BLANCA'S BEAT GOES ON!
November 6 (thru Jan 14)
You are witnessing a momentous occasion! I, Blanca Delgado, live and uncut, am now writing my column directly into Max's computer! Yes! I have taken the bull by th balls and let the cow chips fall where they may. And even though it is a dangerous thing I do, and I risk all doing it, we Delgado women are known to be free and easy with danger. We can't help ourselves. It's in our genes.

So maybe you haven't been keeping up with my column. Maybe you don't know why this is a risk for Blanca. I'll tell you. It's a risk because Max don't know I'm doing it. I imagine he's going to get mad as hell when he finds out, and he's gonna find out real soon because he took that damn dog to the park and already they been gone an hour. I'm waiting for the door to swing open any minute now and - But I get ahead of myself. I need some back tracking here.

Friday morning I persuaded Max to move my belongings into the spare room. That took longer than we expected. Saturday he gave me a key to the front door and a passcard to enter the building. Sunday he made a list of rules and conditions for me staying here. That also took longer than we expected. So I'm layin' low this week and keeping out of his hair and off the phone. I haven't been able to clean or cook because of my broken arm but these fingers work just fine. I can type a little, and I'm real good with the TV remote.

Anyway. Each day when Max is on the PC I been watching over his shoulder what he's doing. Paying attention. But the sofa is in the middle of the room behind the desk and I have to pull myself up by my good arm to see what buttons he pushes. I nearly got caught four times. Still, since Max figures I'm not smart enough to learn computers it's been easy bluffing my way through these close calls. Except once when I fell off the couch. That took some quick thinking.

So now I must prepare for the worst. When Max gets home and sees my hands on his hard drive he's gonna have a fit. I'm hoping he won't stay mad for long, though. I'm hoping after the yelling and screaming is finished we can talk about this like mature adults. I know! I will offer my services to him as a personal assistant! I cna type his plays for him and write his emails and there's no telling what else. He might even put me in charge of the website! Of course we will have to hire another maid because I can't do everything around here. Also my salary will need some increasing ...

Uh oh. I just heard that damn dog bark. Now I am hearing the key jiggle inside the lock! My tension mounts. My heart beats. Suddenly the door opens and Max enters the apartment. He takes the dog off the leash. He puts the leash away. Then he turns to go into his bedroom. He stops. Freezes in his tracks. He stares at me like he can't beleive his own eyes. There is a terrible expression on his face which makes my blood run cold. Now he's walking toward me and Ionflsdi;;;//////
Excuse us. Blanca and I have a few things to discuss. Max

That last entry was made an hour ago. Just so you don't overestimate Blanca's computer skills, let me mention that the above installment was composed on one of my notepad programs which was up and running when I left for the park. So what's new? The woman has only been living here for a week and already it's an impossible situation. It's as if we've changed places. I clean the apartment, she sits at the computer. (I suppose I should allow her access to it, though, with supervision, since she obviously knows her way around a keyboard.) Later today or tomorrow I'll include here my Rules For Blanca Remaining Under This Roof. You can place wagers on which ones she'll break, and in what order.

Tuesday afternoon. A little late, but here they are:
No guns or 'blades' in the apartment
No housework done in panties
No talk shows in common room
No friends or family members inside the apartment, for any reason, ever
No staying out all hours
No smoking except on the balcony
No phone conversations over ten minutes
No long distance (or collect) calls
No calls to psychic hotlines
No 'spells,' 'curses,' or witchcraft
No candles left unattended
No loud music
No drugs
No drinking with pain pills
No whining or complaining
No make-up or undergarments left laying around
No questioning any of these conditions

November 13 -
Thursday noon I return from running errands and find Blanca lying on the couch, high as a kite on beer and Percodan. She's been smoking, as evidenced by two overflowing ashtrays. In the guest room, a black candle has been left unattended; hot paraffin is dripping onto an antique nightstand. My elderly spaniel, Rags, cowers in a darkened closet. Red lace panties are soaking in the kitchen sink. On the Channel 13, Jerry Springer has just finished patronizing a female impersonator.

Blanca doesn't hear me enter the apartment. Transfixed, she's on the phone with one of Dionne Warwick's minions. When she finally notices me standing beside her, she quickly ends the conversation and proceeds to whine and complain.

