This Side of Providence (31 page)

Lucho

I
n Spanish, the word
luchar
means
to fight
.
Lucho
means
I fight
. My name is who I am.

My name is Lucho. I fight.

They named me Luciana but I took Lucho when I was eight 'cause it sounded hard and I wanted people to think I was a boy. I still do. Boys got it easier on all sides. They make more money, get the best girls, and only bleed when they get cut. Best of all, they can disappear. And later, when they're men, they can hide in plain sight.

My name is Lucho. I hide.

Been hiding all my life. Run and hide, stay and fight. Only two choices. What they call that? That thing animals do? Fight or flight? Yeah, that's right. That's who I am. But now I can't fight anymore. Don't want to. Not if I'm gonna win Celie back. So what's that make me now? Who am I, if I don't know my own name?

My name is Lucho. I'm lost.

A flyer at the supermarket tells me there are answers. Hope. For those willing to find it. People like me, who run out of places to hide. The guy at the door tells me these meetings are anonymous, but I recognize half the faces in here. From the needle exchange and the strip clubs on Eddy Street, but also from the park, the bus station, and the corner store on Manton. Junkies are everywhere. And now they got us meeting in the basement of a church. How fucked up is that? Gotta get the sinners inside somehow.

My name is Lucho. I'm here.

They sit in a broken circle, on metal folding chairs that look fifty years old. Most of them are white, half are men. They pass around a book as thick as the Bible. The leader reads a few pages. People nod their heads. People laugh. Somebody asks if there are any newcomers. Everybody looks at me so I raise my hand. I never raised my hand in school, even when I knew the answer. I didn't want to hear the sound of my own voice. Soft and weak like a girl. I still don't talk that much. Don't got a lot to say.

My name is Lucho. I'm silent.

Somebody asks my name. I look down. “Lucho,” I hear myself say. My voice sounds steady. Even. Unfamiliar. The whole room claps, as loud as fireworks. Nobody's ever clapped for me before. I feel my face get hot and my palms start to sweat, like I'm jonesing again. “Welcome,” they say all together, like how people say amen at the end of a prayer. They look at me with smiles on their faces. Like they want to know who I am. Or like they already know me.

My name is Lucho. I'm learning.

An old man with eyebrows as thick as cigars passes me a matchbook. His face is covered with lines that look like scars. He wrote his number inside the flap. “Call me anytime,” he says. “I don't sleep anymore.” His name is Louis. He pats my leg with a wrinkled hand thick like a glove. He is not afraid to touch me. A lady on my other side offers me a box of chocolate chip cookies. “Sugar's the only high I get anymore,” she whispers, like it's a secret.

My name is Lucho. I'm sorry.

I don't know when I started to hurt people. Seems like something I always did. Find their weak spot. Pounce. Devour. Never look back. Where'd I learn that? Who taught me? Everybody has two sides. Sometimes good and bad. Sometimes bad and worse. That's why I don't like people. I like animals. Dogs, cats, horses. Anything I can put my arms around. Dogs are simple. You know if a dog is your friend. How many people can you say that about? A dog only has one side: yours. Loyalty like that can't be bred.

My name is Lucho. I listen.

Louis stands up. He leans against his cane for support. The room is so quiet I can hear somebody's pager vibrate. Louis coughs. His lungs sound wet. He wipes his mouth on a folded bandana and thanks us for being here. A few people bow their heads. He calls this room his home. He calls us his family. Everybody claps when he says he's been sober for eight years. He says today is the only day that matters. He promises to be clean for today. No booze, no coke, no weed, no needles, no sex, no gambling, no lies. He smiles when he runs out of breath. He's missing a few teeth. I have a good life, he says. I'm one of the lucky ones. He coughs again. Sounds like he only has a few months to live.

My name is Lucho. I remember.

I got a good memory, just don't like to use it. I remember everything. Like where I learned how to hurt people. And who taught me. But who wants to think about that? Some things I'm scared to remember. My childhood. My past. Don't want to feel that lonely again. But with Arcelia it's different. She makes me feel everything—good and bad. With her, I'm not afraid to remember. When she was locked up, all I had was the memories. The hole she left. Tried to fill it but I couldn't. Tried to forget but I couldn't. All I could do was wait. Dream. Plan. Hope. Pray for a second chance. Hard to believe it's finally here. Can't blow it this time.

My name is Lucho. I feel.

I didn't mean to abandon those kids. Truth is, I thought they were better off without me. When I'm messed up, I got nothing but poison to give. They deserve better. Course I want them to forgive me. But none of this is about what I want. Maybe I don't deserve their forgiveness. Maybe I don't deserve anything. The people here tell me I have to give in. Surrender. That's Step One. That's where I'm at. No more hiding. No more fighting. So what's that leave? Who am I now? I know my name, but I don't know what it means.

My name is Lucho. I talk.

When it's my turn to share, I stay in my seat. I look at the floor to find the words. Not sure anything I say makes sense,
but they don't seem to care. I talk and they listen. I close my eyes to the sound of my own voice. For the first time, I feel safe with my eyes closed. My chest opens up. My shoulders relax. I feel the tears fall onto my face. A hot, salty burn that makes my eyes open. They are looking at me. They see me. See my pain. But they don't look away.

