HELLFIRE OF THE VANITIES: CONFESSIONS OF A LATINA REDNECK

"My daddy got tired of hearing me bawl and told me to beat her good first chance I got."

Once upon a time my mother married a Texan and we lived in Ft. Worth.

The story is true. The accent is not.

The Icing Twins

The old man’s hooded eyes focused on the photo of two teenaged girls smashing their faces into slices of birthday cake. He tapped the picture and said, “Snuck up on them for this one, but they heard me coming. Yep, last picture of the girls we have.”

The reporter glanced at the picture. “That’s the picture the FBI used?”

The old man sighed. “Lotta good it did them. Change their hair color. Use a different color of icing and all youse got is a headline—”

“The Icing Twins Strike Again!” the reporter said in the exaggerated tones of an anchorman announcing late-breaking news.

“Most successful bank robbers ever!" The old man raised his chin, proud and defiant. "Never been caught. Never heard from them once they began their life of crime.” He looked down at the picture again. His hand trembled. “My granddaughter broke her mother’s heart.”

The reporter consulted his notes. “Debbie and Ellie swore they were twins even though they had different parents?”

“They had a connection. It ran between them strong. You ever seen a dog and an electric fence?” He didn’t wait for the reporter to answer. “It was like that. A line of electricity between them that warned everyone away, like they might get shocked if they got too close. We figured it was just teenage lesbo stuff.”

“Yes, well, according to reports Debbie and Ellie finished each other’s sentences, had the same gestures and facial tics and made the same impulsive decisions.”

“They got tired of people saying, ‘But you don’t look anything alike.’ It made ‘em angry. ‘Nobody sees us,’ our Ellie said. It was then they decided to never have their pictures taken again."

“Why do you think they started their life of crime?”

“If I knew that, mister, I wouldn’t be sittin’ here in my pajamas talkin’ to you. Oh sure, maybe we shoulda told Ellie she was adopted, but how was we to know Debbie was adopted, too?” The old man set the picture down and twisted his arthritic hands together, agitated. “What are the chances of them endin’ up in the same neighborhood? Plenty of folks is adopted and they don’t rob banks!”

“Hmm, do you think Ellie and Debbie, um, became lovers?”

The old man struggled to his feet. “What kind of a sick sumbitch are you? That’d be incest!”

He showed the reporter to the door and went over to the mantle to raise a picture he’d lowered just before the man arrived. He smiled down at the latest photo of Debbie and Ellie. A new one arrived on their birthday every year. This one showed the sisters with their three children. All five of them had their faces smashed down in birthday cake.

Flash written in response to the photo above.

ADOBE DUST AT DAWN

Lydia smelled the dawn–a hint of dew-laden dust sifting through her open window–before she heard the grinding gears whining in the distance.  

         

         At first she thought it was a garbage truck. Too early.  A hard gust brought the acrid scent of exhaust.  The sound grew louder.  Her mother was not home from work yet.  Outside, the dogs barked.

         Standing on the front porch in her nightgown, Lydia looked to the east.  Dawn backlit the transit of three gargantuan steamrollers.  They mowed down adobe house after adobe house.  Each mechanical giant stood five stories high, their rollers a relentless tsunami cutting a swath through the squat homes of her neighborhood.   A gauzy, virulent haze from the exploding mud bricks surrounded the machines.

         She reeled back into the house, grabbed her infant sister and awakened her young brother. "Get the cat!"  

She ran with them to the hill behind her house.  The bird!  The colossal contraptions were at the Montoya's, two doors down.   

Lydia ran back and lifted the birdcage off its hook.  She tucked the hamster cage under her other arm and took one last look around. 

         The whine of the machines changed pitch right before they tamped down a house.  They were next door, the smell hot and sulfurous. Lydia remembered her mother's tip box, hidden in the lingerie drawer under the fur scarf of glassy-eyed minks biting each other's tails. The money clanged in time to her run up the hill, where her brother and sister waited. They watched the devastation below.  Their mother would return home to a pile of dirt, but they were safe.

         The thumping of her heart and gasping breath awakened her.  Her muscles ached.  In the kitchen, her mother spooned mush into the baby’s mouth.  "I could sure use some help around here."  When Lydia didn’t answer, she focused on her daughter’s dream-confused expression and shook her head.   

“Always dreaming," her mother said, and wiped the baby's mouth.  "Always thinking of yourself." 

