Dogeaters by Jessica Hagedorn Read Free Book Online

“I should’ve known better, Joey. You know me. I’m fussy. CocoRico isn’t just some disco, di ba? It’s my home away from home—and I can’t run a place I’m ashamed of! It’s a reflection on my family name…”
    There he goes again, never letting you forget he’s an Alacran. Andres Alacran the Queen of Mabini—a relation from the poor side of the family, forced to earn his living. I nod automatically to please Andres, who pours me another shot of rum. I savor its burning sensation on my tongue, feeling snug and fed like a baby. When Andres gets going with one of his tirades, it’s easy enough to shut him out. But I also know what he means. CocoRico is home for me too—a safe place, cool and dark and easy on the eyes.
    It’s only ten past four. I’ll wait another hour. I’m on my own special diet these days, longer intervals between times. I’ve devised it to stay in control; it’s become a little game for me, watching the clock, keeping score. I see how well I do, if I can top myself. I do very well. It’s all filed away in my head, my scorecard. Day one, two, three…I don’t tell anyone about my new game, except Uncle. Uncle approves of my discipline. I’m careful. If Andres knew, he’d fire me for sure. He’d be sorry to see me go, but he’d fire me anyway. Andres is an old-fashioned man. Junkies make Andres really hysterical.
    “PEDRO!” Andres shouts again. “When you’re finished with the toilet, I want you to mop these floors one more time! Do you think I’m blind? I can still see dirt, dirt everywhere!” Andres shouts improvised curses at the janitor: Pedrong Tamad, Pedrong Headhunter, Pedro the Pagan Dogeater with the Prick of a Monkey and the Brain of a Flea. Then he throws in the usual gago , tanga , walanghiya , ulol. stupid, stupid, shameless, stupid, and variations of stupid like dumbfoolidiot. Andres’s ranting disgusts me, his shrill voice cuts through my James Brown and pisses me off. “Calm down before you have another heart attack,” I growl at Andres, who finally shuts up.
    The janitor peers at us from the other side of the dance floor. He wears an old SPORTEX T-shirt I’ve passed on to him, and Andres’s khaki pants several sizes too big for him and torn at the knees. His placid face betrays nothing. “ Señorito Andres Sir,” he begins in a very polite tone of voice, “what about toilet paper?”
    “What about it?”
    “Toilet paper, Señorito Sir.”
    Grumbling, Andres reaches under the counter where he keeps his supplies under lock and key. “Just one,” Andres says, holding out a roll of rough, brand-X toilet paper. “And it better last all night!” I declare, imitating Andres’s indignant tone of voice. He shoots me one of those poisonous looks.
    The man from Abra limps across the floor, mop in hand, to take the roll of toilet paper from Andres. “ Señorito Sir,” Pedro says, staring at both of us.
    “What now?” Andres responds with his customary impatience.
    “ Señorito , yun kwan , ho .” Pedro needs something else from his boss, he refers to it without naming it, which infuriates Andres even more.
    “ KWAN? What kwan are you talking about?”
    Pedro points in the direction of the men’s room with his chin. “ Ano ba , Pedro—am I supposed to read your goddam mind?” Andres shouts. I can’t stop laughing. If Andres had his way, toilet paper would be rationed out piece by piece, or better yet, he’d charge his customers for every sheet. Andres believes Filipinos enjoy stealing toilet paper from public bathrooms, that’s why there’s never any left. “No one shits at my disco,” I actually heard him once say to Chiquiting Moreno, trying to justify his miserly ways.
    “Paper towels,” I say to Andres. “Pedro wants paper towels for CocoRico’s toilet, so your customers can wash up…Don’t you, Pedro?” Pedro nods. Andres has had enough. He pulls out another packet of stiff brown paper and throws it on the floor. “There. Is