Josh and Ginger were in his bedroom, kissing. He slipped his hand under her shirt and squeezed her left breast – a little too hard.

“Ouch,” she said. “I like it rough but you’re hurting me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said through his breath. He loosened his grip.

They continued kissing as he squeezed it gently and squeezed again. He knew how far he could go before he got what he wanted.

“Ow,” she said again. “Stop.”

He smiled at her with a hint of malice and shoved her on her back. He grabbed the handcuffs in his back pocket and attached her hands to his bedpost.

Ginger relaxed. “That’s more like it.” She smiled seductively.

She has no idea why I like it this way.

He grabbed a blade from his other back pocket and hacked all of her clothes off until she was completely naked.

Ginger tensed after he finished. “What are you going to do to me?” She was trembling with tears on her cheeks

Josh played these bondage games with Ginger where it led to great sexual pleasure for the both of them. This time, he did what he wanted to do to her from the beginning.

He squeezed both of her breasts, hard, until she squealed with pain. Then he sliced into Ginger, hacking off each limb, and feasting on her flesh.

“Damn was she tasty,” he said as he licked the last drop of blood on his fingertips.

****

Josh wasn’t a zombie or a serial killer. He just ate flesh because it was his preferred source of protein. He particularly enjoyed eating girls that were into S&M. It always worked out well that way because they never expected the end result.

He never ate flesh until he was in high school. He had thought about cannibalism as a way of helping de-populate the Earth a bit. He thought how brilliant an idea this was. Why can’t we all find alternative sources of protein that will also help the planet in a “green” way?

His parents were health neurotics so he rarely had the chance to eat meat. When he tried meat for the first time, he enjoyed it but felt let down. He wasn’t satisfied with the taste.

When he finally ate someone, it happened by accident.

Beth was his Chemistry lab partner. They were working on an experiment for class and he invited her over to his place. His parents were in the city celebrating their twenty fifth wedding anniversary. He knew he had the house to himself.

Josh also had a crush on Beth. She was a voluptuous, brown haired, blue-eyed beauty and she liked S&M.

“I think I should go home,” she said. “It’s getting late.”

“No,” he said. “We should get this right.”

Beth looked at the wall clock above the fridge. It was nine thirty.

“Fine.”

Josh watched her bite her lip while mulling how to get the equation right. He grabbed her face and kissed her. She kissed him back.

Fuck yes, he thought.

He led her to the living room sofa. There he immediately ripped open her black button down shirt. She had no bra.

“Naughty, naughty,” he told her. He kissed her again.

She giggled in response. Then she licked her lips.  He felt the heat in between her thighs.

He kissed and squeezed her breasts. He nibbled on them softly as she moaned with pleasure. Then he bit her right nipple. She continued to moan. Then he bit her nipple so hard, he swallowed it. Beth moaned even more. She never once looked down as the blood spewed from her breast.

He continued on with the left nipple. After he bit that one off, he noticed she stopped moving.  She passed out. He bit off the flesh of her breasts, her cheeks, her arms, her legs/thighs, and finally her calves. He was full by the time he reached her feet but he kept going.

When he was finished, there was blood on the couch, pillows, and the floor. He immediately wrapped her body in a large trash bag and put her in the back of his car. He planned to discard it later.

He managed to clean up the mess well enough that when the police came by looking for Beth the next day, the place was spotless. Beth was missing for good.

****

Josh ate very well. He knew it would get complicated if he kept eating women with families and social connections. He preyed on antisocial women. He felt guilty about Beth because he went to the funeral and didn’t know what to do with himself. He wanted to confess but knew he would immediately go to jail. He kept this secret and made a vow never to eat a girl with many intimate connections. For him, it meant the easier it’d be to eat with no hassle.

There were many S&M places he only requested to have the women perform at his place. Many girls have gone missing after seeing him but no one put two and two together until Candy came along.

Candy worked as a dominatrix at Ball and Chain located in the heart of the city. Josh ordered a girl from there sporadically not to raise any red flags.

He never asked for Candy because he felt she would have more intimate relations than some of the other girls.

Candy was bad-ass. She loved her job and did it well. She also noticed that many of the friends she made at Ball and Chain were disappearing.

“Hey Max,” she asked the owner of Ball of Chain. “Where are Shari, Susan, and Solange? I haven’t seen them in close to a month.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You tell me. Seems like every time a girl goes to see that weird guy, they never come back. Maybe he converts them to getting real jobs or something.”

“What’s so weird about him?”

“He always asks questions – personal questions – about our girls. Like, do they have friends and family, are they friendly with other people. He’s just weird.”

“I’ve gotta see this guy.”

“So I can lose you too? No way. You are one of our best here. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Don’t worry about it, Max. I love this job too much to let some ass convert me. I just want to check him out for myself.”

“I’ll set it up,” he said. Candy smiled.

What Josh didn’t know was that Candy had a plan to derail him and his future plans, involuntarily.

****

When Josh got the call about Candy, he was almost nervous.

She might be too hard to eat. Maybe she won’t even let me tie her up. But maybe she’ll taste even better after the struggle. Why haven’t I eaten her yet? Oh yeah, she knows too many people. She’s the prized dominatrix. I better be careful with this one and just nibble on something.

He knew he couldn’t do the old squeezing tactic when she was tied up. He had to think of something else. He would let her tie him up, do their thing, and then he would beg to let him tie her up. After that, he would nibble on her calves for a bit. Then call Ball and Chain about her moving last minute. That would work.

He knew she was a tough woman. He knew her reputation and had seen her in person. She looked like a slimmer version of Chyna from WWF back in the day. But she was actually very attractive.

When she came over, he was ready for her. What he didn’t know was that she was ready for him also.

She knocked on his door once.

Josh put on his best game face and opened the door.

“Hi Candy,” he said.

“Josh,” she said.  She surveyed his place with disdain.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Josh said.  “I like to talk a little before getting started.  Would that be all right with you?”

“No,” she said.  She thought better of it and smiled.  “Sure, Josh.  We can talk for a bit.  Can I get something to drink?  I’m a little thirsty.”

“No problem.  What would you like?”

“Water would be best.  I need to stay hydrated for tonight’s activities.”
“Good point,” he said.

He went to the fridge and pulled out the water pitcher.

It was a little rough in the beginning but it seems like this should be a good session.  She has a nice amount of mass on her body.  I’m sure I’ll be satisfied by the end of the night.  I’m glad I didn’t have lunch.

He brought her the glass of water and sat across from her on his couch.

“So why haven’t you called me before?” said Candy.

“I guess I was waiting for a special occasion to ask for you.  I hear you are the best at Ball and Chain.  I guess I was a little intimidated by you.”

Candy grinned.  “Well, I don’t bite unless you ask me to. Oh well, pay me to anyway.”

They both laughed politely.

“Shall we get started?” she said.

“Sure,” he said.  He led her to a room the size of a den full of whips, chains, and other accessories.

“We’ll be in here.”

“Great,” she said.  “I’ll get changed.  Where is the bathroom?”

He pointed to a door at the far end of the room. “You can change in there.  It’s also used if the activities move in there.”

“You’ve got it all planned out,” she said.

“I sure do,” he said.

Candy stepped into the bathroom and Josh smiled to himself.

This is going to be a great night.

He walked over to a small closet hidden behind the open door and opened a brown trunk.  This trunk had scalping tools like different sized blades and operating tools.

He liked to use his serrated blade first to frighten the women and then scale back down to a good knife that allowed him to cut off the flesh easily.  Sometimes biting into the flesh was too messy.

He took both cutting tools and conveniently taped them on the ceiling by the hanging hooks.

He was ready for Candy.

When Candy came out of the bathroom, Josh salivated – a little.

Candy had on a leather girdle with her supple bare breasts hanging out and a garter belt.  Her thighs were juicy and her snack satisfying arms held a small whip.

