Lost in the Orient- a shorter story than the last one

It was Xiu Li’s first day of work at the Pearl of the Orient Health Spa. Her aunt, who dubbed the recent arrival to the West Coast shores of America “Ashley” for professional reasons, warned of the pitfalls of the masseuse business.

“All of our clientele are men,” she said in Mandarin.

Ashley pondered for a moment.

“Isn’t that bad for business? That’s only half of the population.”

“You’re very astute, Xiu…er, I mean Ashley. But the men are repeat customers and they tip very well.”

Her aunt leaned in closer.

“Especially if you’re very friendly to them.”

“Oh, I plan to be friendly, Auntie,” Ashley said. “I mean good relations with customers is essential to running a successful business.”

“That’s precisely right. I would not have guessed that anyone from our tiny, isolated village in China would be so business saavy. But be warned, some men expect sex, and we are not that kind of business.”

“Understood Auntie.”

Within minutes Ashley’s first customer of the day stepped slowly through the door. She greeted him with a smile and led him to the first room available. She allowed him a few minutes to undress and relax. She entered the room and draped a towel over his naked buttocks.
Gently she spread oil on his back and rubbed the tight muscles around his neck and shoulders. He moaned with pleasure.

“Mmm, you’re good with your hands,” he said.

Ashley bowed and giggled. She moved down to his arms and hands. He twisted around for a better look at her face.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”

She looked up at him momentarily but pressed on with her work. She nodded and smiled.

“English…not good,” she said.

“Ah. Well I must say you certainly are prettier and younger than most of the women who work here,” he said.

“Thank you.”

She kneaded his lower back. It was knotted. She wondered why he was so tense.


“You keep working those hands like that and you might get a big tip. Especially if you do a little ‘extra’ work.”

“Oh tip is good,” she nodded in a friendly manner. She remembered the words of her Auntie.

“Maybe a little…”

He extended his right index finger and inserted into the circle of his left hand between the thumb and index finger. He went back and forth while his eyebrows wiggled.

Ashley stared at him for a moment trying to figure out what he was doing. The answer finally hit her.

“You play?” She said.

“Yes. Oh God, yes I play,” he said, his voice trembling with excitement.

She stopped the massage and stretched her fingers. They cracked as she extended each digit back and forth like a contortionist.

“Oh man, this is going to be good,” he said to himself as he turned over onto his back.

“You ready?” She said.

“Give it to me, baby,” he answered.

She went into the detached thumb routine her father taught her as a child.

“You like?” She said. “Play more?”

“No, no. Not that kind of play. You know…a little suckee suckee perhaps?”

He pursed his lips and sucked through the mouth while his hand held onto an invisible object.

“Ah! Good. Be right back,” she said.

She scurried out of the room and returned with a bottle of water in one hand and a straw in the other. She inserted the straw into the bottle and handed it to him.

“Drink?”

“No! I mean, yeah, I’m thirsty. But I want some of this…”

He jerked his right hand back and forth quickly. She watched him and tried to understand what he was doing..

“Ah…I know. More play. Be right back.”

Again she rushed out of the room. By now the customer sighed with frustration.

“Oh God, what is she going to come back with, a goddamn tractor or a giraffe?”

Ashley returned with dice in her hands. She jerked it in her hand and let it ride on top of the small shelf that housed the towels and oils.

“This fun, no?” She said. By now she anticipated a large tip.

“No…”

The timer rang.

“Time’s up.”

Ashley bowed as she quickly soaked a towel and began to wipe the oil off his back and legs. The customer slowly sat up and began to dress. She waited by the door.

“More water?”

“No. This liter is plenty,” he said.

When he finished dressing he dug into his wallet and gave her a twenty for tip. It was against his wishes but he figured if he was to return, he wouldn’t want word spreading that he did not tip and thus would receive mediocre service. She thanked him, bowed and escorted him out the door and into the lobby. Her Auntie stood behind the receptionist’s window and said goodbye. The customer exited looking tense.

