2.
Gifted Blue Eyes [Theme]

Boca Chica (the Little Mouth) was a paradise rolled like a pair of dice atop white sand beaches (commonly folklored as the fine dust of crushed Revolutionary skulls). Newly-planted casinos dotted the interior of this ivory coastline wearing hotels like shell corporations.

See also: Our Trotsky Chotski: Screams from the Little Mouth by Julio Mir

A dozen children (17 shoes shared between them) loitered on hot, jagged asphalt as beneficiaries of one such establishment’s open door policy. Enticed by the flashing lights, ringing bells, and aromatic cigarette smoke hanging lazily in the air. They sprinted toward a Tourist, catching him stumbling out half-drunk and broke at mid-noon like their daddies, seeing in their imaginations a Robber  Baron in a top hat cradling a cartoon burlap sack with a dollar sign on the front. They settled down for foreign nickels, hard candy, and emptied pockets turned out apologetic.

The eldest, 15 maybe 16, knew better. She sure as hell wasn’t about to gamble her future away playing this childish game. “18” in the span of the Tourist’s question, she found herself balancing like a baby giraffe in boutique platform sandals rather than fantasizing about a second pink sneaker; caressing white sand, smooth like powder, as she lounged on her back over-tanned under God’s watchful blue sky.

“Beautiful!” the Tourist shouted, more company funds wired over to cover his losses.

She sat up to wave, edging the lower half of her face into a smile, watching him wade nipple deep into waters that never went overhead no matter how short a person or how much a local just kind of wished a motherfucker could just drown. Looking across the sea past the lumpy speedo vanishing into a spillage of varicose pudding toward the first-world country she’d call home.

———

“Bocaza” (Bigmouth) was what every hustling local—from the woman free-sample-massaging every tourist seated along the beach (No “yes” required!) to the man at the outdoor clothing kiosk draped in “premium, top-of-the-line hand-me-downs” from ages ago—muttered under breath or behind her back regarding the chatty black chick. “…between the JNCO blue jeans and the Burberry accessories,” Mademoiselle mused to herself, touch-testing the denim fabric between her fingertips, “I could call the outfit for this mission my ‘Blueberry suit. What do you think?”

“Right on, right on…” the Vendor nodded along, frozen in his signature pose: hand out/palm up waiting for chump change like one of those fortune-teller machines; corners of his mouth quivering from a strenuously held smile, watching Mademoiselle examine the last article of women’s clothing she hadn’t rubbed her fingers and face all over.

“I’ll take three of everything.” Mademoiselle decided.

“Right on!”

Struggling to separate and calculate coins and bills from more countries than he could count was what’s called one of them “good problems”. He meant it, too, shouting “Come again!” as he shuttered up the shop for the day while the sun was still out.

Mademoiselle seemed wobbly regarding her own balance: six bulging canvas shopper bags and her purse hanging awkwardly off her arms brimming with shirts, jackets, pants, capes, and scarves. She stabilized herself, open arms ready to embrace any who approached her like the cannons jutting from the abandoned fortresses of this Colonial Shopping District—the vainest of veins on Free Boca Chica’s corpse. Her heels tapped out an invitation on the cobblestone to any man single or in a monogamous relationship duct-taped with inadequacy as she whistled the theme song to the late-century revival of her favorite telenovela; all while thinking thoughts of Francois…

