by Alisa Valdes
“You’ll do fine alone,” he says.
I make dinner, raw vegetables and sprouted wheat grains, with pineapple for dessert. After Gato and I eat, we make love. He tries my new name again. “Es perfecto, tu nombre, perfecto perfecto,” he says. “It suits you.” And we fall asleep in the cozy cocoon of our love.
I wake early the next day. I’m too nervous to eat, but Gato forces me to drink some tea. He rubs my shoulders, helps me into the shower. I decide on the tight pants I found at a funky boutique in Venice, with portraits of the Virgin of Guadalupe all over them, the same ones I wore to the sucias meeting in Boston, the ones that gave Rebecca seizures. I wear a tight red, cropped sweater and red boots, my black trench coat. I put red twists into my hair, put on my makeup, a few chokers, and dark silver, gothic rings on every finger. Gato says I look good. I ask him what he thinks I need to bring. He says nothing, says that I should just leave all the negotiating to Frank. “The gods are with you on this,” he says. “I can feel it.”
Gato drives me to Beverly Hills for my meeting with Joel Benítez. Frank will meet me here. Gato drops me in front and asks me to call him on his cell phone from my cell when I’m done. Cell phones are the only luxury item we have invested in, beyond our instruments; in Los Angeles the traffic is so bad you really must have one. Gato says he’s going to meditate at a park near the Beverly Center Mall, spend the entire time sending good vibes to me. I kiss him good-bye and walk toward my destiny. As I pass the security guard at the front desk and enter the quiet, expensive-looking elevator (even the elevator here is nice. Mexicatauhi!) I almost have to pinch myself. I’ve never been so nervous in my life.
Frank is already seated in Joel’s office when I walk in; he doesn’t look like the same person. I have only seen him in his Mexica clothes. Today he wears a conservative blue suit and a paisley power tie. He has the same intense look in his eyes, but to see him like this, legs crossed casually, neatly trimmed goatee, wire glasses, you would never know he was an Aztec dancer. My demo CD pounds out of the stereo. Both men rise to greet me. Joel’s assistant, Monica, a tall blonde with a flag of Venezuela on her neck chain, hovers nearby. She’s frighteningly thin and wears tight pants and a halter top with a sheer blouse over it.
“Would you like some coffee or tea?” she asks me in Spanish.
“No, thank you.”
“Water?”
“Water would be fine.”
Monica leaves in a puff of sweet perfume. Joel grins, and paces the room. The office is large and elegantly appointed, with two white leather sofas, oil paintings, and a big window behind Joel’s desk. One wall is taken up with a large, shiny black entertainment center and a tremendously sophisticated-looking stereo system. Framed silver and gold records hang on another wall. Small, powerful speakers hang in each corner. The music is loud. We have to shout to be heard. Joel bobs his head to the rhythm of the song, a cumbia reggae mashed up with metal, and a heavy, pulsating bass line that imitates a heartbeat. Madre Oscura. Dark Mother. It’s one of my favorites.
“So,” Joel says, in English. I’m relieved he’s not speaking Spanish. I’m fluent now, but I’d rather not have to negotiate in it. “Amber.”
“Cuicatl,” I correct him.
“Right, Frank told me about that,” he says with a wry smile. He brings his fingertips together in front of him. “Kwee—how do you say it?”
“Kwee-cah-tel.”
“Cuicatl. That will take some getting used to.”
Monica returns with my water and a glass of ice. Not a cup, a blue goblet of blown glass with little air bubbles in it, the kind from Mexico.
“Let’s get right to the point, Joel,” Frank says, all business. “Let’s not waste anybody’s time here.” He signals Joel to turn down the music
I’m shocked by his attitude. In our Mexica gatherings he is always polite, almost meek. “Joel wants to sign you,” he tells me. “His label is excited about you. They like your music. You want to get the best deal possible, because you’re going to make millions of dollars for this company if you sign with them, right?”
“Right,” I say, even though I’m not sure I agree. Joel watches Frank with a mixture of respect and irritation.
“We’ve been talking for a few minutes already, and I think we’ll be able to come to an agreement,” Frank adds.
“I’m sure we will,” Joel says with a moderately pained look.
“What I’ve proposed, Cuicatl, is outlined here.”
Frank hands me a thick file folder.
