Luisa wore sweaters and long-sleeve shirts even as the weather turned warm; she’d tell her grandmother it was because she had a cold. But her grandmother knew; in fact, it sometimes seemed as if her grandmother knew everything. Yet there were also moments when the old lady appeared oblivious. But maybe that was a ruse. Or Luisa. Whatever the case, they counterbalanced all the times Luisa suspected her grandmother of being omniscient—and yet still made the old lady vastly superior to Luisa’s mother, who, on top of knowing nothing, was a backstabbing whore.
“Don’t give your grandmother a hard time,” her mother had said the last time they’d spoken, a week ago. Luisa’s grandmother was at the CVS; Luisa had only picked up the phone because she’d just paged T.J.
“All right,” she muttered.
“You hear me?” her mother said; Luisa imagined her in the apartment of her latest boyfriend or john. “She already has health problems, the last thing she needs—”
Luisa hung up. She should’ve said, the last thing grandma needs is some hustler for a daughter. But then Luisa thought, dimly, I’m not really one to talk. The phone then rang, it was T.J.; Luisa explained, cajolingly (even though this pretense felt unnecessary at this point), that she needed bags but only had eight dollars. Silence followed. Then T.J., no longer going through any pretense either, said, “Come over at six.”
It was 4:16; Luisa would have to live with her sickness that much longer. But at least she knew that she’d be getting better.
Tonight, she was in a similar situation, only T.J. wasn’t around: he’d been picked up two days ago and no one had seen him since. Luisa had heard that he’d jumped bail and took off for his cousin’s in North Dakota—wherever that was. Luisa didn’t know, didn’t care; but now, walking around Tompkins Square Park, she wasn’t thinking of North Dakota, she was thinking about finding a means.
It didn’t take long.
He was pudgy, with glasses; Subaru with Jersey plates. He looked slightly like a serial killer—but not enough for Luisa to say no; and she sensed that, if it came down to it, she could do him more harm than he her.
She was fine doing it in his car, but he insisted on a hotel; he was afraid of the cops. So, they went to a dive in the 40s that let out rooms by the hour: dank corridors with wet floors that reeked of urine and cheap perfume; a room with holes in the ceiling, a greasy bedspread, and belligerent voices coming through the stained walls; an oily guy behind the front desk, which itself was behind bulletproof glass, who licked his fingers as he counted the money and stared at Luisa’s chest.
The john—Doug or something—was easy. Just head. Although it did take him forever—and Luisa was doing it sans condom, for an additional 20. But in the end, it was worth the extra money. And she’d heard it was all but impossible to catch anything that way, rubber or not.
Doug said he didn’t have time to drive her back to the park; but Luisa was able to wheedle cab fare out of him. In the taxi, though, she half regretted not having walked and keeping the fare. But she was sick—sicker than she’d realized—and was grateful for the ride.
T.J., of course, wasn’t around, but Daze was. Daze—old, like 26—never said much, which Luisa liked: sold you your bags, you were on your way.
She shot up in a pizzeria’s bathroom. Then, the rest of her stash secure in her sock, her clothes and sweater for the first time all night feeling not just warm but snug, she hailed a cab, as she was too exhausted to walk, even though she knew she should save her money. She lit a cigarette, asking the Jamaican cab driver first; and with the window rolled down, she took long drags and watched the lights, cars, stores, and buildings blaze by.
Before entering her grandmother’s building (in which many of the apartments, like her grandmother’s, were rent stabilized; the landlord impatient for these old people to die), Luisa smoked another cigarette, taking deep, pensive drags, spitting to get the taste of Doug’s cum out of her mouth. She gazed up and down 14th St., thinking of stories her mother once told her, in happier days, of guys with names like Jerry Garcia and Sid Vicious.
Inside, still in her sweater, she crossed her arms, not because she was cold but to give the impression that she was, because of what her grandmother might say. But her grandmother, who watched a rerun of Perry Mason, simply turned to Luisa, the light from the ancient TV glinting in her glasses, and said, “This one just started if you want to watch it with me.”
