Thirst For Fire -- Incendiary New Fiction

My mother's hands were sticky with her warm sweat as she tightly clung to my needle-like fingers. I panted loudly while our footsteps thumped on every piece on concrete we stepped on. Visa was already sending her collection notices but somehow, my mother was suddenly able to obtain all $800 to pay up. The morning sun glimmered on my eyes as we walked on a breezy, Saturday morning. Finally, we reached Inwood Post Office, a gigantic building with sloppy cherry-red paint smeared onto the once beige bricks. According to my mother, the post office was just four blocks down from our apartment on Academy Street, but my ankles were throbbing from the pain of staggering a thousand miles. Yet, I would never realized how this simple trip to Inwood Post Office, would actually become my Caucasian soul-search.

Although the post office was huge on the exterior, the inside was not. The inside was diminutive, with grubby ivory color that was coated with gray powder. Saturday mornings always greeted with soft, blowing winds during springtime in the city. Yet inside this disbursement dungeon, only two miniature fans blew on one direction, nowhere touching me. My baby-blue t-shirt was already sticking against my back and I pouted in frustration. Mom said this trip would be short, but how was that ever possible when there was over a million people on line ahead of us? Oh how I wished someone could save me from such boredom. God, are you there? It's me, a very annoyed child. Please send over some entertainment, a flash of lightening, rain of cats and dogs, free flying dolls, anything, will ya?

"Mom, can we leave now?" I questioned, while holding my hands together in prayer, squinting my little brown ovals in her direction. She looked down at me, saying nothing, but instead, pointing towards her black leather belt. I stayed quiet. Every now and then, some obese whale would push behind me with her lumpy pounds of flesh hidden under a multihued, flowery dress. Despite the swarm of people who had last minute bills to pay, like my mother, with the exception of having absolutely no manners, I saw her within the distance. There she was, the glamour queen staring back at me. My tiny mouth expanded as I gawked in awe. She just never stopped looking at me and I couldn't stop falling into her deep cerulean eyes.

I let go of my mother's hand and walked towards the lightly dusted painting. The portrait was similar to a stamp, only 8 times as wide, maybe even more. At that moment, it didn't matter how big that stamp was. Indeed, she was untouchable, soaring above the cracked frame that confined her. Perhaps, it was just merely my miniature height. The woman continued to stare, her coral red lips exposing squared pearls for teeth. A russet-brown mole lay slightly above her lip, not far from her flaring nostrils, as if she was holding onto her breath. However, it was I that was holding my own breath in wonder. None of my Barbie's was as striking, even with their heads in place. Her eyes, continuing to stare at me, were hidden by extensive, black eyelashes, resembling the fragile wings of an English sparrow. Her bullion locks shimmered like morning sun rays, reflecting her curvaceous figure. From the inches of her petite neck, going down to her arms and large bosoms, shimmered and glittered from twinkling specks of gold. She was beautiful, to say the least, and she seemed confident enough to forever stay still within the same position. She flaunted her splendor towards me, luring me within her gaze. I looked up above her golden crown of hair to read the white, loopy description. "Mmmm . Moorlyn…Mmm…Maryln Mor…Mor, Mor, Mor, Mouse! Marlyn Mouse!" I yelled in excitement, believing that I could read her odd name. I giggled in delight. What a funny name! Seconds later, I heard hefty footstep and suddenly, the cartilage of my left ear snapped. My mother's hand, now firm and stinging, grasped my ear, pulling further away from my skull with all her might. I howled in dismay, not knowing why I was being punished for worshipping my new goddess, my iconic figure. People behind us stared attentively at the spectacle my mom presented in swiftly tearing soft skin apart from its tender bone. One red-hair boy in front looked straight at me and gleefully giggled. "I'm done with my errands, no thanks to you for misbehaving." My mother sneered, continuing to pull my ear forward. Tears swelled my eyes and I continued crying. I glanced back at Marlyn Mouse and followed my mother outside the post office. After finally releasing her grip, the chilly breeze soothed my blazing, throbbing ears.

We walked back to our apartment on Academy Street. My mother wasted no time in figuring out why her misbehaving daughter was gaping at some overly-done white cracker.

"What were you looking at anyway?" She questioned.

"Um, her name is Marlyn Mouse…I think." I responded.

"What kind of name is that?" My mom questioned again, while smirking.

"I dunno, that's what I read," my voice quivered, hoping she would run about her business and leave me in peace.

