The Prince of los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood (3 page)

“Al fin,”
Abuela declared with relief when we reached the chickens, each one resting on a Styrofoam tray and neatly wrapped in cellophane. Picking one up, Abuela praised its healthy-rosy skin and the size of its drumsticks, “
¡Qué lindo! En Cuba
we never had
pollos
this big.” She checked the label, confirming the price was twenty-four cents per pound, and then rummaged through the chickens, inspecting each one with the same scrutiny she used to pick out fruit. Some were too big or too small; others too yellow or too pale; some too bony or too plump; others just right. “Okay, this one . . . this one . . .
y
these two . . . and . . . ,” she said, handing me five chickens, then picking out another five she would carry. We made our way to the checkout, barely able to see over the fryers in our arms. “How they can sell
pollos
this cheap—I don’t know. Next week we’re coming to get more,” she said, so delighted by the bargain that she began whistling “Guantanamera” as we stood at the checkout, forgetting she was surrounded by
americanos
and that we didn’t belong in
el Winn Deezee
.

We plopped down the chickens and my Easy Cheese, not on a rubber conveyor belt but on a round, shiny steel turntable like some space-age contraption from
The Jetsons
that automatically spun the items around to the cashier. I’d never seen anything like it. The lady in front of us set down a plastic divider, separating her groceries from ours, and smiled politely. “How you doin’?” she asked. We nodded.
“Esa es americana, ¿verdad?”
Abuela asked me in a whisper, and I nodded, confirming that the lady was indeed American, after a quick glance at the freckles on her arms, her yellow hair, and her bright orange jumpsuit. The woman opened her carton of eggs and inspected each one. “You always gotta check ’em,” she said, making small talk with us. But Abuela heard
chicken
instead of
check ’em
: “Yes, yes, always have chicken,” she agreed, so enraptured that she dared speak her broken English to
la americana,
who looked at us uneasily and then scribbled out a check before darting away with her groceries. Maybe Abuela was right:
We don’t belong here
.

The cashier was polite and American too, no doubt, judging from her name tag:
Beatrice,
not the Spanish
Beatriz
. “Good afternoon. How are you?” she asked. “Good. Good,” Abuela replied buoyantly. After ringing up two chickens Beatrice paused, “I’m sorry, are you together?” she asked. “Yes,” I answered. “Well, you can only take two chickens on special per customer. I’m sorry.”

Knowing something had gone wrong, Abuela got panicky; she reached into her brassiere and pulled out the flyer from her coin purse. “Chicken. Chicken. Twenty-four cents. Chicken . . .” she began rambling before I had a chance to translate the matter. “Chicken. Chicken . . .” she continued, pointing at the photo of the fryer. Beatrice showed her the fine print that read
Limit 2 per customer
. But Abuela didn’t care: “Chicken. Twenty-four cents for chicken.
Especial,
” she repeated, too frantic to understand what Beatrice was saying in English. “Abuela. Abuela—” I tried to interrupt, but she wouldn’t listen.

Growing impatient, Beatrice reached for the public address mic and paged the manager: “Mr. Quigley to register five. Mr. Quigley, register five, please.” By then everyone in line and at the adjacent registers was staring at us as if we were children throwing a tantrum in public. I was mortified. Finally becoming aware of the scene she was making, Abuela piped down and I was able to explain the situation.
“Qué cabrones. Qué barbaridad,”
she complained, looking sadly at the eight chickens left on the conveyor. “
Bueno,
okay. We take this one . . . and this one,” she said. “What about this?” Beatrice asked, holding up the can of Easy Cheese. “Yes,” I said. But Abuela barked, “I not buying nothing else here!” She paid with exact change when Mr. Quigley arrived. “Is okay. No
problema
. No
problema
.” Abuela dismissed him and we whisked ourselves away with our two chickens. “
Esos americanos de mierda
and their rules, trying to trick me. This is worse than Cuba,” she grumbled all the way back to the car, slamming the door.
“¿Qué pasó?”
Abuelo asked. “
Nada, nada
. Let’s go to La Caridad. I’m never coming here again.
Pa’ la mierda
with these Beefy People!” she shouted as Abuelo drove away.

