Las Biuty Queens Page 5

  I was really thirsty when I woke up. I drank water with desperation. It was cold, and the change in temperature—which felt to my Tina’d system like my body was being invaded by a stabbing pain—made me curl up in agony. I heard a voice whisper, This is the price you pay.

  I went into the bathroom and took a long shower with lukewarm water. Under the stream of water, I planned to go out and get myself a good lunch.

  I picked up the fifty-dollar bill that Drew had left me. I went to a soul food restaurant across the street. I sat down in the back. Where no one else was sitting. The waitress came over to me and, after giving me the menu, told me I had a great face.

  I looked at her as if to say, Nice try, you want me to give you a good tip. Did I like the f lattery? Obviously. I thought it must be the DNA from my mom’s side, because let’s just say I don’t take the greatest care of myself. As my friend Silvia would put it: you’re not exactly on a caldo de pollo diet.

  I ordered southern-style fried chicken with mashed potatoes and collard greens, accompanied by a big glass of iced tea. I ate slowly, thinking it was high time I put an end to the nonstop party lifestyle. I savored every mouthful. Something inside me knew it was time to leave behind all the debauchery. Just because johns showed up offering me drugs for free didn’t mean I had to take them. I lived in a great location. My ads were a success. I could make good money. I had to stop, now. I ordered an Earl Grey tea to calm my nerves and left a five-dollar tip, which the waitress thanked me for with a smile. I sorted out the day’s plan in my mind and started to walk. First, to the library to borrow some DVDs to watch on my computer. I didn’t have internet, so that was the best way of entertaining myself at night. I picked up a musical version of Oliver Twist. And the first and second seasons of Will and Grace. I decided to behave myself that night. I was feeling wired, so once I left the library, I walked to Washington Heights to buy some weed. I walked slowly. Enjoying the stroll. I stopped on the way to buy some Mexican avocados and whole wheat bread. For the munchies I’d get later on. As soon as he saw me, the dealer clarified that he didn’t have any dime, just nickel. I thought it sounded like a great deal. I didn’t even know nickels existed anymore. It must’ve been at least ten years since I’d last seen those little five-dollar bags. I asked for just one, because I was in savings mode.

  I walked back to Harlem humming music from the eighties. I’m a vintage loca. An old-school queen. Once I got home, I lay down on the sofa and fell asleep.

  I woke up sometime after ten at night. I posted an ad. I went to take a shower, thinking the ad would be online as soon as I came out of the bathroom. I already had the whole posting routine on autopilot, because the truth is that, after so many years in the game, I have a lot of regular clients. Guys who know me and are pleased with my services, you could say.

  Just when I was ready to relax and start watching the DVDs, my phone rang. A regular. Bori-Dick. That’s how I had him saved in my contacts. I’m sure you can guess why I gave him that nickname. I asked him to give me twenty minutes to get ready. While I fixed myself up, I decided this would be it for the night. No more clients.

  I’d known him for almost two years, so I opened the door without even asking who it was.

  “Hello. How you been?” he said. He went straight to the bed, dropped his pants, and pulled out his dick, which looked like a hanging fruit.

  “Not like that, babe, we’re not half-assing this. Get naked.”

  Before he took off his clothes, he took a glass pipe out of his backpack, along with a little bag of crack. The smoke it gives off seriously stinks, so I took a vanilla air freshener and sprayed it all over the place.

  He took one hit and then another. I started sucking his cock, which began to appear in all of its glory. He blew the smoke into my face. I didn’t want to inhale that smell. It’s like taking a hit to the head. Smoking crack is like feeling a bunch of your neurons suddenly die.

  He trembled as I sucked his dick. Deep throat. He stood on the bed with his legs open. I kneeled on the bed. He smoked and I occupied myself with a singular exercise of mouth, tongue, and throat. As he lay down again, I followed him without taking his cock out of my mouth. He started to moan softly. I knew he was about to come. I took him deep in my throat one last time and then pulled back. I watched as that thick, veiny muscle on the edge of bursting finally exploded. His stomach and my face were drenched in semen.

