To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him (19 page)

Over the years and through several half-hearted attempts at remodeling, the apartments still retained their little brass numbers over each door. She ran back to Number 6 now and knocked.

“Daddy! Daddy! Wake up! Open the door!”

After several minutes of trying to make herself heard over his snores, she realized it probably wasn’t a good idea to wake her father after he’d spent the afternoon drinking. She looked across to Number 5. Her brother Eddie was out, his door locked. Her youngest brother normally shared that room, but he had been in juvenile for the past month. Number 3 was locked as well. Her cousin Rudy would be at the bars until morning. She walked past her own door and the two kitchens whose walls had been torn down, to the front of the house. Number 2 was a room she avoided at all times. Uncle Juanito lived there, and he was a dirty old man.

She turned and walked through the open doorway of Number 1.

Although she loved her grandmother, Tina knew better than to expect sympathy from her. But maybe, just this once, Grandma would let her sleep on the sofa.

“Grandma . . . are you awake?” Tina’s eyes adjusted, and she saw the sugar-and-spice-colored mass of hair, illuminated by the reading lamp the old woman was using to do a crossword puzzle.

“Of course I’m awake. How can I sleep with you yelling like that? Are you trying to wake the whole house up?” This was said without any negative inflection, though, and Tina went on.

“Grandma, can I sleep in here tonight?”

“Why? What’s wrong with your own room?”

“I think there’s a rat in there.”

“So?”

As if to amplify her grandmother’s point, a mouse ran across the room, going right over the old woman’s toe. Time girl gasped. Was Grandma becoming senile? The affected foot flexed and un-flexed, as if in reply. No . . . she just didn’t care.

“If you can’t sleep, why don’t you stay up and clean your room? That’s what I do. Or you could sweep the hallway. Or you could . . .” Her next suggestion was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. “There’s your brother.” She called out, “Lock the door behind you,
m’ijo.”
Tina hurried into the hall.

“Eddie, can I sleep in your room?” Tina whispered, because her father didn’t like her sleeping in Eddie’s room. It didn’t occur to her that he couldn’t hear her asking.

“What, you’re tripping out on the rats again, Big Sis?” His breath smelled of Wild Turkey. “I told you, you should make ‘em your pets. That’s what poor people gotta do. Just get you some little ribbons, then get you a net . . .”

Ignoring his advice, Tina stayed close to him until he unlocked his door.

Everyone in the house, except Grandma, locked his door. They all felt that they had something to protect from the others. Eddie’s something was his stash. His room contained the same brown tweed couch as the others’, and also the same twin-sized bed that had originally been in the apartment. The shabbiness of those two pieces had been somewhat disguised, however, by a vast array of stolen goods that made the room look like a sheik’s tent. The couch and bed were draped with red and gold throws—some velvet, some just velour. There was what appeared to be a zebra-skin rug on the floor. Whereas the windows in Tina’s room had old, pink-and-green flowered sheets stapled across them, Eddie’s windows were adorned with bamboo blinds. Every surface in his room was crowded with Buddhas, dragons, or naked ladies . . . some from the Goodwill, and some from the best stores in the Galleria. The exception was the long shelf above his stereo, which supported his prized collection of empty liquor bottles.

Eddie graciously offered the bed to Tina, and she lay down, finally ready to sleep. Then Eddie went to the stereo, put on his Anthrax cassette at full volume, and turned off the light.

“Um, Eddie . . .”

“It helps me sleep.”

The next night, Tina crossed the threshold of Number 4, dressed for bed and still damp from her bath. (Her bathroom didn’t have running water, so she used her grandmother’s tub.) Almost as soon as her head touched the flattened pillow, she heard the crackle. Damn, she thought, I can’t take this anymore. She wished she had remembered to ask Eddie for the key to his room the night before.

She got up, went to a corner of the room, and picked up the broken-off piece of broomstick that she kept there for protection. (One New Year’s Eve, they had a party, and one of the cousins . . .) It occurred to her that maybe a little music would help her sleep the way it did for Eddie. She went to the nightstand and turned on the little radio. She set it to the classic rock station and turned it down to barely audible. They were playing Elton John. He wasn’t Tina’s favorite, but she thought something good might come on next. She set the broomstick down by the bed, and lay down. Sure enough, the next song was a good one. “Deacon Blue,” by Steely Dan. She closed her eyes and listened. She felt herself starting to relax. Then she let herself slip into a favorite fantasy.

She was in her own apartment, far away—maybe in New York. The walls were white. There was a white sofa and a pale gray carpet. She was lying on the carpet, listening to her stereo, her Steely Dan record. Maybe there was . . . no, she was alone. It was clean and peaceful. Maybe she was a college student. . . .

Crackle.

Yeah, right. With her recent grades, that really was a fantasy. And since this was already her senior year, it was too late to think about college now. She shifted on the bed.

