by Mara White
Do I think about him often? Well, would all the time be considered often? I want you to know that I’m not crazy and I’m not obsessed. But no one has ever acted like he did. Mozey walked out on a limb for me, it was brash, it was brazen, it was almost ostentatious—the way he inserted himself into my life. I don’t like that he didn’t have my permission, but I also love that he instinctually knew just how much I needed him.
I bet you’re wondering what happened, and I guess I should tell you. Mozey married a girl from Ecuador and they had a little boy they named Igor.
What?
That’s not what you were expecting?
I know, right? That’s not a Mexican name or even a traditionally Hispanic one. In fact, it sounds Russian!
Oh, wait that’s not what surprised you?
Oh, because he married someone else! Right. That.
Why would that surprise you? Because this is supposed to be a love story?
Well it is. I eventually fell in love. Sort of.
His name was Dale, and he was from Annapolis. He grew up in a military family, but he got the social justice itch just like I did and became a documentary filmmaker. After Pathways folded, I went to work for him. I did key grip and catering, make-up and editing. I also did some easy camera work and dialogue writing, and I temped on the side whenever Dale was on the downside of funding. We lived together in an apartment near Venice, we had a cat named Kitty and three different kinds of mustard in the fridge at any given moment. Pretty good life you’re thinking?
Sure, it was. And I can tell you all of this because I’m writing it from my kitchen.
Dale and I have agreed to never get married because we’d rather spend the money on things that are important to us. We like to watch foreign films together and give foot rubs and eat take-out. It’s not like we don’t fuck because every once in a while it happens. But Dale and I are like brother and sister that fight over legroom and keep separate finances. I don’t do Friday night drunks anymore, and I stopped my misuse of the random penis. We’re a better team than we are a duet, better partners than lovers.
Well, if Mozey got married did he do it for love? If I’m with Dale, where does the whole story go?
Let me assure you when Mozey left Pathways, it wasn’t the last time I’d see him.
And to answer your question—the story goes south. It goes all the way to Mexico.
The Delivery:
Part II
Chapter 14
It’s six when the phone rings. I happen to be awake and packing coolers because Dale is shooting in East LA today. I’m making lunch for him and the entire crew, which consists of Dale, an intern and his buddy Jim from film school. They’re doing a piece on transient workers and had to be out shooting before sunrise because that’s when the men arrive to line up for manual labor jobs.
I’m slapping cheese and salami onto squares of bread, and I check the caller ID in case it’s them calling because they forgot something. I don’t recognize the number, so I just let it go to voicemail and continue slapping down slabs on the eight, white squares in front of me.
At first I don’t recognize the voice speaking on the message.
Why am I lying?
Scratch that.
I recognize it immediately. But it’s been such a long time since I heard it it’s hard to believe that it’s really him calling me.
“Lana?” he says, and my heart does a summersault. “It’s Moisés de la Cruz.” My heart does a back flip. “Maybe you don’t remember me.” My heart takes the gold in the all-around. “Hopefully you do. Well, I was wondering if you could help me.”
He says some other things or at least I think he does. Then he’s rattling off numbers. The mustard knife hits the floor, spraying me with yellow. I turn to stone, a life-size statue, frozen stupid in the kitchen. I’m thinking I should run and grab the phone and not lose this chance. But I can’t remember where the phone is, let alone how to move my feet or even breathe. I’m standing here stunned because something inside of me just said, Lana, this is the part where your whole beautiful life begins.
Mozey Cruz, it appears, has gotten himself tucked away inside a border detention site. It looks as if he never took the time to straighten out his papers, and now it’s caught up to him, so many years later. And if he’s calling me, I quickly deduce, that means he’s got no one else to call. It means he’s alone.
I drive the sandwiches to East LA, and when I arrive on the set, I let Dale know I can’t work with him today because I need to look into how you get a detainee out of detention jail. I tell him Mozey is an old client and a good friend to Alexei. Dale waves me off as he chews on his sandwich, his lap covered in rippled potato chips, their grease staining a napkin.
On the drive back to Venice while I’m stuck in traffic, I Google away the minutes checking the consulting costs of various immigration attorneys. At some point, as my social worker mode clicks into gear, I realize that Mozey is probably contacting me for my professional talents not a personal reunion like I’d immediately assumed. He’s probably happily married with family and is calling me for advice about how to beat the system. The realization hits like a belly flop, and I feel like a predator.
My job is to help the guy not indulge in romantic fantasies. I’m disgusted with myself for being so whimsical and blowing all of our exchanges out of proportion until they gained some sort of mythological significance in my head. Mozey and I were never star-crossed lovers. So what if he slept in my bed? It was freezing in the basement and we all seek the warm spot—even wild animals. The story of Mozey and Lana isn’t a love story. It’s a relationship of convenience, a professional exchange, I tell myself firmly as I step on the gas and finally pull off the highway.
