Handbook for an Unpredictable Life: How I Survived Sister Renata and My Crazy Mother, and Still Came Out Smiling (with Great Hair)

by Perez, Rosie

  Lydia was sitting in front of a small table with a small boy on her lap, maybe three or four, I don’t remember exactly. He had dark shiny straight hair, deep dimples, sharp Native American features, and the whitest skin—very different from me and even my other siblings with their dark olive tone and soft wavy hair. We all greeted our mother with a kiss. And then my brothers and sisters began to play with the tiny tot as if they knew him already.

  “Say hello to your little brother, Rosie,” said my mother.

  My little brother—another one?! And they all know him, obviously, and I don’t? Weird thing, it didn’t hurt. It just annoyed me—pissed me off.

  “So,” said Mrs. Vasquez, “we wanted to let you know that your little brother Johnny will be staying here at Saint Joseph’s with you all. Your mother, with her new baby girl, can’t take care of him, and I know you guys will look out for him and make him feel welcome.”

  Wait! Did she say, “her new baby girl” too? Jeez Louise! Did she ever hear of birth control?

  I don’t think I said much. I went back outside before everyone else left. I felt like I was going to explode, but on the outside I looked blasé and unaffected.

  I walked all the way to the girls’ playground by myself. (Being in Baby Girls, I wasn’t allowed to venture off by myself without permission—very bold move.) I looked around for Cindy but she wasn’t anywhere to be found. A bunch of girls from Groups One and Two were dancing in two lines, imitating the Jackson 5’s routine to their hit single “I Want You Back.” Man, did I love the Jackson 5! Gosh, I wanted to join in so bad! I stood there, jumping up and down in my skin, watching the routine as the count danced out in my head. Since the tap lessons, I’d felt and seen music differently, even though I wasn’t fully aware of it. My moodiness began to melt.

  I began to dance, trying to keep up with the older girls, but my shyness kept making me stop each time one of them looked back at me. Then my sister Terry came over. “Hey! Look at my sister dancing!” Sister? She called me her sister! And she didn’t say “half”! Yay!

  Terry was the one sibling that really warmed up to me. Like I’ve said, we began to click somewhat since we were both very silly, but she had never witnessed my Jackson 5 skills!

  Terry walked up to the front line and started to groove. Man, she was a natural. She had such style and an agility that professional dancers would sell their souls for. She just floated on top of the rhythm! I moved over behind her and imitated each nuance to her steps. She turned and looked at me. Oh shoot! I stopped dancing. “Why’d you stop? Come on!” She waved me over. We stood side by side and started dancing together. She smiled at me. I smiled back. Holy freakin’ cool-ass moment! I’m dancing with my sister! It was the first time I felt a bond with one of my mother’s kids. It was so great that my dancing skills—that were no match for hers—is what sealed it between us! I remember feeling a part of the clan just for that second. I remember bragging to myself thinking, Yeah, this is my sister. I’m a Perez, too! Dork.

  CHAPTER 9

  I WAS to spend the entire summer with Tia! I’m not sure if this one was my first full summer vacation visit to Tia’s house, but I do remember that after a while it seemed normal—this was my life, going back and forth, living between two very different worlds. And I remember the heat on that particular vacation. If you just blinked, you would pour down sweat. And the subway ride from Grand Central was beyond suffocating. All those hot, smelly, sticky bodies trapped, pressed up against each other, were stifling. By the time Tia and I made it to Williamsburg, my body was limp from dehydration, and worst of all, my hair looked ridiculous.

  Millie told me that when I walked in with Tia and she and Cookie saw the state of my cotton-candied mess plastered to my big-ass forehead, I was sent to the “beauty parlor,” aka the kitchen sink, quick fast, for an emergency makeover. The cold water on my head was heaven. Cookie made two cute curly pigtails slicked into form with good ol’ Dippity-Do. Millie and Cookie, with their wet sets wrapped in their scarves, went outside to hang out on the stoop. It was too hot for me, plus I wanted to stay close to Tia and watch TV with her. Hair done, television on, Tia by my side as I sucked my thumb—bliss. That was all it took for me to feel like I was back in the flow of life in Brooklyn.

  • • •

  Saturday midmornings was when Don Felipe, the milkman, and Don Cache, the credit man, would come by. Everyone bought from Don Cache. He offered the best items with only 5 percent down and the lowest interest rate. Whatever you needed, he had it: furniture, kitchen appliances, clocks, etc.

