Outline For Love

By Tommy Villalobos

A true romance. With a few detours and wrinkles. Like life. As a famous man once said, "The first sigh of love is the last of wisdom."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tommy Villalobos
• Release date: Dec 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9780463154007

Tommy Villalobos

Born and raised in East Los Angeles, I have always loved reading and writing. My goal in life is for people to read what I'm writing and then double up laughing, dislocating something. But modest giggles are OK, too.

Book preview

Outline For Love

By

Tommy Villalobos

Copyright 2016 Tommy Villalobos

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

I dedicate this book to Helene Thomas. A true friend. And in the same spirit, I must acknowledge her hard work in creating the wonderful book cover for Outline For Love, which captures the essence and heart of my story.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 1

Mona Rinistor stepped out of her office for a breath of fresh air. Chava Absuena, likewise, stepped out of her office for one reason or another. She was not sure. Mona had been in the same office complex for several years, although it felt like only a few months. Chava had been working in her office for several hours, and it seemed like several years. The offices opened out into the second floor balcony and city smells and ruidos.

Mona walked toward Chava. Chava, in turn, wanted to turn and dart back into her office. She thought Mona was some kind of dueña, for Chava had bad experiences with bosses and landladies. Her first job was at an ice cream parlor in Nogales, Méjico. Then a beauty parlor in Juarez. Then a poker parlor in Amarillo. Then the Mexican tattoo parlor in San Diego. She also encountered dueñas trying to stretch her paychecks. When the landlady was close at her heels, Chava, a quick packer, hopped on a bus.

Now Chava worked in a fashion parlor in Los Angeles. This time her dueña was a dueño, Max Lipiz.

A few great writers, and a few hack ones, have pointed out that life is full of ironies. Here was one. Max was a barrio sort who, for some reason (his Tía Minstra Telamacundra said it was due to a good kick to the head he suffered when a boy at the hands of some primo), decided one beer-soaked evening at The Green Bar to become a women's fashion consultant.

His friends said it was just to get girls. He said it was simply his chosen career path. His Tía Minstra reminded him that his whole family from his father's side going way back before the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was a family of contented carpenters. The fact did not move him.

Hello, said Mona, sticking a hand toward Chava before she could close the door.

Hi, said Chava defensively, hesitating before sticking out her hand from the small space left by a nearly closed puerta. Mona had to reach for it and their fingers barely made contact before Chava withdrew hers behind her back as if to prevent Mona from grabbing it again.

Do you work for the Women's Fashion Consultant? asked Mona looking at the sign on the door.

Chava followed her eyes to the sign on the door as if to confirm that Mona had correctly defined the sign.

Yes, she said with hesitation as she looked back to Mona.

Are you her?

Not even.

Where is she?

She ain't anywhere.

We all gotta be somewhere.

Not her.

Huh?

My boss is some guy.

Now is he?

Chava nodded vigorously as if to latch on to stark reality.

Interesting.

Chava drew a blank. She then tried to phantom in her mind what was interesting.

So you just started working for him? said Mona.

Uh-huh.

How many people work here?

Just me.

Are you his partner? she said while appraising Chava's purple abstract printed tunic and faded denim leggings.

No. I just answer phones.

Oh.

On cue, the telephone rang.

Chava stared at Mona as if wanting direction.

I better let you answer that, said Mona, giving her some.

Chava closed the door.

Mona slowly walked back to her office, the office of a thriving accountant.

Mona thought. Rules change. I deal with cold numbers and here's a homey who deals with warm figures. Go figure.

Mona had spent her early life in and around East Los Angeles since birth. Her brain then took her to Villanova then to various parts of the world, including Houston where she obtained her first employment with an accounting firm that accounted for big perfume, little diapers and mediocre law firms. Tiring of endless parties and shopping sprees, she decided to come back home and account in L.A.

Welcome home, mija, her mother had declared when Mona returned home. We have your room ready and your father is inviting his best friend's hijo to meet you. He is a metal polisher and makes good money to support you and all the chavalos you're going to push out.

