David Soto Writes

I think I figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

Tag: Amwriting (page 1 of 3)

My Kwajalein Story

“Kwajalein?” my father said. “I’ve been there.” This was the birth of the Kwajalein story.

Sometime before Reagan took office, my father got tasked to go on a trip to a military installation on a remote island in the Pacific Ocean. He wasn’t in the military himself. He was a computer technician for the now long gone computer company, Data General. The U.S. government used a Data General computer for radar displays and they seemed to have a problem with the system that no one on the island could fix.

“Who wants to go to Kwajalein?” my dad’s boss must have asked. I don’t know if he was the first to raise his hand or the only one, but I think the reason he did was that my dad had never been anywhere. Unlike myself and his father, my dad didn’t serve in the military and, at this point in his life, I think he had only traveled out of the country with his grandmother to Mexico City as a child. On this day, he jumped at the opportunity to go to some far away place he had never heard of.

He made his way to Kwajalein via Hawaii. The man who picked him up asked him if he wanted a tour of the island before getting to work. “Sure,” my dad said. Twenty minutes later, they were back where they started. It was a small island. This is one of the highlights of the story when my dad tells it.

The computer was an easy fix, and my father caught a flight back to Hawaii the very next day. While in Hawaii, my dad called his boss notifying him of the status. The boss, impressed that my father was able to fix the computer without any problems, offered to cover expenses for a couple of days in Hawaii as a reward.

The next phone call my Dad made was to Mona, my mother.

“The boss is offering to let me stay for a couple of days on the company,” he said to Mona with enthusiasm. I am making an assumption here about his enthusiasm but think about it. This young man, practically still a boy, started with the company in the warehouse fresh out of high school and worked his way up to the position of a computer technician. And now, after being sent to a remote government installation and saving the day, was being rewarded with a couple of nights stay in Hawaii. I would have said it with enthusiasm.

“Get your ass home,” was Mona’s response. He was on the next plane back to LA. This is the other highlight of the story when he tells it, though he leaves it out now when I’m around. I had long ago requested that the slandering of my mother not be a part of our family gatherings.

The first time I ever heard my father tell the Kwajalein story was when I got back from Iraq in the fall of 2005. We stood in the driveway of his Missouri home and chatted. So what now, he asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “I heard they need HVAC guys some place called Kwajalein.” That’s when my dad said, “Kwajalein? I’ve been there.”

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this damn story now. It’s to the point that I interrupt him and say something like, Yes, we’ve heard this story a thousand times. He’d get defensive and say, “(So and so) hasn’t heard it?” So and so was usually someone my brothers or I were currently dating at the time. To which So and so would look at my father and then, as gently as possible, nod her head and say, yes I have.

“The hell with you then,” he’d say to no one in particular but probably to me.

“No,” my younger half-brother would say. “Go ahead and tell it.” And of course, he told it. “You forgot the best part,” my little brother said, putting a fist to his ear as if he was holding a phone. “The part about Mona telling you to ‘get your ass home.’”

I don’t remember my dad ever relaying any stories about his past before that first telling of the Kwajalein story in his driveway. I feel like that story opened him up to tell others. Of course, he had to be well lubricated in order to tell them. The storytelling usually takes place during family events when his adult children are home. We all sit around the kitchen counter getting shit-faced and before too long the stories come.

I’m tired of hearing those other stories too but I’m not ungrateful for them. There’s the Mexico City story, where his grandmother bribed soldiers at checkpoints. The time he and his friend got their bikes stolen and my grandfather took them out looking for said bicycles. They found them too. “Get on your bikes and get the hell out of here,” My grandfather told my dad and his friend. The thieves chased them all the way home but turned around when they got stared down by my Nina, my dad’s older brother’s wife. She stood on the porch with her fist on her hips as if to say, Do we have a problem here?

I guess the best part of the Kwajalein story is the connection to my grandfather who died when I was very young.

I get conflicting stories about how he was injured during the war. I heard it was from a German grenade and later, I heard it was German artillery. Either way, tucked away somewhere in my Tio’s Mesa, Arizona home is the Purple Heart they awarded him for his injuries in the Pacific. After his initial aid, my grandfather was evacuated to Kwajalein where they wired his jaw together and kept him until he was stable enough to make the journey to Hawaii where he stayed for the duration of his recovery.

I’m not exactly sure how it went down so many decades ago, but I have to imagine my grandfather must have asked his son what he had been up to. “I just got back from Kwajalein,” my father must have said as he looked into his dad’s eyes just as I had been looking at him on the fall day in Missouri, clueless as to what our fathers’ lives were like as young men.

“Kwajalein?” my grandfather said. “I’ve been there.”

Cody

Her name was Cody. Can you believe that? A girl named Cody. She was cute, terribly cute with these big brown eyes and messy bunned curly light brown hair. She didn’t have the curves I like, but the way she looked at me made me melt. All I knew about her is her name and that she liked to drink. Last time I was at this place was the first time we met. She was completely shit-faced.

This joint had community tables. All I wanted to do on this night was sit down to enjoy my arepas. I butted in on a group of people that left one end of the table open. I asked to sit. “Sure,” they said with drunken glee. Cody wasn’t there, she was at another table. I didn’t get in more than a hello when I was introduced to her. When the time came, I said my goodbyes and gave a little wave to Cody who was eating tostones with a curiosity that said she was so drunk she had no idea what she ordered. She gave me a dismissive wave with her fork.

“Sorry we couldn’t chat,” I said.

“Yeah, well. I would have liked to talk for a bit.”

She looked offended. Normally I wouldn’t care, but those big brown eyes reached out and pulled me close to her. I sat down. “What are you eating?”

“Fried plantains or something. I don’t know. It’s good though. You want to try it?” She picked at her food with her fork trying to get a little bit of everything in this one bite she was about to offer me.

“No, thank you.”

“It’s good. Trust me.”

“Yes, I’m sure, but I just ate. I’m full.”

She didn’t believe me. “Fine!” she said. I had the feeling she thought I didn’t want to use the same fork as her. The truth is I would have used it if I wasn’t full. I wasn’t afraid of her cooties. I would have kissed her if she had given me the slightest clue that she wanted me to kiss her. When was the last time I kissed a girl? Jesus.

There was not much of a conversation. Maybe if I was also shit-faced things may have gone differently. But I wasn’t, and they didn’t.

