“Lies!” she wails, black eyes narrowed to slits, the j’accuse! look borrowed from a telenovela. Muy dramatica. Just like my stepmother, she wants to act out bad soap opera dialogue. Logic, reason and facts are for suckers. These women “win” through emotional display.
“Mi’jo,” she says, insect-sized, false eyelashes fluttering. Flirtatious, she places a gnarled hand over his. The diamond ring catches the hard light. I shudder, creeped out. She’s worse than the Pigfuckers. J.D. can’t see it, but he must sense it. His hand jerks back. This telenovela’s episode is “Bed-time for Oedipus at Mickey D’s—Hello, Jocasta!” “I’m your ma—”
“Not anymore!”
“I knew”—she hisses, enraged by his “rejection”—“where you were going!”
“What? That stupid club?”
“Mi’jo!” she says, sweetly, switching personalities the same way The Exorcist girl’s head spun 360 degrees.
“It’s not just a club,” she says. I get the feeling they’ve had this conversation before. I’m watching a revival of a long-running show, and they’re reciting lines off scarred hearts.
“Mami, I like to party! I—”
“They told me—”
“Yeah? What’d they tell you? Who is they, anyway?”
“—was a lion’s den of—” She waves her diamond hand toward the street. “Homosexuality. Look at them! What do you—”
“People, Mami, I see—”
“No, Mi’jo, you don’t know—” She pauses, pre–bomb dropping moment. “They just want to use you and throw you away after they give you AIDS!”
“Clubs can’t give you that.”
“This about what I believe,” she says, bejeweled hand waving away his words. “And until you’re eighteen, you’ll live by my rules.”
“Mami, I haven’t lived with you for almost two years. I barely—” he says, and I mouth the words, lyrics to a song I know by heart. “Know you.”
Mamacita looks away. The window’s reflection captures an expression that’s a mix of disgust, self-righteousness and sadness. Disgust at her monstrous desire. Self-righteousness over something she can’t understand. And sadness over the painful truth of what she’s lost.
“You’ll never be happy in that ‘lifestyle.’”
“Jota. Maricon. Vestida. Taco. Burrito—”
“Such words!” she cries. “Where did you learn them?”
“Luis!” His voice cracks, he shakes his head and looks away. The light catches tears in his brown eyes. “My faggot son. Sometimes, I think you sent me away just so the neighbors wouldn’t know. How’d you explain? Tell them I died? How will you explain my return? The Immaculate Resurrection?”
“Return? You’re—” She catches herself, doesn’t say, “not coming back,” cautious about alerting J.D. to the Pigfuckers.
“Ai, Mami—”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Okay, how’s Puta. Dressed like some cheap street hooker’s idea of ‘classy.’”
“Cayate—”
“Mami, since we’re spreading our legs so the truth can spill out, answer me this. Who’s my father? The real one. Not one of my ‘uncles.’ Do you even know?”
“This is why!” she cries. “You lie. You lie.”
“I watched you pick them up. Married—”
“Nev—”
“Yes. One time in a Denny’s, I saw you uncross your legs, flash him and stand, knowing—knowing—that he’d follow—”
Jeweled hands fly to her ears, eyes shut and lips press together, watertight. He reaches across the table, pries her hands off her ears, pinning her wrists to the table.
“Every time you say—you claim—you know ‘what’ I am, I feel like you’re talking about an alien species. Lady, I know exactly what you are. A telephone number palmed off. Twenty minutes later, on your cell. An hour later, three hundred dollars to ‘see’ the bedroom.”
“I want my boy back,” she rasps.
“Who’s my father?”
She shakes her head. Black, mascara-stained tears run down her face.
“Why, Mami, if you can’t be honest about that, why’d you do that to me? Did you know what they’d do? Am I—really even—your son? I mean,” he pleads. “Do you even know who he is?”
“Because …” She struggles to speak having tossed the bad-faggot-you’ll-just-get-AIDS-and-die script. She reaches out. He pulls back. “I wanted you to go to the seminary! Become a priest! Our hope! Yes, our hope. There’s time. You can save us! You can save yourself! You—”
Cue, Pigfuckers.
Chapter 73
The men push back their parkas. They’re both armed—handcuffs, interrogation hoods and syringes—ready to end the Addamses’ family reunion.