My name is Lucho. I cry.

Before Arcelia, I didn't cry. Even as a kid. I thought it meant I was soft. I still don't cry much, especially in front of other people. But I'll do it if it makes me better. If it brings her back to me. I'm done crying for today. Now I have to sit with it. This is the worst part. My skin feels hot and tight. Like the itch after a haircut. The hairs that cover your neck and shoulders. The ones you want to scratch off but can't.

My name is Lucho. I love.

Arcelia's gonna be my wife. I'm gonna marry her. Put a ring on her finger. But I won't tell her yet. Don't want to seem soft. Don't want to scare her away. So I'll wait. See how it all plays out. She knows I love her. Told her a bunch of times. But she always says, Show me. Words are for pussies. Love is action.

My name is Lucho. I'm clean.

Been clean for six hours now, ever since I saw her. Clean for real. How's that for action? I told her before I wasn't using, but the truth is I'm always using whatever's close by. If not dope then pills or liquor, whatever's cheap and easy to get. But all that's about to change. It's gonna be different this time. I swear. Seeing her clean, that's all the inspiration I need. And when she comes back to me, I won't need the drugs anymore. I know I can do it. With her by my side, I can do anything.

My name is Lucho. I live.

Arcelia

I
t only takes Lucho a few days to come back. She waits till the weekend is over, but on Monday morning—right after Cristo leaves for school—I find her standing on my front porch, holding a box of doughnut holes. She comes by a bunch of times that first week, and every time she brings food with her—Mexican one day, pizza the next, and then fried chicken when she really wants to tempt me. She tries to come in the house but I won't let her. I tell her it's too soon, that I'm still mad at her, and she laughs and says okay and we stand on the porch and eat the food straight out of the box.

She drops by again on Saturday when it's just me and the baby. She must have been watching the house 'cause she rings the doorbell a few minutes after Scottie leaves. Cristo and Luz are at the library with that teacher so we have the place to ourselves.

“Here, you can come in,” I tell her, opening the door. “It's too cold to stand outside.”

“No, I'm cool. I just wanted to bring you this.” She hands me food from the Chinese place around the corner. “I got enough for the kids.”

“Thank you. That was nice.”

Trini runs up behind me and hides behind my legs.

“Wow, she's huge,” Lucho says. “She's gotta be four by now, huh?”

“Yeah. Last month. Even my baby's not a baby no more.”

Lucho bends down to look Trini in the eyes.
“Hola, bonita. “¿C
o
mo est
ás
?”

Trini laughs and twists around in a circle, still holding onto my jeans. “What's your name?”

Lucho smiles at her, but doesn't answer. Instead she says, “I'm sorry I missed your birthday.”

“I had a party,” Trini says, looking over at me. “And we sang songs and danced and ate cake.” She looks up at Lucho. “You didn't eat cake.”

“You're right. I'm sorry I missed the cake.”

“That's okay. We ate your piece.”

Lucho laughs. She runs her fingers through Trini's hair. “How'd you get such pretty hair?”

“From Mami, silly. I was inside her belly but now I'm out.”

Lucho tucks a loose strand of hair behind Trini's ear and then tugs on her ear, pretending to pull something from it. A tiny doll appears in her hand. “Oh snap, how'd you get this?” Lucho asks, her eyes wide and bright.

Trini's mouth falls open and she looks at both of us with amazement.

“If it came out of your ear then it must be yours,” Lucho says, handing it to her.

“
¿
Es verdad, Mami?”

“
Sí, mija.
You can keep it.”

Trini claps her hands together and runs back into the apartment with the doll held tight in her fist like a prize.

“You didn't have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

“But you shouldn't have. Now she'll keep asking about you.”

“Is that so bad?”

I take a second to pick my words. “It depends how long you're staying.”

“Well, I'm on my lunch break. I gotta get back soon.”

I laugh. “I don't mean right now. Just in general.”

Lucho looks down at her feet. “I'll stay as long as you let me.”

“Don't do that.” My voice is softer than it should be.

She looks up at me. “Do what?”

“Don't try to sweet-talk me.”

Lucho smiles and I punch her lightly in the chest. “I mean it.”

She grabs my fist and closes her hand around it. “Okay,” she says, whispering into the space between my knuckles.

At first she's always sober when she visits—I can tell by how nervous she is, hesitating before she puts her hands on anything—but soon I smell the beer on her breath, even though she tries to hide it with coffee and Tic Tacs. I always liked the smell of alcohol on someone's breath—even as a child I remember liking to kiss my father goodnight on holidays or after an evening at the local bar—and I find myself trying to smell it under all those flavors.

But when she tries to kiss me I back away. I know better than to try to taste it. I offer her my cheek instead. She rests her forehead on my temple and puts her lips against my jaw and kisses me. She kisses me so softly I can't even tell if she's touching me. I feel like I'm gonna faint so I tell her to stop. She laughs. Her laughter gives me chills that make my nipples ache. I feel myself slipping. I grab for the wall but it's a few feet behind me, too far to reach. After she's gone I'm still not sure where I'm standing.

