Gutter Beads (Stories) by RC Ortiz

gutter beads

stories by

rc ortiz

gutter beads

stories by

rc ortiz

CONTENTS

SHAKE IT, MORENO

PAY ATTENTION, MY LOVE

THE CENTER OF THE WORLD

HOW INSENSITIVE

CHER AIN’T BLACK

shake it, moreno

“Hey, white boy. My girlfriend likes you.” I ain’t white, I feel like saying, but Miss Connie’s words come to mind: “Oh, yeah, baby, over here you are.” Girlfriend who likes me stands by the porch next door. She texts and giggles without looking my way, wearing a tight-fitting shirt and hip-hugging jeans that show off her extra curves. Once I saw her walk into the hipster café where I hang out. She filled out a job application, but I was certain the manager wouldn’t call her. She was the wrong kind of black: neither cool nor funky, ghetto without the right kind of attitude to make blackness hip. Instead, girlfriend who likes me found a job with no tip jar by her: checking out items at the local supermarket on Magazine Street. Miss Connie’s young granddaughter laughs at what she said, ready to show me a Spanish game they taught her at school.

I ain’t Spanish, I felt like saying, but then Christoph would’ve said: “Oh, yeah, baby, over here you are.”

cheki

morena

cheki

cheki morena

juĂŠ

“They play that where you grew up, right?” “Yeah,” I tell Miss Connie, without adding:

But it’s played by girls, not by boys like me. Does my friendly neighbor think that because I live with Christoph I used to play like a girl? The dancing game brings back memories of Edgar, a schoolmate I’d run into during a recent trip to Manhattan. He was the one who played with girls in the Catholic School patio, shaking his hips like the best of them. He was really into sensually moving his body when I saw him dance to a Cher remix at a Chelsea dance club. He’d buffed up a lot and seemed to try hard to look macho. But his face was as feminine as ever. That masculine body couldn’t erase my memories of an effeminate kid who playfully shook his hips like the girls. After pretending not to recognize each other, Edgar and I exchanged awkward greetings and small talk. Then we parted with false promises of keeping in touch and becoming Facebook friends.

As he walked away, Christoph noted: “Damn, he’s got some hips.”

otro

un pasito

alante

atrรกs

para

“That girl sure loves to pose. She wants to be famous someday.” “Maybe she will,” I say, thinking: Or she could end up like girlfriend who likes me. A brother, a cousin and two neighborhood kids circle the dancing girl. They’d been waiting for Christoph to get his brand-new camera ready. He’s somewhat tall and light and handsome, but he looks a little silly wearing a bandana and skinny hipster shorts. New Orleans has inspired him to become a photographer. The city is so full of camera-ready moments, like cute neighborhood kids playing on the sidewalk. Miss Connie’s granddaughter smiles with her eyes on him, extremely conscious of his camera. The little girl strikes poses while shaking her hips, stepping ahead and back, until the moment comes to go round and round with closed eyes to pick the next dancer in the middle of the circle.

Smile, I feel like telling the chosen boy. His glum face reminds me of the warning: “You’d better smile or no one will hook up with you.”

y dando la vuelta

dando la vuelta

¿Quién se quedará?

“He’s real sweet, but too serious. He kinda looks like you.” After a long day at the beach, I’m tempted to joke, but I say: “Yeah, I’ve noticed the resemblance.” It’s true. Despite the darker skin and frizzy hair, Miss Connie’s grandchild looks like me. The other day, when I left my house, I saw him playing alone on the sidewalk, looking more somber than usual while bouncing a big red ball. I noticed him staring at me and I thought he started to move his lips, like he was about to say hi or maybe ask me to play with him. But he just kept staring and bouncing his ball in silence, while I smiled, waved hello and rode away on my cruiser bike. The boy doesn’t seem very excited about the game, but he’s been doing all the right steps. He walks to the front and back, then turns round and round with his eyes closed. When he stops, the boy points towards me. Then the circle breaks and everyone laughs while Christoph takes pics of me, shaking my head:

“No, no, no… I’m not joining in your game.”

¡Jué!

