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The Queen of Cups
A few days after I was born, my mother decided to tuck me into a very crowded recycling bin outside of a Ft. Lauderdale firehouse. It was St. Patrick’s Day, and lucky for me the guys of Ladder 35 were trying to have a very eco-friendly holiday. Esperanza, my social worker, always loved to tell me that story whenever another set of foster parents decided that I was damaged goods. On the scale of adoptable and desirable children, being an antisocial prepubescent black boy always lands you somewhere between the crack babies and the kids that play with matches. Esperanza would always pick me up from my latest rejection and drive to the nearest golden arches for some Chicken McNugget face time. However, at the end of the summer of 1998, she came bearing gifts.
“Ezekiel, eat! You’re too thin, caramelo,” she said, poking me in the ribs. I was trying my best not to stare directly at her new hack job of a haircut. It made her look like a shaved Pomeranian that had missed one too many cans of Alpo. Florida lesson #1: Dominican women can always sense when somebody besides the “Big G” is judging them.
“You like? Retirement is going to be fun, si?” She playfully patted it down. Rumors of her leaving had been circulating the circulation desk for months. Every time I was brought in for a general evaluation the old-ass secretaries would whisper about it over their tapioca shooters. They suspected that she had dug her way into some old man’s retirement fund. In retaliation I spit in their granny mush when they went out for more smokes. Esperanza had been my one constant in all the inconsistency and the only thing standing between me and a dozen juvenile delinquency committees. The thought of her leaving made my stomach almost give up the mystery behind the meat.
“Do you think they let old ladies into Salsa clubs?”
“You’re only forty-five,” I yelled, slamming my fists into the table. She leaned forward, allowing me to catch a glimpse of the little bird tattooed behind her right ear. It always looked like it was trying to tell her a secret.
“Oh, so your little vow of silence is over, huh? You know the Petersons were about to ship your little, brown behind off to the loony bin,” she laughed. I let my head drop and her bony hand jutted out to catch it.
“Eyes up, caramelo! You’re my last case and we are going out with a bang.” She then wrestled my file out of her overstuffed purse.
“Now, according to the Petersons you stopped talking in May and confined yourself to your room. Are you going to tell me why, or am I going to have to guess?” I didn’t say anything and continued to stab at my food.
“You know if I had to guess, it might have something to do with the fact that you are not carrying a comic book with you today.” I froze at the memory of that greasy asshole just waltzing into my room and raiding my closet. He stole my best horror comics in the name of Jesus Christ and a whole football team of saints. That ignorant-ass mutha fucka not only wasted my money, but he dishonored the entire Zombie Ninja Clan.
“I just wanted to read and be left alone. I did my homework, his chores, and even prayed to the ceiling every night. All he did was grill me and take my shit without a warrant!”
Esperanza sat there smiling, as I let everything just burst out of me. I told her all about Mrs. Peterson’s Lysol addiction and how she always accused me of wanting to steal her Precious Moments figurines.
“It’s like they were just waiting for me to run out of there with their TV or something. When that asshole went and jacked my comic books, I decided to skip a few steps and remain silent,” I said, with my arms folded into a very adult-looking pretzel.
“You watch way too much Law & Order, caramelo. But, I do think it’s time we throw away all of our trash and get going. You have an interview tomorrow, and we need to do something about that fro.” Then, she quickly leaned over and fed her entire tray and my file to a nearby Grimace shaped trash can.
“Yo! Don’t you need all of that?” She smiled and let her hands reveal that she had palmed a baby photo of me and the entire fire department.
“Nope, just this,” she laughed, gathering up her purse. I sat there a little scared and wondering what was the rush. Usually, they sent me to the group home for a few months, before forcing me into another round of government arranged symbiosis. She grabbed me by the hand and we practically rocketed out the door. When we got to her rusty station wagon, she popped the trunk, and nestled between mountains of CVS bags were my comic books all organized according to body count. She knew me so well.
“How?” I managed to ask, before pretending that there was something in my eye.
“Let’s just say, that your Esperanza knows more legal words than every tonto on that show of yours,” she replied. I pictured Mr. Peterson scratching his fat head, as she bombarded him with Spanish enriched Jack McCoy vocab. He probably dropped to his knees and tried to perform some half-ass exorcism on her.
“Now, let go! You’ve got a date with a pair of trimmers across the street,” she said, eyeing the barber pole. As we waited for the Don’t Walk signal to change its mind, I started to notice that her Caribbean curves were now completely dead and buried beneath a sea of loose fabric. She looked like an anorexic scarecrow, and I only prayed that she wasn’t falling for some white-ass Weight Watchers BS.
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About Christina Ginfrida