She’s going to taste so good.

In the midst of his excitement, Josh didn’t make the time to get ready for her show.

Immediately, Candy started.

“Strip,” she told him.

He obeyed without hesitation.

“Before we start, is there any particular thing you’re really into? Something I should know?”

“Just do what you do,” he said.

“Fair enough,” she said.  She tied him up to the hooks on the ceiling.

She took the whip and smacked him on the behind.

“Harder please,” he said.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She responded by whipping him again.

This went on for a good hour.

Josh became antsy and he was hungry.  He would look at the knives on the ceiling every time she whipped him.  He thought of ways he could create a diversion or reverse roles on her somehow.

After ten minutes, Candy noticed his eyes kept going to the ceiling.

“What are you looking at?” she said still in character.

She noticed two blades taped right by the hooks.

“So this is what you used for my friends, huh?”

“What?” he said.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She ripped the blades from the ceiling and shook them in his face.

“Why are these taped up there, huh?”

“For safety reasons.”

She nodded to herself.  “Is that right?”

She pulled the tape off of the serrated knife and slashed his right cheek.  He only moaned in pleasure.

If I could just persuade her to untie me, then I can eat.  This is arousing.  Maybe she’ll keep going and we can have sex and then I can eat her. Yeah.

“You afraid of me, Josh?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then tell me, what exactly is it?”

She slashed his other cheek.  He smiled, hard.

Candy cocked her head to the side, studying Josh.  She didn’t know what to do with him next.  She realized his little game.  She would play with him until he got tired.  After that, she was lost.

“I play rough,” he finally said.

She smelled the bullshit and stuck the knife in his stomach.  Change of plans.  She would watch him bleed to death and then leave quietly.

“Bitch,” he said.  The blood slowly trickled down his legs and on the floor.

“So do I,” she said.  “Good riddance, douchebag.”

She took the knife out of his stomach and stabbed him again in the same place.

As he lost consciousness indefinitely, he thought, This is why I didn’t ask for her in the first place!

That was his last thought.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s Jazmine.”

“Jazmine!” he said, his voice full of recognition and authentic surprise. “I was hoping you would call. I wanted to call you but then I realized I didn’t have your number at all.”

“Yeah, I realized that too in hindsight.” And also realized that we were Facebook friends (or maybe I imagined we were?) and he could’ve contacted me that way but alas, Facebook is not the real world.

I thought I would be much more nervous but I was calm, cool, and collected. At least I felt that way while talking on the phone with him.

His tone turned serious when he said, “So, how are you doing?”

I didn’t want to tell him my whole life story about my relationship with my mother, so I vagued it up.

“I’m doing okay. Today is better than yesterday. She’s getting buried on Monday.”

“What cemetery?”

“I don’t remember but my dad knows. Somewhere deep in Brooklyn.” I wondered if I sounded callous because I didn’t know where my mom was going to slumber for the rest of eternity. He probably thought I was trying to be strong on the inside but all vulnerable on the inside. Ya know, like normal people dealing with grief. Was that what I was doing?

I had to switch it up with him; it was quite awkward considering I never actually had a conversation with him while in junior high school so this was strange. Plus, my crush and all.

I didn’t even know where to start. How do I ask him about his interests, how life was for him in junior high school, why he didn’t date girls in our school, where he went to high school, college, his major, did he like any girls at our school (i.e. me), and so on and so forth. I was so intrigued but mystified so I started simple.

“You know I barely know you, Mr. Perez. I have to say, this is quite strange for me, talking to you, years later as adults after never having spoken to you while in school. Is it just me?”

“I guess it’s weird but I always thought you were kool; you seemed confident yet quiet.”

No, did he? Nooo…did he? ‘Cuz if he did I’d feel really stupid that I misread any signals he threw my way.

“You thought I was kool? But we barely talked when were in the Yearbook club.” I tried to distract myself by picking at my nails so I could keep my composure.

“I was interested in getting to know you but I was distracted from graduating and the next step. I was always thinking in the future. I don’t think I made enough friends at John D. Wells because I was in such tunnelvision mode.”

And that’s why I thought he was so attractive because he was so studious and serious….

“I always wondered what you did after Yearbook or where you went after junior high because I didn’t really hear much about you from other people.”

I wish I were lying but I had to catch myself stalking him on Facebook; Facebook can be addictive.

“I went to Stuyvesant High School and then I got into UPenn. I studied Architecture even though I was Undeclared for a bit.”

Ooh, architecture is so damn sexy.

“Why aren’t you an architect?” I mindlessly played with my long-ish hair as the pale faces passed me on the bench. Then I looked at the bar behind me and had a crazy idea.

“I’m working on designs and trying to talk to firms as I work this Real Estate gig on the side. I can’t afford not to be unemployed.”

Oh and ambitious as well. He gets dreamier by the minute. I had to ask him before I lost my nerve.

“Listen, I know it may be a little early,” I glanced at my watch and realized happy hour was approaching, “but would you like to chat over a drink?”

“We could do that but not too late. I got work in the morning.”

“Oh of course, I understand. I’m actually on Grand Street and Havenmeyer. Meet me here when you can.”

“That’s a ten minute walk from me. I’ll be there in a bit. See you soon,” he said.

We hung up and I congratulated myself.

Did I actually ask the Carlos Perez out for a drink? The one and only guy that every freakin’ girl pined for in junior high school? Unbelievable! I couldn’t believe it myself.

Immediately, I took out my compact mirror, applied some lipstick and blush. Then I hand combed my straightened hair to make sure there were no flurries. I moved my head from side to side to make sure my makeup looked great. There was no way I’d forget makeup this time around.

I remembered the wasted makeup on a blind date I had from a female friend I’m not even friends with anymore. I think her name was Jennifer? Maybe? Anyway, she had a cousin who was fifteen. She had apparently told him all about me and he was very much interested. I was, even then, interested in smart guys so this guy had better at least enjoy or read a book sometimes.

His name was Danny; he was overweight, a smoker, and hairy like a gorilla. Why the hell would I like this?

When I first met Danny, it was underneath the Marcy Avenue stop on the JMZ line. His shape was in shadow as the cars zoomed on the busy Broadway Avenue two way street; I couldn’t make out how he really looked other than he was overweight and he could crush me.

Jennifer accompanied me for support because I was only thirteen and I didn’t know him; plus, he was fifteen! Almost a teenager – well, for me at the time fifteen was a huge deal. I was still a pre-teen, or at least considered myself to be one then.

He crossed the street to where Jennifer and I stood and he greeted me with the kiss on the cheek as Latinos do. I obliged him one on the cheek as his hairy cheek caressed my hairless one. I almost shuddered from disgust. I was utterly Unattracted to this guy. I wanted this blind date to stop instantly but to be nice, I stayed on the date.

Jennifer said, “I’ll give you guys some privacy. I’ll come back for you in an hour.” She had flashed me a devilish grin, winked at me, and left me standing at the corner.

Great, an hour with this big galoot and I never had a conversation with him prior to this meeting. Oh god, what had I gotten myself into. I was looking cute too.

I had on the cutest gold hoop earrings, light brown eye shadow, a little bit of blush, and of course, the glossiest lip gloss I owned. Yeah, I was bangin’.

Feeling his eyes on my curves and ass as we walked toward the closest park by the subway station, I asked him the pleasantries and the like. The conversation was so fuzzy because I was completely filling the space with nothing  because I was clearly not interested in this dude.

Whatever he said came out of his mouth as television static. I nodded in all the right places and smiled at others.

Since I was a big reader at the time, I paid acute attention to the vocabulary of my peers. In hindsight, I realized that was pretentious of me but that was how I rolled back then. I make a lot of allowances now but back then, I was a stickler for being around smart folk.

He said, “You are so beautiful. Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“Most guys are superficial and I’m not willing to settle for any guy that finds me cute.”

“What does superficial mean?” he said, looking at me strangely.

