The Prince of los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood (14 page)

But it was no use. As soon as I started feeling the tiniest bit at ease, I heard the coaster roaring overhead, followed immediately by screaming, and my hands went right to my mouth for another round of nail biting. Caco didn’t help, clucking and flapping his arms like a chicken at me, still trying to get me to back out. But I didn’t let him get to me. Just before we were to step into our car, Caco clasped his hand around the back of my neck and said, “Come on. You’ll be all right. Don’t worry. It’ll be fun.” Perhaps he had forgotten about the bet or maybe he knew he had been beat; or maybe he was scared too, and was comforting himself as much as he was comforting me. Regardless, I preferred to believe his gesture was one of those rare moments born out of love and compassion, from brother to brother. Guided by his hand into the car, I found a glimmer of courage.

Astronauts and brothers squeezed together in our tiny mock rocket ship, me cradled in between his legs, his hands wrapped around my shoulders (he must have felt my body trembling, my heart beating). Five-four-three-two-one-zero—we blasted off through a tunnel of fiery strobe lights and sirens. The clack-clack-clack-clack of the wheels as we climbed, and then—dip—we zoomed into the unknown, flashed past the nine planets we thought we knew. Clack-clack-clack-clack, and then—dip—we screamed together, laughed together as we hurtled past asteroid belts, through a universe as infinite and mysterious as the love between brothers at that very moment that would last a lifetime, even though only minutes later we returned to Earth. “Let’s do it again,” I said, walking through the exit corridor, though it was probably the endorphins talking. “Yeah right, chicken” he said, pulling five one-dollar bills out of his pocket and handing
them to me. I didn’t want to take the money, but he insisted and stuffed it in my pocket. “A bet is a bet.” Caco was, and would always be, a man of his word.

Back at the bench, we saw Mamá and Papá cutting into a couple of mangos with plastic knives, then bingeing on the succulent slices that oozed juice all over their chins, as if they were sitting by a country road in Cuba. “
Qué,
you never seen
un
mango?” Mamá reacted with sarcasm to our looks of dismay. She would have made a small fortune on
Let’s Make a Deal;
she seemed to have one of everything in her
por si las moscas
tote, including a couple of wet-naps from Kentucky Fried Chicken. “Here,” she said, handing one to Papá to wipe his sticky fingers and chin. All cleaned up, we walked around the last bend in the park, ending where we started, at the circle in front of Cinderella’s Castle. It was time.

Delirious, I almost started skipping all the way up the long ramp and over the moat, but then Abuela’s voice haunted me:
When you going to act like
un hombre
?
I composed myself and walked as calmly as I could, counting the turrets and gold-leafed spires, trying to guess which of the dozens of windows was Cinderella’s room and how long it would take to get to the top, imagining the incredible view of
my
kingdom from way up there. Just before walking through the front gate, I closed my eyes, not opening them again until we were inside the main hall, which was bathed in colors bouncing off the mosaics made of ruby, emerald, and gold glass tiles that covered the walls; each mosaic like a page from a life-size
Cinderella
storybook.

Convinced we had missed something once we reached the other end of the hall, I made us all turn around and go back inside.
Where are the stairs? How do we get in? Where is Cinderella?
My wondering quickly turned into frustration as I looked for a sign, an elevator, an entrance door in the hall. My frustration decayed into gloom when I asked a woman in a Disney World uniform how to get inside the castle. “Oh, no, you can’t go up there; there’s nothing inside,” she said.
What? Nothing inside? No!
I was convinced she either was lying to me or was a new employee and didn’t know what she was talking about. Mamá was upset too; apparently she was looking forward to touring the castle as much as I was. “What you mean, Miss? That cannot be,” she began, becoming belligerent with the woman. “We stay right here until we get inside.”

Finally, Papá intervened and ushered us out of the castle. All the way back down the ramp, I kept my head bowed, remaining silent except for the sound of my feet dragging. “Oh, poor baby,” Caco began, but before he could keep digging into me, I kicked him in his shin and pulled off his Adidas headband, throwing it in the bushes. Caco and I broke into an all-out
fugi
fight, a martial art of our own invention in which we’d strike each other using only our index and middle fingers pressed together into what we called a
fugi
. It was our version of a karate chop, crafted by years of horseplay and watching too many episodes of
Kung Fu
. By the time Papá peeled us apart, a small crowd had gathered around our spectacle, some wearing concerned looks, others giggling.

