A Luna Blued

I remembered her from the Froo Pool Room, long legs, great smell, doubter’s scowl.  I wanted to take her home right then; hear that laugh all night; hear that howl. Then she nailed the scent of my duck dumplings and I knew she was a pro.  Time to go.  Her two-buck Tee said she didn’t review food for the Times or any rag that paid a decent wage.  Still, anyone near any newspaper world was bad news for me, it was hell.  So I left her there and headed into the night, still smelling her cilantro and knock-off Chanel. 

I don’t believe in karma, destiny or fate; I like to think I make my own world bleed.  I do my job as I’m told, with some style of my own; I play it smart and I always succeed.  But three nights later as I walked out of Domingos’ back door and headed up the alley toward Lucile, there she was… looking like a dream: that two buck tee over some pinata skirt, Garbo mouth and skin like oyster creme.  But why was she here in this dusty old block where everything was closed or torn apart?  She may be scraping rent by slurping some back room Albondigas but I sensed this chick was smart.  And the vibe I was getting from her fractured soul was: trouble and the need for more.  And she was headed right to Domingos’ back door.

I tried to woo her out of there with a tip on birria burritos but she wasn’t gonna be dissuaded.  She sucked-punched me with a snarled one-two, “You know, they buy their tortillas at Ralph’s on Vega”.  I had to admire her guile, her knowledge, her funk… and the way her walk left me rocked.  And as I watched her sway down that alley toward the dark, I thanked God… or fate that Domingos’ back door was locked.

Panama G.

Trouble comes for many at night… last night it came for me.  I had just ordered ox tails from Madame Matisse and I was waiting for a late night delivery.  I turned on the player and poured a tonic with Rose’s Lime.  The Sister’s Of Mercy sang about the Temple of Love and Ray wailed about “Crying Time.”  I opened the window to the balmy orange-scented air and waited for the beef.  The doorbell rang, I opened the door hungry for the tails but all I got was grief.

The Prowler stood there, like a dark lanky dream, with a six pack of San Miguel and a carton of oyster creme.  Good God he was gorgeous, in a Day-Lewis Way, with a little more hunk but less soul.  I blocked the door and asked “What were you doing in the alley last night, behind that low rent den?”  “Parking.” he smiled, “Sunset’s a bitch.  You gonna let me in?”

He was bad, I could feel it, he had that underworld vibe and the promise of trouble in his eyes.  My knees went weak, I couldn’t help myself… I opened the door wide.  “How’d you find me?” I asked as he slipped inside, smelling like desire insane. “You’re in the book”, he answered. I replied, “You don’t even know my name”.  “I  know you like duck simmered in Remy and you eat your tamales whole.  You like to say and do what you want but regret has a stamp on your soul.”  He tossed a copy of the “Hollywood Pulse’ onto the table, it was open to my review.  “Anyone any one who’d drive three hundred miles for salsa, I’d day is worth finding, and soon.”  “Yeah?”, I smiled, “How far would you go?”  “Elena Moreno’s–”, he started to answer. “On Whittier boulevard”, I  finished his sentence, “In East L.A. Taco row.”  “Damn, you are good”, he grinned and took out two beers. “You have no idea,” I replied.” then stuck out my hand, “Rhea Porter.”  He shook it, “Panama Garcia”, he smiled.  Then he opened the carton of oyster creme. 

Eat up.  Dream on.

Rhea Porter.