...and another
More of the same
viii
Duh-duh-duha-duha. So what?
Impressionism. Way you see.
Expressionism. Way you react.
Beautiful? Not beautiful? So what?
Six o’clock. Better get up. Gotta be on time.
Duh-duh-duha-duha...So what?
Jim stumbled from the shower, tried on one of Nick’s white shirts, gave it a glance and left the house.
The clock on the wall of the dining room in Carlos’ Place read 6:55.
-Good start. You’re on time. Let me show you around.
Carlos wiggled his finger; Jim followed him into the kitchen. Three stainless steel counters bolted to the floor formed a U-shaped workspace. A large double-door refrigerator-freezer stood against the wall next to a gas-fired grill.
-Eggs, milk, and meat are in the refrigerator. The pancake mix and bread are over there. Put some bread under the counter for Marita. She’ll be here in a few minutes.
Jim put out four fresh loaves of bread, then tossed a half-used loaf into the trash.
-Hombré, my uncle, the Bronze Titan, never threw anything away. I can’t afford to either. Bring the old bread here. We’ll use it. Get some eggs. Do a French toast prep, please.
From memory, Jim broke six eggs, sprinkled some cinnamon on the bread, then added milk; he set the bowl next to Carlos.
-Not the way I make it, hombré. We make the French Toast sweet. Vanilla and honey - two tablespoons each. Then add some banana mush. It’s over there.
A floral scent drifted from the dining room.
-Hi.
Marita stood at the door to the kitchen; Jim stared at black hip-huggers beneath her red silk sleeveless blouse. He couldn’t take his eyes off what to him was elegant; a white gardenia was pinned in her hair.
-Buenos días, morenita.
Carlos bussed his daughter’s cheek.
-Por favor hombré, bacon and potatoes on the grill. Rapido.
-Okay.
Jim placed a pile of raw bacon on the grill, warmed up pre-cooked hash browns, and glanced over his shoulder. Marita was setting the dining room tables. The room filled with regulars; Carlos nudged Jim to join her. Marita placed orders at the service window, served the food, and set the tables; Jim cleared the tables and washed the dishes. Everyone hustled until the breakfast rush ended.
-Time to eat, hombré. You did good. What would you like?
-Bacon, coupla eggs over light, hash browns.
Jim took a stool at the end of the counter. Carlos cooked his order; Marita set it on the counter and popped a piece of bacon from his plate in her mouth.
-Here’s some juice. How did it go?
Jim leaned toward her and whispered.
-Is he pissed or what?
-What do you mean?
-Always callin’ me hombré.
Marita giggled.
-Spanish for man, slang from the Army. He always uses it in the kitchen, you know, like hey man.
-Only time I heard the word was in movies. When the Mexicans say, ‘hey hombré’, they’re always pissed. Thought he was pissed. Makes me feel better.
Jim felt dumb after Marita’s explanation.
-You’ll know when he’s pissed. You did good.
-I better get back there.
-We’re not a sweatshop. I have class this afternoon. Take a break, we can talk.
Jim lit a cigarette and stared at the anamnesis of Lady Day. Marita put some dishes on the shelf behind the counter.
-Hey, hombré, finish these dishes por favor. We only have a couple minutes before lunch.
She turned, shrugged her shoulders.
-Not a sweat shop for you, cause he’s Dad. Little different for me.
Jim laughed before he went into the kitchen. A few minutes later, Juanita Maceo arrived, and Marita left. The restaurant got busy again; they served breakfast all day with some lunch specials, sandwiches, and chili. Jim was mopping the kitchen floor when Juanita hung the CLOSED sign on the door. It was just after 4 PM.
-Good first day, hombré. See you tomorrow. Can you be here by 6:30 to help with the prep?
-Yeah, sure. Bye, Mrs. Maceo.
-Bye. Here.
She handed him $5. Sheepishly, Jim took it.
-Your daily bonus. You earned it. See you tomorrow.
-C’ya.