I rolled my eyes but covered my face with my hands. Then I turned my attention back to him. Definitely not my type.

“It means that guys are only interested in the aesthetic; girls who are cute and nothing else, like no decent personality or the like.”

Oh God, I used “aesthetic,” is he even going to know what that means? I don’t want to explain that to him either.

“Oh, I understand,” he said. Although I know he didn’t but I could care less.

We sat down at one of the park benches and conversed about something and nothing at the same time.

At one point during the conversation, he put his arm on the back section of the bench and inched himself closer to me.

Oh I don’t think he’s trying to do what I think he’s trying to do.

Just as I thought the thought, he leaned in toward me slowly; I could smell the cigarette smoke and Winterfresh from his mouth as I abruptly turned my face to the other side. His lips landed on my right cheek. I shuddered in disgust.

I looked at my watch. Fifteen minutes left to the hour. I wish I knew where this chick went.

“Why did you turn your face?” he said.

I faced him and braced myself. Should I be mean or nice? Fuck it.

“I didn’t invite you all up in my face with your Winterfresh and cigarette breath, thank you very much.”

His head jerked back as if I slapped him.

“Dayum, girl. You ain’t gotta be like dat.”

“I’m just sayin’,” I said.

“If you didn’t like me, why did you agree to this date with me?”his eyes searching mine.

“I was being nice.” I shrugged my shoulders.

Then I stood up. “It’s almost time. Let’s go meet Jennifer.”

Reluctantly, he followed me the three short blocks to the subway stop.

His silence meant he understood I wasn’t in the least interested in having more conversation.

When Jennifer showed up ten minutes later and asked, “How’d it go?” her cousin’s expression was enough.

He kissed her goodbye and said, “I’ll call you later,” as he abruptly took the stairs to the elevated subway platform station above us. Why he waited until Jennifer returned still boggles my mind until this day. Did he want to purposely give me the cold shoulder as he said goodbye to her? Totally unnecessary.

When he left, she turned to me. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I wasn’t into him. He so wasn’t my type.” I made a face as we walked to my home.

“You are so picky,” she said. She always said that when I turned down any guy that was interested in me.

She knew I was crushing hard on Carlos Perez but thought it would be good to expand my horizons. How my horizons were open enough to date her cousin, didn’t register with me at all.  If she weren’t related to Danny, would she date him? I wonder if she ever had that thought in her head.

Years later, I saw Danny waiting on the L subway platform. I recognized him immediately. He was still overweight and hairy; I made sure I walked past him as if I didn’t know who he was. I’m sure he recognized me too but I’m glad he didn’t try to greet me.

***

Still sitting on the bench mindlessly checking my Twitter and Facebook updates on my Crackberry, a person approached me. Without squealing too much in excitement internally, I slowly looked up, only to gaze right into the eyes of my cousin, Jesse.

Deflation. Where was he? Am I getting stood up? I collected myself. No, no, no. I need to relax.

“Y que?” Jesse said, leaning over and kissing me on the cheek.

“Aqui. E’perando alguien. Y tu? Que hace?”

He told me he was on his way to CTown to go grocery shopping but had stopped by the Laundromat to check on his clothes.

“Y tu papi?” he said.

“El ‘ta con Tio Victor.”

I didn’t have the energy to engage in superfluous conversation so I had to stop him.

“Listen, I’m meeting someone soon here,” I said as I trailed off.

“Oh ‘ta to’,” he said. He kissed me on the cheek and walked off.

I hope I didn’t come off as too cold but I’m honest.

I checked my watch and then the time I called him. It’s been at least twenty minutes.

It’s going to be okay. He’ll show up. He’s going to show up. Right? Yes. Why wouldn’t we? No, why would he?

What was I thinking that he was actually going to show up?

I looked around and stood up. As I turned the corner, I bumped right into Carlos.

“Wrong way?” he said, puzzled.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was actually going to wait in front of this café just in case you didn’t know where I was talking about.”

“Oh, I’ve been to this bar,” he said. “It’s okay.”

“Oh, do you know of a better bar? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t lived here for years now.”

“No, it’s fine,” he said, leading us to the bar. “Good happy hour specials.”

“Great,” I said.

We walked inside and I realized this was a sports bar. Ugh. Which means he might be distracted by sports things in here. I better be damn entertaining enough for him to only have eyes for me.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, as he found a table in the back of the bar. We slid into a booth. It was quiet for a Sunday. But then again, the sports season didn’t really start up until the fall. Unless I was wrong but I didn’t know anything about sports anyway.

“It’s okay,” I said. As long as this didn’t become a common occurrence but he was probably busy at work or something or other. I’m sure there was a valid excuse.

“I’m sure you had a perfectly executed reason why you were a few minutes late. It’s fine.”

“Well, actually, I have a problem with tardiness.”

“Is that so?” I said. I hope he wasn’t being serious.

“I’ve always had a problem with lateness since as long as I could remember. It started when my mother had me. I was one month late.”

“You’re joking,” I said.

He looked me in the face and started laughing.

“Okay, I don’t have a problem with tardiness but I was one month late.” He lightly punched me on the arm. “I’m just messin’ witcha.”

A punch on the arm? No, no, no, no, no. That’s not a good sign.

“Ha,” I said. I felt so stiff. What’s the matter with me?

“Lighten up, it was only a few minutes. I honestly got caught up. I was on my way here and got stopped by some folks from around the way. You know how that goes.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I know it very well. Whenever my dad is in town, we get stopped by like five people and it takes it a half hour just to get to the corner grocery store.”

I coyly looked at him from the corner of my eye. “It’s okay,” I said. “You made it. That’s what counts.”

“Alright then,” he said. “So what are we drinking?”

“Whiskey and coke. What’s your poison?”

“Same.” He grinned. My eyes had to seek solace elsewhere as I felt my cheeks get red with heat. I focused my attention on the TV screen in front of us. There was a basketball game on. I think it was college. Or not. I wasn’t sure.

“I’ll get our drinks,” he said.

“Great,” I told him, as I flashed a meek smile with no teeth, just lips.

I already felt awkward doing this with him, being weird for no apparent reason. I had no idea what I was going to ask him, how to react to him…what the frak was I going to do with this guy? I needed to relax. I know it is the Carlos Perez but at the same time, he’s also just a guy. Oh god, what if he ends up being absolutely awful and not the person I always thought he was. Inflation big time. But what if I’m right and he’s even more amazing than I could have ever imagined?

How about I take it slow. This wasn’t a movie. It’s not like he’s going to be that douchebag from Pretty in Pink and all.

I took a deep breath and exhaled. I closed my eyes and did this again. When I opened my eyes, Carlos was sitting down with our drinks.

“Rough day?” he said, sitting on my left.

Even with the loud noise of patrons shouting, commenting on the game on the TV, the flashing lights of the changing shots on the screen reflecting on Carlos’ face, he was absolutely immaculate and untouchable. I had to catch my breath.

“It was an okay day. I hung out with my dad and I always enjoy that,” I said. “How was your day?”

“Long and dreary. I have been trying to seal the deal on this one condo by the East Side River on Kent Avenue but even now, it’s been hard.”

“Why’s that?” Like I even cared what he was saying. He had such a sultry and soulful voice. I could fall asleep to his voice, in his arms, as he talked about something passionate.

“The market hasn’t been good for buying and even though Williamsburg is still an up and coming neighborhood, not many people are willing to buy or can afford to spend the retail price for the property. It’s quite frustrating but I’m probably boring you with this real estate nonsense. I don’t know what’s been going on with you since middle school. Lay it on me. What’d you study? Where’d you go? Where are you living?”

For what felt like the umpteenth time this week, I told him my story but the more abridged version. After I was done he said, “No men in your life? Ever been married? Kids?”

“Kids?” I said. Then I laughed. The thought of kids at this time in my life was not even a thought or had a section in my life.

