Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  It was still dark out, but Keith clicked off his headlights and drove up slowly for a closer look. What was a housemaid—one who could barely walk—doing in such a colossal home? And on what looked like three acres of property?

  “I have a feeling Mamacita’s not just a maid,” I said with a quiver.

  I’m not sure why, but my stomach began to rumble with fear. I really did not want to go into Mamacita’s house, but what choice did I have? Keith is scheduled to go before the board of trustees next week, and if nothing is done to clear his name, I know in my gut that ­he’ll be asked to leave RU. Get a hold of yourself, I thought, be a heroine: See the injustice, take decisive action.

  “I’m going in,” I said firmly.

  The plan was simple, at least in theory: Sneak into the house while Mamacita is sleeping, find her large set of color-coded keys, and take the one for Meri’s room. Since we ­don’t want Mamacita to alert Meri, I’d have to be careful not to be seen, and if there was time, Keith wanted me to remove Meri’s pink key-cap and put it on another key. That way, if Mamacita noticed a key missing, she’d think it was someone else’s. Keith handed me a cell phone set on vibrate. He would remain outside and keep watch and alert me by phone if there was trouble. He held me close.

  “Lindsay told me she’s practically blind and can hardly walk,” he said, attempting to reassure me. “And she’s sleeping. She ­won’t hear a thing.”

  I had to agree with that. Maybe I was getting all worked up for nothing. Keith gently kissed me—and all my fears just melted away. I’ve never considered myself a heroine, but I was prepared to be one for Keith.

  Crickets were chirping when I stepped out of the Range Rover and stealthily made my way to the back of Mamacita’s house (or mansion, or temple, or whatever it is). I stopped short. I could hear music—whiplash dance music thumping-thumping-thumping. Crouching low, I crawled up for a closer look. Through a large picture window, I saw a huge bank of video monitors, all of them tuned to various business and stock reports, and two silhouetted figures that seemed to bound up and down before them. Needless to say, I was confused. I maneuvered myself closer. What I saw nearly made me turn right back around and run for my life. There was this really huge buff guy (even bigger than Keith) who was obviously some sort of trainer, and next to him was Mamacita, furiously jogging in place and lifting immense free weights, while keeping a beady eye on the NASDAQ and S&P streams behind her. How was this possible? For gosh sakes, I carried her up the stairs to Meri’s room. I probably should have turned around. I imagined a solution. I had a quick vision of myself swinging an ax at Meri’s door. But I also had a quick vision of Keith behind prison bars. Pull it together, Cindy, I thought. Whatever the story is with Mamacita, she still has the keys, and she’s obviously occupied at the moment, so it ­shouldn’t be that big a deal to sneak inside and swipe Meri’s. I saw a back door entry between two large columns to my right. If I was lucky, the door would be open and the house alarm would be off, since Mamacita had already welcomed her trainer in.

  Quick as a mouse, I ran diagonally across the back lawn and swung open the back door (it ­wasn’t locked!). I took a moment to orient myself, and I attempted to think logically. The keys were more than likely upstairs, maybe in Mamacita’s bedroom. I ­didn’t think they’d be just lying around somewhere downstairs in the kitchen or something. The disco music was still thumping-thumping, so I needed to act fast. I took off my tennis shoes, held them in my hands, and quickly tiptoed across the polished marble floor, passing the living room as inconspicuously as possible. Mamacita was now on the floor lifting her right knee to her right shoulder, grunting loudly, with her trainer crouched before her. So far so good. The grand staircase was before me. I darted up the stairs two at a time. Then I nearly screamed when I saw two Great Danes bounding forth at the top of the landing. I froze. And so did they. I ­didn’t know what to do. No one told me I’d be fighting off Great Danes. Still, they ­weren’t attacking (yet), they were just standing there, staring at me, standing guard. I gulped and continued up the stairs, well aware that one of the Great Danes was beginning to growl and bare its teeth. Finally, I was right before them, and I thought, Go on, do it, put me out of my misery, kill me, and then I felt something wet. One of them was licking my hand. They were either the lousiest guard dogs around or they were very friendly. I patted them each on the head, skirted past, and made my way to the master bedroom.

  Someday I’d like to have a bedroom like Mamacita’s. I took a moment to gaze at all the beautiful Greek statues, some of which were spouting water from appropriate holes, and the large Mexican mural reproductions, and the oversize bed, which seemed large enough to house a family of four. But no key chain. Nothing. I ­couldn’t even find a closet. Frustrated, I meant to race out when I slipped on the gleaming floor and violently flew forward, slamming against a winged satyr statue and clipping its outstretched arm—which suddenly fell downward with a mechanical ka-chink. Behind me, Mamacita’s large reproduction of José Clemente Orozco’s truly dazzling ancient Mayan mural swung open, revealing what you could call a walk-in closet, but honest, that really ­wouldn’t do it justice. Move it, Cindy, I told myself, you’re not here for a house tour. I slipped into the “closet,” and when I turned the corner, I saw a small office area. On a desk lay an open ledger, and hanging above the desk on the wall was the key chain!