The kitty-car won the race with the sun to the beach, where a warm wind whistled over Biscayne Bay. Full of wistfulness at South Point Beach, Jim watched the sun tint the sea with crepuscular light.
Lavender-pink.
What’s that other color? Mauve.
Artist’s sky, writer’s sky. Dublin’s dappled seaborne clouds. Miami mauve ‘n’ lavender.
Five buck tip. Hundred and five a week. Maybe enough.
Radio on. Nat King Cole’s strange enchanted boy. Song haunts me. Need some love in return.
ix
Stephen Dedalus. Justa lonely boy, lonely and blue. Need a fuckin’ dictionary.
Artist pares his fingernails.
Thurible incense. Got sick first time. Swing back and forth. Kyrie eleíson. Lord have mercy.
Ejaculation. Plenary indulgence. Get out of purgatory free card.
My dick. Many ejaculations.
Stephen’s girl. Temptress of the villanelle. 19 lines. Rhymes every other line.
Limbo. Neither my arse nor my elbow. Nuns never said that. Goofy idea. Chuck Berry. Soul with no particular place to go.
‘Hell with the unpleasantness left out.’ Silence exile cunning. Rebel without a cause. Not playin’ ball. Not the only thing. Can be musician. Writer. Never too late. Keep practicin’.
Old man’s always pissed. Takes it out on her. Oughta split.
Invite for dinner. Mother likes me. The 7th son. I’m the one the one they call.
Over the mountain, across the sea. Lose one find one. Maybe she’s the one. Not Diane, Not her fault. Not mine. Convent girls don’t send me.
Someday in the hush of the spring.
Dream dream dream. Flyin’ over Ireland ole man said somethin’. Started to fall.
There you are little star.
Mozart stole a melody from French folk music. It drifted from the Blaupunkt sung by the Elegants. Jim braked the Porsche in front of Carlos’ Place. Hair in a chignon, Marita wore a peach-and-aqua halter over her bare midriff and white clamdiggers. The scent of gardenia pinned in her chignon filled the car.
-Change in plans. We’re not eating at my house. We have to eat out. My cousins are at the house because their mom’s sick. I have a couple of bucks for pizza or a burger.
Caught off guard, Jim fingered the 2 quarters in his pocket and came up with a plan B.
-Nick invited us to the Incognito. I told him we were havin’ dinner at your place. Maybe we can eat with him. He plays the piano there. I just dropped him off.
-OK. Cool car!
-James Dean was drivin’ one when he got killed. Some people said it was suicide.
Marita lowered the window, lit a cigarette.
-James Dean committed suicide? I don’t think so.
-Didn’t know you smoked.
-Not around Momma and Papa.
The Incognito Lounge parking lot was almost empty. The dining room and bar were Art Deco. A highly polished mahogany bar with a frontispiece of Lalique glass refracted yellow beams onto the parquet floor. Bottles of Beefeater stood on beveled glass shelves behind the bar. The Yeomen Warders of the Tower of London don’t mind doing guard duty to become part of a dry martini. The bartender in a white bolero jacket poured one from a shaker; in the foyer a blonde voluptuary draped in a red silk sheath dress approached.
-I’m sorry you have to be 21.
Jim took Marita’s arm, turning to leave.
-Hey, Jim!
Nick stepped down from the baby grand placed on the other side of the room.
-Annie, they’re friends of mine.
Nick lit Annie’s cigarette with a gold lighter he took from her pedestal.
-I didn’t know you had kids, Nick. No booze.
An exhale of smoke punctuated Annie’s edgy Manhattan sarcasm.
-Give this to the waitress when you’re done..
Nick slipped Jim a folded 5-dollar bill.
Their voluptuary herded them to a semi-circular booth covered in a darker shade of red than her Pierre Cardin sheath. Marita sat in the middle, Nick on one side, Jim on the other. Lalique seashell sconces dimly lit the wall in the yellow hue illumining the bar’s frontispiece.
-Marita, this is my friend Nick.
Nick put his arms around both of them.
