Houston, We Have a Problema

by Gwendolyn Zepeda

  Jessica couldn’t help chuckling at that.

  “So, what’ll you have?” he asked.

  “The Magical Mocha, I think.”

  “And I’ll have a green tea. Thanks.” Jonathan smiled at the cashier and handed her his credit card before Jessica could even think to pull her own wallet out of her bag. “Do you want to sit on the patio or stay in the A/C?”

  “No, the patio’s good,” she said.

  She followed him to the patio’s far corner table, where a giant mesh of vines shaded them from the hot street. Up and down Westheimer, people were meeting up at other coffee shops and restaurants. College-age kids in vintage dresses, combat boots, and facial piercings walked in and out of the thrift shops and tattoo parlors. Socialites browsed the boutiques, and homeless people browsed trash bins. An almost cool breeze wove its way through the potted trees and into Jessica’s hair as a three-piece jazz ensemble tuned up on the opposite corner of the patio. Despite herself, she began to relax. This was her neighborhood. Everything was okay.

  Jonathan immediately removed his jacket. Then he sat and loosened his tie. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I should’ve left this stuff in the car. But I was running late and didn’t want to make you wait.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jessica said. He was the only guy in the place wearing a tie, she noticed. But obviously he’d been here before. Again she found herself intrigued. For a supposed VP, he was pretty hip.

  “So, how was your day?” he asked.

  She didn’t know him well enough to launch into a complaint about how nosy or demanding her co-workers could be. So instead, she said, “It was good. How was yours?”

  “Insane. I spent all day running from one presentation to another. I’m glad it’s over and I’m here now with you.”

  She took a sip of her drink so she wouldn’t have to reply. Normally she was pretty good at small talk, but all of a sudden, she felt shy. His tie was throwing her off her game, she decided. He looked as if he were going to interview her for a job. Or for the position of girlfriend, maybe. She smiled at the thought.

  He smiled back. “So, tell me about yourself, Jessica. I know you’re Sabrina’s sister, that you make great-looking web sites, and that your job at McCormick must be really boring. What else?”

  Again, Jessica had to laugh. “That’s already way more than I know about you.”

  “You’re right. What do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything.”

  She looked into his sincere, very green eyes and considered the question. What did she want to know about him, then? A lot of things, suddenly. But it wouldn’t do to get too personal — yet. She went with a cliché. “Where’d you go to school?”

  “Here at U of H.”

  “Really? U of H Downtown?”

  “No, Clear Lake.”

  Of course. It figured — he’d probably lived in a dorm and everything. “What was your major?” she asked.

  “I got a BS in chemistry, then changed my mind and got my MBA at UT.”

  “Wow.” She couldn’t help adding in a semiteasing tone, “So, instead of working for a big energy company, you could have been a chemist, discovering a new element or something by now.”

  “Sure.” He smiled. “Or, you know — just teaching high school chemistry.”

  She asked enough questions to figure out that he was in his early thirties and that being a consultant for Halronburco just meant that he found ways to do little extras for their clients and then bill them lots of extra money. He’d grown up in one of Houston’s most expensive suburbs. After getting his MBA in Austin and working there for a while, he’d come back home.

  “Austin was nice,” he said. “Really laid-back. But almost too laid-back, you know? Like they’re trying too hard to be Berkeley.”

  Jessica had been to Austin only a few times, once to help Toby reinstate his license at the state DMV and once to check out the South by Southwest music festival. She’d never been to Berkeley at all. But somehow, she knew what he meant.

  “Yeah, I’m not too down with their whole co-op, save-endangered-insects, hipster vibe,” she mused. “I guess I’m too much of a city girl. Plus, everybody who leaves Houston ends up coming back, right? It’s like a guy whipping his dog, and the dog just keeps coming back for more.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, that about sums it up. In fact, that’s the best description of Houston I ever heard.”

  By that point, Jessica was much more comfortable. Talking to Jonathan was easier than she’d imagined it would be. She told him her own meager history: born in Houston, went to school in Houston, working here in Houston. He listened attentively, as if she were describing someone much more exciting.

