#the one puerto rican thing i did grow up with was the food & besties i love the fuckin food
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there were empanadillas at the function today and like!!! i only had two but!! i wish i would’ve had more because!!! they tasted just like the ones my aunt makes (and she uses my abuelita’s recipe)!!! so they literallyyyy tasted like my childhood!!!!! one thing about me, i am a fiend for some fried dough with meat & peppers & other goodies stuffed inside it!!! like num num num, yes please!!!
#i literally could’ve just had empanadillas & pumpkin pie & i would’ve been happy#pol’s diary <3#culturally i’m soooo white washed but!!!#the one puerto rican thing i did grow up with was the food & besties i love the fuckin food#cocina criolla is unmatched besties!! it’s unmatched!!!#it’s like the best of the carribean (african & indigenous influences) mixed with that latin flare and it’s so fucking delciousssssss#i mean i also grew up roman catholic which is like hella common in latam#but… ehh does that really count? lmaooo#boricua#puerto rico
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Misadventures in Reporting - Christmas Special 2017
About the series: Misadventures in Reporting is a series of short stories about the adventures of a normal reporter living in an abnormal world.
Rating: PG-13 for mild cursing and one very drunk superhero
Word count: 1,782
I want to dedicate this to my best friend who’s been living in the United States for several years now (love you, bestie) and to every Puerto Rican living abroad. We miss you over here. Merry Christmas to you all.
Calling Home
It was the first day of snow. Normally, it wouldn’t fall until closer to Christmas, and sometimes not even then. But this year, Chicago was already filled with icy patches anywhere water had leaked days before Christmas Eve. That meant the citizens had to watch where they stepped. While the city’s maintenance employees had done their best to keep the sidewalks as safe as possible, there was only so much they could do. Everyone knew this. But Melinda was too focused on her phone to remember.
It was the third time she tried calling her family back home, but the call still wouldn’t get through. Each time it went straight to voicemail. She growled at her phone, her ungloved hand already hurting from the cold. Although she had been living in Illinois for several years already, she still couldn’t get used to the cold.
She switched her phone to her other hand, flexing the exposed one in hopes of unfreezing it. Once mobile enough, Melinda tried calling for the fourth time. This time, it rang twice. Her heart skipped a beat. Yet, once again, she was met with the familiar: “You have reached to voicemail box of; seven, eight, seven—”
“UGH!” she growled as she crossed the street. “Just work, you stupid, useless fu—ARGH!”
Melinda fell flat on her butt, but was not given the chance to properly register.
In a split second, a honk resounded in her ears, at the same time that a shooting pain invaded her shoulder. But the pain was not from the incoming headlights. Instead, Melinda had the time to look up to see someone had grabbed her arm, and was now flying her up to a nearby apartment building.
Ungracefully, what looked like a young man dropped her on the rooftop, making her fall face-first on the ground. She got up to her knees, groaning and looking for her clumsy savior. Only eight feet away from her, the man landed, staggering further away from her. He bent down and then…
Threw up.
That’s not what I expected, she thought, covering her nose and mouth.
“Ugh, I regret everything,” the young man slurred, holding himself up from a wall. He gagged again, like he was still nauseous.
That’s my savior? Melinda wondered, skeptical. She looked closer at the young man, who looked no taller than five feet and several inches. He was dressed in several layers of sweaters and jackets, the one over all colored black. He also wore a thick, red beanie that covered his ears, and large sunglasses, making it hard to make out his face. Yet, his very tanned skin was still visible.
“Are you okay?” she asked hesitantly.
“I feel like shit,” he mumbled, dragging his feet away from the bodily fluids he had just expelled. “I’m never—” He stopped on his tracks. He swallowed hard and deflated. “I’m never drinking again.”
“You’re drunk?” Melinda deadpanned. “First time I get rescued, and you’re drunk?”
“Sorry—hic—to disappoint, lady,” the young man snapped.
“Are you even old enough to drink?” she asked, mulling over his short stature.
“I’ll have you know that—hic—my height doesn’t define my age,” he complained. He then took a deep breath. “Whatever, you’re fine. I’ll leave.”
He waved dismissively at her, but just as quickly as he took flight again, he was back down on the rooftop.
“Nope,” he managed to get out, covering his mouth again. “Bad idea.”
Melinda frowned, staring at the imbalanced man. Flying wasn’t a common power superheroes had. Which was ironic, considering all the comic books she had read while growing up. In fact, there was only one super she knew of who had that ability. And one of the traits people mostly described of him was that he was shorter than you’d think.
“You’re Hermes,” she let out. “You’re one those heroes that travels around the world.”
The young man became still, hand still on his face.
“I’m not sober enough for this,” he breathed, slowly sitting on the floor.
Meanwhile, Melinda’s heart started beating erratically. These international heroes were not easy to catch. Most of them denied interviews, or didn’t speak the language of whatever country they were visiting at the time. Only once she had managed to see one, and it ended with her trapped in a cage of dirt.
This guy was drunk and unable to fly. He was easy prey.
Yet, she found herself struggling between her journalism instincts and her human ones. It wouldn’t be fair nor ethical to take advantage of someone who had saved many lives. Much less of someone who made his first public rescue back home, where her family resided.
“Do you need anything?” she found herself asking.
