Sophie's Smile: A Novel (8 page)

“I don’t think I have enough money on me. Can we stop by the ATM?” Checking to make sure I had my ID in my wallet, I noticed I only had a five and two ones.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m treating you.” Justin patted my shoulder, nudging me toward his black pickup truck.

“Thanks,” I said.

We parked the truck just outside the border and walked across taking the next available taxi. Before I knew it, Justin was taking us to the red light district in Tijuana. Brothels, strip clubs, prostitutes, and bars lined the streets of TJ’s north zone. This was the kind of place where men came to lose their virginity, drink until they were swimming in liquor, and let their lust and penis take control. I was not one of those men. I had a sinking feeling that things were not going to go well. Justin led the way to the first strip club on
Calle
Coahuila Street.

Clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke filled the dusty room. We made our way to the last three empty bar stools. The tables were sticky and smeared with lime and salt. The noise was deafening, drowning out the obnoxious catcalls the crude men were throwing at the scantily clad ladies that worked the room and stage.

The girls’ faces and ages were obscured with a pound of makeup caked onto their faces. I couldn’t tell if they were hideous or pretty, blond or brunette, twelve or thirty. Honestly, I felt disgusted and vile. I had an ill taste in my mouth and it wasn’t from the countless shots of Tequila or the pitchers of beer that Justin and Lance tossed my way. It was the atmosphere.

I felt sick and appalled as I drunkenly scanned the slap-happy eyes of the men around me. I could feel their lust and horny cravings pierce through me as the girls flaunted their perky tits and round asses—I couldn’t tell who was the hunter and who was the hunted—all I could think about was the fathers who sat at home worrying about their daughters and the mothers who lived in agony as their little girls were taken to live in sin; the girls who had no hope, their virtue shattered and their soul trapped by the devil—moisture started to well up in my eyes…

There I was, at a bar in Tijuana, celebrating the night of my twenty-first birthday with two of my good friends, and I was miserable. Not only was I crying…I was bawling.

“
¡
Fuera
!
¡
Fuera
!
”
Large, intimidating men in large double-breasted suits pushed us out. My tears, being so out of place, frightened them.

“Sow-
ree
guys.”
My eyes were bloodshot and my speech slurred.

“That’s all right. We should get back anyways. It’s almost midnight.” Justin ignored the fact that I was a mess because we probably couldn’t get in anywhere else without fronting a lot of
dinero
.

“Uh-oh…” The infamous two syllables that everyone dreaded.

Justin hurriedly grabbed Lance’s wallet without his permission. I watched as Justin opened the empty billfold, staring at it as if money would magically appear if he stared hard enough. I should have foreseen this. I should have known that Justin sneaking off to the “back room” would lead to trouble. We were out of money.

Somehow we made our way through the poorly lit streets and dark alleys. The smell of piss and vomit got to be too much, and ten minutes into our blind journey we each added our own contributions to the vile aroma. Using the little Spanish I retained from High School, I was able to get us past the danger and across the border to San Diego without going to jail, being robbed, raped, kidnapped, or mutilated. This had been, what you would call, a bad trip.

No one said a single word driving back home—we were too stunned, sick, and distraught. It was 3:00 A.M. when Justin dropped me off. I went straight to my room and crashed. I could hear Dad snoring in the next room with the TV blaring—a failed attempt to wait up for me and chew my ass for not checking in.

If he had awoken without seeing my scuffed shoes tossed helter-skelter in the entry, my bedroom door left ajar, and my fouled body scattered across my rumpled sheets, he would have probably called 911 in a panic. I knew he was often worried about me, but I also knew he would never mention the extent or even question my whereabouts the next morning. The crisis was averted. I was safe. End of story.

8

In the next few months I suffered silently but loudly enough to cause Dad and my grandparents grief and worry. My grandparents sent me to various therapists who did nothing but force prescription drugs down my throat, and listen to my basic, drawn-out thoughts.

Somehow among the inanity, they managed to work in all sorts of invasive questions: if I heard voices, and if yes, if those voices ever told me to burn things; if I ever wanted to kill myself; if I had any STDs; if I was happy with my penis; if I masturbated regularly; if I was ever touched inappropriately by an adult.

Besides the medication, they recommended I try creative writing—they thought it would be some kind of therapy shit. I tried. This is what I came up with:

Mr.
Rammm

I'm never going to amount to anything. I'm a dabbler; jack of all trades, master of none. I live in a subsidized one-bedroom apartment, where I usually drink my dinner. I smoke American Spirits and drive around for no reason. I start a new hobby,
then
walk away once I've invested just enough time and money to make it interesting. I had a job, but I quit that, too. It was an easy gig down at the museum, handing out pamphlets and making sure no piss-ant kids snuck out with anything valuable. I didn't really care if they did. I once saw a boy—couldn't have been more than thirteen—walk out of the gift shop with a whole sack of shit he didn't pay for.
Must have been a hundred dollars’ worth.
He walked by me and looked me in the eye the whole time, as if he was legit as shit. I think he even spoke to me. I didn't give a fuck. I just sat there and watched him break for the door like he was goddam clever. What a dumb fuck. He'll probably get caught the next time he tries something like that in front of someone who actually gives a shit whether or not the sun will come up tomorrow; then he'll spend the next five to ten taking it up the ass in some greasy prison shower room. I bet he'll think of me the whole time, and how clever he was. That'll teach him.

