by Michele Reed
“Who’s that?” Mercedes asked and pointed a finger at the screaming man that had seemed to appear out of nowhere.
The tall man’s face turned a bright red. “Um… the foreman…”
Mercedes could not hold in her laughter. She broke into a hysterical laugh that brought tears to her eyes. “Oh, so I guess the foreman is stupid too, huh? Or maybe that’s just you?”
“Shut up,” He hissed, “Why don’t you-”
“Why don’t I what?” Mercedes grimaced. “Go back to the kitchen? Or some other feminine thing, yes? I wouldn’t know anything about construction, now would I?” She stood upright, her arms crossed. “Well?” she questioned, “you have anything else to say to me, boss man?”
The tall man took a deep breath. His face, still burning red from the embarrassment, squinted slightly. His cheeks turned up slightly and he smiled at her; he had the goofiest looking grin she had ever seen. She frowned intently and his smile instantly vanished, the look of embarrassment quickly took its place. He removed his hardhat and scratched the back of his head for a moment and then returned the hardhat to the top of head before saying, “Sorry.”
“Whatever.” Mercedes turned up her nose. “Have a nice day, asshole.” She eagerly left the tall man at the construction site, somewhat satisfied that she had proven him to be an incompetent idiot. Why were those idiots listening to him anyways?, Mercedes wondered. He obviously had no idea what he was talking about - surely at least one of them knew not to frame up the base of the building like that? Mercedes shrugged it off; it had been a needed distraction. It felt nice that she had managed to find some sort of entertainment in Manhattan even without any money. Damn, she thought, I don’t have hardly any cash left on me. She searched her pockets, feeling the small wad of ones in her right pocket and sighed, wondering what she planned to do. She didn’t want to sleep out on the Manhattan streets. She honestly would prefer to go back to Brooklyn where the landscape was at least familiar.
She pulled out the wad of ones, praying there would at least be enough to buy herself a sandwich or slice of pizza for dinner. Her heart jumped. Those weren’t ones. She held eight twenties in her hands. “How?” she muttered and thought back to the cab ride. She had asked the poor man for change, and he had obviously grabbed twenties instead of ones. “You poor bastard,” she said, imagining the cab driver would be incredibly disappointed when he counted his tips after getting off of his shift that day. There was not much she could do. She had not looked at the cab number or really even paid attention to what the driver had looked like. It seemed that lady luck had casted her stones her way.
Standing there, staring down at the sudden funding she had come into, she debated on what to do with herself. It had been a while since she had last carried that much cash on hand. It seemed almost like a greedy dream.
Mercedes bought herself a cup of coffee from her favorite coffee shop from her youth and purchased a slice of cheese cake to spoil herself. She happily sipped on her coffee and munched on the cheesecake. She could not remember the last time she had spoiled herself with sweets. Deciding she wanted to save the cab money, Mercedes made the long hike back to Brooklyn. Against her better judgement, Mercedes entered into Bob’s Bistro to drink the night away and spend some of lady luck’s cash. She hoped that she would be able to hide her guilt from the employees.
She tried not to cringe as she walked by the window that was not bolted up with plywood, but instead she walked confidently into the bar and planted herself down at the barstool. Edgar was of course the barkeep that night; his face crinkled up when he saw her. “What, you did miss me, didn’t you?” Mercedes teased, deciding she needed to make up for shattering the window by at least pretending to be nice. She felt she needed to show off how confident she was that she would not be caught, so she pointed a finger over at the window, “What happened there?” Edgar started to pour her a shot of whiskey, but she stopped him. “I’m feeling some tequila tonight. Top shelf. Let’s make it a margarita this time.”
“Damn.” Edgar forced a chuckle. “You never drink the good stuff. And no whiskey tonight?”
“The night is still young,” Mercedes said.
