Ernesto Quiñonez - San Juan Noir

She resumes her frantic journey through the treasonous streets and thinks she’ll need to charge him more money from now on. She can already see the surprise and hurt in his old brown eyes, which always stare at her from somewhere long ago and far away, from another place in time.

Always a gentleman, and still handsome for an old dog, he pays her in crisp hundred-dollar bills he sometimes counts incorrectly in her favor. If the moon is right, he’ll even take her to a fancy Old San Juan restaurant and let her spend the night in his expensive hotel, after putting his valuables in the safe and taking his teeth out.

He never asks for kinky or freaky tricks (she wishes he would for a change), or says things to upset and degrade her for his pleasure — unlike so many losers. Those rich losers who get off on the suffering of others. He’s easier to turn over than men half his age, and she’s had him figured out for over a year.

Our young lady of the night arrives at the designated tavern — Finally, she sighs as she enters — and orders a can of Medalla. It’s all she can afford until he arrives. She waits near his favorite seat, gulping her beer and listening to a new bachata hit.

He’s over twenty minutes late, which is unlike him. She rummages through her purse, unsure of what she’s looking for. He better not be dead.

She has no phone, but that doesn’t matter since the old man’s married and always calls from a blocked number. She asks the meaty-armed bartender if her date has been around, describing him, and the bartender tells her no. She writes something on a piece of paper and passes it to him.

A second and then a third Medalla appear, followed by several shots of vodka. Our young lady of the night hasn’t eaten dinner, but she doesn’t care because she’s never coming back here — she’s finished with this place, this infernal island of heartache, this city she used to love.

Her aunt Yolanda in Philadelphia will be happy to have her visit, and after that — she says to herself as the meaty-armed bartender sets a fifth Medalla down — she’ll go to Florida because she hates the snow. Snow is for gringo motherfuckers. Twice in her short life was enough.

The bartender stops serving her when the overweight, sweaty owner comes in to catch up on some office business in the back with an attractive young woman. He winks, hands her four squashed Marlboro Reds, and tells her it’s time to get moving.

“Come meet me tomorrow around midnight,” he says. “I get paid and...”

She stumbles out, doesn’t answer him.

Over two hours late. This has never happened before. She gives up and says a prayer for him. She knows it’ll do nothing, but she doesn’t know what else to do. The night brings answers to every question. It always has and why should tonight be any different?

Our young lady of the night passes even more people on her way home than she had on the way to her ruined date. Shadows and silhouettes appear to ask her things ( Are they really there? she wonders), and she waves them off and sucks her teeth with disgust. She’ll be living on the streets again soon, so fuck them and their problems.

The next time that ugly old motherfucker wants a date, I’ll make him pay double, she laughs in the haze and warmth of silly intoxication. She considers going back to the clubs to make some last-minute money, but she was banned from all of them for stealing. A lie. Another lie.

Our young lady digs around in her purse and lights a cigarette with shaky hands. Then she pulls out two wrinkled school photos of her little man — her little boy, her little prince — who lives in Ponce with his asshole father. The motherfucker who kicked her out to marry that bitch, the reason for all of this...

She puts her hands to her face. The convulsive bursts of emotion rock her. The shameful agony of not having her son with her explodes from her core, and she kneels on the pavement, using a parked car to keep balance, until it passes several moments later. People walk right past, as if she isn’t even there.

I’ll get my little man back, she thinks, but it’s just as hard when he’s around. So she stops at the entrance of an avocado-green apartment building where she cannot be seen and lets the last stabs of hoarse anguish drain out. This passes too, and she blows her nose into a napkin she finds in her purse.

Lights another cigarette.

At least you aren’t dead, she says to herself, hooking her bag on her shoulder.

Tomorrow’s her birthday; it’s only one in the morning, and she feels like celebrating. There’s no one around to tell her she can’t. Our young lady of the night walks past another bar and tries her luck. Why not? Even a glass of water would be good. She’s cried all the moisture out of her body and another drink will help her forget for a while.

She steps aside to inspect herself in her broken compact one final time and approves of the reflection, despite another missing tooth, blotting away the trails of makeup from her tears. She walks in and sucks up her runny nose, a blast of marijuana smoke hitting her nostrils.

There’s a loud, awful heavy metal ballad playing that she remembers from an MTV video when she spent her summers in Philadelphia as a little girl. Ugly gringo motherfuckers in women’s clothes and makeup with long nasty hair, and endless guitar solos that would drive a deaf person crazy. They’re not the Stones, that’s for sure.

Our young lady of the night wants a man, one who’ll hold her after he’s done. She spots a muscular guy wearing a chunky watch and gold chains sitting alone at the bar, typing something into his phone. Her favorite Santo Boricua tank-top physique. He’s handsome as a jaguar and looks like he has money to spend.

She introduces herself and brightens when she smells his sweat, but then a curly haired, high-heeled Dominican woman slams the squeaky bathroom door behind her, walks up to our young lady of the night — her perfume is too strong — and pushes her out of the way.

“What the fuck are you doing talking to my man, puta?”

“The only puta you need to be worried about is your mother,” our young lady says, and lunges to grab her hair.

They scream insults at one another, pushing as the boyfriend with rocky muscles and black armpit hair tries to break them apart.

“Stop that shit, puñeta!” he says.

They stumble apart and our young lady of the night gets ready to leave before things get too hot. She’s too drunk to fight. The Dominican woman continues to call her a list of horrible things; her man is embarrassed and finishes his beer, swipes his car keys off the bar to leave.

He’s ready to fuck, the lonely woman thinks; she can see it in his walk and hear it in his voice. She savors the thought of him taking her — he’s the kind of man she would keep around — but he disappears into the night, keeping his girl calm at his side as he does.

There’s an older guy there but she’s had enough of them. He’s at the back of the bar and is dressed like a leading man from an old black-and-white movie. Staring down at something — a magazine? His phone? She can’t see his face.

Something pulls her to him, so she stumbles over and tells him her name, that she thinks she’s seen him before. He doesn’t look up but nods without the slightest degree of emotion or interest — this overdressed man from an old movie.

He gestures with an open palm for her to sit, which she does, but he still doesn’t say anything or even look up. He mumbles something she doesn’t understand in a smooth, deep voice she finds pleasant. She suspects he is lonely like she is, and waits for him to meet her gaze or say something, offer her a drink.