The Prince of los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood (27 page)

Throughout the week that followed, Victor and I fell naturally into a daily routine. We’d ease into each morning by sharing a
colada
of Cuban coffee while chitchatting with Migdalia at the
cafetería
counter. She would ask Victor if he liked her perfume, or her new blouse, or the color of her lipstick. Victor always answered coldly: yes or no. I found it odd that he’d never return her flirtations, like men usually did. Some mornings Don Gustavo would march by us and make a snide remark like,
Are you señoritas going to work today?
Most mornings, loudmouth Nuñez would join us at the counter and entertain us with his Cuban sayings. I could tell he’d been itching to come up with a nickname for Victor, but I beat him to it. To ease cravings between cigarettes breaks, Victor would suck on lollipops all day long. One morning while he was sucking on one, I dubbed him
“El nenecito,”
or
“Nene”
for short, meaning “little darling boy,” an ironic contrast to Victor’s buff shoulders and chiseled jaw.

After coffee, we’d walk up and down the aisles and check which items needed to be restocked. I’d jot everything down in a composition book, and then we’d head back to the stockroom, go over the list, and divvy it up. Making our way through the maze of boxes, we’d help each other locate the ones we needed, and then load them on our carts. Victor would clip on his Walkman, put on his earphones, unwrap a lollipop, and head to the aisles.

He was a tough guy, yet helpless when it came to reading English. He’d have to open a box and look at the logo and pictures on the label to figure out what was what and which aisle it belonged in. But sometimes he’d still have no idea and ask for my help. Day by day, box by box, I taught him how to read and translate bizarre consonant blends that had no equivalent sound in Spanish: the
sp
in
spaghetti,
the
ckl
in
pickles,
the
str
in
string beans;
how to decipher the chameleon sounds of vowels in English: the difference between the
a
in
cake
and the
a
in
jam;
and why some letters are silent for no reason: “Just like the
h
in Spanish, Nene,” I’d try to explain. Sometimes he’d understand, but sometimes—with words like
ketchup
and
cracker
—he’d stomp away frustrated, cussing at English in Spanish,
“Pa’la pinga, Papo. No hay chino que entienda esta mierda”—Fuck this, Papo! There isn’t a Chinaman who could understand this shit
.

Victor was a hard worker, yet fun-loving; manly yet childish; predictable yet volatile—just like Julio, I thought—someone who dared to disturb the universe, a rebel with a sense of humor. Perhaps that had gotten him into trouble and thrown in prison; maybe that’s why Cuba had been hell for him. After another week working together, one day he called me up to the loft to have a cigarette and kvetch about Don Gustavo and
tía
Gloria, I thought, like we did many afternoons. But that time he had prepared a surprise. He had fashioned a makeshift table and chairs out of boxes, and laid out
pan con bistec
and
medianoche
sandwiches for us. “Nene, what’s this?” I asked. “
Nada,
Papo, I just wanted to show you my
gracias
for helping me—for being a good
amigo,”
he explained. “Sit—sit.” I was completely charmed by his gesture, but also felt a bit uncomfortable—no man had ever shown me such affection. I wasn’t sure how to respond. He also had two frosty bottles of
Muñequitas
—Little Dolls—the name he’d given St. Pauli Girl beer for the German bombshell pictured on the label. We toasted to friendship and good fortune and began eating in the loft—our own little hideaway.

“Hey, Nene, why was Cuba hell? Why were you in prison?” I finally felt I could ask him. “
Ay,
Papo, you have to understand that my Cuba was
muy diferente
than the Cuba all these people talk about here. I grew up after
la Revolución
. No one had anything—no big
casas
or
botes,
no big farms.
Sí,
we had what we needed,
más o menos,
that much was true.
Pero
no one could say what they wanted, live how they wanted, or be who they wanted to be. Come, let me show you . . .” he said. I followed him to the back of the loft, where he showed me a small mural drawn in black and red marker across a row of paper towel boxes three tiers high. “You drew this?” I said, fascinated by the mural’s Picasso-like shapes and abstracted figures. “Of course, I was an artist
en
Cuba. I’ve been working on this a few days,” he said proudly, and began explaining the mural: “This is my
tío
Nilo, who is a big
pincho
in the Communist Party—he turned on his own
familia,
so I drew him drowning in his own relatives’ blood. The eyes all over are the eyes of the neighborhood
comité
that spies on everyone.
El hombre
in this corner in a black dress is my best friend Omar. He was a painter and a dissident like me—persona non grata in our own country. We got thrown in jail together.”

