Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story (3 page)

Tico came in at that moment rocking his usual getup of skinny jeans,
black t-shirt, and permanent cigarette stuck to his mouth. The curly long hair and
rapist mustache he’d been rocking since the 90s were apparently still a thing, and
he pushed a curl back as he sweetly inquired what we were doing. I glared at him
with all the dignity I could muster in my state and he winked at me, obviously taking
pleasure in torturing me just as he had when I was a child and my parents forced
me to eat okra because “it made your hair grow.” Tico would buy bags and bags of
the gooey vegetable and cook it with pork chunks every time he babysat me. I’d cry
and spit the okra into a napkin after each bite but then he’d be all, “Don’t you
want your hair to grow?” and I’d swallow it in silence while he watched and laughed
cruelly at my gullible innocence. Years later, I’d learn to love okra and realize
that it didn’t make your hair grow but it’s okay because that’s what extensions
and weave are for and God-damn-it-I’ve-digressed.

After feathers were brushed against my entire body and thrown in a
bag that was later to be disposed of in the ocean, my aunt came back from the refrigerator
carrying a bowl of eggs and Grandma Blanca asked her to smash them on me. A total
of 12 eggs were violently hurled at my bare feet, one for each month of the upcoming
year. By this point I could no longer mask my bewildered disgust and Tico shook
with ripples of quiet laughter from the doorway while giving me an,
I told you
they were crazy
look but enjoying the spectacle nonetheless. I imagined the
egg smashing to be the boiling point of my
despojo
and sighed with relief
as my aunt reassured me we were almost there. Granted, my relief was short-lived
when I saw Tico disappear and return to the kitchen pushing a crate with four live
chickens in it.

The tea they’d given me earlier was clearly a hallucinogen because
chickens in Cuba are like unicorns in children’s books, something magical people
talk about after dark but everyone knows never actually existed. Unless . . .

The rest was a blur I wish I didn’t remember as clearly as I
do to this day. My grandma barked quick orders to the ladies and Tico, who quickly
decapitated the chickens and threw their heads in the garbage. The blood spouting
from their necks was quickly poured into a bowl, which my aunts dipped their hands
into and rubbed all over my face and body while chanting, “
Adios al mal de ojo,
adios al mal de ojo
(goodbye to the evil eye).” It goes without saying I was
in tears by this point and promised God that I’d be good if he just got me through
the whole ordeal without vomiting.

Anxiety must’ve eventually driven me to fainting because the next
clear thought I possess of that fiasco is of me waking up in my old bed with the
smell of coffee lingering in the air. I looked around and focused on my surroundings,
the sun shining through the wooden blinds and voices drifting in and out of my own
consciousness as I struggled to hear what they were saying. My grandma was telling
someone over the phone how uncomfortable she felt of beheading “those poor defenseless
animals” and my aunt interrupted her saying it was for a good cause. Grandma Blanca
continued to tell whomever she was talking to how they had to bag each chicken separately
and place each bag on all four corners of our block for “infinite protection when
the sun rose” at exactly six in the morning. From what I could deduce, my flight
was leaving in four hours and I’d survived the previous evening’s nightmare in one
piece, which is more than can be said for those poor chickens.

I snuck up to the rooftop terrace to look
at the mountains and smell the dirty air of the place I once called home, dressed
down in my grandmother’s mumu and the lovely scent of
Eau de Chicken Blood
.
As I took the steps two at a time, it occurred to me that crazy is a gene that doesn’t
magically appear within us, but is instead generated and multiplied with each passing
generation down the family tree. I cast a downward glance at the people running
around in the first floor of our old mansion and wondered what my great-great-grandpa
was like, or what in the world possessed him to leave Spain for a tiny island ridden
with poverty to then marry the daughter of a slave and build her this magnificent
home I currently planted my feet on. I asked myself what he would think of us and
if he’d proud of the woman I was yet to become. A cough in the distance startled
me from my existential reverie and I discovered my uncle Marcelo drinking coffee
on the other side of the terrace.

“
Hola, tio,
” I approached him slowly
and kissed his cheek. “What are you doing up here away from the party?”

“Hiding and spying,” he said matter-of-factly
as he craned his neck.

“Spying on who?” I asked with piqued curiosity.

