Las Biuty Queens Page 6

  As soon as I walked out of the room, I realized the two women with the trays were about to leave. I ran after them. I took two sandwiches again, one tuna and one egg salad, as well as coffee and orange juice.

  I went back to my spot. I noticed there was a new visitor, a woman sitting very close to me. She told me between sobs that she didn’t understand why they’d brought her to that place. Then a nurse came over and asked her if she’d taken her meds. The woman said she didn’t like all the pills. There were just too many of them. The nurse went away and the woman kept crying. The nurse returned with a small silver tray that held a glass of water and pills of different sizes and colors.

  “Take them,” she commanded.

  Less than five minutes later, when the woman had stopped crying and was sleeping deeply, two men in white lab coats appeared and loaded her onto a gurney. They carried her away, disappearing behind a door that, unlike all the others, was not transparent but instead made of metal.

  The man with purple hair sleeping across from me woke up. He started to sit up slowly, stretching out his arms. His face was swollen from so much sleeping. His fat face, and especially his dyed purple hair, reminded me of Ursula, the villain from The Little Mermaid, and I just had to laugh at the whole scene. Marathon man was gone. They must have taken him away, too. One of the guys who was handcuffed to the metal bar woke up and shouted. The same uniformed men who had taken the woman appeared, carrying him off on the gurney as he screamed for help.

  I started to get nervous. I went up to the window again.

  “Miss, I’ve been here for hours. Everyone who was here before me left already. I spoke with the doctor and I honestly feel good now. Please just tell me how long until I can leave.”

  I said this as calmly as possible. I knew if I wasn’t careful with everything I said and did, it could be used against me later on. For the first time, she looked me straight in the eye and answered.

  “The doctors are discussing whether to release you or not.”

  I stood there like a deer in headlights. The women with the trays arrived again, but I was so terrified by the possibility that they’d keep me locked up in that place, or that they’d take me to the psych ward at Bellevue, that I lost my appetite. Almost as though they knew what was happening to me, the women left two little sandwiches next to my seat, one tuna and one egg salad, along with coffee and orange juice. The woman’s response echoed in my mind.

  People came and went, all of them behaving strangely. Men and women in uniform appeared and disappeared through the metal door. I heard my name again. I went into the booth and then into the room where the psychiatrist had interviewed me. She was sitting. She offered me a chair. We sat face to face.

  “What my colleagues and I were concerned about is that you mentioned hearing voices. That’s why we didn’t know whether to let you go or not, but when you told us about the marijuana you bought on the street, we understood your situation a little better. We’ve seen several recent cases of people buying cheap marijuana off the street and ending up in the emergency room of some New York hospital with a panic attack. It seems like they’re using some kind of spray on the marijuana to make its effects more potent. We’re not sure, but we think it could be angel dust. That spray sells like hotcakes. We recommend you don’t buy any more marijuana off the street, and you should also look into a Narcotics Anonymous program. You are free to go.”

  The only thing I could think of to say was thank you.

  In less than twenty minutes, I was out. In the street. Walking the two blocks in the shadow of the same trees that had frightened me so much the night before. I carried my shoes in my hands. I went straight to bed to sleep all the hours I hadn’t slept, and while I walked, I thought about the grave mistake the doctors had made when, once again, they let me go.

  Biuty Queen

  THE TRUTH IS THAT, YES, I’m exhausted. But it was worth all the hustling, all the johns. All those fucking clients so I could afford to have my dresses made, on top of paying the choreographer and the four dancers. Obviously, it was worth it. The crown looks gorgeous on me. It might not have so many jewels, but you can tell it was expensive. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the sluttiest New York loca of them all? Go ahead, say it. Speak up, I can’t hear you. Better you say it than me. Yes, exactly. Deborah Hilton. Deborah with an H. Yours truly. José Troncoso doesn’t exist anymore. We left him thousands of kilometers behind.