The Rendezvous Motel: Part 1

Lydia’s back was to the couple, but she watched their pre-coital flirtation in the reflection of the sliding glass window.

The woman got out of the Jacuzzi and sat cross-legged, a petite Buddha, and looked down at her husband.  The cigarette she popped into her mouth looked large and fat in her tiny hands.  When she puckered her lips to hold it, her eyes rounded, too, Manga style. The visual was fellatic.  Her husband stared up at her, worshiping his baby wife. 

More young couples joined them for breakfast.  Lydia closed her eyes and savored the energy. “Everyone here has had sex in the last 24-hours,” she said to her husband.

He snapped his head up, looked around. “Probably more than once.”

“The men are quiet, almost deferential.”

“Safer that way,” her husband said.




Photo by S. Ramos O'Briant

Sister, Sister

Now for something personal:

This is my sister. She recently forged our elderly mother’s name and stole thousands of dollars from her.

My mom worked six nights a week for years to support me, my brother and my sister. In her fifties, she took the GRE and got a job with the state. She was only able to save this money by living like a pauper. Once she retired, Mom insisted on subsisting on her social security checks, and banking the small pension she’d earned from the state.

It’s amazing how much interest can accumulate if you save every nickle and never spend a dime. She said the money was for her old age, so she wouldn’t be a burden to her children. Mom was sure she’d get cancer. She did. On her tonsils. Had chemo and radiation (The Tattoo Lady, Mother and Me), and beat it, although she still smokes.

Mom rescued my sister countless times from abusive relationships (White Lies), bought her cars, paid for repairs, saved the cars from repossession, paid down payments on homes, rent, and the list goes on. Every single one of my sister’s husbands and boyfriends were welcomed into Mom’s house where they mostly laid around. In order to discourage them from staying too long, Mom engaged in a peculiar form of domestic warfare where she put the lowest wattage light bulbs in their room and hid the toilet paper.

We — the sibs and Mom — laughed in those days at our mother’s eccentricities. We thought my sister would change, that things would get better. Why not? She’s smart and articulate, just has bad taste in men, and an addiction. To substance, yes, but more to a losing way of life. She's dedicated herself to bad decisions.

Mom’s heart is broken. She tried so hard to fix my sister, even lying to protect her when it put me in jeopardy. Mi familia. I got out, that’s my salvation, but my escape is only one of distance. I used to feel sorry for my sister, but this latest cut to our mother goes deep, beyond the blood, all the way to the bone.

"She’s bad, bad, bad," Mom says, all the orneriness gone out of her voice, making her sound feeble and old.

I think I might lose her any day, any hour, any minute, and it makes me so angry that my sister did this now.

All photos by author.

Deconstructing "Go Dog. Go!"

This was a flash exercise from 2002 that took place in a private room on Zoetrope.  Ms. Parker is the inimitable editor of FRiGG magazine.  I don't remember anymore who wrote what, if we traded off, or if I wrote the entire thing based on her prompt.  It's a lark, and perfect not only to close out the holiday season, but a dogged decade. Happy Holidays!



ZAFA LIT 469: Deconstructing "Go, Dog. Go!"
Lecture No. 1

Ms. Parker (claps hands): All right, class! Quiet! Hey! This course is called "Deconstructing ‘Go, Dog. Go.'" In it we examine the text and illustrations of the eponymous children’s book. Does everyone know what the word "eponymous" means?

Sandra: My mom says boys have penys.  She didn’t say they were a mess, though.

Ms. Parker: Wrong. Anyway, those of you who think this is Remedial Sex Ed 069 should get out now, OK? (Most of the class rises and leaves.) Good-by! Excuse me. You in the back there. (Looks at her seating chart.) Steve, is it? I think I’ll call you Little Stevie. Quit horsing around, Little Stevie, please. Put that away. I’ll see you in my office immediately. (She and Little Stevie leave but they come back shortly. Little Stevie looks spent.) Anybody else? (The class cowers.)

Sandra: (Passes note to friend across the aisle) Do you think she used a ruler on Little Stevie?
    (Friend passes note back) He sat down okay, but Ms. Parker’s walking kinda funny.