While Edgar prepared her margarita, he nodded off at the window. “I don’t know what happened. The old man called me this morning screaming about vandals and robbers, but nothing was stolen. Just some punk kids, I guess.” He placed the brightly colored margarita in front of her; she took it eagerly and began to sip on the tangy drink.
It had been a long time since she had last had tequila. “I hate kids sometimes,” Mercedes said confidently. “Some kids just spray-painted a crappy picture of some weed on the front door of my apartment last week. Looks like crap. I mean, if you’re going to do graffiti, I wish they would take their time with it at least and make it look descent.”
Edgar rolled his eyes. “You’re a lot friendlier tonight. I didn’t expect to see you back in here anytime soon.”
“Like I said, long day.” Mercedes was surprised to see that she had finished her entire margarita; Edgar looked equally surprised. “Too fruity,” she huffed. “Bring on the whiskey.”
“Top shelf?” Edgar asked.
“Top shelf,” she replied. “Double shot. Neat.”
Edgar laughed, “You did have a rough day.”
A few double shots of whiskey and two margaritas later, Mercedes found herself in the men’s bathroom along with Edgar. The door was locked, although she was fairly certain she could recall the bar being cleared out. She supposed it was late, or Edgar was just eager to get her alone. Thinking back on it, she was fairly certain it was the latter of the two. She felt numb from the alcohol, and she was certain she was going to regret this the next morning. Edgar pushed her up against the wall as she worked her hands underneath his shirt until at last he pulled his shirt up over his head and pressed his bare chest against her. He slid his hands up underneath her white tank, her Benny’s and Tito’s button up had long ago been tossed aside. Edgar fondled her breasts and nibbled on her neck, pushing her back against the door. He reached one hand down and began to rub her between her legs. Mercedes let out a moan to let him know she wanted him to keep going. Much to her annoyance, he asked her to speak Spanish to him. This confirmed that she was just a fetish for Edgar. Not wanting to ruin the moment, she offered up a few phrases to satisfy him, but she mostly was just cursing at him - not that he would know the difference. Edgar was an idiot, but he was the only thing she had distracting her from the world that was falling apart around her.
Edgar groaned excitedly as his fingers rushed to undo her belt buckle, but he was struggling so she did it for him. He forced his hand into her underwear and began to play around almost violently. She could tell that Edgar wanted to make her moan again, so she allowed a painful sounding cry to creep out of her throat so as to keep him motivated. His grip became tighter and firmer with each passing second; her eyes widened, surprised at the maddening aggression he was displaying. She reached her hands down and touched his wrist. “Easy,” she said, but he hardly heard her. She grabbed the rim of her pants, ready to pull them off herself. Before she could pull her jeans down he rammed himself up against her again. From the corner of her eye she saw a small picture frame fall from the wall. He was ready to tear her apart as he hostilely pulled at her hair and bit her neck. Mercedes was certain she would wake up with bruises if he continued like this. She could hardly breathe with how tightly they were entangled. He eagerly kissed her lips and was about to yank her jeans down to her ankles when a horrible gurgling from within her made him pull back. “Are you all right?” he asked, but she could not answer.
Mercedes darted around him towards the toilet and began to vomit violently. He was at least kind enough to hold her hair back. He had probably done this several times before for other stupid, drunk patrons. “Geez, you’re pretty messed up,” he grumbled disappointedly, realizing he was not going to be having any fun with her that night. Now he would have to be the responsible
bartender. Mercedes groaned painfully; she could no longer keep her wits about her.
***
Mercedes’ head throbbed painfully. A bit of light came in through the blinds and she turned her head away to avoid the sunshine. She buried her face in the pillow, seriously regretting her former evening. She attempted to recall exactly what had happened, but the last thing she remembered was throwing up in the toilet of the men’s restroom at Bob’s Bistro. She gritted her teeth, I can never go back there again so long as Edgar is there, she thought embarrassingly. She was fairly certain she had not slept with him, but she had come far too close for her to ever want to run into him again. Now she would have to find a new bar. She hated that it was the only one that was an acceptable walking distance from her home. She shrugged, knowing that after a night like last night it was unlikely she would go drinking again for some time anyways.
