Angela who?

Sometime back, I asked L. for the name of his laundry service, since I heard they were cheaper by-the-kilo, and more than that, they pick up and deliver. I've been using their service for a couple of months now, and I have no complaints whatsoever.

What I do have is an alter-ego.

I came home from work one day to find a big black bag of fresh clothes outside my doorstep. Nothing unusual there, I had asked them to deliver it earlier in the day. The bag had a wide strip of masking tape attached to it, with the name Angela P. written in script with a green marker. I checked the bag: yes, it was mine. I checked the clothes inside: all of it was mine. Then, when I was sorting through the tops and the pants and the jackets, a slip of paper fell out. It was my receipt, and it went like this:

Name: Angela Peram
Address: Unit x0x, Sunset Slope 3+1, Yoyola Valley, QC
Service: Wash, dry, fold
Charge: P28 x 15kilos = P420.00
Laundry list...
etc, etc, etc.

Angela?! Do I look like a fucking Angela to you? I told my youngest sister, and she rolled all over the floor laughing.

Honestly, I don't mind the "Peram". Sounds like my surname, especially over the phone, I suppose. Also, also, it sounds too much like an Indian surname, which, forever to my dismay, is what people will first (mis)take me for. And (I think) I've resigned myself to that. But, Angela? I mean, seriously? It's too-fucking-much.

A couple of days ago, I had my laundry picked up again. It was my sister who was at home, and she took care of it. The conversation went like this:

Knock, knock.

Sister: Who's there?
Laundry: M. Laundry Service.
S: Yes? (Opens door.)
L: Hello. I've come to pick up...
S: Ah, yes. You're picking up Angela's laundry, right? (Snicker, snicker.)
L: Yes. Also, here's the dress she had dry-cleaned. (Hands my sister a small transparent bag with guess what written on a strip of masking tape in green marker.)
S: (Looks at the dress, and the name.) Yes, yes. This is Angela's. Will give it to her. (Snicker, snicker.) Thanks. (Snicker, snicker.)
L: (Gives my sister a worried look.) Um. Okay. Thanks.

Door closes. Loud laughter is heard off-screen.

See what I have to put up with?

*****

Anyway. Now, a poem-not-mine. Because, sometimes, the living need resurrecting more than the dead.


Havana Birth
Susan Mitchell

Off Havana, the ocean is green this morning
of my birth. The conchers clean their knives on leather
straps and watch the sky while three couples
who have been dancing on the deck of a ship
in the harbor, the old harbor of the fifties, kiss
each other's cheeks and call it a night.

On a green sofa five dresses wait
to be fitted. The seamstress kneeling at Mother's feet
has no idea I am about to be born. Mother
pats her stomach which is flat
as the lace mats on the dressmaker's table. She thinks
I'm playing in my room. But as usual, she's wrong

I'm about to be born in a park in Havana. Oh,
this is important, everything in the dressmaker's house
is furred like a cat. And Havana leans right up
against the windows. In the park, the air
is chocolate, the sweet breath of a man
smoking an expensive cigar. The grass

is drinkable, dazzling, white. In a moment
I'll get up from a bench, lured
by a flock of pigeons, lazily sipping
the same syrupy music through a straw.
Mother is so ignorant, she thinks
I'm rolled like a ball of yarn under the bed. What

does she know of how I got trapped in my life?
She thinks it's all behind her, the bloody
sheets, the mirror in the ceiling
where I opened such a sudden furious blue, her eyes
bruised shut like mine. The pigeon's eyes
are orange, unblinking, a doll's. Mother always said

I wanted to touch everything because
I was a child. But I was younger than that.
I was so young I thought whatever I
wanted, the world wanted too. Workers
in the fields wanted the glint of sun on their machetes.
Sugarcane came naturally sweet, you

had only to lick the earth where it grew.
The music I heard each night outside
my window lived in the mouth of a bird. I was so young
I thought it was easy as walking
into the ocean which always had room
for my body. So when I held out my hands

I expected the pigeon to float between them
like a blossom, dusting my fingers with the manna
of its wings. But the world is wily, and doesn't want
to be held for long, which is why
as my hands reached out, workers lay down
their machetes and left the fields, which is why

a prostitute in a little calle of Havana dreamed
the world was a peach and flicked
open a knife. And Mother, startled, shook
out a dress with big peonies splashed like dirt
across the front, as if she had fallen
chasing after me in the rain. But what could I do?

I was about to be born, I was about to have
my hair combed into the new music
everyone was singing. The dressmaker sang it, her mouth
filled with pins. The butcher sang it and wiped
blood on his apron. Mother sang it and thought her body
was leaving her body. And when I tried

I was so young the music beat right
through me, which is how the pigeon got away.
The song the world sings day after day
isn't made of feathers, and the song a bird pours
itself into is tough as a branch
growing with the singer and the singer's delight.