The next time I saw her we talked a little more. I went to the same place every Friday because of the food trucks but mainly to see if I’d run into her again. It was two Fridays later when we I saw her. I think she saw me too but pretended not too. When she walked by, I touched her on her shoulder and gave a little wave. She turned and smiled not at all surprised to see me. She continued to the bathroom or wherever she was going. When she got back, she asked me to sit next to her.

“Sorry about last time. I was pretty drunk.”

“I don’t think you did anything you have to apologize for?”

“Apology accepted is the proper response, or you could not accept it, I guess.”

The funny thing about her apologizing for being drunk last time was that she was just as drunk this time as well. We tried to converse, but it was useless again. I did, however, noticed the way she was looking at me. A woman hadn’t looked at me like that in a long time. They used to—a lot—but once I hit my forties, it just hasn’t happened. I say this not to brag but to let you know that I know what that look is. It’s the look someone gives you when they are in love with you.

Several Fridays passed by and finally, there she was again. She helped herself to my sweet potato fries.

“These taste like funnel cake.”

“By all means, help yourself,” I said with sarcasm.

“You put them in front of me. That implies sharing.”

“It does?”

“Yes, it does. But don’t worry I won’t eat anymore.”

“Oh my god. I was totally kidding. Eat as many as you want.”

She was not drunk on this night we chatted for a bit, and then I asked her “Do you always look at people like that?”

“Like what?” she asked back.

“Like you are in love with them.”

“Is that how I am looking at you?”

“Yes.”

“Then, no. I don’t.”

“So why are you looking at me like this?”

“I guess I love you?”

“You love me? We barely know each other?”

“Well if that’s how I’m looking at you, then that must be it, no? You appear to be the one who’s an expert at how one looks at people when they are in love.”

“Maybe I’m wrong.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m twice your age. How old are you?”

“I’m 28.”

“Ok. Not twice but still.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. This is kind of a shock to me. Have you ever been in love?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“Well, I haven’t. This is the first time, and I am not blowing it off like it’s nothing.”

“What if I’m an asshole?”

“Then I fell in love with an asshole.”

“Well, I am an asshole. So…”

“Do you believe me?” I could see the tears start well up in her eyes. It was the first time she had ever been in love, and she was scared. She had managed to keep men at distant for some time. What happened? I can guess. I suppose the real question is at what age did her father abandon her.

“I do.”

“How could you?” she asked.

“I can tell. It’s one of these things I have.”

“Things?”

“Yeah. Like gifts. Some people are gifted with music, or numbers, or athleticism, or even entrepreneurship. My gift is love. I can give it and receive it on demand.”

“Do you love me?” she asked me.

“I can if you want. I mean, I would love to love you. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“It’s never worked out for anyone. There were a lot of tender and beautiful moments. Ones I’ll cherish for the rest of my life but with them comes sorrow. Something I’d like to avoid.”

“Yeah, let’s avoid that. What do you mean if I want?”

“I mean. Just say the word, and I’ll love you back.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that!”

“I don’t know how I feel about this. I kind of want you to love me back on your own. You know? Isn’t that how it usually works.?”

“Not with me. Though, I suppose I could have just loved you back without telling you. Then you would have had the illusion that I just fell in love with you.”

“Why couldn’t I have just fallen for someone normal?”

“I doubt anything you do is normal.”

“You’re right. That’s why I would love some normalcy. But no. Why start now?” she said as she took a drink of her local super-hoppy ale. “Do you love me or not? I am not going to tell you if I want you to. That’s just strange, I …” She paused when she saw the look in my eyes. I was looking at her like she had been looking at me—like I was in love.

Now, that I think about it, I didn’t just decide to start loving her at that very moment. I already loved her. I just chose to let it show. Or rather, not to act on it. She’s so young and cute. I didn’t want to scar her for life. I am Facebook friends with a lot of married women who still love me. I have the other end of the spectrum too. Some women have blocked me completely—not wanting to have anything to do with me. I prefer the ones who still love me.

So what is the problem with a man who can love so freely? How easy it is for him to take it away. What happens when you love a woman like she has never been loved before and then suddenly take it away? Well, one of two things. She’ll either tell you how much she is still in love with you only days before her wedding day or she will hate your guts and never want to have anything to do with you ever again.

The truth is, I love them all. All women! I just don’t let them all know it. I can’t explain it. I do know that it’s easier to show love to the cute ones. I’m shallow, sue me. I used to think I needed to find a reason why—like they were good with kids or had blue hair. It turns out that way all bullshit. I love every woman I come across. I let my guard down after few drinks. That’s why even the occasional flings never ended up flings. What was supposed to be a no strings hook up after a night of drinking always seemed to turn into a romance that shouldn’t have really happened.

Lover Number 4 (Chapter 4)

Esperanza was not the only one living with Doña Eva. María Elena, the head housemaid, and her oldest daughter, Ana, also resided in the house. The rest of María Elena’s family lived in Guadalajara. Every few months, Mariá Elena traveled home by bus for an extended weekend with her family. Ana had a special bond with her mother, especially when it came to cooking. The months-long separations from her mother were particularly hard on the young girl. When María Elena told Doña Eva that she might not return from her next trip to Guadalajara, Doña Eva insisted that she bring her daughter back with her to Guanajuato.

In awe of Esperanza’s beauty, the twelve-year-old Ana looked up to her and started splitting her time between the kitchen, with her mother, and the bakery, with Esperanza. The two bonded and became like sisters. They would laugh, play games and go for walks in the city, shopping along the way or trying pastries from other panaderías. When Ana started her first period, it was Esperanza she broke the news to first, not her mother. Although honored that Ana had confided in her, Esperanza sternly told Ana, “That is something you need to tell your mother first, not me.”

***

Ana wanted so badly to emulate Esperanza that she started to mimic her voice inflections, mannerisms, as well as her kindness. Nobody thought anything of it until Ana began to imitate Esperanza in ways she could not control.  As if by magic, Ana’s body started to blossom into that of a mature woman— that of Esperanza.

Ana’s twelve-year-old girl clothes began to swell with breasts and hips. It got so bad that both María Elena and Esperanza spent a good deal of money and time taking Ana shopping though it was no use. The girl seemed to outgrow her clothes every week. Ana’s new curves brought her a lot of unwanted attention from older men. One of these men was Esperanza’s fourth lover, Miguel Sandoval.

