“Aha! Greenwich Village with palm trees. I’m staying.”
That’s what I thought when I arrived in Key West on May 4, 1980. By day’s end I rented a small clean studio in a guest house on Fleming Street. The landlord, protecting his own interests, hooked me up with a job as a waitress in the gazebo of a family owned inn. The gazebo was luscious, smothered from top to bottom with purple bougainvillea and variegated philodendron vines. Nap ready honey bees lazed as they suckled the nectar from the pink, red and buttery yellow hibiscus bushes that dotted the walkway entrance.
“My Eden,” I thought.
I started work the very next day and served food and drink to the pool side guests of the inn as well as to the locals who meandered in. The majority of the patrons that I attended to wore swimming suits or some type of casual vacation attire, however, one man looked out of place. His trousers were professionally pressed and he wore leather loafers that were imported for sure. Anyone with a sense for fashion could see that his pale blue guaybera was custom tailored.
The gentleman’s face was Hollywood handsome with thick well formed eyebrows that framed pensive dark eyes and his curly black hair was silvery at the temples. The subtle cologne he was wearing was refreshing, not the sickening sweet variety sold in drugstores during the holiday season. He did , however, look uncomfortable, shifting in the high backed rattan chair, fiddling with his box of imported cigarettes and his gold lighter.
A seasoned waitress, recognizing a potentially good tipper, I gave the twitchy gentleman my undivided attention. I smiled and told him that we had a two for one pina colada promotion that day. I rattled off the luncheon specials as I presented him with an unbelievably overpriced ala carte menu. The handsome man informed me that he wasn’t having lunch and went on to order a double scotch, neat, with bottled water on the side.
“Please, be sure that it is premium scotch. I will know if it is not. Gracias, nina.”
I assembled and presented his drink, the whole time rambling on how it was my very first day working as a waitress and how nerve jangling it was to start a new job in a new town, a new state for Heaven’s sake! I was chumming the water for a sympathy tip in addition to the expected fifteen per cent.
He lowered his eyes, “You are an exquisite liar, nina. You have served many before me.”
Caught trying to hustle an additional almighty dollar I laughed and went about my business. For the remainder of my first day on the job I stayed extremely busy serving swarms of thirsty, hungry children who paid for their purchases with limp, wet dollar bills they absentmindedly took for a swim. Grown folks clamored for my attention as well, shouting their orders to me.
“Cerveza frio! Jamon con queso. Papa fritas, por favor! Cafe con leche, rapido, por favor!”
I was frustrated and near tears and only then did my whiskey sipping Adonis hastily translate the crowd’s requests into English for me. I served them quickly and was relieved when the gazebo was emptied of the foreign tongued hordes.
“If you wish to survive economically you must learn the language, nina,” warned my interpreter.
“Am I in Havana or Key West?” I snapped.
The end of my workday was near and by the time I’d finished my side work he had prepared a written list of job related Spanish words, phrases and translations for me. I thanked him and asked him what ‘nina’ meant. He told me it was a term of endearment used on a daily basis when addressing lovely young ladies. I smiled and as I prepared to leave the Latino clasped my hand and unobtrusively tipped me ten dollars. Big bucks back then.
“Via con Dios,” he said softly.
“Now what the heck does that mean?” I asked walking backwards, anxious to leave work and spend my tips.
“Go with God,” he smiled.
I explored Duval Street in the old part of town that first evening, peering into the window of every shop that I passed wishing I could afford to buy the items I fancied; wind chimes made from musical warm water sea shells, a floral print ‘divorcee dress’ from “Fast Buck Freddie’s” department store, handmade candles scented with gardenia and a one of a kind orange crocheted bikini. I was much thinner back then.
I discovered an inexpensive open-air cafe tucked into an alley and I supped on fresh lightly battered fried shrimp and an ice cold forehead numbing draft beer served in a chilled pilsner glass. Military vehicles stuffed with boyish soldiers wearing camouflaged uniforms rolled by me as I dined. The chain smoking bartender sipping cautiously from his cocktail hidden between the stir sticks and cork lined coasters told me that Fidel Castro was allowing any and all citizens of Cuba to leave the island via the port town of Mariel. An old timer perched on a barstool nursing a bourbon promised no one in particular that within a few days time the streets of Key West would be overrun with Cuban refugees ready to work for a dollar an hour putting all employed Americans out of work.
