We Came All the Way from Cuba So You Could Dress Like This?

by Achy Obejas

  This is pretty scary business, you know, and I go, Ice, Ice, man oh man, come here, I’m all squash-faced like Daisy. But he doesn’t hear me, so I yell again, Ice, man, c’mere. But nothing. In fact, I think I’m the only person left in the house, like not only are Luis and Daisy gone, but maybe Ice got up and left, too, while I was washing my face. And I get really scared, my heart beating faster and faster.

  I run out of there. I run like crazy into the living room, I almost trip over a little throw rug in the hallway that tries to slide out from under me, and I make it to Ice, who’s still all sprawled out on the floor, his head leaning back on the couch. All I can see is the right side of his face. Ice, I say, Ice, man oh man, wake up.

  I tug on his shirt a little, then I turn his face around, to shake him, so when he opens his eyes he’s staring right at me, and that’s when I saw. I didn’t have much choice because when I turned his head there was this exhausted sound like air being let out of a tire, and then that squishing sound, and something very red, and that completely new rush of blood followed by the flop-flop of stuff just dropping from his opened throat. I don’t know what it was. It could have been food, except we hadn’t eaten, or brains, or whatever. It looked like pieces of tampons.

  So you see, I was there, or here, right here in the living room when it happened—whatever it is that happened. I probably saw the whole thing—but who knows what I saw? It could have been Daisy or Luis, or somebody entirely different. Maybe it was you or even me. Except I don’t think it was me. Hell, I know it wasn’t me. I was as good as Aunt Jemima then, and I...well, fuck, what difference does it make?

  You’re not going to believe me anyway, are you?

  The Spouse

  It was exactly noon, and the last of the weekend breakfast crowd filtered out of the diner. From the booth-lined back wall, a young woman made her way to the front to pay her check. She was tall, with reddish brown hair to her shoulders. When she stopped at the counter and fished through her shoulder bag for money, her tongue peeked out from between her teeth. She had a tattoo on her left wrist, a delicately etched silver and green doubleheaded ax. All around her the busboys and waitresses kept moving, the dishes clattering on the large trays. The register rang after each customer.

  “Lupe!” a voice called from behind her.

  She turned around, then frowned. Standing next to her was a dark, stocky young man, a few black hairs poking sharply out of his chin. He smiled sheepishly. He had on a stained white shirt and carried a tray of improbably balanced plates and glasses.

  “Hello, Raul,” she said, resigned to his recognition. “I didn’t realize you worked here.”

  “Yes,” he said, his English too formal, crackling with Spanish underneath. He glanced at the ax on her wrist. “Pedro got a job here, then he brought me. I’ve been here a few months already, so I should be a waiter soon.”

  Lupe pushed her check at the woman behind the register, then grunted and nodded at Raul.

  “My English is much better now, don’t you think?” he asked, watching as she dropped her change into the shoulder bag. The dishes on the tray rattled as he struggled to keep them from crashing to the floor.

  “Yes,” she said, starting out the door of the diner.

  Raul hurried to get rid of the tray and followed her out through the vestibule to the sidewalk. The sudden sunlight was so intense that she was temporarily blinded, and she stopped, then pulled on her sunglasses. Her lenses framed his image: a small man but strong, his shoulders and arms thick with muscle.

  “I haven’t seen you in a long time,” he said, now in Spanish. She noticed him studying her hands and made a fist, which caused the ax to expand.

  “I haven’t seen you since, well, you know. You said some very cruel things,” he continued. “But I always look for you anyway, out in the streets, wondering how you are. You could have called.”

  “What for?”

  Just then a pair of young men walked around them, one carrying a sheaf of flyers, the other a roll of tape and a stapler. They stopped and put up some of the papers on the telephone pole next to them, the stapler clicking over and over again. The two men, young and girlish, left after they’d layered the pole with announcements about an upcoming dance contest at a local club. Lupe lowered her glasses enough to read and register the information. Raul watched her.

  “Well, you could call sometimes just to call, not for anything in particular, but to let me know how you are. I worry about you,” he said.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Lupe said. She pushed the black, impenetrable glasses back up her nose.

  Raul grinned, suddenly absurdly happy at being with her. “You know, you could come by,” he said.

  “To do what?” Lupe sighed. “It would just get everybody worked up, or hopeful. It wouldn’t be fair. I’d either have to deal with your family’s judgments or lie about everything. It’d be horrible—and it’d just be for your ego, so you could be pitied or—” she chuckled, “admired.”

  “That’s not true,” Raul said, pouting. “It’s just that... I mean, we’re married, after all.”

  Lupe laughed. “No, Raul, you’re married,” she said. “You knew damn well this was just a convenience for me, a business deal. I can’t help it that you’ve spun all these stories for your family.” The sun was so bright she could barely see him. He was standing in front of the light, so his whole figure was one black block.

  “But it’s not right,” Raul said. “I thought we would live together.”

  “I never agreed to that. If it had been a condition, I never would have married you.” She was squinting; her mouth was dry.

