trato de novios
an autopsy of desireExtras. Cost Extra.
On This Page.
For once she can breathe.
There is little to save a man when Hell beckons and the ground opens up beneath his feet. Only the streets, jail, and the morgue are strong enough to break his fall. A woman, however, can count on a detour to appear just before she hits bottom—something that keeps her from falling any further and sometimes even offers a way back when nobody and nothing else will.
SOLICITANDO CHICAS says the sign. There's one on this block and the next and the next. Pride is the first thing she'll swallow. Once the money starts rolling in there's no looking back. For once she can pay the light bill before they cut it off again. For once she can pay the protection money that keeps her baby-daddy alive in jail. For once she can buy her son a toy instead of putting it back and watching him start to cry. For once she can breathe. She makes her peace with it after a while. There's no use walking around angry all the time.
Alguien piensa de otra manera.
Juana took the first one. Bits of skull and brain hit the wall behind the desk. Blood spattered over the ledger that kept track of which girl did what and when and a half eaten order of tacos from Tlaquepaque on Rayón. Just wasn't her day.
Pepe was next. Then Carlos. Then Claudia across town. Then the media caught on, and things got crazy. No stopping. Carlos Salazar. Diego Montemayor. Platón Sanchez. Reforma. (That was a triple--three in one block.)
¿Abierto?
Cerrado.
Broad daylight. Dusk. 3:00 AM. Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well-placed bullet at a time.
The subway fare went up again. Tortillas too. Do you know who sells the best pozole in this town?
The chicas keep giving servicios. The tipos keep paying.
A bullet has the last word.
¡Llévame al cuarto!
It's a side street and not the main thoroughfare. Several tipos mill about the curb.
She can't be more than twenty-two. Long black hair cascades to her waist. A tarnished amulet—the tree of life—hangs from a braided chain around her neck. The straps of her heels remain unfastened. Not worth the effort today.
She looks ill. Sweating. Shivering. Takes more than that to keep her away. The bouncer puts down his phone long enough to get her a chair to sit on and something to put around her shoulders.
"Llévame al cuarto. ¿Quieres coger?"
Her voice is hoarse. Her heart's not in it. In any event her plea to passers-by is drowned out by the horn of a taxi that accelerates before the light turns.
It's a world of inversion. Spite hides behind a smile. Disgust poses as mock pleasure. Her tone is affectionate, but the interaction couldn't be more anonymous. The more vulgar she becomes, the more the guys think she means it. Everything about the experience is bogus, insincere, contrived, but it always works. Guys lap it up, leave with a grin, and return as soon as they can afford to. They have their favorites and visa versa, but at the heart of it all lies the message that people—even at their most vulnerable—are replaceable, interchangeable, expendable, disposable. The surface is all there is. No moment matters more than any other. Get attached at your own risk.
What happens when the lights come up and she gets on the bus and goes home? What then? Who watches the kids or takes care of mom when it's time to go to work? What if she gets diarrhea or menstrual cramps so bad she can't get out of bed? What else is there to dream of or reach for? Standing in a doorway in lingerie. Manufacturing erections. Ingesting their contents. One slob down—ten to go. Fifteen if it's a good night. There's a human story somewhere in the background, in some colonia where the #68 or #223 bus finishes its run. There is someone she needs and loves and someone who needs and loves her. Does anybody know? Does anybody care? Would it change things if someone did?
The Pedestal.
FOREWORD.
What follows will never be turned into a Hollywood blockbuster. There is no "hero's journey." There is no hero. Just a collection of characters who speak for themselves. To each other. And to you.
If I've done my job well, you will find a dark and brooding, intense, and painfully candid meditation on—not the dark side of the city or the temptations of the night but something all together more perverse—human nature. And if there's a brothel involved, it's the one we're all familiar with, the one outside the door, the one we wake up to everyday, the one some call "necessity" and others "opportunity." The one called the real world. Everything else pales by comparison.