There’s a stop sign at the bottom of the ramp, and I pull up behind a sedan. The windows are tinted so I can’t see who’s inside of it. I pull my leg up to my chest and push the scan button on the radio. I’m so impatient to see Mozey and not just to hear his voice again on the message at home that I lean hard on the horn, blasting the snoozer in front of me. The sedan beeps back and finally pulls into the street.
Who am I kidding? I’m living, breathing denial. In the short time I knew him, Mozey Cruz painted my heart.
It’s two counts of misdemeanor he’s in for. Both for graffiti. Wouldn’t you know it—he gets picked up and detained for something as benign as illegal painting? Mozey is a good guy. I knew it the second I met him. So what if he’s part of a painting gang—it’s not like it’s organized crime.
Turns out a detention center is like jail. In fact, it is jail, but lower security and without the clear and appropriate sentencing. These people are all in here for God knows what and who the hell knows for how long. Some were just plucked from the border and turned away, sent back to their own counties for repatriation without any question as to why they left. It’s a country of it’s own in here, a literal purgatory, without windows or doors or an end in sight. What a scary feeling to be deemed illegal for standing on the piece of God’s earth that you happen to be standing on.
I’m pretty convincing as I sign in as his social worker. I’ve even got ID to prove it isn’t a rouse. I’m wearing a silk blouse and my very businessy, business glasses. I even wore a skirt. In fact, the only one who isn’t convinced is the little ball of hope bouncing around in my chest that is preening and nail biting and wishing for a meaningful connection. Hope ball is dreaming about bright reunions and gloriously happy endings. Hope ball is blind. He’s married. You and Dale are—well, you and Dale just are.
I tell hope ball to shut up, and I douse her with a bucket of reality. Quit acting stupid and taking advantage of your authority.
I see Mozey right away. He’s waiting at a table and sketching—the guy is always creating. He looks up and sees me, and I wave like I’m normal. What’s going on inside me is
anything but, my every cell is buzzing and vibrating with anticipation. This might be particle annihilation and I’ll disappear like Captain Kirk, right off the Enterprise, ending up on some crazy planet with Styrofoam, glittered boulders and hot, Amazonian alien girls. Because even that, wouldn’t be more surreal than this. It’s been three years and my heart hurts like it was yesterday.
Mozey saunters over and pulls me into a hug. I love his hug so much I want to live and die in it forever. I want to become this hug and never do anything else. He still smells like cedar and musk, turpentine and spray paint. His hair isn’t so long anymore, just long enough to fall into his eyes and make him incredibly sexy. He’s more man now too, even bigger and stronger, or maybe that’s just hope ball getting herself overly excited. The hug has been going on way too long, but I don’t want to break it. Then I remember dad and husband and step back from him quickly.
“Hey, Lana. You look great. It’s so good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too, Mo. You look older. In a good way!” I quickly add, sometimes I’m an idiot. Remind him of the age difference. Done. Did it.
“Sorry to drag you out here. I didn’t have anybody else. I would have called Lex, but I didn’t want to scare him.”
“What about your wife? Is she not a citizen?”
“Oh. Yeah. We broke up. No, she’s wasn’t legal. But my son is—so that’s good, but she barely let’s me see him.”
No wife. No wife. No-wife-no-wife-no-wife.
“I wanted to have my shit straightened out before I saw you again. Wanted to have a great job, some great work to show you. I didn’t want to see you like this,” he gestures his arms outward in apology.
He’s still seeking my approval. Still sees me as an authority figure he wants to please with his achievements.
“It’s just good to see you, Mozey. You don’t have to be perfect. Christ, you met my crazy family! Anyway I don’t believe in perfect. You spoken to a lawyer yet?”
He runs his hand through his hair, and I see that he still wears a silver ring. The bracelets are gone as is the beanie. But maybe that’s just dress code and his style hasn’t changed.
“Yeah. Pretty much a done deal. Looks like I’m heading back as soon as they process me. This isn’t the first time they’ve tried, Lana, and I’ve got a few misdemeanors. All painting related, but they added on moral turpitude. Did you know when you put political stuff into your public art they can charge you with terrorism.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, taking a seat at the table. It’s graffiti not Al Qaeda.”
“Yeah, but lately they’re cracking down hard. It’s not like Pathways where we were changing the world one mural at a time. Remember?” he asks, and his face blooms with a smile.
Oh, I remember. My whole life’s work gobbled up by a public funds referendum. And I remember standing under your gaze, Mozey, and feeling the exact same way I feel now: heated and nervous and so crazy attracted to you. I guess that hasn’t changed.
“So that’s it? There’s no appeal? You’ll just move back to Mexico? How old were you when you left? Do you even know anyone there anymore?”
Mozey is taking in my questions and nodding at me as he scratches his brow.
“Yeah. Nothing I can do about it. I got to go with the flow.”
“How you getting back? They just drive you over the border and drop you off. Where did you come from? Mexico City, right? Do you have the money to get there?”
Mozey laughs at me, crosses his arms across his chest and leans back in his seat.
“You haven’t changed a bit. Still bossing everyone around. Trying to make sure everything comes out fair. Yeah, that’s my story, Lana. They’re kicking me out of here. I’m going back to where I came from. I’m a threat to society.”
