The Kids Are Turning Thirty

Alejandro drowned in a maelstrom of pills, cocaine, feces, vomit, urine, m*******a, semen, alcohol, and breast milk. Breast milk? Alejandro drowned in—no. He did not drown. He swam down. Down, down, down in violent seas. Silence. Was this our ending? Thick phlegm seasoned with blood. Alejandro coughed, stirring on a growling stomach. Mercy. His tingling face crashed in a pool of urine and chunky, yellow-pink vomit. Ten minutes of silence. Groaning, he kicked off his black suede boots. Mercy. I offered some assistance. No answer, yet again. It was day four. I sat next to a dim floor lamp. He wriggled out of his clothes, arms and legs flailing on black silk sheets like an aquatic creature trapped in a net. Dogs barked at a honking car. Twenty minutes. No movement. I took five steps. Normal breathing, no white foam. Mercy. He traveled around a second nightmare. One or two more and he would snore peacefully into the early afternoon. I parted the red satin curtains. Full moon and I were on guard duty. I did not know why he was ignoring me, but I would respect his demand: Hey, dingbat. Make sure I look good if, you know... Ear-splitting shrieks of colicky babies in the apartment next door. Alejandro threw a hand over his swollen dark eyes and cursed his new neighbors. “Hello,” I said. He floated on a fresh, wide lake of his own liquids. Sleeping past eight hours gave him severe headaches. I drew up the blinds. Traffic and midday light refused his desire for more sleep and rolled, rolled, rolled his n***d, slime covered body until it crashed onto the icy floor. “Are you okay?” No sounds for six minutes. “Are you—” He drummed his fist on the laminate wood flooring, stood and stomped over pills, a used syringe, c****m wrappers, fast food containers, and stretched his arms across my tall wooden bookcase. He slammed it on the brick wall, punched and kicked the books. Open-mouthed, I leaned against a window frame and watched the brutal attack through the Rock of Gibraltar’s weary eyes. Mercy. This was not his typical rage. It was odorless, formless, no texture or reason. I remained silent, helpless. He tore a stack of pamphlets to shreds, spit and urinated on my books, and smashed the shelves. Mercy. I remained silent, paralyzed. He hurled the biggest one, a dictionary/thesaurus, missing my face and shattering the window. –––––––– The showerhead was on full blast as Alejandro shouted and threw plastic bottles around the bathtub. I called our turtle-face slumlord and lied about another broken window. Water escaped the bathroom. More work for me to do. He usually plunged into a high tide of sobbing after he washed his hair. I grabbed some blessed roots off the fire escape, castor oil, and boiled fresh rainwater. “Do—” He stared at the warm tea and flung it at the refrigerator. That was my Edgar Allen Poe coffee mug. I left the kitchen with my laptop, too tired to scream, fight or cry. He devoured a light breakfast (two quail eggs, almonds, seltzer water), prepared a protein-packed lunch (tuna, left-over salmon, chicken breast, spinach, carrots, another quail egg, smoothie), and attacked his treadmill and weights to near exhaustion. The bathroom mirror, lucky number five, influenced his actions. If satisfied, he kissed his mother’s photo and rewarded his war-torn body with specially formulated moisturizers and cologne. If not, he kissed his mother’s photo and tortured his body with heavier weights and more repetitions until his reflection was a pleasure for him to behold. What will it be magic mirror number five? Violence... then he stretched and ate his lunch. Alejandro did not refuse fresh sheets and a dry, clean mattress. He took a nap, sweaty and drooling. Two hours later... He bathed and stood in front of a marquee light, full-length mirror. Eight minutes. He scrutinized every cut and size of muscle on his six-foot, four-inch frame. For eight minutes. All five mirrors in our Lower East Side studio were given the same treatment—eight minutes. Obsessive, but fair. He dubbed himself an award-winning forensic specialist. Rolling my eyes, I always muttered, ‘More like a Livestock Inspector. Mad cow.’ Alejandro checked his voicemail as he searched through the cabinets and refrigerator for anything besides left-over chicken breast, tuna, and quail eggs. You have two new voice messages. First voice—Hey, um, Alejandro. Your uncle. He’s upset. You missed the shoot yesterday. All we got is hand modeling and... He said your last check is for back rent and—Gimme the phone! Gimme the phone. Listen, you little punk. You better call in. Hang up the phone. Next voice message. Received—Sweetie, it’s Prudence. Your girlfriend, remember? I had my number changed again. Long crazy story, but I’m back to 347. Anyhoo, you stood me up for lunch. I’m not surprised, sweetie. I’ve warned you about a pretty face with too much powder up her nose. Sorry, sweetie, gotta go. At a shoot. Go, me! We’re doing dinner and a party. Call me about — ***** Alejandro admired Prudence’s slim, toned figure and wrapped his arms around her warm body. “Good job, baby.” He kissed her cheek. “I’m trying.” Prudence squeezed his left black denim jacket sleeve. “I guess someone had a fight with his mirror.” He nibbled on her neck. “My hair, my hair. Sweetie, let’s sit.” “Sit? Why are we here?” A man argued with a manager and security guard about the restaurant’s bathroom policy. Customers only. “Long story. A really long story. But first, what’s your thoughts on Berry Boom-Boom’s leather corset? 24k magic, sweetie.” She twirled and posed. “Berry’s latest creation. Straight from his London drag cave.” She slid in the booth. “Everyone’s talking about him.” “Your boobs look good. They got bigger?” Prudence slapped his hand off her breast, looking around the lively restaurant. “Rude.” “Oh, it’s like that now. Don’t go hard on those chest exercises. I like breast not pecs.” “And your preference is my concern because....” Prudence leaned forward, softening her voice. “How’s the meds helping your erection?” “Sometimes good, sometimes better.” He winked. “Your eyes are red, and that cute nose is a little runny.” She offered him a napkin. “Where are we on the drugs, sweetie?” “What drugs?” He flashed a white, toothy grin, pressing her ankles between his own. “I can’t.” She huffed, crossing her arms. “It’s not funny. We’re turning thirty, sweetie. This week. May we please skip the model stereotypes?” “Baby, should I get the fish without bread, cheese, only tartar sauce or three burgers?” A customer carried a tray of French fries. “Fries?” She shook her head. “Today’s my cheat day. I’m getting apple pie. I’ve been craving it for, like, twenty-two days. I’m not sure if I should eat one or two. I haven’t heard back from this online sportswear magazine, fingers crossed, and my self-esteem can’t take a photographer zooming in, scream fat, then send me home. I would literally die. I’ve seen it happen. You never see those girls ever—sweetie, get the fish. Get the fish!” “What’s in the bag?” “Ohmigosh, where’s my brain? You’re gonna love me.” She reached into a gold gift bag and pulled out an indigo short-sleeved denim shirt with matching pants. “She’s a young French designer. Like, really young. Everyone’s talking about her. Feel the material. Soft, right? I wore her custom denim dress first. Yeah, me! Guess what? I got over fifty thousand likes in less than an hour. I was trending, sweetie.” “It’s a regular denim shirt with... green star-shaped buttons. Huh? Baby, come on, you ever see me in extra-slim jeans?” “You’re so annoying.” Prudence sucked her teeth, snatching the pants. “Will you at least wear the shirt? You’re standing at only two thousand followers with an average of one hundred likes per post. Hello. A hot body could only bring you so far, sweetie. The people are bored. They’re snoring. They need variety. They need substance. You need to jump on what’s trending. Wear the shirt, sweetie. You’ll draw a little traffic. Please.” “I would, but I don’t have a cowboy hat and red nose.” He laughed. “Anything else in there?” “What-ever. You know nothing about fashion. I don’t know why I’m helping you.” “You’re in love, babe. You’re deeply, madly in love.” He fiddled with her gold watch and bangles. “Why are we sitting by a crying baby? I wanna go to Café.” “I know, sweetie, but I heard you-know-who is hosting a dinner for one of her Halloween face-lifted puppets. I can’t deal with pity stares tonight. I hope you understand, sweetie. I’m your