Chihuahua Karma

by Rice, Debby

  She stretched her arms over her head and yawned. Then she snorted and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. I was transfixed.

  “You tell Trudy she been bothering me way too much lately. Death supposed to be the big do nada. But you guys work me harder than when I was alive, and I don’t get paid.”

  “We’re very sorry to disturb you, Don Paco, and very grateful for your help,” said Cristoff. He sounded genuinely contrite. “Can I get you a cigarette and a little tequila?”

  “The least you could do, pendejo maricón.”

  Ignoring this insult, Cristoff went over to a sideboard and produced a bottle of tequila, a shot glass and a pack of Camels. He placed this offering in front of Mrs. Dichter. With a puppet’s jerky arms, eyes staring straight ahead, she poured herself two shots, which she drank one after the other. Then she lit a cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring.

  “That’s better. Okay what you want?”

  “Well, this lady wants some romantic advice,” said Cristoff.

  “Which lady?”

  “There’s only one here,” said Cristoff.

  “Well, I see two. The China lady and the rubia in the green underwear. And, let me tell you, the blond is the one with the problem. Hola, juara bonita, Paco Garcia a sus órdenes.” Mrs. Dichter made a little salute in my direction.

  “Don Paco, I think there must be some mistake,” said Cristoff.

  “No! No!” I shouted. “There is no mistake. I am here.” I couldn’t believe my body might still exist. Someone was seeing me—seeing the bikini I was wearing when I fell.

  “Yes, beautiful lady, you certainly are,” said Don Paco.

  “What going on? I only customer here, and I got problems. I just paid you $300 for answers,” said Mrs. Lin.

  “Dear Ruby, please remember the spirits are temperamental,” said Cristoff, “especially an assertive personality like Don Paco. He seems to have something he needs to work through before he can get to your request. I don’t think we want to upset him, or things could get unpleasant.” Cristoff was obviously desperate for Mrs. Lin to shut up. He had come around to her side of the table and was hovering anxiously over her.

  “I don’t care what he got going. I his Number One Customer. He can take care of my problem, then work through other stuff.”

  I had to agree with Cristoff. Mrs. Lin seemed to be taking dangerous liberties with the Twilight Zone.

  “Lady, you need advice on demand, ask Dr. Phil. Don’t play chicken with the undead. You won’t shut up, I’ll have to shut you up.” Don Paco’s tone made it clear that the consequences of Mrs. Lin’s nagging might be worthy of a Hollywood exorcism.

  I heard Cristoff whisper, “Oh my God,” then watched as he folded over himself and collapsed in slow motion to the floor. At the same time, Mrs. Lin’s body went slack, her eyes closed and her head lolled to the side. A trail of drool ran down her cheek.

  I wanted to run, but I was fascinated that this creature was reading my mind and desperate to learn whatever he knew about my situation.

  “Sorry, baby. I have a little problem with my temper. Trudy says I have anger management issues.”

  “Are they okay? What did you do to them?”

  “No te preocupes, chula. I just put them to sleep. They’ll wake up feeling good as new.”

  “Are you sure? Mrs. Lin looks like she had a seizure.”

  “Look, baby, even pretty ladies get on my nerves sometimes. I’m not responsible for what happens if you piss me off. I might make your head do a 360.”

  “I’m sorry. Please don’t get angry. I just can’t believe you can see me. Where am I? What’s happened? Can I get back?”

  “Sorry, baby. Everybody thinks dead people got all the answers. We don’t know shit. People like that China lady believe that we can predict the future. We can’t. We just see things kind of sideways.”

  “You’re a dead person.”

  “I died. But I’m here. So, what does that mean? If I could answer that question, I wouldn’t be stuck playing psychic with that greedy bitch. Trudy the worst boss I ever had. When she too lazy to tune me in, la vieja just sits there with her eyes closed and make stuff up. Tell her clients I say all kinds of crazy shit. She gonna ruin my reputation.”

  “Listen, I completely understand how you feel. You have all my sympathy. I’m trapped too, and I’m desperate. I just thought you might be able to help,” I said, trying to appease and steer the conversation back around to my own predicament. I had no idea how long Mrs. Dichter, Mrs. Lin and Cristoff would remain unconscious and was hoping to learn as much as I could.

