by Marie Davis & Margaret J. Hults
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak much Spanish.” Sara said to the seductive siren sitting down almost on top of her.
“Senorita, no problemo. I’m sure we will find a way to communicate.” The dark-eyed Mexican enchantress smiled, “It’s a long way up, no?”
“Yes,” Sara’s heartbeat kicked up a notch, “it took me two hours to climb all the way up. I think it’s about two hundred and fifty steps? At least that’s where I lost count, it’s hard to gauge when you are climbing without handrails!”
“Steep too, La Pirámide del Sol eh—The Pyramid of the Sun—it’s the third largest pyramid in the world.”
“Third largest? I didn’t know that! Scary coming up, but, it was worth it. The view is spectacular!”
“Yes, look at the mountains ringing the valley. Just think, this peaceful spot was once the very place where Aztecs cut the beating hearts out of their enemies, right here, on the top.”
Sara stammered, “They…they did?”
“Sí, I was one of the archeologists who also discovered children, sacrificed and buried at the four corners. You know, the pyramid was once completely red.”
“From the blood?”
“Oh no! It was covered with red mortar. Can you imagine how incredible that would have looked? You would have been able to see this pyramid for miles and miles. Indigenous people would have known that this was a place of great power. By 750, how do you say…eh…A.D. hundreds of thousands lived in the surrounding city, Teotihuacan. It was the largest city in Mesoamerica.”
Sara was entranced by this stranger and the intelligence rolling off of her tongue in a rich, thick Spanish accent. Awestruck, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. A long, awkward silence rose up between them. Getting uneasy, the Mexican woman asked,
“¿De dónde de? Where are you from?”
“I’m from America.”
Half sneering, the woman said flatly, “We are both Norte Americanos, pobrecito. What I meant was which country are you from?”
“Oh yes, I’m sorry…I’m sorry.” Sara blushed realizing her error, and in an effort to reconnect, she said in broken Spanish, “I am from Los Estados Unidos, me llamo Sara.”
“Mucho gusto, nice to meet you gringo. Me llamo Chicken.”
Sara asked confidently. “Chicken? That’s some sort of nickname right?”
“No. My full name is Chicken Hierra Alvarez. Hierra was my father’s last name and Alvarez is my mother’s. In my country the mother’s surname is always last.
“Did you say Chicken? Like the English word chicken?”
“Sí, mi madre…my mother, the well-feared Senora Alvarez, had a passion for English food words…and a rotten sense of humor. My name was one of her crazy lifetime jokes. You know, one of those ways a parent thinks it’s funny to scar us for life.”
Sara nodded, “Yeah, I think I do.”
“Es muy malo…eh…it’s worse. I have a brother named Egg, a sister named Turkey, another named Beef.”
“Ohh…really?”
“Diablo! My poor littlest sister was named Ketchup.”
“Ketchup?”
“Sí, Ketchup died in a salsa factory.”
Sara didn’t know what to say about that, was this woman named after poultry pulling her leg? However, weird name or not, she was inextricably drawn to Chicken’s lovely roasted complexion and warm character. Nice breasts, beautiful smile, gorgeous body. I wonder if she’s coming on to me?
Chicken stared back, her dark eyes were embarrassingly penetrating, “My mother—she was a bitch of a woman whose only saving grace was that she made the best mole in all of Oaxaca. Mole—es verdad, it’s true—everyone said it was muy delicioso. People came from seven different pueblos just to eat mole at our restaurant – hundreds of people everyday! You know mole?”
The gringo shrugged, “It’s a kinda gravy made with chocolate, right?”
“Well, I don’t know about gravy—but it has over twenty different ingredients including mulato chiles, tomatillos, garlic, raisins, pumpkin seeds, cinnamon, cumin seeds…it is finished with chocolate. My job as a kid was to grind the chocolate in the molcajete. “Mira! Look! Chicken held up her right index finger—see it’s still stained with chocolate!”
Sara flirtatiously leaned closer, “I think that’s a freckle?”
“No—it’s chocolate. Here, taste it!” Chicken stuck her finger in Sara’s mouth.
Sara couldn’t help but twirl her tongue around the finger, “I’ll be damned, it does taste like chocolate!”
Pulling her finger back, Chicken cackled, “Ha, ha…es falso…it’s really a lie.”
“A lie? It tastes like chocolate to me?”
“Sí, I was born that way, all my fingers taste like chocolate—my pinkies taste the strongest. Here want to try one?”
“No, no—that’s okay.” Regardless of what she said, Sara could feel her desire to suck on those chocolately pinkies becoming almost unbearable. Could one lonely lesbian live on chocolate fingers forever?
Chicken’s fingers were dedos milagrosos, miraculous fingers. For years Oaxans made their way to Senora Alvarez’s restaurant to eat the obligatory plate of sliced turkey covered in mole. Afterwards, one by one they would tell the restaurant’s matriarch, “Su mole es el mejor en el mundo…your mole is the best in the world.” The cocinera would either scream, “Get out of my kitchen!” Or she would grab Chicken up by the wrist and proclaim, “Because my soul is dedicated to mole—I offered my first unborn child to Saint Georgiana, the patron saint of chocolate. So, my baby Chicken was born with fingers miraculously tasting like chocolate.” Then Senora Alvarez would shove one of the child’s fingers into their mouth—and that was it, a miracle tasted.
Chicken’s chocolate fingers were whispered around the pueblos to bring such miracles as babies born with blue eyes, the healing of wounds or heartbreak, and thick breasted women for other lonely women. The price for these miracles was a hike to the town, a plate of satisfactory mole and one good lie to Senora Alvarez. After that—with all the best of hopes—it was Chicken’s chocolate fingers in your mouth and miracles for your soul.
