Dulces de Coco - Angely Mercado (books like harry potter TXT) 📗

secretly dating the mailman,” he chuckled.

We both laughed this time. 

 And then the conversation turned to future jobs and my studies.

“So journalism and creative writing, huh. You like reading?” he asked.

“Love it.”

“What are some of your favorite writers, as in Latin American writers?”

“ Marquez, Lorca, Neruda and Fabio Fiallo. Have you heard of him?”

“I actually have. His poetry is amazing.”

We discussed literature as he drove closer to Ridgewood. He was a treasure trove of knowledge and opinions regarding Latin American literature. We laughed together at the irony of “Poesias Negroides”, and discussed the beauty of sleep walking romances. He mentioned a recent Nobel Prize in literature winner who was also Latino.

“Wait so you’ve never heard of that guy winning the Nobel Prize?”

“No. Wish I did, most of what I know about Latin American literature is what I’ve been able to find on my own. Or hear about from my parents,” I explained.

“That’s a shame, look him up.”

I promised to. But then I forgot the writer’s name. I’ll have to look him up soon.

It was about a quarter to one and the driver pulled up to my house.

“That would be a million dollars, please.”

I laughed and rummaged through my bag in attempts to find the million dollars. Or a lottery ticket.

“Just kidding, for you, twenty-four dollars.”

I counted the bills and handed them to his outstretched hands.

“Thank you for everything,” I said, smiling at the mirror.

He smiled back into the mirror.

“Thanks for the talk. Good luck, love.”

I stepped out and he drove off.

I wonder what his name is. 

Condom-onium

My twin nephews were born on my 16th birthday, which was May 1st 2008. Joseph, my oldest nephew was given two younger brothers, Justin and Joshua. 6 months in and my sister-in-law was as big as a house and rounder than those huge cookies in the mall. A few months later, she was sore and her feet were swollen. Despite the fact that she has always wanted a daughter, she refused to get pregnant after the second pregnancy.

            “The ultrasound lady told me ‘damn, you’re making a soccer team’”, my older brother laughed one afternoon.

            “How many more kids are going to come along then?” I asked.

            “None,” my sister in law yelled.

            “Not even one?” I teased.

            “Hell no,” she responded as she propped up her feet.

            Once the twins were born, my siblings and I chipped in on helping organize feeding times, diaper changes and chasing after Joseph as he toddled around while my older brother and sister-in-law tried to tradeoff on the twins.

            That led to my younger brother and I wearing the twins one day on our chests with the aid of kangaroo pouches and walking a few blocks up for the twins doctor appointment.

            We sat in the molded plastic chairs of the clinic’s play/wait area and waited for my sister-in-law and older brother to bring Joseph. About half an hour later they arrived and immediately my sis-in-law noticed the huge fishbowl of condoms that were placed near the entrance. As we sat, she kept glancing over at them.

            Soon after my older brother went over to take one of the children into the room for their check up, my sis-in-law grabbed the diaper bag, and stuffed it with more than half the condoms in the bowl.

            A little girl wearing shorts that would fit an adult waddled over and attempted to reach into the bowl and tried to bring one to her mother.

            “Put that back,” her mother snapped, “those aren’t for you.”

            She reprimanded the woman in scrubs behind the desk for placing them in such a readily available place.

            “That’s kind of the point,” the lady in scrubs responded.

            The condoms were there for being used.

            “Why’d you take so many,” I asked my sis-in-law.

            “When I said no more kids, I meant no more freaking kids,” she said, organizing the condoms to fit into her bag.

            That night in their apartment, my siblings and I blew up some of the condoms into balloons. We smacked each other over the head with the oval balloons and laughed. I stared in wonder at how much they stretched and tried to figure out how the heck something that could become a balloon could actually prevent a pregnancy.

            Days later, my younger brother and I were watching the kids as my older brother went out for dinner with my sis-in-law. She came back with a purse filled with condoms.

            “It was like the best thing ever,” she exclaimed, “they have this thing with a slot where you can just take condoms out.”

            She poured out the condoms on her bed and added them to the ones from the clinic.

            “I stood at that slot for over 5 minutes and people walked by laughing,” she continued, “but I don’t give a damn, I’m not having any more kids.”

            “Are you going to try to get more?” I asked.