"Her name isn't Marlyn Mouse silly, it's Marilyn Monroe." My mom reacted, accentuating each syllable on the last two words. How silly of me, how stupid of me! Why was I foolish enough, with horrendous Dominican accent and all, attempted to pronounce Marilyn's name wrong. No wonder that annoying red-haired prick laughed at me! Anyone would have laughed at some Third-World stick figure, trying to speak in an unfamiliar language. I stood quiet, my cheeks transforming into a light pink. I was embarrassed for such an awful mistake.

"Oh." I answered quietly.

"She was an actress from the old times in Hollywood. She died a long time ago." She firmly stated.

My mouth opened in shocked. Dead?! How could someone so beautiful, so amazing, so attractive, so everything…be dead? I mean, I just met her, for crying out loud! How could I have met someone whom I will never even see again? How will I know who she is? Where she came from? How she keeps so golden? What was her favorite Barbie? How could I find all the answers to my questions when she…was dead? I didn't understand why she was somehow so important to me. Marilyn was merely a photograph of a woman that I would never meet. I would had continued asking my mother more and more questions, but she seemed annoyed enough for having such a disobedient daughter run off to a portrait of a dead woman at the post office.

After reaching my pastel-pink room, I turned on the television, hoping I could catch up with the halftime Saturday morning cartoons I already missed. Since commercials were on, my fat little feet ran towards the kitchen, serving myself a salad bowl filled with Coco Puffs and four tablespoons worth of skim milk, the only milk my mother would purchase. Walking back to the bedroom, my hands held tightly to the edges of the porcelain bowl. Ay dios mio, (Oh my God) commercials were still on? Attempting to find my remote control, the peach tinted bowl I held collapsed down to the ivory tiles. The explosion of shattering ceramic echoed, piercing the insides of my already-bruised ears. The floor was now a liquid jumble, with chocolate elliptical Coco Puffs rolling in every direction possible within the room. Surely enough, there was the remote control, underneath the ruins. One triangular shaped portion of the bowl pressed against the "change" button, making the channels change in fast-paced motion. My attention was now lured to the crystal screen, not the catastrophe of spilled milk and escaping chocolate. This will be the only time in my life where chocolate would easily escape from me.

The channels kept changing into a never-ending swirl of images. Brazilian boys playing soccer, a man revealing his infidelity on "Maury," New York 1 News, a bombing in Indonesia, a naked couple humping on a flat mattress, dogs running on dewy grass, Marilyn Monroe, Marilyn Monroe, Marilyn Monroe.

The channels stopped changing on American Movies Classics, number 54. She was alive! There she was, I knew my mother was wrong! Not only was she alive, but she moves, speaks, giggles…she giggles like me! Marilyn Monroe was walking along New York City, saying things I couldn't comprehend. God, why was I the only girl in all of America that couldn't speak English? If I could speak English, I could hear what Marilyn was saying. Maybe she was saying her address, inviting me to visit her and prove to both my mother and me that she's indeed alive and well. Constantly grinning, she seemed like the ideal neighbor, who would invite you for tea and cookies. Smiling, her pallid dress flew in the air, whirling along with the wind. There was Marilyn, an enchanted heavenly fairy, floating within a New York evening, untainted by those who stared or smirked. Marilyn wasn't embarrassed at all! Here was I, complaining how plump people would stare at me for talking out loud at the post office and here she was, without a care in the world, exposing lacy panties! Of course, what woman wouldn't show off slender, bruise-less legs, unlike mine, short chop sticks with wine-red blemishes and elongated scratches? Oh Lord, what was she saying! Was Marilyn exposing the secrets to releasing yourself to the world, without a care of people's expectations, doing whatever your heart desired for the sole purpose of being happy and free? Was she calling out for me? Demanding for my presence, desiring to make stick-figured non-English speaking girls like me, into life-sized Barbie's that all would desire? How could I, be like Marilyn? How could I be as beautiful and have my own picture hanging on some building. Where was the ambrosia Marilyn hid from everyone that would transform little girls into goddesses, forever making them beautiful and American?

The television screen turned black and Marilyn vanished from sight. A thunderous, bursting noise immediately punctured the silence. My face jiggled, my eyes widened in shock. More salty tears dripped, trickling down to my nostrils. My left cheek reddened and burned, while my lip oozed from lukewarm blood. My mom walked in front of me, glaring at my fragile figure. "Pick up the fucking mess you made.” She scorned. "I'll be preparing lunch. When I'm done, this floor better be whiter than chalk." My mother thudded away to the kitchen and tears continued to drip on the drying crust of broken skin. Only Spanish girls like me get slapped and spanked for simple things, such as dropping a bowl by accident. It was an accident, for crying out loud! Why couldn't I become a true American, like Marilyn Monroe and speak English? Maybe my mother would treat me the same way white mothers treat their daughters. They ever get hit for little mistakes they make. Their mothers take them to museums, rather than post office trips, prepare them cheeseburgers and fries for lunch, not wild rice with kidney beans and fried plantains. White girls had golden blonde hair, glimmering blue eyes, just like my Barbie's, just like Marilyn. If Spanish girls were equally beautiful, then Marilyn would have similar features matching my own appearance, such as dark hair or lightly tanned skin. Yet, I am not fine-looking, like these girls. I have dark features, unfit fir a wannabe American chick, like me. I have waist-length long brown hair, wide matching coffee toned eyes and sun-kissed skin. Nothing like the goddess I yearned to be. Nothing like an American girl.