-Nice meeting you.
-Nice meeting you, too.
A waitress placed a half-empty martini glass in front of Nick.
-Thought you might want your drink. I’ll be right back.
-Bev, Jim and Marita.
-I’ll give you time to decide.
Bev left for the kitchen.
-I didn’t think I’d be seeing you tonight.
-My aunt got sick. Mom’s taking care of her kids. Dinner wasn’t going to be much fun with the little ones running around the house.
Marita patted her chignon, checked on the gardenia, laid the menu on the table, picked it up, then laid it back down again.
-Jim said no to having dinner with me. Can’t blame him, I wouldn’t share your company either. I’m joking. The food’s top shelf here, especially the steaks. Have the New York sirloin or filet mignon. I’ll order for you if you want.
-How’s the filet mignon?
-Great choice.
-Make mine medium rare with French fries.
Marita’s menu hid her blush.
-Medium rare sirloin and mashed potatoes.
-One sirloin. One filet. Both medium rare. Be back in a minute.
-Nick’s a lot older than you.
She took a cigarette from her handbag.
-Thirty-five, I guess. Piano player. He has a trio comin’ down next month to play here. I’ll get it.
Jim reached for the flickering candle on the table.
The waitress returned, rolling a tray.
-Two Caesar salads. Anchovy?
Jim nodded.
-What are you drinking?.
-Cuba Libres. Just kidding. Coke.
-Me too.
Bev broke an egg, added the yolk to the salad bowl, grated 2 cheese wedges into flakes; Nick slid back into the booth.
-Cool place.
-Some places get it right, some don’t. Incognito does it right. The name attracts those of us trying to conceal our identity. I’m one of them. How’s the salad?
Laughing, Nick emptied his glass to both of them, then signalled the bartender for another.
-Delicious.
Marita leaned over her salad, revealing a tawny swell of breast; Jim ogled.
-W-w-what’s in caesar salad?
-Anchovy, grated pecorino and parmesan, one-minute coddled eggs, a yolk, 3 day-old olive oil with garlic, and croutons. The Caesar salad here is as good as it is anywhere, although you have to go to Tijuana to get the original. A Tijuana restaurant called Caesar’s created it.
Nick rattled the ice cubes in the shaker Bev placed on the table.
-Most people think it started in Italy but it was Mexico.
-I thought it was named after Julius Caesar. Learn somethin’ new every day hangin’ with you.
-I have to play in a couple of minutes. You could meet Jeff, the owner, over there, but you’re better off not.
Nick nodded to a bald man sitting at the bar.
-All he does is play golf and talk about it. Wants me to set up a foursome with Bill Evans and his Dad. What a masochist! Insists we play them even up and get our asses kicked. Don’t worry meal’s on the house. Just tip the waitress.
-Cool. Thanks. Later.
-Nice meeting you.
Nick slipped another 5-dollar bill to Jim under the table. Marita finger-wiggled goodbye. Jeff, the balding owner-golfer, turned to them with a raised glass; Nick took his place at the piano.
-I’d like to dedicate my opener to a friend. He’s a very strange, enchanted boy too. He comes from Philadelphia not the Middle East, seems to fit right in down here in Miami though. He’s sitting with a beautiful Latina. To my 2 new friends Jim and Marita.
At Casa de Canes, Nature Boy was a serious ballad; at the Incognito it drifted across the dining room light-hearted.
-There was a boy, a very strange enchanted boy.
Marita sang along with Nick; Jim didn’t catch her lilt of flirtation.
-You said you didn’t know jazz.
-I watch Nat Cole every chance I get. First black man with his own TV show. I was jazzing you.
Jim wiped a dollop of Bearnaise from the corner of his mouth; he pushed his plate away.
-Dessert? Nick recommended the cheesecake.
Bev waved to the busboy; Jim and Marita looked at each other. Marita decided for both of them.
-No, thank you.
-Me, neither. Thanks. We have to go.
Jim handed Bev the 2 crumpled five-dollar bills in his pocket; Nick segued into I’ll Be Seeing You.
