by E. Martin Pedersen
“Hey, Pepe, gatocito, I’m home.” Gloria
yelled.
“Back here.”
“When you get back?”
“I left Portland at ten last night,
got here about an hour ago—easy run. I brought tamales from that lonchera down by Madera. You make us some refritos and ensalada, honey; I get the cold beers
from the garage, ¿okey?”
“Bueno. I need to take a shower first.
That old lady died today. I was watching. Her last words was: ‘I was a nasty
bitch.’ White people are loco, huh?
‘I was a nasty bitch,’ and then she died. Just died, you know? Comprende? Where are you,
man?”
Pepe was watching ESPN in the den in
his bathrobe. In the bedroom, Gloria peeled off her white Dr. Sholl’s clogs, her
white nurse’s uniform, her slip, her pantyhose, her white bra and big panties,
and put on her shower cap and thongs. After she showered, Gloria and Pepe had
their tamales on TV trays, speaking
loudly over the sports news.
“Who was she?”
“Who?”
“That old lady who
died?”
“She said a civil rights lawyer. No,
a woman’s rights lawyer, back east, you know? I don’t think she was very good at
her job.”
“Why not?”
“Women still don’t got no
rights.”
“Who loca now, woman? Dang, good tamales, huh? I got tortas too, for tomorrow. Pass the salsa.”
“She start telling me her life
story. I got stuff to do, but she said ‘sit’ and told me how back in Washington
she’s fighting against men, patriartic or something, against men, for women’s
rights. I didn’t listen too good till she got to talking about equal pay. A very
angry old woman. Like she regrets her whole life. She starts
crying.”
“Why?”
“Huh?”
“Why?”
“Oh, ‘cause she always treated
people like shit for her whole life, a big-shot lawyer, you know? She was really
sorry, crying so much. I also cried. Then she took my hand and said, ‘Gloria, I
was a nasty bitch.’ Then she relaxed and died. It was so sad.”
“You want another
beer?”
“No.”
“I do.”
“I’m not getting
up.”
“Dodgers won
today.”
“What do you think it means? Like
she had a message for me, a warning to pass on about women or
something?”
“Ay dios, baby, nothing. That’s what it
means. Let’s go to bed early. I’m beat.”
“Man, you just want me to beat your
meat, you dirty puerco.”
“Come to Pepe, you nasty
bitch.”