  Don Felipe was really nice and funny, and I would always wait for him to come up the stairs with the glass milk bottles clanking against each other. I was his little helper, exchanging ours and the neighbor’s empty bottles of milk for new ones. Don Cache was a different story. He was haughty, always in a pretentious business suit and hat and well manicured. Since most people were always late on collection day, a lot of our neighbors would always hide from Don Cache or play sick or do anything to avoid paying him. Tia was different. She would always let him in and make coffee, small chitchat. And she was always on time with the payments.

  But this one weekend she wasn’t. She had purchased a new stove on credit—the old one was falling apart—and she was late on a payment because she had put some clothes for us on layaway from Dumsy’s thrift shop on Kent Avenue. Millie, Cookie, and little Lorraine were watching television. Titi was hanging outside of the window talking to some fine-ass light-skinned boy who was leaning against a car. I was with Tia, helping her cook the early supper. She was moving around really fast, which was weird because she usually took her time when she cooked on the weekends.

  During the week, since Tia had various jobs, working at three different factories in Bushwick, she rarely prepared dinner. Doña Ida would cook for us, or Tia would bring home Chicken Delight (“Don’t cook tonight, call Chicken Delight”), the only fast food in the neighborhood at the time. But when the weekend came, she threw down. She would be at it the entire afternoon, and I would be right by her side, helping her wash the rice and the beans.

  Titi saw Don Cache walking up to the building and her mouth dropped. Before she could duck back inside, he saw her, tipping his fedora hat with a smile. She faintly smiled back and ducked inside.

  “Mommie! It’s Don Cache! He’s coming up!”

  “Whaaaaa?! Ay Dios mio! Hide—hide! Everyone hiiiddde!” screamed Tia.

  “No, Mommie! He already saw me!”

  “Ay, my fucking goodness! Dammit to hell! Everyone, seet! Rosie! Come here,” my aunt yelled, looking panicked as shit. “Answer de door. Tell Don Cache that I’m not here. Okay? I want you to tell him that I am not here! Everyone seet! Act normal!”

  Millie, Cookie, and Titi quickly sat on the sofa, placing Lorraine on the floor in front of the TV, forcing a relaxed tone to their posture—as if it were routine. I stood in the middle of the room completely baffled. No one had explained to me what was going on.

  Tia grabbed me by the hand and quickly walked me over to the door. “Remember, when you answer de door, I want you to say to Don Cache that I’m not here! Okay?” I nodded obediently.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Oh damn it to hell!” Tia loudly whispered as she quickly squatted down in the corner behind the door. “Rosie! Open! Open!”

  I opened the door.

  “Hola, Rosita. Como tu ta? [How are you?]” said Don Cache, tipping his fedora.

  “Bien, gracias, Don Cache. Y tu?”

  “Bien, bien. ¿Y tu mama? ¿Esta aqui? [Good, good. And your mommie? Is she here?]”

  “Yes! And she wanted me to tell you that she is not here!” I proudly stated.

  A huge gasp was heard from the girls over on the couch. I turned my head around toward them like, What?

  “Oh, si? ¿A donde? [Where is she?]” he asked.

  “Behind the door, right there,” I answered, pointing at Tia.

  Don Cache slowly pushed the door open
until he felt it hit my aunt’s plump-sized body. He peered his head around and saw Tia scrunched down, looking up at him. The look on her face was priceless and so funny that I quickly covered the giggle that was bursting out of my mouth.

  “Oh, hello,” she said with a wilted, humiliated smile. “Ay, my knee. I’m so fat. Would you please help me?”

  Don Cache helped her up. Tia was still smiling through her embarrassment. I had never seen her look like that, and it frightened me. This wasn’t funny anymore. Oh no! What did I do?!

  “¿Queires café? [Want a coffee?]” offered Tia.

  She didn’t wait for a response and quickly went into motion, making a fresh batch of Café Bustelo. Don Cache turned and looked at my cousins, who were still frozen on the couch, then back at Tia, who was nervously dropping shit left and right. He shook his head and slightly chuckled to himself in disbelief. “Me voy. I’m sorry, but I have to leave. I’ll come and get the money next weekend. I hope you don’t mind.” He smiled at me, patted me on the head, tipped his hat, and left.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Tia fell to her knees and died laughing: “Ga, ga, ga, ga, gaaaaaaa!” My cousins started laughing with her. “Ay, my goodness. Did you see my face when he saw me in de fucking corner?” she screamed. “Ay, I wanted to die! God bless America two times he didn’t take de stove!” She then looked at me, saw my worried face, and called me to her. “Ay, come here, Rosita. Come.”

