Game Seven Read Free Page B

without freedom is like being stuck at the birthday party of someone who believes he’s much better than you. It doesn’t matter that the party stinks and you’re having a bad time. You can’t leave because there are guys guarding the door with guns. And you’d better sing “Happy Birthday” with a smile when the cake comes out, even though you can’t have a piece, or else you could wind up in prison.
    During my shift, six or seven customers came in wearing New York Yankees caps or T-shirts. Every time I saw one, my stomach churned with acid over Papi and the World Series. Then, around nine o’clock, the manager called me over to a table and introduced me to a customer as El Fuego’s son.
    A man in a Yankees cap shook my hand. Then the manager translated his English for me, even though I understood some of what he was saying.
    â€œPleasure to meet you, Julio. I’m normally a big fan of your father’s, just not right now. I’d rather see
my
team win. But you must be so proud of him,” he said.
    I nodded and said,
“Si. Si.”
    The man stood next to me so his wife could take a photo. It was his idea for us each to make a fist. We lined them up, knuckles to knuckles, as if we were fighting over the Series. An instant before the camera’s click, I saw Mama standing in the doorway of the restaurant. She was dressed in her blue maid’s uniform and apron. Her tired eyes caught mine and I looked away from the lens.
    His wife wanted a better photo, so we posed again.
    Mama jutted her chin in the direction of our apartment and mouthed,
See you at home
. Then she walked out the door.
    After the second photo, the man smiled and stuffed ten pesos into my shirt pocket. That was more than two weeks’ salary for me.
    â€œGracias,”
I responded, feeling better about the whole encounter.
    A few minutes later, that river rat Horatio asked about the tip I got.
    â€œShouldn’t that be for you and me to share?” he asked. “It happened in my section of tables.”
    I couldn’t believe his nerve.
    I looked Horatio square in the eye and said, “It’s in my shirt pocket. Why don’t you stick your hand in there and take it.”
    Only he never tried.
    That same couple had me wrap up a pork chop for them to take home. It was a beautiful one that neither of them had even touched. I brought it back to their table, but they forgot it and left the bag behind.
    Workers aren’t supposed to take food out of the restaurant for any reason. But I kept thinking how good that pork chop would taste on the bus ride to Cárdenas. So I hid it in a small alcove, beneath a wicker breadbasket. And when my shift was finally finished, I made sure no one was watching as I tucked it beneath my arm and headed out the kitchen door.
    â€“ – –
    I turned the key in the lock. Then I stepped inside our apartment. Mama was sitting on the far end of the couch in her pink seashell bathrobe. There was a single lamp lit over her left shoulder. She had a newspaper spread open on her lap, reading it while she worked at her fingernails with a small file.
    I figured my sister was already asleep in the bedroom.
    â€œA pork chop from El Puente. No lecture, please,” I said, showing off the silver tinfoil like a prize before making a quick detour to put it into the fridge.
    When I circled back, Mama had a serious look on her face. But it didn’t have anything to do with taking food from my job.
    â€œLola told me your name might stop you from becoming a Nacional.”
    â€œMaybe. But my name didn’t hurt me tonight,” I said, taking the ten-peso note from my shirt pocket, then pulling it tight from opposite ends with a snap. “That photo I was posing for.”
    I placed it on a small table beside some bills that needed to be paid, like rent and electricity. There was also a bill for the two cell phones the three of us shared, making