  It was done! Meri’s room key was in my pocket, and I was just putting her pink key-cap on another key when I noticed that the disco music downstairs had stopped. I panicked for a moment. How long had Mamacita’s workout been over? My heart was beating in my throat. I hung the key chain back up and dashed out of the closet—and I screamed. There was Mamacita at the far end of the bedroom crouched in a fierce karate pose.

  “Puta disimulada!” she bellowed.

  I meekly fumbled, “Hi, I’m just here, um, because Meri wants you to clean her room again this month. Are you busy today?”

  “Usted morirá, puta!” she shrieked.

  Obviously, she ­wasn’t buying.

  “I’m leaving now,” I offered, my entire body shaking. “I’ll tell Meri ­you’ll get back to her.”

  Then I ran like the dickens, screaming loudly because from the corner of my eye I could see Mamacita soaring through the air, and before I knew what was happening, I was flat on my stomach, and she was on top of me, jerking my arms back in a painful hold, and I thought, That’s it, I’m dead, killed by a tiny little Mexican woman with really powerful glutes, but then I heard a shattering crash and a savage screech, and one of Mamacita’s large ceremonial Mayan bowls was shattered before me.

  “You okay?” asked Keith desperately.

  Since Mamacita’s so tiny, Keith ­didn’t have much of a problem fitting her into his clothes trunk when we got back to RU, but it was still difficult given that she’s so powerfully squirmy—and that’s despite the fact that Keith had tied her up and taped her mouth shut before leaving her house and placing her in the back of his Range Rover. He had seen her trainer leaving the house, so he knew something was up, but as he snapped the trunk closed, and it vibrated from Mamacita’s fierce writhing, I ­couldn’t help but blurt out, “What now?!”

  A half hour later Mamacita was propped up in a chair in Patty’s room, and Patty, Keith, and I still ­didn’t know whether or not we should take the tape off her mouth, but Patty was worried. What if she was thirsty? What if she was hungry? I figured quick was better than slow. I ripped the tape off her mouth.

  “Usted morirá, puta!” she howled.

  “You are dead, whore,” said Patty, helpfully translating.

  I clamped my hand over her mouth. What if her screams could be heard outside in the hall?

  “You have to be quiet,” I warned. ­“We’re not going to hurt you.”

  I slowly pulled my hand away, and she ­didn’t scream. Instead, she burst into tears and began softly babbling. It was quite a performance, or at least it seemed to be. Patty’s Spanish ­isn’t that go
od, but she did recognize the word for “police,” which made Keith chuckle.

  “Yeah, let’s go to the police,” he said, whipping out Mamacita’s ledger. Before we left the house, he had snatched it from her office. “Maybe ­we’ll give them this.”

  ­“Don’t mess with me, buddy!” roared Mamacita, who suddenly seemed to speak English remarkably well, but Keith ­wasn’t scared by her viciousness.

  Instead he lifted the phone and began to dial the Rumson River police. Given his own predicament, he knows the number by heart.

  “Okay, hang up,” said a suddenly resigned Mamacita, who was ready to talk deal.

  Fine, we could have Meri’s key, and she would agree to be held captive in Patty’s room until our mission was complete, but in turn, we had to agree not to give or show her ledger to anyone. It seems Mamacita’s been playing the role of a frail Mexican maid for decades, and she’s worked, and continues to work, for some of the richest and most powerful families in the state. A quick study, she soon figured out how to shave a small, undetectable sum from each of their accounts every month, which she wires to her offshore accounts. But the money ­doesn’t just sit there. After taking several night school classes and devoting herself to the work of Ben Stein, she’s become a very capable investment whiz. Yes, Mamacita lives well, but she’s also regarded as Santa Mamacita in several small Mexican villages, including Jalisco, Nayarit, and Sinaloa, where she provides revolving funds for education and health care, and even surreptitiously provided all of the funds necessary to rebuild several towns after the merciless Hurricane Kenna destroyed them. La Caridad de Santa Mamacita, one of her numerous charitable trusts, offers complete college scholarships and has sponsored several archaeological digs over the years. As she told us this, she ­couldn’t help but spit at Keith, who had knocked her out with a Mayan bowl that was, in fact, not a reproduction but a priceless artifact. She also ­wasn’t the least bit interested in hearing about Meri, or what we had planned for her, since she doubted that the loss of any funds she was still shaving from various Sugarman accounts would put that much of a dent into her ever-increasing fortune. All she wanted was our assurance that she would be given back her ledger and let go after our mission was done.

  “I ­don’t know you, you ­don’t know me,” she said. “But you mess with me, ­you’re in big trouble.”

  We ­didn’t doubt that.

  “Who’s got a smoke?” she snapped, which turned out to be only the first of several demands.

  Still, she was thrilled when Keith gave her a cigar, and she took a moment to whisper to me, “Nice boy. Seems good for you. But grow your hair. Boys ­don’t like girls who look like boys.”

  I ­don’t know how I got through the rest of the day. It’s just after dinner now and I’m so tired (I brought Mamacita Long John’s for dinner and she said she’d rather eat cardboard). Bud wants to shave me again, but honest, if he comes near me with that thing again, I really will kill him.