-Let’s go to one of my favorite places? Maybe you’ll like it there too.
-Cool.
He almost took her hand, instead, he fiddled with the car keys in his pocket. Following her instructions, he drove to a parking lot near the bay. Miami Beach glimmered in the distance, limned by aureate stripes the moon airbrushed onto the ebony water of the bay.
-Pretty.
Ending a self-inflicted torture, Jim took Marita’s hand.
-First time I saw Biscayne Bay was from my uncle’s boat coming here from Cuba.
She sat on the breakwater.
-All I know about Cuba is there’s a revolution. The leader has a scraggly beard, can’t remember his name.
-Fidel Castro. The poor think he will make them rich and happy, the rich think he will make them poor and unhappy.
-Why did you leave?
Jim had little interest in Marita’s Cuban history. His interest? The ups and downs of the halter.
-It’s a long story. My great-great-grandfather was Antonio Maceo, the Bronze Titan.
-Your father said ‘the Bronze Titan didn’t throw food away’ when he was showin’ me around the kitchen. Didn’t know what the fuck he was talkin’ about. Thought it might have been his nickname.
-Antonio Maceo is famous in Cuba. He was a cabron - one badass mulatto bastard. Mariana Grajales, his mother and my great-great-great-grandmother, was named the Mother of Cuba in the ‘50s. Antonio fought in The Little War, one of Cuba’s wars against Spain. When Jose Marti saw Mariana and Antonio’s wife, he said it was easy to be a hero with women like these in your life. Antonio didn’t surrender when the war was over; he moved to Jamaica. Some of the family went to Tampa, some stayed in Cuba growing tobacco. We rolled cigars in Tampa, then came to Miami. We still miss Cuba. I want to go back because Cuba is a beautiful place and I belong there. The Maceos were pardos - freed slaves. My family’s educated, and we own some land the 26th of July Movement took over. Maybe the land belongs to the people, like Castro says. I don’t know, but I want to be there when everything gets settled. Patria o Muerte, Homeland or Death, is the slogan of the Fidelistas, mine too.
Her panther eyes - courtesy of her father, maybe the Bronze Titan - shone even more in the light from the bay.
-Why did you need to revolt?
-Race and money. The white conservative businessmen want to overthrow Castro. They want everybody to think the Cuban Revolution is about communism, so they can hide the truth. It’s about race and money. I’ll probably end up on Castro’s side in Cuba because he’s against racism and corruption. He’s an illegitimate bastard, like my uncle, but he’s not a mulatto. I hope we can trust him.
Standing up from the breakwater, Marita flicked her cigarette into the bay.
-You know your country’s history pretty damn well.
-Mariana died in Jamaica. José Martí said Cuba owes her for years of fighting the Spanish. My family’s history is Cuban history. I was born Maceo, born to fight.
-You’re too pretty to fight.
-Women can fight, maybe better than men. They fought in your Civil War. Loreta Valsquez was Cuban. She was a soldier, then a spy.
Jim’s admiration for the girl walking beside him struggled with his fear of the unknown - a young woman with a heart and soul of her own.
-I’ve never met anyone like you. Most girls I know wanna get married. Have kids. No girl ever told me she wanted to be a soldier.
-I don’t want to be a soldier. I am a soldier.
-I’d hate to see a beautiful girl get hurt.
She kissed his cheek.
-We’ve got to get home.
Jim kissed her on the lips; she didn’t resist.
Wanted more. Did she?
Bronze Titan? Nick was right. Colored girl. Smart girl. Silk skin. Fire ‘n’ diamond eyes. Scary jungle cat.
Incognito — Dinger’s for adults.
‘Nature Boy’. Good taste. Smart. Smarter than me. No more lies. She’ll know.
Women soldiers in Cuba, Civil War? Crazy.
Yellow moon. Black water. So quiet. God was there. Touch the stars. My epiphany. Icarus too close to sun. Daddy said don’t.
Where are you little star?