by Ray Hecht
Andrea Suzanna Diaz’s complex lineage included descendants of Spaniards, Aztecs, and Toltecs. Her grandfather was a peasant farmer raised in the Mexican state of Sonora, and a good Catholic. As a young man, he crossed the border into the United States by backroads and pickup trucks, referred to himself as Diaz from then on (named after the Mexican President) and nomadically worked from farm to farm before meeting his wife one hot summer. The couple settled in a small desert town in the outskirts of Arizona.
Andrea’s father and uncles and aunts were born afterwards, and grew up in the Hispanic community of the region. The family subsequently immigrated to larger and larger towns over the years, and some members went to vocational schools to become repairmen and laborers. Andrea’s parents married after being introduced at a disco club, and were eventually able to save and purchase a house in the main urban center of the West Coast back when prices were low. A few years later they sold the house and made a substantial profit.
When Mr. Diaz’s second daughter was born, Mrs. Diaz caught him in bed with her cousin. Though the church frowned on it, she insisted on a divorce and made a good deal from it; she got a lawyer and Mr. Diaz was forced to pay a high alimony. Eventually he disappeared from their lives altogether, but not before leaving them enough money to invest in several landscaping and construction businesses managed by various relatives on both sides of the family.
The single mother excelled at business and successfully raised two daughters, with substantial help from her mother. The children never wanted for anything. They grew to speak little Spanish, and felt embarrassed as much as anything by their heritage of generations past.
They never wanted for money. They grew up as property owners in the same upper crust neighborhood where their grandfather would only have been able to pass through as a contractor.
Spoiled, entitled, and educated, they were living the American Dream.
* * *
“Sunday Morning...” Andrea hummed to the tune of a half-forgotten old song.
“It’s Tuesday,” said Cera.
Cera was the tall one with a short, bleached, pixie hairdo. She was an aspiring hair model.
“Feels like a Sunday,” Andrea answered. “I’m so out of it.”
“You were buck wild last night,” said Lisa.
Lisa was the shorter one, half-Anglo and half-Korean, with dark features, accented by thick black mascara over eyelashes and splotches of colorful tribal ink over limbs.
“That damn coke had me in the bathroom again and again. My insides are out of control,” said Andrea. “Bad coke going around these days.”
“I know,” Lisa agreed enthusiastically. “That’s what I’ve been saying!”
“But it’s not the coke that gives you the hangover,” said Cera.
“Vodka,” said Andrea. “Rum, gin.”
“Tequila shots,” they all said in unison.
The girls had a laugh and waited for the server to come. They giggled as he approached, and played their usual rating game. “Eight,” whispered Lisa.
“Really, babe? Only a seven in my book.”
Andrea said nothing. She was trying to figure out if she had met him before.
He was very familiar. He introduced himself as John. Or Jack. Or perhaps Jeremy or something; she was too distracted to pay any attention to the nametag. She always was more about faces than names.
That’s it, she thought to herself, and remembered when they had possibly hooked up. It was quite a few months ago. Maybe a year. She was lost in her thoughts, trying to figure out if he was good in bed or not. It must have only been one night. How did they meet? The club? Online? The app? That escort service she was regrettably caught up in last season?
“Oh my god,” Cera said to her phone, and Andrea turned her attention towards her friend.
“What is it now?” asked Lisa.
“Dick pic. I got like ten of them last night on Pic Pac, and I just now noticed.”
“So? What else is new?”
Andrea looked closer at the opened pic-and-file -sharing application. Lisa yawned.
“It’s from Blake!” declared Cera, referring to their mutual platonic friend. They all knew him as a regular from the coffee shop were Lisa used to work. He organized open mic poetry readings from time to time.
“Let me see!” the other two girls screeched over each other.
“I don’t know…” she said in a teasing voice, playing hard to get. “It’s private.”
“Cera…” Andrea whined. “Nothing is really private on Pic Pac.”