“How was it, Ashley?” She asked in Mandarin.

“Fine. He was a little strange. He just wanted to play children’s games,” Ashley said.
“Really? He didn’t ask for sex?”

“It never came up.”

THE END

CELEBRITIES ABOVE THE LAW? HELL TO THE YEAH! HELLO!

By Guest commentator C. Tomas Cruz


Simply put Celebrities are much better than us puny mortals. They act. They sing. They have lines of clothing and perfumes. I don’t do any of those things. So when I read blogs or watch “Extra” reporting on a Celebrity arrest I say “let them all go!” Guilt or innocence is irrelevant. They are stars. Bright, shiny, hanging above and looking down at us, mocking our lives. I mean seriously, who wouldn’t want Lindsay running us over or smashing into our pitiful Ford Escorts? It would be an honor to have the likes of her kind destroy my property. It’s like when a bird shits on you. It’s messy and it’s gross, but it’s divine intervention.
Celebrities are a special breed of humans created by God to enrich our lives with their antics and make us feel good when times get rough. Like when my cat “Doodles” overdosed on my Oxycotin prescription I tuned into “The Simple Life” with Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie and I witnessed with my own eyes the warmth and genuinenesses of Paris and Nicole, or as I call them PAN. Sometimes when I’m up at 4 in the morning making waffles I’ll have a conversation with my BFF’s.

“Oh my God, Paris, that is like so gross! Nicole, tell her
to stop being such a slut!”

My “real” friends aren’t as real as Celebrities. None of them are worthy enough to stamp out Lindsay’s cigarette or trade panties with Britney. So all you haters just back the freak off!


C. Tomas Cruz is currently unemployed and living with his folks in Boyle Heights

The Literary Detective- A short story

Captain Art “Tank” Wheeler barreled out of his corner office and approached the desk of Detective Victor Davalos. He slammed a sheet of paper down on the cluttered oak. There happened to be an 8 X 11 amount of space available.

“What the hell is this?”

Davalos leaned over his rolodex and scanned the sheet through black-framed glasses upside down.

“It’s the report on the Ferragamo murder. It’s solved. The murderer confessed. The case is closed,” Victor said.


“It is closed. But the report you wrote is flat, unobtrusive and boring!”


“I beg your pardon, Cap?”


“I found myself dozing off as I read this. I labored through it and it’s only one page! I mean look at this here…’victim was struck over the head with a blunt instrument.’”


“Well, she was,” Victor said.


“I know, but couldn’t you add a little…I don’t know…oomph to it?”


“I’m not sure I’m following, Cap.”


“Why not change a few of the phrases? Like how about this…’fiery redhead had been bludgeoned by a carpenter’s hammer.’ How does that sound?”


Victor folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, lost, confused and quietly monitoring any hint of his boss’ insanity or work fatigue.


“What difference does it make how she was killed?” Victor said trying to sound polite.


“It makes a load of difference when you read it. Now look at this…”

Captain Wheeler grabbed the sheet and eyed a specific passage.

“…ah, here we go. ‘Perpetrator had no accomplice.’ Why not try ‘the killer acted alone, isolated by the rage of years transported from one foster home to another. Angry, resentful of the world he felt didn’t want him.’ Eh? What do you think of that?”

Victor’s mind examined the words methodically. He retained the phrasing and images came to life. He was now interested in what the next passages were.

“You know what, Cap? That does sound much better. But the part about the foster home and resentment may or may not be true.”


“Who cares,” Wheeler said. “It’s more interesting to read. Besides, all the facts are still there. Victim died from a blow to the head, suspect confessed to the crime, case solved. But my way adds color to a sketch.”

Victor picked up the slip of paper and thought for a moment.


“But I ain’t a writer like you, boss.”