  Look. If you’d taken any longer to say my name, who knows what I would’ve done to you. You got lucky; I was about to get suspicious and learn the hard way that breaking a mirror brings you seven years’ bad luck. You guessed it, honey: the slut is me. Deborah Hilton. Deborah with an H. I have five crowns. And a ticket to Chicago for next year. To the most important beauty pageant for transsexuals in all the United States. I mean, no one wins that crown the first time. Jim Flint, the founder and organizer, makes sure you go at least three times before you win. And that’s just if you’re beautiful, talented, and on top of it all, you spend a fortune on the production. I think the only person who’s ever won the crown her first time is Lady Kathiria. First she won the Continental Plus title. That’s the one for chubby girls. You’ll notice I didn’t say fat. Then the loca slimmed down and went back for the Continental Regular the next year. She won first place. You have to give the queen some credit. They say she was buried with all her crowns. Hey, don’t give me that look. I was just thinking about how many crowns I’ll have before I cross over to the other side. Uy, best not to think about that. I’m going to have a drink. Oh, right, you don’t drink. You’re a mirror. An object. I like you anyway. Cheers. And keep ref lecting my gorgeousness. Just remember: I’m not like everyone else. I talk to you. I tell you all my secrets.

  After Miss Continental, I’m going to Miss International Queen in Thailand. Sure, I’ll have to invest more in surgeries, because obviously the most beautiful locas in the whole world will be there. And you can’t forget that Asian girls already have the figure, the skin, and the hair going for them. Feminine perfection. But anyway, that’s two years away. Although two years is nothing here in New York. After all, it’s been more than ten since I came here from Central America and it feels like it was just yesterday.

  So, for now, my job is to focus on next September and getting ready for Chicago. I’ll have to raise at least $20,000. Pero first things first, I need to pay off my debts ahora mismo because my landlord’s about to take me to court. I owe more than three months’ rent. By some miracle, God gave me plenty of beauty and plenty of dick. I’ll never have a shortage of clients, and with the regulars I already have from nonstop hustling, I’ll be caught up in a month. That deserves another toast. Duh, to keep my spirits up. Cheers, mirror. Thanks for listening.

  Now that I think about it, maybe beginning in November I’ll start to travel and look for tricks in places outside the city. Monday to Thursday in Long Island or Jersey, and Fridays and weekends in Manhattan, obviously, because money never runs out here. But if we’re being honest, the competition gets stiffer every day. Outside the city, it’s a different story. There aren’t even bars for locas. There might be for gays, but not for beauties like us. We can charge whatever we want out there. Of course, you have to be extra careful about the police. If they see men coming and going from your room, the hotel always calls the cops. And the loca? Straight to the slammer she goes. It’s good I have my permanent residence, but I still have to watch out. Remember what happened to the Torres family—even people with papers can get deported. And that, my dear little mirror, is simply not my cup of tea. I have crowns left to win. I want to have so many they don’t even fit in my casket. I hope I need a second coffin just for my crowns. Don’t judge me just because I’m drunk. Look, I’ll make sure they bury you with me, too. Will I live to be an old lady? If I do, whoever goes to my wake is going to see a photo exhibition of me posing with all my crowns. Look at that old maricón, they’ll say, who’d ever believe he was a biuty queen? Yes, mi amor,
a lady must do everything she can to be respected.

  But let me tell you something. All those dancers and choreographers are bloodsuckers. They charge for everything. Zero solidarity. Even knowing how we kill ourselves working. La Ángel just went to a pageant in Miami and rented a van to save on the plane tickets. She was planning to take the makeup artist and two locas who’d be her assistants, but they did squat for her in the end. Took off as soon as they got to the pageant. Didn’t even thank her. Anyway, these maricas said they weren’t about to spend that many hours sitting in a van, they’d only f ly. If not, she’d have to look for some other dancers. And what could the loca do? Well, nothing. She had to suck it up and ask me to borrow some money. La Ángel ended up spending just as much on the tickets for the four dancers and the choreographer as she did on her evening gown. Of course I lent her the money. She’s my friend. Such a good friend that she still owes me half of it. I’m going to call her first thing tomorrow morning so she pays me. That’s how a girl ends up broke. Still gorgeous, though. Not just anyone can say she won crowns for beauty pageants in New York. I can. Deborah Hilton. Deborah with an H. Okay, one last toast. Uy, who’s calling at this hour? And when I’m so exhausted. Oh! It’s Anthony. The client with the deep pockets. I’ll wait five minutes and then call him back. He likes when you play hard to get. This boy sucks up drugs like a vacuum. I’ll make a whole month’s rent off him alone. Tomorrow my landlord will be happy. And if I get more out of him than I think, the extra will go straight into my piggy bank for Chicago. Okay, it’s time. I’m calling him. Pero please don’t get mad at me for moving you from your spot. You know I keep my drugs between your back and the wall. Tomorrow I’ll tell you how it went. And you know what? I’m going to leave my crown on, just like the biuty queen I am.