Mona had already secured a condominium along the beach at a good price. How does one tell amá and apá that the nest is even a tighter fit than before?

Way Numero 1: Mom, dad, I have been to three colleges, two countries, four states and several republics of various political persuasions, if one interprets that word loosely, so home would be a lame environment.

Way Numero 2: There are not too many big accounting firms in our Hood.

Way Numero 3: I need my space which apá considers met by an 8 by 8 foot bedroom, dinner and a sala with plenty of boxeo and one or two telenovelas.

Way Numero 4: One outing a year to visit parientes in San Fernando is not the social life I envision lasting until my dotage.

Way Numero 5: I like my privacy, which is nearly non-existent with family, neighbors, and dad's ne'er-do-well amigos parading through the house at all hours.

Mona, with a frowning father and a disappointed mother, set up homemaking by herself—and eventually one aquarium fish—in a roomy place with a great view of Pacific sunsets. The life of a successful accountant, certified, and daughter, not certified, pleased her.

Therefore, Mona floated into her office every weekday morning, gathering accounting accounts as little girls gather daisies. She had a knack for selling her skills that she developed at nine when she made Christmas ornaments and sold them outside of supermarkets. From there, she began making little trinkets and selling them outside of bars where men snapped them up to give to girlfriends and even wives. Then she washed perros but no gatas because of one scratch she got on her forehead, which, to this day, she claims is a scar she will carry forever. No one has ever seen the scar but she claims, nonetheless, it is there.

Back in her office, Mona went to her desktop and began in earnest an accounting services proposal for one women's fashion consultant. He has one employee, one office and she has seen no clientele go in and out. She was witness to one phone call, which could have been a wrong number, or worse, from family.

At the same moment, Max Lipiz was in front of his cracked mirror in a trailer he rented. The old, rusty trailer sat behind an iron works shop, which sat behind an auto paint shop that sat behind a pickle factory. This made for absorbing and enchanting noises and odors that floated into his trailer round the clock.

He dressed meticulously, spending nearly all his money on clothes and accessories that make the man, for who wanted an unkempt slouch advising them on fashion, especially women. His rent was minimal as well as his eating. He was slim, neat and eager. Only his nose gave away his gaunt figure as it protruded dramatically from the rest of him.

Max's Smartphone let out a tune, Sabor A Mi. This was his only other luxury. This is Max, he said into the phone.

Maximilliano Rudolfo, this is your Tía, said his Tía Minstra, her voice a foghorn of robustness.

Yes, Tia, said Max with all due respect to the tía who looked over him like a guardian angel who had slipped in other duties and, therefore, had been given the assignment of watching Max as just punishment.

Come over and eat. I made huevos con Chilaquiles. You used to like them.

I still do, Tía , but I've got to get to the office and make money.

Money can wait. Chilaquiles can't.

Silence.

¿Me estás oyendo? she then said as if Max were a fair piece down a country road. He moved the phone nearly half a foot from his ear.

I have to make a living. I'll eat them next time I'm there.

It's been a week. My brother, your Tío, George offered you a good job in his landscaping business. He has clients from Beverly Hills to Thousand Oaks.

I have my own business, Tía.

Advising women how to put on and wear a dress? Men want to undress women, not dress them."

I'm flexible.

Dresses and men don't go together.

The conversation ended because his aunt wanted to end with that point.

And Max took that point with him to his office. Mona jumped out of her office to intercept him.

Hello, she said.

Hi, he said, rushing past.

Are you the fashion guy?

Yes, he said as he turned and stopped.

Funny.

Sure is, he began to turn and walk again.

No, I mean, you being a fashion advisor for women?

Yeah, my aunt thinks it's hilarious.

Does she?

Reminds me constantly how silly I am. He then took a few more steps and reached for the doorknob to his office.

I'd like to talk to you, she said in her never-ending search for accounting clients.

