, nobody’s gonna give two shits about investigating. Start the car, let’s go.”
“I can’t do that, I can’t.”
“We drank a ton and we’re driving around with a brick of marijuana in the car, we don’t have any other option.”
Miguel looked down. He tied his hair into a half-bun, dried his tears, crossed himself, and started the car.
Pedestrian Run Over in Old San Juan
At 4:23 a.m. yesterday, there was a report of a serious accident involving a pedestrian. The incident took place on Avenida Constitución at the exit of the walled city, in the jurisdiction of the municipality of San Juan.
According to the preliminary report, the incident occurred when a vehicle, described as a blue pickup, was driving down the aforementioned roadway toward Avenida Ponce de León. Several neighbors in the vicinity said that the female driver abandoned the scene immediately.
The body of t
he victim was identified as Julio Botet, owner of the Galería Éxodo on Calle San Francisco in Old San Juan.
Agent Nicholás Marrero of the Highway Patrol Division of the Puerto Rican Police Command at Avenida Fernández Juncos Station, Parada 6 in Puerta de Tierra, and District Attorney Esteban Mendizábal have taken charge of the investigation, ordering that the scene be photographed and analyzed.
DEATH ANGEL OF SANTURCE
by Charlie Vázquez
Avenida Fernández Juncos
She has dyed blond hair that’s turned orange in spots, and her eyes twitch left and right as she storms down Avenida Fernández Juncos in a panic. Her red blouse should be tighter and she pulls her short black skirt up as she goes. Of medium complexion—not white, not black—she was once very beautiful.
Shattered glass crunches under her scuffed maroon heels as she passes windows that are barred like prison cells—or tiger cages—along the restless Santurce thoroughfare on the night that will claim her forever. She knows something’s wrong, very wrong, and fears that she’ll never find her way out again.
So she runs to him in the meantime.
The tantalizing aroma of a pig being fire-roasted whole for a celebration floats past her on the pirate breezes that sneak in like thieves from the brooding Atlantic Ocean. The breezes always disappear inland, toward the lush, mysterious green mountains in the dark island interior.
She forgets her hunger as soon as the winds move on and now she won’t stop for anything. Only one thing haunts her thoughts tonight and she will not cease until he appears. She digs through her purse and sprays her neck and armpits with a flowery perfume she stole from a pharmacy.
I’ve missed him, she thinks, and snaps her compact closed, wedging it between her lips in order to undo and redo her frizzy ponytail, tighter and cleaner. She hurries down the dark avenue as cars zoom past blasting salsa, and the descendants of shipwrecked derelicts linger, drinking liquor out of brown papers bags.
They lick their lips and call her precious things. A man appears out of nowhere in a green tank top and dirty blue jeans. He’s tall, dark, and smells of beer; a lightning flash of pink tongue sneaks out, pornographic desire.
“Hey, mami, come over here—”
“Go to hell, cabrón!” she says, and shoves him out of the way.
The man keeps talking to her—he trails her for an entire block—and his voice fades away with the now distant, distorted pulse of salsa in the background. She quickens her pace, careful not to misjudge the uneven pavement beneath her throbbing feet. She has to avoid injury tonight; no distractions or accidents this time.
Our young lady of the night wonders what time it is (a constant concern since her watch and cell phone were stolen), as she passes a loud parade of whistling and catcalling men who grope themselves and conspire to slow her down—or stop her. She breaks through them and continues on her quest, not stopping to ask for the hour.
Specters linger under the swaying shadows of palms draped in moonless darkness, like something out of one of those old black-and-white movies her grandfather used to love. Her mother would pass the day watching them when she was a little girl, and now she adores them too.
A familiar outline materializes in the darkness up ahead. It becomes clearer and approaches with threatening speed: another young woman working the same perilous trade approaches, her black eyes and sculpted eyebrows narrowed and pinched tightly with confrontation. Her hair and outfit are Gothic black and she curls her dagger-filed fingernails into her fists with feline grace. “You got some nerve—”
“You got nothing and I got a date, puta,” our young lady tells her. “Now, get out of my way before I kill you.” She pushes the newcomer aside and digs through her purse for a knife, almost knocking the cat-girl off her feet. Their throaty profanities echo off the buildings and ricochet over the busy avenue, and men passing in cars press down on their horns excitedly. One fellow stops and offers to take them both with him.
Our young lady of the night ignores him—that motherfucker doesn’t have any money—and finishes telling the cat-bitch what she’s been waiting to tell her for some time. Then she puts her knife away and continues on her aching feet, letting the puta live for now.