Miguel Sandoval was a bachelor who made a decent living delivering water. Between drinking and baking, Doña Eva’s house went through so much water that she had to have it delivered every day. Doña Eva’s house was on his route. Every day—except Sunday—Miguel Sandoval counted the empty blue five-gallon water bottles, hauled them up to his truck, and carried full ones back down, two at a time, to replace the empties. He alternated trips from the truck between the bakery and the kitchen until he replaced every empty bottle with a full one. When he finished, Doña Eva paid him for each bottle, plus a generous tip.

His tips were why Miguel Sandoval made such a good living. He was polite, courteous, and charming. He never left a house without a generous tip. The only person who saw through his deceit was Esperanza. No matter how polite he was to her, she could see his real intentions. Just by the feel of his lustful gaze, she could tell that he was in the bakery without ever seeing him. Luckily for Miguel Sandoval, Esperanza was not in charge of paying for the water.

Every time Miguel Sandoval delivered water to Doña Eva’s, he would hope to catch Esperanza still in the bakery, mixing something or maybe washing dishes, so he could get a glimpse of her breasts gyrating underneath her sheer white cotton top. Then one day, Esperanza noticed that all the empty water bottles had been replaced. Miguel Sandoval had come and gone.

This was about the time Ana had started to blossom. Miguel Sandoval had occasionally seen Ana during his deliveries. He had thought nothing more of her than that she was the head maid’s little girl—until the day he carried in two full bottles, one on each shoulder, into the kitchen and saw a large pair of breasts swaying with the rhythm a woman used to knead masa with her bare hands. When Miguel Sandoval finally looked up from the woman’s jiggling breasts, he realized that the woman was not a woman at all but the twelve-year-old Ana.

Now, during every water delivery, it was Ana he was hoping to catch in the kitchen, instead of Esperanza in the bakery. It didn’t matter to him how young she was. Her purity turned him on even more. The young college girls that he seduced on a nightly basis at the bar no longer satiated him. He knew he needed something different but wasn’t sure what it was—until the day he started to notice Ana.

***

María Elena’s scream seemed louder than it actually was, being as it came during siesta. Immediately, both Doña Eva and Esperanza tracked the cry down to Ana’s room. On the bed was Ana, curled up in the fetal position sobbing. Standing next to her, holding a pair of Ana’s panties soiled with a pink liquid, a distinct mixture of blood and semen, was María Elena. She also sobbed.

María Elena thought her daughter had given up her virtue at such a young age. This was not how it was supposed to happen. María Elena had visions of a big wedding and a white dress. She had hope that her beautiful daughter would be a good Catholic girl and save herself for her wedding night. Not that María Elena did, she herself was pressured into giving up her virtue at a young age to someone who said he loved her but didn’t. She wanted something different for her daughter—something better—but it seemed that Ana had followed in her mother’s footsteps.

Esperanza knew better. It all seemed too familiar. Seeing Ana lying in bed—that distant look in her eyes. “She’s been raped,” Esperanza announced. The other two women gasped simultaneously, both doing the sign of the cross.

“Is this true?” María Elena asked her daughter. Ana did not respond.

“It’s true,” Esperanza answered for her. Lowering her voice, she continued, “Burn those clothes, so that she never has to see them again. She’ll need time heal. I’ll handle this. I’ll find out who did it and I’ll get revenge. Doña Eva, my time here has come to an end. Do you know someone in another city I can apprentice under? I’ll have to leave as soon as…” She hesitated for a second. “It happens.”

Both María Elena and Doña Eva were shocked at how Esperanza sounded more like a general than a baker’s apprentice. They followed through with everything she requested.

Esperanza knew it was Miguel Sandoval, but would need confirmation before she committed the deed. It would have to come from Ana herself. Esperanza knew the child would tell her when the time was right. In the meantime, María Elena burned the soiled clothes Ana wore that day, and Doña Eva sent off a letter to Doña Luz in Barra de Navidad.

It took several weeks before Ana started to resemble her old self. Miguel Sandoval had given up his profitable water delivery route, trading it with someone else in the company and claiming that he needed a change of scenery. When Esperanza felt she would get an answer, she asked Ana what had happened.

She learned that Ana had been walking home from school and was about to start up a steep hill—the kind of hill Guanajuato was famous for—when Miguel Sandoval pulled up next to her and offered her a ride. Innocent of any intentions he may have had, Ana gladly accepted. Halfway up the hill, Miguel Sandoval pulled into a small parking lot of an apartment building, claiming he needed to make a quick water delivery first.

Sitting in his truck, he couldn’t help but notice how her breasts filled her white school-uniform blouse so much that the buttons looked as if they were going to pop off. And how sitting down caused her navy blue skirt to expose a good portion of her thighs. Right there, in the apartment building parking lot, in the cab of his water delivery truck, Miguel Sandoval stole Ana’s innocence.

Upon hearing this, Esperanza knew that Miguel Sandoval would be dead that night and that she would leave Guanajuato, never to return.

***

Late that night, Esperanza walked into the kitchen where María Elena and Doña Eva were having a late supper. The two women froze when they saw with her two leather bags. “I’m leaving tonight,” Esperanza announced. Upon hearing this, Doña Eva walked over to a drawer and pulled out an envelope which contained a letter of introduction to Doña Luz and a wad of cash.

“Doña Luz is a retired widow now,” Doña Eva said. “Her bakery has been closed for years. There is enough money here to rent the shop for three months. That should get you started. You no longer need to apprentice under anyone. I assure you. Open your own shop and find an apprentice of your own.” Doña Eva placed the envelope in Esperanza’s hand and followed it with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Take care of yourself,” she said with tears in her eyes.

Esperanza then made her way to a crying María Elena. “When Ana is a woman, tell her what happened.”

Through her tears, María Elena said, “Thank you for this, Esperanza. God bless you.”

Esperanza embraced María Elena once more and made her way to the front door. Before she closed the door behind her, she turned around and said, “It was Miguel Sandoval.”

***

Had she gotten Ana’s confession a day later, she would not have known where to find Miguel Sandoval. It would have been Easter Sunday, and no businesses would have been open. Thankfully, it was Saturday, and she knew he would be at his regular spot, trying to seduce a tourist or an exchange student on the dance floor.

She had the taxi driver park on a quiet street. She asked him how much he made in one night, and offered him half that amount up front and told him she would pay him the rest by midnight if he waited for her. He agreed. Leaving her two leather cases in the car, she went off to the bar with nothing but two of her seductive chocolates.