  “Okay, I gonna tell you something, but I got to get something in return. How about a little feel?”

  “Oh, my God, I can’t believe it. For Christ’s sake, you’re dead. You’re supposed to be beyond that.”

  “Trust me, baby, I haven’t made it that far into the supernatural.”

  What happened next made every weird and disgusting thing that I had endured as a dog seem insignificant. Mrs. Dichter’s face started to twitch. A leering hobgoblin bent over, kissed me on the snout, and began to rub my butt. I was paralyzed.

  “Oh, baby, you are one fantastic piece of ass.”

  My jaws tensed. Just as I was ready to take her hand off, she stopped.

  “You got three questions. Shoot,” said Don Paco.

  This seemed perfectly in keeping with the fairy tale my life had become. “Okay,” I said trying to choose my words carefully, “tell me how I got trapped in this dog.”

  “There was a void, and you filled it.”

  “I’m sorry, but that really doesn’t explain anything.” I was on the verge of losing it, which didn’t seem to be a good idea in light of Don Paco’s touchy personality. “Do you think you could be more specific?”

  “Honey, I’d love to. But I only know what I know. That dog didn’t have a soul. Yours was lost. It found the closest home available.”

  “I don’t really believe in the soul. But do you think you could tell me why mine was lost?”

  “That’s question two.”

  “Look, can’t we stop this questions stuff and have a nice conversation?” I said, trying to capitalize on the bimbo card.

  “Sorry, chula, it’s against the rules.”

  “I think you’re making them up as you go. The rules didn’t stop you from copping a feel.”

  “Look, baby, I’m on the other side, and you’re not—unless, of course, you want me to take you there. I think I know the rules as good as anyone, and trust me, there are more rules here than you could possible imagine. I been dead for twenty years. It’s taken me a long, long time to learn all this shit. Okay, so maybe I lied about the questions. But I got to set limits.”

  “So, I’m not on the other side. Does that mean I’m not dead?”

  “It’s hard to explain without going into lots of technical stuff that people who haven’t crossed over don’t understand. See, there’s this thing called the MT, or Moment of Transition. Were you drunk? If you’re drunk at the MT, the soul could miss its DP, or Dimensional Pathway, and get all fucked up like yours did. Anyway, technically, you’re not dead. You’re in what we call a TCV, Temporary Containment Vessel—that’s the dog. You should be pleased. It’s very rare.”

  “If it’s temporary, it sounds like I could come back.”

  “Don’t you ever shut up? I hate it when I’m acting so nice, giving more than I was asked for, and people aren’t satisfied. The living are all the same—nag, nag, nag—even pretty girls like you. You gringos never stop asking questions. What’s it like over there? How’s my husband? Is he happy? Hijo de la chingada, this Spirit Guide stuff sucks. Trudy and her clients would keep me here 24/7 if they could. Does anyone ever ask about me? Does anyone alive, dead or in between give a shit about Paco Fernandez? You wanna know something? I don’t think so. Someday, maybe just someday, I’ll cross over permanently and never have to answer a dumb-ass question again.”

  He was working h
imself into a frenzy.

  I was panting hard, and I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest. “I’m sorry to bother you. But you’re so knowledgeable, and I really want to learn more about my situation.” I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice.

  “Okay,” said Don Paco. Then, in what I could only describe as a truly sadistic attempt to keep me waiting, he cracked the knuckles on each of his fingers one by one. “Well, I got good news, and I got bad news. The good news is you didn’t cross over. So, technically, your situation is temporary. The bad news is, speaking in eternal terms, which we are, temporary could be a long time, and I’ve never seen anybody cut loose from their vessel—not to say it couldn’t be done. Okay, that’s it, baby. Time to wake up the zombie bloodsuckers. Rise and shine, niños.”

  “Wait, wait. Just give me a little more detail—a hint. There must be a way out of here. You said it was possible. I swear I’ll do anything for you.” I was prepared to let him squeeze whatever and wherever he wanted. I’d close my eyes. It couldn’t be worse than another day trapped inside a dog.

  “Anything?”

  “Anything. What do you want?”

  “I’ll think about it. You can pay up later.”

  “Oh, that’s so wonderful. Okay, tell me what to do.”

  “Well, you’re lucky you got someone who’s studied the rules. Another SG couldn’t tell you this.”

