Janessa’s New Year’s Eve Party

by Las Hermanas

Why, sister, do I go to these things? You know I am very shy at these formal affairs. I much prefer to mix up a nice casado for some dark eyed man and stand behind his chair while he eats, with my hands down his shirt. But that is another story and probably too explicit for here.

But to this party, I must go, by order of the parents, los revolucionarios. This is a fund raiser for one of their many lost causes, and they insist that I go so that I retain all the guilt of my youth and repent my bourgeois and expensive education. They also know that I will wear a short skirt and schmooze the potential donors, all which seem to have uncomfortable glasses and bald spots. That’s them, the Marxist mom and pop, sitting over at that table with the guys in berets.

I give my papa a kiss on his own bald spot., which many people do not notice because of the rest of his hair drifting down past his shoulders. “Portate bien, papa,” I say in my most cursi manner. I like to tease him with my throaty,snobby voice. I show him my French manicure, just to upset him a little more.

“Daughter, I’d like you to meet two friends of mine,” he indicates the two guys in berets. “That one is Che and that one is Francisco Leal”. I look up and down the two hombres morenos across the table. Che is rumpled and weary with eyes so dark you can see your own pupils dilating as you look into them. He brushes his wayward hair out of his eyes and extends a hand. “Hi.”. I turn to Francisco, who puts down his soup spoon (sure, my parents serve soup at soirees-- is the revolutionary way). He looks up at me through his thick eyelashes, “Come .Sit.” And if I don’t faint now, it is only because I feel my mother pushing me from behind, forcing me down into a chair between these two beautiful men. The unmarried daughter always gets the best seat.

Soon, my parents are deep in conversation with Che. Probably we will hear about it on the news next week. In the meantime, I am staring at the hand that holds the soup spoon, and the lovely way the hair from that wrist extends along the side of the hand toward an exquisite fifth finger. Then I give a little start because I have just felt a hand on my knee. Che? Francisco? Beret One or Beret Two? I look down and see both of their hands below the table...it is an unsolvable mystery.

Francisco finally speaks, “You are here alone?’ Time for me to confess. “No, I am here with my brother.” “Me too,” he says and indicates with the spoon an incredibly fine man in a priest’s collar talking at the bar. And since once you start making confessions, it is hard to stop, I say “I couldn’t come up with a date, so I called my brother, but he ditched me before dinner to chat up some brainy Russian girl he knows from the Internet.” “So you did not eat dinner? “ Francisco asks, his eyes tender with concern. “Nope.” and suddenly the rumble from my stomach proves my point. “Then come, little pájaro, and I will feed you”. My mind is swimming. Does he mean feed me or feed me. And should I be insulted by that “pájaro”?--not very PC, but maybe is compliment in Chile.

He takes me to a corner table. Goes away and comes back with a bowl of soup. Sits down, rolls up his sleeves (again, that hair). And slowly, never looking away from my eyes, feeds me soup. I am thinking, remember to swallow, Janessa, remember to swallow, and find that it is a very difficult thing to do. To be fed soup by the most beautiful hands I have ever seen, to look into those compassionate eyes, it is all I can do not to aspirate. To calm myself, I keep my eyes focused on his beret, which is quite ridiculous. When the soup is done, I again feel a hand brush my knee. But Francisco is busy with a napkin, dabbing at the front of my only Chanel dress. He looks concerned, “maybe you had better, uh, clean up,” he says and escorts me to the ladies room.

In the powder room, I remedy the soup damage. I love this dress. Zips in the back from the hem up. I fix my lipstick and ignore the increasingly bizarre curling of my hair. As I exit the ladies, I have the sensation of someone watching me. There he is, leaning against the wall: a young guy in tight black jeans, a silver belt and the cheesiest silk shirt and tie I have ever seen. But really knows how to wear pants. He is giving me the look up and down, and spending a little too much time on my stockings to be considered polite. He saunters over, then passes me and goes into the coat room. Why do I follow? I don’t know. Maybe I need a coat. Maybe it is the curve of his lips. I am barely through the door before he pulls me behind it and presses me up against a rack of furs. “What are you called?” he asks, not looking at my face, but considering the zipper. At this point I’m not sure. I see the curls of his hair brushing down the front of my dress as he kneels and wraps his arms around my thighs. “Good quality stockings, “ he says, “And I’m a professional, I should know.” He looks up at me with eyes the color of almonds and his suggestive smile extends to the very tips of his eyelashes. “I am called Antonio,” he says. But I am thinking, professional? And can I afford this guy? I mean, I already paid for my brother’s tux. Then I remember my inspirational bracelet, a Christmas gift from my sister that says, W.W.I.A.D. What Would Isabel Allende Do? No doubt about it. “Do anything you want, I say, “just don’t mess up the lipstick.”.....