Hammer jumps up and busts a series of high-speed, go-go boy moves. He’s the whirling dervish of male strippers, a combination of the Tasmanian Devil and Fabio. Mamacita stares, horrified and aroused. The crowd moves toward the “show,” a clusterfuck that slows the Pigfuckers. Jackets back, they’re ready to go: plastic handcuffs, mace and hood. I guess people are so jaded by American Torture, nobody blinks. Rendition? Black Ops? Who cares.
“See what I mean?” She points to Hammer.
J.D. turns and glances at Hammer. Calm, he turns back.
“Right,” J.D. says. “Coz this is church.”
“Excuse me?” She looks at him, startled to see and hear him speak. In her world, Hammer’s behavior is a conversation stopper. In our world, it’s, “Heeeeyyyyyy! Let’s get this party started!”
“When I called mi abuela,” J.D. says.
“Don’t call me that. I’m your madre.”
“Madre, smadre,” J.D. taunts. “Elena—”
“Is not!” she spits, hatred cracks her face.
Elena. I’ve heard the name before. Then, I remember. Elena was the Latina half of the superdyke duo who rescued me back in the desert.
“This was Luis’s,” she said, handing me the brass buckle. I just assumed she meant her brother—not her son. Impossible. I couldn’t have met J.D.’s mother in the desert, a lipstick lesbian with a crazy stripper girlfriend. But then, I never thought I’d live “underground” like a runaway slave.
“What did you tell her? Did you tell her they shocked my penis? Showed me pornographic pictures?”
The Pigfuckers have pushed through the crowd. I wait for Mamacita to end the scene. It’s their cue to yank J.D. off the stage. OH. NO. I realize, I’m the deluded one. I’ve been watching J.D. with his mother like they were a show. She had me sitting on the edge of my seat. The drama, the heat, the … reality. J.D.’s about to get caught.
“You can make this easy—” Pigfuckers grab J.D., pinning his arms back and pulling on the hood. They drag him toward the door. “Or you can make this hard.”
J.D.’s kicking and screaming, but he’s no match for Pig-fuckers taller—fatter—asses.
I grab the tiny hammer, break the glass next to the EMERGENCY door. I pull the handle down. The alarm rings, WUNH! WUNH! WUNH!
“GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME!!!” J.D. screams, his voice louder than the blaring alarm and Halloween Happy Meals loop.
Thirteen whipples turn to look. Mamacita’s eyes widen. She sees bearded men with clown white faces, glitter lipstick, gaudy Lacroix crosses—all dressed as nuns.
While the—mostly gay—crowd stands and passively watches J.D.’s abduction, the whippled ladies are lawbreakers and shit-kickers who act. As in action. Forget waiting for answers to your prayers, the sisters provide immediate assistance. The orange tabletop eating area becomes a blur of black robes, fishnets and flashing dicks.
Hammer leaps and lands Thunk! in a crouched position atop J.D.’s table. He grabs his package and sticks out his tongue, serpent style. Mamacita tries to disguise her hot and botheredness with “horror.” I’m sure, if this goes on long enough, she’ll pop her handbag and tip him a buck—or, slip him her number. Hammer hops off the table, stands behind Pigfuckers and reach
es around their pinheads.
SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH
Pepper spray. “Hot sauce with Pigfucker Eye.” Ming’s Special, next week.
“Ahhhh!” Pigfuckers scream, hands to faces, fingers clawing eyes. J.D. wriggles his arms away from Pigfucker #1 and escapes. Pigfucker #2, eyes squeezed shut, holds on to J.D. Blind, he’s determined to leave with his package. Pigfucker must have a drug habit or owe back taxes. Pepper spray hurts.
“Let go!” the chorus of man-nuns trill. A man-frocked mass—church, flash mob style—they block the exit and peel the Pigfuckers off J.D.
Pigfucker #1 looks at me with swollen, red eyes.
“Ahmed!” he shouts.
Ahmed? Who’s that? I don’t know any Ahmeds. Does he mean, Ah-men? Or, Ah-choo? I’m Ben. Then I realize. Pig-fucker’s seen me! Called me by my real name and—
He grabs me.
