How to Get Into the Twin Palms (5 page)

I nodded.

He left quickly and I began to panic.

When tomorrow? Where tomorrow? I stood in the alley for a long time. Hoping he would come back and tell me that it wasn’t going to happen. He was rushed. He wasn’t thinking. I wouldn’t have to go through anything. Why did I nod? I was ill prepared for any kind of evening with him. A truck rolled by with a flat bed full of broken down cardboard boxes. They stared at me, slowed and whistled, then said something in Spanish, whistled. I scowled and began to move. I would have to prepare. I would have to start with my undergarments.

 

 

 

I remember the first time I saw my grandmother’s bra hanging in the shower in her apartment. It was large and sturdy. It was peach colored or off-white or maybe just discolored. One side was slapped over the top of the bar and the other hung down, limp and dripping. I touched it, pressed in the fabric. It was thick, synthetic feeling. Like it was made from something that was supposed to pass for satin. The cups were terrifyingly huge. I had hoped that I would never fill in like that. She was
“full figured.” She had blossomed early. I would have to enhance my blossoming.

 

I was going to get a bra today, but Miracle Bras were too expensive. I would have to go for the imitations. The imitations didn’t have the same gel-like quality to them. The firmness and “realness.” The pads of the cheap ones were stiff, curved, but only $14.99. The best I could get. I walked into the dressing room of the discount store and saw the sallow faces of the red-shirted women sifting through the bring backs. The mountain was growing as people kept tossing the items that did not work onto the pile and walking out. I waited my turn. The woman took my bras and counted them. Took a blue placard with the number eight written in white and shoved it on the hook on the door. She tried to untangle the plastic hangers from one another as she put them in the dressing room for me. It wasn’t working. The straps were impossibly tangled. She gave up and tossed them onto the bench, weaved around me, and shut the door. I stared at myself in the mirror. The lighting was bright and crass. My makeup was smudged. My skin pale. I wondered if a trip to the tanning salon might not be a bad idea. I took off my shirt and bra. I still had tan lines from the previous summer. It didn’t make sense but I went with it. The first bra was black and simple. Too small. I thought purchasing an A cup would make me look like the girls in the Victoria Secret ads. “The cup runneth over.” My breasts just flooded out on the sides and underneath my armpits. I would have to go back to my size. I was losing circulation. The room was getting hot and it was small and I was having a hard time moving my arms. I took off my pants to get a general overview of what I was working with. My ass had a flabbiness that prevented me from feeling comfortable in thong underwear. I felt too exposed, too free-flowing. I opted for a full-bottomed brief to go with the padded bra. My breasts heaved over the line of the cup of my next choice. I wondered
if it was too much. I would take my chance. I slid a tank top over the cups. The fabric stretched to cover the new size, the new shape. Two melons affixed to my chest. If this didn’t work I would invest in those silicone breast enhancers that cancer patients purchased. I would have to check the price on those.

I stepped out of the car and onto the street with my new swollen-looking chest, barely masked by a low-cut tank top that showed off my cavernous cleavage. The shading and shadow between the two lumps intrigued me to no end. The Ukrainian man from across the street let his eyes rest on me a while longer. The crocheted curtain moved a bit and I heard a sharp knock, his wife watching, no doubt.

He continued hosing down the bushes and turned around. Men were predictable. Breasts never failed. Round and pert were best and that is what I had now. My eyes were kohled and my bra was making my breasts supple. A lot for two in the afternoon. A lot for an audience of one aging Ukrainian man.

I needed to fix my roots next. I couldn’t go back to the salon. She had ruined it anyway and if I did I would have to send a bad check to the Department of Water and Power for the month.

I purchased a box of Herbal Essences hair color. The shade was #57 – Brown, Cool and Collected. The girl on the box looked pretty and her hair looked dark. On the back of the box was a “Moxie Meter.” It asked me if I had ever given a piece of my mind to my boss. Or if I had ever flirted with a policeman. It said I could do either of those things and then blame it on the color. It seemed like the right choice. I dyed my hair and then my scalp and around the roots and my forehead and I tried to scrape and bleach my skin and get the color off. I should have followed the directions and rubbed Vaseline on my forehead to protect it from the dye. But I didn’t. I hoped and prayed that by tomorrow the stain, the evidence, would be gone and I would be big-busted and dark-haired and exotic again.