“You think I was slapped by the literary hooker, kid? Hell no. The wife suggested I take some adult education courses. Said I wasn’t pleasin’ her on an intellectual level. All the sports and movie classes were taken, so I took a writing class. Let me tell you it opened my eyes. Now I keep a journal of my most intimate thoughts. I also get a great pleasure for the literary arts. Just something to think about, kid.”


Wheeler patted Victor on the shoulder and strolled back to his office. Victor slipped both hands behind his head and reviewed his 34 years on this planet. His life had hit a snag. It stalled like a skateboard through molassess. He had no wife, no kids, a small apartment with high rent and a view of an empty lot. What did he have to lose? He leaned forward, took out a pad of paper and a pen from a cup on his desk. He jotted down the molasses metaphor and folded the paper into his pants pocket. He turned to his computer and googled “adult schools AND Los Angeles AND 90036.”




Yellow police tape blocked the entrance to hotel room #2. Victor lifted and entered. He noted the smell of perfume in the air. He quickly took out his notepad and scribbled “heavy lilac scented-air." Detective Al “Tennessee” Barr leaned against the dresser drawer with his arms folded. He stared down at a Chihuahua of a man seated on the couch. His eyes bulged and his timid bones shook.

“Hey Vic. This is Al Green, the manager. Heard the whole thing.”

Victor bent down and sat at the foot of the bed. His right toe nearly stepped on the chalk outline of a figure lying in a fetal position.

“Mr. Green, what can you tell me about the events this evening.”

“Well, as far as I can tell, the woman…”


Al leaned in to Victor.


“The murderer. She confessed and we found the murder weapon on her.”

“Go on, Mister Green,” Victor said.

“As I was saying, I don’t think she was the wife or girlfriend. The gentleman was actin’ kinda nervous.”

Victor held up his hand and he jotted down the testimony.


“Would you say the victim was jello in a pair of hush puppies?”


“I beg your pardon?” Al Green said.


“He acted nervous, like jello in a pair of hush puppies?”


“Uh, well, I suppose so.”


“Hey, Vic, maybe he could have been nervous like a puppy having his first bath, since you’re using the hush puppies thing,” Al “Tennessee” Barr said.


“Perhaps, but the point is to show how nervous the victim was and using puppies twice is redundant. Okay, please continue Mister Green.”


“As I was sayin’, the gentleman was kinda nervous. He gets a room while the lady was in the car."

“How would you describe the lady?”


Al Green pondered for a moment.

“She was a blonde, with a nice figure. She wore sunglasses all the time, until she came in to her room."


“Would you say she was a walking hour glass on two killer yams?”


“I really can’t say, detective."


“What color were her eyes?”


“Like I said, she had sunglasses so I don’t know.”


Victor thought for a moment and then began to write.


“She had glistening blue eyes reminiscent of a pool on a hot, summer day. The kind you would drench your sexual thirst with.”


Al Green looked up at Detective Barr as Victor, deep in the “zone,” pressed on with the description.

“Okay, Mister Green, what happened?”


“At around eleven pm I heard arguin’. So I leave my post and head to their room. I plant my good ear to the door and listen. As far as I can tell, he wouldn’t leave his wife and she got really upset.”


“Crime of passion much like Romeo and Juliet, Vic.”


“Not quite, Al.”

"So anyway, I heard five shots. That's when I called the cops. I have them on speed dial on my cell phone. She stayed in the room, crying until the cops arrived."


Detective Barr produced a small caliber handgun in a plastic bag.


“The fella just fell over like a mighty oak tree,” Al Green said.


“Please, Mister Green, just the facts. I’ll handle the metaphors and similies.”


“Sorry.”


“So she got hosed and then plugged him with five shells from a Saturday night special, making this Saturday night not so special for him.”


“Well put, Vic.”


“And the case is solved,”Victor said.


“May I read your report, detective? I couldn’t help but be entertained by your choice of phrasing.”

“Sorry, Mister Green. I’m a detective, not a writer.”