“Right. Like, why did you bring it up?” asked Lisa.
“Fine,” Cera ceded, with little resistance, and put her flat Grapephone s99 on the table. Three heads squeezed together, floating over the Quad HD 2560x1440 pixel display.
“Ew,” said Lisa, as she traced the blue veins with her fingers.
“I know,” agreed Andrea.
“So gross,” added Cera, zooming in on the dripping precum.
A flick and another flick showcased more of their friend’s well-lit penis. Each image studied and prodded as if on display at the finest of gallery halls.
“Wait, let me put it in my dick pic album,” said Cera, and she tapped to open her personal library of men at their most intimate. The reflective light put forth an endless array of anatomical displays, all in little squares, making for convenient filing.
“Not a bad looking cock,” said Andrea, referring to the first of several shots.
“I give it a seven point five,” said Cera.
“Bigger than my boyfriend’s,” said Lisa.
“Really?” the two others yelped at once.
“I’ve said too much,” and she cupped her mouth, almost blushing.
As Cera scrolled through her galleries, Lisa looked with an intense curiosity. Some were long and thin, some short and fat. Some flaccid, most at least at half-stance. Some dripping with ejaculate, some dry with tight skin rubbed red. Some darkly lit, in heavy shades in an almost black-and-white tone. Others in the clear glow of energy-efficient LED bulbs. Some brown flesh, some tan, some pale.
“These flaccid ones are the stupidest thing. What is wrong with guys?”
“I know!”
“So. Fucking. Stupid.”
“Like, yeah.”
Compositions were evaluated. Photographic aesthetics judged and rated numerically. Various fingernails of every racial scale held their shafts tight, playing with the head or aiming from the base.
“Omigod. Look at that.”
“Well, he’s like way too big for me.”
“Not a size queen, babe?”
“Average is best.”
“Yeah, I think average is great!”
“Depends on if he knows what he’s doing or not.”
“They almost never do.”
One stood out, pointing at the camera in narrow focus, with the gentle glow of backlighting.
“Oh my freaking God, look at that angle. How does he even do that?”
“Whoa.”
“Yuck!”
“Exactly.”
“Monster porn star alert,” Lisa warned, before a particularly thick specimen scrolled down. “Ouch!”
She was playing along, but in truth Andrea felt that nothing could be more boring. Already exhausted from the chemical-riddled adventures of the previous night, she needed something more interesting to keep her attention span going.
The dull flesh of the penis, with no context. An utterly useless appendage, unless the circumstances were just right. No face, no body, just a part. Under the bright light of day, it proved to be one of the most uninteresting things in the world.
It used to be funny-looking at least, when she was younger. Now, dull after seeing a hundred times more penises then necessary in a lifetime, she felt a profound and aggravating sense of boredom and doom.
“I have to pee,” she said, and left the table.
She didn’t really have to go, but made a point to use the bathro
om mirror to check her teeth. Her jaw was still aching. She wanted a smoke.
She relieved herself and returned to find the server had refilled their coffees, and then overheard where the conversation had turned. Without interrupting, she sat down and listened.
“It’s about how it feels,” continued Lisa. “Not how it looks. It’s not like I can even look down at it when I’m being pounded. Guys are so fucking stupid.”
“What the hell is wrong with boys? Why do they always think this will work?” asked Cera. “I’m a girl who needs foreplay. This stuff never does it for me.”
“I know!” squeaked Lisa.
“Call me old-fashioned, but I like the big reveal to be a surprise. I’m a romantic that way.”
“Ha! You a romantic.”
“Like, the dick pic thing barely ever works.”
“Barely ever?”
“I mean, it never works…” Cera clarified.
“Yeah right. Come on then, how many of these guys have you fucked?” Lisa demanded.
“You are really pushing boundaries, girlfriend.”
“Come on, Cera. How many?”
