Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story Read online

  Heartbreak for Dinner

  by Annah Rondon

  © 2013 by Annah Rondon. All rights reserved

  For Ivan and Zule:

  Because nothing of great significance ever

  comes easy, and you are the most significant

  of all the things a girl could ever wish for.

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  The Face

  The Age of Annah-Sense

  I Don’t Practice Santeria

  Point of Insertion

  Interlude

  Shit Happens

  Encounters of the 3rd Kind

  Delicious Disaster

  Love at First Fight

  There Will Be Blood

  Azucar

  Hands & Annah Make a Porno

  In Summer We Bloomed

  A Sex Tape Would’ve Been so Much Easier

  Unexpected Turbulence

  I’m Not Cut Out for This

  Just Friends

  You Should Probably Have That Threesome

  Cold Feet Creek

  I Will Surely Regret This

  The Lucky Ones

  Long Hair Don’t Care

  Sin City

  But All I Really Wanted Was to Be a Serial Killer

  The Break-Up

  An Uncontrollable Itch

  Outerlude

  Survival of the Fittest

  I Do

  Twenty Twenty

  Inside

  Stranger Danger

  Chasing Legends

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Foreword

  Quite often people have asked if the events I write about are true or simple figments of a hyperactive imagination. I would like to clear the air one last time and state that I’m not as creative as people presume in conjuring up such scenarios. As a writer and storyteller, I reserve the right to slightly embellish for the sake of entertainment but, otherwise, this is real life. It goes without saying, names have been changed to protect the innocent, as well as the evil, but more so to shield those I hold near my heart.

  Expressing what my book is about to every acquaintance and stranger that’s asked in passing has been a miserable failure. In retrospect, I realize any attempt at articulating its meaning would be a disservice to this agglomeration of madness. It is evident from the start it doesn’t follow a linear path as it relates to making sense, yet I’ve learned most things of value in life hardly ever do. If pressed, I will offer that it reads like a Taco Bell menu after a night of heavy drinking: you know it’s a bad idea, but you’re going to proceed anyway because you hunger for a little danger.

  In spite of your initial misgivings or what the rational half of your brain might tell you, this here is a love story.

  The Face

  Once upon a time in a communist land far away, a boy so beautiful was born the town called him Face. With a penchant for trouble and propensity for mastering the art of badassery, he quickly found himself in the wrong sort of circles.

  Disclaimer: It’s probably a terrible idea to include a picture of my father without pants on in the first chapter, but here we are nonetheless. Sorry, dad.

  On the other end of that land and around the same time, a girl so sweet came to be, she immediately became the darling of her town. With a love for science and propensity for mastering the art of nerdiness, she quickly found herself engaged to a doctor and on the path to her own PhD.

  When he turned 20, Face devised a plan to escape the country illegally by boat on a Tuesday morning. Sadly for him, one of his neighbors disclosed his intentions to the police and he ended up in jail for two and a half years. His cell mate – an older guy in his thirties – was captured and incarcerated for the same reasons. Soon after, the unlikely pair struck a friendship.

  One day, Nerd Girl traveled cross country to visit her brother in prison. Once there, she found it impossible to concentrate on their conversation, as Face wouldn’t stop interrupting with what he thought was intelligent input and witty remarks. She hopped on a plane the next morning and told her best friend about this annoying guy, constantly butting in with nothing but crass remarks and ridiculous anti-communism ideologies. Over beers she confessed to being plagued by thoughts of him on the flight home, yet she couldn’t quite pinpoint as to why.

  When Face was released from jail at 22, he bid his old cellmate goodbye and promised to find Nerd Girl, thanking him profusely for disclosing her address.

  “She’s getting married, man,” said the brother in an attempt to save Face some face (pun totally intended). “Plus, no offense, compadre, but you’re not really her type.”

  “Of course she’s getting married,” Face retorted with a wink, “to me.”

  Four months later, this happened. Seven months after the wedding, I came out poised for ass-kicking.

  And we lived happily ever after. The End.*

  *Of this chapter.

  The Age of Annah-Sense

  I keep hearing of this stage in a girl’s life where she’s completely and utterly repulsed by members of the opposite sex. Cooties, they call it, as I listen in bewildered silence and wonder, What the fuck is wrong with these people? Clearly, I’ve never been afflicted by such an abomination. Yet, I wonder if these cooties have some sort of positive weight on the outcome of our romantic endeavors once we’re rid of them.

  As I verge 30 and the prospects of finding “The One” become less and less plausible, I begin to question where things went wrong. Did I watch too many episodes of Sex and the City thinking Mr. Big would drop from the sky in the middle of yoga? Or are cooties a rite of passage a girl needs to experience in order to find her true soulmate?

  I contemplate the many times my heart’s been broken and start to think maybe I’m developing adult cooties – the kind where men have driven me so far from hope I begin to consider becoming a lesbian. I circle back to all those failed attempts at true love and as I hone in on where it all began, it inevitably leads back to him. We all have one relationship that sets a precedent for everything following the wretched road called dating. The day I set eyes on his dimpled smile and jet black hair I knew he was different – my heart beating into another stratosphere as I mulled over ways to get his attention.