I bend down to pick up the shattered pieces of the bowl, along with milk-soaked Coco Puffs, now mushy and cold. My fingers touched the droplets of milk, forming into a pale half shaped moon. My fingertips encircled the half moon, soaking my loose cuticles. While doing so, I viewed at my arm, observing how tanned, how dark, how dirty it was. No matter how much I bathed, I could never erase the dark features, which tinted my skin. My fingers rubbed along the suppleness of my skin, hoping that maybe, the whiteness of milk could slowly erase my bronzed impurities. If I became white, then maybe I can speak English, without sounding muffled and jarring. My featured would match my dolls and I can be as perfect as them. I could be like Marilyn, always smiling and illuminated by her Hollywood-blessed traits. Of course, my skin tone remained the same, and the mess was still waiting to be cleaned. Deciding to have some sort of entertainment while I washed the floor, I turned the television back on.

Marilyn was on the screen, this time, her pale body lying within layers of bubbles in a white tub. Her lips, still lustrous and red, formed into a smile, as she giggled and curled a lock of loose hair with her soft pink finger. Her toes, an orange-red, wiggled along the waters that hid her slim, feminine body. Again she spoke, but unfamiliar with English, I just couldn't comprehend what she was whispering to me. I sulked in wretchedness, realizing that no matter how hard I hired the television screen, how closely I paid attention, how carefully I followed her lips, my limited understanding of English would never translate the sacred secrets of being alluring, of being white, of being Marilyn. My curiosity couldn't take it any more. If I couldn't walk up to Marilyn herself and ask her the secrets of being someone like her, an American, then I would have to detect what was she saying on television. After finally cleaning the filthy tiles, I walked towards the book shelf, merely inches away from the television screen. "Ingles Sin Barreras" (English without Borders) was still enclosed within its plastic case. Maybe if I glance at the undiscovered pages, I could easily comprehend English. Then, I can translate what Marilyn was saying on television. Hooray for me!

I scrambled to reach the book, but my 4'9 stature was too diminutive for snatching the book with ease. After jumping about five times, my hands grasped for the book and the plastic ripped. My legs crossed as I began to sit and turn the pages, observing each printed word printed onto the pages. For a brief moment, I forgot the television screen was on and instead, focus on the bolded terms that translated to familiar phrases. Now, how was I supposed to know what Marilyn was saying, if the first lesson was how to say hello and goodbye? Time cannot be wasted, the film would so end and Marilyn would disappear again. My hands scrambled throughout the pages, until a chapter on common sentences was posted. Observing each sentence, I wondered if any of these matched with what Marilyn was saying on screen. At the bottom of page 85, section 62, a single sentence was bolded and underline. It stated, "It's all make-believe isn't it?" Once I read it's translation in Spanish, my mind jumbled in understanding what is the book exactly talking about? What does this sentence exactly mean? How could everything possibly be make believe? Was this some sort of teaser question? Am I make-believe because I am not like the other American girls? Is Marilyn Monroe make-believe because she was supposedly dead, but somehow giggling and smiling on screen? Was my mother in a make-believe world, thinking that little girls would enjoy trips to post offices, and not museums or Hollywood? Perhaps, there was no purpose in learning such a complex language with various forms of pronouncing strange words that somehow never made sense to me. It was just too hard to learn this language, so why bother? Maybe I should just accept myself for who I am, a dark skinned American with no understanding of English. I wasn't beautiful because I wasn't white. I just wasn't Marilyn Monroe, the golden goddess who exemplified all the womanly traits I desired to inherit. Perhaps, Marilyn was telling me that, despite whom I was, my Spanish traits can never leave me. I can only be a Hispanic American, a blend of exotic charm and undiscovered knowledge of being a New Yorker, not a glamorous Caucasian. As my mother thumped closer to my bedroom, Marilyn waved from the screen, her body reaching forward from her crème window. The television faded into darkness.

Author Bio: Stephanie Nolasco can be reached by emailing stephanie.nolasco@gmail.com