This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
Cynthia walked straight into her room and locked the door behind her. When she didn’t come out for dinner, Carlos left her a plate of food. It was still there when he checked the following morning. He knocked lightly on the door.
“Hey, Cynthia,” he said. “I just wanted to check on how you were doing.”
There was no response. Carlos turned to Monica, who was sitting at the dining room table. She looked up from her laptop and made a circular motion with her hand as if to say, “Keep going.”
Carlos turned back to the door.
“Monica and I are worried about you. Also, we got the results on the soil and air samples back from the lab. Unfortunately, they all came back negative.”
Carlos heard a groan from inside the room.
Monica rolled her eyes and turned her head as if saying, “Not the time to bring that up.”
“What?” mouthed Carlos in reply to Monica’s gesture. “At least now we know she’s alive.”
“Look,” he added. “It’s cool if you need some time to yourself. You don’t need to come out just yet. I’ll leave you some more food by the door.”
And so, he did. First, he left a sandwich at around noon. When that hadn’t been touched by 7, he replaced it with a bowl of pasta and chicken. It wasn’t until four hours later that Cynthia finally emerged.
Carlos caught her eye just as she reached for the bowl. She wore an ancient t-shirt several sizes too large and a pair of tattered athletic shorts. Her bloodshot eyes looked like they hadn’t seen any sleep since she’d locked the door 24 hours earlier. Cynthia froze in mid-crouch, arms extended for the bowl, when her gaze met Carlos’. She looked exhausted and feral.
“Hey, there,” said Carlos like he was trying to coax a wild wounded animal. “How you doing?”
Cynthia grabbed the bowl and stood up in one swift movement. She turned to go back into her room.
“Hey, wait, wait a second,” he continued. “I’m watching Drag Race. I could use some company. You want to join me?”
Cynthia stopped and rotated slowly back around.
“What do you say?” asked Carlos. “I could use the company.”
He patted the spot next to him on the couch.
Cynthia pouted, glanced around the apartment, and shuffled next to Carlos on the couch. He lifted his arm, and she curled into his side. Carlos covered her with a blanket. They watched the epic Anetra vs. Marcia lip sync episode while she ate. Eventually, they fell asleep to Untucked at three in the morning, Cynthia with her head on Carlos’ lap and Carlos leaned against the back of the sofa, mouth slightly agape.
Monica woke them the following day by kicking the sole of Carlos’ shoe, sending a shock through him and then her. The mid-afternoon sun shone directly into Carlos’ eyes, making him squint.
“Hey,” said Monica. “Santos is inaugurating the Bulge in two days. They just published the press release.”
Carlos yawned as Cynthia rose from his lap and rubbed her eyes.
“We’d better get moving,” added Monica. “They’re going to start construction soon and it’d be a disaster if they turned out to be building on a volcano.”
“It’s not a volcano,” replied Cynthia, her shoulders sagging and eyes fixated on the floor. “The tests came back negative, remember?”
“Well, we don’t know that for sure yet,” said Carlos. “It could still be any number of things. We just have to keep investigating.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if I want to do that,” muttered Cynthia. “What’s the point, you know? I’ve already caused enough harm without actually accomplishing anything.”
“You accomplished plenty,” responded Monica, hands placed firmly on her hips. “You exposed a massive corruption scheme.”
“Sure, and they got away with it. All I did was get Rosa’s and God knows how many other families detained and possibly deported.”
“You didn’t do that,” said Carlos. He readjusted himself on the couch to face Cynthia. “That was Santos. And she’s going to get away with a lot more if you don’t keep digging into this. You’re basically the only person who can do it at this point.”
Cynthia rose from the couch and headed to her room.
“Hey, wait!” said Carlos. He got to his feet and stood between her and the door. “Come on. We can figure this out. We can do something important here.”
“I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”
She tried to sidestep him, but he got in her way.
“Whoa, whoa,” he raised his hands. “You got Monica and me into this. There were bullets flying over my head a couple of days ago. We dropped our entire lives to do this with you.”
“And I’m really sorry about that. I’m sorry I put you in danger and wrecked your lives, just like I wrecked so many other people’s lives. I’m just a piece of shit…”
She sidestepped in the other direction, but he matched her stride.
“So fucking what?” cried Carlos, losing his patience. “So what if you’re not a selfless superhero? So what if you want to make money, win awards, and feel stable? You can’t pay rent with admiration. Look at some of the greatest journalists of all time: Woodward, Bernstein, Hemmingway, Murrow, Jennings—they were all assholes! They weren’t shining examples of altruism! They wanted to succeed, and they did! You’re just feeling sorry for yourself. You’re trying to hide from your guilt.”
Cynthia glowered at him.
“You’re one to talk!” she exclaimed. “You hid from your problems in this apartment for a year and a half. I’m sorry if it’s taken me a couple of days to sort through the damage I’ve done.”