girlfriend.” “Bird d**k! You hung out with them in Paris.” He watched her fidgety hands fold and pack the clothes. “Okay, fine.” She sighed, resting her elbows on the table. “Someone texted me about the Roman Numeral having dinner with them. I’m not ready to face him. Did I tell you he’s a creepy stalker?” “Isn’t he your boyfriend?” “Was my boyfriend.” “Already?” “We’re done officially, yet unofficially. It’s complicated. We’re in that—” Rowdy teenagers passed their table. “I broke up with him because of his disturbing fetish for European women under five feet. Sweetie, I know. I made that same face. Why can’t he be into, like, spankings or feet like a normal person?” Prudence bit her lower lip, waiting for two wide-eyed moms and their children, in white I Love New York T-shirts, to choose a booth. “Okay, here’s the story. One day he brought up threesomes. I was a little shocked because he’s like this real conservative, law-abiding American man, but then I figure... he’s in his late fifties, midlife, so cheers to new experiences.” She took a deep breath. “It was fun at first.” “He won’t have s*x without a threesome?” “He won’t have s*x without a threesome.” “I knew it!” Alejandro pumped his fist. “Where do you find short European women? Is there a vending machine?” Angry teenagers demanding their correct food order, the security guard pulling a belligerent, drunk old man from under a table, s*x talk, patrons listening to vulgar music... it all infuriated the moms. They grumbled about New York City as they pushed their strollers through the restaurant, airport, and vowed never to return. “... found only two women. Lucky for me, wow, one was an actress. She’s a master with wigs and accents. Sorry, gimme a second.” Prudence replied to a text message. “The Roman Numeral wanna travel around Europe. Are you kidding me? He needs psychiatric help. Sweetie, I’m so stressed. I can’t. You won’t believe what happened the other day.” She ignored a call. “I do all these tricks because he can’t find out we’ve been partying with the same girl.” “Sneaky like all women.” He wiped his neck and face. “Anyhoo, he gets acid reflux. He pees a lot, whatever. I always make sure the room is, like, extremely dark. Like blind dark. Sweetie, I didn’t know he could control the lights. The man hates technology. He was burping a lot, then suddenly he, like, summoned the lights. Like summoned the lights. I freaked out. I jumped on Illona so fast. Her wig flew off and—why are you laughing? It’s not funny. Stop laughing.” Prudence frowned, gathering her belongings. “I’m leaving. You’re so immature.” “Sure, I’m immature.” “Listen, sweetie, listen to me. You’re not listening. This guy’s outta control. When I broke up with him, through text mind you, he tried playing reverse psychology. Yes! Can you believe him? He said he’s doing all this to keep me because I’m only twenty-nine and very pretty. He’s a poor, old man. Really? Sir, I’ve been around for a very long time. Try again.” The manager mopped a spilled strawberry milkshake as he stole glances at Prudence. “Would you still be around if he wasn’t rich?” “Excuse me?” “Hey, you was coming real hard when he sold his small plane for a bigger one. What’s wrong now? I don’t understand you women.” “Alejandro, the man I thought I would marry likes... you know what? I’m not even gonna acknowledge your attack. I am breaking... apart.” Prudence cried, heart racing as she struggled to preserve her cool under a few curious stares. “And you’re laughing. Please stop. This is a real emergency, a dial for help type of crisis, and I need the support of my friends.” “I’m hungry.” Alejandro yawned, stretching his arms above his head. –––––––– Prudence clutched Alejandro’s forearm as her stilettos sidestepped, tottered, and waddled through the bustling cobblestone side entrance of a renovated, reddish brown Meat Packing District warehouse. “Thanks, sweetie.” She caressed his cold cheek. “Like I said, you must be open-minded. Why are these steps so thin? Help me, sweetie. I don’t know much about these twins, but the people are calling them visionaries. They have a huge, huge active following.” They stepped in a creaking, murky freight elevator. “New York bird d**k City. I swear any dummy who could