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Chicacabra (Chapter 30) Guerrilla Warfare

December 12, 2010

Chicacabra

By

Yoly Solis

 

Chapter 30:  Guerrilla Warfare

 

 

 

Rana (ron-ah)  Pelo (peh-lowe)

Frog  Hair

Cuando la rana cría pelo

When a frog grows hair…

Is when putas stop puteando, when chicacabras stop torturing the locals, when Cheo Malanga stops wearing gold, when come mierdas become savvy…  

**

 

A drop of sweat ran down the side of his cheek. She wondered how it tasted.

She followed him into his dark den. The crowd cheered. Would she satisfy her primal urges?

“Here’s the paperwork. Sign here,” he said, pointing then handing her a pen.

She didn’t want to look away. Ah, to be a hungry parasite and spend the day nibbling on his body. Lucky bugs.

She finally looked down at the receipt. “The total here says zero.”

“We have desirable payment options.”

“I can’t accept this. You replaced the radiator and towed my car. It’s not right.”

“Tía would kill me if I tried to charge you.”

“Oh.” So it was the old Chicacabra calling the shots. He didn’t want sexual favors in return. What was wrong with these people?

She looked into his milk chocolate eyes and licked her lips. “What can I do to repay you?”

He grinned. It wasn’t a happy grin or an amused grin; it was a lustful grin. No doubt about it. 

The speaker squawked. “Manny, linea dos, Pedro. Manny, linea dos, Pedro.”

Gisela ran inside and yanked her arm. “C’mon, Joyce, let’s go.”    

Joyce wanted to slap her until her curls went straight or until her mascara fell to the ground in clumps large enough to suck her inside a mascara-tar pit.

“Gisela,” Manny said, “please talk to Pedro. What can it hurt?”

“Manny, it is time for me to sow my wheat.”

The Gladiator looked at Joyce. She shrugged.

He grabbed the phone; Gisela grabbed her arm. The moment had ended.

**

 

The Old Chicacabra was right. Until Gisela and Pedro got back together, there was no chance to get a nibble of that Gladiator or get a glimpse underneath that warrior skirt. Crap.

“Joyce, I need you to handle a conference call for me. The senior underwriter, Vice President of marketing and client will review pricing options for their renewal.”

Mrs. Anderson handed her the file. Joyce leafed through the thick paperwork.

“This is a huge account, I can’t handle–”

“I have every confidence you can handle this. Besides, I’m grooming you for management and negotiating on behalf of our clients will become part of your duties.”

Joyce banged the file with her fist. “This is Gisela’s client. She knows everything about this account. She should be the one on this call.”

“Confer with her if you must. But she will not handle the call.”

“I don’t understand, why not?”

Mrs. Anderson leaned in and lowered her voice. “Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be for us to be represented by a person with her accent? We would look like a banana republic, a third world country.”

You’re a crazy bitch, you know that?

“Look, I’m just a schoolteacher from West Virginia who barely understands my job. We’ve got to do what’s best for the client.”

“We are. The call is at three o’clock. Let me know how it goes.”

Mrs. Anderson walked away. Joyce didn’t think she could hate her job more than she already did. She was wrong. She grunted, slapped her desk then hit the intercom button.

“Gisela, are you free at three o’clock for a conference call with underwriting regarding Aton Construction? Mrs. Anderson wants me to sit in on it; perhaps I’ll learn something. Is that okay with you?”

**

“Yoyce.”

Oh, no.

“I can no longer live with this pain. I must leave this place; I must find refuge, away from this horrible, terrible suffering–”

“Pedro, the Amazon story isn’t going to work this time. You need to find a way to talk to Gisela.”

“Ay, ay, ay, my chest hurts; my heart explodes with grief, ay, the pain, the pain…”

Joyce banged on the keyboard. This would take a while; might as well catch up on emails. Cristina’s email flashed the invitation: Papito, Jr. homecoming party at Cristina’s house.

“…if only my soul can find peace, if only my lungs can find air, my body trembles…”

Cristina has a son serving in Iraq? Whoa! If he was anything like his mother, the terrorists didn’t have a chance.

“…as if wasps sting all of my body, I am swollen, I explode with…”

She pressed the mute button. “Gisela, Pedro’s on the phone.”

“I have nothing to say to him.”

Hmm. Let’s try a Dr. Phil guerrilla maneuver. She un-muted then said, “Pedro, so we’ll see you at Cristina’s house for the homecoming party?”

Gisela walked inside Joyce’s cubicle as if looking for something. Good.

“…I can smell her, as if she were next to me; she haunts me in dreams…”

“Yeah, uh-huh, I understand. Sometimes you’ve got to let a bird free so they can fly. Uh-huh, yes, you’re right, no point chasing her anymore, she needs to decide for herself.”

“…I am the bean, she is the rice; I am the tasajo, she is the boniato…”

“Okay then, I’ll pass along the message. Good luck to you, Pedro.”

She hung up and tapped the keyboard. Gisela stood next to her but said nothing. Finally, Joyce looked up at her. “Do you need something?”

She shrugged. “No, nothing. Uh, you said something about passing a message along?”

“Oh, yeah, the message is for Cristina. Pedro sends his apologies; he won’t be able to make the homecoming party. I’ll email her.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders drooped and she shuffled back inside her cubicle cell.

Joyce smiled. Gotcha!

To be continued… 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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