I am the Avon Lady. I come in peace. - Part Two (The End!)
Read part one here!
The sure hiccup of a deadbolt slid into place, bulging the door slightly out of its frame. I could see shadows running this way and that through the crack, and heard hushed voices in anxious code behind the relentless Latino rap. The man at the door didn't budge. I could almost feel his breath through the pine. I rapped the knuckles of my left hand against the door and yelled.
"Hey! I'm just the Avon Lady! I'm no Narc! I have a gift basket for Rocco! Open up! Avon Calling!"
The man's eye loomed in the peephole.
"Avon? Why you have that uniform on?"
He coughed. I extended my right arm with the basket and tilted it so he could inspect the contents. Several more pairs of feet collected behind the door, followed by the soft sounds of pushing and shoving, jockeying for ocular position.
"That's no Avon Lady."
"Lemme see!"
"Who wears shit like that? Feds?"
"Yeah, that's the Avon Lady. I see her around town. She's got a, whatchamacallit, you know, a Yoda costume on."
"She's the stripper?"
The deadbolt released and the door opened. Five young men stepped back, let me enter. Another half-dozen guys milled about in the background. Empty pizza boxes covered every possible surface in the room, and the spaces between them were accented by empty Tecate cans. The room smelled like pepperoni and green chilies and booze and pot. A poster of Che Guevara hung lopsided over a beige chenille couch. A pile of rented adult DVDs sat on the floor. I almost stepped on one sporting a bleach-blonde Latina's generous backside.
One of the crowd stepped forward. He wore low-slung baggy jeans and a black t-shirt with the Virgin of Guadalupe on the back.
"I'm Rocco."
He pulled a canvas wallet from a back pocket and removed some bills. We exchanged goods.
"So are you like the Avon Police? Heh heh."
The men laughed. I held the money in my hand. My uniform had no pockets.
"I'm a Starfleet captain. Ever see Star Trek?"
The men shrugged their shoulders in unison. I couldn't tell if they meant Yes or No.
"Well, it's a little different than what you were watching before I arrived. Now, I don't know who the lucky guy is, but this gift basket has some items that will make you irresistible to your sweetie. I wish you a wonderful life!"
I turned to leave with a short wave.
"Hey, Lady! Wait!"
Rocco motioned to his posse to sit. They meandered to the couch, to the floor, pushing boxes, crusts, and cans out of the way, one of them parking his butt on a stained particleboard coffee table. Rocco handed the gift basket to a slight man in black canvas pants and a wife beater. He pawed through the contents, lifted the paper with the Bust Sculpt instructions to his eyes, held it close. His lips moved as he read.
"So why you wearing Star Wars? This some kind of joke?"
Rocco's voice challenged me, chastised me, accused me of interrupting their stag party with some kind of white chick slap in the face. I stood for a moment, my heart beating too fast, too scared. The rap song ended and a new song began, one I knew, an upbeat love ballad called Es Por Ti by sultry singing hunk, Juanes.
"Hey, I love this song!"
I paused, let the music move through my uniform, find my heart, let it slow, slow, make my pulse match its gentle beat. I closed my eyes, tried to think of a way out the door, a way out of trouble.
"Rocco, come here. Let's dance."
The men Wooooooo'd, fanned themselves in fake passion. Rocco's eyes grew wide. He didn't know what to do. I raised one Spock eyebrow and motioned to him with one finger and my lopsided smile.
"Come on, Rocco. I love this song."
Rocco grinned and moved forward. I lifted my collar away from my neck and stuffed my cash inside my bra. The men giggled. I aligned my body and arms to dance the Cumbia. I figured he would remember the steps from childhood, from a Grandmom or aunt with Latin culture on her mind. He took position, and we danced. He smelled like pot, like six bottles of aftershave, like chilies and beer. He knew the steps and I let him lead me through the minefield of bachelor excess.
"Listen, Rocco. I wore this outfit because my son asked me too. Star Trek is cool. It gives my boys hope that our world isn't lost. You should watch it some time."
I whispered my message as the song ended. The men-boys clapped and nodded in satisfaction.
"She's all right. She can dance."
I waved goodbye, let myself out the door. One plaintive cry followed me outside.
"Hey! Ain't she gonna strip?"
This story would end here, with me a hundred bucks richer, one dance older, one stag party wiser, but something I didn't expect happened. I stood in line at the drug store last week, still recovering from strep throat, a bag of strong cherry lozenges in my hand. A man walked past me, a man I recognized. A man from the party. He hovered next to me, rubbed his mustache with his hand, then lifted it in a split-fingered Vulcan salute any Star Trek fan knows.
"Larga vida y prosperidad."
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