advertise and sell piss is a visionary. Hey, watch me piss in a cup and with the right filters, followers—” Alejandro sneezed, clearing his throat. “You’re finally understanding, sweetie.” She gave him a tissue. They sauntered into a techno frenzy. Floor-to-ceiling white velvet drapery and low-hanging, deliberately cracked chandeliers adorned the spacious, exposed brick room. Guest danced, mingled and snapped selfies with standees of nude, skinny models drenched in red paint. “You brought me to look at pictures.” “It’s art, sweetie. Art.” “Weird shit.” “Open mind, remember?” Prudence wrinkled her nose at a wavy sea of dirty sneakers, flip-flops, ripped, super skinny-jeans and plastic jewelry. “Yes, an open mind.” “One poster says down with fashion week. Right there. What are they doing for the after-party? Throwing horse shit.” Prudence grinned, shaking her head. “Stop. We don’t know these people. Their influence could help you.” She waved a pleasant hello at two Goth girls, who pointed and giggled at them. “Sweetie, you must always show kindness... just in case you’re being filmed. The people are always watching.” “Can we leave now?” In a sulk, he scrolled through his phone. “The twins are a genius,” Prudence shouted, as a few flip-flops and dirty sneakers boldly eavesdropped. “Baby, come on, Zebra’s having something at Green Door.” “What about your career?” “Hi guys. Hi!” a comically high-pitched, squeaky voice sliced through the blaring, thrumming sounds. “Is this a dagger? How frightful for my back.” “Oh, Prue,” Bambi said, pulling her into a tight hug. “You too. Come here.” She hugged Alejandro. “What are you guys doing here? Prue, your body. That outfit. Looking good, girlfriend.” “Don’t I?” Prudence studied Bambi’s soiled white dress shirt, ankle-length purple skirt, oily, blotchy skin, and messy ponytail. “You’re looking well, sweetie.” “Thanks! Can you guys believe I’m working this event? Everyone’s talking about it. I’m in PR now.” “Yes, with Nathan. I hear everything, sweetie. But you’re not on their website or social media.” “Oh, no. No, no. I’m still the new kid.” Bambi dodged Prudence’s intense glare and fell in the comfort of Alejandro’s welcoming eyes. “So, here I am giving out appetizers and wiping vomit.” “You’re doing so much, and there’s not one mattress in sight. I’m loving your growth, sweetie.” “Uh, thanks...” She forced her chapped pink lips to smile. “Your bestie was short staff. Nathan asked me to step, um...” A giggly, bouncy group in colorful feather capelets and vest surrounded Prudence and showered her with praise and positive affirmations for her trial. She gracefully thanked each person and introduced Alejandro. “Sweetie, please follow him. Like and comment.” Alejandro’s physical beauty did not capture their attention. They yanked Prudence in various directions for individual, well-lit selfies and videos. “The blonde guy is my colleague,” Bambi said. “I guess he still doesn’t know me.” “Yeah, I’m sure he’ll ask you about Prue tomorrow.” Alejandro sneezed, clearing his throat. Prudence searched for tissues in her satiny oval-shaped purse. “Yes, Prue. I could feel you rolling your eyes.” Bambi focused on the intricate gold details on Prudence’s leather corset. “You gave me everything and I threw it all away.” Prudence picked a clump of brown lint from Bambi’s greasy hair. “Well, at least you’re no longer stripping for drugs.” She placed it in Bambi’s hand. “I’m happy, sweetie. Whether you’re in PR, allegedly, or cleaning bathrooms, this step up is so cute for you. Anyhoo, Alejandro and I just came to say hi to the bestie. We’re on our way to, um, Green Door? Later, sweetie.” Alejandro rested his hand on Prudence’s lower back. “I wanna catch up with Bambi. Why don’t you go find those visionaries?” “What about Zebra?” “What about my career?” He wiped his nose, moving towards Bambi. “We’ll find you.” “Alejandro.” Prudence redirected his devious white smile towards her glowing amber eyes. She brushed her pillowy red lips against his cheek and set her chin on his shoulder. “Your career. Remember.” He closed his eyes, adrift on a bed of vanilla with hints of cinnamon, lavender, tuberose. She rubbed his chest, tittering at Bambi’s shuffling feet and heavy breathing. “You kids