Mamá marched over and gave each of us a whack with her tote, spilling out the roll of toilet paper I had used that morning. “That’s no way to behave in Disney. After all this money we spent.
Qué pena
—how embarrassing,” she reprimanded us. Frozen, completely humiliated, we stood silent for a moment, but then giggled uncontrollably at the sight of the toilet paper rolling down the sidewalk and into the castle moat. “Why you laughing? You think this funny? We’re going home right now!” she said, furious, until Papá—also giggling by then—pointed out to her the ten yards of toilet paper tethered to her tote. “
Dios mío, qué pena,
look what you made me do,” she said sheepishly and began walking away. It seemed she was willing to forget the whole incident, but I didn’t want to take any chances. “No, Mamá, it was my fault,” I apologized. “I don’t want to go yet,” I pleaded. I didn’t mind taking the blame since I
fugi
ed Caco last, making me the winner according to our official rules of
fugi
fighting.

Caco still wasn’t talking to me when we got back to Main Street, where we had started our loop around the park. He and Papá stood outside people-watching while I followed Mamá into store after store, weaving behind her through the aisles, both of us eyeing the merchandise. She kept tsk-tsking at practically everything she picked up once she turned it over and saw the price. Finally, she decided on a Mickey Mouse key ring for herself and a refrigerator magnet for cousin Mirita, who had given us her leftover ride tickets from her last visit; and she let me pick out a ninety-nine-cent “official” Disney World coloring book.

On our way to the cash register, I spotted a wall stocked floor to ceiling with every stuffed Disney character imaginable: endless rows of plastic-eyed Dumbos and Donald Ducks; Plutos and Chipmunks; Goofies and Poohs. And Mickey Mouses, of course, dressed in all kinds of outfits: Mickey in his classic red shorts and yellow shoes, in a hula skirt with leis around his neck, in a chef’s hat wearing an apron, in a pirate’s hat with a sword. But the one that really caught my eye was Mickey dressed as a wizard in a bright red robe and a blue hat with stars. “Wait, Mamá,” I demanded, pulling her back by her tote. “Did you see that Mickey—how beautiful? Can I take a look at it?” I asked, knowing she’d disapprove of me reaching for it without permission. She took the Mickey from the shelf and looked at the price tag before handing it to me. “Fourteen ninety-nine!” she said out loud, incredulously. “
¡Qué va!
Anyway, you know Abuela will say it’s a doll; she’ll make you throw it out.”

But I didn’t care. I was determined. I was in love, just like Papá with his
Malibú
. Even with the five dollars I won from Caco, I still only had ten dollars altogether. I had to play it right. I took the money from my pocket and counted the one-dollar bills slowly and theatrically, “One . . . two . . . three . . .” giving Mamá a chance to notice her poor little son. “Oh, I don’t have enough. I just won’t get anything, I guess,” I said looking up into her eyes with the most pitiful face I could conjure. She picked up Mickey again and pulled at the seams to make sure he was well sewn and wasn’t defective in any way. I thought she was going to put it back on the shelf, but she didn’t. “
Bueno,
” she said, “I’ll give you five dollars more,” and kissed me on the top of my head, no questions asked, no conditions demanded, like cleaning my room or taking out the trash for a month.

I still hadn’t seen the real Mickey Mouse—and it didn’t seem likely that I would, but at least I had a new coloring book and my own Ratoncito Miguel. Mamá and I stepped out of the store, and she stumbled on the curb, startled by the first blast of fireworks shuddering through the park. I stood mesmerized by the exploding lights like rock candy in the night sky, which dissolved slowly into embers and fell to the earth like angels behind Cinderella’s castle. Despite my parents’ and Caco’s antics, it had been a perfect day, in a perfect place, with the perfect ending, I thought. Once the fireworks were over, we began the long, sad march down Main Street under the glimmer of the gas lamps, following the crowd over the cobblestone streets toward the exit. As we approached the turnstiles, I had a mad fantasy: What if I dashed back inside and hid out in one of the rides until everyone was gone? With the park all to myself, would I find Mickey Mouse?

On the way back to the hotel, I leaned against the window of the monorail, nearly weeping as I watched my perfect world shrink to a handful of tiny lights as far away as the stars. Was this what my parents had felt when they left Cuba, not knowing whether they’d ever see such a magical place again? In the hotel room, Mamá prepared pimiento and cream cheese sandwiches. We ate. I took Mickey out of the bag and fell asleep with him, thinking about when our next visit would be, how many months there were until Christmas break, how I would convince my parents to bring me back. The thought that I might never return to the Magic Kingdom was unbearable.