“No offense but I’m way too busy for kids right now. I don’t even have a boyfriend.”

“None taken. Why no one special in your life? You have everything to offer a good man. Are you too picky?”

“Oh god, that’s what my friend used to tell me. I’m not picky, I’m just not willing to settle for anything less.”

“What are your expectations? Could they be too great that a guy cannot measure enough for you?”

I wanted to blurt out, “because all I want is you and no one else! You have been in it for years and I might be in love with you (oh god am I?) but I don’t know how to tell you this because you might think I’m crazy!” but instead I said, “I haven’t met the right guy, is all.”

“What are you waiting for?” His eyes bore into mine and I held his gaze, trying hard to really focus on saying something that wouldn’t sound ridiculous and have the semblance of a cogent stream of thought he might actually understand.

“I want to meet someone who’s wonderful in all the right ways, who’ll have quirky things that are imperfect, smart, educated, can take care of himself –meaning cook, clean, work, and everything in between. Is that asking too much?”

“It might be. It might not. Have you been looking?”

“No. I’ve been too wrapped up in my writing and work to date really.” Other than the fact that I get my sexual fix from that boy back home, yeah, I’m pretty much too busy to date.

“But if you want to find someone, you have to seek him out. He’s not going to magically appear at your place.” Still, he intensely searched me, trying to dig deeper and see into my soul.

I wanted to say to him, “But can’t you see all I want is you and you alone?” but how unrealistic does that sound. I don’t even know him for crying out loud!

“I know what you mean. I’m not lonely. I go on dates sporadically,” I told him, almost defensively. Yeah, if you call Booty Calls dates.

“I’m sure you will find what you’re looking for when you seek him out.” He smiled at me. Oh that beautiful smile!

“What about you? You been dating after the divorce?”

“Not really. Like you, I’ve been too caught up in work.” Maybe a little booty call or residue action with the ex though, I’m presuming. I know how that goes.

“But you have so much to offer a woman.” I slyly grinned at him.

“Ha, but you see I’m a divorced man. I’m not seeking to jump right into a relationship with another woman. I do have ‘friends’ though.”

“Of course, you do. Carlos Perez, the hottest guy at John D. Wells was never lacking in the girl department.” I said this looking elsewhere, avoiding his eye contact. Then I had to land back down to Earth.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he was half-grinning because he knew what I was going to say. Little cocky bastard.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know you were secretly pined for during middle school.”

“Me?” he said, feigning innocence. Then he looked me in the face. “Oh I know the way some girls acted around me. Even you.”

Pause. I blushed so hard I had to cover my face.

“That is so cute,” he said, as he put his arm on my shoulder. I felt even hotter. Oh god, did he feel the heat emanating from my body? I was burning up.

“How could we resist? You were so kool.” I took off the light sweater I was wearing, burning up underneath. His arm rested on the booth.

“I just wanted to see you blush,” he said.

“I hate you,” I said, not looking at him as I finished my drink. I needed another.

“Another drink?” he said.

“Yes, please,” I said, averting his eyes.

“Same?” he said.

“Yeah, thanks.”

He walked away and I chewed on the ice cubes from my drink. I was so embarrassed. Of course he knew I crushed on him and his effect on me publicly. Great, he was probably going to exploit that for his own gratification. I should’ve known he was like all those other guys. I didn’t think. All these years. He was a player this whole time. A fuckin’ player.

I shook my head to myself as I called myself “stupid” over and over again.

He returned with our drinks.

“You okay?” he said.

I lifted my head, hoping he hadn’t heard the many “stupids” I had muttered to myself under my breath.

“I’m fine,” I said. “You were in the middle of gassing yourself real good. Go on.”

I sipped my drink. “Thank you by the way. I’ll have to get the next round.”

“Gassed? I made you turn beet red just a minute ago,” he smiled to himself.

“Yeah, whatever. You knew everyone crushed on you. Why didn’t you date anyone at the school?”

I had to ask!

He shrugged. “I didn’t want to deal with the aftermath of breaking up with a girl that went to school with me. Do you know how awkward it is to have rumors flying around about what happened between you and someone else and have that get back to you? I didn’t ever want to deal with that. So I dated outside of school.”

He went on to tell me about his exploits, not his sexcapades because I didn’t ask and I didn’t want to know. But the fact that he didn’t tell me about his sex adventures maybe meant there was potential for us to be a little bit more than friends. But wishful thinking is my best friend, after all. Don’t know if that was the main culprit in me thinking that. Or the fact that his hand would occasionally, touch my shoulder, knee, or back. Physical contact is very integral to one’s attraction to another. I wanted to kiss him. I stared at his lips as he spoke and pictured us locking lips so many times. Even though I wanted him to kiss me, I know today would not be the day that happened.

During that whole back story, I ordered us a third round, knowing it would be our last. He had work in the morning.

As I started my third drink, the ballsyness took over and I asked him, “Why didn’t you ever ask me out?”

I felt stupid asking him that because he said he didn’t date girls at his school because of the aftermath. But if we would’ve dated after he graduated, we wouldn’t be in the same school anymore.

“I thought about it,” he said. My eyes lit up.

“But like I said, I was in tunnelvision mode and I wasn’t that interested in dating someone from my school. Girls from other schools were more interesting; they were from different neighborhoods and backgrounds. I found you attractive then but I wasn’t really interested in the John D. Wells girls as a whole. I was into more exotic chicks.”

“Like white girls?” I said, quizzically.

“Well, yeah. They were fun.” He smiled to himself.

“Oh, I bet,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Listen, don’t hate. It’s not like I rejected you or anything.”

“Oh whatever,” I said, drinking my drink. “Drink your drink.”

“Why are you getting upset?”

“I’m not. It drives me crazy how some Latinos seek out the white chicks when they got sexy ass chicks from their ethnicity, is all.”

He rolled his eyes. “And you haven’t dated white guys?”

“I tried but they just couldn’t do it for me. I need some flavor with my men.”

“Everybody has a preference,” he said.

Suddenly, part of his mystery lifted. Maybe I wouldn’t be seeing him again. Did I want to see him again?

It was my turn to shrug my shoulders. “I guess so.”

The energy was thick; did I open a can of worms I hadn’t meant to? Talk about passive aggression.

“Wow,” I said. “Look at the time. I think I should go.”

He looked at his watch too. “You are right. It’s kinda late.”

“Time flies when you’re catching up,” I said, putting on my sweater. If I would have had one more drink, this night would have been a lot more awkward.

He gave a tight lipped smile. “Yeah, definitely.”

We both stood up and walked outside of the bar.

“We should do this again sometime,” he said, looking down at me. He was practically towering over me. He was so tall.

“I agree,” I said. “This was fun.”

We hugged briefly.

“Sorry it got weird in there,” I said. “I can be a bit much when I drink.”

“It’s not a problem,” he said. He flashed me his famous smile. Goodness, what was I going to do with him?

“We’ll hang out again. Let’s keep in touch.”

“Sure,” I said.

We hugged again and then he waved to me as he walked off in the direction of the BQE. I walked toward the subway station.

I didn’t quite know what to make of our whole interaction. Perhaps more time would make things better? Maybe not as much alcohol (for me at least)? He was still a kool guy to me but maybe I should be seeking for love elsewhere. He wasn’t impressing me too much. But I’ve only skimmed the surface anyway.

I’ll sleep on it. Then think about his hotness. I can’t believe I was in the company of Carlos Perez’s hotness! Sigh. Still dreamy after all these years. The cocky bastard.

Then I asked what I didn’t think I’d have the strength or energy to ask.

“When is she being buried?”

“On Monday morning,” he said. “Are you going to be there?”

I was going to tell him, “I’ll try to make it,” but realized if I wanted to heal, maybe this would help me get closer to getting closure with her.

I paused. “Yes.”