  Suddenly, she heard herself say, “Do you like to dance?” Then she immediately wondered what had possessed her to ask.

  He went right with the flow, though. “Sure. I love to dance.”

  “Really?” Now that she’d mentioned it, it was an important question. She loved dancing, so it made sense to find out if a guy she was potentially dating liked it, too.

  “What kind of dancing are we talking about here?” he said. “Club dancing, or something more formal?”

  Really, Jessica’s absolute favorite was Latin dancing — especially salsa and merengue. Or cumbias. Or even the polka-sounding rancheras, if she was at a wedding and there was nothing else to do. But she figured he wouldn’t know what that meant. “Have you ever danced to Spanish music?” she asked instead.

  “Yes,” he said. “I can do — okay, don’t laugh at my pronunciation — I can do cumbias and rancheras. And a little salsa.”

  Jessica did laugh.

  “Aw . . . I knew I’d say it wrong.” He laughed self-deprecatingly.

  “No, it’s not that. I only laughed because I was surprised. Because I was just thinking that you probably didn’t know what those were.”

  “See. There’s your lesson, then,” he said teasingly. “Never assume. So you like rancheras, too?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Really, though, I’ll dance to anything. I’ll two-step, if there’s nothing else. Shoot, I’ll even do the chicken dance if I get desperate.”

  They both laughed a lot after that. Jessica didn’t remember, afterward, anything particularly funny that they’d said. But she was having a good time.

  They talked about where they lived. He’d just moved into a town house in midtown, a few miles from Jessica’s apartment in the Montrose, because the neighborhood was so “full of character.”

  “By character, do you mean the crack houses?” she was unable to resist asking. She still remembered when midtown was Fourth Ward — the ’hood. That was before people who looked like Jonathan started taking over.

  This launched him into a big speech about the history of Fourth Ward and his involvement with the Neighborhood Preservation Alliance. Obviously, he knew way more about the changes in Houston’s inner-city neighborhoods than she did, and he was actually trying to do something positive. She couldn’t help but be impressed.

  She told him about the neighborhood she’d grown up in before her parents had saved up the money to move to the Heights. He seemed so interested, she ended up telling him about ALMA, where her friend Marisol worked, and their mission to save poor kids through the arts.

  “Wow. That sounds great. I’ve never even heard of ALMA.”

  “Well, that’ll change if I get the contract to do their web site. I’m going to promote those people into the twenty-first century,” Jessica told him.

  “I bet you will. I can’t wait to see the site when you’re done. And I’d love to visit ALMA, too. Maybe you could take me there sometime.”

  It would have sounded like a cheesy come-on if it weren’t for the fact that she could tell he really meant it. This was one serious do-gooder kind of guy, she realized. If she took him to ALMA, he’d probably join the board and then actually do some work on it. Maybe she would take him.

  In the background, the band picked up a little. They
started talking about their jobs again, and Jessica found herself admitting the ugly truth about what she did.

  “. . . so, basically, I’m a ‘junior broker’ when they need someone to mess with the less profitable files, but just a secretary when it comes to everything else.”

  “Well, there’d be nothing to feel bad about if you were just a secretary,” Jonathan replied earnestly. “I know if it weren’t for my assistant, I’d probably be out of a job by the end of the week.”

  “You have your own assistant?”

  “Well, no. I have to share her with four other guys.”

  Jessica raised an eyebrow at him. “But I bet you have your own office, huh?”

  “Yes.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “I do have that. You’ll have an office, too, pretty soon. I can tell. You’re too smart to stay an assistant for much longer.”

  She looked out at the street for a moment, trying to imagine it. “We’ll see.”

  “Hey,” he said suddenly. “How about a piece of that carrot cake?”

  “Oh, no thanks.”

  “Come on. I saw you looking at it when we were at the counter.”

  Jessica felt immediate embarrassment. She hoped she hadn’t drooled.

  “Come on. We’ll share a piece.”

  They did share a piece. By then, the conversation was flowing easily. They talked about their favorite restaurants, homeless people who’d become local celebrities, and upcoming movies they wanted to see. Jessica eventually glanced at his watch and saw that it was already seven-thirty. They’d packed a lot of conversation into an hour and a half — she felt as if she’d known him for a whole week now.