Okay. Maybe she was a writer. A famous writer who wrote about life in the barrio . . . whose books were read world-wide . . .

Crackle.

Sure. As if anyone would want to read about her crappy life. As if anyone would believe it. Tina rolled onto her other side. The only way she would ever get out of this place would be to meet someone. Someone who could take her away. Some rich, white guy—like the ones she saw at the mall sometimes. Like the one she had seen in Foley’s last week with the cool haircut and the green eyes . . .

Tina rolled her eyes under their lids. Yeah, the one with the girlfriend with the long, blonde hair. There was no use even dreaming about a guy like that. The best she could hope for was one of the guys at the church. Like Robert, who had taken her to the last youth-group dance. Or Mario, who she had been with the weekend before. He wasn’t so bad. What would it be like to be his wife? She considered it. No, Robert was better. He wasn’t as pushy, and he drank less. He had a nice car, since he worked at the body shop with his dad. Yeah, Robert was okay . . .

She started to drift off to sleep, imagining herself living with Robert in a little pink house in the Heights. There was a garden, and a back yard, and running water, and a baby, and an exterminator . . .

Crackle, crackle. Skitter, crackle.

Tina shrieked and jumped off the bed. She grabbed her broomstick, ran to the bag of cans and beat it savagely. There! Take that, you bastards! There were squeaks and scrabbling sounds.

She beat the stack of newspapers with the stick. There, you sons of bitches.

She hit everything in the room. Tears were streaming down her face. She swung the stick hard, hitting the doors and the walls, knocking things off the little table and dresser. She hit the radio, and it fell down with a crash, breaking into several pieces.

“Go to hell, all of you! I hate you all!”

She sank back down to the bed. She closed her eyes and promised silently to herself: I am not sleeping here tomorrow.

Then she lay back down and, clutching her stick, fell asleep.

Love and Humanoids

O
nce there was a woman who was very valuable without even knowing it. In a nearby galaxy, unbeknownst to her, was an alien race of human-sized ants who enjoyed the sexual excretions of humanoid women as a culinary delicacy. They keep tiny, insect-sized humanoid women on ranches in the 40-longitude range of their planet. For most of the ant people, the sugary syrup made from the excretions of these tiny humanoid women is enough. They purchase the syrup at their grocery stores and pour it over their breakfast aphids in the morning.

For rich ant people, there’s a special syrup made from the lubricants of real human women. Ant merchants send ships to Earth at night in order to cultivate the valuable substance from dirty panties. It can be dried into crystals and served like caviar. It’s a very profitable business, and the ant people conduct it nearly undetectably, unlike other importers in search of other things, who leave hazy memories of anal probes wherever they go.

One night, a ship funded by a very successful ant corporation finds what it’s looking for, which is this special human woman whose secretions are superior and highly desirable in every way. The ship’s team hones in on the particular wavelengths this woman emits and abducts her. Her panties are not enough.

Stephanie washes the dishes slowly, her hands rubbing weak circles on each filthy plate. She’s well fed. She’s not missing any limbs. But a tear runs down her cheek. She wipes her hand across her face. It leaves a trail of soap, suds in her hair. She turns off the water with a sigh.

She walks to the living room, picks up the remote control, points it at the TV. Puts it down again without turning anything on. Looks at the clock but doesn’t see the numbers. The light coming from the window shows that it’s too late for her boyfriend to be out, but too early for anyone to go to bed.

She goes to bed and, after a few hours of twisting under the sheets, starts the first of her habitually unpleasant dreams.

“Bobby, I love you. Why do you keep leaving me?” she calls to the man in the spacesuit.

“Baby . . . your body’s dirty and your highlights were bought for cheap,” he says through his mirrored mask.

She runs toward him, even while the brightness behind his head is making her cry. He’s pulled farther and farther away. She’s running so hard, her feet leave the ground. But the light’s too bright and she can’t see him anymore.

The ant people connect the subject to a device that will hold her safe in unconscious stasis while they prepare the programs that will create a virtual, alternate reality in the subject’s mind.

“Goddess, I wish we could start harvesting its juices right now. I need all the bonus checks I can get.”

“If we force it to excrete now, its primitive hormonal responses will negatively affect the first batch. Or, worse, its psychological framework will destabilize and all our work will be useless.”

“I know, boss . . . I know, ma’am.”

“Then quit complaining and get back to work.”

The team works according to its carefully designed plan. The first psuedo-reality program they feed to the subject is a quick resolution of her current circumstances.

Stephanie jerks awake and grabs the phone on the night stand within the first ring.

“Miss Luna?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry . . . I’m calling to tell you that your boyfriend’s been in a car accident.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, but he didn’t make it, Miss Luna.”

“What? Oh, my God . . .” Stephanie’s hand grips the receiver tightly.

“I’m sorry, but apparently he was distracted by the fellatio being performed on him by his coworker Angie, who was also in the car.”