Skip to main content

The Tupperware Voicemails

Dolores was her name. Spanish for pain (in the ass). She wasn't supposed to stay with us for long but since she was my roommate's coworker and my roommate being the kindest of us two, she ate Dolores' pain and offered her to crash at our studio apartment floor. And I literally mean the floor. We had no beds and thanks to Boner's genius idea of testing the durableness of our inflatable sofa with his ass-pocket full of explorer keys, we also had no sofa. We only had sleeping bags and layers of sabanas and blankets.

The day--about the 85th day to be exact--of Dolores' stay--rent free-- I and my roommate agreed that Dolores either had to pay or had to go. When Dolores came that night, she heard our woes and agreed to pay. The next morning Dolores was gone. Along with all of our Tupperware. Every single expensive neon green, pink, and yellow Tupperware, proudly bought by my and my roommate's matriarchs; the Tupperware we took as mementos from home, as a jab to our mothers for all the mean and horrible All-I-ever-did-was-love-you guilt trip they gave us on the day we announced we were moving out of our homes. All of it, gone.

I grabbed my flip phone, dialed Dolores' number and when I got to the beep, I yelled "Why the Tupperware! You didn't need to take that! You know those weren't yours! After all we've done for you!" and slammed my phone shut.

I looked at the exposed empty cabinets. I felt my heart jump to my throat and I jumped onto the counter to have a better look at the top of the cabinets. It was gone. My dessert Tupperware was gone.  I called her again. Hi this is Dolores. Leave your message after the beep. "I hate you! I can't believe you also took the jello mold Tupperware. You said you hated jello!" SLAM.

I still had more to say so I called her again. Hi, this is Dolores. Beep. "You bitch!"

Immediately after my third message, I felt remorse. Poor Dolores. Per my roommate, Dolores suffered at home by her bickering mom, suffered alone because she had no friends. Her high-school sweetheart had recently broken up with her. What if she intended to sell the Tupperware for money?

Hi, this is Dolores. Sorry I missed your call. Please leave your message and I'll call you back. Beep. "Dolores, I'm sorry. I hope you're ok. If you can, you can drop off the Tupperware wherever-- let me know where-- and I can pick them up. No worries."


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Dream #414

I was on a bus on my way to a new school, a high school on the south side of Chicago. I transferred to that school because I had moved into the area. The bus went south over a dark brick road bridge--it was dark because it was a gloomy day out--like the sky was heavy with rain. This new school was completely new--metal framework with floor-to-ceiling windows, open floors. The class body was mixed, with a majority being black and white students. I went to the second floor to wait in line at a check-in window. A very chatty boy behind me bumped into me and as I turned to look at him, we both felt an immediate attraction--we are both brown, we are both alternative. I'm reminded of my husband, I remembered I have a husband--maybe in that life or another--so I keep the boy in mind to feel less alone but ignore him as I wait in line. I'm outside in the vast woods that is the campus of the high school. There is a pond and there are green rolling hills of different sizes, all moving l
Post a Comment
Read more

everything, everything, In my mind

everything happens for a reason. We need to find out what that reason is. you can't fix anything until you fix what's already been broken. everything that is happening to you is all caused by things you've already done. the reason: trying to be just like him. you did what he did when we lived in the south side. your doing it because you want him to be proud of you, to love you; and in away, you also did it because he didn't love you. Because he thought you were useless. you are not. I always wondered why we are so different when we all grew up together. Maybe because the way we each perceive the world is different; the way we choose to cope is unique to that. THAT is something that is formed. We are the way we are, and the way our brain and soul perceive is the way we react in our worlds. We are each a time portal. Since we are walking it we can't really see where we are going. We need to see outside the box; in some else's shoes; from the outside in. W
Post a Comment
Read more

House/Home

I didn't know of any Latina writers growing up. Of the Latino writers I knew of, I knew their long pieces of work, their novels. Novels is what real writers did. Short pieces come from poets. If you want to write short pieces, you should be a poet. This is what I had learned when I was a child. When I learned about The House on Mango, I wasn't taught about the book nor about the writer, but I saved her name: Sandra Cisneros, a published writer, a published Latina writer. When I finally has the chance to get the book, I flipped through it and was immediately heartbroken--It wasn't a novel. I was still under the impression that great writers are novelists and instead of seeing the praise given to the book as a sign of great writing, I took it as a mockery. I took it as if the literary world was mocking the ability of Latina writers, as if short stories were the only thing we could do. It's complicated now for me to talk about what I felt because in truth it had nothing
Post a Comment
Read more