“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a bore. I know you wanna play.” I don’t do no girly games, I feel like shouting. Instead, I say: “You also know we’ve got stuff to do.” Dancing game and picture session over, the kids switch to skipping rope and girlfriend who likes me says her good-byes, explaining she must go get ready for work. On our way to the car, Christoph tells Miss Connie that he’ll send her the best photos. It amuses me to see him so in love with this neighborhood. I remember what he said that first night, when he gave me a ride home: “This place looks dangerous. You didn’t tell me you lived in the ghetto.” This ain’t no fucking ghetto, I’d felt like snapping, but I calmly explained: “It’s a mixed neighborhood, slowly up-and-coming.” Before driving away, I lower my window to wave goodbye. And then Miss Connie’s granddaughter laughs and shouts:

“Don’t forget it, white boy. My girlfriend likes you.”

pay attention

love

As I rode home that night, I almost ran into a woman crossing Felicity Street. I’d been drinking more cocktails than usual, not too many, just enough to calm my nerves and the need to leave such a fucked-up place. I’d gotten tired of the northernmost city of the Caribbean, the Sodom and Gomorrah of the South. I’d had enough big easiness and forgotten care, hurricane melodramas and charming eccentricities. And I was also irritated by the expressions of New Orleans nostalgia I’d been reading on Facebook, written by absent friends who longed for the soul of the city and missed everything from the food and music to the potholes and cashiers who called them “baby.” There was very little traffic in the streets that night. The end of the jazz festival had marked the start of another long, hot and unbearably humid summer that scared away tourists and left behind the faithful locals— friendly, smiling, hospitable, but the same, moving slower than ever. I’d gone out to the Quarter thinking that a late-night bike ride would help rekindle my fickle love affair with the city. Riding on the nearly deserted streets made me feel that, for a while, New Orleans belonged to me.

no te asustes, papi

no te asustes

As I entered the dance floor, I remembered he’d said: “Don’t grow too fond of me.” Marcos was a construction worker with long hands and big lips who sometimes danced at the bars for extra cash. With his lean, hairless chest and soft brown skin, I used to think he embodied perfection. He often spoke fondly to me about his family back in Monterrey while cuddling. He saw me stand on the side of the dance floor, looking at him. I smiled, but Marcos was clearly out of it that night. He stumbled and clung on to his man for support. Rumor had it that, when he first migrated to New Orleans, Marcos used to walk during lunchtime to the back of the house he was rebuilding and unzip his pants to get blown by his contractor, by that same man rocking his body to the beats of the latest Britney remix. The man wrapped one arm around Marcos and extended the other one towards me. He pulled me close to them, making me join their sexy dance. As we danced to Beyoncé’s sweet dreams, I tried to get a sense of what Marcos found appealing about that man. It didn’t take long to start enjoying their dance. That scared me and made me leave the dance floor.

las

mes

mรกs

“You’re really handsome,” the man said as I unlocked my bike. “You’re very, very cute.” I knew he was lying. He was probably too drunk to know any better. Or maybe Marcos had told him about me. Either way, they’d followed me outside. The man was leaning against a balcony column. He was tall and fit, early middle-age, with pale skin slightly reddened by the summer heat. Marcos stood by him, showing no interest and looking ready to pass out. “Come over here, baby,” the man said, in a yearning tone that threatened to haunt me all night long. “Don’t be scared.” I smiled politely and said I had to go, then I hopped on my bike while he started to tumble towards me. I quickly wrapped the lock round the handle bar and set foot on the pedals. Despite the drunken buzz, I was able to keep a steady hold on my bike as I rode away from the Quarter. I put on my headphones, wishing to forget that man’s voice screaming:

“Hey! Come back to us, dude! I said I think you’re cute.”

Âżno sabes quĂŠ hacer?

As drops began to fall, I thought the New Orleans rain had marked me more than any jazz session or Carnival parade. Short or long, day or night, the sudden summer rain further slowed down the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sense of time, forcing you to pause and take it easier than usual. I rarely resisted the chance to ride my bike in the rain. I relished the challenge of trying to see, to keep my footing, to avoid any accidents and to remain as clean as possible. I enjoyed feeling the thick raindrops fall on my face, hands, chest and legs. The mix of rain and sweat made my clothes stick to my body, but the contact of skin and fabric pleased me. It was like getting a spiritual cleansing in the middle of the streets. My iPod shuffled to a haunting concerto from a French film soundtrack. The melody gradually played louder and louder, altering my pedaling rhythm. I began to playfully accelerate and glide while riding through the dimly-lit streets amidst the rain. But I was so engrossed by the music that I almost ran into a young woman when I reached Felicity Street.