Sure, he smiled, looking for his first fashion client. We'll be talking, I'm sure.

He disappeared. Then Mona did. The walkway was at rest once more, void of accounting and fashion folks.

So went the days, then weeks. Mona did obtain two clients during this period. Max received phone calls but only two made appointments and only one showed up. She was a council member from a small city somewhere.

When Lora Milinda wearing two-inch black opened toed wedge heels walked through the door, Chava was going to tell her that the accounting office was next door, for she was dressed to kill men or numbers.

Her outfit consisted of a black and white plaid knee-length body hugging dress, and a blue long sleeve tailored blazer that accentuated her small waste. Her dark brown shoulder length hair curled outward on the sides as if she had just stepped out of the famous Grove Salon. Her makeup had a professional touch. There was nothing wrong with her that Chava could see. Nevertheless, before she could tell her, in so many words, Lora Milinda, used to beating fellow politicians to the punch, spoke.

I have an appointment to see the fashion person.

No kidding? said Chava with genuine wonderment in her voice.

Is he ready for me?

I'll check, said Chava without taking her eyes off the woman while getting up.

She walked over to Max's office and peeked in. Before she could say anything, Max also beat her to the punch by waving an arm from the direction where the female voice had entered his ears to the chair stationed in front of his desk.

Chava turned around from where she stood and mimicked Max's wave, waving from Lora to the chair in front of Max's desk. Lora quickly and obediently followed the waving Chava to the chair.

Max stood an extended a hand toward her. Lora touched it with three fingers then sat.

Max, too, was impressed with her trappings, so much so that he, like Chava, stared.

I'm Lora Milinda.

Hello. I'm Max. How can I help you? A standard greeting for any business, but in Max's case, he meant it. He actually was wondering how he could help the woman who already looked much like the After photograph of any Before photo anyone could come up with.

It's not me. It is my niece. She is nineteen. She also has been hit by that worm that hits many chavalas in the barrio—she fantasies herself a Chola. She dresses more like one than acts like one. That's one saving grace.

I see, he said, without really seeing.

I've taken her to beauty parlors and she looks okay for a day then back to the slouch look with a hairdo that maybe lasts another day. Can you do something?

Something?

Well, anything?

Anything?

For a poor soul who will never have a good man kiss her.

Man kiss her?

Can you say anything on your own?

Max considered.

Sure, he said with delight, like a pupil answering a tough question from a tough teacher.

Go ahead then.

How come you didn't bring her?

I had planned to but she must have got wind of it and went to her welding class.

She welds?

Like a ship builder. And she likes caballos. And baseball. And I mean, hardball with the guys. See, we're dealing with someone that if she doesn't watch it, will end up slugging beers with old veterano cholos in some dive, unmarried, unloved, smelly and unattractive. I want to make a lady. You know, a woman you guys can't help but want to carry off and spend your lives going broke over.

I got the broke part down.

What?

I wish I could see her.

Here she is, said Lora while whipping out a photograph of a girl, a little one.

How can I work with this? She's little here.

Picture her a few feet taller with the latest chola hairstyle, the same glower, but stylin' like only cholas can.

She's wearing overalls here.

Still does on occasion.

This will be a major project for me and my staff.

How much?

Well, three hundred for initial consultation. Then, depending how much it takes, could be five hundred more.

Lora did not flinch.

Max jumped in. But it may take more time so I may need one thousand.

Lora took out her checkbook. So you want three hundred plus one thousand?

Max nodded weakly, unconvinced that he was to receive anything close.

Lora scribbled. She then handed him the check.

Do you need any cash? she added while rising and looking around his office as if seeing its naked condition for the first time.

No, no.

When can you begin work?

Let me check my calendar, he said thoughtfully but could find no calendar because he did not have one because he did not need one.

Is tomorrow fine? said Lora in a rescue attempt.

Oh, yeah, tomorrow, he said as if Lora had just now invented tomorrows.