  “Sorry, what’s an SG?”

  “Spirit Guide, baby. You know, a spook. Anyway, you’re stuck. You got baggage. I’m stuck too, but, gracias a Dios, I’m higher on the astral plane. That vessel is very earthly. You got worldly baggage to fix.”

  “What to do you mean worldly?”

  “Oh, you know, like love. You got somebody you love? Somebody who need you?”

  “I used to,” and in that moment I saw Richard. I remembered his face when he set the blue-velvet jewel box in front of me. He didn’t say a word, and I didn’t move. He waited, looking straight into my eyes. I said nothing. Then he picked up the box and walked away.

  “You know,” said Don Paco, “if you got a really strong EM, you might possibly, just possibly, separate from your vessel. Where you’d wind up, well that’s anybody’s guess. But I think the idea is that your soul would find the vessel that worked best for its EM.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. But what’s an EM? It sounds like toilet talk to me.” It was depressing to consider that the afterlife was governed by such a dismal set of bureaucratic acronyms.

  “Earthly Mission, mamacita. Like some really, really important business that you, and only you, can take care of.”

  “God, Don Paco. That’s fantastic. That sounds so easy. An Earthly Mission. No problem. I’ll be out of this dog before you know it.”

  “I wouldn’t start planning to go dancing. I only hear about it. I didn’t say it actually happened.”

  “How did you manage to learn so much? I’m very impressed,” I said playing to his macho. “Couldn’t you tell me just a tiny bit more?”

  “I got total recall, baby. Whatever I hear, I remember. I bet you never met a guy like me.”

  That I thought, was a serious understatement.

  “Now I’m done,” he said. “And don’t forget you owe me. Time to wake up, Dracula’s bride.”

  A current of icy air rushed over my head. The room dimmed, and I found myself staring at Mrs. Dichter. The illusion of Don Paco had been so complete that I had forgotten her. She was snoring loudly. Then, as if the puppet master had returned from coffee break, Mrs. Dichter, Mrs. Lin and Cristoff nodded their heads in unison and opened their eyes. Contrary to Don Paco’s assertion that they had gone for a pleasant little nap, they had the blank, shell-shocked look of survivors of a tsunami or an earthquake. Mrs. Dichter’s meticulous makeup had become an abstract painting. Her lipstick was smeared in an Edvard Munch scream, and mascara had carved inky rivers in her pancake. Cristoff’s turban had come unraveled. Tendrils of dark hair poked out at odd angles, and from my vantage point under the table, I could see that Mrs. Lin’s dress had hiked up so that the brown tops of her pantyhose were showing.

  I was suddenly and completely overwhelmed with strangeness. I felt my bladder release. Before I could exert control, a hissing stream of urine made an indelible puddle in the pristine carpet. I looked down at the yellow mess, incredulous. I had been fascinated with my ability to literally piss on anything that I did not like. But the idea of being out of control like an infant was shameful. I looked around for some way to hide the mess. A Kleenex had fallen on the floor beside Mrs. Dichter’s feet. Crouching, I moved slowly toward it. Just as I was about to grasp it in my teeth, Mrs. Dichter regained the full force of her personality.

  “Ruby, get that dog into the bathroom,” she commanded. “No wonder Don Paco was acting out. It was a mistake to allow an animal in the session. Their vibrations have a very disruptive effect, especially a high-strung little rodent like that. This room will need to be completely cleansed and rebalanced before I make contact again. The Pope is charging a fortune to ship holy water FedEx from the Vatican. It adds up. Ruby, thank God you are such a good customer, otherwise I’d be forced to charge you. Never bring that little beast into a séance again.”

  Before I had completely finished my business, Mrs. Lin had swooped me up and stuffed me into her purse. We were already halfway down the hall. She was breathing heavily. An angry flush spread from her cheeks down her neck.

  “I think she poison me, doggie,” she panted. “Maybe she put something in tea. And I pay her $300 for that. She think she make fool of me. Get something for nothing. I smart customer. There plenty other psychics in city. I going to find someone with nice lady spirit guide—maybe dead Korean movie star. I had it with old Mexicans.” Her mouth turned down and puckered as if she were sucking a sour grapefruit. “Sugar doggie, for once you do wee-wee in right place.”