Síg

e. uem

As I pulled off my headphones, I heard her say: “Pay attention, my love.” I’d forgotten the brakes didn’t work well. I pressed hard on the handles, but the tires didn’t come to a halt. The back tire started to slide and I had to put both feet down on the wet pavement. I maneuvered to stop about half a block away from the intersection of Coliseum and Felicity. I stood in the street stunned and shaken, breathing heavily with my hands still pressing the faulty brakes. The young woman seemed fine, soaking wet like me. She was very thin. Her face reminded me of an antique doll, though her left arm was filled with tattoos. She wore her hair in a side ponytail and there were fairy wings coming out of her light-colored vintage dress. She kept riding slowly towards St. Charles Avenue, with no apparent hurry to get there or anywhere. I smiled as I watched her pedal in such a laid-back manner while Mary J. sang loudly through my headphones: “No more drama, no more drama.” The rain had tapered off by the time I resumed my ride home. No longer anxious, no longer afraid, I took a good look at the houses and the road ahead and I thought: New Orleans can look really beautiful after the rain.

the center of the world

It all lies in the gaze, Howards Hawks told Lauren Bacall, and saying the least possible. I liked to think that I was as smart and determined as her, even though I lacked her physical attributes. I did have a lanky body with plain chest and big feet. But I lacked the angular features, the deep voice and the sensual demeanor. I also thought I had an insolent gaze like Bacall, even though my eyes failed to seduce. Instead, they seemed to scare. Unlike her, I never had my face glorified by the lights and shadows of a Hollywood studio. However, I liked to think that, at least as seen through the smoky atmosphere of the New Orleans cafĂŠ where I hung out most weekday afternoons, I also projected an attractive ambiguity.

Good or Bad? Angel or Demon? Lover or Stalker?

¿Qué

miras

maricón?

I’d arrive at the café around six, in time to find a table with good views of the inside and the outside. Then, from an uncomfortable wooden chair, I’d watch people wander up and down Magazine. I would stay there for at least one hour, more often two, sometimes three, maybe even more. It all depended on Chico de la Moto. I’d notice the same people arrive at the same time and order the same type of coffee and pastry. I’d see the law and med school students take over the tables with access to power outlets. I’d hear the gossipy talk of college students, elderly couples, Uptown ladies and local artists. And I’d be on the lookout for Chico de la Moto. The middle-aged man with the eerie smile read his latest self-help book. The freckled-faced girl who worked as street performer wrote an entry for her confessional blog. The pudgy guy with the Pekingese hopelessly flirted with the college girls who petted his cute puppy. They were regular customers sitting at similar tables in the same café. The only one missing was Chico de la Moto.

Veo, veoâ&#x20AC;Ś

...unas cositas...

It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t love at first sight. I was starting to read a new crime novel when I got distracted by the anxious movements of the shapely calf by the next table. My eyes fixated on the nervous motions of that leg, covered in light, almost imperceptible, blonde hairs. I slowly moved my eyes up and stopped right at the start of the thigh, which was hidden under lemon-colored shorts. I raised my head so I could see the face. He had ordinarily cute features. The skin was smooth and white. The hair was dark blonde, very short on the side and long in the back. And he held a copy of As I Lay Dying. I was strangely fascinated by that amusing mix of mullet and Faulkner. After that day, I began to sit next to empty tables, hoping he would sit close to me. Once I had him on my field of vision, I would let myself be seduced by his subtle movements: playing with the hairs on his legs, scratching his thighs, touching the scar on his elbow, massaging the sides of his body or running his hand through his soft hair. I was also seduced by the enticing disclosures of his body: the neck after a haircut, the shoulders when he wore tank tops, the feet when he had flip-flops, the straps of his underwear when he wore very short shirts and leaned over, or the hairs in his chest when his top was unbuttoned.

...con

tus

tre ci tas...