I usually sleep in, ‘
cause
I'm not really a morning person. I get up around two or three in the afternoon, and have a smoke out on the balcony in my chonies. I decided to stop shaving about three weeks ago. Sometimes I'll shower, but most days I'll just throw on whatever I was wearing the night before and head down to the liquor store. I don't understand why people would drink in a bar. It's so fucking expensive.
And loud.
Why should I have to pay some jerk-off to make me a shitty, watered down drink while I sit like a real douchebag with some handmade stool rammed up my ass, the kind where you feel like a fucking shrimp because your feet don't quite reach the footrest? So I'm sitting there, five bucks in the hole and I haven't even taken a sip, and some dried out
skag
in low-rise jeans and a halter top looks at me like "don't you wish you were lucky enough," and I just want to put a goddam bullet in my head.
Hers too.
By the time I'm trashed out of my mind, I have to sleep in my car ‘
cause
I can't even get the key in the goddam ignition, and I've spent the entire paycheck that was supposed to last me until my next job comes around. Fuck that. I'll just settle for a bottle of Log Cabin and a porno, in the comfort of my shitty ass home.

The words flowed effortlessly onto the computer screen, but obviously it didn’t work. I felt just as shitty as when I started, maybe more, now that I have it in writing.

Eventually, I stopped going. Not because I was ashamed or that I felt even crazier while I was on the medication, but because I was
fucked
. I had already given up, and all I wanted to do was not
feel
.

9

I tended to camp out at Justin's most nights, slummed on his couch listening to him have reckless and noisy sex with the various girls who came by, usually wasted or pretending to be. I was thankful that he offered a place devoid of judgment.
A crash pad.
A hide-out.

Eventually, I drowned my sorrows in weed and shrooms, carefully tabulating each self-medicated dose and its effects. I recorded my observations in a journal that I hid among the dust bunnies beneath my bed. I considered myself a lab rat, living for nothing, but curious about everything. Although I looked to be a danger to myself, I wasn't stupid and I was carefully cautious of every bad decision I decided to subject myself to.

Everything I suffered through was premeditated and fixed. I was a scientist, performing mindless experiments on myself for my own interest. Of course, there were times that I overmedicated myself, but slip-ups are expected in this kind of volatile set up.

If anyone was watching over me, they should have realized that I needed guidance and perhaps a
kick
in the right direction. What I needed was a safe place to explore my many talents and skills.
A place where I could flourish and be proud of something bigger than myself.

Although I wasn’t a child anymore, I was still fixated on my failure for being the son that was unable to mend his parents’ woes. I was so caught up in the aftermath of my parents’ divorce, I couldn’t tell right from wrong and all I saw when I looked in the mirror was disappointment.

All I could see when I closed my eyes was my parents during the final years of their downward-spiraling marriage. Screams and threats lined with words of hate and bitterness pounded my eardrums. The lasting image of my family’s demise still scars me.

Dad plopped on his trusty recliner after two eight hour shifts, one beer down the pipe and another obediently following, bellowing with full force, “We live like
fuckin
’ MON-KEYS!” Mom making matters worse by screaming in retort from the other end of the house, “Fuck you too, asshole—
you
clean that shit!”

It is safe to say that I have few fond memories of my parents. The only one I can pluck from the cobwebs of my brain is of Easter, ‘87. Mom brought Dad a cold beer from the cooler, he popped the cap off and handed it back so she could take the first sip; their eyes met and they sidled closer to one another in an almost automatic way; Dad wrapped his arm around her and ran his rough, carpenter’s hands in soothing circles over the small of her back. And the only reason I was able to conjure up this heart-felt memory is because I viewed it on one of Grandma’s home videos a while back.

10

The day the madness stopped and I decided to turn my life back on track was the day Grandpa collapsed while mowing his couple acres of land. I was a few yards away trimming the overgrown trees while Grandma was tending to the tulips in her award-winning flowerbed.

The thud of his body dropping to the recently-cut grass lawn—like a sack of potatoes—set off a wave of panicked hysteria. I hurried to the house to call 911 since Grandma, bless her soul, was already hovered around her beloved husband, sending out a silent prayer pleading for God to save his life, even if that meant taking hers.

I returned as quickly as I could to start CPR. Everything grew silent and dim, locked in an adrenaline rhythm that could not, would not cease as long as I had breath in my lungs; I continued until the sweat poured down my shirt in long bands, and the blue-gloved hands of a strong paramedic finally pulled me away so his colleagues could rush in.

The following events went by in a blur.
Ambulance coming and going.
Masks and tubes covering his ashen face and body.
Calls made to the rest of the family.
The cold white waiting room of the hospital.
The ticking of the clock that hung in the room above the broken chair.
The astringent smells of antiseptics and bleach.
The tears that fell as we sat and waited.
Relief and cries of joy when he awoke.
And the silent, ominous understanding that he would be taken from us again, and soon.