“I’ve given one to Joel as well. It’s very basic. This isn’t the only label interested in you, and he knows that. I have included market data on the genre and the demand, and some sales figures for similar artists worldwide. What we’re asking, under the circumstances, is reasonable. Joel knows that. We want to go with the label that gives us the most support and resources. I’ve detailed what we’ll need as far as an advance, promotions budget, and points for the artist as composer, performer, and producer. I’d like to take a few minutes now for all of us to look over the numbers, and see what we think.”
Joel opens his folder, reads for a few minutes, then presses the speakerphone button. He dials a four-number extension, and when a man picks up, begins speaking in nervous Spanish to him. He invites the man to come by right now to review the proposal.
The president of the label, Gustavo Milanes, appears. He is younger than I imagined, tall, with a curly mullet haircut and large eyeglasses. He shakes my hand and tells me he has heard many good things about me. The men adjust a few numbers, argue about others, all in Spanish. An hour passes without me saying a word. Whenever my demo CD ends, Joel Benítez presses his remote and starts it again, until I am sick of hearing myself.
The executives make suggestions that begin to make me queasy: that I use my old name, go a little more pop, lose the nose ring, lighten my hair.
Frank nips it in the bud. “She is perfect the way she is. You must know what you’ve got here. Have you seen how many kids show up at her shows? There are lines around the block, and this with no promotional money. Do you realize what the demand is for an artist like her? There’s no one like her out there. The material is ready to go now, she’s recorded six of her own CDs. The label could use a success after the year you’ve had. It’s an easy, risk-free project. You know it and I know it. Let’s move forward.”
There is more talking in Spanish. My nausea fades.
Finally, Frank says he is happy with the proposal and its amendments. Joel suggests meeting next week to sign the contract. Frank is adamant that we should do it now. “I thought you gentlemen were serious,” he says.
Joel says something about needing approval from the financial director of the company. Frank counters that there must have already been discussions and caps set and the offer must fall within what was already approved. “We have other possibilities.” He begins to gather his papers. “Let’s go, Cuicatl.”
Joel and Milanes whisper for a moment. Then Milanes says that he will return shortly with a contract. “It may take an hour or more,” he says. Frank says fine. We wait. For a brief moment, I wonder if I can trust Frank. I don’t really know him. But he is Mexica. I have no reason to doubt him.
The contract is delivered in two hours. I look at Frank, and he mouths the Nahuatl word for “trust me.”
I sign.
Joel signs.
Milanes signs.
“I’d like to hold a press conference next week,” Joel says. “To announce the signing. We should aim for an April release. It’s fast but you’re ready. We could sell your homemade CDs now, but I want you to shine them up a bit.
“You’ll get your first check in six weeks,” Joel tells me. His demeanor has changed, and it’s clear he, not Frank, is calling the shots now. “For the amount here.” He points. “Use that for any remixes or production and for new songs you might want to record.”
He points to a number buried in the fine and voluminous print of the contract. I gasp, and Frank laug
hs. I quickly do the math. It’s in the millions. I would have been happy to come away with a hundred thousand.
Joel explains, “It’s for living expenses, of course, but primarily to produce your first album, to be delivered by the end of March, with advance promotional copies as soon as possible. Don’t spend it all in one place. It sounds like a lot right now, but you have to pay for everything yourself, the studio time, production, engineering, mixing, the musicians. Everything but the promotion, and we’ll start that today.”
I stare at the number.
“Once you deliver the album on time,” Joel says, “you’ll get the rest of the money.” He points to another number: more millions. I gasp again. Frank’s eyes shine and he smiles the ancient powerful smile of our people.
“In addition,” Joel continues, “you will earn points adding up to a percentage of each album sold after that, as well as points on the songs played on the radio, as writer, artist, and executive producer. And, of course, any earnings you accrue on your promotional tour, which will be international in scope. We have agreed to pour a lot into promotion, so I imagine you will be known across Latin America, Spain, and the Spanish-speaking U.S., at a minimum. Asia is a possibility for this music. Always is. Foreign rights are another discussion, but Frank will make sure you get the best deal. Right, Frank?”
Frank nods.
Joel says, “Hey, Cuicatl, I know you don’t necessarily want to do an English single. But consider it. We’re doing more collaboration with Wagner mainstream. Your sound has crossover potential.”
