DO ME A FAVOR AND CALL A TAXI

Sandra has been the recipient of my midnight calls. I met her at a bar six months ago and we departed for her apartment. Her family moved to Brownsville from Matamoros in the late sixties after the father as a customs agent had accumulated sufficient money clipping helpless citizens from both sides of the border crossing the bridges. He set up his cathedral at the country club with Sandra, her mother and three sisters, and his chapel in Mexico City with his mistress and two sons. "I can't believe that my father would keep such a woman for so many years," Sandra told me. "My mother is beautiful and that woman has the face of a maid. And the sons look like Indians. They came for my father's funeral." Sandra found herself pregnant at 17 and for 20 years struggled through an abusive marriage until her husband was shot and killed during a card game. She inherited a ranch from her spouse and rentals from her father. These properties allow her to send her daughter to A&M. She augments her income by selling jewelry at the mall. She answers the door in a foul mood. "What time is it?" "It's after twelve." "Why can't you take me anywhere? Why can't we go out for dinner? I hate this arrangement. It's so demeaning." "I'm married." "That's not it," she whines. "You're ashamed of me. You don't think I'm pretty enough to be seen with you in public." I sit on the edge of the bed and pull off my shoes. "Listen, Sandra, if you don't like our situation, I can leave. I'm sure you can find somebody else." She throws her hands over her head in frustration. "I don't want anybody else. I can't be with anybody else." She's right. She isn't pretty enough to end my marriage. She's a fuck. I like screwing her because she comes quickly. In an inebriated state I have no zeal for protracted sessions. She has a vial of xanax at her bedside for her bouts with the absurd and never fails to offer me one. Thirty minutes later, knowing that I have diminished tomorrow's hangover with a fuck and a pill, I wait for the full-body massage. She lights a candle, fills her hands with lotion and kneads my body for an hour. "Don't start talking," I say. "You'll ruin the silence." She works quietly and slowly I warm to her. "There must be someone who would like to go out with you?" "Mike Gomez. He's the owner of a restaurant in the mall. He drops by the shop and asks me if I'm available, but according to my friends he is worse than my deceased husband. I don't need another macho in my life. I like my freedom, coming and going as I please, and I like the fact that you don't tell me what to do." "I don't tell you what to do because I'm in no position to tell you what to do. Yo soy un amigo con derechos. You need to find someone who will wine and dine you." "You do care for me?" she asks in a soft voice. "I like our tussles in the sack, but I don't have anything more to give. And you know there are other women I'm seeing." Her hands stop. "So you went through your list and I was the only one available. I'm someone you can fuck and that's all, right?" She could stab me a hundred times and I wouldn't feel a thing. The fuck, the xanax and the massage have achieved maximum effect. "Do me a favor and call a taxi."