Chapter 29
The next day, Marisol and Dulce met for lunch across the street from the clinic. It had previously been an old school Italian deli, but now it was a “paleo eatery.” Fortunately, they had red meats and baked goods made from yucca, plantain and yam flour. The food was gentrified, but edible.
“I never had no paleo food before,” Dulce said. “It’s kind of like an empanada if you didn’t use as much spices.”
They sat at the counter. Beside them, a long line of people waiting to order snaked out the door.
“Glad we beat the rush,” Marisol said. “So how is it being back?”
Dulce blew out her breath. “My mom and sister are driving me nuts,” she said. “I need to move out. But with what money? I think I’m done with sex work, so how will I be able to afford rent anywhere?”
“What about your writing, Dulce?” Marisol asked. “Or should I say ‘Celia M. Reyes’?”
Dulce grinned. “I got that first check, and I was like ‘oh hell yeah!’ Jerry had me convinced I wasn’t good for nothing but fucking. And I was like, where is that asshole buried? Because I wanna dance on his grave and wave my fucking check in his dead face like, ‘New York Times, bitch!’”
The two of them laughed.
“I would have gone with you,” Marisol said.
“I was so sure I was on my way,” Dulce said. “But then I think I missed my window in the news cycle. I coulda sold a secondary story to the tabloids right after I got back. But I was messed up over that guy. And now Delia Borbón did that special with Oprah.”
“But you didn’t just write that piece on Borbón,” Marisol said. “I’ve seen your name on some of those interviews with hurricane survivors.”
“But the big papers aren’t looking for freelance Hurricane María content now that it’s no longer dominating the news,” Dulce said. “And I don’t have my journalism hookup anymore.”
“Same guy?” Marisol asked.
Dulce nodded. “It was like—for a minute—I thought maybe everything could change. But in some ways it was the same old shit. Some guy comes along and I thought his love was gonna magically turn me into a journalist. Like if I could get him to be my man, everything else would just fall into place. But if I learned anything from you, Marisol, it’s not to depend on men. And good things come to those who hustle.”
“That is pretty much my philosophy,” Marisol said with a laugh.
“So I guess I’ll hustle my way into getting paid to write,” Dulce said. “Can you help me?”
“Definitely,” Marisol said. “What have you tried so far?”
Dulce opened her mouth, then closed it. “Nothing really,” she said.
“You were about to say something,” Marisol said.
Dulce laughed and shook her head. “It’s stupid,” she said.
“You let me be the judge of that,” Marisol said.
Dulce looked down at the table. “Before I cashed my check from the New York Times, I made this, like, tiny photocopy of it,” she said. “And I laminated that shit. And I pinned it in my bra for good luck. Left side. Near my heart.” Her face flamed hot and she kept her eyes on her plate.
“Are you kidding me?” Marisol said. “That’s a great start. Before you can get something, you need to be clear that you want it.”
“Really?” Dulce asked.
“Claro que sí,” Marisol said. “Next step is to pitch to different editors. I can help with that. There’s mainstream outlets, but also sex worker sites like ‘Tits and Sass,’ that can get your work out there. They don’t pay much, but they’ll protect your privacy.”
Dulce looked up from the plate, but she wasn’t ready to meet Marisol’s eyes yet. “I want to go for all of it.”
Someone called Marisol’s name. She and Dulce looked up to see Tyesha and Serena in line to order.
“Hey you two,” Tyesha said. “What’s up?”
“Just two unemployed ladies having a leisurely lunch,” Marisol said.
Tyesha sucked her teeth. “Well we’re two working girls getting takeout so we can work through lunch.”
The line moved forward slowly.
“Just to add to your workload,” Marisol said. “Either of you know of any paid writing opportunities? For Dulce?”
Serena shook her head. “Where’s $pread Magazine when you need it?”
“Today I saw a grant for gentrification oral histories,” Tyesha said. “Some hipster foundation wants people to pour their hearts out, so they can pull quotes to tattoo onto their arms and smelt into commemorative paperweights.”
“Oh yeah,” Serena said. “That project for displaced people in New York.”
“What about the people in your shelter?” Dulce asked. “All those women from Puerto Rico.”
“But it’s for displaced people in New York,” Serena said.
“Wait a minute,” Marisol said. “Is it people in New York or from New York?”
“Let me pull up the email,” Tyesha said, opening her smartphone.
As they waited, Serena ordered lunch for them at the counter.
“The language is very clear,” Tyesha said. “Subjects must be homeless in New York City due to displacement: eviction, building demolition, rent hikes. And being replaced by owners and residents from a wealthier class.”