  He kicked around at a flyer that had come loose from the pole and wrapped itself around his trousers leg. He shook it off, then watched it fly down the street. “Well, I know I’m dependent on you, on your generosity on this matter—”

  “No,” she said, slashing her hand through the air. He watched the ax as if she were actually wielding it, and cringed.

  “It’s not generosity,” Lupe said. “You paid me for something; all I’m doing is keeping my end of the bargain. And that doesn’t include hanging around with you, your friends, or your family.”

  “Well, I think you need me, too,” he said, his lower lip jutting out like a fleshy ledge. “I’m a good man; I can help you.”

  “You don’t get it, Raul,” Lupe said, shifting her weight from one hip to the other. She stood at an angle, scratched her hand. “I don’t know that you’ll ever get it, but suffice it to say that I don’t need you. You can think I’m crazy—I don’t care. We’re not family, no matter how many justices of the peace we stand in front of.”

  “But of course we are!”

  “No, Raul; you have your people and I have mine.”

  “But yours—that’s not your family. You need me to help you stay in touch with your family, with your Latin self,” he said angrily. He shoved one hand in his pants pocket and used the other to poke at the air. “In Mexico, this wouldn’t happen, and you’d have to do as I say. There are laws, you know.”

  Lupe laughed again. “In Mexico, we’d never have married, Raul. In Mexico, you wouldn’t need to marry a nice American girl.”

  “That’s not what I married here. Besides, that you’re American is an accident of geography,” he said. “You’re as Mexican as I am.”

  “Well, hell, Raul, if I’m as Mexican as you, then why do I need you to stay in touch with my Latin self?” she asked, mocking him.

  “You’re running away from your Latin self,” he insisted.

  “You need me to remind you about who you really are. You need me to remember all your real feelings, to remember passion, and maybe think about motherhood and about music, and poetry, too.”

  “Raul, are you crazy?” Lupe asked incredulously. “Jesus, listen to that pile of stereotypes you just spit out. Passion? Poetry? And what in heaven’s name makes you think I need you—of all people—to think about motherhood? Why would I need a man I ha
rdly know to think about motherhood? You’re a prick, Raul, a real prick.”

  “I know who you are,” he went on. “And I know who you think you are. I’m a man who’s seen a little bit of the world. I may not have gone to college like you, but I know people, and I know you.”

  “Look, Raul, you don’t know me. We’re married in name only; don’t try to make more out of it,” she said, exasperated. “Cut this shit out, okay? And please, quit looking for me on the streets, quit following me out of restaurants.”

  “Are you ashamed; is that it?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of what you’re doing?”

  “Oh, please,” she said, and started to walk away. He shook his head sadly and looked down at the tips of his grime-covered shoes. Then he took off, following a few steps behind her.

  “I didn’t want to do this.” he said, “But you’ve given me no choice.” He tried to kick at a piece of concrete that stuck out from the sidewalk but missed, his leg swinging in the air.

  “You’re nuts, you know; you’re absolutely nuts,” she said, still walking, unaware of his bad aim.

  Suddenly, he grabbed her and threw her against a flyer-covered telephone pole. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, kicking and scratching at him. Raul lowered his head to avoid her nails, but he continued holding her so tight that blue circles began forming on her skin under his fingers.

  “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said in a voice that cracked. “I tried to carry this around with me all by myself, but now you give me no choice.” He yanked her up, pressing his body to hers and forcing her face to face with him. She could see his pores. He held her like that for a moment. Then, seeing the men with the flyers across the street, he let go, slowly dropping his hands to his sides but keeping his body so close that she couldn’t escape. His face was pale and wet.

  “Hit me and I’ll kill you, motherfucker.” Lupe tried to step away, readying her hands, martial arts style, for him. The ax on her wrist seemed to disappear in the light.

  “You think I would hit you?” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “I am a good man, Lupe, don’t you understand? No matter how mad I get, no matter how many times I may grab you, I’ll never hit you.”

  “One more step toward me, Raul, and I’ll have you chopped like picadillo, baby.” She swung her bag around her shoulder so it rested against her back. “Hey,” she yelled in English to the two men across the street. “This guy’s trying to kill me. Can you call the cops?” The two looked at each other warily then back across the street to Lupe in her battle stance.

  Raul was crying. “The things you accuse me of, they’re all the things that you do,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his fists. “Well, I finally went and did one of them. It hurt me to do it, but I’m a man—I couldn’t put up with this any longer.”

  “Hey, leave her alone,” one of the men yelled from across the street, but it was lackluster. The second man walked slowly back to the diner where a blue metal flag advertised a public telephone inside.

  “Raul, I don’t want you near me, do you understand?” Lupe said, switching back to Spanish. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but I’ll tell you this much: if you keep this up, I’ll file a police report, and the government will figure out what we’re doing, and you will be shipped back. Do you understand?”

  He didn’t react to what she said. Instead, he took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. “I did it, you know,” he finally said.

  “Did what?” she asked, confused.

  “I cheated on you,” he said.

  She stared at him. Her fighting posture loosened as she struggled for comprehension.

  “I was with another woman,” he said. “Since you wouldn’t act like a wife, I just couldn’t take it anymore, and I had an affair behind your back.”