behave.” –––––––– Alejandro wrapped an arm around her bony shoulders. “How long you been in PR?” “Not too long. I’m still the new kid.” Bambi tried evading his magnetic hold. “Honestly, I’m outta place. My manager’s only nineteen and here I am turning thirty. Somewhat getting my life together.” She pushed Alejandro’s arm back to his side. “My colleagues aren’t old enough to drink. Screw my life.” “You heard about Clark’s murder-suicide?” “We’re going down like...” Joyous young ladies, arms locked together, ran towards the bar. Two brunettes climbed on the bar and twirled to howling cheers. “It’s all fun until you can’t keep a job, become an addict, inmate, homeless, inmate again; then you suddenly find yourself being a cautionary tale... to your younger colleagues. Have fun, ladies.” “I hate when you talk like that.” “The truth hurts. I got a record to prove it.” She scratched her forehead. “So, you and Prue?” “It’s not like that,” Alejandro quickly answered. “I’m losing fast, easy money to influencers and celebrity kids. She’s helping me to... I don’t know what she’s doing. I just wanna make some money and get Uncle’s foot out my ass.” “What’s in it for her?” The cold, w**d soaked air tickled Bambi’s nose. “Nope, never mind.” She pulled a tissue from her skirt pocket. “I’m staying out of it.” He flipped up her shirt collar. “Skip, we could no longer just take a picture and sit down. Now it’s all bullshit. They wanna know about active followers before you take off your shirt.” “We hate the internet, but we gotta get over it.” “You sound like Prue.” He smiled at her blinking baggy eyes. “I’m trying to do better. I’m not there yet, but I’m trying. You believe me, Skip? You believe me?” “I always do.” She concentrated on his black suede boots and the soiled floor. “You’re dangerous to my peace.” “Me?” “You.” “Me?” He laid her quivering hands on the tranquil sounds of his heart... raindrops pat, pat, patting on a tin roof. A squabbling couple, throwing drinks and punches, hooked their attention. “Drugs, volatile, a hopeless love.” “Ah, when we ruled the world.” “Alejandro, please.” His palms were prison bars on her back. “I’m working. Stop.” He drew her in an empty dark corner. “Better?” She checked over his shoulder. “I’m working.” “Me too.” He pressed her body on the brick wall, sampling her ears, cheeks, neck, collarbone, breast. Bambi moaned. Hot, cold, hot, cold... sweet tingle of his peppermint lips, tongue. She trapped his lower lip between her teeth... heart dancing to his rapid, deep breaths. She returned his kiss. Sweet, tangy. Deep, long. Bambi paused, looked away, looked at him, and tightly shut her eyes as her legs abandoned all hesitation, reasoning and spread, spread, spread beneath soft cotton. Oh, the dangerous, dangerous comfort of their familiarity. “Screw my life.” Alejandro’s index finger, Gold Rush, she called it on their first date, slithered along her thigh. “Screw my life.” He traced, licked, and traced her lips with the tip of his tongue. Gold Rush traveled up her inner right thigh. Slithering, slithering, dangerously close to her — “No! We can’t. I’m working. I need keep this job because...” Wintry air, infused with peppermint, struck their spine. “Oh Hera!” Bambi held her sinking stomach. “Oh, Hera? You mean oh my job when I tell your boss.” “Skip, come here.” Alejandro tightened his grasp on Bambi’s retreating body. “You don’t gotta listen to her.” “What? She doesn’t have to do what?” “I’m not talking to you.” Hera pointed her tablet at the center of his face. “If you got balls to open that door, I’ll step in.” “We weren’t doing anything.” “Yes, I should believe two raging addicts.” “Skip, let’s go. Come. Prue has cab money.” “I want to... screw my life.” “Do you even need to decide?” Hera rolled her eyes at Bambi’s shrinking posture and wet face. “Screw my life.” “I’m gone.” “No. Wait.” “Hush, let him go. You’re nothing more than a hole, and Prue said he can’t get it up. Wake up!” Hera tapped Bambi’s sweaty forehead with her tablet. “Now, back to more important matters, like your career. First, wash your face. Mike is picking up more liquor. Jake has a list of other stuff. You’re responsible for checking off the items, and make sure the temps don’t steal anything. I’m surrounded