            “Yup, I even told your brother that the slot was a sign from God,” she rambled, “Condoms are Jesus’ gift to couples that have twins.”

            “Can’t you just get your tubes tied?” I asked.

            “No, those things are going to be burned.”

            We laughed and counted. Over 200 condoms were stuffed into a drawer.    

            My sis-in-law eventually had her tubes burned and has not stopped praising modern science since.  

            

Taco

I am a pushover. My heart rate triples whenever I have to tell someone “no”, or redress any grievances I have against friends and family members. An argument is started and more often than not, I allow the other person to bring up my flaws as well, I let them dominate the argument or stop talking whenever it suits them. I do not have the last laugh and I do not call customer service to complain.

But I like to think that some part of me is kind. Embedded between layers of anxiety, assignments, cooking tomorrow’s dinner, workouts, bitterness, and hyperactivity. Not unlike how geologists look at sheets or rock for the sediments, they’ll peel me back and say: “This is where Angely is kind, this is were Angely is patient, and this is where Angely has time for that.”

It’s an interesting quality to have. Scripture and many other texts elaborate on how one must put others before themselves; you’re encouraged to treat others like you would like to be treated. And then other aspects of culture encourage you to “do you”, to go for what you want regardless of what others around you think. Which makes it so that the geologists will dig down and find a layer that will make them say: “this is where Angely is really freaking confused.”

I don’t think it was being a pushover that made me bump into that tiny elderly woman two blocks away from my college. It was probably the Friday before holy week and spring break. I was with my boyfriend Rod and our friend Kevin; I had just shared an order of fries and custom made salad (pinkies up). I think we were going to head to Central Park for a bit. That’s when a tiny woman with a cane, coral shot glass circles of blush in each cheek, and sakura flower pink lipstick on her slowly sinking lips, stopped me and asked, “Can you help me get to Chipotle.”

Chipotle was on the same block we were on; I figured it wouldn’t take forever. But the woman had a limp and so I held her arm, and her bag and we slowly made our way towards the restaurant. She babbled the entire way.

“A really nice French fellow helped me across the street,” she began.

She noticed the blue and white patterned scarf I had pilfered off my mom that morning. The woman held it, turned it this way and that and asked a million questions.

“This is so lovely, where did you get it, I’m really into fashion and stuff like that,” she went on.

“I think my mom bought it in her hometown or in Downtown Manhattan,” I responded.

“What’s her hometown?”

“Bonao.”

“That doesn’t sound familiar,” she said frowning.

“It’s not in the US.”

We inched towards Chipotle while Rod and Kevin followed along laughing, because they knew I would put up with anything the old woman did.

We finally made it to Chipotle eventually and I hustled to find the woman a seat. She began to tell me what she wanted and then hesitated.

“Can you get me a menu?”

I asked at the register and then found one of the takeout pamphlets. She wanted a taco. Just one instead of the 3 for 10-dollar deal that was always offered. And so I told her all the things she could get on it and she wanted some of everything. I expected to have to go up and order for her, but she hesitated.

“Oh I don’t know, I don’t trust you with my money,” she said.

She had let me hold her bag, she felt up my scarf and she even leaned on me while walking up the block, and she couldn’t entrust me with her 10 dollars. I didn’t argue, I took my phone out of my sweater and draped it over the seat so that it wouldn’t be taken, and walked her through the line where she pointed out all the toppings she wanted on her taco.

“I’d like a drinking cup for water please,” she told the tattooed young man behind the counter.

She handed me the cup and I proceeded to fill it with diet Coke, or Dr.Pepper with some ice. I handed it to her and sat for a bit and made sure she made it up her seat.

“Do you live far?” I asked.

“I’ll probably get someone else to help me, I live across the street,” she said pointing.

She wanted to know if I was a Hunter student, I told her yes. She seemed excited when I said I was majoring in Journalism and Creative Writing. I think she had done public relations or publicity as a career before. All the while she took a sip from her drink and left a ring of pink lipstick on the straw. I was almost in awe of her, most days I’m too scared to put makeup on because I think someone will see me and laugh while thinking “makeup won’t fix her, who is she trying to fool?” Yet this tiny elderly woman had enough spunk to ask strangers for help in fulfilling her taco craving, all the while wearing face paint that was brighter than a may breeze.

“I’m