Supper done and time to spare I followed the military convoy to the pier where the refugee laden vessels were docking and I saw first hand the relatives of the exiles as they pressed against the newly installed chain link fence straining their fatigued eyes for a glimpse of family members, some of whom they’d not seen in twenty years. They used bed sheets, umbrellas and sections of cardboard boxes to shield themselves from a tropical sun that hadn’t even begun to set. Many of them clutched faded photographs and chanted their family’s name as each boat neared the dock.
I positioned myself comfortably at the edge of the crowd with a fine view of the arriving boats and within minutes a huge old rickety sailboat with peeling paint and no name carrying more than one hundred people jockeyed for a docking slip. The passengers glistened as if they’d been dipped into gold dust and propped upright for the journey. They all stood perfectly still; wide eyed and haggard and barely breathing as they prepared to dock. I was overwhelmed as my country’s military forces organized the disembarkation of the refugees from Cuba onto American soil.
An old woman wailed, “Viva America! Viva Carter!” as she was assisted down the gangplank. She kissed the ground before being pulled gently upright.
The corralled relatives cried, “Viva America!”
I’ve always been proud, not to mention grateful that I was an American, but never so button popping proud as that day in May 1980. That first night in Key West I dozed off trying to memorize my foreign language lesson. Heart swelling patriotism and money in my pocket induced a sound sleep.
My second day on the job was hectic as Cuban Americans descended upon Key West seeking to arrange transportation for family members they’d left behind on the island. I prepared countless cups of Cuban coffee and watched as family members hired local boat captains to find their relatives in Mariel and ferry them the ninety miles to freedom. It was amazing! Absolutely no haggling for cheaper passage when the sea captains quoted eight, nine, ten thousand dollars per person and the money was paid in cash. I witnessed, mouth agape, as my Spanish language coach paid nineteen thousand dollars in brand new neatly bundled hundred dollar bills to a ratty looking sea faring character who assured him that he would collect and deliver the mother and sister whom his client hadn’t seen in eighteen years.
The remainder of that morning my Latino friend mesmerized me with accounts of growing up in pre-Castro Cuba and then some. His eyes went all happy when he spoke of his childhood in Santa Clara, a city smack dab in the middle of the island. He laughed when he recanted how popular he was at the ‘quinces’ hosted by the neighboring families in his community.
He explained, “A ‘quince’ is not unlike an American girl’s sweet sixteen party held one year earlier. At either affair I’m sure the father of girl is often searching for a suitable future son-in-law.”
He became very animated when he re-enacted his long ago responsibility of digging the pit to slow roast the suckling pig that was sacrificed for all of his family’s parties. He spoke of enough rice and beans to feed one hundred at his mother’s table during the holiday season and my mouth watered when he described the sweets his grandmother prepared when he was a child; pastries oozing with guava filling, rice pudding studded with plump sweet raisins and flecks of cinnamon and his favorite, ‘flan’ a caramelized egg custard.
He spoke of teachers and schoolmates that he still thought of, wondering if they had enough to eat or a bar of soap to bathe with. He spoke softly, almost a whisper when he told me that the president of the student body at the university he was attending was shot to death for promoting democracy for Cuba. It was this tragedy that prompted him to join ‘Escambray’ an anti-Castro revolutionary group. His job was to transport members to the clandestine meetings their leaders held.
His participation in the fight for democracy earned him a jail sentence in Tope Collantes, a mountaintop compound that Castro used for the torture and interrogation of any one that didn’t see things his way. He told me of the time he was dragged by his hair into the unfamiliar cold mountain air and thrown against the rusted tin wall of a ramshackle hut Castro’s henchmen used for a latrine. His captor warned him not to resist as he cocked his pistol and pointed it at him,
“You will speak to the Commandante and tell him all that you know about your group and its members. I shall kill you if you choose to do otherwise.”
The temperature on that mountaintop was colder than my friend had ever experienced, yet he felt as if flames were consuming him. He knew he had to get out of that situation ‘rapido’ so he lied and said he would cooperate. Castro’s man congratulated him on a wise decision and emptied his pistol just inches above his head. Back in his cell he realized why he felt so hot outside; he was soaked in urine. The next morning he was taken to the Commandante, a nub of a man with ruby red gums and noisy metal braces on his legs. After nine hours of fruitless interrogation the Commandante, agitated, but for whatever reason not in a murdering mood had him beaten and thrown back into his cell. He was released ninety days later, twenty pounds lighter.