“You sure you’re okay to handle it?” he said, his gently eyes probing mine.

“Yeah, Dad, I’ll be fine.”

That settled it and we said our pleasantries. I told him I’d be exploring more of the city on Sunday and that I’d meet him at the cemetery on Monday morning.

He got up to leave but I stayed in the same place.

“Te va’ quedar?” he said.

“Yeah. I’m gonna hang out here for awhile.”

“Okay,” he said. “Call me later.”

He kissed me on the forehead, gave me a half-smile that was his version of a friendly and reassuring gesture, and left the café.

Even with all the emotions churning over my mom, I was still thinking about Carlos.

I took the card out of my wallet and stared at his name in the bold black letters.

Scenarios raced through my mind of possibly getting my wish come true (universe, do not fuck with me, I need a win right now) or perhaps being okay with just having a friend during this hard time.

Resistance running through my veins, I put his card away and ordered a cappuccino. Even though I was full from lunch, I had to, had to get some caffeine in me to get the courage to call him.

Why hasn’t he called me? Oh right. I didn’t give him my number. Good job, Jazmine.

People watching, I slowly sipped my cappuccino. I saw many pale faced couples and families passing by. My neighborhood really has become gentrified. Jeez.

As I took a sip of my drink, I saw a blast from the past. One of the brief guys I’d dated in junior high school. Mark Lopez.

The breakup was amicable; we were only thirteen or fourteen at the time. Then our circles diverged. But we were still friendly with one another.

I thought he’d see me as so I had to tap on the glass window as he passed. He turned back and smiled. Then he walked inside.

His dark hair was short cropped; when he was thirteen it was longer, Hanson long. His physique was changed; he wasn’t necessarily overweight but pudgy. He carried the weight well.

When he grinned at me, his teeth were just as straight as in junior high school. Aww, the sweetness shone through.

I stood up as he approached my table and pulled me into his arms into a tight hug. He always did give the best hugs.

“Hi, Mark!” I said, as I pulled away. “Sit down.”

“Jazmine, girl! You look good!” He slid into the seat in front of me.

Girl? Is he? Well, that would make a lot of sense.

“How are things with you?” I asked, wondering if any answer he gave me would indicate that he was indeed what I thought he was.

“Things are good. I’m actually on my way into Soho to go shopping. My clothes are fitting me way too tightly. So yeah, it’s time.” His hands outlined an invisible line in front of him as he talked.

“Well, that’s kool but what have you done since I last saw you? I’m on Facebook but I’m not stalking everyone, ya know.”

“Oh well, I work at Columbia as a Communications Assistant for the President; you know, I’m his bitch but the pay is very good.”

His gaze landed on mine as he asked me, “What’s up with you?”

I told him about my mom’s funeral, moving to San Francisco to get my Master of Fine Arts at the University of San Francisco, attending the different writing workshops across the country, publishing a short story in a magazine no one has heard of (and I couldn’t even remember the name of the publication for the life of me, but I did have a few copies for myself), and staying in the city for a bit until I wanted to.

Then I told him how I saw Carlos Perez yesterday.

“Oh, he was always so cute,” he said.

I didn’t flinch because that comment told me everything.

“Wasn’t he? I always had the biggest crush on him,” I said.

“I don’t know any girl that didn’t at school,” he said.

“When did you come out?” I said, hoping I wasn’t being too presumptuous. I did live in San Francisco after all and hung out around The Castro pretty regularly. The gays may not be as hot in San Francisco than New York City but my gaydar is always accurate. Well, most of the time. Like the time a woman was hitting on me at one of the bars and I took that as friendliness. Needless to say, awkward night for the both of us.

He told me he came out in college.

“I never noticed in junior high,” I said.

“I didn’t know it then either. Even when I dated you for a second, I was attracted to you but there was a more friendly vibe than romantic-I-want-to-make-out-with-you vibe.”

“I guess I felt that way too but who am I kidding. My heart was always about Carlos Perez.”

Mark laughed at me and said, “I love how you keep using his first and last name. It’s hysterical.”

“You don’t understand, Mark. He was the dreamboat of that school. Like the Zack Morris of John D. Wells. I obsessed about him for so many years.”

“It’s cute, really it is.” He patted me on the shoulder. “You look really good.”

“Thanks,” I said, providing him with a half-smile. I hoped Carlos Perez thought I did enough to date me. Ohkay, Jazmine, chill out girl and focus on Mark!

We chatted about his partner, Seth, and how they met in college. They decided to move together to New York City (as they met while attending Syracuse University) and have been going on strong for five years now.

He looked at his watch and said, “Oh shit, look at the time. I gotta meet Seth in twenty minutes!”

“It was great catching up with you,” I told him as we embraced for a goodbye hug.

“Hit me up on Facebook,” he said. He flashed me his straight toothed smile and left the coffee shop.

Time had elapsed and I felt more at ease with my nerves; the anxiety was slightly on the surface and in my stomach but I knew I would be able to call Carlos and be okay. At least I think I was.

It was nice chatting with Mark. It’s so wonderful that he’s happy and finally at ease with himself.

Not that I would have noticed if he was uneasy in his own skin, being in the closet, but that he was happy and joyful.

I almost envied him because I’ve never had a mate I was very much in love with. What does being in love look like anyway? I didn’t have a clue.

People watching was getting boring at this point and I realized I’d been at Atlas Café for almost three hours. I had to call Carlos and then get out of Hipsterville.

To be considerate, I sat down in one of the empty tables outside of the café. As I left the inside, the table I formerly occupied was scooped up by a hipster couple who had their lattes and laptops in hand. I wondered if they were in school or just funded by their trust fund parents.

I pulled out the card from my purse and stared at his name again. Why didn’t I just email him? I have a Crackberry after all. No, the call is more immediate. I’m a wuss but I can do this!

I started dialing his number and a waiter asked me, “Would you like something to start with?”

“Oh, I’m not ordering anything,” I said, the numbers half dialed in my hand.

“These tables are for paying customers only,” he said in an assertive tone.

Without a word, I stood up and walked away from the café and sought out a bench. I searched my head for sitting possibilities. McCarren Park. Green grass. Rodney. Anything on Bedford Avenue. Then I turned the corner on Grand Street and discovered a bench in front of the Irish bar I never bothered exploring when I lived in the neighborhood.

I comfortably sat down, took a deep breath, and dialed Carlos’ number again. I was thirteen all over again.

I stepped off the Lorimer stop on the L train and walked on Union Avenue to the other side of the Brooklyn Queens Expressway (we just call it the BQE). In the Southside, there are two sides because the BQE divides them. For a long time I lived on the Northside of the BQE but then moved to the less gentrified version (at the time, in the nineties) of the Southside.

As I walked toward my aunt’s house, I noticed the high rise buildings, the lack of empty space, the new shops put in by hipsters, the boutiques, and the glass windowed buildings occupying my old neighborhood. Where were the Latinos moving to in light of the heavy gentrification in this neighborhood?

I observed the storefronts and the neighborhood folk walking past me; I barely saw anybody with a shade past a tan. Where the Latinos at?

A short ten minute walk later, and I arrived at my aunt’s house. It was the mother of Liz, my best friend cousin back in the day. But Liz wasn’t there. My dad told me she had married Javier (the cute Javier from the block) and moved in with him somewhere in Spanish Harlem.

Before I step into the corner apartment building on South 2^nd, I stand outside and take in my old neighborhood. Across the street where there was a bodega with candy and is now a Laundromat. What’s happened to the bodegas in this neighborhood?

And right in front of me, the elementary school playground, which that I attended, had the gates open at all times for kids to take advantage of the space for kickball, football, or softball. Now, the gates are locked and it seems as if only are open when school is in session.

I shake my head to myself. What do the kids in this neighborhood have left to do for fun? I walk a few short steps to my aunt’s apartment building and notice the kids sitting on the stoop and playing handball.