I must be losing my mind. I expect the room to start spinning, expect to see blurred walls and pictures, rugs and furniture; my gaze (when the dizzyness ends) resting upon Rod Serling. I can actually hear him. I can. "Max Pearson," he says to an invisible audience. "A settled man. A man who tries to do the right thing. A man whose maid has come to him, without references, direct from ... THE TWILIGHT ZONE."


Blanca here. So much has happened and I don't even know where to start or how to begin. I'm thinking maybe I need to get my bearings straight. As you read these words, Max and I - No! - Max and me - WE ARE ON THE LAMB! Lam, Blanca. We're on the lam. As I speak my thoughts I am also typing them into a lap computer. Laptop. We sit beside each other, Max and me, in his Jeep Cherokee. Heading East on I-10, we bounce up and down like balls of Flubber. Max, behind the wheel, is driving like a maniac. Between sips of Diet Sprite he corrects my English and smokes my Virginia Slims. I haven't smoked a cigarette in three years. I think after what you've put me through today, I'm entitled to an occasional drag. See how fast I can type! I am writing my thoughts as I speak them and I am also typing Max's sarcastic remarks. No one is impressed, Blanca. Besides, we'll probably be dead before I can load this crap on my site. Our site. Don't start. At this point I am certain that you, my Internet fans, are wildy curious about how we got ourselves into this dangerous and possibly life-threatening situation. Oh good grief. So I will tell you.

First I must confess that I didn't reveal the exact truth about my boyfriend Juan. Some of the things I wrote were - was? - were true. He does have a job and he is all man. But Juan also has a dark side to him. Understatement of the month. It saddens me to admit that Juan is a man of bad secrets and deep lies. He is a man with a checkered past, a man of violence and deceit, a man with a temper and he knows how to use it. Blanca. How he got this way I don't know and I don't want to know cause it ain't my business. I will only say that like my cousin Paco, Juan has spent time behind bars. Unlike my cousin Paco, however, Juan was guilty as charged, guilty as sin, guilty as hell! Here is a picture of him I took at Aurora's birthday party. Everyone was having a good time that night. Ain't he cute?

But all this seems so long ago, so very long ago. Is that a tear my eye? There's tissue in the glove compartment. When I first met Juan, I didn't realize that he was pushing illegal drugs. I also didn't realize that he was a member of the dreaded Spunks! - a bloodthirsty gang who have disgusting tattoos on the insides of their lips! This from a woman with the Great Wall of China on her ass. It's not a wall, it's a snake. Excuse me, I didn't take Art History at LSU.

Look at that sign! It says we have entered the city limits of Beaumont, Texas. I ask Max politely where we are headed. But he won't tell me nothing. So I try making a joke about our predicament. I ask if he's planning to take me across state lines for immoral purposes. Ha ha ha. But Max don't laugh, he don't even crack a smile. I am on a need-to-know basis, he informs me. Then he raises an eyebrow. Since we're being pursued by Juan's drug-crazed friends, your ignorance might prove beneficial. For once.

I'm hungry, Max. Can't we stop and get a bite to eat? I'd like to put a few more miles between ourselves and that horde of Spunks. (But I can see by his expression that his will is breaking down. I can see that he is hungry, too.) And then suddenly in the distance I spy a billboard! To me it is like a shrine to the Blessed Virgin. WANDA'S WAFFLE HOUSE - Next Exit!

Look, Max. They got a hundred flavors! (I am whining now, something he hates.)

Oh! OH! What's this? Madre de Dios! Thank you, Max. Thank you with the bottom of mi corazon - that means my heart. I know what it means. I would jump for joy but at the moment I might fall out of this jeep. Don't stand on ceremony.

We are changing lanes. YES! We are exiting the freeway - and in the direction of the restaurant! I will explain more to you later, my Internet fans. For now, I cannot. My empty stomach growls with hunger, and Max is telling me to take the lap and stick it in his case. (Who knows? This might be my lucky day.)


Next afternoon and we're still on the lamb -
Now I am going to tell you why we are fleeing for our lives in no uncertain terms. See, Juan was busy buying drugs in Laredo while I was breaking my arm and getting my ass evicted. This is something I found out later since at the time I wasn't able to call my psychic hotline friend. The friend that charges six dollars a minute. Yes. But if you talk long enough there's a discount. Anyway, when he got back to Houston he showed up at my place like he always does looking for some of my good loving. Blanca, please, I'm trying to drive. A gust of wind just blew cigarette ashes in Max's face. Lo siento, honey. Just be careful. So Juan arrives there and my front door is standing open. The apartment is empty and his lovely Blanca is nowhere to be found. And this makes him crazy. Crazier.

