Thunder Sandwich #26 - Joe Zorzi fiction

Never Make Love to a Mexican

When I opened that door, saw his face for the first time in the flesh, I was caught between laughing, screaming and shoving the fat bean out with a broom. I settled on making him a coffee, and all the while he slurped it back, I kept my eyes off the cardboard case he'd wedged between the leg of the armchair and the little walnut table my Aunt had left me. I'd never had the heart to stick the ugly thing on Ebay.

"Carlos, just how old was that goddamn photo you sent me?" I said, eyes still homing in on the two bellies he seemed to be hiding under his vest.

"Maria, Maria. It was just few years ago. I not changed, not really, apart from this of course…"

He pointed at the huge growth on his upper lip that made Groucho look positively pre-pubescent, and showed off a ridge of yellowed teeth, two from the top missing.

"You know you can't stay here, Carlos, I only got one bedroom and that's kinda full already. Come on, Carlos, what you doing here? How'd you find me?"

I spent most mornings on the net once my brother had set me up the PC. I'd hang on there chatting, surfing, reading 'til the first shift at the Dreadnaught beckoned, and it was time to log off.

I was single, bored, tired and the PC gave me everything I needed. And once in a while, if I was feeling that way, I knew I could click on and find some young-blooded male willing to have a little flirt, a little fun. Totally anonymous, no complications, no unwanted pregnancies - and that's how I'd met Carlos.

Except we'd actually got pretty friendly, and him so far away, well this dumb broad went and told him too much. Bits about the town, the surf, the Dreadnaught.

"I got across the border, Maria. I been planning for while. This man - I gave him $200 dollars, he lay me in the trunk and here I am. For you, Maria. You really mean what you said on the screen?"

"Carlos, my real name ain't Maria. Call me Jodie."

I gave him two weeks, couldn't just kick him out on the streets. He had nobody else to go to.

"I thank you, Jodie. As soon as I find a job, I move out, be out your hair."

Three months down the line, he'd still found nothing, was still sleeping on my sofa, stinking out the front room with his acrid chilli sweat. He could cook though, damn well in fact - so in that sense he was paying his way. Burritos, Tacos, Enchiladas, Eggs and Jalapenos for breakfast.

By the time I got him the job at the Dreadknaught, he was off the sofa and in my bed. Happened one night I'd had some friends around for a dinner party. We'd knocked back buckets of tequila, steamed our way through ten bottles of wine - and Maggie, my best friend, she kept cornering me in the kitchen saying, "He's so funny, Jodie, and kinda sexy in that Texmex all man kind of way, and, God, his food's to die for."

Half hour after the last person had left, I was riding Carlos like a polo pony. He was good too.

"So how was your first day, Carly?", I said, lying in the bath, the best way a girl can spend her one day off a week.

"They treat me like fucking shit, no respect."

I loved the way he said that - "fuckeeeng sheeeet" - like the words were designed for the Mexican tongue.

"Look, Jodie… "

He showed me his palms, all calloused, burned, sore. I rubbed some suds into them.

"You'll get used to it Carly, hun. Come and have a nice bath, get that greasy fat out your pores."

It sure was strange working at the Dreadknaught, doing my usual shifts, the usual customers, my ways of doing things - all the time seeing Carlos neck deep in pots and pans, each time I took an order to the kitchen.

It was the way the kitchen guys worked too - they'd always give a new hand a hard time. Like an initiation, it was guaranteed those first few weeks would be tough as hell - and the fact that me and Carlos had a thing going - well, that didn't mean squat.

Mario, the head chef, virtually ran the restaurant. Not even Mr Kelsey who owned the place would spark anything up with Mario. He knew his was buttered, I guess. It was Mario's menu, Mario's team that rushed out 300 covers a night, Mario who could mix up some aspic, a few rolls of self-raising, turn a lardbucket of rotten leftovers into a banquet fit for the president himself.

One night, Carlos was drinking more than usual, staring at the Yankees game, a fifth or so beer perched high on his belly top.

"That Mario is fucking sick pig…. I gonna leave."

"Carly?"

"He pinch my ass all the time, call me "Illegal booty" - they all laugh, all time. Then he pour hot stock into my dish water, say, "Clean the fucking dishes, spicshit", and he pinch my ass again."

"It's just their way, Carly, you gotta put up with it. You'll be accepted soon enough. You will, it's just the way Mario works. He's a shit but he's a clever shit. He knows his stuff. Just keep your head down, keep still, do your job and take your money."

He did just that, Carlos - he got on with the job, wash, clean, wash, cheque at the end of the week, a swift "fuck off" when Mario started. He seemed to be fitting in, banter the first signs of acceptance. But then Mario stepped up the anti.

It was during the peak of the Saturday night shift, the broiler was chucking it out - lobster, shrimps, swordfish, mussels - we must've done 200 covers already and it was only eight thirty. I went in to get some napkins, bent over to the cupboard and straight away felt Mario's body press hard against me, his hands on my breasts.

"Hey baby, you remember what an Italian dick feels like, huh?", he pushed harder, "Wanna come round the back later? Been along time, honey, a long time! Ha ha!"

"Fuck you, Mario", and, as I stood up, I slapped him across the face. The whole kitchen was in fits. Carlos looked at me, said nothing, kept scrubbing the pans.

The next night, we both had the day off, and Carlos took me down to the French joint Antoine's - "we get some proper mush", he said. We had champagne, foie gras, beef bourguignon - made a real change, that's for sure. Then just before the cheese, Carlos popped the question.

Yes, I said. It wasn't just the bubbles talking. I meant it. I loved him, two bellies and all.

And the next Saturday, we were wed, a married couple - the honeymoon was two days on the beach, two nights under the stars, two fingers up to Mario. I showed him the ring on the Wednesday.

The old perv tried it on a few times, but a few fists in the groin soon slowed him down and he moved onto Larry, the newbie pot washer. Carlos had been moved over to the salad station. He'd survived the initiation, he was part of the team.

It was a few weeks after this that I got the phone call from Mr Kelsey.

"Jodie, get down here right away."

It was 1am, my night off. When I arrived at the Dreadnaught, I found Kelsey and Mario sitting at a corner table.

"Look what your fucking pig spic husband did!" said Mario, showing me his right hand, all wrapped up in bandages, blood blotting up in big sticky patches.

"Ran a knife through my fucking hand, my cutting hand - where the fuck is he?"

The house was empty when I got back. The cardboard case was gone off the top of the wardrobe. I knew I wouldn't see him again. He was legal now.

[Index]