MISTER MISSED HER  aka TRIFLIN’ RIFLE (lyrics provided by Valerie Cruz)Scoped you from miles out, baby Know long-distance has to play its part These closed windows can’t shade ya When love’s a rifle aimed straight for your heart But I’m through wanting, honey You speak radio silence Need space? That’s fine I got another goal in mind I shoot the shot End mission Leave broken glass and get To the door to realize I’m locked in from the other side! Attracting eyes, so blue What are they going to do? Just more col-lat-er-al Attracting eyes, so blue What are they going to do? Just more col-lat-er-alOoh, need my love now, baby? Bleeding my way down your Boulevard (no) Been taught sweet words can’t tame ya On hands-and-knees I’ll make all your pain quit Oh I’m through wanting, honey Your life to turn around and heal So cold lately I’ll probably go in for the kill You can forget it, honey Beg, I won’t relent Mercy this time Can’t be bothered to make the climb!Attracting eyes, so blue What are they going to do? (are they going to do?) Just more col-lat-er-al (collateral damage) Eyes, so blue (Eyes. So. Blue.) What are they going to do? (are they going to do?) Just more col-lat-er-al YeahI’m through wanting honey Don’t speak radio silence So cold lately I got another goal in mind We can forget End mission Leave broken glass and get Mercy this time Locked in to make this climbAttracting eyes, so blue (eyes so blue) What are we going to do? (are we going to do?) Just more col-lat-er-al (collateral damage) Eyes, so blue (Eyes. So. Blue.) What are we going to do? (are we going to do?) Just more col-lat-er-al (collateral damage) (Eyes. So. Blue.) What are we going to do? (are we going to do?) Eyes. So. Blue. Just more col-lat-er-al Attracting eyes so blue What are we going to do? (are we going to do?) Just more col-lat-er-al (collateral damage) Baby I need your love too Baby don’t mean to play rough oooh Baby you know I love you

Open on: Francois lying on his stomach, locking his sights on Mademoiselle through the scope of a high-powered rifle (FR F2) atop the Golgotha 13 Tower (the tallest and only skyscraper in the Boca Chica area). Mademoiselle dances through the streets, oblivious. Men rush up offering her flowers which she bashfully accepts. Desperate white suitors (simps) crowd her forming an entourage; fighting to carry her bags.  The simps wait outside the hair salon Mademoiselle ducks into like puppies on a leash. Oddly, they dance. An amazing ballet of pirouettes, shimmies, and toe-touches.  Mademoiselle exits, but not before the stylist rushes out to give her fresh curls one last spritz of hairspray. A white man crashes his convertible into a fire hydrant, sneaking a look. He doesn’t care. Entranced, even as a geyser of water rains on him and his ride. Mademoiselle looks into the crosshairs blowing a kiss. Close on: Francois dismantling and packing his rifle into his briefcase. Exiting tower into the street and a yellow taxi cab.

A buzzing sensation in her pocket (besides the sting of a wallet having had its wings spread too far in a flight of fancy) tingled her thigh. Mademoiselle’s beeper relayed time and place:
“Shipment arrived at Löwchen Sawmill
15.596893, -71.812467”

———

At the coordinates specified, refurling the map proved impossible so it was rolled into a ball and discarded in frustration. Mademoiselle glanced and moved between identical stack of 2×4 wood to identical stack of 2×4 sawed wood to identical stack of 2×4 sawed wood until the monotony was broken up by one indistinguishable man in yellow hard hat pointing her back in the direction the other indistinguishable man in yellow hard hat had just directed her away from.

“Finally!”

Mademoiselle pulled on the wooden dress box hidden in the stack at the coordinates pulling it delicate as a Jenga block.

Inside:

1. A pair of wired headphones
2. Car keys
3. Fake ID with the name Carmelita Applebaum
4. A cassette tape labeled “Fiesta 341”

Taking out those first and last items, she placed the cushions over her ears then inserted the cassette into her tape recorder before hitting PLAY.

Magnetic tape (audio decaying, worn out from overuse) chirped to life engendered to neither sex. Breathless staccato annoyance emitted:

“Not to be anal-retentive regarding a ‘Mission Analogue’ but I hope it dawns on your swarthy little brow how utterly tedious this exercise in primitive has been. The less we interact with clay-pots the better. Repairs on your coup de grâce came down to the wire even requiring a couple of my Cicadas be displaced putting the finishing touches on the ride over. Speaking of wire, your funds remain both necessary and ruefully inaccessible without arousing undue attention from The Company. I would like to be imbursed, nevermind reimbursed. Look inside the trailer above license plate A119644.” 

Mademoiselle wasn’t sure either where one would put a PAUSE in this machine gunfire text-to-speech by KITUNDUKUTU (ironically “KITTEN”) nor whether they were man, woman, or machine—and thus anticipated their conversations with the eagerness of message 55 on voicemail from an aggrieved ex-stalker.