Lora left. Max thought and thought. He thought how his first client would immediately help him pay la renta, Chava, and buy a calendar. He then thought of how a few more Lora types would send him sailing to some far corner of the globe. This was going to be a good life. A rich one. He would not have to steer a leaf blower for his Tío George ever.

He sat in his office, a look of complete satisfaction on his face. Tomorrow, he said softly. He remained in that animated state for more than a few minutes then realized all he had was a tomorrow; he had no idea when this woman was supposed to show up with her incipient chola.

He jumped out the door, breezing by Chava who jumped a good half foot, making a valiant effort to rub her skull with the ceiling. Max flung the door open and looked in all directions, finally landing on Mona shaking hands with a beaming man. Their mutual smiles gone as well as the man, Mona turned to Max.

Did she leave without paying?

You saw her?

Yes, you did quite a job.

Max was about to explain that the fact she looked the way she did had nothing to do with him, when his Maravilla-Housing-Projects learning stopped him. She, Lora, would be his first walking advertisement even though he had nothing to do with dressing her.

Thanks. But did you see where she went.

Yeah, she got into some kind of sports car and zoomed away. Looked expensive. Like the plaid body hugging dress and tailored blazer you outfitted her in.

I did? Of course I did. I remember now.

Do you like parties?

Not since I was ten.

He went back into his office.

Chava, he said loudly. Chava made another effort to reach the ceiling but this time only travelled a few inches. I need that woman's telephone number.

She didn't give me one when I asked her.

Then look up her number with the city. She's on the city council.

She didn't say what city.

Max slapped his forehead. Was this a gag? Was the woman paid by one of his camaradas to make Max the butt of a chiste? Had to be. His luck was not normally this good. Nevertheless, he had the check. However, the check did not have her telephone number.

Anyway, the true test would be to run to the bank. Moreover, run he did, for the bank was just two buildings away.

I got this check from one of one of your customers, said Max, scolding the teller.

Sure did, the pert young woman on the other side of the counter countered. She went to the bank manager for an OK due to the large sum. She, the bank manager, said OK by somberly nodding her head from a distant desk as if Robespierre approving an execution of yet another royal under the glistening guillotine. Bank people have a tendency to look on you as if you were just another annoyance in the ivory tower known as the banking industry, he thought.

She returned and whipped out the large sum as if her hands and arms were robotic and unconnected to any other part of her torso.

Max grabbed and ran. He had more money now than he had since his days working as a tire buster. He ran to his office then ran by Chava who jumped but minimally due to quickly earned experience, ran into his office and closed and locked the door. He threw the ten twenties, two hundreds and two five hundreds onto his desk and admired. Certainly, it was not a sack of gold but it was his gateway to more, he reasoned, his eyes glistening as if feasting on a yellow diamond.

There was a soft knock on the door. Max, said Chava, her voice sweetly muffled by the thick door, that lady called and said she and her sobrina would be here tomorrow at two.

Max stuffed the money back into his four pockets, which now bulged with delight. He flung the door open with a smile Chava saw for the first time, which caused he to take a few steps backward, surprised at the novel re-arrangement of Max's facial bones.

That's great! One less thing to worry about. She'll be here at two with the female aberrant and we'll be ready for her, won't we?

Chava nodded then came forward again.

And your friend from San Diego called and said he needs to borrow some money but that he will pay you back right away.

Did he say his name was Edgar?

He didn't say his name. He say he come then hung up.

He's the only one that calls for money. Must be him. He's from San Diego now?

Yes. Why? Was he from somewhere else before?

He's all over the map. And all over me for money. Why can't he find someone else to leach off? I would write a poem about him or at least a limerick, if I could.

My brother Gustavo writes songs. I'll tell him to write one for you about your primo and you, and I'll tell him to throw in the dinero your primo always wants.

Tell him to write a song of a bato who gets rich and is getting richer.

¿De veras? You know this person?

Excuse me, said Max then closed the door.

Chava had worked with