There seemed to be more to the story. “What happened?” I pried. Without taking his eyes off the figure of his friend, Victor explained: “
Bueno,
I got out after three months, but not Omar. I never saw him again.” I told Victor about Julio and that I understood what it was like to lose a friend. “
Coño,
Papo,
lo siento
—how terrible,” Victor replied. “I still miss Omar too. I hope somehow he’s alive.
Quién sabe,
maybe he’s here—like me—in Miami, where I can do what I want, love who I want, and no one puts me in jail for it. Maybe I’ll run into that
maricón
one day.” In
Cubichi, maricón
—faggot—was sometimes used playfully, not disparagingly with contempt. I couldn’t quite tell how Victor meant it. Was Omar simply his buddy or
un maricón,
for real? Was Victor? I had assumed he was simply a bachelor, but maybe I had it all wrong. “How come you’re not married?” I asked. Victor glanced at me awkwardly, “
¿Por qué?
What does that have to do with anything?” he replied. “I don’t know,” I said nervously, “I was just wondering—that’s all.” He took one last swig of his Muñequita and said, “There’s a lot you don’t know, Papo, a story for another day.
Vámonos
—back to work before Gloria catches us up here
jodiendo
.”

In the weeks after our lunch in the loft, I began thinking of Victor not only as a coworker, but as a friend, like Julio had been—but different. What I felt for Victor was something more than just a brotherly kind of love. Our routine started feeling more intimate, like rituals; and I became more connected to him. While sharing our morning
colada,
we’d complain about the snobby customers who acted as if they were still as wealthy as they had been in Cuba, gossip about the trampy ladies who would swoon over
tío
Pipo, and laugh over Sonia’s conspicuous attempts to match me up with Deycita. During smoking breaks, he taught me how to roll cigarettes, and I’d tutor him in grocery-store English—and cuss words. He’d describe the Cuba I would have grown up in had my parents decided to stay. One Friday I took him to Felipe’s house so he could see the cardboard Cuba neither of us had really known—the Cuba of my parents’ day. Some afternoons we’d sneak two cold Muñequitas up to the loft and he’d show me more of his drawings, opening my eyes to the beauty of line, color, and form. He’d speak about great Cuban painters like Wifredo Lam, and I’d tell him about my dream of becoming a great American architect like Frank Lloyd Wright. One day, while we were arranging the frozen loaves of Cuban bread together, Victor told me he had been married once, but that it wasn’t for him; he was all alone in the world—and he was fine with it. I told him I had only kissed one girl, once—and that I was fine without a girlfriend.

Indeed, I hadn’t seen Anita since the summer had begun, and I didn’t miss her as much as I thought I would. My friendship with Victor was more satisfying, somehow; I could be myself around him in a way I could never be around Anita. We began giving one another smiles and playful salutes down the aisles. From a distance, I observed everything about Victor: he’d walk slowly and deliberately as if each step was rehearsed; he’d only eat lime or orange lollipops; he’d wet his hair and comb it two or three times every day. But what intrigued me most was how he’d half close his eyes and bob his head to the rhythm of whatever music he was listening to on his Walkman.

One afternoon, when he was dusting off some shelves, I tapped him on the shoulder. He took off his headphones and I asked him, “
Caramba,
what are you listening to?” “
Coje
—you listen—pure beauty,” he said, and put the headphones on me. I was expecting the same old Cuban songs my parents played, but instead I heard a woman singing in a beautiful language I didn’t know; she had an ethereal voice that sounded like an angel—no—like a mermaid, like Prufrock’s mermaids. While I listened, Victor and I studied each other’s eyes for a moment. I handed the headphones back to him. “Weird,” I said, “but beautiful. She sounds like a mermaid.” “Mermaid? Where did you get an idea like that?” He chuckled. “It’s from a poem . . .” I began, but realized it would be too complicated to explain; I’d simply show him the poem someday. “
Bueno,
if you hear mermaids then you hear mermaids,” he said, “but this is opera. The lady singing is Tosca—she dies for love at the end.”

