LULU

My routine seldom varies. I take the bus downtown and walk across the border. I oftentimes stop at the halfway point on the bridge and stare into the dirty waters flowing lazily to the Gulf. I'm unsteady on my feet. The weed has snuck up on me and is hitting me in waves. My heart is racing and gives the impression that it wants to squeeze through my throat and out my mouth. I don't want to board a pesera. I'm feeling claustrophobic. I'll walk. It's two miles to El Bravo. The busy route takes me through Matamoros' most elegant neighborhood, past the American Embassy and along the city's active soccer fields. The newspaper is located on a corner five blocks from the main plaza. The trek takes me past Lourdes Unisex Salon de Belleza. I've lost track, but I've been porking Lourdes for más o menos a decade. Before a reformist mayor closed Boystown and prostitution spread throughout Matamoros, I would take a taxi to the red-light district that was originally separated from the rest of the city until Matamoros' burgeoning population engulfed it. One main drag and four sidestreets comprised the sprawling, dusty complex that employed scores of women. I was a frequent visitor from the time I was 15 until the municipality closed it when I was 30. I can't remember the number of prostitutes I screwed, but I never went to Boystown without getting my rocks off. My favorite time to make these forays was in the afternoons before the action commenced. I was often the only client in a cavernous club and the bartender and I would become fast acquaintances as I downed Tecates, preparing each gulp with lime and salt. The principal clubs employed 20 to 30 girls and their rooms lined both sides of the large dance floors. The girls would emerge from their cells, dressed in their nightgowns with their wet hair falling to their shoulders. I would find a working gal in her natural and sober state and convince her to fuck me for half the regular price. Instead of smoke and alcohol and cheap perfume and the lingering odors of their previous clients, they would be redolent of soap and shampoo and their hair would squeak as I ran my hand through it. They would take their time satisfying me since there wasn't a club full of patrons demanding their services, the girls performing quickly since time was money. Perhaps my fascination with stories started with these woebegone souls, but I was more interested in their personal tales--their hometowns, their families, their children and their future hopes. I would sit with two or three of them in the abandoned clubs as they combed each other's hair and did each other's nails. "As soon as I get enough money I'm going to open a beauty salon" was their melancholy lament. With little else to do until nightfall, they were getting hands-on experience wiling away the afternoons preparing themselves for the onslaught. Recalling their aspirations, I can never pass a beauty salon without sneaking a peek: "How much is a hair cut?" or "How much is a manicure?" If I'm horny or she catches my eye, I'll stop. I prefer the manicure because we sit across from each other, only a small table with their utensils separating us. While they are holding my fingers, I study their faces and stare into their eyes. In some cases, these beauticians give my fingers and hands a massage worth the price of admission. Ten years ago I was strolling through Matamoros when I stopped at Lourdes' place. "Hi. How much for a manicure?" "Five dollars," answered a medium-sized woman in her early thirties watching a soap opera on the television. She told me to take a seat while she arranged her instruments and moved the table in front of me. Her boobs were small, but her butt was firm. "These fingernails are horrible," she said. A few nights past I had come home after drinking and it a fit of nerves had ripped at my nails and cuticles. "I'm going to soak them in alcohol for ten minutes. That will eliminate any possible infection and allow them to heal quickly. Do you always bite your nails?" "Not usually, but if they are long and I'm drunk, I find them too tempting and I tear at them." "Are you a nervous person?" "I sometimes suffer from nerves when I've been drinking too much. It might be what we call 'the shakes' in English. I can wake up in the morning feeling fine, but by mid-afternoon I'm filled with anxiety. It starts with a feeling of butterflies in my stomach. My heart then begins to flutter and before I know it I'm doing my best to prevent my innards from exploding out of my mouth. I don't drink like I used to because this is the price I pay." "That's good. Your body is telling you enough is enough. It has been my experience, though, that men don't listen. They're worse than children. You tell them over and over to do something, but the moment you leave them to their own devices, they return to their old habits." "What are you talking about exactly?" "Drinking, smoking, using drugs, cheating on their wives and girlfriends. They never learn. Of course, we're not very good teachers ourselves. We threaten them, then we forgive them." "What's your name?" "Lulu." "Is that short for Lourdes?' "Si, señor. What's your name?" "Tomás." "My boyfriend's name is Tomás." "You're not married?" "I don't think I'll marry again. Men are too possessive without becoming their wives." "Were you married before?" "I was." "And do you have children?" "I have one boy and one girl." "How old are they?" "He's 16 and she's 14." "Are they with you?" "They live with me and my mother." "Are you from Matamoros?" "No, I'm from Querétaro." "What brought you to the border?" "My husband. I had to escape him. He would have killed me if I had stayed with him any longer." "What was the problem?" "He was very jealous and would beat me if someone looked at me. I would tell him that I had nothing to do with another person's reactions, but he would say that I was encouraging them by the way I looked at them." "What happened that forced you to come to