Girl in Pieces

At first, they laugh a little too much, nervous, and I have to wait until they calm down, let them drink a bit more, before I start.

The sunlight is fading, but I have enough light on the porch to draw them. It’s Hector, who lives in 1D, and Manny and his mother, Karen. I think they’re used to people staring at them, not looking at them. She shifts in the rusty metal chair, playing with her fingernails. Manny is on the steps, leaning back against the railing. “Yeah,” he finally says. “You can do it, right, Ma?”

On the porch, I study the folds and lines in their faces and work quickly, smudging, blowing away the gray dust of charcoal. “Your big romance,” Karen says to me. “I need to know.”

I just say, “Mmmm. Not much to tell.”

Karen shakes her head, says, “The mens can be so difficult.” Manny is edgy, his dark brown eyes steady on my face. He squirts beer through his gritted teeth and tells me that his job consists mainly of other people not showing up for their jobs.

Each day he and Hector and some others from the building wait on a sweltering street corner downtown with dozens of men as trucks crawl by looking for day laborers to water the gardens of those who live high in the hills on the North side, clip their hedges, help gouge the dirt for new pools, for elaborately tiled Jacuzzis. “This one place,” Hector says, slurring, leaning forward, out of the pose he held so well just a moment ago. “The pool tile was like his woman’s face, you know? Like her picture, under the water. She’s going to have to swim on her own face.” He spits on the porch, glancing at Karen, who frowns.

Manny says, “We make this fucking city run and they want to run us out. Build some stupid wall.”

When I’m done, they hold my pad reverently in their hands. They’re pleased they can finally see themselves, just like Evan was when he saw himself in my comic. Their happiness fills me up.