Dulce pulled out her own phone and read from a dictionary app. “Demolition. Noun 1. an act or instance of demolishing. 2. the state of being demolished; destruction. 3. destruction or demolishment by explosives. 4. demolitions, explosives, especially as used in war.”
“Well the Hurricane María refugees are definitely in the state of having been demolished and destroyed,” Tyesha said.
“And they’re also being replaced by owners and residents from a wealthier class,” Marisol said. “All those cryptocurrency billionaires buying up the land.”
“I think these hipsters might have signed themselves up to finance our oral history project,” Tyesha said. “Lemme forward you the email, cause I’m not writing an additional grant application.”
“I might be willing to come out of grant proposal retirement for one more big score,” Marisol said. She opened the email, and Dulce looked over her shoulder.
“They want professionals,” Dulce said. “I didn’t even graduate high school.”
“Fuck that,” Marisol said. “You’re self-taught. You’ve got a feature in the New York Times. You already did oral histories for this population for three different outlets. I’m gonna figure out how to spin this.”
“Okay,” Dulce said. “What’s the word count they want for the final piece?”
“This isn’t an article,” Marisol said. “We’re gonna apply to get you a grant from this foundation. They probably envisioned giving money to traditional academics and journalists and artists to interview families getting displaced. And then they’re supposed to have a final product: a book, a report, a film, or an art exhibit. But I’m gonna write a grant that pays you and has a stipend for the participants. I’m gonna write the hell out of this grant proposal, and these motherfuckers are gonna give us this money.”
* * *
Later that night, the team met in Tyesha’s office. Serena sat at the end of the couch. Beside her, Kim lay back on Jody’s lap. Tyesha sat at the desk, and Marisol paced across the room.
“So?” Marisol asked.
“It’s done,” Serena said. “Gerard’s charity made a donation of nearly a quarter million to a grassroots organization of Puerto Rican women leading recovery efforts on the island.”
Marisol nodded, and suddenly choked up. “I really appreciate all of you,” she said. “I know this wasn’t really your cause.”
“What do you mean?” Tyesha asked. “We help each other.”
Marisol laughed and wiped her eyes. “You all are Americans.”
“Who you calling American?” Serena asked.
“Yeah,” Kim said.
“Okay, maybe not you two,” Marisol said. “But every US citizen is technically a colonizer of my island. They been pimping us for over a century. Most people in the US don’t give a fuck. But you all do. Enough to risk your asses to help us. I just—”
She fanned her face as if the tears were coming from too much heat.
“Well get ready to look at a zero balance in his account,” Serena said. She grinned and turned the laptop around.
“Wait,” Jody said. “It says $2,000.”
“That can’t be right,” Serena said.
She clicked a few buttons. “Damn,” she said. “They just received a new donation.”
“No!” Marisol yelled. “We need to get it. Hack in again.”
Serena didn’t move.
“I’m serious,” Marisol said. “Work your magic and hack that motherfucker again. ‘Stampede.’ Do it.”
“Marisol, we can’t,” Serena said. “It’s too dangerous. We don’t have his laptop anymore.”
“I may not be the executive director of this clinic anymore, but I’m still the boss of this crew,” Marisol said. “Get the goddamn money.”
“It’s not gonna happen, Marisol,” Tyesha said quietly.
“This is bullshit!” Marisol screamed. She picked up the magazines on the coffee table and threw them across the room.
“Not one fucking cent,” Marisol said. “Do you hear me? I’m not gonna leave him with one goddamn cent! My people are dying. The government is lying about how many people are dead. The land, the water is toxic. People are gonna keep dying for years, for decades. And this dick is pimping us?? From the time I was eleven years old, somebody was always trying to fuck me. Trying to pimp me. Not! One! Fucking! CENT!”
Marisol picked up the potted plant off the shelf and threw it against the wall. The pot shattered and the dirt exploded all over the wall. Leaves and soil rained down on the expensive carpet. The plant fell upside down into a bowl of condoms leaving the roots pale and exposed in the air.
Marisol reached to throw Serena’s laptop, but Tyesha restrained her arm.
Serena pried the laptop from Marisol’s hand.
For a moment, Marisol was coiled, poised to fight. But then she shuddered in fury. With a raging howl from deep in her gut, Marisol collapsed onto the sofa.
In the end, she didn’t surrender to the sobbing. Rather, she lay passive on the couch as it overtook her. A tsunami of emotion, rearing up in undeniable authority, eclipsing the sky. She stood alone, a brown girl on the beach, awestruck and helpless to resist.
Marisol’s body shook with spasms. The tears poured out and she sobbed hard in between waves of brutal grief, where her body clenched and unclenched like a fist.