By this time Theresa is warbling along to Bien Bellaca, or Horny Girl, the timeless tale of a gal’s quest to get laid. She declares it one of the greatest songs in the history of music. You wanna talk about upchuckin’ baby parts? Honey, my as-yet-unborn or even conceived children (note to the universe, let’s keep it that way) were about to be welcomed to the world care of my own earl fest upon hearing this. As a devout member of the Church of The Wu-Tang Clan, I took personal offense to this. See, I’m more of a DOOM-Devin the Dude-Mos Def and Talib Kweli are Blackstar kind of fool. But before I could blurt out any insults or embryonic organs, her boyfriend, Tony, collapsed into the seat next to us. Ya know how Theresa is your typical ho? Tony be your typical ho-haver. And ho beater for that matter. Like the better half of the partygoers that hot September night, Tony is a pristine product of Marcy Projects, one of Brooklyn’s finer government funded housing complexes. And although a government-subsidized upbringing by no means solidifies a social-discrediting future, for Tony it means all of that and then some. Tony is always moving to a rugged beat. Hard, but trying too hard. A DMX track if you will. He walks a tough walk but the second he opens his mouth and you see his corn kernel teeth and hear the piglet squeal that eeks out between them, the curtain is drawn to reveal the stagehands working all too hard. Theresa lights up a cigarette and her and Tony start to fight. I sneak out with the image of DMX barking like a dog in my head.
I catch up with BK, Vincent, and Maria in the crowd. By this point it’s pretty late into the party and even later into the night; the guests technically, under party laws, can no longer be held accountable for their actions. It would seem that such a mantra applies to all. Although this party was held in fact for Maria and her turning seven years old, she was, as far as I could see, the only kid there throughout the entire night. One family friend, JoJo, brought his son who was literally born the day before. As in, came-directly-from-the-hospital-haven’t-been-home-yet kind of son. And that was the sole creature, besides the birthday girl, under the age of 15 at the party. Despite this, Maria got down with the adults. Hey, she is in the end the offspring of Theresa “Party All Day and Fu---well, you get it” Jimenez. Apples and trees, people. Apples and trees. I stumbled upon Amanda doing a variety of dance moves that I’m sure even the most vile of video vixens wouldn’t perform. It was hilarious, it was disturbing, it was just another night out for the newly crowned seven-year old. But for all the tootsie roll ups there had to be a da dip down and unfortunately, Jim Jones’ “Ballin’” was a musical casualty of the evening, lost to the bizarre associations from my day as a Puerto Rican. BK and Vincent put it on repeat and I had to say “I love you both but at the risk of choking on a half-developed baby arm, I’m gonna have to go.”
Speaking of catching up, it’s been nearly four years since Maria crossed that seven-year threshold and as everyone knows, a lot can, and in the end did, change. BK and Vincent have since broken up and she moved out, leaving him to move into the basement floor of their building and her back into the city. We still hear about Virgin and the whole gang from time to time. The matriarch herself is still up in Marcy, but more predictably, still up in her P.R. porn star ensembles. BK and I thought we saw her on a bench under the JMZ trains a year or two ago --- it was the fluorescent tube top in October that caught our eyes. Like the good family members we once were, we fucking booked it. And Theresa. Sadly, she miscarried the baby she was pregnant with at the time of the party. But no fear, she’ll pull through as she’s been through this literally tens of times. And to tell you the truth, she’s done just that! Two years ago she gave birth to another little girl and perhaps in memory of her baby lost, bestowed upon her the name Alize. Yes, Alize. Yes, Alize the ill-colored hooch of the hood Alize. I can’t help but think that little baby Menthol Cigarette is in gestation as I sit and write this.
So maybe I wasn’t technically Puerto Rican for a day, but it sure fuckin’ felt like it. And I know what you’re thinking, STRANGEWAYS, this was an isolated event with a small group of Puerto Ricans who don’t in fact reflect their native country but rather the holes in ours. Then again, maybe you’re just actually thinking this really was the greatest story ever told.
At the end of the party I asked Virgin in a drunk-on-reggaeton haze what she really thought of me. After first insisting on giving a synopsis of her survey, one that I'd bet my life played host to many a results tampering, she finally looked right in my eyes and said, "Puta, you are my fav'rite gringa evaaa!" Right then and there I felt more Puerto Rican than I think I'll ever feel in my whole entire life.