A realization suddenly hit her: she was in her bed in her apartment. She took a few deep breaths, hoping the painful throbbing in her head would subside, but it did not seem like that was going to happen anytime soon. How did she get in her locked apartment? Had Edgar brought her there? Surly not, she thought, knowing good and well that Edgar’s only interest in her was the fact that he wanted to sleep with a Spanish chick. At the most he probably would have called a cab to drag her home, but even then she would have wound up sleeping on the front stoop of her apartment. Oh no, she wondered, I hope I didn’t break the door in. She shook the thought away. There was little change she could have made it up two flights of stairs in the condition she had been in the night before let alone break down a door. Did the cab driver help her up? Even if he had, that still did not explain how she had gotten into the locked apartment.
Slowly, carefully, she sat up and looked around her bedroom. Everything was how she had left it. It was not much, but it was home. The room was messy, as always, with most of her clothes in heaps on the floor rather than tucked away in her tiny closet. She rubbed her temples again. “Stupid. Idiota,” she grumbled, imagining how Edgar’s nasty lips had been all over her face, neck, and chest. He had stuck his tongue down her throat one too many times. She gagged slightly at the memory of it.
Her bedroom door abruptly opened; her uncle stood before her holding two pots, which he then began to violently bang together as he darted over to her angrily. “Ah! You bastard!” she roared and covered her ears, her splitting headache growing worse with the clanging sound of the pots. “Stop!” she shrieked.
Tito violently threw the two pots to the ground. “You stupid, stupid girl!” he screamed, his voice just as painful as the pots had been.
Mercedes put her hands to her head, attempting to massage the painful throbbing away. “Pots and pans, really?”
He stared down at her, his eyes full of an unbridled fury. “You could have drank yourself to death last night!” Tito shouted.
“Would you please lower your voice?” she pleaded, her eyes shut and her face scrunched up. “I’m sorry.”
“¿Apenado?” he crossed his arms, “Oh, if your father was here-”
“He’s not,” Mercedes hissed. “What happened last night, Tito?”
“You called me,” he said, forcing himself to calm his voice down; he had made his point with the clanging of the kitchenware. Tito rarely did anything half-heartedly, particularly when trying to prove a point to Mercedes. He growled, “You told me to come get you. When I got to that nasty old bar the bartender was dragging you out of the men’s restroom, he was half dressed! I kicked his ass!”
Mercedes rolled her eyes, “You kicked his ass?”
“No, of course not! He’s twice my size and half my age, he would have torn me in two. But I gave him an earful.” Tito crossed his arms. “Where did you disappear to yesterday?”
“Manhattan. I went to Times Square,” Mercedes said. “Then I went to the bar.”
“I know you went to the bar!” Tito shook angrily. He looked like he wanted to smack her like he would have done when she was a child. She knew she would be hearing about this for a long while; this was not something that Tito would simply let go and pretend as though it had not happened. There would lectures, plenty of them.
“How did we get in my apartment?” she slowly threw her legs over the side of the bed; she could smell coffee brewing from the kitchen and was very eager to have some. She stood slowly, feeling herself wobble slightly. “I think I’m still a little drunk.” She mumbled under her breath.
“I can see that.” Tito offered his arm which she willingly took; he walked her into the main room of the apartment. They were always looking out for one another, it seemed. “Your apartment is a lot closer than mine to that stupid bar. I did not have money for a cab, so I had to drag your drunk self all the way here. I thought I would just…break in, but when I got here the place had been unlocked and there were new keys waiting for you on the counter.” He helped her sit down on her worn-out, old futon while he walked over to the cracked kitchen counter.