As soon as she walked into the place, she spotted Miguel Sandoval trying to dance with an awkward, but pretty, blonde student from the States. When the song ended, they sat down at a table, and Miguel Sandoval mixed the pretty blonde a drink of sweet limeade and tequila, heavy on the tequila.

Esperanza had to turn down four offers to dance on her way to Miguel Sandoval’s table. When she arrived, she asked, “Can you mix one of those for me?” Miguel Sandoval was shocked when he looked up to see that the request had come from the woman he had been lusting after for nearly two years.

“You can have this one,” he said as he scooted over, making room for her to sit. Completely ignoring the pretty blonde student, Miguel Sandoval handed over the drink intended for her to Esperanza.

“It’s too sweet,” Esperanza said. “More tequila.” She handed the drink back to him. “Do you think I never noticed how you looked at me at Doña Eva’s house?” Miguel Sandoval topped off her drink with more tequila. She took a sip. “Ahh, that’s better. Why did you stop looking at me like that?”

“I didn’t think you were interested.”

“You give up too easy.”

“It was two years!”

“Well, I’m here now. I want you to look at me like that again.”

Usually the ladies’ man, Miguel Sandoval stumbled over his words. He was in disbelief. Never had he seen Esperanza outside Doña Eva’s house, and never had he thought he had a chance with such a beautiful woman.

“I want to dance,” she demanded.

“Of course,” he responded as he offered her his hand and took her to the dance floor. Miguel Sandoval then took both of Esperanza’s hands in his, and they immediately fell in step with the music.

Feeling something between their fingers, Miguel Sandoval took a look and asked, “What’s this?”

“Those are my chocolates. I brought them for you.”

Confused, Miguel Sandoval said, “Oh,” and went to put them in the pocket of his shirt.

Still in step, Esperanza stopped him and said, “No, try them. They’re made with chili.”

Reluctant, Miguel Sandoval unwrapped the chocolates and put one in his mouth, all while staying in step. He faked a smile to show that he liked it and attempted to put the other in his pocket, but Esperanza stopped him. She held up one finger and ticked it side to side. “The other one,” she said just before doing a solo turn. When she came back around to face him, she followed with, “Eat it.” To get it over with, he popped the other chocolate in his mouth and put the wrapper in his pocket. He then took her hand again, and they continued to dance.

Esperanza was pretty sure she could have the man if she wanted, but decided it was too important to take a chance, so she’d brought her chocolates. They continued to dance for several songs while she waited for the chocolates to take effect. Had it not been for the task at hand, Esperanza would have enjoyed herself. Except for a little dancing now and then while she baked, it has been years since danced particularly with a partner. Just as she was about to get lost in the music, she refocused her attention on Miguel Sandoval and saw a familiar look of lust and desperation in his eyes. It was time.

Not waiting for the song to finish, Esperanza took Miguel Sandoval by the hand out of the bar. Looking for some privacy, she dragged him to the back of the building. When she came to a staircase, she let his hand go and climbed the stairs to the roof of the building. Miguel Sandoval was close behind.

On the roof, the salsa music seemed far away but was still quite loud as it made its way out of the windows of the building and into the crisp air of the night. Esperanza saw a curious wooden table that was so large, it had to have been built on the roof. Better than the floor, she thought. She turned to Miguel Sandoval, hopped on the table, pulled her skirt over her knees.

She lay back on the table and lifted up her blouse, exposing her breasts, hoping that the visual would aid in Miguel Sandoval’s quick climax. Looking up at the stars, she wondered if they were being watched and patiently waited for Miguel Sandoval to enter her.

After two years of lusting for her, two years of pent-up desire, not to mention the influence of Esperanza’s chocolates, there was no holding back his orgasm. The excitement was too much. Within thirty-seconds of sliding his erection into Esperanza, Miguel Sandoval was dead.

***

As soon as she heard Miguel Sandoval climax and drop to the floor, Esperanza pulled her blouse back down over her breasts, got up, and walked down the stairs. She was relieved to see that her taxi was still there, waiting for her. As promised, she paid the driver the rest of the sum she owed him after he dropped her off at the bus station. When the overnight bus to Puerto Vallarta pulled out of Guanajuato’s Estación de Autobuses, she let out a big sigh and wept.

Guanajuato (Chapter 2)

It had been seven years since Esperanza felt the touch of a man. Within an hour of the last time she’d made love, she was on a bus with her two leather bags, on her way from the capital city of Guanajuato to the small village of Barra de Navidad.

In Guanajuato, she’d lived and worked as an apprentice to the best and most adored baker in the city, Doña Eva. Doña Eva was not only a master baker but also a gourmet chef and had studied her trade in France. It was Doña Eva who had written the letter of introduction to Doña Luz when Esperanza decided it was time to leave Guanajuato.

Doña Eva and her apprentice made all the pastries in the bakery, which was attached to the house, during the early hours of the morning. Esperanza hated that her workday began at two a.m. and swore that if she ever had a place of her own, it would open at a reasonable hour.

By seven in the morning, Eva’s husband, Don José Gutierrez, headed downtown to the Panadería Gutierrez with a van full of fresh pastries. This “bakery” only featured and sold the goods. No actual baking took place in there. Don José thoughtfully displayed the most attractive of fresh delicacies on shelves in front of the huge picture window. This and the aroma of the sweet bread were all the marketing the Gutierrezes needed to sell out every day.

No one could walk by without being seduced by the smell or beautiful display of conchas, niño envuelto, pan fino, pata de mula, orejas, quequitos, pan picón, bisquetes, or even the savory bolillos used for tortas. All the Mexican favorites were there, but what really made the Panadería Gutierrez stand out were the products of Doña Eva’s French training. Her bakery was the only one in town that had puff pastries and croissants for sale. The most popular of all, of course, was the chocolate-filled croissants made by none other than Esperanza.

Locals and tourists alike flowed into the bakery at a steady pace every day until the shop sold out. Then one day, local women started lining up buying all the chocolate croissants they could afford, ignoring the rest of the delights on display. This had not always been the case, but Esperanza figured out the reason for her croissants’s popularity only days after a slip of her butcher knife.

Though no one baked on Sundays, Esperanza still put in a full day’s work in the bakery. The only condition Esperanza insisted on when she and Doña Eva discussed the terms of her apprenticeship was that, instead of using store-bought chocolate in the chocolate croissants, Esperanza be allowed to make the chocolate herself. When Doña Eva agreed, Esperanza slung one of her two leather bags onto the table. “Good,” she said. “I’ll get started right away.” She overturned the bag, dumping the entire contents onto the table: cocoa bean pods.

