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Authors: Amanda Eyre Ward
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a dangerous part of town. We had no sign on our door, and an amazing alarm system to protect all the iMacs the artists used.
The street we were on, Bryant, was a busy street in disrepair. It was foggy as hell, and I shuffled along, past all the Mexican restaurants and the body shops. I passed Karry's Collision Center and the Chair Place. A teenage girl with bags of groceries got off a bus, followed by two little boys wearing baseball caps. The girl yelled at her sons in Spanish, and they each took a bag from her. In the doorway of a liquor store, a man with a sunburn drank from a paper cup. The marquee above Jovita's Restaurante y Cantina read: POINTY BONE TUES.
At the corner of Second and Bryant was Margarita the Psychic. I guess I had been walking toward her all along. A sandwich board on the sidewalk featured a giant hand and a picture of Margarita (a buxom babe with flowers in her hair). The building was green, and heavy curtains covered the windows. I walked over the cracked pathway. My face was damp, and I could smell my BO rising from my armpits. I had begun to sweat a Windexy smell since drinking Dr. Zhong's tea.
I could hear Montel on the television from behind the door. I knocked, and a little girl's voice said something in Spanish. I had to learn Spanish! Just thinking of the lives I was missing, the rivers of conversation around me, all that I was excluded from due to my inability to sit down with some damn vocabulary book—well, it made me want to cry.
The door opened. In front of me stood an old woman, very old. I mean, she was leaning on a walker. “Eh?” she said.
“Is Margarita here?” I said. This lady looked nothing like the sign.
“Margarita inside, Margarita inside,” said the old lady. Despite the heat, she wore a blue electric blanket over her shoulders, the cord trailing, unplugged, behind her. Her hair was matted on one side, and she did not appear to have teeth.
“I think I'll come back another time,” I said. I nodded, trying to be encouraging, trying to ignore the sour fear that had shot from my feet to my scalp.
The woman grabbed my hand. Her fingers were dry and cold. I pulled away. There was a smell of something burning. “Inside, inside,” said the old lady, reaching for me again. I felt weak. I wanted to leave, but did not know what to say, what neurons to fire to move my limbs in such a way that would result in me sitting at home, in my husband's lap, hearing him say, “Hey.”
The lady got a grip on my arm. She pulled me in.
The front room was filled with shitty furniture and a million cats. The place smelled like urine. Good God. The woman shoved me into a Barcalounger. “Here, here,” she said, and she held her hands flat in front of her, as if to push me down if I tried to rise.
“I've got to get back to work,” I said.
“No, no,” she said. “No, no.” She seemed alarmed, and although my adrenaline rush had ebbed to a nice fatigue in my arms, a nugget of nausea remained. The woman disappeared into a back room, and I could hear her speaking rapidly. I looked around at the velvet paintings on the wall, the batch of Virgin Mary candles on the mantel. Montel had been switched off, but a cup of juice and a half-eaten bag of pork rinds remained on the floor.
The old woman shuffled back into the room. “Margarita, Margarita!” she said, her eyes shining with excitement, her face flushed. I could have used a margarita, alrighty. The lady lifted a bony arm and extended a finger toward the door.
It opened, and with a flourish, a middle-aged woman with a turban on her head walked in. “I am Margarita,” she said. “Welcome, my dear.” The turban was fashioned from a towel; I could see San Francisco Giants insignias on it. Margarita wore a green T-shirt and Jordache jeans.
“Uh,” I said.
Margarita sat on the floor in front of my Barcalounger, crossing her legs Indian style. Her feet were bare, and her toenails were painted a light pink. “How are you?”
The street we were on, Bryant, was a busy street in disrepair. It was foggy as hell, and I shuffled along, past all the Mexican restaurants and the body shops. I passed Karry's Collision Center and the Chair Place. A teenage girl with bags of groceries got off a bus, followed by two little boys wearing baseball caps. The girl yelled at her sons in Spanish, and they each took a bag from her. In the doorway of a liquor store, a man with a sunburn drank from a paper cup. The marquee above Jovita's Restaurante y Cantina read: POINTY BONE TUES.
At the corner of Second and Bryant was Margarita the Psychic. I guess I had been walking toward her all along. A sandwich board on the sidewalk featured a giant hand and a picture of Margarita (a buxom babe with flowers in her hair). The building was green, and heavy curtains covered the windows. I walked over the cracked pathway. My face was damp, and I could smell my BO rising from my armpits. I had begun to sweat a Windexy smell since drinking Dr. Zhong's tea.
I could hear Montel on the television from behind the door. I knocked, and a little girl's voice said something in Spanish. I had to learn Spanish! Just thinking of the lives I was missing, the rivers of conversation around me, all that I was excluded from due to my inability to sit down with some damn vocabulary book—well, it made me want to cry.
The door opened. In front of me stood an old woman, very old. I mean, she was leaning on a walker. “Eh?” she said.
“Is Margarita here?” I said. This lady looked nothing like the sign.
“Margarita inside, Margarita inside,” said the old lady. Despite the heat, she wore a blue electric blanket over her shoulders, the cord trailing, unplugged, behind her. Her hair was matted on one side, and she did not appear to have teeth.
“I think I'll come back another time,” I said. I nodded, trying to be encouraging, trying to ignore the sour fear that had shot from my feet to my scalp.
The woman grabbed my hand. Her fingers were dry and cold. I pulled away. There was a smell of something burning. “Inside, inside,” said the old lady, reaching for me again. I felt weak. I wanted to leave, but did not know what to say, what neurons to fire to move my limbs in such a way that would result in me sitting at home, in my husband's lap, hearing him say, “Hey.”
The lady got a grip on my arm. She pulled me in.
The front room was filled with shitty furniture and a million cats. The place smelled like urine. Good God. The woman shoved me into a Barcalounger. “Here, here,” she said, and she held her hands flat in front of her, as if to push me down if I tried to rise.
“I've got to get back to work,” I said.
“No, no,” she said. “No, no.” She seemed alarmed, and although my adrenaline rush had ebbed to a nice fatigue in my arms, a nugget of nausea remained. The woman disappeared into a back room, and I could hear her speaking rapidly. I looked around at the velvet paintings on the wall, the batch of Virgin Mary candles on the mantel. Montel had been switched off, but a cup of juice and a half-eaten bag of pork rinds remained on the floor.
The old woman shuffled back into the room. “Margarita, Margarita!” she said, her eyes shining with excitement, her face flushed. I could have used a margarita, alrighty. The lady lifted a bony arm and extended a finger toward the door.
It opened, and with a flourish, a middle-aged woman with a turban on her head walked in. “I am Margarita,” she said. “Welcome, my dear.” The turban was fashioned from a towel; I could see San Francisco Giants insignias on it. Margarita wore a green T-shirt and Jordache jeans.
“Uh,” I said.
Margarita sat on the floor in front of my Barcalounger, crossing her legs Indian style. Her feet were bare, and her toenails were painted a light pink. “How are you?”
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