Hissing, cat-girl fades away from the frame as she approaches the man in the driver’s seat—“Wait for me, papi,” she says—as his friends in the backseat deepen their voices and squash together to make room for her. They grasp the heads of their dicks through their basketball shorts and the salsa pulse gets louder.
She resumes her frantic journey through the treasonous streets and thinks she’ll need to charge him more money from now on. She can already see the surprise and hurt in his old brown eyes, which always stare at her from somewhere long ago and far away, from another place in time.
Always a gentleman, and still handsome for an old dog, he pays her in crisp hundred-dollar bills he sometimes counts incorrectly in her favor. If the moon is right, he’ll even take her to a fancy Old San Juan restaurant and let her spend the night in his expensive hotel, after putting his valuables in the safe and taking his teeth out.
He never asks for kinky or freaky tricks (she wishes he would for a change), or says things to upset and degrade her for his pleasure—unlike so many losers. Those rich losers who get off on the suffering of others. He’s easier to turn over than men half his age, and she’s had him figured out for over a year.
* * *
Our young lady of the night arrives at the designated tavern—Finally, she sighs as she enters—and orders a can of Medalla. It’s all she can afford until he arrives. She waits near his favorite seat, gulping her beer and listening to a new bachata hit.
He’s over twenty minutes late, which is unlike him. She rummages through her purse, unsure of what she’s looking for. He better not be dead.
She has no phone, but that doesn’t matter since the old man’s married and always calls from a blocked number. She asks the meaty-armed bartender if her date has been around, describing him, and the bartender tells her no. She writes something on a piece of paper and passes it to him.
A second and then a third Medalla appear, followed by several shots of vodka. Our young lady of the night hasn’t eaten dinner, but she doesn’t care because she’s never coming back here—she’s finished with this place, this infernal island of heartache, this city she used to love.
Her aunt Yolanda in Philadelphia will be happy to have her visit, and after that—she says to herself as the meaty-armed bartender sets a fifth Medalla down—she’ll go to Florida because she hates the snow. Snow is for gringo motherfuckers. Twice in her short life was enough.
The bartender stops serving her when the overweight, sweaty owner comes in to catch up on some office business in the back with an attractive young woman. He winks, hands her four squashed Marlboro Reds, and tells her it’s time to get moving.
“Come meet me tomorrow around midnight,” he says. “I get paid and . . .”
She stumbles out, doesn’t answer him.
Over two hours late. This has never happened before. She gives up and says a prayer for him. She knows it’ll do nothing, but she doesn’t know what else to do. The night brings answers to every question. It always has and why should tonight be any different?
* * *
Our young lady of the night passes even more people on her way home than she had on the way to her ruined date. Shadows and silhouettes appear to ask her things (Are they really there? she wonders), and she waves them off and sucks her teeth with disgust. She’ll be living on the streets again soon, so fuck them and their problems.
The next time that ugly old motherfucker wants a date, I’ll make him pay double, she laughs in the haze and warmth of silly intoxication. She considers going back to the clubs to make some last-minute money, but she was banned from all of them for stealing. A lie. Another lie.
Our young lady digs around in her purse and lights a cigarette with shaky hands. Then she pulls out two wrinkled school photos of
her little man—her little boy, her little prince—who lives in Ponce with his asshole father. The motherfucker who kicked her out to marry that bitch, the reason for all of this . . .
She puts her hands to her face. The convulsive bursts of emotion rock her. The shameful agony of not having her son with her explodes from her core, and she kneels on the pavement, using a parked car to keep balance, until it passes several moments later. People walk right past, as if she isn’t even there.
I’ll get my little man back, she thinks, but it’s just as hard when he’s around. So she stops at the entrance of an avocado-green apartment building where she cannot be seen and lets the last stabs of hoarse anguish drain out. This passes too, and she blows her nose into a napkin she finds in her purse.
Lights another cigarette.
At least you aren’t dead, she says to herself, hooking her bag on her shoulder.
Tomorrow’s her birthday; it’s only one in the morning, and she feels like celebrating. There’s no one around to tell her she can’t. Our young lady of the night walks past another bar and tries her luck. Why not? Even a glass of water would be good. She’s cried all the moisture out of her body and another drink will help her forget for a while.
She steps aside to inspect herself in her broken compact one final time and approves of the reflection, despite another missing tooth, blotting away the trails of makeup from her tears. She walks in and sucks up her runny nose, a blast of marijuana smoke hitting her nostrils.
There’s a loud, awful heavy metal ballad playing that she remembers from an MTV video when she spent her summers in Philadelphia as a little girl. Ugly gringo motherfuckers in women’s clothes and makeup with long nasty hair, and endless guitar solos that would drive a deaf person crazy. They’re not the Stones, that’s for sure.
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