  When the cake was done and the jazz trio got too loud to talk over, they left the coffee shop and walked down the block to her car. Jessica noticed that his shirtsleeve brushed her arm once or twice.

  At her car, he turned to face her. “It’s still pretty early and I hate to end this now. What do you say we catch a movie? They’re playing Labor Union of Love at River Oaks.”

  Jessica considered it. It was still early — not even eight o’clock. And she’d been wanting to see Labor Union of Love ever since it’d come out.

  However . . .

  This was going too fast, she realized suddenly. This was supposed to be only coffee, not a real date. Also, she told herself, this coffee date was more than enough to make Guillermo jealous all by itself. And she hadn’t yet decided what to do about him.

  Why, then, was she so tempted to accept Jonathan’s offer?

  She forced herself to say, “I can’t. I made other plans. With . . . my friends.” She smiled apologetically.

  “Oh, okay. Some other time, then?” Not troubled or embarrassed at all, he turned and continued walking her to her car.

  “Sure.”

  “All right. Then I’ll give you a call?”

  “Okay. Sounds good.”

  He leaned in toward her face. Was he going to kiss her right there on the sidewalk? she wondered, feeling her heart speed up a little. No. Instead, he did the half-hug thing, with his cheek almost touching hers.

  As Jessica put on her sunglasses and started her engine, she saw him walk across the street and unlock a sleek silver A4. She adjusted her radio and peeked at him in the rearview mirror until he was gone.

  Then, after a few deep breaths, she pulled away from the curb and headed toward home. She glanced at her Virgin Mary and couldn’t resist giving her a smile.

  12

  The next night, Thursday, Jessica drove herself and Toby down Fairview, threading her car through drag queens as if they were traffic cones. Welcome to the Montrose, where the weekend starts early, she thought as they circled the blocks in search of legal parking. In her passenger seat, Toby fidgeted and whined.

  “Oh, my God, we’re never going to find a space. Come on, Jessi — just park right there at those town houses. They’ll never know we don’t live there.”

  “Forget you, boy. I’m not getting towed just so you can get there a few minutes earlier.”

  As they walked the three blocks to the club, Jessica waved to people they knew, and Toby waved to people he’d like to get to know.

  “So what’s been going on with you, Miss Thing?” asked Toby. “Are you still seeing your hot Picasso?”

  “Yes.” Jessica sighed. “You know — on and off. But then . . .”

  Toby shook his head. “Oh yes. I know the old on and off. Looks like you were the last stop on the Booty Call Express.” He threw his arms up in the air and snapped his fingers, calling, “Woo, woo!” like a train.

  “Hey! Come on!” Jessica protested, reaching up and pushing Toby’s arms back down.

  He put his arm around her shoulders as they walked. “Don’t feel bad. We all have to visit Dysfunction Junction at one time or another.”

  “What is it with you and the train talk tonight?” Jessica asked. They’d reached the door of the club. Luckily, there wasn’t a line yet. The shirtless doorman held out his hand for their IDs.

  “And anyway,” Jessica continued, “forget about Guillermo for a sec. I have to tell you something.”

  “What’s that?” Toby asked absentmindedly. He didn’t even look at Jessica, as he was busy batting his lashes at the doorman.

  “I met someone new.”

  “What?” Toby swung around in midflutter. But Jessica had already gone through the door.

  Inside the auditorium-size club, their conversation was ended by the noise and their struggle through the throng of bodies to make it to the bar. They ordered vodka cocktails from the bartender who always let Toby drink free, then stood and surveyed the scene.

  It was the same as every Thursday night at Galaxy. The sunken dance floor throbbed with the shirtless DJ’s heart-shaking bass. Giant videoscreens on the walls blazed an ever shifting panorama of colors. Although the crowd was dotted here and there with lesbian couples or chubby fag hags, as the gay-friendly straight women were called, it was mostly men. Hot and cold running men, in all shapes, sizes, and colors. And not one of them was interested in Jessica. It was nice sometimes not to have to worry about what men thought about her and the way she looked. The music pumped, making her hips move, and she felt all her cares melt away. She downed the last of her drink and slammed the fruit-garnished glass on the bar. “Let’s go.”