For the two years prior to her coming to Guanajuato, Esperanza had been under the tutelage of one Don Miguel Garcia, a chocolatier in Oaxaca. It was Don Miguel who had written the letter of introduction to Doña Eva when circumstances warranted that Esperanza vacate Oaxaca.

How to make  cocoa powder:

Step one: Remove beans from pods.

Step two: Place beans in a bucket lined with banana leaves to ferment for three days.

Step three: Remove beans from the bucket and spread them out to dry for a few days.

Step four: Roast beans in the oven until shells crack open, then remove and let cool.

Step five: Separate nibs from their shell, finely chop, then grind them into a powder.

One Sunday, on step five of Esperanza’s cocoa powder making process, she got distracted and nicked her finger with the butcher knife. The entire process took exactly one week. So, when Esperanza cut herself and bled all over the chopped cocoa nibs, she was faced with a decision. Dry up as much blood as she could with a towel, or throw the entire batch out and lose a week’s worth of work. Rinsing the nibs was out of the question, as much of them turned to powder in the chopping process. She did the best she could, but there was no doubt in her mind that there was some residue of her blood in that batch of cocoa powder.

That Sunday’s blood-laced batch of cocoa powder made enough chocolate to fill six day’s worth of croissants. By Tuesday of that week, rumors started to spread among a select few of the bakery’s patrons. By the following week, after successfully making chocolate without cutting herself, the rumors stopped, and the sales of croissants resumed their normal pace. But the whole event made Esperanza curious, and she decided to conduct a little experiment.

This time, instead of cutting herself, Esperanza pricked her finger with a sewing needle and squeezed out several drops of blood into her batch of chocolate. By Tuesday of that week, she started getting the feedback she was looking for. It was her blood.

After the confirmation, Esperanza decided to omit this secret ingredient from her chocolate and, in due time, the spike in sales and buzz about the croissants subsided. But the experimenting was far from done. She requested that Don José add more bean pods to the weekly shopping list. In addition to the chocolate for the croissants, she started making individual candies. She used an icing tube for decorating cakes to squeeze out spiral-shaped drops of chocolate delight.

Her first testers were Doña Eva and her husband. “Here. I want you to be the first to try my chocolates,” Esperanza said to Doña Eva.

“Ay, no,” the Doña replied. “After years of being a baker, I have no desire for sweets.”

“I know,” responded Esperanza as she handed over a chocolate wrapped in a piece of wax paper. “That’s why I put chili in these.”

The Doña reluctantly took the chocolate and put it in her mouth. Although she did tilt her head and raised her eyebrows in approval, Esperanza could tell that the candy was still too sweet for Doña Eva.

“Señor?” Esperanza said, holding out another chocolate. Unlike his wife, Don José still had an affinity for sweets, though one could never tell from the absence of any belly fat around his waist. It was ironic that, of the two, his wife was the hefty one.

“Of course,” the Don said and popped the chocolate into his mouth. The smile on his face matched his approval. “These are great. Are there more?” the Don asked.

“Sorry, Señor. Only one per customer today.”

One would think that the chocolates had instilled an immediate effect on Don José, the way he talked so fast and so loud, but that was just his normal voice. “Are we going to sell these?” He seemed to shout the question.

“No, Señor. These are just a little result of some experimenting I am doing. You can subtract the cost of these chocolates from my pay.” With that, Esperanza walked out of the room and waited patiently for the results of her little experiment.

It wasn’t until late that night that Esperanza got the feedback she was waiting for. The sound of Doña Eva and her husband in the throes of passion traveled down the hall, over the stairs, through the kitchen, across the bakery, and under the door of Esperanza’s bedroom to wake her out of a sound sleep. Only God himself knew the last time the elderly couple had made love, and never had it been so passionate.

Maria’s Mom Visits – Post 23

As soon as Maria got off of Skype with Tim, she quickly walked the living room where her mother was waiting, sat down next to her, curled into a ball, and cried.

Maria’s mother, Espi (short for Esperanza), had taken the first flight out of Los Angeles to Sacramento as soon as she heard the news. Espi was the one who signed Maria out of the hospital.

“What am I going to do, Mama.”

“You’re going to try again,”Espi hesitated. “and you’re going to be strong.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? You have to; you’re the wife.”

“Yeah, the wife. I’m not the man. The man is the one who was supposed to be strong.”

“Who told you that? Mira, every strong, powerful, and successful man that you know of is that way because of his wife. When the president of the United States has a long and terrible and stressful day who’s shoulder, do you think he leans on? Do you think that these men don’t breakdown, don’t have moments of weakness. Of course they do. They are flawed and imperfect just like any other man. They just hide it from everyone. Everyone except the one person they can’t, their wife. The wife keeps them strong by being strong for them and by being silent.”

“What does silent have to do with it?”

“Listen, the only difference between a man in a position of power and his followers is that they don’t know of his weaknesses. But his wife does. She knows them all. Think of any politician, or celebrity, or athlete that was put to shame when people realized that flawed. People lost respect for them. They have to bow out of political races or lost millions of dollars worth of endorsements all because word got out. And who told their secret? Their wives.”

“But what about Bill Clinton? Hillary didn’t…”

“Yeah yeah. I know,” Espi interrupted. “It was that pinche gringa that ratted him out. Even the strongest woman can be outdone by a man’s own stupidity. But let me ask you something. You don’t think that it that was his first time do you? Or that she didn’t already know? That man was embarrassed in front of the entire world, but it wasn’t because of his wife. She kept silent.”

“All men have flaws and weaknesses,” Espi continued. “The powerful and most respected men have one person that they can trust to show these flaws and weaknesses, and that is their wife. These men would not reach the status that they had if their wives let it out that they cry at night or like to suck toes.”

“Mama!”

“Well…”

“I just find this all hard to believe right now.”

“Who is the most strongest hardest working man you know?”

“Daddy.”

“Was he a good father to you and husband to me.”

“Yes, of course.”

“When was the last time you saw your father take a drink.”

“Geez, I was young. Maybe like my eighth birthday party?”

“And his drunk ass fell out of the tree trying to hang your piñata.”

Maria giggled, “yeah.”

“He used to go out a few times a week and get drunk with his friends after work. It used to bother me, but I let him do it. He would come home drunk belligerent loud and try to have his way with me. Sometimes I let him and sometimes I fought him off. I tolerated this for many years. Until I found out.”

