Growing up in Corona, Queens, I early on acquired an appreciation for exceptional asses. My neighborhood was filled with Domincan, Cuban and Puerto Rican girls of every stripe. If you ventured out a little farther out on the #7 Train, from Corona towards Jackson Heights, the local color became more varied. The Caribbean triumvirate that dominated my immediate environs loosed its grip and you began to see Mexican, and Central and South American folks too. There were lots of great Colombian restaurants along Roosevelt Avenue. I frequented a number of them with my dad, where we enjoyed bistec a caballo, arepas and fried snappers with gruesome teeth projecting spikily from the incinerated heads. Among the more welcome sights at a local Colombian eatery were the lovely waitresses. They were hard-working girls, who spoke little English and always had a bead of sweat on their upper lip. I remember watching this one girl in particular, as she walked from the kitchen to our table with yummy goodness on her tray. She would struggle awkwardly to balance the load of dishes without tipping a glass of water or grazing the back of my head too brazenly with her breasts when she did. The conatct was indescribably wonderful. The rigors of a waitress’s lot bore heavily on her expression. She made only the most fleeting and embarrassed of eye contact with me, and seemed to blossom forth, however briefly, when we did. The reason I’m thinking of her is she looked a lot like fellow Colombian hottie Shakira. What I like about Shakira is she has that has “truth in presence” that the waitress in Jackson Heights had. She was a woman close by to me, for only a few minutes per month. And yet I thought of her constantly, and think of her still.

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