Hermes merely shrugged. As softly as possible, she moved closer to him, until the tips of her feet almost touched his knee.
“Why are you drunk?” she couldn’t help but ask. “You sound like a kid.”
“Where I’m from, I’m old enough to drink,” he slurred.
“But we’re not in wherever you’re from,” she deadpanned, crossing her arms.
Hermes shrugged again. “Debatable.”
Melinda frowned. What was that even supposed to mean? This guy wasn’t making much sense. She could just leave. She wasn’t her babysitter or designated driver; she didn’t have to stay. But what if someone came out into the rooftop and found him like this? Not everyone was a kind soul. They could end up taking advantage of his state to find out his real identity, or worse.
With an exasperated sigh, she collapsed next to him, crossing her legs for warmth. At least the rooftop was kept as clear of snow as possible.
“Why aren’t you in costume?” she asked.
“Wasn’t working,” he whispered. “Didn’t have time to change. Much less in my state.”
The journalist hummed. “And why risk your identity, if you were not—”
“Are we playing twenty questions?” Hermes interrupted. “I may be—hic—drunk, but I can still keep my secrets.”
“No, I wasn’t—” But she stopped abruptly, sighing instead. “Sorry. I ask questions for a living. It’s like second nature sometimes.”
Hermes grunted. They remained quiet for several minutes. In that time, Melinda stole several glimpses his way, still processing the fact that she was sitting next to a very famous superhero outside of work. In those glances, she noticed a pin attached to his jacket. It was a flag, with a blue triangle and five stripes. Three stripes were red, while the other two were white. And inside the triangle, there was a lone, white star.
It was the flag of her home.
“What’s with the pin?” she couldn’t help but ask, despite her previous apology.
For a moment, Hermes hesitated. Yet, eventually, he responded.
“My mom gave it to me,” he said. When Melinda opened her mouth to ask further, he continued. “She wanted me to have a piece of home with me always. To remind myself from where I come from. Like I could ever forget it.”
Melinda could almost feel herself vibrate with excitement. Who would have thought one of those famous superheroes was Boricua, like her? She wanted to jump up and scream, or start talking in Spanish. However, the melancholy in his features held her down, feeling it was not the time to freak out about it. Instead, she went another route.
“I miss home, too,” she said quietly. “I was trying to call my mom when I fell on the street. Cellphone service had been kinda bad in Puerto Rico lately, so I wasn’t paying attention to where I was stepping. Thank God there was a fellow Boricua to save me, huh?”
This time, Melinda turned her head to look fully at Hermes. As for him, he was already staring at her, lips parted. Slowly, a grin replaced his surprise.
“My cousin thought—hic—it would be funny to give the coquito and extra kick,” he responded at last, basking in the fact that he could talk about the Puerto Rican eggnog without having to explain himself.
“And, what, you just kept drinking?”
“It was so good!” Hermes defended.
Melinda snorted, trying to hold back laughter. They then proceeded to talk about Christmas food and drinks, arguing about which was the best part of their traditions, and other things. After a while, they fell into silence.
“I miss the stars the most,” Melinda said suddenly, looking up at the sky. “I could see so many of them from home. Here, it’s lucky I can see at least one.”
“Me too,” Hermes sighed, starting to sober up. “But did you know you can see a lot more stars out in the sea?”
“Wouldn’t know,” Melinda shrugged. “I’ve never been sailing or on a cruise.”
“You should someday,” he said. “It’s one of the coolest things you’ll ever see.”
“Maybe someday.”
There was another pause, finally broken by Hermes starting to rise from his sitting position.
“Welp, I’m feeling much better,” he announced. “I should get going before my cousin freaks out.”
“Right,” Melinda agreed, standing up too.
Hermes was starting to climb the low wall, when he suddenly stopped and turned back to her.
“By the way, could you not tell anyone about the stuff I told you? Keeping my identity secret is very important to keep my loved ones’ safe. I’m sure you understand.”
The journalist waved a hand over her mouth in a zipping gesture.
“My lips are sealed,” she assured. “Not everything needs to be reported on.”
“Reported on?” Hermes whispered to himself. “What’s your name again?”
“I’m Melinda Martínez,” she responded, as if stating her name for an interview. “I’m a journalist, so you’ve probably read my name on a byline of the Chicago Metro Times. But don’t worry,” she added hastily when she noticed him become still. “I’m not the paparazzi type of reporter. I can keep a secret. Besides, you never consented to an interview, and I take my journalism ethics very seriously.”
“Oh,” Hermes breathed. “That’s nice of you. Well, see you around, Melinda.”
With a stiff wave of his hand, he bid goodbye to her and jumped into the air. Melinda took a step closer to where he had been, watching the fading figure in wonder, imagining how it felt like to fly. She gave a wistful sigh, right before looking at her phone again. She took a deep breath and tapped at the contact that said ‘Mami’. She waited several anxious seconds, until, at last, the phone on the other side rang.
After only two rings, a woman responded: “Hello?”
“Mami!” Melinda sighed, with the widest smile she’d had all day, despite the freezing Christmas cold.
#misadventures in reporting#mir#melinda martínez#puerto rico#original fiction#their-destinys-writer#fantasy#sci-fi#superheroes#short story#series
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