Oh, that’s right. They’re doing the same shit I did when I lived on this block. Oh save them, please.

I step inside the vestibule and buzz my aunt’s apartment – 5C. I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve seen her. I don’t remember the last time I saw her. Maybe before I started grad school? I’m sure we’ll get into it.

I stepped through the glass door and stepped into the elevator. No renovations here. The elevator is still clunky and slow after many years. What the hell is the damn landlord doing in these buildings?

When I stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor, the smell of rice, beans, meat, and maduros filled my nose. I suddenly realized I forgot to eat something before I came down here. I’m sure there will be enough for me.

I looked at my wristwatch. Only 12:30. Yeah, not as late as I expected.

I pressed my finger on the black button for the door ringer. This as well has never changed. As well as the drab brown color on the door. Oh these nasty colors.

My aunt opens the door after a rustlin’ behind near the peephole (which I’m so used to, I don’t even notice it anymore) and embraces me in a hug.

“Sobrina, como e’ta?” she says.

“Bien, y tu?” I say. Doesn’t really work so well in Spanish with the rhetorical, “Hello, how are you?” The “Good and you?” just falls flat somewhere along the line.

I walk inside to the warm smells of food; my stomach growls with hunger.

“Hay, tia, tengo hambre. Queda para mi?”

“Claro, sobrina,” she said, with a warm smile.

My father stood up from the couch and hugged me tightly.

“How’d you sleep?” he said, his hand on my right shoulder, softly caressing me.

“I slept well enough. No dreams. Bien.”

I took off my coat and folded it out on the armrest of the gray loveseat couch which faced the TV. The living room was weird. There were three couches in the living room. There’s a large entertainment center made of wood – but not IKEA wood (this is way before IKEA even existed) with shelving. The TV is the main piece with pictures, ceramic objects, a videocassette player, and ceramic figurines cluttering the shelves including frames with my cousins’ pictures in them. The windows facing outside have the longest couch against them, a loveseat next to it, and another couch parallel to the window facing couch; the couches box in the entertainment center with some space in the middle, like a dance floor, but not.

The kitchen has a dining table big enough for only four occupants at a time with the rest filled with counter space and the other things kitchens occupy.

I sat down at the dining table as my aunt served me. My dad sat next across from me.

“Ya comi’te?” I said.

“Si. ‘Taba buenismo. Tengo un jaltura.”

My aunt placed the table with rice, beans, stewed chicken, and platanos maduros. Mmm…I took a bite of the orange sweet goodness, my mouth watered. I couldn’t recall the last time I ate some maduros. Not many Dominicans in my ‘hood in San Francisco.

“Tu te ve’ muy bien, Jazmine,” my aunt said, as she sat next to my dad.

“Gracias,” I said, before I ate a forkful of rice and beans. I had to slow down; I was ravenous.

“Que ha hecho, sobrina?”
I told her in the best Spanish I could muster since I don’t speak the language very often back home that I did a writing conference and I’m waiting on hearing about a teaching position. My dad knew all this. He interjected his knowledge of my career with beaming pride. I smiled at him. That’s why I love my daddy.

I ate my food slowly, savoring every spice, grain of rice, and bean on my plate. Eating this meal had me remember the brief good memories I had of my family.

There was a period from ages six to eight that I recalled my father, mom and I eating dinner at our dining table every evening. I felt safe and like a family. Even though I didn’t see many faces of color on the TV, I still felt my family life had the resemblance of TV families like on Family Matters and Step by Step. In hindsight, I thought of those families but at the time, the TV families were mostly atypical of TV sitcoms like Different Strokes, Good Times, and Silver Spoons.

Eating together became a habit and ritual I cherished as a child. Then when I got older, my mom’s drinking became more prominent and we separated as a family. I’d come home from school and head directly to my room, bypassing my mom in the living room.

My dad would watch TV in the bedroom. We were a family with a TV in every single room in the house. My present home only has the TV in the living room.

When I hear my classmates discussing their home lives including family game nights, vacations, get togethers, I wonder if I was missing something. I guess everything happens for a reason.

At the end of my meal, I told Dad we should leave. It was nice catching up with my aunt but I was over it. I wanted some quality time with my father. I asked him if he’d like to hang out at my hotel and then he’d be on his way.

He was actually sleeping at his brother’s house across the street so he preferred if we kept it local.

I looked at my watch. It was only 2:30pm. It wasn’t like I had much planned other than to hang with my dad.

I thought about where we could go to talk on our own.

I asked him if his brother would be home. He said yes. Then I suggested a coffee shop.

“Oh, eso e’ cosa de gringos,” he told me.

“C’mon Dad, let’s go,” I said.

He obliged me, we bid adieu to my aunt and went to the coffee shop on the other side of the BQE. The name of the place is Atlas Café.

The ambience is very much of yuppies/hipsters. A huge chunk (about ninety percent) of patrons on their Macs (very few PCs) tap tapping away with lattes, coffees, empty muffin or sandwich plates abandoned on behind their laptops. I knew this wasn’t the type of environment my father was used to but it was better than hanging out at a family’s home, where they were all in our conversation.

Surprisingly, at this time of day, we were able to find a seat. I was glad this place was still here. When I moved from the Southside to San Francisco five years ago, this place had just opened.

I remembered taking advantage of the free WiFi service many a time as I worked on my MFA submissions what felt like years ago. The map of the world on the wall as you walked in was inviting and the clientele were pretty friendly. There were a few regulars. Even a few cute regulars but I was always too engrossed in my writing to pay much attention enough to make friends there. A few friendly smiles of recognition were exchanged with the patrons as well as the employees there. At one point, I was on a first name basis with the staff because I frequented the place so much. There was a quiet but busy energy to the café I enjoyed and was able to let me work productively. At home, I just putzed around on the Internet and found ways to distract myself from the task at hand which was writing.

We sat down in a window booth; one of my favorite spots in the whole place because it was great for people watching when I needed a break from my computer screen.

I blinked to get me back in the zone and looked at my dad.

“How you doin’?” he said, taking my hand.

The touch brought me comfort.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I was thinking a lot about mom and the past.”

“Lo que esta en el pasado, dejalo en el pasado. Just think about the future.”

“I know,” I said, my gaze on the wooden table in front of me. “I haven’t forgiven her. This resentment is still raging strong, even more so inside of me.”

“Lo se,” he said. “But you have to try to get over it.”

“Dad, this doesn’t happen overnight,” I said, taking my hand back.

The gesture startled him.

“It’s not that easy. I’ve been carrying this around with me for years. I thought her death might make it go away but I feel heavy with it. It’s such a burden.”

“Just don’t think about it,” he said.

“It’s not that easy. I’ve been seeing a therapist for a year now and I thought I’d be able to handle this, but that’s not the case.”

Dad rested his chin on his hand.

“I just need time, Dad.”

“We both do,” he said. This time, I took his hand in mine.

Warm Bodies Book Cover

Author: Isaac Marion

Publisher: Emily Besler Books/Atria (2011)

R is a twenty something year old zombie. He wears a button down shirt, slacks, and a red tie. He even thinks and talks! His friend, M, is schlubby and talks too. He even makes jokes! These are not the zombies we are used to reading about. R and M live (or should I say loiter) around an airport in an unknown city. R collects human objects (like Ariel’s treasure cove) in a 747 plane. He listens to Frank Sinatra on a record player and actually sings along to the music. On a mundane trip to find food in the “city,” R meets and rescues Julie after ending Perry, Julie’s boyfriend’s life. What occurs afterwards changes the zombies as they know it.