Now what? I knew Abuela would never go back to Winn-Dixie after that fiasco. She was cheap, but she had her pride. We returned to our routine shopping at the bodegas: more plantains and chorizo; more yuca and black beans. No Easy Cheese. Abuela was as stubborn as she was cheap; however, she read the Winn-Dixie circulars every week, tracking the price of the chicken, trying to figure out how she could get her hands on more somehow. She asked my mother to go for her; our neighbor Teresa; our mechanic’s wife, Loraine, who was half-Italian. But they all refused, claiming Winn-Dixie was no place for people like us.
How stupid
. . . I thought,
. . . so afraid of Americans
. Cubans were the weirdos in my eyes, always talking so loud and all at the same time at the bodegas in their sandals and housecoats.

If only I was old enough to drive,
I thought, and then realized: “I can go to e
l Winn-Deezee
on my bike, Abuela. I’ll buy the
pollos
for you. I don’t mind,” I said sheepishly. “Okay, I think about it.
Gracias, mi’jo,
” she said and kissed me on the forehead. Abuela never agreed to anything without sleeping on it.

The next day, after we got home from school, she called me into her bedroom. “Okay, you go for me?” she asked, picking up the Winn-Dixie flyer on her dresser.
“Sí, sí,”
I replied, as if she had to ask. She pulled an envelope from her
guaquita
behind the dresser and gave me a five-dollar bill. “
Coje
. Get me
dos pollos;
make sure they charge you right—and don’t lose the change,” she instructed.
“Sí,
Abuela,
sí,”
I agreed, and then with angelic eyes I asked, “Should I get that
queso en lata
that we were going to buy last time?” “
Ay, sí
,
muy rico
. I remember,” she said, recalling the taste before replying, “Okay, but only if you have enough money for
los pollos
first.” Did I hear her right? Was Abuela actually craving Easy Cheese?

Still wearing my Catholic school tie and polyester trousers, I buried the five-dollar bill deep in my pocket so it wouldn’t fall out and hopped on my bike. Abuela kissed me and sent me off on my mission. “
Apúrate
. Be careful!” she shouted, waving good-bye as I pedaled away. Winn-Dixie was about a ten-minute ride by car; I made it there in fifteen, pulled out a cart, and dashed straight to the snack aisle, anxious that somehow they had run out of Easy Cheese, but they hadn’t. Relieved, I dropped a can in my cart and began strolling leisurely through the store, pretending I was as grown-up and American as everyone there.
This is the way the world should be—everything so quiet and neat,
I thought, watching a lady dressed in pearls and high heels gently pushing her cart like a baby carriage;
everything so clean and organized,
as I scanned the perfect rows of cans and bottles, each one pulled to the edge of the shelf, leaving no gaps;
so effortless and efficient,
as I browsed the clearly marked prices on every item and read the signs above the numbered aisles telling me where to find everything. This was the world I wanted to live in. This was America.

Chicken, chicken
—the echo of Abuela’s voice woke me out of my daydream and reminded me of my mission. I made my way to the whole fryers in the back aisle and checked the price—still twenty-four cents per pound. Doing the math in my head, I picked out a five-pounder and a six-pounder to be sure I’d have enough money for the Easy Cheese and still have some change left over. Abuela always liked to get change back, even if it was a few pennies for San Lázaro. Scanning the checkouts, I looked for Beatrice, wanting to be as far away as possible from her, afraid she would remember Abuela’s scene. My new cashier’s name was Emily. She double bagged the chickens without my asking and thanked me “for shopping at Winn-Dixie” as politely as a TV mom while handing me my change and receipt. I tucked both carefully in my pocket, knowing Abuela would insist on checking.

As I had to balance the chickens on my handlebars, it took twice as long to ride back home. Abuela was sitting on the front porch when I arrived. “
Ay, Dios,
I thought something happened,” she cried, then took the bag from me and inspected the chickens. “Very good, but . . .” she began, and I handed her the change and receipt before she had a chance to finish asking me for them. She looked it over, checked the price on each item, and counted the change before we stepped inside.
“Bien,”
she approved, then thanked me, “
Gracias mi’jo
. Here, your
merienda
is ready.” She had laid out a huge spread on the kitchen table for my after-school snack: Cuban crackers,
dulce de guayaba,
and chorizo, which I eagerly topped with Easy Cheese. Not Ritz Crackers, but I had to make do. Abuela stood by, watching over me curiously. “Let me taste,” she finally asked, and I handed her a sliver of guava paste topped with Easy Cheese. She took a nibble and savored it slowly, cautiously. Her eyes filled with surprised delight.
“Qué rico
. Q
ué sabroso. Qué delicioso,”
she repeated after every bite until she finished. “Make me another one,” she demanded.