  I slowly walked over to her, scared, wondering if she was going to beat me like the nuns always did. She pulled me toward her and hugged the shit out of me, shoving me into her big, fat, watery breasts as they jiggled up and down with laughter. She didn’t hit me. She didn’t punish me. She didn’t humiliate me. She just laughed and hugged me. Figure that.

  • • •

  It was the second weekend of the summer visit. I was still at Tia’s. The afternoon was hot and muggy. Tia was in the kitchen making an early supper of chuletas, arroz blanco, y habichuelas rojas (pan-fried pork chops, white rice, and red beans). The aroma of the fried pork and sweltering heat was insane.

  I was taking a nap on Tia’s bed in my panties and undershirt, covered in baby powder from my neck down to my toes to help cool off from the heat. (Baby powder is poor people’s air conditioning.) Cousin Lorraine was in her playpen napping as well, and the others were who knows where. (Tia was like that: she always trusted her girls and gave them a lot of freedom to hang.)

  Tia came into the bedroom holding a brand-new soft, butter-colored summer frock. She slowly rubbed my back. “Rosie. Look. You like?” Loved! I quickly put it on. Just then, my uncle-father knocked on the French doors to Tia’s bedroom. My face dropped. I had not seen my uncle-father, who was still my uncle, in a while, and I still hadn’t gotten over the “I’m your daddy” fiasco. He was wearing his army jacket and tight, tapered khaki slacks. Back then, he used to always wear tight-ass pants, so tight that Tia used to call him huevos apretados—which means “tight nuts”—behind his back.

  “Wow,” he said. “You look so beautiful, baby! You ready to go?”

  Huh? I froze. I looked up at Tia. Her eyeballs were throwing daggers at him. I scurried across the bed to her, burying my face into her big breasts.

  “You came early,” she loudly whispered with her thick-ass accent. “Yo no tuve tiempo de decirle! [I didn’t have time to tell her!]”

  “Oh, lo siento. [I’m sorry.] I was too excited.”

  “Rosie, you remember my brother, your Uncle Ismael?”

  Duh! Of course I remembered. I didn’t respond. I just gave him a stern look.

  He then turned to me and handed me a five-dollar bill. Who the hell gives a four-year-old five dollars?

  “We can go and buy bread for the pigeons. And I’ll buy you a coconut soda!”

  “A coconut soda?” I said. “Whoever heard of a coconut soda?”

  “How ’bout ice cream? Would you like an ice cream?” he pleaded.

  What else was I going to say to ice cream?

  While Tia quickly changed out of her bata, I peeked past the French doors at my uncle-father seated in that same wingback chair where he’d been sitting when he informed me in an intoxicated whisper that he was my dad. I wanted to look away, but couldn’t stop staring at him.

  It was about a seven-block walk to Woolworth’s department store. We first stopped by the building next door, where Tia’s friend Doña Susana was hanging out of her window with her humongous titties surgically attached to the windowsill. Of course I had to break out in song and a little tap dance in homage to her name: “Ooooh! Hola, Susanna, oh don’t you cry for meeee!” My uncle-father looked at me and cracked up, slapping his knee. For some reason it bothered me, and I stopped dancing.

  Next, we headed over to Katz’s pharmacy on Broadway—more hellos and a pat on my head and a gumball from Mr. and Mrs. Katz, a sweet, talkative couple who adored Tia, although Ismael monopolized the conversation. Mr. Katz made me laugh as he kept repeating to his wife, “What does that have to do with the price of eggs?” each time she would contradict him or my uncle-father.

  Next stop was the corner store, owned by Don Quintin (pronounced keen-deen) and his brother, Don Àngel. These two brothers were inseparable. Don Quintin died several years later after going to a cheap dentist; his brother Don Àngel died three months afterwards, everyone says from loneliness. As we exited the bodega, a beautiful curvy woman with a bad blond dye job came around the corner. My uncle-father’s head spun around like Linda Blair’s head in The Exorcist. He dramatically gasped, with his hand on his heart.