  I stood up to get him some baby wipes and a paper towel. It wasn’t enough, so I gave him more. When I say that Bori-Dick exploded, I’m not exaggerating. It exploded.

  “I haven’t come for a week. Work’s been busy.”

  The corner of his mouth curled into a smile and he lit a cigarette. We gave each other a look like up for a second round? But then, as quickly as we looked at each other, we looked away.

  “Okay, babe. Time to go,” I told him.

  He got dressed. He grabbed his backpack and, with his half-smoked cigarette still dangling from his lips, walked toward the door. He let himself out.

  “See you later.”

  I went to the bathroom, and before taking off my makeup, I rinsed with mouthwash. I took off my wig and went to the living room to pass out on the couch. I remembered the nickel of marijuana. The bag was enough for a good-sized joint. I smoked half of it. I took out the computer and the DVDs I got from the library. I chose Oliver Twist. I lay facedown looking at the screen, waiting to see my favorite character, the Artful Dodger. More than Oliver, I wanted to see him. I imagined that in some other world, I could have been him or he could have been my best friend. I was feeling pretty chill when, suddenly, I heard a noise. Turn on all the lights, the voice ordered me. It was a feminine voice. Instead of hiding in my bed, I stood up and, obedient, switched on every light in my apartment. The living room light, the one in the bathroom, the one in my bedroom, and the one on the nightstand.

  I went back to the bed to keep watching the movie, as though nothing had happened. But then I stood up again. This time, I picked up a plaster figurine of Our Lady of Sorrows that my friend Marylin gave me years ago. I held it up and waved it around in every corner of my room, as though the Virgin were processing.

  Everything started once I put her back down on the nightstand. Something was coming. Through the door, through the windows. It felt like everything was about to explode. My pulse accelerated. My heartbeat started pounding. Boom, boom, boom. I tried to concentrate on my breathing. My focus dipped in and out, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was about to go under. I thought of calling 9-1-1. But I stopped myself before I made the call. I thought of the scandal that would go down if the ambulance came. And here in New York, when you call an ambulance, firemen and the police show up, too. My friend La Leo didn’t deserve all that trouble. The rental contract was in her name, but since she lived in Virginia and only came to town for a few days every two weeks, we’d arranged that I could live in her apartment as long as I paid rent, and in return I’d let her stay there every time she came to New York. The apartment belonged to a low-income housing program. In short, it would be no bueno if they found out La Leo was subletting to someone, and even worse if they found out because I called 9-1-1.

  I managed to focus on my breathing. I thought of leaving and trying to call from outside the building. At least that way the paramedics wouldn’t have to come inside and I wouldn’t rat out La Leo. In the end, I decided to call one of my friends. Talking with someone would help calm me down. It was after two in the morning. Everyone I knew must be awake trying to make some money. They’d be in some bar or at home posting ads, just as I’d done earlier that night. First, I called La Myriam Hernández. She didn’t pick up. I called Diana. She didn’t pick up. I called Pamela. She didn’t pick up. I sat down on the sofa in the living room. I stood up and went to the kitchen sink. I turned on the cold water and let it run. I wet my face and drank water at the same time. While I was drying my hands, I thought of Sylvia. She wasn’t putting ads up anymore and I knew s
he wasn’t going to bars either. She was in some kind of halfway house.

  “What’s going on?” I heard from the other end of the line.

  I could tell from her tone of voice that she’d been cozy in her bed with the air-conditioning on full blast.

  “Ay, honey. I’ve taken so many things in the last few days that I think I’m having some kind of panic attack.”

  “Well, try having a beer or something to see if it’ll calm you down,” she said with complete calm, making me realize she must have been through the same thing many times before.

  “I don’t have any beer. You know I don’t drink.”

  “Hmm … you don’t drink, but …”

  She managed to get a smile out of me.

  “Hey, I feel a little better now, but can we keep talking until this awful feeling goes away?”