The next morning, Mamá brewed a pot of Cuban coffee in the hotel room. Papá packed up
el Malibú
and we got on the road. With nothing to look forward to, the drive back seemed half as long. Uninterested in the world around me, I didn’t look at any of the highway signs, didn’t care about the Cuban music playing on the eight-track or my parents singing along, or about Caco belching at the passing cars. I only cared about Mickey seated next to me and about trying to stay inside the lines as I colored page after page in my new coloring book. Now that I had been to Disney World, I knew exactly the right colors to pick for Cinderella’s hair, for Minnie Mouse’s dress, and for Dumbo’s hat.

When we arrived home that afternoon, Papá quickly unloaded everything from the trunk and said he had to start washing
el Malibú,
claiming that if he didn’t get all the bugs off, the brutal summer sun would sear them into the paint and ruin the finish. “Don’t be such an
imbécil,
” Mamá told him, “Nothing is going to happen. Wait until after we eat
almuerzo
.” He reluctantly agreed, and Mamá walked off to the kitchen. Abuela intercepted me in the hall; she gave me a big smooch, then asked me what I had in the bag.
“Nada,”
I said, darted to my room, and closed the door.

At first, I thought I’d put
my
Mickey on the shelf right beside Caco’s baseball trophies, but he’d probably make me pay him for the privilege. The only—and best—place for Mickey was right on my bed. I’d sleep with him every night. But Mamá was right—Abuela would harass me for having a “doll,” and make me throw Mickey away; he’d meet the same fate as my latch hook rug kit. I couldn’t leave him out in plain sight without coming up with a good explanation. After some thought, I decided I’d tell her I’d won him in a raffle, or that Papá had bought him for me, not Mamá; and if worse came to worst, I’d hide my Ratoncito Miguel under my bed.

Not long after we finished
almuerzo,
Papá bolted into my room holding a two-inch-wide belt in one hand and a silver butter knife in the other. He threw Mickey off my bed. “
Oye cabrón
, come with me,” he said sternly, plucking me out of bed and dragging me barefooted to
el Malibú
in the driveway. “Look at this mess—
¡qué cagazón!
” he shouted as he opened the car door and pulled the front seat forward. It took me a moment to realize that the lava-like blob on the backseat was actually my melted crayons—all sixty-four colors from the box I had left in the car. “Now clean that up until it’s like new!” he ordered, handing me the knife. Trying not to cry, I began scraping off the pool of gelatinous wax. Papá stood over me with the belt trembling in his hand: “Everything is ruined,
cojones—
everything,” he said softly, his voice cracking, his face turned away from me.

T
he Seacomber was one of the last art deco hotels in old South Beach that still looked fancy. Its neon sign still worked, and its sugary pink-and-blue reliefs were still as showy and fresh as icing on a cake. The moment I saw its automatic glass doors etched with swirly
S
’s, I knew it was going to be
way
too expensive for us. Mamá and Papá didn’t even want to go inside to check it out, but I pleaded, “Come on,
por favor,
” until Mamá agreed, “
Está bien, pero
no touch nothing.” We stepped into the lobby in a clump, afraid to look at anybody for fear they might be staring back at us. We stood stunned, as if under the spell of the gargantuan chandelier hanging above us like a
spiderweb of diamonds. The palm trees reflected in the mirrored wall seemed to be growing inside the lobby. The plush sofas, like immaculate white clouds anchored to silver legs, looked as if they had never been sat on. It was all so beautiful it scared me.

“Ask how much—
dale,
” Mamá ordered, her voice tinged with excitement. Papá approached the reception desk. I was conscious of each one of his footsteps as they bounced off the mirror-smooth marble that made his wrinkly pair of oxfords look even shabbier. “May I help you?” the clerk asked him in perfect English. He wore a blazer with an
S
emblem and a perfectly knotted tie fixed with an
S
pin. “Jess . . . umm . . . how much is a room?” Papá mumbled in his best
inglés
. “For which days, sir?” the clerk asked with an attitude, as if he owned the hotel. “July two to five,” Papá answered. “Just a moment,” the clerk said, before flipping through a binder. “Yes, we have one room available for ninety-eight dollars, sir. With a three-night minimum.” Papá cleared his throat. “Ninety-eight dollars?” he repeated, making sure he had heard right. “For one night?” he added. “Yes, plus tax, sir,” the clerk confirmed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He dismissed Papá with a smile.