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.