Juan jumps on his motorcycle and burns rubber getting to Aunt Hopi's house. He don't bother knocking, he just walks in and finds Hopi and Aurora at the kitchen stove boiling calf's head. Calf's head? For tamales. It's a secret family recipe. Remind me to include it on the website. Juan asks them where the hell I am. And Aurora don't waste no time telling him. Max and me are living together, she says - I can just imagine the way she said it. She even writes down the address for him! (I find this out later as Juan is breaking things and calling me a whore and a slut and other untrue names.)

Back on his motorcycle, Juan rushes over to the high-rise building. He breaks in the front gate with a stolen credit card, takes the elevator to 'ten,' and forces his way into Max's apartment where I am alone and practically defenseless. Max is gone, see. He's out walking that damn dog. Don't start on Rags. Juan chases me into the bedroom! I make a dive for the nightstand. He calls me a worthless tramp. I go for my gun. Then I remember. Juan has my gun! I loaned it to him and he never gave it back! Must I re-live this with you? It helps me to speak my thoughts aloud. When I type, my brains is connected to my fingers, and my mouth is connected to my brains. And the music goes 'round and 'round.

Juan tackles me! He's got me by the legs. We're on the floor. I feel his muscular arms pressing against my thighs. His strong fingers, like hungry spiders, creep toward my sweet blossom. I am helpless, an unmarried female overcome by sheer force. Fearfully I compute what is to become of me - The Fate Worse Than Death! Oh good grief. But then I think about that woman, Senora Weaver, in that Aliens movie, and I draw strength from her many brave deeds. I grab the lamp cord and with it I yank the lamp off the nightstand. Juan is surprised. He did not expect me to resist. So I smash the lamp on his face, shattering it. Juan is temporarily stunned. He releases me. Then I grab a nearby marble statue - figurine - and whack him over the head, three times, hard as I can. Now he's lying on the floor, not moving a muscle, and I'm thinking fast 'cause I don't have many options. I tie his hands together with the cord from the lamp. I make the knot real tight. Then I pick up the figurine and whack him again. "That's for calling me worthless, you piece of Pecos shit!" I wish he could've heard me but he was out like a light.

It is at this point in my story that Max returns with Rags. He's in the living room and he's yelling out my name and wanting to know why the dishes ain't been done. Like I got time while I'm being assaulted to clean the kitchen. Blanca, excuse me. I hate to interrupt this stroll down Memory Lane but there are four Hispanics with buzzcuts following us in a souped-up Malibu.

It's them damn Spunks. Max, we better step on it right now and I don't mean a cockroach! More later, my Internet fans.

* * * * *

Inside the Jeep, things were tense. Max was sweating bullets and I was smoking chains. It was a 'splosive situation. And them Spunks? They were bearing down on us, so close I could hear gangsta' rap blasting from the radio. Those fools were honking horn, shaking fists and waving guns in the air. At one point I gave 'em the finger and shouted, "SIT ON IT, YOU RETARD WETBACKS!" When I did this Max nearly run us off the road. He screams at me, "Have you completely lost your mind?" and I hollar back, "That's the way you gotta handle these punks! That's what they understand!"

They understood, all right. Now they were really mad. The driver of the Malibu started pulling up close and ramming our vehicle. Once he bumped us so hard I dropped my cigarette and set the floorboard on fire. By this time Max was about to have a seizure. But Santa Judeo - praise his glorious name - was with us.

We were crossing Sabine Bridge into Louisiana when suddenly we saw on the rise a blue Chevy stalled inside our lane. It was blocking traffic and forcing everybody into the left-handed lane. Max thought quick. He cut in front of two sixteen-wheelers and left behind a cussin' truck driver and four pissed Spunks, all waiting their turn.

* * * * *

Whew! That was close. Half a hour has passed since what I just described. And Max is giving me the silent treatment ever since we left Vinton! Like I care. But wait. One of his eyebrows is twitching. That means he's going to speak.