“Found out what?”

“I eventually cut him off completely. I couldn’t stand his drunk ass on top of me. So as a result, he started to go out and get what he needed elsewhere.”

“What?”

“He had a girlfriend. Some skinny bitch that worked at Clark’s where he would buy his beer.”

“How did you find out?”

“His said her name one night drunk and on the verge of passing out. A few days later I found a note with a lipstick kiss on it on the back of a Clark’s receipt. I could’ve cried. Probably did actually. I could’ve picked you up and went to my moms. I could’ve left him or even worse. But I didn’t. I was strong. He was my husband this was my family, and I wasn’t gonna let anything take that away from me. So every day before I picked you up from school, I went to Clark’s. And eventually, I saw a name tag that said, ’Stephanie.’ I asked her if she knew somebody named Hector Rodriguez. She was chewing gum and smiled when she heard the name. She told me, “Yeah that’s my boyfriend.’ That’s when I grabbed her by the hair and said, “That’s my fucking husband you bitch.” And slammed her head into the cash register.

“Oh my god, mama.”

“That’s why we never went back to that store,” Espi said with a smile on her face.

“That afternoon I had your Tia pick you up from school and take you home. I went to your dad’s work and met him at his car when he got off work. ’It all stops now,’ I said. ’The drinking and the fucking around with this bitch Stephanie stops now. If you love me, if you love your daughter, if you want to have a family, it’s all done.’ I was in tears. ’I’m going to pick up Maria. If I see you at the house when I get home, I’ll know you made your decision.’ He was home when we got there and he’s been sober ever since.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Maria said.

“Two things, Maria. If I hadn’t been strong and stood up for what I believed in, for my family it all would’ve been gone. Everything that you know of in the past 15 years or so of your life would’ve been different. Also, if I hadn’t kept silent everyone would’ve lost respect for your father including you.”

“I only tell you this now because I know you’re old enough not to judge your father for the mistakes he made as a young man. I was strong and silent. And, if you want to keep your husband and your eventual family, you will do the same.”

A Little Girl’s Dream – Chapter 1

The Whore, Marisol Rivera, Los Chocolates

Available on Amazon!

While most little girls dreamed of becoming teachers, actresses, or nurses, Marisol Rivera dreamt of one day becoming a whore. Like a boy who looked in awe at a soldier or police officer, Marisol would fixate on prostitutes. She could spot one even when they weren’t in uniform. During the day, whores didn’t look like whores. They looked like every other woman, but not to Marisol.

An off-duty working girl could be walking down the street carrying groceries, and the little girl would stop in her tracks and curiously stare at the woman as if she were looking at two stray dogs humping. Marisol would often get snatched out of her daze by her mother pulling on her hand.

“Let’s go, Marisol,”  her mother, Elena, would say, frustrated that she had to retrace her steps to retrieve the six-year-old.

“Who is that lady, Mami?” Marisol asked.

“I don’t know,” her mother said, lying. She knew who she was. She knew who they all were. Everyone knew. Elena couldn’t comprehend why every person her daughter became captivated by in the streets of Colón was a prostitute. Just once she would have liked to have caught her daughter staring at a beggar or a drunk. Elena handled these situations like the time Marisol had walked in on her and Marisol’s father making love—she ignored that it ever took place with hopes that Marisol would some day forget all about it.

“What’s a whore, Mami?” Marisol asked one day after learning the word from someone at school.

The question caused Elena to drop her crocheting needles and bring her fingers to her temple. “It’s a woman who brings pleasure to men for money,” saying the first thing that came to her mind then resuming her project.

“It’s her job?”

“Yes, it’s her job,” Elena said not bothering to look up at the girl for fear of encouraging her to further discuss the topic.

“That’s what I want to be when I grow up!”

Frustrated but keeping her composure, Elena responded, “Well, that’s impossible. Some day you’ll go to college, and any woman who goes to college does not become a whore.”

“Oh,” Marisol said somewhat disappointed. “What will I be then?”

“You can be anything you want,” Elena said. “Anything but a whore.”

“Can I be a doctor like Papi?”

“Yes!” Elena said, thanking God for intervening.

The end of the conversation brought relief to Elena but not to Marisol for she did not want to be a doctor. She wanted to be a whore.

As time went on Marisol learned to appease her parents by doing well in school and saying that she wanted to become a doctor all the while taking every opportunity she could to learn about the trade that really interested her.

Pedro, a childhood friend who used to play in the dirt with Marisol, was her first customer. “What could I do to bring you pleasure, Pedro?” Marisol asked as if she were taking notes.

“Maybe bring some chocolate next time we play.”

What does a boy so young know of pleasure? Marisol knew he was not ready. Her research would have to wait, but it didn’t take long. One day, Marisol noticed Pedro ogling at a pair of bouncing breasts as a woman in high-heeled shoes walked down the street. Ah ha, Marisol thought.

“How much would you pay to see my chi-chis?” she asked Pedro.

It wasn’t until Marisol grew breasts that she was able to sustain a business of flashing them for twenty-five centavos a show.

As her body developed and the curiosity of her customers grew, Marisol learned much about being in the business of pleasing men for money. One of the things she learned was that members of the opposite sex would pay nearly anything to live out their deepest desires, but that they would only tell her those desires if they trusted her. Marisol became skilled at gaining their confidence. She never told anyone’s mother and never shared anyone’s little secrets. Plus, she never got caught, which meant she never had to disclose who her patrons were.

Part of the reason why no one ever discovered Marisol’s side business was that she was smart enough to know that she could not have all that money without a good reason for obtaining it. Being the daughter of a doctor, Marisol had little use for money, though she did enjoy earning it. The church became the benefactor of most of her earnings. It only seemed appropriate being that a lot of her business took place in an unoccupied confessional.

Because of her mother’s vague answer to Marisol’s question, “What’s a whore, Mami?” and the Church’s teachings of the transgressions of sex before marriage, it never occurred to the young girl that prostitutes had sex for money. Marisol’s practice allowed her to learn many methods of how to give a man pleasure, but when it came to intercourse, that was simply out of the question. It was a sin, after all.


If you liked what you read,  click here to get the rest of the book for your Kindle or with the Kindle App

The First Load of Laundry – Post 22

Since they started living together, Tim and Maria both slept in the nude. Even in his dream state, Tim knew this. So it made sense that he removed his clothes before he got back in bed with Maria after sleepwalking.