by thieves.” She glanced at coat check. “Thirty minutes. Go.” Bambi’s smooth, yet rushed gait seized her eyes. “Pause.” She spun, wiping her face with her right sleeve. “Bambi or Skip?” Hera fired an icy once-over. “It’s so obvious you’re a w***e; however, choosing your career shows me you’re also smart. Good girl.” –––––––– Hera pinched Prudence’s arm and pulled her off the lighted, multicolored dance floor. “I told you to control that coked-up psychopath.” “Sweetie, my drink.” She freed herself from Hera’s lethal grip. “What did he do now?” She rubbed her tingling arm. “Your clients are looking.” Hera sent a bright smile to the twins. “He’s practically having s*x with Bambi.” “What? Are you freaking kidding me? Bambi’s such a, a—yuck. I really don’t know what to call her anymore. I’m, like—it’s grapefruit. Virgin. See?” She allowed Hera to smell her black plastic cup. “So, what are we doing about Bambi?” “I am doing my job.” Hera glared at a young, raven-haired server, who hand-fed sushi to an older gentleman. “I’m surrounded by tramps.” “But Hera.” Prudence stomped her feet. “Bambi is the type of girl who looks and smells like she was accidentally conceived on a piss stained, bed bug infested mattress with no sheets.” “You’re inspiring.” Prudence grabbed her heart. “Bambi is a masochist, feral alcoholic, pill popping, a thief—” “Cheers, sweetie.” Prudence raised her cup. “And Alejandro belongs to her kind.” “Yes! No, stop. That’s my manz.” Hera noted four inebriated male guests enter a unisex restroom. She called security. “He’s not that bad.” “That bad? I guess all psychopaths had a b***h who carried them.” Five badminton players, covered in glitter and tossing their shuttlecock, chanted: Happy Hour is forever. “You’re always attacking him.” “Look at me.” Hera slipped under Prudence’s expensive white smile and artistically applied makeup. “You’re up to something.” “Maybe?” Hera motioned Prudence to follow her to the crowded bar. “Johnny, how much vodka?” “Nine.” “Okay, make it work. They’ll be back soon.” He gave her two thumbs up. “No problem, boss.” She reminded DJ Storytella, yet again, the twins requested only House music after ten—not Techno. Yes, there’s a difference. “He’s hot.” Prudence blew goodbye kisses to DJ Storytella. “I want him.” “He could impregnate you with a vinyl for all I care. Prue! Can you stop distracting his one eye? Come, follow me...” Trailing through eight skateboarders who decked the air-conditioned room with m*******a clouds, Hera read an urgent message on her tablet. Prudence lowered her head in embarrassment as Hera threatened coat check staff. Further missing items=missing fingers or teeth. They strode past a set of metallic blue leopard print sofas. Guest jumped or dry humped on leopard instead of running to another free-food, free-drink networking event. Hera received an all-capped message from the twin’s gatekeeper. s*x, drugs, and dancing begged for more mini veggie burgers and flourless chocolate cake. She added an extra hundred in her Chef’s paycheck and promised two paid days off next week. “Sweetie, how was your date? You didn’t return my calls. Steve’s cute, right? And sweet. He’s turning forty and ready to settle down.” She gave her friend a gentle nudge. “I’m hearing talks about a twenty million inheritance. He’s also making over three hundred thousand per year. Three hundred thousand, sweetie. Problems solved.” “Prue, one second...” She spoke with a plain clothes security guard and handed him a thick, brown envelope. “Sorry, what are you babbling about?” “Your date, sweetie?” “Yes, it started off well. Steve’s a nice guy. Funny, smart, and engaging. We had a splendid dinner. We went to Keisha’s art exhibit and...” “Sweetie, I don’t like that and.” “He had s*x with at least six women there.” “Sweetie, dry off. He’s a young, hot, rich New Yorker. You must understand these things.” “I do, and so does my health. I couldn’t see past gonorrhea, syphilis and all their sisters doing the electric slide all up and down his d**k. There won’t be a second date. Bye-bye, Stevie.” “Why are you so im-possible?” She sang. “Why are you such a reckless s**t? Don’t laugh. Prue, what are you doing? I thought you were getting yourself together.” “Sweetie, can we not do this