Monica raised her eyebrows and grabbed a seat.
“That’s not fair!” retorted Carlos. “I was embarrassed in front of the entire world. And I did plenty in this apartment!”
“Did you?” Cynthia’s tone changed from angry to mocking. “Did you really do all that much, making your videos and running from the trophy wives?”
“Hey! I educated millions of people…”
“Educated!” cried Cynthia with a laugh.
“Yes, educated! I helped millions of people learn about extremely important…”
“You helped them get off!” retorted Cynthia.
“Yeah, I’m sure I did,” Carlos was getting flustered. He paced the living room, his face reddening. Cynthia followed him with her eyes. “But I did a lot! I reached a lot of people! And, and I did a lot for Asian men everywhere!”
“What?” Cynthia extended the word into an exhale and then a snicker.
“That’s right!” Carlos turned back to Cynthia. “Asian men have been emasculated in Western culture for centuries! I’ve probably done more to counteract that stereotype than anyone else alive!”
Monica hid her chuckle, but Cynthia burst into laughter.
“You’re kidding me, right? I have a newsflash for you, Carlos: the planet doesn’t revolve around your dick!”
“And it doesn’t revolve around your self-loathing!” he countered. “And newsflash for you: just about everyone on this planet wants to see my dick.”
“I definitely don’t want to see your dick,” quipped Monica.
They both glared at her.
“You know what,” she went on. “I think I’m going to get something to eat.”
She rose from her chair and pointed at the door with both thumbs.
“You guys want something to eat?”
She pointed back at them. They continued to silently scowl. Monica walked backward toward the elevator lobby.
“Stir fry? You guys cool with stir fry? ‘Cause I am. Yep, stir fry it is. I’ll see you guys in a bit.”
She dashed out the door like the apartment housed a ticking timebomb.
Cynthia moved to the kitchen.
“You know what your problem is?” she asked.
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Your problem is you’re convinced you’re smarter than everyone else,” shot Cynthia, her eyes narrow and fuming.
“Ha!” Carlos threw his hands in the air. A mocking smile played on his lips. “I fucking wish!”
He rushed the gap with Cynthia in three steps so his face hovered six inches above hers. She only slightly winced, committed to holding her ground—so she told herself.
“My problem,” continued Carlos raising his voice. “Is that I am smarter than everyone else! My mind takes no pleasure in that fact, but my body—my fucking body!—does!”
The steady cadence of their synchronized, animated breathing punctuated the silence.
“You’re not as smart as you think you are,” whispered Cynthia.
Carlos blinked hard.
“What did you say?” he demanded.
“Your fetish isn’t dumbification…” Her voice grew louder, more firm. She looked him dead in the eye.
“Your real kink is mansplaining,” she concluded.
“I’m a feminist!” retorted Carlos. “And real feminists don’t…”
“Shhhhh,” she interrupted softly. Cynthia placed a finger to his mouth. “Shut the fuck up unless I tell you to explain something to me.”
A low groan rose from deep in Carlos’ diaphragm. His entire body tensed. He leaned in, bracing an arm on the counter behind Cynthia.
“Go on…” he said, failing to control the quiver in his voice.
“You go on,” Cynthia lifted her head so her lips almost brushed his. “I’m just sooo much dumber than you. Could you possibly describe the concept of mansplaining to me?”
Carlos swallowed.
“It’s um…”
Cynthia grabbed his hips and drew them into hers.
“You can do it…”
Carlos inhaled deeply, attempting to compose himself.
“It’s when men describe phenomena in an overconfident or demeaning manner to women.”
Cynthia kissed him hard but pushed his head back before he could really react.
“That was so good!” she encouraged, dripping in condescension. Cynthia dropped her hands from his temple to his groin. “You should tell me more.”
“It’s a widespread microaggression.”
He closed his eyes as she undid his belt.
“Commonplace in workplace and social settings.”
Down went the zipper.
“Derived from a patriarchal sense of superiority wherein men underestimate women’s ability to grasp complex concepts. The former believe they are illuminating the latter when they’re just making asses of themselves.”
The jeans fell to his feet. His heavy belt clanged off the hardwood floor.
“Huh…” paused Cynthia with a quizzical look. She cocked her head to the side.
“What is it?” asked Carlos, opening his eyes.
“It’s just, ummm…”
“Is it not as big as you thought?” he asked.
“Uh no, if anything, it’s a bit bigger.”
Carlos flushed.
“Is it the girth? We can go slow if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No, no, that’s not it at all. It’s just…”
“What?” he demanded, feeling self-conscious.
“It’s standing straight up. It’s not a bad thing!” she quickly insisted. “I’ve just never seen something like that. Most guys are at, like, 90 or 120 degrees, but you’re at full mast. That thing’s above your belly button.”
“This is a bad idea,” muttered Carlos.
He reached for his pants, but Cynthia gripped his wrists in both hands. She turned him around and pinned him to the counter.