That Friday, Chico de la Moto arrived to the café around half past six. He placed his blue helmet and black messenger bag on the table next to mine. Then he went to order a large iced coffee and a cup of tap water. He would sip them slowly, lasting him for about an hour, maybe more. As he stood in line, I noticed he wore a white T-shirt with an image of earth, sea and sky made of horizontal stripes of red, blue and yellow. There was a phrase underneath, printed in faded black letters: ECUADOR: El centro del mundo When he sat next to me, I could’ve asked: “Have you been to Ecuador?” But I guessed he bought the shirt at a thrift shop. Or maybe it was a gift. I’d been paying close attention to what he wore. Most of his clothes looked worn out and were in a mix of faded bright and earthy colors that seldom matched. He wore T-shirts with the names of schools and places that probably had no relation to his actual life. I liked to think that, through them, Chico de la Moto built a new identity that only I noticed. I’m not Ecuadorian, nor do I look like one, yet the words on that Tshirt seemed directed at me. After weeks of checking him out, of being slowly seduced by his silent movements, the time had come for us to talk. But I was scared of being ridiculed at the café, spoiling all my pleasant memories there. I’d have to wait more, approach him elsewhere, later.

a í

¿ t ú

n u n h c a a s

d o

It was past midnight when I spotted Chico de la Moto again that night, drinking a cup of beer outside a Frenchman Street bar. I rode my bike past him and turned around the block. When I passed by him again, I was pleased to see him signal me with his head, asking me to follow him. Chico de la Moto finished his beer, walked slowly to his motorcycle and rode away. I pedaled as fast as I could to keep up with him. Thankfully, he lowered his speed to give me time to catch up. I rode fast behind him until he finally stopped by the riverfront. Chico de la Moto got off his bike, leaned against a concrete wall and smiled before closing his eyes. I dropped my bike by the streetcar rail and slowly approached him, eager and fearful to touch the body that I’d been imagining for so long. I took his hands and brushed them against my cheek. They were rough and smelly, like I’d anticipated. I tenderly caressed his chest and ran my finger through the faded letters on his shirt: E—l—c—e—n—t—r—o—d—e—l—m—u—n—d—o Then I stuck my finger through a small hole on the right side. I would’ve liked to tear off his T-shirt in one go, like in a clichéd porno scene, but that would’ve been ridiculous. Besides, I doubted I had the strength to do it. Instead, I caressed him up and down his chest, arms and stomach, but I stopped when I reached below the belt.

acompáñame, pues...

I realized then I’d never paid attention between Chico de la Moto’s legs. That was the first thing that most of my friends would’ve done. But even when I had him in front of me, seemingly drunk and willing, I still didn’t want to focus there. My modesty gave special worth to my desires. What I felt was different: more meaningful, more intense, more sublime. Chico de la Moto grabbed my right hand and pressed it against the fly of his skinny jeans. My hands trembled as I clumsily unbuckled his pants. He pushed my hands away, unfastened his pants quickly, and pushed them down to his knees. He grabbed my wrists and held my arms strongly behind my back before pushing my head down with his left hand. I tried to resist, but it was in vain. Chico de la Moto was grabbing me tight by the hair and he pushed me down forcefully, making me kneel. I stopped resisting while he rubbed my face against the white T-shirt. Going down, I could briefly see the hairs around his bellybutton. They started a line that got rougher and more profuse as I reached his crotch. I had no choice. I simply had to close my eyes and open my mouth. And it was that way, kneeling on sandy terrain, near the Mississippi River, across Spanish Plaza, in front of the streetcar rails that rode through the piers, after months fantasizing about him during my visits to the café, that I felt for the first time what my eyes had failed to see.

how in sen si tive

“Your mother and brother are very sensitive,” she told me. “They’re like your grandfather. But you’re strong, like me. We must care for them, push them. Otherwise, they’re useless.” I remember her standing by the coffin, surrounded by her children, who more than made up for her lack of tears. My brother cried, too, and even my most macho cousins and great-uncles got teary-eyed. It was all very sad, of course, but I didn’t cry. I stood still and watched, like her. She’ll never be remembered for her warm voice while sharing words of wisdom or passing down family recipes. She was blunt and impatient, too good at cutting remarks. Her stuck-up manners and arrogant postures, copied from Spanish women’s magazines, made neighbors and relatives look up to her, even though she was only a middle-aged country woman with very little schooling. As I surveyed the room, we briefly exchanged glances. We couldn’t stand each other, even though my mother said she loved me. I figured she had to. She was my grandmother. However, I was sure she didn’t like me and that she would have preferred it if my older brother was the strong one.