Victor and I kept our routine and rituals every day except Wednesdays, my day to restock the wines with
tía
Gloria. Occasionally, after we were done she’d let me uncork a bottle of my choice, as long as it was under ten dollars: a pinot noir, a fumé blanc, a Chardonnay. Regardless of vintage, I’d invite Victor up to the loft to share the bottle with me—another ritual. Sometimes, he’d talk to me about
Aida
and
Carmen
and
La Traviata;
sometimes I’d talk about Jimi Hendrix and Duran Duran and Alphaville. One time, I brought him a copy of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and read it to him slowly. He closed his eyes and listened, tapping his foot as he did when he’d listen to opera. “Do you get it?” I asked, wondering if he understood the poem the same way I had.
“Más o menos,”
he said. “It’s hard for me to understand all of it,
pero
the man in the poem is sad. Do you feel sad?” His question caught me by surprise. “Sometimes, I guess,” I replied. “What does a
muchacho
like you have to be sad about? Are you sad about Julio?” Victor asked. I paused for a moment: “No, not really. Not so much anymore. But sometimes I feel like something is missing. Like nobody understands me. I can’t explain it,” I said. “
Bueno,
you have your whole
vida
ahead of you.
No te preocupes,
you have time to figure things out,” Victor assured me.

Thursdays were also different than the other days of the week. Thursdays were dubbed the day of
la rastra,
the Spanish name for the gargantuan eighteen-wheeler that would arrive from the distributor at 8:30
A.M
. sharp. With three blasts of the horn, the driver would announce the delivery. Victor and I would open up the rear gate and guide the truck driver as he backed up to the storeroom.
Tía
Gloria would keep a tally of the boxes, marking each one with a number as it whizzed down the steel rollers out of the dark mouth of the truck and into our hands. Victor and I were unstoppable: moving, sorting, and stacking boxes as fast as
tía
Gloria could count them. Working in perfect synchronicity, we’d unload more than two hundred boxes in a couple hours.

Tía
Gloria would never allow us to take off our shirts—a matter of decorum—no matter how much we’d sweat. But one unbearably hot and humid Thursday in mid-August, she must’ve felt our exhaustion and made an exception. Victor and I peeled off our sweat-soaked T-shirts in relief.
“Ay, papi, qué rico
. . .
qué caliente,”
Victor joshed in a girly voice. “You too,
machote,
” I teased him. We laughed, but we weren’t just kidding. I could feel his eyes on me; the more he looked at me, the more I flaunted my body. I was eyeing him too. The sweat dripping down his hairy chest and his muscular back excited me the same way Francisco Hernandez’s body had excited me in the locker room at school.

When we were done, Victor and I headed into the small restroom in the storeroom to cool off and clean up. We wrung out our T-shirts and patted the sweat off our bodies with paper towels. “Can you dry my back?” I asked him. He took the red bandanna from his back pocket and slowly wiped me down. Then I turned around, took his bandanna, and did the same to him. My body tingled—nothing like when I had kissed Anita. I knew without knowing. Then Victor turned around: “
Bueno,
now what?” he said with his eyes frozen on me.
Do I dare disturb the universe?
“
Nada,
let’s get back to work,” I said, grabbed my shirt, and darted for the door.

The rest of that afternoon, there were no smiles between us or playful salutes down the aisles. But near the day’s end, Victor approached me while I was checking expiration dates on the baby food jars and rotating them—oldest to the front, newest to the back. “
Oye,
it’s my birthday on Saturday. You want to come over to my house after work
para celebrar
? Maybe we can have a few Muñequitas?” he said, as if trying to appear casual. “
Pues claro
—I’d love to, Nene. But I’ll have to ask my dad if I can keep his car until late. I hope it will be okay,” I said. I was supposed to bring home
el Malibú
right after work on Saturdays. To lighten the mood, I joked with him, “
Y qué,
how old are you gonna be, fifteen? Are we celebrating your
Quinces
?” He chuckled and came back at me, “
Las señoritas
never tell their age.
Pero,
I tell you I can almost be your
papá
—almost. Anyway, come over on Saturday—I have something special planned.”

The rest of the day and into that night at home I kept wondering what Victor’s surprise might be.
What if he . . . what if he
. . . I kept thinking, not daring to complete my thoughts. Regardless, I wanted to get him a present, and I had the perfect gift in mind. I borrowed Mamá’s car that evening and went to Diamond’s. I had just enough cash to buy him the biggest sketchbook they had, a set of drawing pencils, and a box of oil pastels. Back at home, while I was wrapping the gifts in my bedroom, Abuela came in and asked: “
Eh
, whose
cumpleaños
is it? Who are those sissy art things for?” “They’re for Victor at work, Abuela. It’s his birthday.” I said. “
Pero,
those aren’t gifts for
un hombre
like him,” she continued prying. “Only
un maricón
would . . .” I knew Abuela would continue pestering me and perhaps even dare to snatch the gifts away. I had to be firm: “He’s my friend, Abuela—he’s an artist. So what? Just leave me alone!” I yelled at her. She turned and walked down the hall, muttering something I chose to ignore.