Later, I am wrestling with a fur coat caught in my zipper, and fretting a little about my American Express bill. I hear a little giggle next to me and look up to see my old friend, Mario the Hairdresser. “You are really a mess darling, “ he says and unsticks the zipper. “And what are these? “ he asks, holding up a pair of cotton panties with big blue daisies on them. ”Not very ‘Elle’, my dear,” he snorts. I snatch the unglamorous underthings back from him. “Hey, I thought I was going to be here with my brother and its 20 degrees below zero out. .” I snap back. “Oh, your brother is here, “ Mario replies with a raised eyebrow. “Let’s go look for him.”

As we head for the bar, I pass the table of communists. The conversation is heating up and they have been joined by a group of dark men in white suits. Only one of them is sitting down. He is smoking a big cigar and blowing smoke into the faces of Che and my father. Probably a big donor. I follow Mario.

It is difficult for me to sit on barstool in a ladylike fashion. My legs are long, but only in a relative way, and I can only stay perched somewhat uncomfortably on the edge of the stool if I cross my legs and hook the toe of one shoe under the next stool. As I try to do this, hooking one satin pump under the seat of the guy next to me, I see a hand come around and grab my ankle. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk” I hear and I am spun around on my stool to come up against the broadest chest in the dirtiest shirt in the room. It is some guy in a mariachi outfit, and he is still gripping my ankle. His hair is hanging straight and dark across his face, and his eyes are burning through my little dress. Maybe he will see that my bra is also unglamorous and sensible. He runs his hand slowly up my leg, and then steadies me as I am about to fall off my stool. Rather roughly, he pulls my head toward his face and whispers, “I am looking for a man....”. Maybe I should introduce him to Mario. He gives me a little bite on the neck, then walks away, the silver jangling on his hips. Not a donor, I am thinking.

I try hooking my foot under the seat on the other side of me, but I’m distracted by the jeans I find sitting there. Very nice jeans leading down to a pair of black boots with little multicolored flecks of paint on them. And as those jeans turn toward me, I find I am looking into the glasses of the famous artist, Bart Dodge. He has donated one of his paintings, “Jillian, Unclothed” to the silent auction tonight. I know Bart and his brother, Art, because we have had to bail out our fathers together many times. Bart smiles, “Janessa, you look fantastic, all frowning like that,” he says. I am frowning because the mariachi guy seems to be stalking the table of leftists, peering at the guys in the white suits from behind a pillar. I intend to lean over and give Bart a little peck on the cheek, but I am perched so perilously on the stool that I pitch forward into him, and we both land on the floor. Bart’s glasses fly from his face, and my carefully arranged hair tumbles into his mouth. Does he kiss it or is he just trying to breathe? I don’t know. As I lay sprawled on top of him, I realize his jeans really are pretty tight. Wow. Really. Wow. I have the sensation my zipper is rising, and so I get up quickly and readjust my skirt. Bart retrieves his glasses and puts them on. They immediately steam up. Why didn’t I think of Bart when I was scrounging for a date? Next time....

The music is starting. Mambo. I see my brother dancing with his grey-eyed Russian friend. I see Mario dancing with some guy in a white sailor’s suit. I sigh and scan the room for little bald guys who will give money to the cause if I dance with them. I find myself next to the bandstand. Beautiful music and no one to dance with. So I sway a little to myself and watch the band. I mean, I watch one guy in the band. The trumpet player. He looks a little familiar, but all these guys tonight seem to have those long-lashed eyes and narrow hips. But this guy also has the moves, sister. I’m saying, moves. I must be staring a long time, because the singer in the band nudges the trumpet player and nods toward me. The trumpet player grins and empties his spit valve in my direction. Maybe is a positive thing, I’m not sure. When the song ends, the trumpet player descends to the dance floor. I get, yet again, the look up and down, this time perfectly executed and very charming. “I am Nestor,” he says and takes my hand to his lips. “and you are...” I am Speechless. “...the most beautiful woman in the room,” he finishes for me. Well, the only one with mink in her zipper, anyway.

We dance. I can feel the strength of his back muscles through his jacket. And of other muscles through the front of his jacket. He is very young, this Nestor. And I suppose that trumpet players have some interesting kind of lips. He is humming gently into my ear. Moving his hands down my back. I breathe in the smell of his neck and put my hands into his soft hair. I could wish to stay this way forever......

