by Mara White
Get out of my office and take your belly hair with you! Stop being so damn delicious and only eighteen!
“Your coffee smells like flan.”
“Times up.”
“Do you want it?”
“My coffee? I don’t want anything besides my next client.” Oh god, not like that. Failing. I gulp down more of my flan coffee. It’s hot and scalds my throat. It’s really hot in this office.
“I could bring in a canvas for you. I’ve got one in mind. You wouldn’t have to hang it if you didn’t like it.”
“Out, Mozey Cruz! Get out! Go paint and make me not regret my decision to let you participate.”
“You won’t regret it,” he says and drags his tongue across his full upper lip. Stop with the double speak. My head is swimming. You are making me crazy.
The second he steps out the door I breathe an audible sigh of relief. I gulp the last sip of coffee and bring my forehead down to touch my desk. I need to get laid. Now my flimsy shirt is stuck to me with sweat. It’s a goddamned jungle in here.
“Hey, Finch!” Oh God. He’s back. Go the fuck away, please!
“What?” I ask without raising my head. I don’t care if I look insane. My forehead is staying right here stuck to this paper. I’m not making eye contact with him. I refuse to let him make me sweat. Or blush. Or smile.
“Fridays are good for me. I’ll bring you your painting on Friday.”
Ha. Ha. It is going to be one of those days.
Chapter 2
Moisés de la Cruz doesn’t come back at the end of the day to fill out his form. If he can’t follow through with even the simplest of tasks, I’ll have to kick him out of the program. On a whim, I grab his case file and head upstairs to catch Jennifer before she punches out for the day.
Jennifer is probably only twenty-one or so, and she’s at the School of Social Work at UCLA. Lately she says she wants to pursue a PhD because everyone has seen the surveys in the last few years that put social work at the bottom of the barrel for jobs that pay.
Social work doesn’t pay, I should know. I live paycheck-to-paycheck and usually end up eating take-out at the end of the month when I can no longer afford groceries. I’m still an idealist, but it’s getting harder to carry the torch as time goes on. I could use a new couch and my car is almost as old as I am.
I entered into my master’s program immediately after I finished my undergraduate degree. I was one of those bright-eyed idealists who thought I could affect social change and paying all of my student loans could happen simultaneously while I was saving the world. In reality, the only thing I’m saving are Diet Coke cans to turn in for cash at the end of the month. Every once in a while, I offer to take the recycling out at Pathways. Know where it ends up? Yup.
I stop in the bathroom on the second floor to straighten my skirt and run some water through my frizzy hair. I am the project director around here; I might as well try to exercise my authority. It’s perfectly normal for me to go upstairs to ask a group leader about a new candidate. I use my wet paper towel to try to rub off some fresh graffiti written in gold sharpie on the mirror. “Facts!” It reads. “Aliyah is a cunt.”
I arrive just as Jennifer is locking up her classroom. We call them “creative spaces” here, but that’s really just the lingo we use to keep the kids from associating Pathways with school. Experience has shown me if they think it’s anything like school, they treat it as such and ditch. Creative spaces help them to forget they’re doing something court ordered.
Jennifer is beautiful in true valley girl fashion. My Russian roots gave me thick legs and a stocky trunk. At least I blame it on my heritage and not my diet or my sporadic exercise regime that always plays second fiddle to whatever else I’m doing. I’ve got a physique that’s made for harvesting potatoes and Jennifer is the owner of real thigh gaps, long, blonde beachy waves, freckles and big baby blues. I’m Velma to her Daphne.
“Oh, hey, Lana! Did you need something from the creative space? I was just locking up.”
I take my glasses off and wave the file I’m holding at her.
“No! I just wanted to ask you about a new candidate. He failed to show and finish his intake paperwork. I was just wondering if he completed his project with you today?”
“Who? Mozey? The guy with the rings and the hair, right?”
Shit, shit shit! She noticed him too. I’m such a baby because I can’t help but wonder if he was smitten with her like everyone else is and whether or not they bonded over today’s project. I’m torn between wanting to hear he was successful and impressed the socks off of everyone and wanting to hear he ditched so I won’t have to confront the fact that maybe I’m attracted to him. I can tell just by the way Jennifer said his name that Mozey possesses a certain physical allure and forthright personality that makes people pay attention. I’m definitely not the only one who sees it.
“That’s the one!” I say, hoping my face isn’t as transparent as my feelings. I open his file folder and stare at the blank page.
“He hurried out as soon as we were finished, but he told me to give you this,” she says as she thrusts a folded note at me.
My heart does a lurch at the folded note. How very high school of you, Mozey. But I’ll take it. I really need a fucking boyfriend. Or maybe just a friend that’s a boy—for fucking. Friday night’s binge gin and tonic time with Janey really isn’t cutting it. I’d never call myself needy, but the occasional one-night-stands are not really working out for me either. It’s barely human interaction. They’re more like alcohol-fueled, sad dates, where I’m jerking myself off on a stranger after a few too many beers. Very romantic. What did you say your name was again? I hope you don’t mind that I squirt when I come. The overindulgence in booze isn’t an addiction. It’s purposefully called on to summon bravery and activate blinders. I’d need a real boyfriend to have sober sex. I haven’t had one in years.