Mercedes smelled bacon. Tito had cooked her breakfast. He brought over a plate that he had filled with eggs, bacon, and boxed waffles she had gotten on sale just days before getting locked out. He also poured her a cup of coffee, black. He placed the plate and cup on her coffee table in front of the futon before going back to prepare a plate for himself. “Thank you, Uncle Tito,” she said, knowing she certainly owed him after last night. “I’m really sorry. I probably really worried you, didn’t I?”
Tito chomped down on a slice of bacon, eating over the counter because he was too angry to come and sit beside her. “I didn’t know what that creep had done to you.”
“I don’t think he did much of anything; I’m pretty sure I threw up on his shoes at one point,” she said while graciously sipping on her morning coffee.
Tito fought back a laugh, but it was to no avail. “Serves him right.”
She forced down her breakfast, hoping her stomach would hold it. She finished off her coffee, and Tito willingly poured her a second glass. He also brought her a glass of water, telling her she needed to hydrate herself. She smiled at him as he handed her the water; he looked away from her as he held it out to her. He was so angry, but she knew it was only because she had worried him.
Mercedes was not sure what she would do without Tito. She had still been fairly young when her father had died; she had been in college when he had become ill. At that point, it was just the three of them. Her mother had already left, and Tito had never married. He was not exactly the greatest role model when it came to relationships, but had always looked after her when it came to boys. Her grandparents had both died before her father had, still fairly young themselves. Tito always said it had been a blessing that they had left the world as early as they did so not to see their own son slowly wither away. “Parents aren’t supposed to bury their babies,” Tito had said when his elder brother was on the brink of death. “I’m just glad Mama and Papa did not have to watch this.” After the death of her father, Tito had taken it upon himself to watch after Mercedes. She had been an adult, but she had been a young one and a frightened one who desperately needed someone. She owed this man so much; she knew that. Scaring him with her drunken escapades was not the way to repay him. He deserved a better life than one that required him dragging his drunken niece through Brooklyn in the middle of the night.
“I’m really sorry,” she said again as she pondered about what all this man had done for her. He was getting too old to have to worry about her the way he did.
Tito had returned to the kitchen counter and was now leaning over a plate of bacon. “I know,” he grumbled and took another bite of breakfast.
“Te amo,” she said in a song-like voice with an embarrassed grin on her face.
“Yo también te amo,” he mumbled. He finished his bacon and eggs before reaching across the counter for an envelope. “Here,” he crossed the room and came over to the futon, handing her the envelope. “This was here when we got here last night; it was sitting with your ne
w keys.”
Mercedes curiously tore into the envelope and discovered a letter. The letter was printed on thick paper, and it looked incredibly formal. In the top left hand corner was an insignia of some corporation; the insignia looked familiar, but she could not quite place it. The letter read:
To Miss Mercedes Mercado,
You will find that your rent has been paid in full, including previous debts owed to your landlord. As a thank you for this gesture, Mr. O’Brian asks that you come to the Chrysler Building on Lexington Avenue tomorrow at noon for a meeting. Please come to the twenty-sixth floor of the building for your meeting with Mr. O’Brian. Miss Lawrence, one of Mr. O’Brian’s other secretaries, will be happy to point you in the right direction. A cab will be arriving at your apartment to escort you to the Chrysler building. Mr. O’Brian looks forward to meeting with you.
- Lillian Harris
“What the hell?” Mercedes eyed the letter curiously.
“What is it?” Tito asked; she held the letter out to him which he willingly took and read through. “Someone else paid your rent?”
“Really?” Mercedes rolled her eyes. “That’s the part that you find weird? Who is this guy?”
“I don’t know. I think I’ve seen that insignia before, though.” Tito said and handed her the letter. “But I’m not sure. Well, I think you owe the man a meeting if he paid off your rent.”
Mercedes frowned, surprised her uncle would want her anywhere near this mysterious character. “Are you serious?”
“He’s sending a cab. It’s close to noon. You should shower and put on something descent. I imagine he’s important if he works at the Chrysler Building and is too busy to a write a letter to you himself. You’re not in trouble, are you?” Tito questioned.