  Johnny was the sort of boy destined to break hearts straight out of the womb. Despite living in a country where most guys are born to be Carlos or Ricardo, my beloved’s mom decided to name him after her uncle’s favorite singer, Johnny Cash. My parents named me after a character in a Russian book my father loved, so obviously we were meant to be. For Cuban children, finding a mate becomes a competitive sport one must partake in early, as it’s probable you’ll end up marrying your preschool sweetheart before you turn 21. With this in mind, I felt it was my duty to secure my future with Johnny early on. I mean, it’s never too early to work on true love and age ain’t nuthin’ but a number.

  Or something to that effect.

  Standing out in a sea of first graders is a challenging feat, especially when the uniform you’re forced to rock every day looks like this:

  I gathered as much confidence as a tall and chubby 6-year-old with 80s hair could gather. In the grand scheme of things, I was friggin’ adorable.

  Operation Johnny Cash was in full force two weeks into the school year. Staring at him in class became my full time job, as did failing all my quizzes on Castro and his revolution, but that’s another story altogether. One day, while singing the national anthem, our eyes locked. He looked away rather quickly and kept on singing, but not before smiling that dimpled smile of his in my general direction. I took this as my cue to proceed to the ne
xt step of my game plan. That afternoon during recess, I spied from afar as he took out a container with rice, beans, and two boiled eggs. The next day, I noticed his lunch was exactly the same. I triumphantly grabbed my pork sandwich and sauntered over his way before I could chicken out.

  “Hola,” I chirped. “Do you want to trade lunches with me?” I had intended to sound nonchalant, but my question came out fast and high-pitched.

  He looked up and said nothing.

  “Boiled eggs are my favorite,” I continued, waving my sandwich in his face and hoping for the best as my confidence quickly waned.

  “Boiled eggs are disgusting,” he sighed, accepting my trade after a moment’s hesitation. “Gracias.”

  I boldly took the seat next to him and we ate in silence. It was clear his mother wasn’t a fan of salt and pepper, nor any other seasoning, but not much could be expected from a Cuban who didn’t name her son Carlos. When Johnny finished eating his sandwich, he turned to me and asked for my name. “Annah,” I smiled and tugged on my boyish hair.

  “Anita,” he said. “I’m Yohnee.”

  After that encounter, we became inseparable. Meals during recess transformed into my beacon of hope. Some forces in life one cannot contend with, and no mightier force exists than a girl on a mission. Every day, I traded lunches with him in hopes of getting closer. His mom’s bland offerings were simply unworthy opponents to my father’s culinary delights. Step by tiny step, I slowly made headway in the demolition of his shy barrier, each afternoon becoming sweeter in my quest for his affection.

  I was almost there. Almost. Until the devil in a skirt arrived.

  In retrospect one would understand, yet in my innocent youth I couldn’t grasp why he suddenly lost interest in me and became enamored with that blonde midget who joined us in the middle of the year. From the moment Dumb Dumb appeared what never began was over. My efforts to gain his attention once more were futile and it gradually became evident no sandwich in the world could save me. My formerly chubby frame became increasingly thinner over the course of a few weeks, my thighs no longer rubbing together under my uniform skirt.

  My sudden distaste for his lunches did not go unnoticed. As we walked home in silence one Friday afternoon, my father raised his concern. “Annah, what exactly is the situation with you not eating your food lately?”

  I was caught off guard. “Nada, Papa. I’m just tired of pork, I guess.”

  He suddenly stopped walking and pulled my hand firmly. “Let me make it very clear that some kids would kill for your lunch,” he snarled in a tone rarely used in our household. “Don’t forget where you live.”

  That evening, he took me out to dinner for a treat at his favorite restaurant. I recall that night as if it were yesterday, the rough napkin scratching my legs as the waitress recited the menu by heart. The cool breeze on the outdoor patio overlooking the park and a sky filled with stars. The boredom I felt while anxiously sipping lemonade as my dad listened attentively to his dining choices. The drool practically coming out of my ears by the time he finally made one.

  “We’ll have the chicken fricassee with white rice and beans,” he said. “And Maria, could you bring some of that house habanero please?”

  “Que es habanero?” I curiously inquired once the waitress left.

  “It’s a very spicy sauce they make here, but you’re too young to have any. Remember that red bottle I have at home? That’s habanero,” he ruffled my hair. “Maybe you can try it after your quinces.”

  I opened my mouth to argue but suddenly Maria was back with a plate of ham croquettes and I forgot all about habanero and guys with a penchant for stupid girls.

  While Johnny romanced Dumb Dumb, he had the audacity to pretend we were still best of friends. I in turn won an Oscar at pretending I didn’t want to gouge his eyes out with my tiny, love-sick hands. As we played besties and Johnny reverted to eating my lunches every afternoon, an uncontrollable hunger began to grow within me: the literal type. Jerk face was eating my food and I was no longer interested in winning him over. In fact, poisoning him seemed the only viable option to regain my confidence in life and the opposite sex.