  Little Miss Lightning Bolt

  I’VE BEEN SLEEPING FOR AGES. One that’s enough gives me the push I need to get out of bed. Rise and shine. I pick up my phone and look over my missed calls. A bunch of them are from La Manuel. I don’t want to talk with her. I’m done being lectured. Sometimes I’d rather just ignore the calls. I have a few from unsaved numbers and one from someone named Claudia. I rack my brain. Claudia? Oh, La Rayito! I call her right away. She picks up on the third ring.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Monalisa. I had a missed call from you.”

  “Oh, yeah! What’s up, Mona? I was thinking of heading over to Washington Heights to buy some weed.”

  “Let’s meet at 175th and Broadway. We can find some there. Remember I live in the Bronx now, but right by the bridge, so it’s basically the same thing. Can we say seven thirty? I just woke up. I need a little time.”

  “Well, hurry up, queen!” she says from the other end of the line.

  I haven’t left the Bronx in three days. It’s been two weeks since I got fired. Unemployed, yet again. For days I’ve been self-medicating with sex and narcotics. It’s time I crossed the bridge. The one that takes you from 181st and University Avenue in the Bronx over to 181st and Amsterdam Avenue in Manhattan.

  I take a long, hot shower. I shave and admire my gorgeous skin, still radiant and soft after a half century of nonstop tango. As soon as I return to my room, I look in the top drawer of my nightstand for a hormone patch. I have three left. I stick one on my left arm close to my shoulder. The same spot where they give you a vaccine. Before I get dressed, I touch and play with my nipples, which are pink and erect from the effect of the hormones. I make sure my socks and underwear are clean. I need to bundle up. This has been one of the longest and hardest winters. It’s seven thirty. I’m right on time for my meeting with La Rayito. I don’t want to take the bus. I’d rather walk across the bridge. It’s Sunday. The frigid wind that fills the space between the bridge and the dark waters of the East River makes the skin on my face feel taut. Nothing like the cold to tighten up the f lesh. Day turns to night as I walk. Bicycles whiz by in both directions, their coming and going keeping me alert. I feel like I’m turning into the figure from Munch’s The Scream. Luckily, I make it across before this happens. I’m on 181st and Amsterdam. The neighborhood’s still humming. I like walking down these streets. It fills me with just the kind of energy I need these days. When I reach 175th Street, I turn to my right to get to Broadway. Not even five minutes have passed when I see La Rayito coming. I hold up my hand and start to wave. As soon as she sees me, she does the same.

  “Monalisa!” she calls. We give each other a kiss on each cheek.

  “Let’s go get the weed. We can smoke and walk that way,” I propose with all the authority I deserve after having lived in this neighborhood for years.

  “Sounds divine. So many handsome bugarrones around here.”

  “This neighborhood is full of good-looking tígueres,” I reply as we walk the two blocks to where we’ll buy the weed.

  We complete our transaction and start to walk, casually wandering around to make ourselves less visible. Like a kind of shield. A kind of protection.

  “Ay, loca. It’s not like I don’t have energy, but you’re leaving me in the dust. How do you never get tired of walking? Unless I tell you to stop, you just keep on going. Now I get why they call you La Rayito.”

  “That’s right, queen. They named me Rayito because I could knock out the other guys like a lightning bolt.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I was fifteen, I competed in street fights. That’s how I made money.”

