Loisaida 01
Most of the time Manuel was foulmouthed and crass, but unlike the rest of the family, he was compulsively honest.
Credit: @retronyc
Author’s note: Loisaida is the Spanglish name used for Manhattan’s Lower East Side, especially Alphabet City around Avenues A, B, C, and D. In the 1990s it was still largely Puerto Rican and Nuyorican, working-class and low-income. Residents dealt with open-air drug markets, gang activity, and street violence, but there was also a strong culture of activism, grassroots organizing, and an influential art and music scene. I lived on Avenue C and 10th Street from 1993 to 1996. There was a saying at the time: Avenue A, you’re all right. Avenue B, you’re brave. Avenue C, you’re crazy. Avenue D, you’re dead. If you’re curious, watch the video below for a “tour” of the hood.
1. Gridlocked
Fernanda had never met anyone so good-looking before. Where she came from people who looked like that didn’t exist, they were not part of the local gene pool. She gawked at the girl, unable to tear her eyes away. What was this flawless creature doing on Manuel’s ratty couch? Manuel badly feigned indifference. He couldn’t help showing off. The girl was spectacular, even by New York City standards. But Manuel was still Manuel, of course. Fernanda watched him lift his pale, hairy hand and place it firmly on the girl’s bare summer thigh. No immediate objection came. Manuel’s hand just rested there. Fernanda told herself it wasn’t her business, lowered her gaze to the girl’s bare feet. Symmetrical toes, a row of tan spectators. The girl was leaning forward, asking her something.
What’s your name?
Manuel’s hand slipped off the girl’s thigh, scratched lazily at his chest. His shirt was unbuttoned, as usual, down to his waist. Was he high? Fernanda wondered. This early?
Fernanda, she said.
Manuel snickered. She’s great! he boomed.
Fernanda wasn’t sure which one of them he was referring to. She didn’t catch the girl’s name when she offered it, an outlandish string of consonants and vowels. Manuel immediately dissed it as fucking LA. Fernanda wondered why this girl was here, with Manuel, on a Saturday. Manuel’s porn collection lay strewn about the floor. Fernanda thought of what had probably taken place on the couch a few hours ago. The girl followed Fernanda’s eyes, and then seemingly her drift, because she shifted away from Manuel.
Do you live here too? She looked from Fernanda to Manuel. Are you guys related?
Fernanda shook her head. Manuel grinned in his malicious way.
Manuel’s been showing me some apartments, the girl said, and Fernanda pictured the kind of rentals Manuel must have shown her. Cockroach-infested studios in rundown buildings. The girl kept talking, oblivious.
Then he invited me to come over for a break. We’ve been walking around all morning, I’ve never seen so many apartments, he’s already shown me like, five places? Her voice made a leap of incredulity on five.
She’s so fucking picky, Manuel said.
You keep saying that. She flipped back a lock of chestnut hair. He keeps saying I’m too picky.
Super picky, Manuel said again with a sniff.
The girl shrugged. Manuel absently kicked a roll of toilet paper across the rug. His glass eye impaled something remote, his wife maybe. Manuel had thrown her out, or so he said. The family unfailingly described Manuel’s wife as hysterical, but this rare unanimity of opinion made Fernanda suspicious. She glanced at Manuel’s other eye, blood-shot and blinking, and thought that, hysterical or not, maybe the wife had packed up and left.
The answering machine rattled to life with a shrill beep.
Phone call, Manuel muttered and limped off to the bedroom. The door slammed shut. Salsa beats hammered overhead, different beats from multiple apartments.
Does he have an ashtray? The girl nodded at her cigarette, the ash jutting from her index and middle fingers in a crooked arc.
He’s got several in the kitchen, said Fernanda, and the girl stood up, less tall than imagined, her own height, and followed Fernanda down the hallway, past grease-stained pizza boxes and piles of things. Gadgets, a garbage bag stuffed with laundry.
He’s messy, Fernanda said.
The girl’s eyebrows flew up as if to say, you’re telling me? She hung back and flicked the ash into what was closest to her, an empty shoe box.
Yeah, the places we saw, she whispered, they were pretty awful? He says he’ll find something for me, but I’m not sure. Does he know what he’s doing?
Fernanda considered telling her not to rent from Manuel, but she knew he needed the money. A howl rose from the bedroom.
PUTA DE MIERDA ! YOU BITCH! YOU FUCKING WHORE!
They listened in silence. Fernanda thought: he must not want to sleep with this girl since he’s not on his best behavior. The girl lit another cigarette.
He sure likes the word bitch a lot, she said, he says it all the time. Bitch this, Bitch that. Is he always like this?
Most of the time, Fernanda conceded, and it was true. Most of the time Manuel was foulmouthed and crass, but unlike the rest of the family, he was compulsively honest. He said what he meant, consequences be damned. His honesty could sting, but it was her refuge too. An antidote to the larger family’s deceptions. Even her boyfriend couldn’t be relied on to tell her the truth.
Excerpt from short story LOISAIDA.
Video: A Tour of 8th Street and Avenue C