A Good Day.

You can't make this stuff up.

¡YA ABRIMOS! The lona above the door droops at one end.

The albañiles patch the holes the bullets make behind the desk. Cloro gets rid of most of the blood but leaves a stain of its own on everything it touches.

On a good day they're back to back. On a bad day you can count them on one hand. Between servicios, most of the girls gossip, scroll, sleep, stare out the door. The TV is on in the corner. There's a statue of La Virgen on the windowsill. A half finished order of tacos from Tlaquepaque on Rayón sits on the desk.

You can't make this stuff up. She doesn't have to.

One gloats he's somebody important. One confesses he thinks she's "special." One assures her he's gentle while holding her wrist too tight. One thinks he's interesting as he tells the same joke three times. One says "I'll get you out of here" and leaves a tip that buys tacos at the corner. One can't look her in the eye. One asks if she's OK.

The cop. The bus driver. The reporter. The priest. The delivery-boy. The worker from Agua y Drenaje. The homeless man. (He was actually humble and sweet.)

Fifteen minutes of fame. That what you get on the 800 block of C. Juan Álvarez. "Qué le vaya bien señor."

They come in looking for what they can't find anywhere else. She smokes Marlboro, sabor pepino, and looks for ways to stay awake. They walk out with a lie and a smile and a bulge that shrinks in a block or two. She goes home with the rent.

The door is always open. Two just walked in. It's going to be a good day.

BACK.

It hurts. It costs. La máquina no da cambio. MORE.