Suddenly, I am pulled away from Nestor, a rough hand around my wrist. Some guy in jeans and a red sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off is pulling me around the corner. I barely have time to notice his tattoos before he backs me up against the wall, his hand over my mouth. “Don’t make a sound,” he says. And after he withdraws his hand, I don’t. Make a sound, that is. Another guy with pouty lips and liquid brown eyes! This is some party. This guy is restless, jaw muscles taut, eyes a bit fretful and wary. “I need you, Janessa,” he says. No time to react to this. He’s too close to me. “I’m Tony Ramirez. I’m doing security for your father.” For my father? Is he at the right party? “Something has come up.” At least once or twice, I am thinking. “I need you to go to your father’s table and give him this.” He slips a small note into my hand. Holds his fingers there a little longer than necessary. He stares searchingly at my face, his eyes full of questions. “Do you think you could fix up your hair first?” he asks, and makes a vain attempt to put it back up. As he does so, he notices the small red snake tattooed on my neck. He runs his finger over it and gives me a brilliant smile. Oh, yeah, I think, tattoo was good investment. He leaves quickly, and I adjust my hair. Is that my breath I hear? Kind of , um, irregular......

As I approach my father’s table, I hear someone hissing from behind a pillar. It is the mariachi guy, his wrists twitching as he adjusts the shirt under his black jacket. He smiles, more to himself than to me, and waves me on.

The mariachi is hiding about 5 feet behind my father’s table. I see the back of my papa’s head, his darling bald spot shining. He is sitting next to Bart, who is reclining back in his chair, his long legs extended but taut, not relaxed, and he is fiddling nervously with his glasses. On the other side of my dad is Che, even more tense than before, his lips tight and his body seemingly ready to spring from his chair. Francisco is standing there, coolly regarding the dark man in the white suit who is staring, threateningly, at my father and his friends.

“This is you last chance, pops,” the dark man says, slowly withdrawing his cigar. He has mesmerizing eyes and a rough beard that makes me very twitchy. “Hola, senorita,” he acknowledges me. I feel several pairs of deep brown eyes against my dress. The dark man turns to my father again. “You must decide now. Give us what we want, or we will destroy the place. Beginning with......your daughter’s stockings!” The dark man reaches over and with a quick motion rips a ladder into to one of my thirty- dollar- a -piece silk stockings. (The price is true, just ask the coatroom guy.) I give out a little cry of despair as the best part of my outfit is destroyed. Mario, who is standing by, gives out an even louder cry. “Those are Kenneth Cole!,” he shouts. Francisco turns and gives me his most compassionate glance, and I yet again feel a hand against my knee.

My father, stands, draws himself up to his full height of 5 feet 6 inches. His hair is streaming around his face like a lion’s mane. “No, Bucho,” he says, his voice defiant, and his accent Long Island. “We will never give in. We will never have Michael Crawford at our benefit concert.”

The face of the dark man, Bucho, fills with wrath. His henchman close in around him. “Then you leave me no choice, senor. We are now going to disrupt this little social gathering in a very disturbing way.” Saying this, Bucho rises up and turns over the table. He grabs me by the arms and turns me around, holding me against him as a shield. “Nobody moves, “ he snarls. “I warn you senor, sign the Michael Crawford contract or your daughter will pay.” I feel his hand on my backside, and the zipper rising again. I feel all eyes in the room move from Bucho's face to my ass.

Suddenly, there is an ominous creak from behind my father. Everyone turns to see a guitar case on the floor, its cover rising mysteriously. The case is filled with every kind of lethal firearm yet invented. Then into the circle walks the biggest Mexican I have ever seen. It is El Mariachi and he fixes his eyes on Bucho. Bucho's hand moves from my dress to the gun concealed under his jacket. The mariachi fidgets with the sleeves of his jacket and smiles, “Janessa, let’s play...”

In an instant, I am on the floor and Bucho is behind the overturned table. Guys are whipping out guns and bullets are flying in every direction. El Mariachi is kneeling beside his case and handing out armaments to the friends of my father: Bart, who is adjusting his glasses and drawing a bead on one of Bucho’s cronies, Che who has Bucho’s body guard in a headlock , Francisco, who rips off his beret and as his beautiful hair tumbles down around his face has barely enough time to caress my knee before aiming his rifle at Bucho’s face. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Antonio from the coat room rifling through the pockets of the fur coats. I see Mario jump into the arms of his sailor friend crying ,”Save yourself!”. I see Nestor, beautiful Nestor, coming down from the bandstand as if in a dream, raising his trumpet overhead and bringing down with a crash onto Bucho’s head.

