Although I rented a room from Felipa, and was a tenant, not a guest, she would often come traipsing into my room without so much as a knock. She kept some of her things in there and one morning she came in at about 8 o' clock. I had been out at the bar the night before and did not wish to be disturbed. When she came in, she picked one of my shirts up off the floor, smelled it, and immediately began interrogating me.

“No fumar! No fumar!” she said loudly. Felipa was easily excitable and she always spoke loudly. She did not speak English and I spoke a little bit of Spanish, so we always talked in Spanish.

“Porque fumas? No me gusta la gente quien fuman!” Felipa wanted to know why I smoked and then informed me that she did not like people who smoked. I told her that I did not smoke, that I had been in a bar the night before, and usually bars are smoke filled environments. Hence the reason my shirt smelled like smoke.

She pit pattered around my room a few more moments, muttering to herself about the horrors of smoking. Once she left, I got up and drew a quick caricature of Felipa in my journal. Short, curly hair, a big nose and an exaggerated smile. Felipa was about 60 years old and 5 feet tall. She always wore a house dress with flowers on it and flip-flops. I gave the sketch all of the appropriate characteristics, then underneath the sketch I wrote the words “I Hate Felipa.”

After that, I closed my journal and went to the bathroom so I could take a shower. Before I turned on the water I heard Felipa flip-flopping into the kitchen. Felipa liked to go into the kitchen when I took showers because there was a small window about eight feet above the ground that connected the kitchen to the bathroom. That way she could talk at me while I was in the shower. I did not like being talked at while in the shower. I turned on the faucet as fast as I could and prayed the water would drown the sounds of her chattering.

I was not so lucky. First, above the slamming of the pots and pans I heard the singing (always the same song) “La La La, todos los Espanoles, corazon, corazon, corazon, La La La!” Then I heard the quick, agitated mumbling. Then, loudly, “Maht-eh” (my name is Martin, but she called me Maht-eh, or, este Maht-eh), “Maht-eh, no me gusta los fumadores! Sabes que no me gusta! Porque fumas?”

I tried to pretend not to hear her, but she persisted. “Maht-eh! Maht-eh!” she banged on the wall so I could hear. I was washing myself right now. Why did I have to listen to this?

“Como!” I yelled back.

“No me gusta los fumadores! Porque fumas?”

Again, above the roar of the water and banging dishes, I attempted to explain that I didn't smoke, that I had been in a bar last night where there were many smokers, there was poor ventilation in the bar, hence the reason my shirt smelled like smoke.

I was not surprised that Felipa did not like smokers. She had many preconceived ideas about the world that had nothing to do with reality. For some strange reason she had a preoccupation with the British Royal Family. She used to talk at me about them while I was eating. She told me that Queen Elizabeth was a wino and she drank every night. I did not know if this was true or not, nor did I think it was important, but I went along with the idea so she would talk at me less. She told me this every night, with an excited gleam in her eye, like it was the first time she was telling me.

Every time she referred to Prince Charles she grabbed each of her earlobes between her thumbs and index fingers and said “Las Orejas. ” She did not like Prince Charles because he was left handed. One day she was watching TV and she saw Prince Charles sign a document with his left hand. With her very own eyes! I asked her what she had against left handed people she looked at me like I had said something horribly wrong. She explained to me that she that she had watched me write with my right hand, watched me eat with my right hand (I looked at my fork, thankfully, it was in my right hand) and that this was what most people did and was normal. But there were others, she told me, who did these things with their left hands. These people were not normal and not to be trusted. Without saying so out loud, she implied with her eyes and body language that there was a possibility that these people were witches.

I knew better than to press the subject. I pretended that my question as to why she disliked left handed people to begin with was just an error in communication due to my poor Spanish. Quickly, I assured her that I disliked and distrusted left handed people every bit as much as she did.

I thought of this as I ran the towel over my dripping body. I walked back to my room and shut the door. I began to look around for some clean clothes to wear when again I heard the flip-flops. “Oh, no!?” I thought. There was a quick knocking at the door and a “Maht-eh, permite me entrar!”

“What!” I yelled at the door.