He arrived home several days before the Bay of Pigs invasion. He, along with more than one thousand people from his hometown was arrested and detained at the local university. They were fed once a day, at three in the afternoon; tepid dirty water with a piece of potato in it that the guards had the audacity to call ‘soup’. These same guards, bored with their duty, often fired rounds from their machine guns over the heads of the prisoners shattering the vast rows of windows in the once magnificent building. Nineteen days passed before they were released and warned that political upstarts would be publicly executed from that day forward.
In August of 1961 the Cuban monetary system collapsed along with the spirits of his family and friends. It was on that day that he decided he would leave Cuba. With gold jewelry donated by his family he made his way to Santa Fe beach in Havana and it was here that he hid for three weeks in the house of a sympathetic cousin. It was this relative who used his cache of jewelry to secure the documents he would need to leave the island. On September 9, 1961 he arrived by airplane in Miami, Florida.
He told me his new life was good, what with robust health, a thriving business and a comfortable lifestyle he claimed he was quite content. He longed for only one thing, his family. He told me he made a pact with God, promising never to pray for anything for himself ever again if he could be reunited with his mother and sister. He was so sincere I vowed to pick up the slack and pray for him.
With an hour to go before my shift ended he decided to go shopping for gifts to give to his mother and sister who would be arriving before nightfall.
“What will you buy for them?” I wanted to know.
He laughed, “A bundle of ‘Ivory” soap. They will appreciate it more than a bag of gold!”
He promised to hold a welcoming party in the gazebo and mentioned how pleased he would be if I would serve them. I told him that I would be honored and promised to study my Spanish word list for their arrival.
“Via con Dios,” I waved.
Thirty minutes after my friend departed I discovered that he had forgotten his cigarette lighter, so along with my tips I put the lighter into my purse knowing that I could return it to him the next day. As it turned out there was a change in my work schedule and I was informed by my supervisor that I would have the following day off.
I rented a bicycle and toured the old part of town the next morning. I almost paid the price of admission to stroll through Ernest Hemingway’s house, but the cat stench was overbearing and that was enough to put me off. I opted to ride down to the dock and watch as the rag tag fleet of boats arrived from Cuba. I wondered how the voyage for my friend’s family went.
After a glorious day off I returned to a chaotic scene at work. Police cars with their red bubble top lights whirring and an ambulance with its back door opened waiting to accommodate a victim were blocking the entrance to the time clock. Someone must have had a heart attack or perhaps, there was a drowning. Then I saw the emergency vehicle attendants caddying a sheet covered body on a gurney through the narrow service entrance. I couldn’t breathe; I recognized his profile through the thin sheet and the tan line on his uncovered foot. I wanted to be mistaken, but my eyes told me otherwise.
“What happened?” I asked.
The head of the housekeeping department told me that he committed suicide, a maid found him. I felt my heart craze.
My co-worker continued, “His family drowned coming from Cuba. The boat was too old for the journey. Twelve people, including the captain died. There’s an article about it in today’s newspaper.”
How I made it through work that day I’ll never know. I do remember closing my sweat soaked fist around his lighter and holding it tighter than I’ve ever held anything before. I could hear his voice in my head, “Via con Dios, nina.”
On October the first my landlord informed me that my rent would be doubled on the fifteenth of the month, the start of the ‘season’ in Key West. I searched, with no luck, for an affordable dwelling. I gave notice at work, packed my belongings into my denim laundry sack and was Miami bound. The morning of my departure I made a bouquet from the flowers that I picked from a neighbor’s garden and walked to the dock where the Mariel Boatlift (as the history making event was now referred to) and prayed for the souls of my friend and his family. I threw the bouquet into the sea and kept my tear filled eyes riveted to the flowers as I shouted,
“Via con Dios, amigo! Via con Dios my friend!”
Tourists backed away; thought I was crazy.
More than thirty years have passed since I lived and worked in Key West. I still reside in Miami and am fluent in Spanish. I house my friend’s gold lighter inside a worn calf skin change purse that I keep in the locked drawer of an old desk. On my odd ‘down’ day I remove the lighter from its makeshift case and hold it as tightly as I can. I remember my friend and hear his voice inside my head, “Via con Dios, nina.”
Instantly I am uplifted.
Coreen Falco
© 2015 Coreen Falco
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