“Fine. Fair question. Well, some of them are exes. They sent it to me after the, y’know, big reveal. I’d seen the peen before, knew how it felt and all, and that made it fun. Does that count?”
“No way,” said Lisa. “Spill it, girl. The question remains: How many of the unsolicited shots did you later fuck? As is, how many times does the dick pic thing work?”
“Um… okay.” Cera thought about and counted her fingers. “Four. Or six?”
“What a good girl!”
“But whatever,” she said. “I am so totally not going to fuck Blake.”
Lisa took hold of the phone, and pressed the back button a few times to get a closer look at the original subject’s package again. “He does have a nice-looking one,” she said, intently observing. “As, uh, cocks go. You should seriously consider taking up the offer. If I was single…”
“No. Damn. Way.” Cera snatched back her device. “We’ve been friends for ages. He only sent it to me cuz he was drunk or something. I can’t take it seriously. We’re just friends!” She paused, vividly picturing the possibilities, and her face twisted. “Would so not be cool. It’s weird. Like incest or something.”
“Eew!” Lisa shouted, with true disgust and contempt, the loudest shriek yet. Several patrons looked over to them, but most in the restaurant continued to ignore them.
“You should just do it and get it over with already,” Andrea announced.
“What?”
“Stop playing games. Cera, you should just fuck him.”
“But I don’t wanna,” she droned. “It would ruin our friendship.”
“Who cares?” said Andrea, and tapped her knife at the plate. “The friendship is already ruined. You saw his dick.”
“Nudity doesn’t have to be a big deal,” said Cera, pointing her finger. “In Europe—”
“He wants to fuck you. Grow up.”
“Hey,” said Lisa, waving her hands in an act of peaceful conciliation. “Take it easy. We’re kidding around, that’s all.”
“I’m just saying. It’s, like, my philosophy. The friendship is already ruined, so what’s the big deal? Once a guy goes there, it’s in the back of his head forever. Don’t be naïve. Blake doesn’t want to be friends with you, babe. Get over it.”
“You are kinda being a bitch.”
“He’s the one that went there. Either fuck him or don’t, but it’s lame to care about the friendship after that.”
The table was quiet for a spell. The busboy quickly took away their empty plates. Cera stuffed her phone deep into her purse. The girls finished their coffee, and when Lisa refused an offer of refills they knew that it was the signal to leave.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Right on. I need a smoke.” The other two girls gave her a dirty look. “I mean,” she added, “I need to vape. I really need to start vaping, I know.”
The bill came, and they hassled over payment methods for several minutes, settling for Lisa’s credit card and each girl passed her a ten dollar note.
“How much should I put down?” she asked herself.
“Twenty percent,” Lisa answered.
“The service was shit.”
“I know,” said Lisa. “That guy was barely even here. And this place is supposed to so damn good. I’m like, yeah right. “
“But do you have to put down fifteen to twenty. Haven’t you ever worked in service?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah.”
They all agreed and Lisa type a review on Yipe before leaving. Fuck. This. Place.
Cera drove the trio to her house where they had all crashed since the early morning. Andrea grabbed her high heels, had a smoke, mouthwashed, hugged goodbyes, and took copious amounts of group selfies before walking to her dented car parked out front.
She realized she forgot about the sign which informed her that street cleaning was on Tuesdays afternoons at that particular avenue, and hit herself on the forehead. There it was, the terrible and foreboding visage: One white parking ticket under her window wiper. She crumpled it up in her hands and tossed it to the passenger seat.
“Goddamn it all,” she moaned to the air, and started up the car.
* * *
Forced with the knowledge that she suddenly owed forty dollars to the state, Andrea processed that information and decided to stop by her mother’s house in order to raise some much-needed funds. There was nothing going on at her own lonely place this evening, so she drove straight down to the lakeside part of town, up the hill leading to the condominium duplex where she had grown up. Though it had been home almost her whole life, she felt no sentimentality as she approached the familiar corner.
