Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story Read Free Page A

mom whined over coffee a few
mornings before my departure. “I hear Spain is full of lazy people. Plus, they smell.”
    “Of course, mama,” I patted her hand reassuringly and secretly basked
in the impending glow of being all alone for two summer months.
    The next day at work was my last, and my coworkers threw me
a little going away bash before my leave-of-absence began. I was still reeling from
the excitement of a prolonged period of doing nothing as I carefully shuffled out
the building with a piece of cake in my hand, when I almost choked as I encountered
this by my left crutch:

    I’m assuming spending my life surrounded by animals helped me
cope with the aftershock, because I wasn’t so much frightened of a dead pigeon lying
merely inches from my toes, as to how it got there in the first place. I’m sure
pigeons die all the time and birds dropping from the sky is a phenomenon that occurs
not only in Hitchcock movies, but the odd part was how it was placed, perfectly
still on its back like an angel that happens to feast on insects and human eyeballs
for fun. Also, where was the blood? My first instinct after bringing my heartbeat
back to a human pace was to take the above picture and show it to my mom as soon
as I got home. She examined it closely for a few moments and shook her head, giving
me a concerned look as she uttered her simple explanation: brujeria.
    For reasons beyond my comprehension, my mother became convinced someone
was trying to poison my well-being with black magic, hence the bronchitis and twisted
ankle and dead pigeon situations all within the span of weeks. Apparently the only
pragmatic way to combat brujeria is with its most potent nemesis, santeria (rhyming names purely coincidental). It was clear at that moment I would be going
to Cuba after all, even if my quest there no longer had to do with family and more
with personal protection.
    I could sit here and talk about Spain all day and how it closely
resembles Narnia in its various degrees of perfection. How it’s beautiful, mythical,
and so vast three lifetimes wouldn’t be enough to discover all its wonders. How
the sound of its guitars seduce me to a place I only allow myself to visit when
I’m feeling melancholic and thinking of him (more on that later). And how I still
hold some hope that one day I’m wealthy enough to have a summer home there with
a cabana boy that’ll fan me on hot days and feed me strawberries dripping in chocolate.
But let’s not stray from the subject, this isn’t a public service announcement for
the land of bull fighting and why you should totally go there if given the chance. This , is about Cuba, and how batshit crazy its people can be when faced with
the possibility of being threatened by the power of black magic.
    After eight weeks that whizzed by faster than a skate boarder on crack,
I landed in Santiago to the welcoming arms of my aunt and grandparents. Nothing
was initially mentioned of my brush with death in the form of a resting pigeon or
what exactly they intended to do about it. I mostly spent my days sipping mojitos
at the beach and perfecting my tan while eating enough fried food to cause 12 heart
attacks with my uncle Tico, who was 10 years older and knew all the cool hang-out
spots. Although a bit of a rocker who always wore black and dripped in sarcasm I
didn’t appreciate to its full capacity at my tender age, I enjoyed his company and
that of his cute weird friends. I told him I was harboring a suspicion my aunts
were planning something in collaboration with my mom and he told me to, “Watch your
back, because your tias are crazy.”
    The day before I returned home, my aunt made me an amazing breakfast
consisting of eggs over hard with homemade French fries and a huge steak. As she
picked up my plate and wiped my area, she casually inquired if I was ready for the
night.
    “What’s happening tonight?” I asked while momentarily being snapped
out of my food coma.
    “ Tu despojo, ” she