I realize I’m standing frozen with the note in my hand. I stuff it into his file a little too enthusiastically, crushing it as I go. Good. See I don’t care. I don’t even want to read it. I tell myself for Jennifer’s benefit.
“Was the candidate a team asset?” I ask.
We used to use numbers to score candidates on their performance and to gauge their commitment, but then it felt a little too close to a high risk teen beauty pageant, as if we were scoring candidates on a one to ten scale for hotness. Since then we’ve changed the vocabulary. Now we just sound like a bunch of corporate drones talking about clients as if their sole worth in this world resided in their dedication to our program.
Mozey is a ten. Ten for personality and a fucking TEN for the swimsuit competition. Get the sash and the crown. He’s already won. Even my mascara is running.
“He really was! At first he was so quiet and just kept to himself, but then, he started drawing. Here, Lana, you should really take a look at this,” she says as she digs in her purse for the keys.
“Oh, that’s okay. I just wanted to know if he participated.”
“No, really, you need to see this.”
She pushes open the door and flicks on the light. I follow in behind her.
“I could easily say he’s the most talented artist we’ve ever had at Pathways. At least since I’ve been here.”
The entire south wall of the room is covered in paper. A giant, colorful skull looms out of a dark, blue-gray sky.
“This was a tricky project, mainly because of the scale and the shape. We’re used to running low and wide on murals almost all of the time. The Mexican heritage park space has just one wall, and it’s a tall one. We had to build scaffolding and level off platforms for painting at the various levels.”
I can barely hear Jennifer as I walk toward the impressive sketch. The skull isn’t a light-hearted Día de los Muertos candy sugared skull; it’s Death, leerin
g and laughing and loving his power. Right in my face—jumping off of the canvas. The piece is both magnetic and breathtakingly frightening. Inside each hollow eye is detailed content with bright, swirling colors to contrast the stormy sky. One eye holds the Aztec calendar, the other the national symbol, an eagle with a serpent perched on a cactus set on a back drop of Mayan ruins in the colors of the Mexican flag. At the base of the skull are minute history lessons in indigenous sacrifice rituals—primitive modes of human torture. Headless bodies splayed across pyramids, the steps bathed in black blood. A priest cloaked in raven feathers, a frozen scream etched into his face, his fists shaking at a whiteout sun. I recognize the severed heads of Spanish soldiers from their helmets. This is the taking of Tenochtitlan. History lessons I can barely remember from school. On the other side are the Mayans, depicted with equal violence. There’s a disembowelment up front and center, involving the swallowing of a sisal rope embedded with thorns. The Mayans are surrounded by swirling cosmos, asteroids in the distance set on a collision course. They are oblivious, but I can see their fate.
The piece eats my words. My emotions and thoughts are all over the place.
“Wow!” is all I can manage. So much must be going on inside that kid’s head.
“We painted or more like handed him the acrylic blobs on a palette and drooled. Mozey alone came up with everything—the entire design.”
My words are gone. They escaped my mouth, ran down my chest, tumbled across the floor then squeezed out the crack under the door.
I’ve seen some pretty impressive mural art in my time. I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but I’m also fairly well-versed in Chicano art and the hybrid that’s come of mixing gallery quality material with street art style. I know my murals, okay? We’ve executed at least one a week since I started at this place. This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s terrifying and captivating and beautiful. Kind of like my curiosity for this new “team asset,” Mr. Mozey Cruz.
“Holy shit, Jennifer! I don’t know what to say. I take it, he’s Mexican?’
“Well, I asked him, and he said he grew up here. He was born in Mexico, but he doesn’t really remember it much. I asked him if he was formally trained. He just laughed and shook his head. He must be entirely self-taught.”
“Did you get pictures of him working? We might be able to get some coverage for this. This could potentially breathe new life into some of those development projects we’ve got on the back burner.”
“I can tomorrow. We only got as far as the outline today. He added all that color just in the last fifteen minutes. He works crazy fast.”
“That’s if he comes back.” I can hear the disappointment in my own voice, and now I’m not sure if it’s for personal reasons or because I just realized what a true asset he actually is. I try to reign in my excitement and remind myself I’m here to help him and not the other way around. He doesn’t need to be exploited.
“He said he would be. I get the feeling he’s a man of his word. Listen, Lana, this is just a hunch and I didn’t ask him or anything.”
“Sure. What?”
“I think he may be—have you heard of this group called the Dibujeros?”
“Sounds vaguely familiar, is it a gang?”
“Not really. It’s more like a group of underground street artists. Their identities are top secret as are most of their projects. It was his speed and talent clued me in. In order to be a member you have to be exceptionally skilled as well as fast in execution. I mentioned it in passing and he didn’t seem too affected.”
“How would you find out? Are they wanted for criminal activity or outstanding warrants?”