“How much will that add?” I ask. I am not wedded to Spanish anymore. One European language versus another, I could care less.
Joel whistles through his teeth.
“It depends on you,” Frank says. “But it could be as much as a few million more.”
“Chinga,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Oye eso,” Joel says, looking at me with humor in his eyes.
Then, because the contract is signed, because I am Cuicatl and protected by the spirit of Ozomatli and Jaguar, and it doesn’t matter if I look like a surprised bumpkin, I shout the word out loud, again.
Joel stands up as we leave, and gives me a hug. “Welcome to the Wagner family, Amb—err, Cuicatl,” he says. “It should be clear by now that we expect a lot from you.”
No kidding.
It’s mid-February, usually a hot time for the housing market, but most of us in this city are nowhere near getting a house. Why? Because the median home price in Boston is now the third highest in the United States, according to a new study. A home here costs about triple what it would cost just about anywhere else. I wish I could buy a house, but like millions of others here, I’ll remain in a passionate, rented affair with this overpriced burgh, paying, as I often seem to, way too high a price for love.
—from “My Life,” by Lauren Fernández
lauren
I’M HIDING BEHIND the small cardboard sock dresser in Ed’s living-room closet. I called in sick, hopped the Delta shuttle to LaGuardia, and took a taxi to Ed’s spiffy two-room apartment on the Upper East Side. Chuck Spring let me have it again yesterday, for not being “Latina” enough in my writing, and rather than risk kicking him in the teeth I decided to take some time off and snoop a tiny bit. I let myself in with my key. He’s not expecting a visit from me until next weekend.
A few minutes ago, I went through his drawers and pockets, looking for evidence. I found a jumbo box of blue condoms with six missing, and a butterfly hair clip that didn’t belong to me. Ed’s not the condom type; the barrette might be his.
He has just come in the front door, and he’s not alone. I peek through a crack in the closet door and see her as she clicks by on her tacky tacones, high-heeled sandals made of white plastic. It’s freezing out. I suspect she’s insane. She also wears a pink jersey miniskirt with white triangles on it, with nude panty hose. I catch a glimpse of her face. She looks as young as she sounded on his voice mail, but darker than I expected. For some reason her little Valley Girl voice didn’t sound to me like it would come out of a streetwalker from Juarez, with caked tangerine lipstick and a big, frizzy perm. Her latest message had them scheduled to have dinner here tonight. “I’ll cook for you,” she’d said, dopey and orgasmic. “At your place.”
Sure, I’m a psycho. But justified. I need to cough. Damnit. Hold it, Lauren, hold it. I gulp, squeeze my eyes shut, focus on something else. The urge subsides. I open my eyes just in time to see Ed smack the girl on the rear. Chuckling, he removes his navy blue blazer with the brass anchor buttons, hands it to her. Uh-oh. I’m paralyzed. Will she open the closet? I mouth the words “Please no, please no,” mantralike, and it works. She drapes the jacket on a dining chair.
I hear Ed take a surprisingly long piss with the bathroom door open. Lola starts opening cabinets looking for pots and pans. Ed flushes, comes out whistling. He stops in front of the closet and stretches, burps, moves on to the living room. Really, the kitchen and living room are one room, differentiated only by tile to carpet. Ed plops into his leather armchair, the one with all the massage knobs under its skin, turns the television to CNN. He burps again. What a charmer. They speak slow Mexican Spanish while she chops an onion with precision and speed. I try to hear what they’re saying, but the raw pipes next to me have begun to clang in my ears. Old building, steam heat. I clear my throat a little, hope no one hears. Soon, I smell oil heating, onions frying with chile powder, pinto beans, and meat cooking. An ad for a Cowboys football game comes on and, predictably, Ed punches up the volume, hops out of his seat, and raises one arm like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. I’ve seen the move many times; he pantomimes slamming a football to the ground, his own little touchdown. “Ahua!” he cries, shaking his rump. Lola doesn’t look up. Ed looks disappointed that she didn’t notice his athletic prowess. He shrugs, sits down, chuckles along with a beer commercial featuring men doing stupid things. I lean forward and squint through the crack, see Lola planted in front of the stove, stirring so hard her big, firm butt wobbles. Once, when Ed’s mom asked me if I knew how to cook “m’ijo’s favorites,” I joked with her about making “a mean buttered toast when I’m not working.” Frowning, she whispered in Ed’s ear, and left the room.