Oh. So this is a twofer. That was the plan. Ahmed & J.D. Easy, breezy and Pigfuckers are 100K richer. I’m happy for Pig-fuckers. They’re entrepreneurs. They deserve the J.D. & Ahmed jackpot. I bet the combined revenues from our capture will buy them three years in Thailand with enough money to molest dozens of twelve-year-olds virgins.
My family’s in on this. I bet Haifa’s worked some insurance scam: recapture or refund. I’m flattered she’s bet on me.
Tiny problem.
I don’t care.
I’m sick of “the struggle.”
Besides, I kind of deserve this. I was dumb enough to walk into their trap (and, worse, stayed when I could have left).
I feel helpless. My determination to move Pigfucker #1 and 2 off J.D. doesn’t translate to me. I give up. Numb is a hugely underrated state of being. I know I’ll never manage to worm my wrist away from this guy’s grip. He’d break it before he lets go. I’m money in the bank. There’s nothing I can do.
Except—
Open my mouth, tilt forward and sink my teeth into Pig-fucker #1’s wrist. I bite … hard. I draw blood.
“Arrrgggghhhh!” I snarl, a real live Wild Thing. “Arrrgg hhh!”
Pigfucker screams. I think, we should forget this abduction stuff and form a band. Primal Scream, the sequel. He holds me tight. He lifts me up and carries me to the door, The Child Bride. I look back. My eyes meet J.D.’s.
Crack!
A switchblade pops.
“Over here!” J.D. shouts.
Pigfucker turns and slams my body sideways against the door frame. I grab the door—leverage, anything to escape. My will to survive has come back. Pigfucker’s left hand dropped and clutches his butt—J.D.’s stabbed his fat ass.
Logically, this would be my chance to escape. No, Pigfucker’s right arm holds me tight, carrying me off like some ogre waltzing away with the princess.
Hammer drops to the ground and slips, unseen, in-between Pigfucker’s legs. Pigfucker walks into Hammer’s flat hands. Contact. Pigfucker sways, a human Leaning Tower of Pisa, and crashes back. I go with, and his head hits the floor, thump.
I squirm, try to get free, but Pigfucker’s grip is absolute.
“Faggot!” he rages. Oh. He’s mad about being humiliated by a bunch of men dressed like nuns and a teenage go-go boy. Metal grazes my left wrist. Pigfucker struggles to shut the handcuffs.
Fuck it. Forget it. I give up. I’m not going anywhere. If he wants me this bad, I’ll let him.
“LET HIM GO!” J.D. jumps on Pigfucker. He growls, werewolf style, and straddles Pigfucker’s thighs. He raises the switchblade, holding it to Pigfucker’s crotch.
“No, please,” Pigfucker begs, terrified.
J.D. unzips Pigfucker’s pants. His hand dips inside and pulls out the saddest, droopiest-looking pair of balls. “Cajones!” J.D. laughs, cackling. “Eh, vato, don’t ever touch another kid. Cuz next time, I’ll cut off your pinga.”
Zip! Another horror movie scream, Pigfucker drops me, his face squeezed tight. He grabs his balls. Blood spurts. Well, it is Halloween.
I take J.D.’s hand. Now we can go splash like water nymphs in the fountains outside the library.
“AHMED!”
Oh, Allah. Now what.
Hands grab my shoulders. Pigfucker #2’s grabbed me and J.D.
I panic. I leave. I run. Spring out the door. I don’t care. I don’t look back. I’ve learned that lesson. I’ve remade my DNA. Escape is in my blood.
Blind, I run. I push my way through the crowds until there’s real distance. Space between me and the Pigfuckers, loca Ma-macita, the male nuns and J.D. I decide far is far enough when the smell of weed and carne asada carts overpowers McDonald’s beef tallow fries. Only then do I look back for J.D. Did he make it out? Is he following me?
I don’t see him, only loca Mamicita, her ravaged face and confused eyes. My backward glance doesn’t turn her into a pillar of salt.
My body moves forward, toward an invisible horizon.
I run. I need to run. I need to run until I’m safe.
And then, before I know it, everything’s gone, the crowds have thinned and I wander the streets, alone.
Chapter 74
I get my wish. Now I’m free to stare, look at anyone for as long as I want. Everyone’s a target. I spring my inner voyeur. I look and look and look until my eyes are exhausted.
I realize I hate being alone. Worse, I feel like everyone looks at me. I probably look like what I am. A runaway.