chiquillo,

vamos

despacio

“What are you thinking?” you asked, as I slid my fingers by your crotch. “What does it seem like?” I teased. I was thinking about the day my grandfather died. I was standing by my bedroom door when I saw my mother walk alone up the hallway, one hand over her stomach and the other over her mouth. She gave me the news between sobs and walked past by me to my grandmother’s room. As my aunt let my mother in, I caught a glimpse of my grandmother in bed, sitting half-dressed in black, with her bra exposed. She looked straight into my eyes, smiled faintly and asked how I was doing. But I’m not sure. The voice I remember sounds way too soft to have been hers. My brother wiped the tears off his face when he saw me walk into the family room. I smiled in sympathy, but my aunt thought I was teasing him and told me to leave. When I turned around, he started to cry again. I remember it as always being that way. I was the faggot, the maricón, the one who watched telenovelas, read women’s magazines, liked beauty pageants and played with dolls. But my brother, the self-appointed man of the house after our parents’ divorce, the one who knew all about cars and sports, was the one who always cried like a girl. But I didn’t. Throughout the funeral, I didn’t shed a single tear.

tra la rรก

“Why? Did they teach you that boys don’t cry?” “No,” I said uncertainly. “I just didn’t feel like it.” Twenty years later, I still don’t feel like crying. And there’s no one from my family around to cry for me. People smile out of common courtesy, but they have no clue about who I am. This is the first time I’ve seen most of them and I’ve been guessing which are family by likeness. I’d been taught the most important thing to know about anyone you fall in love with is their family, because you end up marrying them too. But we rarely talked about our families. And we would never marry. I’d like to think that, in another situation, we would’ve all gotten along very well. Though I doubt that would’ve impressed you much. I’ll always remember you looking so handsome in your stylish tuxedo, sitting next to the happy bride, surrounded by your relatives, who have been shedding tears of joy. Your mothers have cried. Your sister has gotten all emotional and even the macho-looking fathers are teary-eyed, too. It’s all very moving, of course, but I don’t cry. I just stand still and watch, like my grandmother.

e casar

acaba d e s que

“What are you thinking?” I asked and kissed your chin. “I was curious,” you said. “What made you think of your grandfather’s death?” It was only a few days ago that I’d been resting my head on your chest, listening to your agitated heartbeat while I ran my fingers through the hairs on your belly. I thought you were so handsome, the most attractive man I’d ever been with. My friends, however, were not as impressed. They said you looked like a common frat boy: straight-acting and wellbuilt, but with a receding hairline and incipient beer belly. At first, you were a huge disappointment in bed. You wouldn’t move much or make a sound. I felt that you were somehow trapped in your beautiful body and I’d always have to shake you up to get things going. But you were so easy to please. You needed very little. And you slowly loosened up. You got more comfortable with moving and sharing your naked body. Or maybe I just got used to your quiet ways. In either case, our bodies connected and I enjoyed your serenity. “Well,” I told you. “It occurred to me that I’ve never seen you cry. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen any of my lovers cry. I’ve seen them dance, drink, swear, strip, fuck. I’ve even seen some of them pee or shit or vomit, but I’ve never seen any of them cry.”

tra larรก

“Don’t worry,” you said. “Someday you’ll see me cry.” But I still haven’t seen tears on your face. I’ve often thought that you cry on the inside, though that seems like melodramatic wishful thinking. As I survey the reception room, I briefly exchange glances with someone who should downright hate me. I know her mostly from the framed picture you kept in your bedroom. You would turn the frame around or hide it in a drawer, but I was always aware of her presence. She looked so common in that photo, posing on your futon bed with a cheesy come-hither expression. She struck me as having the right looks to vent her dirty laundry on a Hispanic talk show: the tacky clothes, the dumbass gaze, the slightly indigenous features. Even now, dressed in a gown, I don’t see anything in her to brag about. She has been crying for what feels like a long time. Watching her choked up with happiness, I wish I could go over and slap her hard, or at least give her a good shake-up. I don’t really want to hurt her, though I admit I’ve fantasized about choking her, only a little bit, to release some stress. What I’d really like to do now is to stop her crying. I’d love to go over and scream right in her face: “Damn it, bitch! Stop it! Don’t you know tears don’t change anything?” However, I remain as calm as possible. She’s very sensitive, I tell myself, just like my grandfather, like my mother, like my brother, like my lover.

