Free Down to the Bone by Mayra Lazara Dole Page B

Their breasts are hanging out all over the place. Just what I need so early in the morning: a freshly peeled look at life.
    In the crew there’s an olive-skinned girl with a sweet, dazed look in her made-up doey eyes that makes her look sleepy. She’s got straight, dark hair with tiny, heart-shaped, painted peach lips. A pinkish skin discoloration takes up the entire right side of her face. She’s wearing large gold earring hoops and tons of gold bracelets. You’d never think she’d be the type to get her hands dirty in a job like this.
    She throws a shining smile my way. “Hi, I’m Camila.”
    “ Hola .” I kiss her cheek. She smells tangy, like orange zest. Every time I get a whiff of a citrus scent, it brings me right to Marlena, a tangerine aficionada.
    I turn to the next person.
    An attractive, short, snowy white stocky girl, wearing a sleeveless purple tank—as little as a bathing suit top—showing hard muscles and soft mannerisms, gives me the biggest smile of all with two adorable crooked front teeth. Her hair is buzzed, which makes her tiny ears stick way out in a funny way. I guess you could call her androgynous.
    A dimple the size of a dime pops out when, with sparkling crystal blue eyes, she says, “Hey, what’s cookin’? I’m Jaylene Morenson.” Her cheeks flush, as if she dabbed on rouge when we weren’t looking. She shakes my hand.
    “Hi.” I smile.
    So far there’s an andro, a macho sicko guy and a drowsy girl in my crew.
    I’ve worked part-time long enough to know that eventually someone will bring forth madness. Like Gauge—a guy in my old crew—who believed he was an alien from another planet. He filled our ears with stories of his people’s “heroic intentions” to land here and show us how to rule over ourselves. He’d say things like, “In my dimension, we don’t posses the urge to kill, experience greed, or the need to manipulate. I’m here getting my PhD in evolutionary paleobiology. As a professor, I’ll teach humans about us, so one day you’re ready for our arrival. You keep beaming signals into space about silly snack foods. You should be broadcasting the need for help with your unsolvable social problems, like death, poverty, war, drugs and bullying.”
    Gauge talked about how “perplexed” he felt living among humans and our strange mating habits and rituals. I wasn’t disturbed or amused by any of it. I figured he’d been reading far too many dystopian novels, until, of course, he told Marco, “I need to leave early to get to a doctor’s appointment.” The following week he came back with stitches, saying, “The doctor inserted an iron metal rod inside my esophagus so my people in my dimension can follow me more carefully.”
    Because of Gauge, I knew to expect the unexpected.
    Che smacks his gum and stares Jaylene up and down, up and down, with elevator eyes. I can tell something weird is brewing in his swollen, cocky brain.
    A tall, husky, ruddy guy dressed in a crumpled-up blue T, worn jeans and a bright red nose, speaks up. “¡Hola! I’m George Prios.” His hands are callused, and he’s got an intense look in his coffee-ground eyes, as if he’s ready to jump into work. He smacks the arm of the burly guy next to him. “This is my big brother, Rey. He speaks just a wee bit of English.”
    “¿ Qué pasa, calabaza? ” Rey’s large copper-penny eyes smile. “At home they call me El Tigre.” He’s wearing all white, has got thick moppy honey-colored hair and a bushy, dark beard. He’s stocky and does remind me of a tiger. He extends his hands for a strong handshake.
    The crew now consists of the andro, a snoring girl, a wacked-out sicko perv, the roaring tiger and his intense workaholic brother. We’re missing the homophobic nun to wipe the smile off the lesbian, a coffee distributor guy to wake up the snoozer, and a priest (or rabbi) to “cure” the perv.
    A shipment of trees, plants and flowers was delivered yesterday. Marco’s weekend