Chicano Frankenstein, page 8
The man then reached up to examine his face—using his right hand—and traced the outlines of his eyebrows, nose, lips, chin. He turned his face left and then right. He wondered what he had originally looked like. The man sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. He then reached into his medicine cabinet and retrieved a plastic prescription bottle. The man examined it, opened the bottle, and poured the red, oblong pills out onto the counter. He carefully fingered each pill, counting them out. Thirty-one pills left. He sighed. The man cautiously picked up each pill and dropped it into the bottle, closed it, and put the bottle back in the medicine cabinet.
The man clicked off the bathroom lights and stood in complete darkness. Without light, he was nothing more than one person. He reached for the doorknob and carefully opened the door so that it would not emit a creak. The soft amber light of the bedroom slowly filled the bathroom. The man walked toward the bed and looked upon the slumbering Faustina. So beautiful! His head ached, and he sighed. The man turned and walked out of the bedroom to his study. He turned on the desk lamp and opened the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. The man peered into the drawer, hesitated, then pulled out a battered cardboard box. He placed the box onto his desk, sat, and considered his next action.
The man jumped with a start when Faustina let out a loud cough followed by sounds of her stirring, limbs rearranging. He froze, waiting to see if she had awakened. After a few moments, she quieted, save for a soft snore. The man turned back to the box and lifted its lid. He smiled, reached in, and retrieved a children’s picture book. He thumbed through the brittle, curled pages, and then closed it. On the cover was a business card attached with a paperclip. The card said:
Dr. Marco Prietto
Clerval Industries
Beneath the doctor’s telephone number and address were the words when you are ready, written at the bottom in red pen. The man let those four words roll around in his mind. He smiled. And at that moment, the man finally understood what those words meant. He gingerly placed the book in the cardboard box, and returned the box to the drawer. The man clicked off the desk lamp and walked slowly to his bedroom. He slid the sheet back onto Faustina, who stirred just a bit but then fell still. The man silently opened a dresser drawer and retrieved his hoodie, sweatpants, jockstrap, and socks. He dressed, slipped on his running shoes, and looked upon Faustina one more time before leaving the bedroom.
Chapter Twelve
THE MAN CLOSED HIS apartment door and entered the cool evening. He stretched his legs and twirled his arms in three clockwise circles. The man took a deep breath, put on his hoodie, and then started on his nightly run, though it was much later than usual. In fact, it was almost two in the morning. He turned left on Hurlbut Street toward Pasadena Avenue and then turned left again. The man let his legs stretch out in long strides as his muscles slowly warmed up. He concentrated on his breathing. The man sensed the strength of his legs and arms as he ran, but something seemed off. He almost felt connected to each part of himself, but not quite. The man picked up speed as he ran along Pasadena Avenue.
CNN’S ANDERSON COOPER INTERVIEWS THE PRESIDENT
COOPER:
Thank you for joining us this evening, President Cadwallader.
POTUS:
My pleasure as always, Anderson.
COOPER:
A new poll from CNN shows that your party has seen an uptick in the generic midterm numbers, now pulling ahead by about three percentage points but just within the margin of error.
POTUS:
Slow but steady wins the race, Anderson. And I think those numbers show that our message is being heard by the American people.
COOPER:
Your message being?
POTUS:
Make America safe again!
COOPER:
Right. But some would argue that the MASA movement is built on fear and offers no real solutions to rising inflation, climate change, the chronic lack of affordable housing, and somewhat lackluster job growth while you’ve been president, even though your party has enjoyed majorities in both houses.
POTUS:
But the American people know that none of that means anything unless they are safe in their own homes, places of business, and schools. What’s more real: Alarmist cries about alleged climate change and rising sea levels, or a family’s fear of violence while simply walking in their own neighborhood in broad daylight? We have a real crisis, Anderson, and my party is offering solutions, while the other side only wants us to give another government handout or destroy our economy with environmental red tape. Real Americans know what the real threats are, and so do I. After all, it was my party that passed the anti-stitcher law without one vote from the other side.
COOPER:
The, er, law that banned reanimation is a case in point. It seemed to be working—the reanimation industry, that is—before the ban, without many negative side effects for our economy and …
POTUS:
I beg to differ, Anderson. There have been documented incidents of violence … shovings and the like.
COOPER:
Well, those reports are a mixed bag and inconclusive, really, based on the somewhat spotty news coverage. Some reports indicate that the “shovings”—as you put it—were provoked and really incidents of self-defense. And in terms of violence and people feeling safe, there have been literally hundreds of mass shootings since you’ve been president, and none of those involved members of the reanimated community. Those were homegrown …
POTUS:
But do we have to wait until the shovings become shootings? And the other side wants to de-arm regular Americans so we won’t be able to protect ourselves once some of these stitchers decide to graduate from shovings to assault rifles.
