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El Plan de Carlos TEODORO FLORES |
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In the last dog days of the Reagan-Bush era, a very significant thing happened: I fell in love. I fell in love with the most beautiful man I had ever seen; his name was Carlos and, like me, he was a graduate student and a fierce Chicano nationalist. We were both transplanted Tejanos, from the Lower Rio Grande Valley, studying here in California, far away from our home. What was it about him? He had gorgeous broad shoulders and that smooth silky brown skin that only Chicano men have. The only thing was that he was straight, or he kept insisting that he was. My comadres, though, knew that we could trap him for me, if only we had a plan. So we decided to put together El Plan de Carlos, a foolproof, sure-fire plan to land this perfect man for me: Mr. Right, if you will. Sometimes Chicano men need a little push to do the right thing. Still, my comadres being what they are, I ended up with some uniquely different Plans, each one guaranteed to work. La Divina and Armando are my dearest friends, but how these two suddenly became experts at achieving stability and lifetime happiness, I'll never know. La Divina, being the pushiest one, offered his plan first. Beauty and superficiality were the keys: what man could resist Cindy Crawford big hair attitude? La Divina just got a grant from the NEA, but listening to him, you'd think that he just won a billion dollars in some lottery or lawsuit. He invited me to his studio to strategize. He was in one of his aerosol paint moods: everything, absolutely everything, had been sprayed gold, except his big, shiny, black hair, which he never stopped tossing. "O.K. girl," he began, in his imperious tone. "It's the face and the hair. You don't fuck with them. Listen, I'll make a cosmetics list and you go get it, come back, and we'll beautify." La Divina was the original Mexican-American Princess, a MAP, whose foremothers had shed blood in the Chicano Movimiento so that he could shop for days and drink Evian. Divina looked around and sighed. When you want to spraypaint everything in this world gold, your job is never done. He was nice to find time in his routine for me. He hunted around the studio for something to write on, and spotted a sketching pad. He opened his bag, pulled out a black eyebrow pencil, and suddenly got very businesslike. This was serious. La Divina began scribbling. "Alright, you absolutely need a cleansing bar for your face. You probably need the Sea Mud Soap from Erno Laslo. It's expensive, but you don't fuck with your face. Oh, and what shampoo do you use?" I felt kind of embarrassed. "Suave." I pronounced it in Spanish. La Divina looked horrified and a little confused. I wondered if he knew what Suave was, or if he just instinctively knew it was cheap. "Well, you need J.F. Lazartigue. You can only get it in New York, but I still have some left that I'll let you borrow." La Divina was getting into it. He never lends beauty products. Divina looked at me closely. "You need concealer, desperately." I didn't know what a concealer was, but it sounded like La Divina was being shady. "It's nothing personal, girl. Everyone needs one. Go to Prescriptives and get color matched--oh, fuck it. I'll go with you. I don't trust you butch men with anything important." La Divina was wearing a black Donna Karan V-neck sweater, gold Chanel earrings, black tights, and black clogs. He hunted for his bag, which contained only magazines (Vogue and Allure) and a Star-Red Chanel lipstick. Divina traveled lightly: that's what men were for--to pay cover charges and alcohol expenses. La Divina was very wise. We jumped into a cab for Nordstrom's. I saw that we were passing by the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art and hoped La Divina wouldn't notice--but, of course, he did. "Ooo, I hate art," he hissed. "Do you believe that piece of shit museum is having a Rauschenberg and a Pollack retrospective? Who cares? These fucking museums. They're so tired. People will never get over those goddam abstract expressionists. I hate artists. You know Carmen Lomas Garza will never get the respect those losers do." He was on a rant and I thought it best just to smile and nod. Of course, as soon as we got to the cosmetics department at Nordstrom's, everyone -- and I mean everyone -- knew Divina. Representatives from each of the competing cosmetic lines -- Chanel, Lancôme, Clarins, YSL, Erno Laslo, Prescriptives, Mac, and Princess Marcella Borghese -- called out to Divina to give his time, money, and face to them. Divina decided on Lancôme, and greeted Amalia, the counterwoman, warmly. "Ay, Divina," Amalia purred, "you look completely hungover. You need this hydrating mask. What did you do last night beside drink all the vodka in San Francisco?" "Ay, Amalia, do I look that bad? I'll take two masks, and yes, I did go out last night. What else can I do when my Juanito abandons me to go on one of his gigs, or whatever you call those butch things that musicians do?" I think that Divina had forgotten about me. Amalia looked concerned. "You are way too attached to that hombre of yours. You know how these men are whenever they travel; they go to some hotel bar and pick up the first blonde woman that even looks in their direction." Divina got serious. "That man had better not even think of cheating on me. That's what guns are for, Amalia. You're the one that taught me that." Amalia beamed. "That's right, querida. Talking to men without a gun is a waste of time." |
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