  “Hold on, hold on. One more,” said Toby.

  As they ordered their second round, the action began. An older man with a graying handlebar mustache zoomed in on Toby. “Hi there,” he murmured.

  “Whatever,” Toby said dismissively, turning his back. The man’s mustache drooped sadly as he walked back the way he’d come.

  A short bodybuilder with a black tank top and studded leather collar approached.

  “Uh-uh, baby.” Toby shook his head. “Don’t come over here in those acid-washed jeans.”

  “Hello,” said a handsome, shaved-bald man in overalls and nothing else.

  Toby held up his palm to the man’s face. “Talk to the white girl,” he said, then flipped his hand to show the other side. “Because the black girl’s not listening.”

  Jessica shook her head. Some of those guys had looked perfectly nice to her. But she had given up trying to figure out her friend’s mating rituals a long time ago.

  Out on the dance floor, they whooped and threw their hands in the air. Toby bumped and ground against Jessica like a rap star, then did the same thing with the other men on the floor.

  After an hour and a half of grinding under the lights, Jessica became dehydrated. Toby motioned for them to retire to the karaoke room. The crowd there, seated at tiny tables and bar stools, was helping the man on the stage sing “Killing Me Softly” while the drag-queen KJ conducted with graceful waves of her long-nailed hands. After getting another drink for Toby and a water bottle for Jessica, they collapsed at the first table they found.

  Toby brought the conversation back to the subject that wasn’t far from Jessica’s mind. “Okay — tell me now. You said you met
someone new. Who?”

  “One of my brother-in-law’s friends.”

  “What? One of the Pod People, you mean?” Toby had heard plenty from Jessica about Sabrina’s friends.

  “Yeah. Well, no. This one was different,” she said. Toby gestured impatiently, so she continued. “He works at Halronburco with my brother-in-law, but he dresses better. And he likes DJ Jump-Up. We had coffee yesterday, at Argentine.”

  “What?” Toby exclaimed in his customarily melodramatic style. “Why didn’t you tell me? What does he look like? Cute?”

  Jessica felt her face flush for some reason. “Sort of, yeah. He’s blond. Tall.”

  “Oh hell, yes, girl!” Toby’s voice was fervent. “But hold on. Hold on a minute. When’s the last time you saw Don’t Call-O Montalban?”

  “Guillermo, you mean? Friday night.”

  “Oh, my gosh! You hooker! And how was it? Did he service your muffler right?” Toby bit into his cherry seductively.

  Jessica was so used to his off-color commentary, she barely noticed it anymore. “Yes. But then he ended up pissing me off, like always. Actually, I don’t think I’m going to see him for a while.”

  “What? Why?” said Toby. “Did my mom tell your mom you were seeing him, and your mom got mad?”

  “No. Wait — you didn’t tell your mom I was seeing him, did you?” Jessica narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. Toby had the bad habit of sharing secrets with his mother, and Mrs. Jimenez was notorious for turning around and telling those secrets to Jessica’s mother.

  “What? No! Of course not,” Toby protested. “I’m just saying — why would you stop seeing Guillermo when he’s so freaking hot? You’re just starting out with this new guy. Jessica, you didn’t sleep with him last night, did you?” His voice was more hopeful than shocked.

  “No. Not even. We haven’t even kissed.”

  Toby made a dismissive gesture then, as if that fact negated the whole date.

  Jessica paused to take a long drink from her water bottle and collect her thoughts. “It’s just that I’m tired of Guillermo’s attitude, you know? It’s been almost a week since I got mad and ran out of his house, and the jerk hasn’t even called to see how I’m doing.” She felt her face heat as she warmed to her subject. “All he’s doing is skipping work, feeding stray animals, and painting portraits of skanky old women. He only calls me when I’m mad at him, and then he makes lame excuses. And I fall for it, so we can have make-up sex, even though we haven’t technically made up. Then he goes back about his business and forgets about me. Over and over again.”