KITTEN Post-scripted:

“By the way, I took the liberty of suggesting a few minor modifications to your tailor. Properly utilize your proclivity for attracting male attention. A bit more cleavage-and-stiletto. ”

That negligible negligee of gloomy grey crêpe she had mistaken for the box’s lining unfurled into a barely there cocktail—

Dress him down gently, Mademoiselle thought, I saw it coming. The matter has already been redressed and rectified.

Bitters nevertheless oozed up the back of her throat as she flipped the cassette and hit RECORD:

“Purr however you want, my sweet KITTEN, but I will not play victim to your cretinous fashion sense!”

Refurling the dress proved, too, impossible (as little as there was to fold) so it was rolled into a ball and discarded in frustration.

Moving deeper into the sawmill, semi-trucks parked waiting to transport the day’s lumber, Mademoiselle clocked the A119644 license plate and lifted the roll-up door of the unlocked tractor trailer, finding her spirits lifted once again. 

Minor Pit Stop—well-maintained if impoverished, the bungalow welcomed Mademoiselle, gladly accepting her bags deposited on the floor near her ironing board moonlit as a sewing board. She called Rosemund at the number copied off his business card to ask about the modeling gig. Red strings on a corkboard connected by thumbtacked photos and black marker conjecture recreate the sinister web weaved by The Commission. A member of whom (RIP Father Ignacio Bálonez) she’d X’d out herself —both on the photograph pinned to the board and in Prague a year prior before he could rain “Heaven” down on an unsuspecting populace, leaving 9 members left to identify.

“As fortune would have it,” Rosemund answered, “my employers will all be gathered tomorrow evening at the Isla Cardosa Spa & Resort…”

Night twirled into daylight uninterrupted by sleep until Mademoiselle held up the bodice of a ball gown stitched together by hand; in its younger sister’s honor: tonight.

0 to 60 in 1.5 seconds time
Pedestrians need not fear crossing its path:
Her Pantera C-103 stops and turns on a dime.

Its name’s Pride 1, carving through hillside in a tight, narrow swath
Bright eyes greedily swallowing 2 night’s worth of shadow and haze
Pray for any prey that’s trapped in its gaze.

Minimalist architecture lorded itself over a mountain propped at its base reduced to its footstool. A fortress which abided by no law, natural or man-made, besides 1— “Form follows function”: the Modernist credo. Glass, steel, and reinforced concrete arranged in blocks, all straight lines spanning 260,000 square feet.

Mademoiselle drifted the steep curve of the country road lined with indigenous palm trees—of import to starry-eyed movie execs roaming failing Tinsel Towns and the city-planners they’d recently been exported to at 11-almost-12 times the initial cost—through the open gate. 

A screech: “Halt!” from tuxedoed Security is simultaneously regarded and disregarded, the supercar cutting off the silver Rolls Royce Seraph-of-dubious-skill-parallel-parking where Pride 1 slides in effortless. Mademoiselle touched up her make-up, curling her natural eyelashes in the rearview; no heed was given toward the Middle-Aged White Woman bang? Bang. BANGING! on the windshield.

Gull-wing doors flipped upward, button pushed, Pride 1 roared its engine appearing to take the same defensive pose as its owner who rose and kept rising over this bourgeoisie petite. Standing a solid 6’4 in 6-inch fringe mule heels.

“Is this a hill worth dying on?” Mademoiselle pressed, barely acknowledging the woman while painting her lips blood-red.

The woman’s answer trailed off becoming more and more hypothetical until it was an inside voice stepping back into her retreating vehicle. 

“We’ll park next to the riff raff, Harold! Sebastio will not hear the end of this! This is not how VIP ought to be treated.” could have been heard had Mademoiselle ever concerned herself with the herd.

“I’ll be goddamned!” The Valet whistled, catching car keys thrown without a glance.