I picked this up after going out and watching the movie with Nicholas Hoult and Dave Franco. The movie is very much catered to teenagers and young twenty something year olds, especially with the snarky dialogue, the vibrant colors and the good-looking actors. As for the novel, R is no different than the 20-30 something year old bracket except he’s dead. He starts to feel, think, remember, seek out for change, and he also has those zombie urges. In the movie, his zombie-ness is pretty much castrated to steer this story more about the romance between R and Julie. The romance in the book is also played up but the change in zombies and what the world looks like now is also heavily explored in the book. Additionally, there was really no “Big Bad” in this book. The Boneys had a huge role in the movie version but a small chunk in the book. Again, different mediums and different audiences.

I’d say, both variations of this story in the two mediums complement each other nicely. I was taken aback by how bleak R was in the book. He was a bright and witty teenager in the movie versus the down and out adult in the novel. Overall, I would recommend to zombie and romance lovers alike! There’s something in this book for everyone!

Publisher: Harcourt Books (1982)

This is the tale of two sisters – one, Nettie, is a missionary in Africa and the other, Celie, a wife, living in the South. Through letters, they share their lives, their hopes, their dreams, and their desires through thirty years. Celie manages to shake the abuse with the love and affection of Shug Avery, her husband’s ex-squeeze, and finds herself with Shug’s support.

Nettie battles jealousies and death in Africa and somehow manages to come out okay enough to see her sister, Celie again.

The length of time they finally find each other again is thirty years but their experiences make them stronger people in the end. Albeit their unfortunate circumstances, they manage to see a brighter future with the people they encounter and be glad they have the opportunity to see another day.

The power of love, as shown in this book, most definitely conquers all in the most harrowing circumstances. Told in epistolary style, we see Celie’s vocabulary change throughout with some assistance from Shug and company and also her confidence grow with each passing entry.

Alice Walker is such an effective and powerful storyteller that I can only hope to write as well as she does. I look forward to reading more of her work!

I just got back from the Macondo Conference and I’m waiting on hearing if University of San Francisco will get back to me about teaching freshman English in the fall. Granted they would call me but it doesn’t hurt that I keep checking my emails, just in case.

After I check my emails, I check my account balances. So far, I’ll have enough to stay in New York for a bit before going back to San Francisco.

Before I saw Carlos Perez, I was set on leaving in a day or two (after some New York shopping and dining; there’s no place on the planet like my city!) and of course, chatting with my father. But it’s not as if I have anything but an empty apartment waiting for me back home. Oh yeah, and the boy.

The boy who’s really a man that I have nicknamed “the boy” has a name; his name is William.

The boy is like my stalker except I let him be my stalker, if that makes sense. I met him at a writing conference. He was friendly, a complete gentleman, smart, attractive, and completely five years younger than me that it was painfully noticeable and obvious.

I was chatting with a female classmate from my Masters in Fine Arts program at USF when he interrupted us.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Can I talk to you?”

Thinking he had recognized my work in a magazine or online somewhere, I thought he was a fan and was ready to talk shop or sign something.

“Is there something I can help you with?” I felt like I was volunteering at school again.

“I just wanted you to know that I find you very attractive and I would like to take you out sometime,” he said.

Surprised by his honesty and assertiveness, I had to oblige him. The catcalls in the intellectual world were much more along the lines of, “I love your work. I’d love to get together and write something with you,” or “Let’s chat about our favorite authors together.” Some of those lines were mixed in with each other but I figured out what was what by the end of my two years at USF.

We met two nights later. I was a busy woman with lots of things to do. So there was no way I was going to clear my whole schedule for just one guy.

He picked me up and took me to a restaurant in downtown San Francisco. He made sure to stay far away from Fisherman’s Wharf; only tourists hang out there.

The restaurant’s name was Clamshell; I loved seafood so I was happy he chose this place. I had passed by it many a time and never made the time to visit. The date started well.

Then he started talking.

“I love writing but I’ve never really taken myself seriously before. I can’t wait to get a literary agent and get published through a big publisher. Then I’ll be rich.”

I couldn’t believe his naiveté about the writing world. He had a lot to learn.

“After I get my degree I’ll probably teach and then get my Ph.D. and then I’ll really be making a lot of money. Summers off are going to be great. I’ll just write then.”

I didn’t have the energy to deflate his ideas and illusions of grandeur he had created about writing as a profession and career and even as a life. He was totally clueless. But he had the body of an Adonis.

That night, I took him home and I rode him like a cowboy running for his life. The sex was…exquisite. For someone who I thought was pretty dull, I was surprised he was so good in bed.

That was three years ago. He’s the boy I fuck; I can’t bear “dating” him because we have nothing in common and he’s a damn idiot.

So yes, he is definitely just a boy which I don’t miss.

I take a shower and think about Carlos. How should I come at him? Should I suggest lunch, dinner, or brunch? (I love brunch.) Or should I just play it by ear?

I can’t just play it by ear, this is Carlos Perez! The crush I’ve never forgotten. The guy that makes my feet tingle with anxiety. The guy that makes me forget who I am – Carlos Perez.

I have to get it together. Maybe I’ll relax once I get back to my father. Then maybe he’ll put things in perspective for a bit.

***

I walk downstairs of my hotel room in Midtown, by the Theatre District and head to the nearest Starbucks. I don’t care much for name brands but I like their products; I’m a sucker for their Banana bread.

Luckily, on this early Sunday morning, I was able to find a decent table by the window; perfect for people watching.

After I get my order, I sit down and place the delectable Banana bread I enjoy so much on the table. Then I pull out my Crackberry. I listen to my message left by my father.

“Jaz, call me when you get this.” I’ve only liked it when my father has called me Jaz. When my mom tried, it didn’t work. I remember when he first started calling me Jaz.

I think it happened when we moved and my parents were divorced. I was fourteen at the time. I was helping Dad move some furniture around and he needed help with something heavy like the red couch I have so many great and fond memories of to the other side of the living room. We were still experimenting with space.

He said, “Jaz, help me out here for a second.”

“Jaz?” I said, face distorted in disgust. Sometimes pre-teens can be so overly dramatic. Guilty as charged.

“You’ve never called me that before,” I said.

“Does it bother you?” he said, after the couch was moved.

“Um..” I let the nickname sit with me and thought long for two full minutes. Then I decided, “I like it.”

I beamed as if he awarded me with a trophy; it was our first private father daughter moments. One of the little gems I inherited when I moved in with my father.

But when my mother would attempt to use it, I scowled at her.

The incident in point was actually my fifteenth birthday party. I was too big for cake and candy but perfect for a McDonald’s birthday party! I loved the games and the happy meals. Maybe I was too big for the games but I liked them anyway.

My father was talking to my mom; he was polite, she was sober and I was playing in the big pen of plastic balls of blue, red, green, and yellow. I plopped myself as deep as I could where not even my parents could see me until I heard, “Jaz, get out of there. I can’t see you.”

She couldn’t see the big scowl on my face when I heard her use the nickname my father used on me. I’m sure she’d heard my dad utter it in her presence in the past or even refer to me as Jaz rather than Jazmine.

I re-emerged from the ball playing area and asked to be taken home. She had ruined my birthday party from me. And I didn’t even want her to come.

I called my dad and told him where I was. He told me I should come down to his sister’s house, in the Southside, for la comida at noon time. I told him I would but that I would probably eat before I got there. He knows me so well by now that it didn’t bother him. I am sick of the rice and beans and meat meal that most Latinos have. There is more to life than rice and beans and meat! I told him I’d be there around one and I’ll see him later.

I ventured out to shop at one of my favorite shops in the city – Sephora. I know that it’s a chain store but there’s something fabulous about shopping at Sephora in New York City. Or maybe that’s just me.

Since I love having soft skin, I always make sure I have enough body scrubs in my home; it’s called body maintenance. Don’t judge me.

In Sephora, I browsed the make-up section (which I barely use on myself) and remembered the first time I put on make-up was to hide the puffy bags under my eyes from the most I’d ever cried in my life. I cried the other day for my mom but when my father told me they were getting a divorce, I was devastated.

