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 - 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."
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.)
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?
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?
* * * * *
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
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 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.
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.
(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 -
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.