Maria found the first pile of clothes in the laundry room not long after she noticed the door being open in the mornings. The clothes were still clean. Apparently only having been worn for just a little while. They still smelled like she pulled them out of the dryer on Sunday. Without even thinking about it, she neatly folded them back up and put them away.

She had to think for a while. She understood why Tim would get undressed to get in bed. But why did he get dressed in the first place? There were no clothes the first few nights he went out which meant he was out there naked. Maybe he didn’t mind being naked because he was in the backyard. If this was the case, then that meant that he got dressed to go beyond the confines of their property. He was going out into the city.

*

Eventually, one morning she couldn’t just fold the clothes up and put them away. They were filthy. They were dirty, grimy in some spots. When she put them up to her nose, they no longer had that fresh scent out of just coming out of the dryer. They smelled like Tim. He had been sweating in them.

Everything had been simple until now. Concealing Tim’s sleepwalking sessions didn’t require a lot of deception or even thought. She realized that if she was going to continue to protect him, to keep silent, things were going to get complicated. She was going to have to do somethings behind his back and keep more from him than expected. Was it worth it? Her husband had been through enough, she thought. He didn’t need to go through any more trauma.

She started the washing machine.

They Finally Skype – Post 21

When Tim read the words, “I am in the hospital. We lost a baby.” His heart sank. It took everything he had to keep his composure. The last thing he wanted to do was break down and cry right there in front of everybody in internet café.

“60 seconds number 18!” A voice yelled over the crowd. That was Tim. He was on the computer numbered 18. He waited in line and hour to get five minutes on the computer. Com had been down for five days. They usually are in the event of a casualty. This allows the government to notify the family before they hear the news through the grapevine. The fact that the attack, which yielded the casualty, took out the power plant meant that com was down for longer than usual. When it finally came back up, everyone wanted to get online to notify their family that they were OK. Thus the brass required a five minute limit on all computers at the internet café.

“I’m sorry.” was the next thing to pop up in Tim’s instant messenger window.

“Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Tim typed. “Be sad but don’t be sorry. Call your mother. Fly her in for a few days. I’m about to get cut off. We’ll Skype later. I love you.”

“Times up number 18,” a voice yelled.

“I’m signing off right now. Give me a fucking second,” Tim responded to the voice.

It was after normal duty hours so he went to the only place he knew he could be alone, the shop. When he got to the door, he frantically unlocked the padlock as if he was trying to get into the bathroom and was about to piss his pants. As soon as he opened the door, he stepped in, and it slammed behind him. He leaned back against the door and slid down to the ground and started sobbing.

*

It cost him six 1-pint water bottles of his homemade wine to get access to an unauthorized computer in the COM tent. Being a civil engineer had its privileges in the desert but so did being in the Communications Squadron. Each of the tents where the COM squadron members quartered had a computer and unlimited internet access. While the six members that occupied this tent were out enjoying Tim’s hooch, he had complete privacy and over an hour’s worth of access to the internet. This was when he Skyped Maria.

After a long while of them crying and trying to assure each other that they would be OK, Tim finally got around to telling Maria what happened.

“The news was wrong. It wasn’t four. It was only two,” Tim said. “One of them was my troop, Senior Airman Ricketts.”

The mortar round blew Airman Ricketts to pieces, and the ensuing fire ensured that there was nothing to send home to his parents. Sergeant Martinez survived the blast but not fire. Diesel fuel surrounded the hardened shelter that was the operations plant and engulfed it in flames. Martinez opened the door but quickly closed it after the heat singed his mustache and eyebrows. The autopsy report read that Martinez died of smoke inhalation.

Breaking the rules was probably what saved Senior Airman Jones’s and Airman Ski’s life. They were sitting in the pickup with the windows up. The engine ran while the AC blew, keeping them cool and wasting taxpayer’s money. Protected by the concrete barriers they did not get much of the blast wave from the explosion or the shrapnel from the mortar. Thinking quickly, Jones threw the gearshift into drive and sped away. When he realized that the tires were on fire, he slammed on the brakes, threw it into park, and he and Ski jumped out and ran to safety.

“This whole thing sucks, Babe. I just want to come home,” Tim told Maria.

*

Though he did tell Maria the gruesome truth of what happened, he didn’t tell her how it made him feel. He still couldn’t believe he lost someone under his “command.” In the movies, it happens all the time. But even in the movies, it only happened officers or senior enlisted in the Marines and Army, not Air Force Staff Sergeants in charge of the heating and air shop. He was also disgusted and disappointed with himself. If he hadn’t of told them to “get lost” or had just gone with them, Ricketts would be alive. The worst part about it was every day they had to go to work where there were reminders of Ricketts everywhere. Also since every game of dominoes would have to be cutthroat now, they just stopped playing altogether.

The Call – Post 20

Tim was seven when his parents split up. Looking for a fresh start, Tim’s mother took her two children up to St. Louis. She managed to get a job at a bank as a teller. For the next couple years, she struggled as a single parent of two in her 20s, trying to make ends meet as well as trying to have a social life. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she knew something drastic had to be done she moved back to her hometown and in with her mother.

Between going back to school, her job as a waitress, and boyfriends, Tim’s mom hardly made it back home to her mother’s two-bedroom trailer. On the nights she was home, she shared a bed with Tim’s little sister while Tim slept in a twin bed in the same bedroom.

Tim’s grandmother, Lenore, was put in the position to do most of the raising of Tim and his sister. Though not well-off, evident by her living arrangements, Timothy’s grandmother was not destitute. Her late husband left her the land, which was completely paid for, as well as the trailer in which they lived. Between Social Security and the houses she cleaned for cash, she made a decent living. Enough to spoil her only two grandchildren, who got practically whatever they wanted.

A little lonely Tim’s grandmother welcomed the opportunity to take the role of being a mother. She did an excellent job of it too. She made sure they had breakfast and got them to school in the mornings. Then would pick them up and take them for the occasional McDonald’s milkshake in the afternoon.

At night she made sure whatever homework they had got done. She let them watch a little TV and made them an enjoyable meal. Being The man of the house, Tim got to choose what he wanted for dinner. Yes, he was quite spoiled. His favorite meal were these cheeseburgers his grandmother made on sourdough bread. Later in life, he realized what she was making were Patty melts.

On Saturdays, the big deal was to make a trip to the grocery store. This is where Tim got to pick out what he wanted to eat the rest of the week. Especially his favorite cereals. Saturday nights was also movie nights which included homemade popcorn cooked in a cast-iron skillet on the stove top.