Everyone brings to a work of art their own understanding—conceits they rush to assert and assumptions they rush to defend. Everything I've written is meant to challenge what you know and think you know. All of it. And each of you.
I.
In broad daylight. At dusk. At 3:00 AM. A quick glance. An outstretched arm. Their pleas are interrupted by the flash and the momentary deafness brought on by a gunshot at point blank range.
It wasn't always this easy.
READ THE REST. GIVE AN OFFERING. MAKE A CONFESSION. LATEST DRAFT.
Root for a Killer.
Chicas in the doorway. Tipos on the sidewalk. Fat man on a stool.
Announces the obvious.
La señora keeps track. Who. What. How long. How much. Makes change if you ask her nice.
Dodge Charger at the curb. Blocks traffic. Ministeriales. No one says no. They get what they come for. Disappear.
"Qué les vaya bien... señores."
Condoms by the carton. Prudence by the case.
New girl just started. Saw the sign taped to the wall. You know the one.
There's been a brothel on this corner for forty years. Another across the street. Two down the block.
All this so guys can get their rocks off at two in the afternoon.
Crowd at the bus stop. Man sells hot dogs from a cart. Woman sells tamales, sandwiches, chips, candy.
Walls flash red and blue. La patrulla. On the way to Seven for coffee.
The look on the kid's face when she says, "Está cerrado, corazón." Steel door rolls down from its perch. Two locks say, "Go home. Good night."
This work doesn't just take your money and moan for you. It's the only honest thing you'll read all day.
Root for a killer. Name names. Look in the mirror. Use your fist.
Shit on the powerful who take advantage. Shit on the ones who look away.
Tell Jesus to get down off the cross and fight like a man.
Stop jerking off to ideas. Feed those who are hungry. Don't reduce people to what they do.
Ask what something really costs. Ask if money can hide what's broken.
The reporter who comes around with questions. Nobody's seen him in weeks.
What's left?
A note scribbled on a receipt from Oxxo. A memo quietly spoken into a phone. A plea whispered in a dark hall. A threat shouted through a locked door.
These things will be forgotten. Or erased.
Testimony is dangerous. Someone believes it. Doesn't let up. Refuses to go away.
Garbled recordings. Grainy photos. Evidence to be preserved. Or destroyed.
That's the work. Pay the cover. Or stand outside in the rain. Your call. La máquina no da cambio.
It's worth repeating.
Truth is found in the unscripted, the uncomfortable, and the unresolved.
Root for a killer.
Ask if money can hide what's broken.
Go home. Good night.
Top Dollar.
Around here, vice doesn't hide. It doesn't have to. That's a story right there. Reforma. Montemayor. Villagrán. Platón Sanchez. Salazar. Madero—the main drag. We're just scratching the surface. We're just getting started.
There ought to be an app to keep it all straight.
The glow of neon paints the corner of a room visible from a busy street. Waiting bodies cast shadows on the wall. La quincena. Business is brisk. Pick me! Pick me. She sounds like a teen. Looks like one too. Top dollar while it lasts. Don't let the braces fool you.
The streets are legendary. Doors are slightly ajar or wide open, most flanked by a man or a woman exhorting passers-by to sample the wares inside.
That's where it started.
"Dude, dude. Just go fuck. Okay? You're not going to find love in a whorehouse. What are you thinking? Just have a good time. That's the most you're going to get. She's there for her reasons. You're there for yours. Treat her nice. Make her day. You're not as special as you think. You can't fix Mexico. You can't fix her. And you can't fix you."
"Just go fuck?"
Somebody has other ideas.
More.
Throw a Punch.
Call it a Confession.
El patrón se volvió loco.
¡Pásele, caballero! ¡Pásele!
Versión en español.
It hurts. It costs. La máquina no da cambio. Step inside.
IP Assets
Slide Deck.
Sell Sheet.
Pitch Package.