here?” She looked around the crowded room. “No, you brought it here, sweetie. Stop helping that psychotic, s****l prowler. You’re not his agent. You’re delusional. If he can’t network on his own by now, then his failure to launch career is—” “Why are you attacking me?” “Why don’t you figure out your own career or lack thereof? Yes, you’re big on social media. You go on trips. People pay you to post their garbage. It’s great, congratulations, I hope you fly. But what if these apps crash tomorrow or you get banned, yet again? Think, use the brain. Think, use the brain. And you might go to prison for—oh, come on. You’re not seriously crying.” Hera smacked Prudence’s shaky arm with her tablet. “Go wash your face and tell that drunk narcissist to just stand there and shut up. I’ll introduce him to the twin’s sister. She’s their gatekeeper. Stop. Don’t hug me. Go.” “Hera, um, sweetie.” “What?” She placed a hand on her hip. “You said nothing about my corset.” “I will throw your lungs in my soup.” “Okay, leaving now.” –––––––– Alejandro examined Prudence’s teary face in his cupped palms. “Baby, what’s wrong?” Prudence rested her head on his shoulder. “Hera needs us to behave.” “I don’t give a bird d**k,” he said. “She wouldn’t have scored this gig if it wasn’t for you. f**k the friendship. You don’t owe her just because she helped you. Come on, man. My uncle loves playing that card. You see me give a bird’s d**k?” Prudence trapped his lips between her fingers. “These visionaries are—” “I swear if I hear that word one more time.” He strangled himself. Prudence pointed at two stout, maroon-haired twins who wore matching pink onesies and blue patent leather sneakers. “And their little sister, Sunny. By the bar. She’s eating greasy chips. Sweetie, please watch your mouth. They’re very, um, free.” “They look it.” “Really?” “Sorry, sorry.” He snickered. “I’ll stand there and shut up. Happy?” “Thanks, my love. One more thing. I’m hearing rumors about you and Bambi.” Alejandro wiped her wet eyes with his index finger. “They’re lying. Don’t listen.” He slipped his fiery, energetic tongue into her eager mouth. She savored cranberry and vodka. “Sweetie, how far you wanna go down my throat?” “Um, about ten inches... if you know what I mean.” Prudence wiped his upper lip. “We should go clean your nose. It’s not the seventies.” ***** Red thick curtains blocked sunlight from bleeding into the musky, cluttered bedroom. Bodies, ravenous for clothes, runways, flashing lights and glamour, snatched its scorched soul from a deep alcohol, s*x and drugs induced slumber. Bodies, thirsty for another shot, thrust its blood-shot eyes, tousled hair and chapped lips into the voracious, hectic early morning streets of Midtown Manhattan. Two hustlers, more determined than their beauty and made formidable under the faltering street lights of New York City success, collected any remaining drugs, liquor, searched for cash in his wallet— They left him... Naked, cold, sleeping on the floor. Sleeping among empty liquor bottles, food containers, cocaine, a broken mirror, used condoms— They left him... They crossed over his body like roadkill. The room was freezing. He wore nothing but dried semen and urine. I pulled out a blanket after his last nightmare. They left him... Alejandro did not want to speak with me. Alejandro did not want my help, advice or lecture. I sat quietly on the floor. Next to my broken bookshelf. Watching over him. Naked, cold, and trembling in the fetal position, he sank in heaps of garbage as if a giant foot held his back hostage. I did not abandon him. What’s wrong, Alejandro? What did I do? A lay of my hands on his head showed me nothing. There were no messages in my dreams. His clothes, saliva, urine and semen whispered no secrets. The mirrors had nothing to show. His bath water revealed no new pain. Wind and rain returned my cries, questions... my desperation. Early afternoon. War. Alejandro, dilated pupils and slurring on the phone with his uncle, smashed my tablet with a forty-pound dumbbell and threw it at the microwave. He gave me the middle finger before crashing upon the dirty floor. Normal breathing, no white foam. Mercy. Heavy rain. I sat quietly and watched it all through the Rock of Gibraltar’s weary eyes.