After taking a particularly nasty brand of hallucinogenic known as 2-CE, Loli ended up in the hospital, he says. Lucien has short, strawberry-blond hair, wears a "Don't Tread on Me" tank top over his slender frame, and punctuates almost every sentence with "bro." The 22-year-old explains that Loli's dad is probably paranoid because the last time she invited a friend over, it ended badly. Standing nearby is her boyfriend, who cooks a mean eggplant Parmesan and tidies their shared space.
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Her full lips swallow the tears as she translates: "I was told to end my social engagement and that I wasn't allowed to have people over." Loli gulps a glass of Smirnoff Ice Green Apple Bite and tries to calm herself. Then she tells her daughter this place is no " putería" - whorehouse. "We don't have guests in our house, and you can't either!" her mom shouts in Colombian-accented Spanish so loud I can hear it. Her half-moon eyes turn to dinner plates when she pulls it to her dainty ear. Loli and I are chatting on a quiet Friday afternoon when, suddenly, her Razr phone lights up blue. She doesn't drive and has never lived apart from her folks, except for an ill-fated year at a private university in North Florida. This damsel in distress is a chubby-cheeked, blue-haired, five-foot-and-a-quarter-inch, 20-year-old womanchild in a push-up bra and jeans with stylish zippers that zigzag across her curvaceous frame. Wooden boards and strips of tin foil cover its windows. She rarely leaves a guest house that sits in a jungle-like yard overrun with six peacocks and half as many junked cars.
Loli-chan is a modern-day Rapunzel locked inside a South Miami fortress of rust and weeds on a dead-end street.
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