And so it began: once or twice a week I’d bike to Winn-Dixie for Abuela and return with two chickens and a can of Easy Cheese. Just as I had wished, I became a regular. I knew my way around the store without having to read the signs above the aisles or ask a stock boy for directions. I began recognizing the ladies who seemed to always shop at the same time as me. I’d nod at them in passing down the aisle, saying hello with my eyes like any typical, well-behaved American housewife. I also had my regular cashier, Emily, at register 8 (sometimes 12); I’d check out with her no matter how long the line because she always smiled and asked me questions: how old I was, where I lived, why I always got chicken and Easy Cheese, and why I always came by myself. I told her my mother worked and my grandmother was sick and couldn’t get out of bed—too embarrassed to tell Emily the truth about Abuela’s fear of
americanos
.

I wondered if someday I would marry an exotic American girl like Emily, with her perfect English; her politeness; her blond hair in two long braids to her shoulders, clipped at the ends with barrettes, like the Swiss Miss character on the pudding cups. Would Abuela approve? Would she take a liking to her as easily as she did to Easy Cheese? “Don’t forget
el queso en lata,
” Abuela would remind me every time I’d hop on my bike to Winn-Dixie. For weeks we experimented with Easy Cheese. Abuela reveled in the taste of her new “recipes”: Easy Cheese on fried plantains, Easy Cheese as topping for flan, Easy Cheese on tamales. But in my mind the combinations just didn’t belong together—they were from two different worlds—and they tasted terrible! Still, it was better than no Easy Cheese at all, I decided, and played along. But I drew the line at Easy Cheese on my favorite dessert,
arroz con leche
.

One week I did manage to convince Abuela to let me buy a box of Ritz Crackers to have with
our
Easy Cheese, but she complained the combination was too mushy, too salty, and added a sprinkle of shredded coconut. “Don’t buy any more of those,” she ordered. That was it for the Ritz. But when she ran out of recipe ideas for Easy Cheese the week after the Ritz defeat, she asked me to buy something new. “Like what, Abuela?” I asked. “I don’t know. What else have
los americanos
put in cans? Get whatever you want,” she said, giving me carte blanche, but only two extra dollars from her
guaquita
. On the way to Winn-Dixie I ran through a mental list of all my favorites from Jimmy Dawson’s house and decided I’d get instant mashed potatoes to replace the bland malanga roots that Abuela had to tediously boil and mash.

Back home, Abuela checked the receipt and counted the change as I explained my new find. “That’s impossible.
¿Cómo puede ser?
” she questioned, amazed by the picture of the buttery, golden spuds on the box, “Cheese in a can and now
papas
in a box?
Cómo inventan los americanos
.” She insisted we try out the mashed potatoes that very night. I translated the instructions on the box aloud for her: two cups of
leche;
three-quarters of a cup of
agua, tres cucharadas
of butter.
“¡Increíble!”
she exclaimed as she added the flakes and watched the mixture turn into silky smooth potatoes right before her eyes. She took a taste and then added a pinch of salt, took another taste. “
Pero
it needs something—a little more
sabor,
” she concluded, and then added a few dashes of Bijol, a Cuban condiment that flavored the potatoes with annatto and cumin and dyed the mash a bright yellow-orange, the color of a No. 2 pencil. Not exactly what I had in mind.

A few days later I showed up with Pop-Tarts. After hopelessly scanning the box for clues, Abuela asked me what they were. “
Tostada con
strawberries inside,” I explained. “What are
estroberies
?” she asked.
“Fresas,”
I translated. “Oh,
pero
how do they get the
estroberies
inside?” she asked. “I don’t know,” I responded aloofly, hoping she would leave it at that, but she kept looking over my shoulder while I set two in the toaster. As soon as they popped up, she asked me for a taste. I gave her a tiny piece.
“Mm, qué rico. Cómo inventan los americanos
. You think they have these with
guayaba
instead of
estroberies
,
mi’jo
?” she asked. How ridiculous. I shrugged my shoulders, refusing to explain any further. But that wasn’t the end of it. The next morning, instead of the usual Cuban toast, Abuela made Pop-Tarts for everyone. I never thought I’d see the day: Abuela and the entire family at breakfast dunking Pop-Tarts into their
café con leche
.