Nuvein Fiction | Convergence by Jennifer Prado

Convergence
by Jennifer Prado

About the Author

Jennifer Prado writes for independent film in New York City. She has a degree in Fiction Writing from the University of Wisconsin - Madison, and completed coursework at Film and Video Arts in New York City. Her short fiction and music reviews have been published on line. She has recently written her first novel, Love and Sex, and is navigating the perplexing world of agents and publishers. Convergence is her first work in Nuvein.

This Cuban sandwich shop in Chelsea is an urban sociologist's nocturnal emission. If we could all be buried alive, at this exact moment, in a post-modern Pompeiic explosion, we would provide hours of research and discussion to the futurists who want to understand their past. I like it here because the mamacitas, who work behind the counter, blow kisses to all of the regulars and have pear-shaped asses that they only make in the Dominican Republic. Sometimes when they bend down, I can see their thong underwear over the top of their tight pants.

The customers here are mostly pretty, Latino gay boys and the papitos from the projects, across the street, who always look beach-ready in flowery shirts and white floppy hats. I like gay, Latin men, because they still admire women. They flirt with me and check me out. The make sound effects like, "Umm. Umm.Umm." They play it up and admire my clothes, and make me feel like it was a lifestyle choice, mama, nothing against my gender. Sometimes the papitos use the pay phone and shout into the receiver, "Give me another week to come up with the money."

The Vietnamese mailman wheels his cart into the place and goes immediately behind the counter to get his kisses from the mamacitas. Who says a government job can't have perks? They fix up a café con leche for el chino, and make it to go. He smiles and says, "Gracias chicas." Sometimes the Gringos come in to practice their vacation Spanish and the mamacitas wait patiently while they search for the words and say, "Si, mi amor?" Which is so much more pleasant than, "What can I get you?" I am concentrating on my fuel food: a mountain of yellow rice and black beans. When I was a college student, I wrote a paper on how we could end world hunger with this food. Today it ends my hunger. I've put the world's problems on hold.

An Asian monk, with a shaved head, dressed in an orange robe, and clutching a silk pouch walks through the door. He sits on the stool next to mine and smiles. "Are you thinking about the future?" he asks.

"This is the future," I say. "This and Brooklyn."

"What does it look like?"

"Nothing is clearly defined. We have no limitations imposed by gender, race, or geography. Everything happens fast."

"Is there love?"

"How can I know? What do you think?"

"I think love will be forgotten unless time is made for it. Young people treat love like a hobby. Love has to be a part of every moment and gesture."

"In this city, love is a debilitating weakness. People prey on softness."

"Si, padre. Que quiere?" mamacita asks.

"The papaya drink," he says, and giggles like a child. "I know it's going to be so good." She brings him the drink that is still foamy from the blender and hands him a straw. He drinks and smiles with pleasure. "So delicious."

"Love makes me weak," I say.

"You are wrong. It makes you strong. Those who are drawn to you are allured by this strength."

"I want so many things. I think I will never be happy." He opens the silk pouch in his lap and dumps a pile of brown pennies onto the counter. He begins to count them out softly. I watch him with a mixture of amusement and sadness. He stops counting at two hundred and fifty and smiles at me.

"That drink gave me so much enjoyment. You will be happy when you recognize what you need to be happy." He steps down from the stool. "Be good."

"Come, padre," mamacita says. "Bless our saint." She takes him by the hand to the back of the restaurant and points to the shrine near the ceiling that contains a small statue, a vase of fresh flowers, and a tiny dish of flan pudding. The monk holds his hands against his chest, in prayer, and bows.