Felipa came in and started up again immediately. She asked me why I smoked and then told me that she did not like smokers. “Porque fumas? No me gusta los fumadores! No fumas en este casa!”

I was standing there with a towel around my waist. I just wanted to get dressed and go some place where I didn't have to deal with all this. I grabbed hold of one of my ears like she did when she talked about Prince Charles and told her that I had heard her the first four times she told me. Then I told her that I did not smoke, that I had been in a bar the night before where there were many smokers and inadequate ventilation, hence the reason my shirt smelled like cigarette smoke. After that I went on to assure her that even if I was a smoker, I would never, ever, under any circumstances smoke a cigarette in her house. Then I asked her if I could please get dressed now because I was late for work.

“Bale,” Felipa said and then looked down at my feet. “Ponge los zapaterias!” She motioned for me to put on my own flip-flops. Flip-flops, or zapaterias, were a big issue for Felipa. Either shoes or flip-flops had to be worn in the house at all times. Never was one allowed to walk the house with his or her bare feet. My shoes that I walked the streets in, my shoes that I crushed bugs with, my shoes that I wore while swimming in dogshit were fine to wear while walking around the house, but not my bare, freshly washed feet.

I put on my flip-flops, walked across the room towards Felipa and pointed towards the door. I told her that if she did not leave immediately I would drop the towel and get dressed in front of her. She described the prospect of seeing me naked as a “vision of horror” and then left the room, laughing to herself about my inadequacies as a man and my poor ability to speak Spanish.

I took off the towel, took off the flip-flops, put on my pants, then put the flip-flops back on. Then I walked to the bathroom so I could brush my teeth.

After shutting the door so as not to be disturbed, I wet my toothbrush with ice cold water and applied the appropriate amount of toothpaste. I began brushing, working up the foam in my mouth. Yeah, that was more like it. Nice and Easy. I cocked my head in different positions, squinted my eyes and tried to look hard while I brushed my teeth. With breath this fresh and delicious, how could I possibly be mistaken for a smoker? I stuck my tongue out like when the doctor tells you to say “ahhhhh!” and scrubbed it; scrubbed the bad breath away like barnacles off a boat.

Just then the door opened. I had not heard the flip-flops due to the running water and my preoccupation with my teeth and breath. She bumped me with the door as it opened, then stood in the doorway, glaring at me, one hand on her hip, the other shaking and pointing at me.

“Si tu quieres a fumar, no se puede vivir en esteÉ”

“Oh, for Christ's sake!” I screamed, spitting, toothpaste flying out of my mouth, everywhere.

A little bit of toothpaste landed on Felipa's hideous, bulbous nose. Another bit had apparently landed in her eye and was stinging her. The hand she had been using to point at me went immediately to cover her eye and she ran out of the bathroom screaming, “Oooohhhhh! Aye de me! Mi ojo! Mi ojo!” I hoped her eye hurt bad enough that she would shut up, although I knew that wouldn't happen. Still, I smiled to myself. I liked that at this moment Felipa's eye was burning, and my breath was as fresh as a crisp October day.

I walked back to my room to finish getting ready to leave. I kicked my zapaterias onto the floor. “Flip-flops in a flop house,” I thought to myself.

As I was getting ready, I looked up at the substantially large crucifix that hung above my bed. I liked that Jesus watched over me all those nights I came stumbling home, but I was not sure how I felt about the violent image of his bloody, mangled, corpse hanging above my bed. I was sure Felipa came in here often while I was gone, got down on her knees, and prayed to the image of Jesus's dead body. I could see her, kneeling at the foot of my bed, hands clasped, praying to the image to save her from thunderstorms and big dogs and people who signed their names with their left hands, and probably me. It is doubtless, I thought, that she believes in transubstantiation.

I finished getting ready and got set to leave. For a brief moment, I wished I had friends I could live with, or a good job, or something. As I walked through the living room I saw Felipa sitting on the couch, one hand still covering her eye.

“Me duele! Me duele!” she moaned. “Mi ojo!”

Without stopping, I looked at her one good eye and made sure to use my left hand as I brought my index and middle fingers to my lips. I inhaled deeply on an imaginary cigarette and walked out the door.

 

Back to the Top or Story Of The Month