  “Uy, the same thing happened to me years ago,” Silvia said. “Someone put some kind of pill in my drink without me seeing it. I couldn’t remember anything the next day. They told me I even wrecked a cop’s clothes. It’s a miracle I didn’t end up in jail.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said, a bit more at ease. Talking with someone made me feel better. I was much more relaxed.

  “What are you even doing up?” Silvia asked when she realized what time it was.

  “Putting up ads. Trying to make some money.”

  “I hear you.”

  And as soon as Silvia said this, I started to hear a kind of continuous whistle.

  “Oye, I can’t hear you very well. There’s some kind of whistle.”

  “I can hear you perfectly.”

  “It must be your phone or mine. I’m hanging up, I’ll call you right back.”

  Then I heard the whistle sounding loudly in the space around me, and everything that had relaxed me up to that point suddenly transformed into sheer panic. It wasn’t a problem with my phone. The whistle continued, as if heralding a catastrophe.

  I tried breathing deeply again. I tried to concentrate. With my cell phone, I called Sylvia’s number again.

  “Sylvia, stay on the line. I’m going to the emergency room at Harlem Hospital. I think something’s happening to me.”

  Without putting down the phone, I started to get dressed very slowly. I put on some shoes, pants, and a T-shirt. I also put on a baseball cap that said NY. I picked up the keys and opened the door. Thankfully, the stairs and all the hallways of the building were well lit. I set off, describing every single thing I did to Sylvia.

  “I’m dead bolting the door. Now I’m starting to go down the stairs. I’m on the third f loor. I’m leaving my building. I’m walking. It’s almost 4:00 A.M., everything here is quiet and dark, Sylvia. Stay there. Just two more blocks to Harlem Hospital. Please don’t hang up. Just stay with me. Let’s just talk about whatever.”

  I didn’t say anything else. I just listened to Sylvia as she spoke to me. I have no idea about what. I was so terrified, I was convinced that at any moment, something might jump out of one of the parked cars or trees that lined the street. Finally, I got to Lenox Avenue. The hospital was all lit up before me. It was like an oasis in the middle of the desert I was trying to reach. Before something bad happened to me. Before something trapped and devoured me.

  How long did it take me to cross the street? I don’t remember. I only know it took much longer than usual. I managed to reach the doors of the hospital. The entrance to the emergency room. A guard saw my panicked expression and opened the door for me.

  “Are you okay?”

  “So, so,” I replied.

  I went into the waiting room. I sat down and started to relax a bit. I could hear Sylvia on the other end of the line asking me if I’d made it.

  “Yes, Sylvia, thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

  That’s when she started yelling at me—calling me out, really—asking when was I going to learn my lesson, when was I going to stop filling my body with all that trash. I thanked her again and then hung up on her.

  I had to wait to be seen by a nurse. I was anxious. At that hour, the hospital was basically empty. I stood up and walked over to the security guards. They were both African American. A man and a woman in their thirties. Both of them had big brown eyes.

  “Uf, I’m feeling better. I was sort of paranoid before.”

  “What happened?” the woman asked.

  “I heard a voice. Then I think I had a panic attack.”

  They both started to laugh at me.

  “Why’s that?”

  Again, it was the woman who spoke.

  “I’ve been partying a lot. You know, taking lots of stuff.”

  I heard someone call my name. The nurse was ready to see me. The first thing she did was ask me why I was there. I told her the same thing I told the couple. That I’d heard a voice telling me to turn on all the lights. And then I had the anxiety attack. She sat there looking at me and taking notes on a piece of paper. She took my pulse. She asked me to go back to the waiting room.

  I sat down close to a window facing the street. The sun was already coming up. It was calm outside. Little by little, I started to feel better. I stood up and went back to where the nurse had examined me.

  “You know what? I feel better now. I’m really relaxed. Thanks so much, but I think I’m going home. I just live two blocks away. I think I just need to sleep it off. Thanks again. I’m headed out.”

  Before I could take a step, she asked me to wait for just a minute. She said it wouldn’t hurt for me to see a doctor first. That I’d only have to wait three minutes. I went back to the same place where I’d been sitting. I waited. I started to concentrate on my breathing. Once again, I stood up and went over to the nurse.