Matamoros?" "We were at the supermarket paying for groceries and the attendant asked me where I had bought my necklace because he wanted to buy something similar for his girlfriend's birthday. I told him, but the moment I said a word my husband pinched me in the back just above the waist. I knew that the worst was yet to come." She took both my hands out of the alcohol and shook her head. "These are horrible. I'm not going to be able to give you a manicure without hurting you. Your fingers are raw. Are you sure you want me to continue?" "I'm masochistic. I like the pain when I'm tearing my cuticles in long strips although I regret the bloody mess the next day. But continue...and continue with your story. I'm not too inquisitive?" "I like to tell the story to remind myself to never put myself in that situation again. When we arrived at the car, he starting hitting me with the back of his hand across my face. 'He wasn't interested in your necklace,' he screamed at me. 'He was looking at your breasts. I told you not to wear that blouse. He wanted you, you whore.' By the time we reached the house I was bleeding from my nose and from my mouth. He grabbed me by the hair and dragged me out of the car on his side. He pulled me into the house and beat me. I lost consciousness. I would have died, but a neighbor called the authorities and they arrested my husband. I was in such bad shape that when I reach the hospital a reporter, covering a murder, thought my beating would cause a greater sensation. The next day there were a half-dozen photos of my swollen face on the front page of the police section. After I recovered, I filed for divorce, but my lawyer advised me it would be best if I relocated. He said that my husband would most likely try to hurt me again he was so insanely jealous." "I've only hit a woman once," I told her. "When my second wife told me she had slept with someone else, I struck her across the face twice." "How many times have you been married?" "Three times." "Are you married now?" "Yes." "Is this marriage going to last?" "I don't think so." "Why?" "I'm not happy with her and I like being with other women." "Then why do you marry again?" "There's always a different reason. The first time she was pregnant, but she had a miscarriage. We were college kids who wanted to go our different ways and we did. The second time she gave me an ultimatum. I couldn't bear the thought that she would be with someone else and we married. The third time I saw the mother of my children and never thought twice. Why did you come to Matamoros of all places?" "I had a sister and a brother living here. She was married to an engineer who was working at a maquiladora and my brother was a federal police officer. Only my mother and I were left in Querétaro. My father had died many years ago and my sister and brother wanted us near them. We've been here five years." "Are your sister and brother still here?" "My sister's husband was transferred and they're living in Nuevo Laredo and my brother is in Mexico City." "And your ex?" "I haven't seen him the entire time, but the children receive a call from him once in a while." "And does he help you financially?" "You've got to be kidding. Men never help their ex-wives in Mexico. They pay us back by not paying child support." She took my fingers in her hands and looked at them closely. "There's nothing to cut, but I can file them and they'll grow back evenly." I could feel the current flowing between us. "And what does your boyfriend do?" "He's a truck driver and travels throughout the country." "Is he here now?" "He left a week ago and won't be back for another two weeks." "Do you miss him?" "I like it when he's here and I like it when he isn't." "And you would never marry him?" "Never. I don't love him." "Are you lonely when he's gone?" "Sometimes." "Do you go out when he's gone?" "I go to clubs with girlfriends, but I don't date." "I like the way you massage my fingers. You have a magic touch. I tingle all over." "Men excite easily." "All men?" "Most men." "And women?" "We have our moments." "And when you're having one of your moments, how excited do you get?" "I get pretty excited." "And what excites you?" "When a man touches me in a certain way and in certain places." "And when you get together with your boyfriend, do you go to his place?" "He has children. We go to a hotel." "How often do you get together with him when he's in town?" "Two or three times a week." She was holding my fingers and filing them gently. "Have you and your boyfriend ever closed the blinds, locked the door and just gone for it here?" "Never." Our knees were rubbing against each other beneath the table. She was wearing a dress and I was in shorts. I could feel her shaved hairs pricking my skin. "Do you have any appointments?" "No. Tuesdays are slow." I moved my fingers along her forearms and pushed my knees harder against her. "I'm going crazy looking at you," I said. I reached out and pulled her shoulders to me. After a few kisses, she leaped to her feet, closed the blinds and locked the door. We stood in the middle of the salon pawing each other. I ran my hands up and down her body. Then I placed her hand on my crotch. She unbuttoned my shorts and unzipped them. I was matching her move for move. "Where do we go?" I asked. The room was tiny and the blinds didn't completely cover the main window. I spotted a door. "Where does that lead?" "That's the bathroom." "Let's go." It was a small stall and reeked of sewage. There was no air-conditioning. I dropped to my knees and ate her pussy. Then I sat on the toilet and she sat on me. It was one of those spontaneous moments great fun in the retelling. The Mayan Monkey has become legendary. We are convenient fucks for each other. During the many years that I have known Lulu, her business has prospered although the bathroom still reeks. She remains with her truck driver who adheres religiously to his monthly schedule of three weeks on and one week off.