“For sure all of them are. Their stuff is heavily political so the placement of their projects is key. It’s the public vandalism that gets them in trouble. They don’t do abandoned train yards, these guys paint on federal buildings, universities, hospitals—anywhere that will garner heavy media attention. They’re radicals but they do some pretty cool things. You should look them up if you get the chance.”
“Yeah, I’ll check it out. Thanks.” Jennifer is looking at me like she wants to say more, but she shrugs and then glances down at the floor.
“I’ve got to run but feel free to stay and admire for as long as you’d like. Just make sure you lock the door when you leave. I don’t want to deal with another supply loss like the one we had last summer.”
Last year we never locked individual classrooms until we were struck by inside theft that wiped us clean of an entire summer’s worth of art supplies. It was a tricky situation as most of our lower level employees consist of former Pathways program graduates.
“I’ll lock up. I might take some pictures of the sketch. It’s truly incredible.”
After Jennifer leaves and I get a few shots of the giant skull with my iPhone, I sit down at Jennifer’s desk and take out my note. Maybe it’s a resignation. Maybe it’s a declaration of love and the inappropriate attraction is mutual. I’m his social worker. I’m his social worker. I’m his social worker.
I’m supposed to help him heal and thrive and become a functioning adult, a productive member of society. Not take advantage of him. Not give him clandestine blowjobs under my desk. I quickly unfold the note.
He’s written a short biography, presumably answering the questions we should have gotten through this morning.
Dear Lana,
My name is Moisés Robles de la Cruz. I’m eighteen years old. I’ll be nineteen in April, so I don’t know if you can let me stay in the program after that. I came to the US when I was six years old with my mother and baby sister. We lost my sister along the way. We came to find my dad, but we never found him. My mom got into a lot of trouble with finances and drugs and eventually prostitution. I was in foster homes. I was investigated twice due to my lack of citizenship. I ran both times so I could stay in the states. I didn’t graduate high school, but I never had any problems in school so I know I could pass the GED. When I got arrested for attempted robbery I pled guilty because I was guilty. I was desperate, and I couldn’t get a job. I’m willing to make up for my mistakes. I want to finish school and become a citizen. I promise not to waste your time.
Lana, thank you for the opportunity, and I will see you tomorrow. I’ll bring you a painting for your office on Friday, (before you start drinking).
Mozey
He called me Lana. Not Doc. Not Finch. He called me by my name. I want to hear him say it (and pull my hair when he does it.) I’m such a perv. I can’t stop. I’m going to end up with a restraining order. (Can it please be him who restrains me?)
Chapter 3
Mozey Cruz arrives at Pathways before we even unlock the doors. I see him standing outside through our newly installed, glass, fire safety door. The Pathways building, as of last year, is a fully converted elementary school. We didn’t do all that much to convert except to replace the miniature toilets and sinks in the bathrooms with adult sized ones. Janey and I giggled for months before they were installed about squatting so low our knees ended up higher than our hips. A compromising position—to crouch in a ball to pee five times a day.
I wave casually at Mozey through the door and tap my watch, tying to communicate to him we don’t open the doors until eight. He nods his head at me, acknowledging my presence but he seems unconcerned and absorbed by whatever’s playing in his headphones.
I shrug, grab my coffee mug and make my way back to my office. I’ve never felt attracted to a participant before. Most of them are far too damaged for my taste. It’s not like I can’t handle life scars, everybody has them, and I’ve even got a few of my own. But I prefer not to have them in my bed. I want a healthy relationship; I don’t have time for anything else. What I do is too important to me to make such a foolish mistake. I can appreciate everything about Mozey, his looks, his talent—everything. I can appreciate and walk
away.
He comes straight to my office after he signs in at the front desk. He pops his head around the office door right as I hear Janey say, “Please have a seat out here.” She knows I don’t like unannounced visitors.
He walks in despite her warnings and closes the door. It would appear he’s more determined to see me than he is about adhering to site rules. Not a good sign. I’ll have to kick him out of the program if he’s a habitual rule breaker.
“You can have a seat,” I say clearing my throat. “Usually you have to sign in to see me. The door has to stay open. It’s standard procedure.”
He saunters over to my desk and pulls out a chair. He nods his head and keeps his gaze steady with mine. His eyes are charcoal gray. I swear he’s wearing guyliner, but I don’t want to look too close to confirm.
He leans forward ever so slightly as if insisting I sit first. I return the gesture, trying to retain some amount of control. He cracks a smile and leans forward, again insisting. I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. We are suddenly like awkward Americans at their first Japanese business meeting, answering every unknown with a timid greeting bow.
“Sit,” I say too loudly, forcefully breaking our mutual spell.
We sit simultaneously. Mozey plops with confidence, relaxation gaining easy control of his face. I tuck my skirt under like a sweaty, nervous secretary, as if our roles were reversed and he was here to interview me.
“I came to sign the papers. I want to stay.”
“You can do that. It’s fine. But you do always have to follow the rules. It’s the only way this program works. And it’s the only way to stay in it,” I add. I want to stress just how important procedure is to him. Without it we fall apart.
