Showing posts from May, 2018

The Tupperware Voicemails

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…

El amor is nothing but a victim of human desire

When you get to the longest tunnel on the express, hold your breath 'til the end then make your wish, she said.

We always passed through that tunnel on I90/94. We lived by Belmont and California Avenue. My mom or dad would get on the express way via the Kedzie Avenue entrance. Evertime we'd get to the downtown tunnel I'd hold my breath with the strong faith of a religious woman and repeated,  I want love, I want love, I want someone to love me.

A white long sleeve shirt from Discovery that had the word "LOVE"--a heart in place of the "O"-- in black bold Calibri font was my favorite shirt in sixth grade. I was eleven years old. It was a fitted shirt my dad's young girlfriend bought me with my dad's money. Or maybe it was just a gift from her. Or maybe she took me to Discovery and let me pick out what I wanted--a pair of shorts with glitter buttons on the hips, a crop top that had a white transparent shirt underneath.

A boy from my class was the c…

Mar's Liver

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…