COOPER:
There’s no evidence that is going to happen, and you’ve fought against any kind of gun reform—even something such as improved background checks, which most Americans support, based on the polling.
POTUS:
There’s no evidence that stitchers aren’t arming themselves right now as we speak, in our own backyards across America. No, I will not stand idly by while the other party stands on critical stitcher theory to protect the very enemy of our way of life.
COOPER:
I’m sorry, President Cadwallader, I don’t believe you can just make that kind of argument without any sort of evidence.
POTUS:
And on top of it, the stitcher industry was rife with abuses, all quite documented, you know that.
COOPER:
Some documented abuses, as you put it. Just a few stories about reanimation doctors communicating with their subjects after they were reintroduced into society. But nothing particularly offensive or dangerous.
POTUS:
That’s only if you consider social engineering a good thing, which I don’t. We have to protect our own, that’s what it comes down to.
COOPER:
Such rhetoric could turn off the reanimated vote, are you concerned about that? I mean, they vote in relatively high numbers and could tip a close election.
POTUS:
Dead people voting …
COOPER:
No, that’s not what I said …
POTUS:
That’s how elections are stolen, Anderson! You’ve laid out my case for me.
COOPER:
No, that’s not what I meant …
POTUS:
And should dead people vote? That’s something we’re going to look at if we keep both the House and Senate. The dead should not be allowed to enjoy our most precious of American rights, especially to push a stitcher agenda. What’s next? A stitcher who has two, three, or more donors to their body who can vote once, twice, three times? We’ve got to true our elections, and keeping stitchers out of the voting booth is how we start to clean things up. If we don’t, we’re screwed … pardon my French.
COOPER:
But when people signed their donor cards to allow themselves to be reanimated, they were promised all the rights they had previously. If you try to change that, you will be violating their vested rights. And as you know, there’s a fair amount of case law on the protection of a person’s vested rights. Lawsuits will be filed, no doubt.
POTUS:
And that’s why we need litigation reform to stop frivolous lawsuits that only line the pockets of trial attorneys. And that’s also why I need a Senate that will continue to confirm my Supreme Court nominees, should a vacancy happen in the near future. Too much is at stake in this election.
COOPER:
I think that’s one thing we can agree on. Thank you, President Cadwallader. We’ll have to stop here; we are out of time.
POTUS:
Thank you, Anderson. Not only do you ask great questions, but you look wonderful too. You seem to get younger every day.
COOPER:
Er, thank you? In any event, good night, and we’ll be watching how these midterm elections shake out.
POTUS:
Good night, Anderson, and God bless the real America.
Chapter Thirteen
THE MAN SLOWLY DRAGGED a knife through the stack of six corn tortillas while Faustina drizzled olive oil into the hot skillet, which reacted by emitting a sizzle and pop. Faustina turned to the man and watched as he meticulously lifted the knife and began the process again.
“Such a perfectionist,” said Faustina.
“You said you liked them to be in triangles,” said the man as he concentrated on his task. “But that is actually impossible unless I trim away the rounded ends, and you told me not to do that. So I am trying to make them as close to triangles as I can, even if they have rounded bottoms.”
“I did indeed. Some people actually just tear the tortillas up by hand, no neat edges, just raggedness all around. In the end, chilaquiles do not require perfection.”
The man looked up. “What do they require?”
“Just the right amount of crispiness—in my book, at least—and since these are chilaquiles rojos, the sauce must be made fresh from tomatoes, a little onion, jalapeños, garlic, and a bit of chicken broth. But there are probably a million different recipes out there. The key is to follow your family’s tradition, especially if you’re going to feed your relatives, because believe me, family can be pretty harsh critics when it comes to culinary traditions. One divergence from a family recipe, and you’ll never hear the end of it! It will become that story told each Christmas about how so-and-so screwed up the posole or lengua or enchiladas or arroz or chilaquiles. I mean, I still haven’t told my mother that I use olive oil instead of her trusty Wesson, though I think she suspects. In any event, it’s safer to keep critics mollified by sticking with family tradition as much as possible.”
“Yes, that makes sense,” said the man as he returned to cutting the tortillas. “I could see how you’d want to avoid that.”
“And of course, with chilaquiles, you need to top it with queso fresco, though some like cotija, but that makes the chilaquiles too salty for my taste. On top of all that is an over easy egg, though I am quite content to go without. But again, I need to be careful about getting too creative or else I won’t hear the end of it!”