  Chapter 5

  “I have been born more times than anyone except Krishna.” Benjamin Franklin

  Was my encounter with Don Paco a blessing or a curse? The irresistible bone of hope had been dangled within inches of my slavering jaws and, just as suddenly, snatched away. I wasn’t sure I would ever see Don Paco again. Mrs. Lin was convinced she had been poisoned. And his crazy acronyms seemed senseless. I tried to imagine what my EM might be. Unless I was meant to miraculously transform Edmund and Suzie into Type-A Young Republicans or resuscitate Mrs. Lin’s dwindling sex life, I didn’t think that I would find it at the Lucky Dream. Perhaps, had I been reincarnated as a Doberman, these tasks might have been plausible, but they did not seem well-suited to a mini Chi.

  Each hour deposited a new grain of fear in my heart. I worried that my human consciousness might not be permanent. I imagined the tug of a disgruntled knitter slowly unraveling my personality. There were moments when, like someone who has unexpectedly nodded off to sleep, I realized that just for a second I was more Sugar than Cherry. When this happened, I would think of Richard. He became the anchor for my humanity. I pictured him walking into the Lucky Dream, a bag of laundry slung over his shoulder. I believed that if I concentrated on this image hard enough, I could to turn his steps in my direction. Each time the door opened, I expected to see him.

  This speculation was its own special torture. The world outside the Lucky Dream’s window was another. Through the stenciled logo lay the magic kingdom from which I’d been exiled.

  Summer had dissolved into fall. Girls sailed down Division Street decorated in cashmere and trimmed with fur. Nannies pushed enormous plastic and rubber strollers through the leaves, their apple-cheeked charges stuffed like sausages into puffy buntings.

  The shop resembled a grade-school classroom. It was Suzie’s day to help out, and in a flurry of Woman’s Day-induced DIY, Mrs. Lin was busy mounting cutout pumpkins, pilgrims and turkeys on every available surface.

  “See, Sugar? We got holiday theme going, just like Macy’s.” She wiggled a turkey to see if she could get a rise out of me. I took a runnin
g jump at the wall, trying to snap the paper tail and tear the annoying thing down. Mrs. Lin laughed so hard, her eyes got teary. “Sugar, sweetheart, you got old-self zing.”

  I didn’t enjoy making a fool of myself, but it helped to pass the time.

  Suzie scowled as she swept wet yellow leaves off the linoleum. She was wearing sunglasses in an attempt to hide a black eye and a baggy shirt to conceal the little visitor that her parents had yet to discover. Dogs are the reluctant receptacles of a thousand secrets. I’d seen Tong fondle a pair of lace panties before throwing them in the washing machine, and Mrs. Lin waxing her lip. Earlier, I had been napping in the bathroom when Suzie dipped a stick into a cup of urine and watched a pink X slowly materialize on her “Early Pregnancy Response” test. She heaved a sigh and lifted herself off the toilet, seemingly resigned to this latest development.

  “Suzie, take off those glasses. You see sun out there?” said Mrs. Lin.

  “I told you, Ma, my eyes are sore. I got an allergy to this new eyeliner I been using.”

  (Suzie did wear raccoonish amounts of eyeliner, so this argument was not implausible.)

  Mrs. Lin was silent. She marched over to Suzie and snatched the glasses off her face. “I gonna call the police on that old goat. You better not go back there.”

  “It was an accident, Ma. CJ was just fooling around, and he hit me in the eye with his elbow.”

  “You play with fire, you gonna get burned bad,” said Mrs. Lin. “You come home anytime. Me and Daddy don’t want you living with that jerk.”

  “Ma, I’ll be fine,” said Suzie. “And he’s not a jerk. Daddy likes him. Now can I have the glasses back?”

  Mrs. Lin sighed. “These glasses filthy.” She took a Kleenex, rubbed the lenses like she was trying to remove an intractable stain and handed them back to Suzie.

  I had listened to the cell-phone saga of Suzie’s bumps and bruises. She told a girlfriend that she’d taken several bags of CJ’s latest shipment of marijuana and sold them to pay for a platinum and diamond navel ring. “I thought we were a couple. What’s his is supposed to be mine. No? That’s when I told him—what good is an ugly old guy if he doesn’t take care of you? Then he hit me. That bastard.”