I turn, try to find my way to the McDonald’s. It’s gone. I’m lost. I’d go back to the safe house, but I don’t know where it is.
I look for signposts and landmarks: Hammer’s tall, shimmery form or J.D.’s black cape. Count Dracula’s spawned hundreds of doppelgängers. I tap a few dozen capes.
“J.D.? J.D.? J.D.?”
They turn and I face … J.D.’s cousin / brother / uncle.
Cold, I press my forearms together, hold them up to my heart and try to warm my body. I spy a spot between two cars. I sit. It’s warm here. I sit above a steam vent.
Chapter 75
Saddam and I sat in the car, inching toward the TO GO window. Forty-five minutes ago, we’d arrived in a “new” city. Except, nothing is new. It’s the same strip mall, chains and fast-food joints.
That year, I was thirteen. American Bedouin, we’d moved every other month for years. Cleveland, Fort Lauderdale, Silicon Valley. My father was a computer engineer, proudly selling his skills to the highest bidder. “Our” life was a series of tract houses, ex-wives, and hotel rooms. One day, I realize, moving isn’t about money but memory. Sadaam’s attempt to erase the past, more specifically, my mother.
That day, I was exhausted. We’d driven all night. The hotel room wasn’t ready. We were “killing time.” Our turn, the car rolled up to the window. Saddam thrust a furry forearm out the window. Sausage fingers exchanged $7.99 for two XXL milkshakes, fries, and double cheese with everything whatever dead horse / cat / dog byproduct hamburger.
I sat in the backseat. From there, I saw his eyes flicker down and left, about to eye fuck the girl’s tits. But then he saw something else, a name tag. “Mary.” He never knew where she’d turn up. That moment, it was the girl in the white uniform with the red cone hat and pretty smile.
“Cunt,” he raged, gunned the car and drove straight to the freeway. He drove, demanding she come back, suck his cock, be his whore. She never did. Didn’t call or write. Wherever she’d gone, she stayed there. She sat in the shadows and drove him completely insane.
He’d tossed the food over the seat. He forgot I was there. The milkshake exploded on my lap, the burgers split and fries scattered like matchsticks. Click. I was locked inside. He hadn’t forgotten me. He held on to me. Bait. So long as I’m nearby, he might lure her back and destroy her. The way he wasn’t able to the first time.
Up until now—or, thirteen months ago—I was a stand-in. A prop. For his rage. Rage over the one fact he cannot change. She left. She left him. He never says it. My presence causes him pain. I’m a visible, constant reminder—of the day she stood at the front door,
turned the handle and walked out. She chose. Most of all, he hates her choice. And still, there was nothing he could do. No way to stop her from turning him into a raving beast.
Until, quiet as she’d vanished, she used the mail to sneak back into my life. I opened the envelope. Three items fell out. Photo, envelope, money. Mona Lisa’s daughter taught me: Survival sits square on silence that’s hard and smooth as black marble. Don’t give in. Keep quiet. There are no guarantees, Ahmed, but if you listen, read between the lines of invisible ink, you have a chance. You might live.
Hand to neck, I open the locket and remove the photo. I stare at the image. Tonight, if I saw her, would I recognize her? Walking by, is she that woman? Or, that one?
Saddam left the job. He never bothered to call. He said, “I never quit because I never started.” That’s when I knew. He was spooked. My mother was everywhere. She haunted him and drove him crazy with her spectral presence because there was nothing he could do.
Chapter 76
“Get up,” my inner voice says. “Time to go.”
I stand, careful to avoid the bumper, and walk. I don’t have a clue where to. Cold and alone, I recall my theory of sociological physics. Tonight’s been an excellent illustration of the theory. It goes: “for every wonderful social encounter, there’s an equal and horrible opposite.”
I believe humanity’s plastered onto a cosmic Rubik’s Cube. We don’t know it, but everyone’s all stuck on one of nine squares. Each of us hopes some “invisible” force (The One who turns the cube) will match up our other squares and create a solid color panel. (Or, Nirvana.)
“Ahmed?”
Who dares to call me by my name?
“Ben!”
I don’t think.
I run.
“Wait!” cries the voice—not the one in my head—and I slow. “It’s me!”
“Me” grabs my hand, spins me around and gives me a sweet kiss. I’m confused, but I don’t resist.
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