Even though my parents argued immensely during my pre-teen years, I always thought this was the norm. Arguing was how parents dealt with each other.

But in the summer months, the arguing was more explosive, louder, distracting, and obtrusive.

The day my dad told me we were moving out and they were getting a divorce, I had come back from a full day of people watching at my cousin’s house, Liz, across the street.

The sun had gone down but the neighborhood was still lively; most every stoop was occupied with clusters of kids, adults, and teenagers and the ice cream truck was parked in front of the corner bodega across the street from my apartment building. Normally, I’d probably convince Liz to sit outside her stoop with me until later but her parents are a lot stricter than mine ever were. So I came back home, wishing I would’ve stayed out later.

I put the key in the lock and heard loud yelling and crying. I shrugged to myself thinking it was just mom drunk and feeling sorry for herself. I braced myself for the scene either way as I opened the door. I saw my parents facing each other, standing next to the big dining table that occupied most of the living room, right next to the door of the apartment.

They looked at me, my mom’s face distorted as she covered her face and cried into her hands; I looked over at dad asking him the obvious question, “Is she drunk?” He shook his head no and then gestured to go to my room. I checked them out briefly as I passed them on my way to the bedroom; my dad gave me a tight lipped expression as he caressed my back lightly.

I was worried; I knew something was amiss and was going to affect my life. Little did I know, it would have a huge impact on my life from then on.

I sat in my room, with the TV on but not really watching, waiting for my dad or mom to come in and tell what the hell was going on out there.

Newsies was on Channel 11, back before networks didn’t pay attention to rights, companies and all that jazz; they showed the best movies on that channel. One of my favorites was Heathers. Oh and it was before cable became the norm in every household.

Christian Bale was singing in the street when my dad lightly knocked on my door.

“Can I come in?” he said.

I nodded yes.

He sat down on the only other chair in my room, which was right where the TV was on my dresser.

“I’m sorry you had to see that out there,” he said. His stern stare meant bad news.

I shrugged my shoulders. “What’s going on?”

“Well, you know your mother has a problem.”

I nodded in agreement.

“And she is not willing to seek treatment as I’ve suggested to her many times.”

“When? How? When did you suggest that?”

“After you were born. She’s been suffering from post partum depression which hasn’t yet been resolved. The alcohol takes the edge off. Well, that’s her story anyway.” His eyes focused on a spot on the wall behind me.

“You and I are leaving and your mother and I are getting a divorce.” A beat passed as he searched my face for an expression.

I understood what he was telling me but I wasn’t processing it.

“Okay,” I said, no emotion. “When are we moving and where?”

He was taken aback by my unemotional state but assumed I was in shock; I was only fourteen at the time.

“I haven’t figured that out yet but we’ll be here for another month until we move.” He grabbed my hands.

“I wanted you to know what was happening. It’s going to be rough for a while but we’re going to make it, babe. Okay?” His gaze settled on my eyes.

“Okay,” I said. My eyes involuntarily became wet.

On some level, I didn’t realize that I had always wanted to reach out to my mother and felt I was at fault for her sickness. I always thought that when I became older, I’d be able to help her and she’d be happy, like the mothers of other girls I see at school. Doting, loving, and caring.

My fairy tale of the perfect friendship with my mother was shattered and I was sad.

Before I could do anything, my father took me into his arms, as I sobbed into his chest. We stood in my room in the embrace for what felt like forever, but I think was only ten minutes. I wiped my nose with my hands and gave my dad a meek smile.

Even then I wasn’t much for telling him my emotional state in verbalized form; it came out in the form of tears.

He hugged me again and kissed me on the forehead.

“Te quiero mucho,” he said, looking down on me. “You know I’ll always be here for you, right?”

I nodded my head yes. Then he hugged me again, a little longer and tighter this time and left my room.

I pulled out my journal and wrote about the turmoil of emotions I was feeling. I expected mom to come in and tell me her side of the story, but she never did.

Actually for much of that month, I barely saw her. She took over the bedroom my parents shared together while dad pretty much lived in the living room.

Part of me was also upset with her. How come she didn’t want to take care of herself? Why didn’t she want to be good for me? Didn’t she care about me? Her only daughter? I didn’t understand and I wanted to. But when you’re only a pre-teen, adults don’t bother to explain things to you because they assume you don’t understand. Which I assumed was the case with my mother. I was so hurt and full of rage, I made sure to avoid her when I was home for those thirty days. It was like I lived in a house with roommates, except my dad and I got along while my mom’s energy hung like a dark cloud, pregnant with rain that almost fell but never did.

]]> http://bkwriter4life.wordpress.com/2013/04/25/the-southside-stories-chapter-4/feed/ 0 bkwriter4life http://bkwriter4life.wordpress.com/2013/04/24/current-mfa-prospects/ http://bkwriter4life.wordpress.com/2013/04/24/current-mfa-prospects/#comments Wed, 24 Apr 2013 19:00:02 +0000 bkwriter4life http://bkwriter4life.wordpress.com/?p=975 ]]>  

Finally, after putting this important part of the MFA process off for a month or two, I have my full list (which might change based on requirements). Below, my current list I’ll be applying to:

California College of the Arts

University of California, Irvine

Mills College

San Francisco State University

University of San Francisco

Iowa State University

Goddard College

Bennington College

Two of them are low residency schools, which is brand new for me, but might work well in the long run. Either way, I’m looking forward to that rush of applying again. I feel much more confident this time around.

I recently went to see Stuck Elevator at the American Conservatory Theater recently. Having gone and seen Dead Metaphor, which for this New Yorker was DOA, I was skeptical about this 90 minute play about a Chinese illegal immigrant’s experience being trapped in a Bronx elevator. To say I was actually surprised to have enjoyed the picture was an understatement. The subtitles in both English and Chinese was a delight. I kept studying the Chinese characters and promised myself I would venture out and learn some Chinese when I had the time. The songs were catchy, melodic, and funny. The acting was absolutely superb. Additionally, the  set design which consisted of a scant elevator fixture in the middle of the stage was utilized masterfully by every actor in the cast.

Joel Perez, who plays Marco and other characters, stood out the most because his singing reminded me of In The Heights, and after reading his mini bio, I can see why. He toured internationally with the play and I’m pretty sure he was a major character in the play. His charisma shone throughout his performance.

I gotta give props to the lead, Julius Ahn, who was able to hold the viewers attention with each syllable he uttered. His presence worked well for the performance and I could not have imagined anyone else in the role.

Even though the play was 90 minutes, I felt that this play based on real events did stretch out a little longer than necessary but was able to make itself relevant and entertaining with each song.

Stuck Elevator is playing until April 28th at ACT and you should check it out for a fun and engaging evening.

There are those days in which a writer can’t even produce a word on the page and other days when words flow freely. Lately, each time I do write, the words come freely and I’m completely taking advantage of that! I have had many times I sit down to do the work at my allotted day and time and nothing flows. The Internet becomes more appealing. I research hair products. Plan for a spa day. Research what to do for the rest of the day or tomorrow or next week or three weeks from now. And that’s how distraction works, doesn’t it?

My most recent intimate writing workshop has me juiced for awhile to not only work on this short story but to also contribute to the chapters I’m currently posting on my blog. My writing colleagues inspire me every time I read their work (both have such different voices and so great in their style), and they remind me why I write.

Most recently, I attended a lunch held by Streetside Stories which provided me with the insight into my purpose on this planet. I love writing and I want to encourage and empower the youth to have the best literacy skills to take them far. Writing is one of the best skills a person can have and I want to help foster and strengthen this skill for the youth.

I have spent a large amount of time focusing on myself and what to do for me and honestly, right now, it’s all about maintenance. Now is the time for me to give back to the community and give my time to those who need it the most. My researching has led me to many organizations like 826 Valencia, WritersCorps, and Reading Partners. Now I have Streetside Stories. I know I can make a difference in a child’s life and writing has led me there.