It was dark and late and no one was at my window. I tried to
sleep but couldn’t, so I listened to the birds again. They stayed up all night with me. They tangled themselves together in the ivy and they gurgled and cooed and I thought of Lev and I thought of what we would do together. I wouldn’t get drunk. I would go into the Twin Palms and be on his arm. I would do that willingly. I tried to visualize the Twin Palms while I lay there. What was inside. If the waiters wore tuxedos. How big it was. If it had secret entrances. If it spilled into the other buildings. Where you stood and where you sat. What you ate.

I tried but I couldn’t even imagine it.

I sat there and waited for hours. I sat on the couch. I crossed my legs and uncrossed them. I tried to look as if I was engrossed in what was on television. I stood up, sat down. Stood up again and poured myself a glass of wine. Then another and then another. White. Not red. I didn’t want my lips or teeth to turn black. To give the hint that I had been waiting. I checked my breath six times. I rinsed with Scope. I flossed because I thought there had been some bread stuck in between my teeth. I ate bread because I didn’t want to ruin my appetite but I didn’t want to be drunk. Then I had another glass.

I washed my glass to keep myself from finishing the bottle. My sponge smelled. I needed to buy a new one. I smelled my hands and they smelled stale. That smell of old food and old cellulose. I was furious with myself and went to the bathroom and washed my hands again. I rubbed lotion on them. Expensive and perfumed. I smelled them again and could still smell the sponge. I went back to the living room and opened the sliding glass door. I went back and sat down on the sofa and changed the channel. I flipped between Channel 2 and 4 and waited for the commercials to be over.

I checked my phone, realized he didn’t even have my number and stared out the sliding glass door. There was no smell or sign of anyone smoking. I wondered if standing on the balcony was
too obvious. I tried it anyway. I stared out onto the street. Stared into the windows across from me into the apartments. At the flat screen TVs with loud voices and wild gesticulating arms on screen. I could see right through the crochet and wondered what the purpose was, if it was purely decorative or if they thought it broke up the action inside. I contemplated purchasing curtains of my own. I took a Virginia Slim (I wasn’t sure which one) that I had hidden behind the ficus tree and lit it. Trying to make a light, a signal that I was there, and waiting, but no one came. The street was empty of cars. There were no sounds coming from the Twin Palms. The party was at The Calcutta on the corner tonight. Someone was puking on the lawn. New-to-the-neighborhood kids were having a house party, red cup and blue cup type kids. I saw the crochet move to the side. I listened to the retching and went back inside. I would have to find a way to sleep. It was already 2 a.m.

When I went to lie down the room was spinning. I had gone back and finished the bottle in a hurry, brushed my teeth again, but I could still smell the stink. If he came, he’d smell it. But then, maybe he wouldn’t be able to smell my breath over his. I felt it was a safe choice at the moment. Tonight the orange lights coming from the streetlights were making me restless. I bit every nail off of every finger. I chipped the red paint away. Red. Who was I fooling?

The front door buzzed.

I had just fallen asleep. My alarm clock said 4:15 a.m. and I didn’t hear any singing. I didn’t move. It buzzed again.

And again.

I stared at my hands. The chips in the paint looked even more garish in the orange light. I got up quickly. The Berber carpet in my apartment kept my footsteps silent and there was a gentle tapping on the door. I looked through the peephole. He was standing there, all in black. Shirt opened at two buttons, chest hair spilling out. He was combing his hair back. Trying to look
presentable. I cupped my hand to my mouth and blew. It was still a little sweet, but morning breath had begun to set in. My mouth was dry. I tried to swallow, produce some saliva but it just wasn’t coming. He looked toward me, at the door. It was impossible to see me as I watched him put his head down.

I could open the door and he could know it would always be okay to come to me in the middle of the night like I was his mistress, a girl to keep away. Or I could leave the door closed, go lie down, go to sleep, hope he would come back to apologize in the morning or another day or one day soon. Or never. He didn’t owe me anything. He didn’t even know who I was. He could stop coming to my door. He could park on another street. Another block. Somewhere where he would never have to see me again, pass me again.

I OPENED THE FRONT DOOR. BUT NOT THE
heavy mesh screen door. I stared at him through the perforations and waited. He didn’t speak or try and smile.

“Let me in, Anka.”

“It’s 4 a.m.”

“We never said when…” He gave a little smirk.

“I thought dinner.”

“We can eat.”

