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on me.
    I took a long shower, thought about opening up a vein, and pictured the blood swirling down the drain. Then I toweledoff, combed out my hair, and blow-dried it. I stayed in there until I heard an insistent rattling of the locked door-knob-someone wanted in, which meant it was safe to come out. The sexcapade was over. Both urge and Serge had been silenced
    “Are you in there?” said Virginie.
    No, I’m out there, dumb-ass. I’m cartwheeling down the hallway
.
    “Almost done.”
    “Well, hurry up. I have to pee!”
    Virginie kept several coffee cans full of makeup in the bathroom—a myriad of mysterious powders and paints, for lips, cheek, lash, and brow. There was a container reserved exclusively for the face artist’s numerous brushes, everything from a big puffy one for dusting on beige “light-diffusing crystals” to a miniature brush for taming unruly eyebrow hairs. I fished out one of her newer lipsticks and examined it: #043, Pretty in Pink. It smelled good and the color was fresh and summery. It occurred to me to try some on, you know, just for laughs, but I was wary. There was something vaguely herpetic about Virginie, and the last thing I needed was an STD without the benefit of ever having experienced the S. I wiped the tip of the lipstick. Then I poured half a bottle of rubbing alcohol over it, swabbed the tip again, and dabbed a little on my mouth.
    “Are you still in there?!” said Virginie, pounding on the door.
    “Sorry,” I said. “Just a sec.” I surveyed the results in the mirror. Portly in Pink.
    I wet some toilet paper and wiped the smile off my face.

3    
    “So how’s your mom?” asked Isadora, smiling sympathetically.
    “Not bad, thanks.”
    “She still off the…?” Isadora tipped her hand to her mouth as if she were drinking.
    “Yeah,” I said.
    “Good. Good for her. And the
Porco
, what’s up with that?” Porco—pig in Portuguese—was Isadora’s name for Virginie.
    “I’ve got a good one,” I said, knowing that Isadora would be equally titillated and disgusted by Virginie’s living-room sex antics, “but I’ll tell you when we get there.” I gestured to her parents, indicating that it was too lurid to discuss in front of them.
    I was seated with the DeSouza offspring on a homemade bench that had been bolted through carpeting to the metal floor in the back of the industrial van. It was pretty much the same drill every weekday: We’d exchange greetings and climb on in. Isadora would ask me about the Porco, and I would fill her in on Virginie’s latest transgression. Apart from that, the ride to work was largely silent, punctuated by the occasional
“Bandido”
or
“Idiota!”
from Mr. DeSouza as he navigated through traffic. Aside from hello and good-bye, Isadora was the only DeSouza who talked to me. The parents didn’t speak English, but Paulo, Mina, Alvaro, and Abril did. I noticed that Paulo, Isadora’s handsome young cousin, wouldn’t even look at me; that is, he would never meet my eye. He wore dark sunglasses, even in the van, and listened to a Discman. Mina, typically, would wile away the journey, inspecting and picking at her cuticles or chipped fingernail polish. Mrs. DeSouza would lock her fierce gaze on the road—keeping the van on track with mind control. And the twins, Alvaro and Abril, would fiddle with their matching Game Boy devices, occasionally comparing scores. I would chat with Isadora andsneak peeks at Paulo until we arrived at our destination, at which point the DeSouza scouring squad would spring from the van and launch into a flurry of action.
    My duties were relatively light. I would pick up the keys and my cart—essentially a giant garbage bag on wheels—and forge ahead on my route, moving from office to office, emptying trash cans. That’s all I had to do. The DeSouzas would come up the rear, sweeping, vacuuming, dusting, wiping—taking care of the tough stuff, entrusted to family members only. For me it was easy. A