Strutting down her own red carpet, the statuesque black woman in the blue 18th century ball gown fashioned from 20th century street fashion—denim-lined skirt frills in triplet concentric circles like poetry-in-motion and topped by a Cordobes hat favoring her right side draped in a veil—left a trail of pale faces gawking and speechless.

The Doorman was at a loss: What to say? He shook his head in disbelief at this black porcelain doll.

“Name, madam?” he settled on.

The harsh word shrieked in her mind like microphone feedback.

“ Note to self,” she thought, Carve ‘oiselle’ into this bird-brain’s chest.

“Carmelita” she started, showing her ID with a sigh so deep down in her diaphragm it threatened to cave her in, “Applebaum.”

Finger scrolled down guest list landed on

“Mrs. Applebaum, yes, beg pardon. Proceed inside toward the gallery. The auction will begin in a few hours.”

Inside the Isla Cardosa Spa & Resort, Mademoiselle felt woeful, out of place, bumping shoulders with this city’s elite. Creeping realization snatched confidence from her. I’m not like them! They’re not like me! tangoed in her mind. Existential dread cataloged all evidence repressed. She thought back to the cream faces in Good for the Goose admiring the rich blackness of her hair: showering her with ‘negrita’ ‘negrita’ ‘negrita’.

How could I be so blind!? These wealthy whites…

She embraced herself shaking with righteous indignation.

…had lost all decorum and good taste!  Old money cradling and curdled by Nouveau Riche sensibility! Lacking that substrata’s admittedly admirable ambition appearing themselves to have just rolled out of bed. Couldn’t be bothered to dress for any occasion! Unbothered to step foot out of pajama bottoms or even disrobe out of hotel robes or their casual clothes for this masquerade ball…  

I’m an island of 1, she swooned with glove on forehead, a refugee from the old world and its ways.

The Server in his white dinner jacket held out a tray on his left hand balancing a champagne offering to Mademoiselle.

Lazier, still! The help dressed the part more than their masters!

She drained three glasses without looking.

“If only we had our tête-à-tête at the restaurant,” an Unmistakable Voice mused to himself aloud, “I could have spared you this humiliation.”

Francois—ever the awkward accountant no matter how much he peacocked or peacoated, fought and scratched; her self-conscious Dandy Lion—stood by in his white checkered suit allowing the corner of his mouth to twitch from the deluge of mocking laughter it held at bay.

What was with those ridiculous sunglasses? was the foremost and apropos thing on Mademoiselle’s mind before decorum subsumed it with ‘more important, immediate’ thoughts:

“You’re too kind,” she replied.

“Funny how my virtue always repels you,” he feigned wounded, “Your cruelty only attracts me.”

“Like a gadfly to—”

“Shush, now. Crass talk diminishes us.”

“My sweet mockingbird… I’ve heard one too many of your songs.”

“What good are songs without dances? You already on your back foot.”

Instinct swam back to the surface; Fracois was never a wit: nit or otherwise. No resistance was made when her trembling hand hesitated reaching for the sunglasses on Francois’ face.

Horror! Abomination!

“Dinclinsin!” Mademoiselle spat out, the slur drooling on heavy lips, “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIS EYES!?”

Pale blue irises wilted on white mounds,
stems cut
awash in saltwater
surrounded by a splotchy white strip where
nurtured soil with its light fragrance of cocoa and shea butter
had been chemical blasted into white sand,
no longer blooming at the sight of her
or any stimulus at all.
In thrall to no horizon beyond that vacant
endless beach—CHARLOTTE!

“I’ve missed you,” Francois’ lips flapped.

The lightheadedness seizing her wasn’t mere tipsiness. A second gentleman pressed the tip of a blade against her spine between two of her lower vertebrae; threatening loss of the use of her legs as well as exsanguination.

“I’ve made special accommodations in anticipation of your arrival, Agent CHARLOTTE,” Rosemund taunted, flashing both incisors.

Rosemund thinks I’m CHARLOTTE!

Rabbit-Caution couldn’t escape her trap closed tight as a vise.

I have to warn him! Have to convince him—

“You’re guest-of-honor at this little Black Soirée.” Rosemund said, “Welcome.”come.”