The Prince of los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood Read Free Page B

cut slabs of cow into steaks right in front of us, his blood-smeared apron like something from a horror movie.
    “Al fin,” Abuela declared with relief when we reached the chickens, each one resting on a Styrofoam tray and neatly wrapped in cellophane. Picking one up, Abuela praised its healthy-rosy skin and the size of its drumsticks, “ ¡Qué lindo! En Cuba we never had pollos this big.” She checked the label, confirming the price was twenty-four cents per pound, and then rummaged through the chickens, inspecting each one with the same scrutiny she used to pick out fruit. Some were too big or too small; others too yellow or too pale; some too bony or too plump; others just right. “Okay, this one . . . this one . . . y these two . . . and . . . ,” she said, handing me five chickens, then picking out another five she would carry. We made our way to the checkout, barely able to see over the fryers in our arms. “How they can sell pollos this cheap—I don’t know. Next week we’re coming to get more,” she said, so delighted by the bargain that she began whistling “Guantanamera” as we stood at the checkout, forgetting she was surrounded by americanos and that we didn’t belong in el Winn Deezee .
    We plopped down the chickens and my Easy Cheese, not on a rubber conveyor belt but on a round, shiny steel turntable like some space-age contraption from The Jetsons that automatically spun the items around to the cashier. I’d never seen anything like it. The lady in front of us set down a plastic divider, separating her groceries from ours, and smiled politely. “How you doin’?” she asked. We nodded. “Esa es americana, ¿verdad?” Abuela asked me in a whisper, and I nodded, confirming that the lady was indeed American, after a quick glance at the freckles on her arms, her yellow hair, and her bright orange jumpsuit. The woman opened her carton of eggs and inspected each one. “You always gotta check ’em,” she said, making small talk with us. But Abuela heard chicken instead of check ’em : “Yes, yes, always have chicken,” she agreed, so enraptured that she dared speak her broken English to la americana, who looked at us uneasily and then scribbled out a check before darting away with her groceries. Maybe Abuela was right: We don’t belong here .
    The cashier was polite and American too, no doubt, judging from her name tag: Beatrice, not the Spanish Beatriz . “Good afternoon. How are you?” she asked. “Good. Good,” Abuela replied buoyantly. After ringing up two chickens Beatrice paused, “I’m sorry, are you together?” she asked. “Yes,” I answered. “Well, you can only take two chickens on special per customer. I’m sorry.”
    Knowing something had gone wrong, Abuela got panicky; she reached into her brassiere and pulled out the flyer from her coin purse. “Chicken. Chicken. Twenty-four cents. Chicken . . .” she began rambling before I had a chance to translate the matter. “Chicken. Chicken . . .” she continued, pointing at the photo of the fryer. Beatrice showed her the fine print that read Limit 2 per customer . But Abuela didn’t care: “Chicken. Twenty-four cents for chicken. Especial, ” she repeated, too frantic to understand what Beatrice was saying in English. “Abuela. Abuela—” I tried to interrupt, but she wouldn’t listen.
    Growing impatient, Beatrice reached for the public address mic and paged the manager: “Mr. Quigley to register five. Mr. Quigley, register five, please.” By then everyone in line and at the adjacent registers was staring at us as if we were children throwing a tantrum in public. I was mortified. Finally becoming aware of the scene she was making, Abuela piped down and I was able to explain the situation. “Qué cabrones. Qué barbaridad,” she complained, looking sadly at the eight chickens left on the conveyor. “ Bueno, okay. We take this one . . . and this one,” she said. “What about this?” Beatrice