Summer vacations were not typical for Tim. As his grandmother’s trailer was way outside the city limits. There weren’t any neighbor boys to play with for miles. He spent most of his summer days watching daytime television or helping his grandmother tend to their garden. On the days where she left to clean houses, he was left at home alone with his sister.

Tim was a typical big brother. He both bullied his sister and took care of her. He found her as a suitable playmate though he would have preferred the company of little brother.

Though she loved both Tim and Vanessa equally, you could tell that there is a special bond between Lenore and Tim. In her eyes, Tim could do no wrong. They were so connected that she could feel Tim’s pain every time he took a beating from his mother. It broke her heart. Though, she never stepped in to stop it.

*

It was Tim’s grandmother that signed him up for his first martial arts school after he came home from school one day with a shiner. He seemed to be a natural at it and got his Tae Kwan Do black belt in just a couple years. Bored with all the kicks, he signed up at the only other martial arts school in town. A Kempo Karate dojo owned by a guy who had never left the country and who had learned Karate from another man who never left the country. The training was sufficient for most of who attended the school.

By the time Tim was fourteen he had years of training under his belt. Some of his movements had become instinctual. So, he couldn’t help himself when his mother went to slap him in the face. Without even thinking about it, he blocked swing with his left arm. Tim’s mom felt a significant sting when this happened, but it wasn’t as much from the contact her wrist made with Tim’s forearm as it was the realization that she could no longer beat her son into submission. Tim went to live with his father by the end of that very month.

*

One day in fifth grade, Tim got unexpectedly called principal’s office. Expecting some sort of ass chewing, Tim was surprised when he walked into the principal’s office and found his father sitting there. His eyes were dry, but the redness made it evident that he had been crying. The principal asked him to sit down and said that his father had something to tell him.

“Pop is gone, Timmy,” Tim’s dad said just before he broke down sobbing.

Pop was Tim’s father’s dad. The only real grandfather he had. Pop was responsible for allowing Tim to do little boy things. Fishing, riding on the tractor, hunting for crawdads in the creek and the like. Tim’s relationship with Pop was not as strong as his relationship with his grandmother, but it was a close second.

Per the principal’s suggestion, Tim’s dad took him home early from school. Tim had shed some tears when he was told the news but really hadn’t let go until he saw his grandmother.

She was sitting on the couch watching TV when he walked in. She already knew. Her arms were out as soon as he walked through the door. He ran straight to them. That’s when he broke down.

As he sobbed in her big grandma arms, she comforted him and said, “It’s all right.” She rubbed his back and continued with, “Let it out. Let it out.” She didn’t say anything to try and make him feel better, to take away from the reality that was his grandpa’s death. She just gave him permission to cry and let him.

*

”Babe, your phone’s ringing,” Maria yelled from the bedroom. “It’s Vanessa.” She noticed from the caller ID.

Tim came in from the bathroom as naked as the day he was born to get it. “I’m surprised you can even see after what I just did to you.”

“Oh. My. God!” Maria scoffed and then stared at him with an open mouth.

They had just made love, and Tim was quite proud of what he had accomplished. “You love it,” he said as he picked up his phone. Maria still looking at him, amazed by his arrogance.

“Sup, foo?” That’s how he answered the phone when his sister called.

Even though she was a little annoyed with Tim’s cockiness, Maria was immediately concerned as soon as she saw the shit eating grin on his face leave.

Before Vanessa could even say a word, he could tell she was crying.

“Grandma is sick, Timmy.”

It was breast cancer. A mammography found it. It had been quite some time since her previous mammography due to crappy insurance. Surgery was scheduled right away. The issue was her health. It was poor. She was obese and diabetic.  A simple walk from the car to grocery store entrance required her to sit down and catch her breath.  The doctors worried that when they put her under to perform the procedure, she would never wake up.

While the conversation was going on between Vanessa and Tim, Maria held him from behind resting her head on his back.

“Keep me posted,” was how he ended the call.

Tim tossed his phone on the bed and turned around to look at Maria. “My grandmother’s si…” he was sobbing before he could finish the word sick.

Sitting on the bed, she held him while he cried. Rubbing his back and saying nothing to him except, “It’s all right. Let it out. Let it out.”

The Sleepwalking Starts – Post 19

Tim’s odd nocturnal behavior resumed within two days of going off his meds. It started with the heavy breathing and sweats then on to the sitting up at the side of the bed and then moved on to him walking around the house.

Maria observed everything from a safe distance. When Tim made inquiries in the following mornings, she reported nothing. She thought it was best he didn’t know. If Tim knew, he might insist that they go back to the doctor. Maria couldn’t stand the thought of her husband with all those probes connected to his head sleeping in a strange bed for observation. Tim could insist he go back on the meds. For Maria, this was absolutely out of the question. So, she did what she thought was best. She kept silent.

Eventually, she became accustomed to his waking up and walking around the house and started sleeping through his nightly activities.

With Tim’s discharge from the Air Force, Tim and Maria had to move off base. They bought a half-plex in the city of Roseville. In case you are wondering, a half-plex is half of a duplex. It was all they could afford. The housing bubble hadn’t quite burst yet, and California property values were still bloated. They had a plan to eventually buy the other side and start their lives as real estate tycoons.

Although it wasn’t the closest city to the base, they always preferred to travel to Roseville to run errands or go to a movie. It was worth the drive, “It’s just nicer,” Maria admitted. It also gave them an opportunity to stop in Lincoln for pancakes or tacos. So, it was obvious when it came time to finding a place to buy a house. Plus, Maria already worked in Roseville so living there shortened her commute to practically nothing.

Tim had picked up a well-paying job working second shift at the Sutter Roseville Medical Center. This is why sleeping in till noon seemed natural to him. When Tim lost that job, he never noticed that he kept sleeping in till noon, even though he was going to bed at a normal hour.

Maria continued to sleep through her husband’s sleep walking. She never noticed anything wrong in the morning, so she just assumed things were fine. Until one morning while on her way to the car to go to work, she saw that the back door was open. Not wide open but just enough to not latch shut. They had a carport in the back with room enough for just one car. This is where she parked so, every morning she walked through the laundry room, out the back door to go to work.

For the next few nights, she made sure that when they went to bed, that the back door was indeed locked. And most mornings she found it either unlocked or not closed all the way. That’s when she knew that Tim was leaving the house at night.

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