I’m covered with itches and have to pee when Lola finally calls Ed to the table. I hear rustling, scooting chairs, Ed whistling through his front teeth the theme to O’Reilly’s talk show. My foot is asleep. I’m suffocating. I hear flatware scraping the plates. He pops the top on a beer. Then another. “Delicioso,” Ed says. “You’re such a great cook, así como mi madre, chula.”
Ouch.
If I barge in now, he’ll say they’re just friends. I must wait.
I stay curled and cramped until Lola has washed the dishes, dried them with a towel, put them away, and rubbed Ed’s shoulders as he picks his teeth with his thumb. Finally, I hear the wet slurp of kissing. He lows like a sick bull, she giggles like a chicken. He says she’s beautiful. Lola calls him “guapo,” which means handsome; now I know she’s insane.
Ed is many things, but handsome he is not.
Their voices recede to the bedroom. It’s amazing how many women want to get with that big ugly Mexican. I could rush in now, kick his ass. But I want him to be guilty as possible. I’ll give him another minute or two, any more than that and he will be finished. Stupid closet, smells like a department store. He keeps the suits in the bedroom, the casual clothes here. For Ed, that means khakis, oxfords, cowboy boots, and a Dallas Cowboys cap he refuses to launder out of superstition.
Guapo? Maybe, if you blur your eyes a little. He’s almost handsome, which is worse than being flat-out ugly because he can trick you into thinking he’s good-looking with his good body and wardrobe. He’s got that large-ass head, as I think I’ve mentioned once or twice, covered with old acne craters. His ears have bulbous lobes you don’t notice at first, but can’t take your eyes off later. His nose is crooked and wide and one of his eyes is lower
and runnier than the other, like a St. Bernard abandoned at a truck stop. But he’s tall—you know that counts for a lot in a man—and has really nice teeth and a pretty smile. His body is almost spectacular from all that squash playing and sushi—but he has a double chin anyway. Don’t ask me why; I’ve tried to figure it out, and there’s no excuse other than bad genes. He smokes a cigarette occasionally, but you can’t tell because he has gum in his briefcase. See? With a guy like Ed, you can choose to see the glass as half empty or half full. It’s up to you.
I start to move, stealthy as possible with frozen, aching joints and a strained bladder. A pair of khakis hit me in the head, stiff from starch. I shove them out of the way; he’s got about twenty pair, all ironed in a row. He dresses as if he grew up going to country clubs instead of Mexican rodeos. Fridays, Ed “dresses down” and goes out after work for drinks with “the guys” (the white guys) at sports bars on the Upper West Side. He told me they’ve asked him if he’s Cambodian, Pakistani, all sorts of things. They never asked if he was Mexican, you know? When he told them, they looked at him like Elvis just went by, naked and riding a goat. He grinned and gave them that cheesy wink with the snap. You betcha.
When I first met Ed, he was the information officer for the mayor of Boston; I was a cub reporter covering City Hall. I was stalking a few other guys casually and had lost all faith in men. He was the first Latino I met who could actually tell if the “woman” who just walked into the restaurant was a drag queen. Most of them can’t. They see a dude with an Adam’s apple, shaved legs, a tight skirt, a long blond wig, red lipstick, and big fake chichis and they’re all tripping over themselves, making kissy-lips at her, chanting: Ay, Mami. Ven aquí preciosa, bella, mujer de mi vida, te amo, te adoro, te quiero para siempre. Such total freaking lames.
Ed was nothing like that. He was the first Latino I’d met who was measured and professional, the first one who didn’t complain about oppression and imperialism all the time. He was the first Chicano I’d known who had zero interest in lowriders or big graffiti murals. He played golf, chuckled around white people the same way they do. He used the word “absolutely” all the time, each syllable crisp, nodded his head like he cared. He radiated so much grace and pure power it put me in a daze. Ed is exactly the kind of stable man I would like to father my children, I thought. He seemed like the type who’d never leave the garden hose out in the sun to rot, the way Papi did. An organized gentleman. So what that I had zero sexual attraction to the dude. Few married couples I know have good sex.