“The neighbor,” he paused and motioned
me to come closer. “You know, I think she’s trying to do
brujeria
on me.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Well, I woke up this morning and there was a dead chicken in a bag
right on the corner of my house. I’m sure it was that bitchy neighbor, Angela, who
obviously hates me,” he sighed.

“A dead chicken?” I gasped and pretended to be horrified. “Who would
do such a thing?”

“Angela,” he growled again. “That’s who. But it’s ok because I had
no problem letting her know I was onto her little games.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got the bag and nailed it to her door with a note that read,
I
don’t appreciate you killing chickens when you know how hungry people are in this
country, you puta. Signed, You Know Who
.”

I wasn’t sure what was worse, my uncle nailing a chicken onto a neighbor’s
door, or the fact that said neighbor would be completely clueless – and ecstatic
– as to how she got so lucky to receive a whole chicken without having to pay for
it.

That afternoon as I packed my belongings into our family’s old
Plymouth, I was burdened with a pitiful feeling at the bottom of my stomach that
warned me of some impending calamity. The women in my family would probably call
it
brujeria
; I called it the waiting period between getting on an airplane
and jumping the puddle between Cuba and Miami on a small charter while suffering
from extreme aerophobia. Tico blasted Metallica on the old speakers as he waited
impatiently for me to bid my farewells. As the car pulled away and my family waved
me off with tears in their eyes, a feeling of melancholy washed over me as I watched
them become smaller in the distance. I rested my head on the window and spotted
my uncle’s neighbor Angela carrying a big bag into her home down the street.

“That’s Angela’s house, right?” I asked Tico, whose eyes were fixed
on the road ahead.

“Yeah,” he gave me a suspicious sideward glance. “Who told you I was
dating her?”

“I didn’t know you were dating her, you jerk. I was just asking because
Tio Marcelo told me they don’t get along.”

“Marcelo is just jealous that Angela prefers me,” he snorted. “In
fact, I’m going to dinner at her place tonight and he is not invited.”

Oh God.

“She’s making chicken stew,” he continued proudly and upped the volume
on Metallica’s
Master of Puppets
.

I wanted to save him from possible death by chicken poisoning, but
then a certain vegetable by the name of okra came to mind and I decided against
it. “You enjoy that,” I yelled over the music and stealthily turned my smiling face
away from him. A few hours later, he’d be sitting on the toilet forsaking the day
he accepted Angela’s dinner invitation and I’d be on American soil eating a burrito
made of fake meat that would possibly give me the runs as well.

It is inevitable that in the end we all get what we deserve. Some
people call it
brujeria
and others
santeria
. I simply call it karma.

Although an intelligent woman with a PhD and adept at always
getting her way,
my mother has never been good at expressing her feelings.
Reserved by nature and raised by her blind grandmother, Mom immediately shunned
any relative who attempted to initiate the
birds and the bees
talk or explain
how a woman’s body worked.

When her first period struck at 13, my Mom thought she was suffering
from a rare and terminal illness. For months on end she used old towels to “stop
the bleeding” and stored them away in an effort to conceal her imminent death to
loved ones.

During my own childhood and teenage years, she never spoke to
me about anything too personal, almost choking when at 12 I knocked on her door
and said, “I need a pad because it happened.” I distinctly recall her uncontrollable
weeping as I desperately searched for the adequate words to console her.

In Cuba, tampons were unheard of, so it’s granted that when
the time finally came for me to enter womanhood, maxi-pads were the only acceptable
option. My mom explained that tampons “were for hookers” and they would get me sick,
making me promise I’d never come near them as I vigorously conceded. Of course pads
were uncomfortable and sometimes moved while blood leaked everywhere, embarrassing
me publicly on more than one occasion if I ever wore light colors. This said, I
was hardwired to fear the unknown as a result of my mother’s warnings, and tampons
were as foreign to me as friendly
chupacabras
and UFOs.

Fast forward to adulthood.

The year’s 2002 and I’m 20, fully aware tampons aren’t going to kill
me even if I never used them. My good friend Jeremy and I are at a party, another
summer outing that would end on someone’s couch; two friends and their insatiable
hunger for fun and bullshit on a Saturday night. It’s midnight and Jeremy’s huddled
in a corner already past the point of no return, trying to buy a blonde drinks as
she explains that it’s a house and
drinks are fucking free
. I excuse myself
from a sweaty guy attempting to pick me up and make my way to the bathroom for a
bit of privacy. As I shut the door behind me and turn on the lights, I see my monthly
has returned and I’ve spotted a bit on my underwear. I quickly finish my business
and look for a girl named Linda whom I vaguely remember as the owner of the house.
I tell her I got my period and she gives me a blank stare.