  Eventually I started taking my lunches in the girls’ bathroom and resolved to forget about boys altogether. My thighs began filling out and I somehow clung to the hope that one day I’d obliterate the memory of Johnny from my yet-to-be-developed brain. The truth, as we all know it, is that when it comes to men, girl brains don’t develop but in fact shrink, like raisins that have decided to give up in the presence of the sun. A few weeks after, I decided maybe poisoning Johnny wasn’t such a bad idea and quickly set my plan into motion. One morning, I awoke at my usual time of four to use the bathroom, making a detour to the kitchen and drenching the insides of my lunch with habanero sauce while everyone slept. I went back to bed and guiltily plotted, wondering if maybe I should just dispose of the sandwich in the morning along with my plans of wicked revenge. It really isn’t a big deal, I thought, immediately falling asleep before I could change my mind.

  Classes dragged by at a snail rate the following morning, the clock on top of the board resembling an hour glass whose sand had stopped running. When the bell finally tolled at noon, I braced myself for my very first devious move in the name of love. Johnny and Dumb Dumb sat side-by-side at their usual table, laughing at something one of our classmates was saying.

  “Hola, Johnny,” I faked a smile and waved a little at them both.

  “Anita . . .” he let his voice trail off. “How are you?”

  I looked over at Dumb Dumb searching for signs of impatience or hatred, but she just sat there smiling up at me, her perfect blonde curls bobbing in unison as she nodded for no particular reason. I once again considered backing out, but then that meant coming up with another reason for why I was standing there.

  “Want to trade lunches with me today?” I finally said while turning to him. “I’m kind of craving some rice and beans.”

  He shot me a perplexed look and shrugged his shoulders. “Sure,” he pushed his plate in my direction and stretched out his hand. I promptly placed the sandwich in it and stood there like a creeper. When he realized I wasn’t going anywhere, he opened the sandwich and took a greedy bite. I couldn’t help but revel in the sweet satisfaction of my triumph ahead of time. “Her dad makes the best food,” he remarked to Dumb Dumb in between mouthfuls. I waited for hell to be unleashed but he bit the thing again without even blinking, his face showing no signs of discomfort.

  “Yummy, right?” I asked with fake interest in the boiled egg I’d just stuck a fork in.

  “Delicioso,” he mustered while slowly reaching for a bottle of milk, his fair complexion reddening ever-so-slightly. I saw Dumb Dumb reach for the sandwich and thought how lucky I’d be if I killed two birds with one stone. Whether from pride or fear of Dumb Dumb choking half to death, Johnny finished his sandwich in three bites and feigned satisfaction. “That was great, Anita. Thanks.”

  But I knew better.

  My vengeance carried out, I pretended to wave at someone across the courtyard and bid my farewells. I sat down with a friend, enjoying my plate of revenge served bland by Johnny’s mother, and it never tasted as sweet.

  I sat in class two hours later reading a Jose Martí poem aloud when I saw Johnny’s hand shoot up out of the corner of my eye. Knowing good and well Ms. Lopez would not allow for an interruption during poetry, I continued my interpretation of A Sincere Man I Am. As I paused at the end of a stanza, my teacher nodded approvingly, Johnny’s hand still up and ignored. My poetic rendition was interrupted without warning by a loud noise that could not be confused for anything other than a shart.

  Oh, Johnny.

  Johnny’s hand went down as all eyes focused on him, his ears a tomato scarlet that gave away his guilt. “Excuse me,” he whispered to no one in particular as he shuffled to the door and a ghastly smell followed him. I heard the girl next to me gasp and someone snicker in the front. As I slowly lifted my gaze to him, I d
iscovered his uniform shorts were wet on the right side, the same leg smeared in poop that slowly trailed down to his sock. After going to where I presumed was the bathroom, Johnny never returned to class. Nor did he the next day or for the remainder of the week. When he finally showed face six days later (yes, I counted), his eyes were perpetually glued to the floor and Dumb Dumb his only companion.

  My imaginary romance with “Yohnee” ended that fateful afternoon of ill-timed sharting and pesky bowel movements. Much to my dismay, the whole fiasco only deepened his bond with she-who-I’ll-no-longer-mention. I developed new crushes that year and each subsequent one after, but I never shared my food with anyone else nor did I ever exact revenge on guys who did me wrong. I figured that if someone took the time to hurt me on purpose, I’d better stay put and let the universe do its thing.

  (I also held back the urge to slash their tires in the middle of the night, as they’d surely die in a car accident or something as a result of my childish fury.)

  My parents and I eventually moved to the United States and started a new chapter of our lives away from Castro and boiled eggs. I stayed abreast of all the town gossip via telegrams from my Grandma Blanca and letters that left Cuba in January to reach my hands in May. As was to be expected, Johnny married his beloved right after high school and moved to a city close to Havana soon after. Last I heard, they had two daughters and a boy on the way they would naturally call Carlos or Ricardo.

  I guess sometimes, try as we might, we all lose our battles against destiny. At the end of the road, I couldn’t pry those two apart even if armed with all the media noches in the world. Johnny and Dumb Dumb ended up with each other, I ended up with habanero sauce, and there’s not much left to say except, true love will always find its way if you let it.

  The bride wore white and the groom was super hot.