  “Hey, I think that marijuana’s hitting you a little hard. You’re trying to tell me you were a boxer?” I say, incredulous, as I take a long hit.

  “Yes, loca, did you think I was pulling your hair?”

  “What hair, honey? Can’t you see I’m bald?”

  We laugh and stop smoking. We’re already pretty far gone.

  “When I was just a chavito, the guys in my neighborhood always picked on me. I dealt with it, but a time came when I said enough is enough. After that, if anyone laid a finger on me, I’d knock him out cold. Then, when I was older, I found out my dad had been paying those guys to pick on me.”

  It’s winter, but the sky is clear. The moon is full, its light the light of memory.

  “Let’s walk,” I say. “We’ll look for some nice eye candy. It’s almost time for the bad boys to come out.”

  “Let’s do it,” says La Rayito, sitting up in a f lash and beginning to walk.

  “Hey, Little Miss Lightning Bolt. Walk, don’t run. You know I don’t have your energy.”

  We walk through the neighborhood, our eyes savoring the sight of those gorgeous tígueres. I imagine La Rayito in some corner of Guadalajara exchanging punches with some guys.

  “My dad knew exactly what he was doing. He organized underground fights. My neighborhood was number fifty-four. Every neighborhood had a number. They were all slums on the outskirts of Guadalajara. My dad became a kind of manager for me, I guess.”

  “And you made money?”

  “Of course. I could make up to five thousand pesos in a single weekend. I’d end up pretty beaten up, but at least my pockets were full of cash.”

  “Yeah, I know, we locas are tough. A whore on San Camilo Street in Santiago once told me a queen is like a rubber ball. They can throw us out of moving cars, but we just bounce right back up to our feet and keep on walking.”

  We stop by a bakery to buy coffee. We pick up some cheese empanadas while we’re at it, and then we keep walking around.

  “Even though I was giving all my money to my family, I still managed to save up enough to go to Tijuana in less than a year. From there I paid a coyote to help me cross the border. Getting across is a complete nightmare. I can’t even do it justice. You have to leave people along the way, and before you know it, they’re a little snack for the vultures. You know it and you see it. You lose your sense of time. You lose track of the days you’ve been walking through the desert.”

  “And here you are, Miss Lightning Bolt. Here you are.”

  “That’s right.
Here we are, Monalisa, just strolling through Washington Heights, rather fumigated on weed.”

  “Fumigated like cockroaches.”

  “That was all so long ago. The only thing left is my name. Lightning Bolt.”

  All of a sudden, she pauses. A tall, dark guy stops to talk to her. Grinning, she tells me she’ll be right back and asks me to wait for her.

  I watch as she sets off with her new companion. I know they aren’t coming back. I start my journey back to the Bronx. It’s after 10:30 P.M. As soon as I step onto the bridge, cold invades my whole body until, all of a sudden, it gives way to a kind of heat. Little Miss Lightning Bolt will knock out any violent spirit that crosses my path. I feel safe. I walk across the icy bridge back to the Bronx, accompanied by the strength of my Mexican friend. And the strength of so many others who know what it means to cross from one side to the other, what it means to get home in one piece, full of memories and without a trace of bitterness.

  The Boricua’s Blunts

  I MET EL BORI A FEW TIMES. La Manuel said the boy went up to her one day while she was walking through Port Authority close to the shelter. He asked if she’d take him home with her, saying she shouldn’t be frightened, he wasn’t going to rob her or anything, he was a good guy. Of course my friend said yes.

  This was right before the blackout of 2003, before all of New York lost power. I’d never seen my friend like that, so head over heels in love. When I got to her studio that afternoon, I asked her to tell me all about him. La Manuel told me to wait. Willie had just gone out for a Pepsi. Soon I’d see him with my very own eyes.

  I’d just started opening a box of Dunkin’ Donuts to present to La Manuel, to make it clear I was pitching in with snacks for when we got the munchies, when the door opened, and who walked in but a white, twenty-something Boricua with clear, sky-blue eyes.