“Uh, yeah,” I continue. “So do you have a pad I can borrow?”

“Pfft! A pad?!” she laughs. “Who the heck uses those?”

“My grandma?”

She looks at me quizzically then lets out a squeal. “You’re a funny
girl, Annah. Come and I’ll get you some tampons.”

Five minutes later I’m back in the bathroom holding two plastic sticks
Linda just gave me. I could’ve been holding a dead goat dripping in blood for Christmas
dinner and been less clueless as to my next step. It is at this juncture where I
resort to calling my best friend and pray to Jesus she answers, which she does after
five rings.

Olivia: This better be good.

Me: It is super urgent, so listen up. How do you use a tampon?

Olivia: Oh my God, say you’re kidding. Aren’t you almost 30?

Me: I’m 20, bitch. And I’ve got me a serious problem here.
What do I do?

Olivia: It’s easy. Just take it out of the wrapper, put it
in, and make sure the string hangs out of your hoo ha. That’s it.

Me: That’s it?

Olivia: Yes, babe. Super easy!

So what was the big fuss all about? I couldn’t believe I hadn’t
resorted to tampon usage a decade before. I snatched my little Tampax applicator
and shoved it in there, making sure the string hung like Olivia had instructed.
After zipping my jeans and making sure the southern situation was secure, I left
the bathroom to fetch me some hunch punch.

I had taken all of eight steps when it hit me:

The morning after, Olivia and I were in hysterics over the fact
I’d left the plastic applicator inside, which pinched my tender lady skin with every
single attempt to walk. That night it wasn’t quite as funny. As soon as he spotted
me in a corner with a possible look of constipation, Jeremy made a beeline in my
direction. “Yooo. You alright, homie?” he asked, barely taking his lips off his
cup to utter the words. I said nothing, dragging him to Linda’s room instead and
explained my dilemma. He didn’t seem very interested or sympathetic to my tragedy
but then said, “You must’ve done something wrong. Take it out.”

“I can’t just take it out, Jeremy. I’m going to bleed all over the
place.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, can’t you shove some toilet paper
in there ’til we figure it out tomorrow?”

“I’m bleeding like a race horse and you think toilet paper’s going
to solve it? Get a clue.”

“What about paper towels? Them Bountys are fucking absorbent,” he
whispered to no one in particular.

I couldn’t help but glare at him in my mortified state.

“Call Olivia and ask her if it’s supposed to feel like that. You must’ve
done something wrong.”

“You said that already,” I grumpily stated but picked up the phone
anyway.

Olivia didn’t answer the second time around and after much deliberation
I was convinced by Jeremy to let him take it out. “I’ll put the other one in for
you. I know how it’s done.”

“And how exactly do you know this?”

So that was the night I let my friend Jeremy help me insert
a tampon properly right after he took two shots from a flask of whiskey he always
carried with him.

The next morning we found ourselves on Linda’s couch.

I woke up groggy in his arms, with fuzzy recollections of the
previous evening and no hangover.

“You know, Annah, I had the strangest dream last night,” he mused.
“We were lying in bed and all of the sudden you tore off your pants and showed me
your vagina. Is that your way of telling me you want me?”

“Of course,” I said, promptly excavating the depths of my mind to
find a pool of mortification waiting there to wash over me.

“So what happened to that blonde girl?” I nudged his shoulder playfully
and feigned interest in an effort to change the subject. “Did you finally get to
buy her a drink?”

He yawned and looked confused for a moment before answering, “Why
would I buy anyone drinks at a house party, dude? They’re, like, free.”

I sat there quietly thinking if I should even try to explain the answer
to him as I adjusted my hat and sighed.

“Let’s have Bloody Marys!” he said while getting up and sauntering
to the kitchen.

I took that as my cue to run to the bathroom and check on my new absorbent
friend. It wasn’t a surprise to see that unlike its winged frenemy, he hadn’t betrayed
me in a puddle of leakage. And that was the day I became a believer, or as my mom
would be horrified to learn, a tampon-wearing hooker.