A police officer was inside Lucy and Juan’s apartment yesterday. It seems Juan’s casual threats to call the cops on his wife came to fruition. Juan whispered to me in the hallway last week that his wife with her new head of colored red hair had stolen all the money from his bank account and that he was through with the “puta”. He asked to use my cell phone to call the police to report the incident.
“I’m sorry, Juan. I’m not getting involved in a domestic dispute between two senior citizen Puerto Ricans. Lucy will cut up chickens and put a curse on me. I know better than that. I’m sure Lucy will be back home in a minute with an explanation of why she needed to drain your account. Ask to use her free government phone when she returns,” I insisted to the little Rican with silver hair.
Lucy cut Juan’s hair again. The tinsel curls are gone. What remains are only a few millimeters on the top of his head. The sides have been shaved like mine. It seems Lucy’s infatuation with me has reached a level that is unacceptable. Poor Juan looks like a drowned rat. No longer do I let her rub my hair and ‘pet me’ as she has done ever since I’ve moved to this neighborhood filled with psychotic Latinos.
The pill-popping Lucy Ricardo look-alike asked to borrow my hair clippers last summer. I told her no, imagining that she may use my sacred hair sheerer to crop her grey public hair. Nothing surprises me when it comes to those two. It’s such a shame they never had children. They seem so desperate in their old age for someone white to adopt.
“Do you know the Mexican woman that is over here all the time?” Juan asked soon after he begged for my cell phone to call the police, last week.
“Yes. I’ve seen her around. How could I possibly miss her? You leave your door open all the time, and when I open mine, I’m confronted with the smell of beans and pork brewing and I get red lip stick all over my face from your wife. “Yes, what about the fat puta?” I asked, showing Juan that I am a quick study when it comes to learning Spanish.
“She’s such a cunt,” Juan said, dropping any hint of a Spanish accent as the English word rolled from his lips in perfect precision and enunciation. “They are planning to put me in a home and they are going to run away with all my money.”
“Are they Lesbos?” I asked, assuming perhaps the reason why Juan and Lucy have no children after all these years is because Lucy does not crave cock like she does Juan’s social security money. Juan looked at me with a confused expression. It seems he does not know what the English word Lesbo means. Juan gave me an evil eye and told me that I was wrong for not letting him use my phone.
When I saw the police through my peep hole yesterday, I thought for sure Juan was finally being taken to a home where professionals could tend to his Alzheimer’s concerns.
I was wrong. Lucy was at my door at 9 a.m. this morning, soon after my lover headed off to work.
“Hi Baby,” she said, reaching out to grab my neck to pull my head closer to her so that she could kiss me. I let the puta kiss me as usual, but when she attempted to step inside my apartment, I told her to get out, that I needed my ‘space’ early in the morning and that she needed to stop knocking on my door so often.
“Sorry,” she said, looking at me like I was some sort of paranoid schizophrenic. “All I wanted was a few shopping bags. You got any? Are you coming with me to the food bank? There’s a short line today and they are giving away bags of onions. Come with me, Papi,” she begged.
“No Lucy. I cannot. Tell me. What were the police doing in your apartment yesterday?”
“That’s a personal matter,” The puta said, quickly running from me as if I were the one who did not respect boundaries and the privacy of one’s neighbors.
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