Every night, Lulú comes over with two glasses of wine—not the full bottle, because Lulú likes to save the wine. She loves the wine. Some days, we sit for hours and watch the camera in the lobby. Ever since those people who can pay two times the rent moved in a few years ago, the management, who’s like this with the policía, installed a camera that watches the door of the building. If we turn the TV to Channel 15, we can see who comes and goes twenty-four hours a day.
In truth, when there is no novela to watch, it’s how we entertain ourselves. Because we can’t sit outside to get some fresh air with the radio on like we used to. We were out there so much, we chained our chairs to the stairs in the lobby. The old super who lived in the basement would bring out the barbecue. We’d throw chicken, hamburger, everything we wanted on it. And the management never said nothing. But now, dique everything is a fire hazard.
We were able to do what we wanted before the hospital opened all the laboratories and those other people moved in. And it’s good that now the management doesn’t let the elevator stay broken for weeks and the lobby has a painting of some mountains hanging on the wall. They even put some plants in the hallway—they’re false, but it looks fancy. But now the policía gives you a ticket if you sit outside or turn up your radio. Can you believe that? The point is, they want us out, like we weren’t here first.
I don’t care that nothing happens on Channel 15. I leave it on all day. Sometimes the boy from 2F turns the camera to face the wall so he can sell in the lobby. Not drug drugs, but pain pills that he buys from las viejas in the building who have the Medicaid. I took one of those pills many years ago, when I had the pain on my back from working in the factory. I couldn’t stand up. The doctor insisted to try them. You know what? That little pill emptied me. For one day I didn’t think about my son Fernando. All my suffering, erased. It was the devil, I tell you. I threw them in the garbage.
Channel 15 gets interesting when people come home. I see my neighbor Tita and her daughter Cecilia—she never developed, and for the twenty-something years that I’ve known Cecilia, she’s been in a wheelchair. I see Fedora and her big hair always carrying some box. I even caught my sister ángela and Hernán holding hands—at their age. Can you believe it?
When I see La Vieja Caridad in the lobby on Channel 15, I go down to help her. She can only walk with the cane now. Ay, to be old and have to wait for help. All she wants is to stand outside and get the sun. I put on my shoes and a little bit of lipstick to go help her. But when I arrive, someone’s already opening the door. It’s OK, I can always use ten minutes of sun. I go and stand outside with La Vieja Caridad. We know: the secret to a long life is to get at least ten minutes of sun every day.
Yes, that could be a good job for me. I could take care of old people. I know what they need before they know what they need.
For example, I told La Vieja Caridad to get checked for the blood because I could smell something was not correct. Also, I see her eyes go far away in the distance más y más, like she’s looking over my shoulder. When that happens, I take her to her apartment and make her the green tea with honey, because, you know, the tea helps to focus. When I went through the menopausia, I was forgetting phone numbers and the names of things. Lulú told me to drink the green tea. Every day we drink two cups to maintain the mind. You know?
But anyways, Lulú and I noticed more strange people coming and going. And not strange like it was many years ago, when 3H was of the drugs. No, mostly young people from who knows where, with suitcases and backpacks.
If we, who have been in this building for decades, rent our apartments to other people, it’s dique illegal, but these new people that pay double the price make this building like a motel. We don’t rent rooms to strange people who come and go. We rent to someone of confidence for months. For example: Pargat Singh. He was such a nice young man. Many years ago when I needed money, I rented the room of my son Fernando. Trust me, this was not easy to do because I had been saving his room for years exactly like he left it, waiting for him to return. Always, I put a plate for Fernando on the table when I ate. Always, I hung a clean towel for Fernando on the bathroom door.
But the point I’m trying to make is that I rented a room to Pargat, who came from las Indias to work in the hospital. He loved living with me because he could go in and out of the laboratory at all hours to check his experiments. He was alone, without family. Because I didn’t let him to use the kitchen, every time I cooked, I gave him to eat. In the beginning, he didn’t eat, to be polite. But then he got comfortable and ate. Still today, when he is in the neighborhood, he brings me pan dulce or some little thing and says hello.
These other strange people who come in and out of the building, what do they bring? Bedbugs and criminals. I tell you—crime is up like never.
This is more reason why Lulú and I have to be like guards. Except that, for the past few days, Lulú has abandoned her post. Last week we were in my apartment and her son Adonis appeared on Channel 15. He was in the entrance, but he did not ring the door. It was like he forgot the number of the apartment of his own mother.
Cara, open the door! Lulú yelled.
I pushed the button to let him in. We saw him enter the lobby and walk to the elevator.
Lulú, like a chicken without a head, ran down to her apartment to wait for her prince. But when Lulú left, I saw Adonis walk in and out of the camera, in and out. But he didn’t go up. He left the building.
That was so strange. Why travel all the way from Brooklyn to just stand in the lobby?
Pobrecita Lulú. After, she emptied like a broken balloon in my kitchen table.
I said, Let me make you un café. Maybe he’ll come back.
I was trying not to show that I was a little bit happy. Ay, yes. It’s so bad, but I was a little bit happy. Finally, she could feel the misery of a son abandoning his mother. I hope you don’t think I’m a bad person. I love Lulú. I do. I never make something in my kitchen without putting something on the side for Lulú.
* * *
When did we meet? ?Uf! Everybody knows everybody in the building. But Lulú and I didn’t really know each other. We worked all the time. But we shared a tube that runs from the ceiling through the floor in our kitchens. We can hear everything that happens through that tube of metal. When the children still lived with her, the fights, ay, the fights. Of what? I don’t know. She pretends her children are perfect. I know the reality.
She thinks that because her son went to the good school and has the bank job, he’ll take care of her when she gets old. Good for her; I want good things for Lulú. But really? Why can’t she keep all that inside her mouth? She knows I can’t count on Fernando to take care of me.
Lulú has a daughter too: Antonia. She never visits. She studies and studies and studies. Has a mountain of diplomas. And guess what? She doesn’t even have a job with benefits. She writes poems. All about Lulú. And not very nice ones. Antonia wrote a book and dedicated it to her mother—after all, Lulú did raise her, with no help from the father. But now Antonia spits on her mother. That’s what therapists make you do. They make you spit on your mother. Everything is the mother’s fault.
Look, if Lulú had not been strong with her daughter she would have baby with some atrabanco. She would have never gone to the college and could never write that poem that supposedly won her a $1,000 prize. One thousand dollars! She should be publishing a thank you letter to her mother’s chancleta. It saved her life!
I bet Fernando went to therapy. I bet he spits on me.
Do you go to therapy? Yes. Ah. Interesting. Do you spit on your mother?
Ay, I’m sorry. No, no I don’t need more water. But thank you.