Page 10 of Miguel
She blew out a breath and her hands flew in rapid-fire signing, her expression frustrated. “My boss is a dick.”
“What’d he do now?”
“He threatened to fire me!”
My eyes widened. I dropped my bag on the ground and moved into the kitchen, reaching towards one of our built-in shelves for a bottle of tequila for cubas. I wasn’t a fan of tequila and soda like so many others were–I preferred beer–but I drank it when the occasion called for it. And this definitely called for it.
“Y, ¿como paraqué?” I demanded before pulling the cap off the bottle. After grabbing two glasses, I poured a hefty amount of alcohol in both.
It was only the middle of the week, not that it mattered. Mexicans could find any excuse to toss a few glasses back, no matter the occasion. Seeing people loitering outside of stores with their plastic cups in hand, tequila, whiskey, rum, and soda bottles at their feet at all hours of the day, was sacrilegious at best.
We were no exception to that. Having to get up early for work wouldn’t impede the need for alcohol in our systems. Desi would only partake in one or two glasses before she passed out on the couch like the lightweight she was.
Desi’s expression twisted into anger and frustration. “He said I didn’t take the job seriously enough, that I was constantly at a disadvantage because of my deafness.”
“Viejo pendejo.” My anger was an immediate electric current inside me. Hot and vicious.
Desiree worked at an accounting firm. I’d never met her dick of a boss, but she constantly brought home stories that made me wish I had him in front of me. If only so I could aim a well-placed kick at his huevos and watch them pop out his ableist fucking throat. “Here, have a drink.” I nudged the cuba in her direction.
After tossing back a healthy swallow, she signed, “Then he proceeded to tell me that we could ‘work something’ out.”
My blood went cold.
Her words were just a reminder of the harsh reality we lived.Ni una más,an almost global movement that declared there not be one more person harmed by feminicide or sexual assault, could scarcely stave off the almost rabid side of the patriarchy that loomed over us.
My hands moved with a careful precision as I said, “You should quit.”
Before anything happens to you.
That went unsaid.
“Quitting won’t pay the bills.” She picked up her container of guac with one hand and her cuba with the other then turned away from me.
I could always tell when she was done with a conversation. When something weighed far too heavily on her, she purposefully positioned her body away from whoever was speaking, so she didn’t have to see their signs or read their lips.
I decided to let it go for now. There was hardly a point in arguing with her. We’d gone through this before. It wasn’t the first time I wished I made enough for the both of us. At least to tide us over until she could find a better job for herself, one where her boss didn’t try and make a pass at her every five minutes. But the economy was shit. Prices of the canasta básica, the basic necessities, were on the rise at an alarming rate, while minimum wage stayed the same.
If you had a job, it was best to grip it tight so it wouldn’t slip through your fingers. Because if you quit one job, it was hard as hell to find something better afterwards. That was our harsh reality, and probably a big reason why Desiree couldn’t quit. That and because she was stubborn as hell. And proud. She wouldn’t accept my help because she felt as though it were accepting charity.
We’d had that argument many times before.
In all the time we’d known one another, Desiree had never spoken to me about her past.
We’d met during our mandatory college service at a small town municipality. We’d happened upon each other in the copy room, and after she’d gestured at her ear to indicate she couldn’t hear my excited babbling, I’d begun signing.
She’d looked relieved she had someone to communicate with, and I’d thanked whatever higher powers existed that I’d taken course studies in Lenguaje de Señas Mexicana because we’d hit it off right away. So much so that after college, we’d taken the leap and decided to move to Tlaxcala City for work and to live together.
It’d been years, and I didn’t know what shadows haunted my best friend at night, and I knew there were shadows. They lived in her eyes, like a beast of prey ready to pounce.
Ignoring the dark turn of my thoughts, I picked up a bag of chips, my own drink, and followed Desi out into our living room.
“So,” Desi signed, “tell me aboutyourday.”
I groaned and devoured a handful of chips before I began. “I have a new student,” I explained. “His father…” I paused, not knowing how to continue, though Desi must’ve read something in my expression.
“Ooh…” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, her smirk kicking up a few notches. “Does he flutter your loins?” A silent snicker pushed past Desiree’s lips.
I tossed a pillow in her direction. “Don’t sayloins! That’s so weird and gross!”