“Pfft. Threat my ass.”
“I am a threat to your ass. Seriously,” Mozey says, a devilish smile arching his brow.
I blush at his words, my whole body is swimming in adrenaline and serotonin.
“If I stay here, I might paint every surface. I’ll put words everywhere, on everything in America.”
“What about the big stuff? Weren’t you doing any murals? Any commissions—something positive we could bring before a judge?”
“What? You my lawyer now? Lana, I didn’t call you for that. I wanted to say goodbye, to see you before I go.”
“If you don’t fight this, you’re crazy.”
“You fight hard for everyone else, but you won’t let anybody fight for you.”
I shift in my chair and rub at an invisible spot on my skirt. I always read too much into what he says. I hear what I want to hear. I’ve got to reel it in. I take a deep breath.
“Okay, Mozey. I should get going,” I say, rising out of my seat. “I’ll make a few phone calls in the morning to see what we can do to appeal this. If they move you, call me as soon as you can. They move detainees a lot, and I’ll have no say about where they put you.”
“Do you think before you go, maybe we could—you could—”
“What?” I sit back down noting the seriousness of his tone.
“Just talk to me like a person. I mean, not like a case. Talk to me like I was your friend, like we were for a few days in Detroit. No Pathways, no professional stuff. Just Lana and Mozey.”
I suck air into my lungs, but I still feel myself deflating. I can’t handle a relationship without borders between Mozey and me. I’m transparent enough even with three years between us. Even with wives and boyfriends and children, I still can’t turn off this flood of emotion. Maybe deportation will be good, putting literally thousands of miles between us. He can’t paint me from there. Send him to another country. He won’t be able to reach me.
Mozey slides his hand across the table, palm up, his face pleading with me to just be normal and not to be such a spastic, defensive, nervous, bossy jerk. He needs comfort right now, understanding and support. I’ve been trained in these things. I can do this on autopilot.
“I’m sorry, Mozey. This must be very overwhelming for you, not to mention frightening. Let’s plan a course of action to make this transition go as smoothly as possible.”
“Lana,” he shouts, and I jump in my seat. He looks angrily at me and runs his hands through his shiny, black hair. “Can’t you do it? Can you be real with me? Just try. Once. Please.”
I feel like I might cry. I don’t know how to act. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends and sexual relationships in my life, but my feelings for Mozey leave me confused and insecure. I don’t know whether I should cry or if I should punch him in the gut or run into his arms.
“Could you give me a hug? Admit that you care about me? We could acknowledge there was always something there between us that we were too scared to explore? Am I allowed to say that?”
His big brown eyes are flashing warmly, trying to coax me into agreement. My defenses kick in frantically, and I spring up from the chair.
“I—uh.”
“Lana, I still want you. I’ve never stopped wanting you.”
Those are the words I’ve always wanted to hear from him. The same words I long to say right back to him. How come I can’t admit it to myself? How come I can’t just have this one, perfect, beautiful thing? Because I don’t deserve it. Because, admitting to loving him means I’m a bad person.
“I have a boyfriend. I don’t think he would appreciate me having this conversation.” I grab my purse off the table and turn away, leaving him sitting there stunned. He asked me for my honesty, and I gave him back none.
As I walk away, the floor melts behind me and swallows him up. Then the walls become wavy and slip down to the floor. I could be walking on the moon for how disoriented I feel. I think I’m in love with the man sitting behind me, and it’s the most complicated f
eeling I’ve ever uncovered. I haven’t even so much as heard him sneeze in nearly three years and I’m still crippled by the amount of emotion charging through me.
I rush to my car as the pavement sinks into holes and black caverns right behind every step. All the windshields in the parking lot turn to liquid rainbows with the glare of the sun. The earth is folding in, consuming itself. It will eat me too if I don’t get away from him. My car is the only small oasis in the world that’s crumbling at my feet. When I reach it, I jump inside across the seat, trying to catch my breath. The drink holder between the two front seats is crushing my sternum. I jam my key in the ignition and blast the air conditioning. The radio is blinking in and out, static commercials in Spanish. I cover my eyes and whimper into my hands. I just witnessed my world fall apart. Because I’m so scared and because I let it.
Chapter 15
Dale and I make tomato soup and grilled cheese with sourdough and Swiss. He fills me in on the shots they had to get today and the grueling process of doing a million and one takes. I try to listen and nod sympathetically, but I’m chugging wine so fast my throat hurts from the acidity. I slice my finger chopping a red onion for the salad; Dale likes to keep the knives sharp, one of these days I’ll slip on an artery.
In the bathroom medicine cabinet I find Bacitracin and douse the throbbing gash. I howl when the antiseptic hits it and hop on one foot to distract myself. I can’t stop obsessing, and now my obsessions are all moody and sluggish from alcohol. I’ve known a million kids that are cutters, and I get the psychology. I’ve never cut myself intentionally, even the thought of it unnerves me. I watch a giant red drop of blood gather at one end of the cut, and I quickly stick my finger under water to wash the red off.