The next time she comes over she brings a six-pack with the food and takes sips on the sly when she's eating. I let her think she's fooling me. I give her that power 'cause it makes me feel powerful. To give something I can easily take away. But later it's not so easy.

She swallows before kissing me but I can still taste the beer on her tongue. That first taste is all I need to bring it all rushing back. It's like walking through a door and being right back in the past—my old self, my old space, my old friend. The smell was the first crack in the armor, but the taste is the real break. It reminds me of who I used to be and who we used to be together. And then next thing I know time starts to change. First it slows, then it speeds up, then it stops altogether.

After that first taste, I can't keep the memories from coming. They pop into my head like the flashes from my childhood. But these don't scare me. They make me feel safe. They relax me. But then the craving hits, just like it used to, and soon all I want is to hold the liquid in my mouth. I want to feel it bubble against my tongue and slide down my throat. I want to wait for the heat to spread through my chest and warm me like only another body can. I can't control how much I want it. I can't control anything.

But I keep fighting. I fight the cravings like I fight everything—the pain over losing Trini, the sadness of Luz staying behind, my anger toward Scottie, my fear of everybody else. I can fight the feelings and I can fight the people, but the one thing I can't fight is myself. My own head is my biggest enemy. So I wait for the day it turns on me.

I don't have to wait too long.

I'm alone when it happens, so I can hide it from Lucho and keep lying to myself about what I'm doing. I start sneaking sips from her bottle while she's in the bathroom, but later she starts opening two at a time and leaving one out on the table. It sits there like the answer to a question I'm too afraid to ask. At first I drink only a little. I savor the beer like it's a rare and exotic drink. I nurse one bottle for several hours—proving how different I am, how much I've changed. That's my first mistake—to think I'm normal again. To think I'm in control. It only takes a few days to see how wrong that is.

I tell myself I don't have to be afraid. I don't need those twelve-step meetings. I don't need to be completely sober. I'm just drinking, right? It's not like I'm shooting up. All I need is to relax. Take it easy. Chill. All I need is moderation. But what does an addict know about moderation? That is the question I never ask myself. I don't care if we're talking about food, alcohol, drugs, or sex—I don't understand what limits are. I've never found my bottom, but I still have a crazy need to keep looking.

Lucho is no different; that's why we make sense together.
I'm drawn to her—just like how I'm drawn to using. The only difference is that with dope, I feel like I'm in control, and with Lucho, I give up control.

Once I'm drinking, we start having sex again. There's no good reason to say no. The first few days it's like being a teenager again, all wet with desire and frustration. We fumble and roll across the living room like kittens getting used to a new home. We do it sitting in the windowsill, standing up against doorways, bent over the stove, and on top of the kitchen table. We grace every room in the apartment like newlyweds. Every room except my bedroom. That's the one place I tell her is off-limits. It's the only place that's just mine, and the one place where I'm always clean. I gotta keep something for myself.

One night Lucho calls me from a bar downtown and asks me to come meet her for two-dollar beers that are dyed some crazy green color for St. Patrick's Day. Cristo is already asleep so all I have to do is sneak out the back door and walk a few blocks down Westminster. If it was colder I wouldn't go, but we're having one of those March thaws and the air feels almost tropical as I walk down to meet her. When I close my eyes I pretend I'm walking through old San Juan.

I don't count my drinks but I never see any change from the twenty I bring. I don't remember the walk home or letting Lucho into my bedroom. But I do remember the sex. She makes it impossible for me to forget that.

She undresses me in the dark and pulls my naked body on top of her. She keeps her boxer shorts on and a tight white tank top that blends into her pale skin. We kiss. We kiss so hard and deep I think I'm under water. I struggle to breathe. She runs her hands up and down my body, giving me goose bumps. She waits until my nipples ache from hardness, then pulls and twists them until I moan and push them into her mouth. She sucks on them for what feels like hours. I hold her hand between my legs, desperate for her to peel me open, but she won't slip her fingers inside me. She holds her hand in a fist and I ride it until
my body feels bruised. I'm so turned on I can hear the sound of my own wetness. Lucho groans and bites into my neck. When I let out a small scream she covers my mouth with hers. She holds my head in one hand, then pulls her fingers through my hair and tugs it gently. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, trying to trace a line of cracks in the dark.

Next thing I know Lucho is on her knees on the floor. She grabs my hips and pulls them toward her, stopping when my ass is at the edge of the bed. My knees fall open as I offer myself to her. She brings her mouth down on top of me, splits me open with her lips and slides her tongue into me with a rush of wet heat. I can hear myself moan, but it sounds distant, like it's coming from outside. I come in a quick burst, rocking my hips against her mouth. Pleasure seeps through my skin and I have to bite my arm to keep from yelling. I try to sit up, but Lucho isn't done tasting me. She runs her tongue up and down the edge for several minutes, avoiding the sensitive spot until I'm ready for her. Then she's back to work, licking me with strong, steady strokes, until I come again. As I fall asleep, I feel her tracing small circles onto my hips with her fingertips, drawing pictures I'll never be able to see.