  “Seriously, I’m much better now. I’m just super tired. Thanks anyway, but I’m going to head out.”

  I hadn’t finished saying this when a Mexican man approached me who, judging by his uniform and the stethoscope hanging from his neck, I guessed was a doctor or a nurse.

  “I was just telling the young lady I feel better. I’d really just prefer to go home. I only live two blocks from here.”

  A police officer arrived and positioned himself at my side. His body language seemed to indicate that I shouldn’t move, that they weren’t going to let me leave.

  “Let’s go,” said the Mexican doctor.

  And I, obedient as ever, followed him, escorted by two people in uniform: one in light blue and the other in navy. We walked down a long hall. We passed a section they were remodeling. Then we arrived at an elevator I could tell wasn’t for public use. I rode up with my companions. I’d say we stopped between the fifteenth and twentieth f loors, but I never saw the numbers. It seemed to go straight up. As soon as I set foot outside the elevator, I saw a guard in front of me. He asked me to hand over all my belongings. The first things I gave him were my keys and my cell phone. I couldn’t understand what was going on. I entered a room and a door closed behind me with a sound like a metallic crypt shutting. High up on the wall, I read PSYCHIATRIC UNIT. Another guard appeared and asked me to take off my shoes and give them to him. This is worse than a police station, I thought. All you have to do there is take your shoelaces off in case the spirit moves you to strangle yourself or someone else. Later I learned that some patients try to hit people with their shoes. Once I was barefoot, I crossed through another metal door that shut behind me, heavy and abrupt just like the first one.

  The room I was in had an immaculate hardwood f loor. Like the f loor in a school run by nuns. It was a rectangular space with a clear circular booth in the middle, where the hospital personnel sat. From there, they watched us.

  It was very early. Maybe six in the morning. I sat down on a kind of bench attached to the wall. Across from me, on another bench, a guy was sleeping. I couldn’t see his face. Just his head of purple hair. Next to me, another man was sleeping on a cot with one hand handcuffed to the wall. I realized that all around the wall, in addition to the seating, there was a lo
ng metal bar like they have in ballet schools, to which two other men were handcuffed.

  I didn’t like this place at all. That’s when someone called my name. A woman appeared in a window of the clear central booth. I stood up and went over to her.

  “You have to wait until the doctors get here at eight thirty,” she snapped without even looking me in the eye.

  “What time is it now?” I asked.

  “Seven A.M. Please take a seat and wait for them to call you, sir.”

  I went back. Another barefooted guy appeared in front of me. None of us had shoes on. He was trotting around the room. He held his right hand up in the air like he was running the final meters of a marathon. He ran around and around the observation booth in circles.

  Suddenly a woman in a hospital uniform arrived carrying a trayful of sandwiches. I was so anxious I could have eaten the whole tray. I took one tuna and one egg salad. I asked if there was coffee, and immediately, another woman in uniform appeared carrying a tray of drinks. I took a cup of coffee and an orange juice. At least the service was good.

  The two women in uniform disappeared into the booth. The trays they were carrying were still full. I was the only person who’d taken something. Marathon man didn’t stop running. You could hear a kind of echo emanating from his throat. I devoured the sandwiches. I went over to the little window to ask for more coffee. They told me the women with the trays would be back in forty-five minutes.

  I went back to my spot. I looked through the barred windows. It was a very tall tower. Someone turned on a television built into the wall. Good Morning America was the program they were going to force me to watch. I watched carefully, thinking this might make the time f ly by. Before they even gave the weather report, I heard my name.

  They opened a door and asked me to walk into the room. In front of me stood a tall white woman in a medical uniform. A psychiatrist, no doubt. She made me go into a small room. She offered me a seat, and before she’d even asked me anything, I blurted out my entire recent history of drug consumption leading up to the moment I heard the voice. The doctor paid special attention when I told her about going to Washington Heights to buy marijuana. She asked me to repeat that part. She took notes. She made me go out and wait outside for a few minutes while she consulted with her colleagues.