The Prince of los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood Read Free

shrinking number of americanos shopped.
    Every week I’d beg Abuela to go to the Winn-Dixie instead, but she refused to set foot in the place. “There’s none of our food at el Winn Deezee . Only los americanos shop there,” Abuela sneered. “It’s too expensive anyway,” she’d complain, dismissing my pleas, until the day she spotted a Winn-Dixie circular in the mail advertising a special too tempting for Abuela to ignore: a whole roasted chicken, its drumsticks crowned with fancy paper hats, and a banner beneath trumpeting its not-so-fancy price: Whole Fryers 29¢ per lb .
    “What does Whole Fryer mean?” Abuela asked me. “Pollo entero,” I translated. “¿De verdad?” she said incredulously, “At La Caridad I pay thirty-four centavos —on especial .” I played on her piqued curiosity, “ Sí, sí, Abuela. It’s a great price for chicken. ¡Increíble! You could sure save a lot of money.” She agreed, “Yes, good precio, ” and left the circular on the kitchen counter instead of tossing it out with the rest of the junk mail that came in English.
    Few things intimidated Abuela; among these were black magic Santería and americanos . As for Santería, she once discovered tía Irma kept an Eleguá deity with snail shells for eyes behind her bathroom door. We never set foot in her house again. “She’s not your real tía, anyway,” she said. As for americanos, Abuela wouldn’t go anywhere she perceived to be wholly American, at least not alone. This included the Social Security office downtown, any restaurant with English-only menus (even Kim’s Chinese Palace on Ninety-seventh Avenue), fancy department stores like Burdines, and most definitely Winn-Dixie. But she also couldn’t resist a bargain. “ Mira how cheap los pollos, ” she told Mamá when she came home from work that day. “Why don’t we go to el Winn Deezee ?” she asked, fishing for a partner. Mamá responded unenthusiastically: “ Bueno, you go si tú quieres . You’re doing all the groceries.” What did Mamá care where our food came from or how much it cost, as long as there was enough to eat?
    Dejected, Abuela tossed the Winn-Dixie flyer in the trash. But the following week the chicken appeared in the mail at twenty-six cents per pound, three cents cheaper than the week before; and then twenty-four cents the week after that. The fryers haunted Abuela. Her stinginess slowly overcame her fear of americanos until finally, she broke. “ Mi’jo, will you go with me shopping en el Winn Deezee mañana ?” she half asked, half commanded. “Of course, Abuela. No te preocupes . I’ll go with you.” It was the first time Abuela had ever needed me. Or rather, the first time we needed each other. She wouldn’t dare go to Winn-Dixie without me. Give a little, get a little, I thought. Soon our pantry would be stocked with Crunch Berries cereal and Oreo cookies; our freezer stuffed with Swanson TV Dinners and Eskimo Pies; our fridge filled with Hawaiian Punch and American cheese.
    The next day after school Abuela instructed Abuelo to drive to el Winn Deezee instead of La Caridad. “ ¿Estás loca? You’re going there?” he asked, surprised. Abuela hesitated, so I answered for her, “We’re going to buy pollos —they’re really cheap.” I didn’t want Abuela to lose her nerve. “ Bueno , I’ll stay out here,” Abuelo said, turning into the parking lot. A gigantic red neon sign marked its entrance, the letters spelling out WINN-DIXIE THE BEEF PEOPLE seeming to glow even in daylight. “What does The Beef People mean?” Abuela questioned me. I struggled for a translation that would make sense, but none did. “La Gente de Carne,” I finally offered. “ ¿Cómo? How can that be?” Abuela said, perplexed by the thought of people made of meat, which is what my literal translation meant in Spanish. “Why not The Chicken People ? Or The Carne Puerco People ?” she amused herself.
    Abuela tore the advertisement for the fryer