Was Juan in the car? How should I know?
(Max bites his lip in constellation. Consternation. Who's tellin' this story?)
Why on earth is he following us? It can't be jealosy. What's that s'posed to mean? Going to all this trouble - Are you hiding something from me? Exactly what is your connection with the Spunks? No comment. Blanca, one of those guys has a gun. If you're keeping something from me -

Honey, you need to calm down. Calm down? Quinton Tarentino thugs are following us! The have dice the size microwave ovens hanging from the windshield. And did I mention that one of them was brandishing a gun? They all got guns! Maybe sticks of dynamite! Who cares? I'm having a good time, dammit! I'M GETTING EXCITED! Before you achieve orgasm, Blanca, would you mind checking on Rags? He's very quiet. You worry too much about that dog. Rags is fine. He's sittin' on my overnight bag licking hisself. Hmm. I wonder where he learned that trick. Don't start, Blanca. This is all your fault. Mine? And put away that fucking laptop before I throw it out the goddam window. Ayee! The language. Do you want my Internet fans to know you use such words?


I guess I better stop writing for awhile, just in case Max is serious. He's got an odd expression on his face like a crazy man, a man who is capable of anything. (I wonder if there's a Best Western nearby.) Next time, friends, I promise to tell you the rest of what happened with Juan after I tied him up. Until then, I am sending you my kisses across the Wild World Web. Blanca. P.S. Pray for us.

* * * * *

Dear Internet Fans,
It has been two days since I last spoke to you. Have you missed your sweet Blanca? Yes! I can feel your waves of love unloading on my hard drives and pixels. And so now, fulfilling for you mi promisa, I begin back where I left off.

Max was in the kitchen screaming about dirty dishes and I was in the bedroom with Juan who I just waylaid with a statue of David. Mercury. Figurine of Mercury. Whatever. It was one of them Greeks. Juan didn't stay knocked out for long. Suddenly he started moaning and groaning something awful. I was standing over him with a spike heel planted in his throat. At that point Max walked into the room. First thing he did is gasp, just like a woman. I was startled. Then he put his hands on his hips and he says to me, "Blanca, I told you not to have sex in the apartment." That's not exactly how I phrased it. And I say to him in a deep Gloria Estefan voice, "What are you implying? I'm not naked!" (Although I admit I was dressed in a red peekaboo teddy and black swede fuckme pumps.) Must have been wash day.

So finally Max realized that something besides sex was happening on the floor. Juan was making funny noises, but not from my good lovin'! He started cussing a blue streak and calling me names like whore and worthless bitch and two-timing slut. (All of these, by the way, are basically untrue.)

Juan looked at my my employer and said, "You're a dead man" which made Max's face turn whiter than his cajones. He told Max there was a carload of Spunks waiting outside and that the minute he got loose they were gonna track him down and cut off his dick and stuff it up his ... Blanca, please.

So Max grabbed the cordless, he was ready to call the cops. But Juan just laughed at him and said that wouldn't do no damn good because he'd be out of jail long before this unpleasant self-fucking occurred. He said his lawyer and his bondsmen were honorary Spunks. I told Max we better get outta town while the getting was good. I suggested Acapulco. Max asked me if I'd lost my mind. A reasonable assumption. But then Juan spit on him and cursed his mother's grave and Max decided a brief vacation might not be a bad idea after all. He said, "All right, Blanca. We'll go to Acapulco for a few weeks." But he lied! Max lied to me! I didn't want that psychopath to know where we were headed. Then why didn't you tell him we were headed for Louisiana? That way you could take your poor Blanca for some well-earned fun in the sun? My poor Blanca is the reason we're in this predicament. I don't think a month at Club Med is in order. What did I do? You answered an ad in the Chronicle. You placed it. To my unending regret. Tell me, Max. When did the spite bug crawl up your ass? This conversation is going nowhere. Let's end it. More silent treatment? Fine with me. Fine. Fine. So we packed in a hurry and jumped into the Jeep and departed Houston lickety split. We left Juan tied to my bed. When we reached Channelview Max phoned the building manager and explained the situation. He told the old lady to call HPD and have Juan arrested for breaking and entering. She said she would.

Anyway. It's nine o'clock in the morning and we're stuck in a seedy motel outside of Shreveport, Louisiana. The motel is called Dropbine Stay Inn and it don't have a pool or even a decent restaurant. I'm sitting in the bed with the laptop on my lap and a Virginia Slims in my mouth. My peekaboo teddy is unusually tight today - must be them damn pancakes - and the tightness causes my breasts to swell and my nipples to cry for relief.

Max is pacing the room and biting his fingernails, a habit of his I plan to break as soon as we get settled. He still ain't been looking at me with sex in his eyes but I figure it won't be long now since Blanca Delgado is all woman and even the most nervous of men cannot resist her alure.

I wonder what the day will bring. Will it bring love, mystery, adventure or death by Spunk!?



Copyright 1998 by Max Pearson



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