No sign of her mother’s vehicle, nor grandmother, but she did see her younger sister’s used pickup.
Andrea parked and had a few drags of a cigarette, circling the lot, before letting herself in.
“Hey Carla,” she roared as she entered. The smell of potpourri and day-old meat tickled her nose. Her sister’s head poked from behind the couch.
“Hey Andrea,” Carla said, reacting as little as possible. “I didn’t know you would come here today. What’s the latest?” She held a thick book in her hands, soft pop music was playing from the bedroom.
“Not much. I was killing some time on this side of the city. Thought I’d drop by.”
“Okay. Cool.” Carla waved and subsequently went back to her book.
“Do you know when Mama is coming back?”
“Nope.”
“Abuela?
“No idea.”
“Well, like, don’t get up on account of me or anything,” Andrea said.
“Wait. One paragraph. Then I’m done.” Her fingers started lining the page at an accelerated pace.
Andrea turned around, annoyed, and walked to the kitchen. As she passed the hallway, she saw several youthful pictures of her mother and father. She hated those. She remembered when she was a teenager, all the times she broke the frames. All the emotion, all the glass. It was hard to believe the photos had persisted after so much time.
She went to the refrigerator and jerked it open, although she had recently eaten and was not hungry. It was habit. The fridge was fully stocked, the left side full of frozen meat and the right side full of plastic ware. Week-old chicken, carnitas, fermenting dip, hardened oils, and various spices and sauces. She smirked, closed the door, and started sorting the wine bottles in the cupboard. Finally, she stumbled back to the living room. Carla quietly turned a page.
“Boring,” said Andrea, and plopped down to the opposing sofa. Before she knew it, she was lying down, feet up on the armrest. Comfort, and subtle contentment. Gradually, her eyes felt the hard weight of waking hours.
And Andrea nodded off.
She woke up to the sound of keys rattling, annoyed to be awoken, and tired enough to know that the time passed too q
uickly. Eyelids rose to see her younger sister had changed into thin polyester tights, and was putting on a light jacket. Carla stood at the doorway and the two sisters’ eyes met.
“Where are you going?” asked Andrea.
“Out.”
“Like, whereabouts?”
“Just out.”
“We didn’t even talk.”
“What?” Carla moaned and sighed. “How’s it going, Andrea? Got a new job? What’s the latest hustle?”
“Good. Yes. I’m doing an online thing. Like, very lucrative.”
“There,” Carla said, turning away. “We’re caught up.”
Cera laughed off the attempt. “So where’s Mama?”
“I don’t know. Out with Abuela or something. What is it, do you want money?”
“I’m offended. Come on. I can’t even visit?”
“I’m late for my class.”
“You’re going to a class? Dressed like that?” Andrea stood up and stretched her arms. She felt a bit more rested, but not in the mood for conflict. She hopped to her sister and gave her a light hug. The response was less than well received, with a token hand around the shoulder. “You’re taking night classes again? Cool, good for you.”
Carla rolled her eyes and smiled fakely. “I’m going.” She walked outside, and Andrea followed.
“Is it the cooking class?” she asked. “Photography? I forget. Oh, I know. Fitness instructor, am I right?” and with that, she patted her sister’s moderately pudgy belly.
Carla bit her bottom lip and backed away.
“Andrea. It was good to see you,” the younger sister said. The two broke away. Carla promptly entered her car and turned the ignition. Smog rose from the decapitated jeep.
The older sister, over the sound of the starting engine, tapped the windshield and asked, “Can I borrow twenty bucks?”
“I’m sorry. I got to go. Bye!” was all she got.
“I mean, it’s not like you pay rent.”
“Goodbye, Andrea.”
“Why do you have to hate me so much?”
The car drove away.
The older sister sighed, turned around, and walked to the doorway. She turned the knob and then realized that the door had locked behind her. She peeked at a small side window to see her purse—with keys buried inside—on the floor next to the sofa.