Bucho is disoriented only for a moment. In that moment, I try to scurry across the floor to my father, who is looking a little dazed. But my stockings are very slippery and I stumble....into the strong, tattooed arms of Tony Ramirez. He puts an arm around my waist. “Your hair still looks terrible,” he says. “And your stockings....” He shakes his head and clucks his tongue. He runs his hand up my poor tattered hosiery, but before I can make an appreciative sound, he pushes me behind him. Bucho faces us, gun in hand, nostrils flaring and beard still making me feel a little thrilled.

“Ramirez, I should have known you’d be here,” Bucho snarls. Tony is unarmed, but also unflinching. I press myself up against his back. Why, I do not know, since does not serve any useful purpose. But feels pretty good. I guess if Tony is going to take a bullet, my only Chanel dress is going to take it too. Suddenly, I feel someone press up against me from behind. From the jangling silver, I guess that it is El Mariachi. With my face buried against Tony’s long ponytail and El Mariachi’s pants pressing me from behind, I’m guessing this is the best party I’ll ever attend. With one hand, El M re-zips my skirt and with the other, points one fantastic gun over Tony’s shoulder and into Bucho’s face. Tony takes the gun from El M who needs two hands to really do the zipping right. Bucho snarls in frustration. I’m feeling a little frustrated myself, but in the nicest possible way. My skirt adjusted, El Mariachi, puts one hot hand on my head and says, “Get down, little one.” He pushes me to the floor, pushes Tony out of the way, and the smoke from his hidden wrist guns fills the room as he finishes Bucho once and for all.

Well sister, when the smoke clears, I find myself sitting with papa at the only table left standing. Smoke is swirling in the room and the Michael Crawford contract is in shreds on the floor. My stockings are quite ruined. But around me are my lovely defenders: Che, Francisco, Bart, Nestor, El Mariachi and Tony. And even Antonio the coatroom guy is still around. My heart is filled with.....well, with gratitude, I guess, as I look around as the best damn collection of pants I have ever seen.

As the guys close in around my dad, congratulating each other, I see they all have a special glance for me. I know my clothes are in shambles and my hair is like the sun, streaming in all directions, but some of these glances are appreciative, some suggestive even, and all heart-melting. These guys really deserve some special thanks. I line them up next to my father.

“Thank you, Che,” I say, and give him a little kiss with my bourgeois Chanel lips. He holds it a little longer than is proper for a revolutionary, which is very nice. Next. “Oh, Francisco, “ I say and run my hands along his arms before kissing him quite deeply. I notice the vein popping out on his forehead. This time he gives my knee a very nice squeeze. And Bart. Bart, I pull towards me, feeling those tight jeans against my hips. Wow again. I kiss his lower lip, slowly. “Bart,” I say at last, “we will be talking.” And now Nestor, beautiful Nestor. For him the most tender, most arousing kiss I can summon. Too bad he has to play one more set. I kiss even Antonio the coatroom guy. “This one is on me, “ he says. It takes me a bit to pry his hand off my ass. I give charming kisses to both Mario and his sailor friend, Miguel, from Philadelphia. Mario is still a little emotional about the stockings.

And now I am faced with a dilemma. My two heroes. El Mariachi and Tony, best sandwich makers in town. Who will get next kiss? It is apparently not my decision, as El Mariachi sweeps me from my feet with one strong arm and forces his tongue between my lips. I think this is where my stockings fall down. As he sets me back on the ground, my knees are trembling and he is looking far away, a bittersweet smile on his face. Right. That means Tony is next.

I look around, but Tony is gone. No torn red sweatshirt, no tattoos, no beautiful ponytail. I am crushed. My brother comes up to me with my coat and we decide to depart, arm in arm with papa. Suddenly, I remember the note Tony gave me for pops. I hand it to him and he reads it aloud: “Senor.: I am sorry to say that after 5 days of following your daughter, I still have not figured out how she earns enough money to afford those stockings. No charge, for my services though. They are very nice stockings.” It’s been quite a party, and I know that tonight I will dream of paint spattered boots, jangling pants and tattoos.

As we stand outside and hail a cab, I hear the roar of a Harley-Davidson. It is Tony Ramirez, Puerto Rican deluxe model, astride a very large motorcycle. “Come on, Janessa,” he says, and hold out his arms. I am doubtful. I mean, this is a minidress. Like I need to be riding through the Loop with my sensible underwear showing. “Come on Janessa, let’s go. I have something you really need.” I look up at him, my blue eyes filled with pleasant expectations. He pulls me on to the bike, in front of him. “I mean, I have a shower,” he says. A shower, manita. AIIIIIIIIIYIIIIIIII!