  “Perdone me, senorita. Lo siento, pero. May I please have the pleasure, no, the honor, to have you dine with me tonight, or tomorrow, or the next night? I would wait until eternity to be in the presence of a beauty such as yours.”

  He took her hand and kissed it, just like Pepe Le Pew in the Looney Tunes cartoon. I kid you not! She declined with an annoying giggle. Before she could escape, he quickly stepped in front of her and said, “I know you must be thinking, How could I go out with such an ugly man? Well, I may be ugly, but I make beautiful babies!”

  Hold up! Is this man trying to use me to pick up a bimbo? Oh, hell no.

  As the bouncy blonde laughed and sashayed away, my aunt slapped my uncle-father upside his head so hard that he stumbled forward. “You are so stupid!” Tia screamed. “I swear to God and de entire fucking universe!”

  Inside Woolworth’s, against the side wall, was a long counter with a deli/soda fountain/ice cream parlor behind it. I jumped on the bolted-down swivel stool with a leather cover on top.

  “What you like? A cone? ¿Frijol de vainilla? [Vanilla bean?]” asked my uncle-father.

  What the heck did he say? I think he said, “vanilla.” I shrugged my shoulders; I was too embarrassed that I didn’t understand it all. The nuns were winning in canceling out my memory of the Spanish language. I looked over at Tia. She came to the rescue. “She likes chocolate. You want a chocolate, mija?” I shrugged my shoulders again, then quietly answered, “May I have a hot fudge sundae with chocolate ice cream and chocolate sprinkles instead?” Tia laughed. I giggled back. My uncle-father smiled with us in a sad kind of way, feeling ostracized from Tia’s bond with me.

  Tia ordered a coffee, no sugar. My uncle-father ordered a Tab. They both were beginning to take their diabetes seriously. He sat there watching me eat every bit of my sundae. Talk about feeling uncomfortable. Then he asked me if I would like to go to Puerto Rico with him someday. I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t know anything about Puerto Rico. I looked back at Tia again. This time her eyeballs were shooting evil darts at him. He didn’t say shit after that. We sat in silence for a while. The tension was thick. Of course I had to relieve it with a joke.

  “Tia. Knock, knock!”

  They both just looked at me, completely baffled, like I was crazy.

  “Whaa? Why you say you knocking?”

  I started laughing.

  “It’s a joke, Tia. You have to
say, ‘Who is it?’ ”

  “Oh! Okay. Who’s there?”

  “No,” I cracked up. “Not ‘Who’s there?’ You have to say, ‘Who is it?’!”

  “Oh! Okay. Sorry. Who is it?”

  “Banana.”

  “A banana? A banana’s knocking?”

  “Tia! You’re suppose to say, ‘Banana who?’!”

  “Oh! Okay. Banana who?”

  “Knock, knock!”

  “Ay, this is stupid!”

  I was on the floor with laughter. It took me at least ten minutes to finish the damn joke! Then my uncle-father called over the guy behind the counter.

  “Excuse me, sir. May I please have a coffee?”

  “How would you like that, sir?” asked the waiter.

  “Wet, please! Get it?” he continued. “ ‘Wet’! Get it?”

  Complete silence—tumbleweeds blew through the department store. Tia then rolled her eyes. The waiter shook his head and walked away. I went back to digging at my sundae.

  When we got back, my uncle-father was standing at the front door, not sure if he should come in or leave. I felt sad for him. I should have made him feel more at ease, but I just couldn’t. “Thank you very much for the ice cream sundae, Tio.”

  “De nada, baby. And I’m glad you like the dress,” he said, and then left.

  I looked down at my butter-colored frock, then at Tia. I ran down the hallway and ripped it off.

  Later that night Tia, Lorraine, and I were watching The Iris Chacon (pronounced Eee-dee-ss Cha-cone) Show, a Latin variety show broadcast from Puerto Rico. Her nickname was La Bomba de Puerto Rico (The Puerto Rican Bombshell). Iris was voluptuous, pretty, and had the biggest ass you ever saw in your life. She could barely dance and barely sing (and if she did sing, she would lip-synch—badly). And yet, she was charismatic and entertaining as hell.

  “Where’s Puerto Rico?” I asked.

  “Puerto Rico? In the Caribbean! That’s where I was born. Yo soy Boricua.”

  “Bo-wing-wa?”

  “Bo-rrrring, Rrring-kwa, kwa.”