“This is the time men come over to fuck you.”

I looked at him. Wanting a severe reaction. He was too tired to argue. He just backed away from the door.

“Maybe tomorrow then,” he said.

He walked away from the door and lit a cigarette. Got into his car and pulled out onto Fairfax, away from me. I watched him make every step. Watched how he lit his cigarette. Head down low, hand cupped tight, one-two-three.

He seemed to have a limp. His left foot dragging in time. I watched him carefully and noted that I had never seen that limp before. What if he had been hurt? What if he needed to be consoled? I had turned him away. I had lost my chance to console. But I hadn’t prepared for consoling.

I had cleaned my bedroom. Vacuumed, picked up scraps from the floor, compressed my clothing into my closet and dusted the top rim of the headboard, just in case. I walked back into my
bedroom and tripped over my shoes. I fell to the ground, face pressed against my new bra. I lay there a while. Poked at the cup, felt it bounce back. I contemplated sleeping on the floor next to it. My carpet was clean now, except for my dinner outfit that I was lying on top of. I decided I might still be a little drunk and crawled back into my bed. I would just wait until tomorrow. He was hurt, that was why he didn’t come when he was supposed to. Maybe he was in a fight. I didn’t even let him say anything. I just attacked. I would have to work on that – being more considerate. More sensitive. I must have still been drunk to be convincing myself of such things. A 4 a.m. Girl. That was the kind of girl he wanted me to be.

I WOKE UP LATE. I DIDN’T HAVE ANYWHERE TO
go anyway. My head hurt and I had forgotten to wash my face. My eyes hurt from the caked on makeup and my skin felt slick. I went to the bathroom and took a look at myself. I thanked God that I hadn’t let Lev in. I wiped the soot caked around my eye and looked at my nails. Cracked polish, chipped like skylines and worn down to nubs. They hurt and were inflamed. I poured hydrogen peroxide over each finger. They sizzled and bubbled. I didn’t want to get an infection. My mouth was still dry, soft and fuzzy, I brushed and washed and even then my eyes were still bloodshot. There was still black residue in and around my eyes. I washed again.

And then I finally gave up.

I opened the sliding glass door to the balcony.

My tree was gone. Someone had stolen my tree. I closed my eyes and opened them again. Still gone. What time was it anyway? I walked back inside the house. The microwave said 2. Sometime between the hours of 4 a.m. and 2 p.m. someone had climbed over the concrete divider and picked up a 30-pound tree and had run away with it. Or walked. How could the Borises in my building allow this to happen? I stared out across the street. None of the crochet curtains were moving. It was already hot and I had missed half the day. My balcony was now bare and I had no cover from the people walking back and forth. Sweeping,
walking, dogs shitting. I stared out toward The Calcutta. There were red and blue cups littering the front yard. There were Christmas lights blinking on and off on the top railing. I shook my head and sat down. I stared down to my cigarette-hiding place and saw that they were gone too.

“Fuck.”

“What happened?” My neighbor with the homemade haircut was leaning into my balcony from his mother’s balcony. Into my space.

“Someone stole my tree.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

I kicked at the dead leaves, they had left those. They or he. I didn’t know if it was a one-man job or two. A group of kids from the hostel walked by. Maybe one of them did it. I was standing right there and they didn’t even try to look at me. I shook my head and walked back inside. That tree cost me 46 dollars. I watered it every other day. I watched new buds grow. I slowed down my watering when I saw the leaves turning yellow. That tree was my tree. I had cultivated it.

I HAD SCRAPED TOGETHER ENOUGH FOR A
generic brand of cigarettes. Misty Ultra Lights. There was a pastel rainbow on the cover and besides that the package was mostly dull, white, and drab. The thin plastic covering the exterior the only point of excitement. The rainbow made the cigarettes look dated. I wondered how old they were. I was also eating a slim, long sausage. A
kabanos
. I didn’t care who saw me. The sausage was dry because I had left it unwrapped in the refrigerator and it tasted like jerky. I had a jar of horseradish next to me and I would dip the sausage into the jar and pull out a clump at the tip and eat it. That mixed with the cigarette I was furiously inhaling made my breath hot and sour. I leaned back in my chair and heard a creak and snap. The crack at the bottom of the chair was getting worse and I didn’t care. I snuffed out the Misty and started another one. Stared at the round, empty circle on the concrete and contemplated my next move.