Ms. Parker: All righty, then. Let’s start with a short bio of the author, P.D. Eastman. (She reads from a printout from Amazon.com.) "Mr. Eastman authored, co-authored, and illustrated many children's books. He was born in 1909 and died in 1986. He even produced some films, and worked for Warner Brothers and Disney studios. He helped develop the Dr. Seuss ‘Gerald McBoing Boing’ series with Theodor Geisel (Dr. Seuss), when he worked for the animation studio United Productions of America." Does this mean anything to any of you?

Sandra: Was he that nasty-looking old man on the Werther’s candy commercial?

Ms. Parker: Oh, Sandra, I’ve heard you met Mr. Eastman. Can you tell us about this?

Sandra:    He offered me candy.  Sure he was a stranger, but I thought I’d seen him on T.V.  Now I can’t get the taste out of my mouth.

Ms. Parker: Thanks for sharing. Now, I want to give you some background on Dr. Seuss as well. By the way, "authored" means the same thing as "wrote." (Ms. Parker reads from the printout.) "Back in 1957, Theodor Geisel responded to an article in Life magazine that lamented the use of boring reading primers in schools. Using the pseudonym of "Dr. Seuss" (Seuss was Geisel's middle name) and only 223 words, Geisel created a replacement for those dull primers: ‘The Cat in the Hat.’ The instant success of the book prompted Geisel and his wife to found Beginner Books, and Geisel wrote many popular books in this series, including ‘Hop on Pop,’ ‘Fox in Socks,’ and ‘Green Eggs and Ham.’ Other favorite titles in this series are ‘Go, Dog, Go!’ (sic; they did the punctuation wrong) and ‘Are You My Mother?’ by P. D. Eastman, ‘A Fly Went By,’ by Mike McClintock, and ‘Put Me in the Zoo,’ by Robert Lopshire. These affordable hardcover books combine large print, easy vocabulary, and large, bright illustrations in stories kids will want to read again and again. Grade 1 - Grade 2."

Sandra: Were those on the summer reading list?  ‘Cause I never got that list, and it’s not fair testing us on them.

Ms. Parker: Uh huh. Today we would like to examine three issues in "Go, Dog. Go!" Everyone get out your texts. (No one does.)

Sandra: (pulls out Cliff’s Notes for Go, Dog.  Go!)

Ms. Parker: Well, forget it then. I’ll read the book to you. (She does. See the following.)

(Ms. Parker sighs.) Wasn’t that good? (She lights a cigarette.)

Sandra: (Waves smoke away) I resent the female dog’s obsequious solicitation of male dog approval.

Ms. Parker: First, I want to talk about the hat thing. In four separate instances, the red girl poodle, who is wearing a different hat each time, asks the yellow-with-black-spots boy spaniel whether he likes her hat. Get out your texts, please. (No one does.)

Sandra: The hat is like a tunnel.  The male’s approval is like a train entering the tunnel.  Dark and mysterious things happen in there.

Ms. Parker: Fine, then. I'll describe the friggin' pictures to you. On page…hey! There are no goddamn page numbers here! Who edited this book? On page approximately 6, we see her first hat. Why don't you describe it for us, Sandra.

Sandra: It has flowers.  Obvious labial imagery.

Ms. Parker: What page are you on? It’s a simple, blue, bolero-type hat with a yellow daisy on the top. OK, it’s not that great a hat. But clearly she is delighted with it. She asks him if he likes it. He goes all snooty and tells her, "I do not." Why does he do this? She just wants a little affirmation about her hat. I mean, couldn’t he have lied?

Sandra: He could not.  To lie, he would not.  He could not, would not tell a lie.

Ms. Parker: I want to mention, on the next page, following this encounter, approximately page 8 in your text…

Sandra: A hat is never just a hat.

Ms. Parker: …approximately page 8 in your text, we have a blue poodle (who looks like the hat-girl poodle only now she’s blue; perhaps a dye job?) is going into a maze made out of cleverly trimmed hedges—remember the scene in "The Shining" where they’re in the maze? It’s like that only it’s not snowing—and she’s looking like she’s in a trance, if you want to know the truth; do you think she’s been slipped a mickey?—and there are three red male-looking spaniels going out of the maze and they look freaked out, frankly, like they’ve seen some very odd shit or perhaps some odd shit was done to them. Little Stevie, what do we make of this?

Little Stevie:   Is this like hidden pictures?  I see a ruler in the hedge.