The man ran the knife through the tortillas one more time, examined his handiwork, smiled, and then dropped the pieces into a large orange bowl that held the three previous batches of cut tortillas.
“Perfecto,” said Faustina as she lifted the bowl and examined the man’s tortilla-cutting artistry. “You get an A-plus for neatness. Not only are you guapo but you are a sous chef in the making.” She then reached into the bowl, plucked out one tortilla triangle, and dropped it into the skillet. It sizzled and popped.
“Testing the oil?” said the man.
“Precisely!”
“I like the sound it makes.”
“It is pretty satisfying, isn’t it? Simple pleasures.”
“Is it ready?”
“Yes, it’s ready,” said Faustina as she slowly dropped handfuls of tortilla triangles into the skillet, the sizzling and popping growing in volume as the mound grew.
As Faustina continued to cook, the man watched her efficient movements in an attempt to etch upon his memory this moment. He liked her kitchen better than his own. It gleamed and possessed a layout that perfectly matched Faustina’s culinary requirements. The man’s kitchen, on the other hand, seemed ill-conceived, with an island that was too large for such a small room. And he couldn’t open the island’s cabinets at the same time the oven door was open or else there’d be a collision of wood and metal. The only true benefit of his kitchen was that all of the large appliances had been updated when the apartment complex underwent renovations before he had moved in. But in the end, he should not be surprised by the discrepancy between their respective living spaces. Faustina owned a mid-century modern, 2,200-square-foot house, while the man rented an apartment half that size. The man was not bitter about this difference; he merely acknowledged Faustina’s financial security, which came with being a named partner in a successful law firm. Besides, the man had now been spending time at Faustina’s house rather than Faustina staying at his, which had been her desire during the first two weeks of their relationship—if that’s the appropriate term. Now, four weeks into dating, Faustina preferred having the man stay at her home a few nights a week; the other nights she kept to herself, or perhaps she would stay over at the man’s apartment every so often. It was simply more convenient for her, she had said. But the man assumed it was something else—he didn’t know what—though he had no quarrel with the arrangement. He was approaching a feeling that he had not had before, a feeling of contentment, security, peace. And the man was more than willing to follow Faustina’s lead when it came to their budding relationship. In the end, he trusted her to offer the most efficient and practical logistical solutions for everything from making chilaquiles to the conduct of their dating life.
“Could you set the table?” said Faustina as she continued to add ingredients to the skillet, causing a little sizzle with each new item. “Mom and Saul will be here soon.”
“Yes,” said the man as he opened a drawer and withdrew forks, knives, and spoons.
“And use the cloth napkins, please. They are in that cabinet over there.”
“Yes.”
“And if you could put the fruit salad out along with the orange juice, that would be perfect. I can start the coffee in a sec.”
“Yes, I can do that,” said the man as he breathed in the aroma of the chilaquiles-in-progress. “It smells good.”
Faustina turned to look at the man. “I can teach you,” she smiled, then turned back to cooking. “You know what they say.”
“What do they say?”
“If you give a man a fish, you have fed him for a day, but…”
The man waited for Faustina to finish her sentence. After a few moments, the man said, “But what?”
Faustina turned to the man. “You really haven’t heard this one before?”
“No, I don’t think so. It depends on what else you say before I know whether I’ve heard it before.”
“But if you teach him to fish, you have fed him for a lifetime.”
The man smiled. “That’s new to me. And I like it. It makes sense.”
“I have a million of them!”
“Oh, good.”
“You’re an easy audience.”
The doorbell rang.
“Oh!” said Faustina. “They’re here a bit early. I’m still wrestling with the chilaquiles. Please get the door, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.”
The man looked at the table he had just set. It appeared balanced, just right. He nodded to himself, rapped on the table three times, and strolled to the foyer as the doorbell rang again. The man opened the door and stood back.
“There you are!” said Saul. “I was getting worried that we had the wrong day. I’m having more than my fair share of senior moments!”
“You have the right day,” said the man.
Verónica reached up to hug the man. He hugged back and smiled. Saul shook the man’s hand and handed him a bottle of prosecco.
“Something to spike the orange juice with,” winked Saul. “It will improve the appetite and loosen our tongues.”
“The chilaquiles smell good,” said Verónica as she slowly walked into the kitchen. “Almost as good as mine!”
“¡Ay!” said Faustina as she wiped her hands on a small towel before hugging her mother. “I was taught by the best. But Pop’s chilaquiles were pretty good too.”
“Who do you think taught your father?” Verónica laughed.
“Yes, Mamá, your recipe is the best, and you are a wonderful teacher,” said Faustina.
“Por supuesto,” said Verónica. “My beautiful daughter does not lie.”
“She does not,” said the man. “She does not.”