  Lupe wanted to laugh but didn’t. She was stunned by the hopeless sincerity of his unnecessary confession. “I think that’s good, Raul,” she finally said. “I think it’s good that you get out and get involved. After all, we’re not really married; we’re only legally married.” She smiled a little as she talked, trying desperately to be supportive.

  Raul closed his eyes, tears escaping from under the lids. “Oh, you are a cold, cold woman,” he cried, his voice cracking again as he threw his hands in the air. “Why did I have to marry such a cold woman?”

  “Raul, you didn’t marry a cold woman; you married a lesbian.”

  He covered his ears with the palms of his hands. “I don’t want to hear that,” he shouted. “No! No! No!”

  Lupe sighed and shook her head. “God, this is absolutely not worth it,” she said, more to herself than to him.

  “The cops are on their way,” said the man who’d gone back to the diner. He strolled back across the street to his partner, who’d been serving as witness to Raul and Lupe’s argument.

  “Raul,” she said, her voice softer now. “If the cops get here and we’re still fighting, you’ll probably be in trouble, so let’s just go our separate ways, okay?”

  “Don’t you care?” he pleaded.

  “Yeah, I care,” she said. “That’s why I’m telling you this. Please go back to the restaurant. I’ll just leave, and when the cops get here there won’t be anybody to file charges.” He was looking at the men on the other side of the street, who were standing there now with their arms across their chests. “I’ll talk to them,” she said. “I’ll explain things. I promise.”

  “We’re still married,” he insisted, as if nothing else mattered.

  “For just one more year, Raul, so don’t blow it for yourself,” she said. “And please don’t bother me anymore. You’re trying my patience. Remember that I can put you right back on the wrong side of the river.”

  “You wouldn’t do that. You’d go to jail yourself for deceiving the law.”

  They fell silent again.

  “What’s that?” he asked, nodding at her wrist.

  “An ax,” she said.

  He smiled a little, but he’d already given up. “To cut off men’s balls, I suppose.”

  She chuckled. “Yeah,” she said. “If necessary.”

  They both laughed lightly, a little embarrassed. The two girlish men started pacing on the other side of the street, impatient with the two of them and the police. Then two white women walked casually around them and down to the diner. Lupe pulled her car keys from the shoulder bag. Raul shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “I hear you bought a house with Kate—with my money,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

  She nodded. “It was my money; I earned it.”

  He looked up, but she refused to make eye contact.

  “You should get back to work,” she said flatly. “The cops will be here any moment, and I have to go.”

  “Will you come by, see my mother, or maybe just call sometime?” he asked.

  “You never give up, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you should,” Lupe said, then walked away. Her sharp strides put her across the street in seconds.

  Raul watched as she talked to the two men, their expressions serious, then angry. Lupe’s hands moved up and down. After a moment, the men turned and left, obviously disgusted. Raul turned, too, and quietly wandered back to the diner. By the time the squad car arrived, nobody was there.

  Forever

  Falling in love is an obsession driven in part by anger. That’s what gives it its urgency. It’s an endorphin rush, the kind that helps mothers lift runaway two-ton trucks off their helpless babies. It’s why we’re here, loving the wrong people over and over and over.

  I’m a lesbian activist. Part of my job is to fall in love, over and over and over. Part of my job is to be seen happily communicating, cohabitating, being a woman-loving-woman in the face of danger as well as boredom. Part of my job is to role model, preserving just enough of the threatening stereotypes to remain fashionably on the edge, and yet defying the stereotypes
that keep some of us from being invited to our lovers’ family homes for the holidays.

  I work for a lesbian and gay newspaper, one of those by-the-skin-of-our-asses enterprises that amazes and embarrasses us weekly. I write a political column—political in the sense of elections, not in terms of creating the matriarchy. I make up for it later, not by volunteering at a women’s shelter or lobbying for women-only space but by wearing skirts and lipstick and sometimes, in summer, shaved legs. Women aren’t so different from any other gender: we like thighs and sighs as much as anyone. I know.

  Personally, I like lovers with tempers, women who know that when a junkie is being beaten up by her pimp on the corner of Leland and Magnolia, curled up like a fetus in the middle of the intersection while he repeatedly kicks her, the right thing to do is not go to the fire station down the block and tell the uniformed guys relaxing on lawn chairs, but to get out there and hurl ourselves at the prick who would dare do something so vicious.

  I like women who can form a fist for something other than a power salute.

  I’m thirty-four years old. I come from a good Puerto Rican family which actually stayed together. My father never beat me. I’ve never been raped. I had an abortion at sixteen that only my mother knows about and a baby boy at seventeen whom I gave up for adoption. I have no money, never have, probably never will. All of this is important.

  I’m lying out on a boat with my lover, the early morning sun still rising and glimmering over Lake Michigan. The boat, a tall and elegant sailboat named Artemis, is owned by two white women who work in real estate and dream about sailing to Greece. My lover, who’s also white, improbably twenty-two, and an art student, resents their innocence. I know this from the look she gives me as she tosses off one-liners that go way over their heads. The sun, still waxing, gives me a headache.