  October 9

  Dear Diary:

  All of a sudden, it felt like a thousand prickly things were poking me in the behind as I walked to my last class before lunch.

  “Woof, woof.”

  I gulped, but I kept walking.

  “Aw, ­don’t run away.”

  The town car swerved up to my side. There was Meri, in her black bouffant (and blessed) wig, and an eerily bald Gloria (her eyes totally bug out now). Though they seemed very chatty, like maybe they had been doing cocaine again, they were sharing a large Negroni Sbagliato, which Meri informed me is a popular summer cocktail in Milan (with Spumante, vermouth, and Campari, which does sound kind of good). They were also popping a few pills, which Meri pointed out were Provogil, a drug intended to treat narcolepsy, though Meri swears ­they’re the “loveliest” pick-me-up. In a way, I should have felt okay about seeing them. I mean, I do know something that they ­don’t know (many things), I do have a safe house, I am plotting against them, but just the sound of Meri’s voice was flipping me out.

  “Enjoying your last semester at RU?” she asked cheerfully. “I’ll miss you, Cindy. Really. ­You’ve been fun. Just remember to be a good little bow-wow these past few weeks, okay? Because if ­you’re not . . .”

  “Why does Keith have to go to jail?” I blurted, and I immediately regretted it.

  “Why? Hmm. That sounds like a question for the police. He did break the law, right? Several, I think.”

  “One Varsity Ken bites the dust,” snorted Gloria.

  “Oh well. It really is a tragedy. But what’s done is done. Why? Do you still have feelings for Keith?”

  I knew I was on very thin ice at the moment, so I answered carefully. I shrugged.

  “Not really. I mean, he’s just another dumb jock when you get down to it. I was just curious.”

  ­“Don’t be too curious, little bow-wow.”

  I was about to speak when I heard two low-flying helicopters soaring overhead. Meri smiled.

  “Oops. ­We’ll have to cut this short. ­We’re going for a quickie to Vegas. Ever been?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, you should. Vegas is fun. Want to come? Come on. For old times’ sake. What do you think? You want to?”

  Oh God. How was I going to get out of this? If I went to Vegas, all of Patty’s plans would be ruined, and who knows what would happen to Keith. But I ­didn’t want to be caught “refusing” or “disagreeing” with Meri. So I just tried to shrug it off.

  “Well, you know, I’m sure I’d just bore you.”

  Meri exchanged a glance with Gloria, who rolled her eyes in a kind of ­you’ve-so-got-to-be-kidding way. Meri turned back to me.

  ­“You’re right,” she said airily. ­“You’re boring me now. Be good, little bow-wow. ’Cause ­we’ll find out if ­you’re not.”

  And off they went. I continued onward toward my next class and tried not to think about Meri, but I ­couldn’t help it—it’s like my mind kept cycling back to her, and she kept getting bigger and scarier and I was getting smaller and more pathetic and even more helpless. I remember hearing once that the more energy or thought you give to something, the bigger it gets, whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing. I was definitely giving Meri too much thought, and she is definitely a bad thing, but I ­couldn’t help it. It’s like my whole life is on a slippery slope, and the more I try to climb to the top, and the higher I get, the more inevitable it becomes each time I slip and fall back—where Meri sits, Buddha-like, patiently waiting for me, mocking my every attempt to escape from her. It really ­isn’t fair. My mind is a trap.

  Then I remembered my Pledge Week supplies. I’d kept several of the items, including the Xanax, and I remember Patty once telling me that Xanax is a popular anti-anxiety drug. That sure sounded good to me. I am so not one for popping pills, but anti-anxiety, anti-Meri; they were one and the same in that moment. I took a detour before going to my class, rifled through my things in Bud’s room, and practically wept with delight when I found that I still had the bottle. It had warnings on the label: Do not take with alcohol, do not take while operating heavy machinery. The recommended dosage was one in the morning and one in the evening, as needed, but I figured since it was late afternoon, and since I really did feel anxious, I should probably take three.

  About a half hour later in class, I suddenly felt very creamy—there really is no other way to describe it. My thoughts had stopped racing, and even my arms and legs felt loose, as if I’d been clenching something really tight for years and suddenly let go of it. Before my mind was a trap. Now it was frothy and lightly whipped; it was meringue. In fact, I nodded off and awoke a few minutes later. Oops. I had slipped from my seat and right onto the floor, which ­didn’t amuse my professor and, of course, elicited the sort of derisive giggles and snorts that I have long grown accustomed to, but the laughter ­didn’t feel stinging like it usually does. Why? Because I truly ­didn’t care.

  Tomorrow morning is “D-day,” as Patty calls it, and I think I’m more than re
ady for the challenge now that I’m just so completely relaxed. Meri who? Oh, yes. Her. BFD. Ha! I’ve set my alarm for six a.m., since I’d like to sneak into the house no later than eight. I think I’ll take a few more Xanax just to make sure my mind is calm and I get a good night’s sleep. I deserve it.