Dolores was her name. Spanish for pain (in the ass). She wasn't supposed to stay with us for long but since she was my roommate's coworker and my roommate being the kindest of us two, she ate Dolores' pain and offered her to crash at our studio apartment floor. And I literally mean the floor. We had no beds and thanks to Boner's genius idea of testing the durableness of our inflatable sofa with his ass-pocket full of explorer keys, we also had no sofa. We only had sleeping bags and layers of sabanas and blankets.
The day--about the 85th day to be exact--of Dolores' stay--rent free-- I and my roommate agreed that Dolores either had to pay or had to go. When Dolores came that night, she heard our woes and agreed to pay. The next morning Dolores was gone. Along with all of our Tupperware. Every single expensive neon green, pink, and yellow Tupperware, proudly bought by my and my roommate's matriarchs; the Tupperware we took as mementos from home, as a jab to our m…
There was a house party at Shorty's on Artesian and 49th.
We wore our butterfly skorts and kswiss shoes, our hair gelled and split, with two thick strands of hair tied tightly behind our heads. Slick.
We pre partied by spending hours looking in the mirror. we looked so damn good at 14.
We walked from 52nd and Talman to the party. At 50th and maplewood, we see Moreno making his way, too. We all thought he looked kinda good, but whatever.
Once we got to Shorty's she came to greet us at her house door, her lip liner flawless and her curly hair crisp with herbal mousse.
Her beeper went off and we walked in, shyly.
Prototype played loudly through the mix board speakers, the single floor house was filled with boys. We walked to the couch and sat down, our knees inward.
Shorty's back at the door, Mikey!, she says, I turned my head and took a look.
He was tall, with a white shirt showing beneath his unbuttoned shirt. He had boot cut jeans that layed over his black combat boots.…
When my parents divorced, my dad met a Filipina woman named Mar. To affirm their courtship, she invited my brothers and me for dinner at her duplex first-floor apartment in Lincoln Park.
"Have some, Carmen," she said when she noticed me looking at the lumps sizzling in a black pan on the stainless steel stove.
"It's ground beef," she said, giving me a curved white plate, the kind you find in Ikea. "Your dad told me you don't like liver."
I continued to stare at the pan, watching Mar scoop up some ground beef with her wooden spoon.
"Thank you," I said before I walked to the table directly across from the stove. It was a small apartment but it was cozy and clean. I felt my spirit safe in this place.
Mar placed a tray of tortillas on the table and my dad and brothers hands were like tentacles immediately attacking the tray. I, at last, grabbed two tortillas (I like my tacos doubled up) and made my taco. The sweet meaty juice dripped down my…