CHER AIN’T BLACK

“Just leave them alone,” bitched Scotty. “They’ll look gross and I’ll have nightmares for days.” “Then turn the other way,” Frankie snapped. “I’m only having fun. Straight women who hang out at gay bars should wanna have fun, too. It’s not like they’ll be getting laid, right?” I was afraid Scotty wouldn’t be getting laid that night either. It was only their fourth night together, but Frankie was already getting tired of him. After lots of fun online, they were quickly drifting apart in person. Scotty knew his bitching made things worse, but that was becoming part of his personality. As he aged, Scotty was slowly turning into a bitter old queen. He was still my good friend, so I agreed to come help smooth things over with Frankie. So far, all I’d done was witness their relationship drama. Their latest argument started when Frankie noticed a skinny middle-aged blonde and her heavy-set young friend giggling while they checked out the male dancers in the bar. He had called the trashy-looking women from the balcony and offered to throw beads if they flashed their breasts. “If those bitches can stand there pointing and laughing at our dicks and asses,” Frankie reasoned, “then I think it’s only fair that we have fun checking out their ugly breasts.”

“You’d better lighten up, Scotty,” I advised. “Let’s just count along: One! Two...!” At the count of “three,” the blonde lifted her New Orleans Saints T-shirt and showed off her tiny flat breasts. She moved them from side to side, laughing shamelessly. Her overweight girlfriend kept her big breasts covered and turned her back on us. She held her purple T-shirt down tight, as if she feared someone would grab her by force and pull the shirt up. “I’m not throwing anything until I see both of you,” yelled Frankie. “Look! Don’t you want these? They light up, see?” Scotty rolled his eyes and said: “Can you believe he actually spent money on those? I’ve got so many beads at home. Plus it’s not even Mardi Gras!” Frankie didn’t care. He turned on the switch of a spinning blue light bulb hanging from a metallic gold bead necklace and then he dangled it from the balcony to entice the fat girl. “Damn it, just turn around and show them boobs!” her friend said. “What’s the matter? Don’t be acting prude. Why you care anyway? They’re just homos!”

“Maybe you could could find a pack of beads to knock them out,” I suggested. “But hey, look who it is down there: Cher!” I didn’t recognize Jared right away. We’d met a few months ago at the bar and hung out for a while. Then there was a period of distancing and defriending after he realized I wasn’t attracted to men who did drag. Despite the confidence he displayed walking down the street wearing an orange-colored halter dress, I knew I hurt him a lot that day. He was very good-looking out of drag. And that was the only side of him I desired. The fat girl turned around as Jared walked by her, still holding on tight to the bottom of her shirt. She looked him up and down, in awe of him. With the smoky eyes, dramatic makeup and straight long black hair falling down to the middle of his back, Jared really did look a lot like Cher. “What y’all looking at?” screamed the blonde. “Cher ain’t black, bitch!” Everyone but the fat girl seemed to start laughing. Unfazed, Jared kept walking until he reached the corner. He reminded me of a top model that fiercely keeps moving after stumbling on the runway. Suddenly, the laughter stopped. And there was a collective gasp before people started to laugh again, in astonishment.

“Oh, Lord,” said Scotty. “That was so disgusting.” The fat girl had closed her eyes, lifted her shirt and exposed her huge breasts, which seemed to fall down to her thick waistline. When the laughs began, she covered them quickly and opened her eyes. “Okay, boys,” said her friend. “Now throw them beads! We earned ‘em!” The fat girl extended her plump arms and pudgy fingers to catch the lighted beads on mid-air. They hit her face first, but she caught the beads before they fell on the ground and proudly put them around her neck. “You should’ve bought more,” Scotty said. “That black Cher deserves something, too, after that white bitch read her.” Frankie pulled a few dollars from his pocket and threw them down one by one, but Jared dismissively brushed them off when they hit his hair. The fat girl walked over to the curb, picked up the bills and handed them to Jared. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her with gratitude. Then he looked up to the balcony and sarcastically mouthed a thank you to Frankie and Scotty before blowing me a kiss. “Well, she should be grateful,” Scotty said. “Dollars are dollars, even in the gutter.” Then he poked my arm and teased:

“And you’d better watch out, girl. That black Cher likes you.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

RC Ortiz was born in Puerto Rico and lives in New Orleans, where he attended Tulane University. His fiction has appeared in T(OUR), Educe, Label Me Latina/o and Chelsea Station, among others. He is finishing a study of Latino images and camp stardom (Intellect Books) and a collection of essays about the female stars of classic Mexican cinema. Gutter Beads is his first chapbook. www.rcortiz.com