Ms. Parker: Next hat encounter. This time she’s wearing a nice, blue, wide-brimmed hat, something Scarlett O’Hara would wear or in this case Scarlett O’Hairy, topped with a dramatic pink plume. Once again, she seems awfully pleased with her hat and she asks the guy if he likes it and again he cops an attitude and tells her he "does not like it." Cad! Shall we mention that this time he’s wearing a hat, a black bowler thing and it’s plenty dorky all right, but does she say anything? Also, as he’s scooting away (they’re both on scooters) he’s waving her feather. The fucker took her feather!

Sandra: Cross-dressing bastard!

Ms. Parker: Next hat is a ski hat. It’s the cutest yet! It’s yellow with white fur around the head and a red pom-pom at the end. It’s very long—so long that it’s pleated accordion-style so that it won’t extend all the way down the mountain. Come on, that is one fabulous hat! But, can you guess? It’s a "no go" with Monsieur le Critique duh Chapeau. And look what hat he’s wearing! What, does he think he’s Santa? Hel-lo! You’re not even Rudolph! You’re a dog!

Sandra: Do these dogs live in West Hollywood?

Ms. Parker: Plus, this time she’s pissed. She’s racing down the mountain—away from him ASAP!—and she’s like, Good-by! (ya little cur) and she’s giving him the evil eye and hoping he’ll bark up the wrong tree and then smash into it.

Sandra:   Outrageous fashion sense, snitfits at the drop of a hat.  Oh, yes, they have to be drag queens.

Ms. Parker: Now! The hat climax! This is during the dog party. Now she’s wearing one superduper stu-fucking-pendous gorgeous chapeau cree-ay-shun that’s got all manner of stuff hanging from it on fishing poles: spiders and fish and mice and birds, etc. Plus, there’s a big bone and candy canes and a pinwheel and lollipops and a big ol’ flowerpot at the top with a pink daisy in it!

Sandra: Yes!  Yes!  I remember that hat.  A perfect doggy dream of a hat.  I betcha she whimpered in her sleep, and twitched her back leg chasing that design.

Ms. Parker: And--well, well!--Mister "I Do Not Like That Hat" finally likes her hat! But look at his party hat! Can we? It’s a newspaper hat he folded! Lame!

Sandra: He’s utterly trying to curry favor.  Does she work in the industry?

Ms. Parker: And then, goddamn it, on the last page she goes off with him in his car. As if all was forgiven! Bitch, have you no pride? The dog won’t give you a fucking inch until you bust your poodle-butt staying up all night to create this heavenly millinery masterpiece, and, look at him, he shows up with a hat he folded from the goddamn sports section and he drops you this one little teeny compliment and you toss away all your good sense and run off into the sunset with him? In his spiffy little red car? Explain this to me!

Sandra: Well, life is short, and the red car is cute.

Ms. Parker (miffed): That’s just plain poppycock! This class is over! I’m outta here. Where’s the snack machine? Everybody come back tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll be well. Tomorrow we’ll talk about punctuation, specifically exclamation points versus periods. And I don’t want to hear anything out of (she points) you or you or...you.

Sandra: Do we get extra credit for not talking?

Ms. Parker: Good-by!

(Your Name): Good-by!

ZAFA LIT 469: Deconstructing "Go,Dog. Go!" will resume tomorrow (that is, Tuesday) when Ms. Parker has recovered her good cheer.

Notes From a Marriage: Micro fiction

LOL

I often think of the day you were so disagreeable and marched into the rain. I followed behind and did not get drenched when the cab sped by.

At Long Last, Latinos in Lotusland Arrives

Just received my hardcover and paperback copies of this book. Isn't it beautiful? I am so pleased to be a part of this group of illustrious authors, including Reyna Grande, John Rechy, Luis Rodriguez and Helena Maria Viramontes, and so many others.

From Bilingual Press: Spanning 60 years of writing, Latinos in Lotusland portrays vivid accounts of complex and entertaining characters that bring to life the diverse and soulful communities that comprise Southern California, from East L.A. to Malibu, from Hollywood to the San Fernando Valley, from Venice Beach to El Sereno.


Our editor was the eminent Daniel A. Olivas, an award-winning author of four books. He says, "I grew frustrated with the constant barrage of imagery that portrayed Southern Californians as chronically superficial and greedy . . . I wanted fiction readers to encounter the incredible diversity that is the heart of Los Angeles and surrounding communities."


My story is called "Lana Turner Slept Here," and concerns a motorcycle cop and the very pregnant woman he pulls over in Malibu.


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