The Prince of los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood (13 page)

Inside the hotel room, safe from further embarrassment, the spell began taking over me again. I didn’t want to waste a single second brushing my teeth or combing my hair, but Mamá insisted I look pretty for the photos
para Cuba
. She then took ten minutes to make a pot of Cuban coffee, sweetened with sugar packets she had pocketed from the condiments counter at the service plaza. Finally, we got out of the room and our parents were at our linguistic mercy again. Unable to fully understand the English on the directional signs to get here or there, Mamá and Papá had no choice but to follow Caco and me as we led them through the lobby and to the
monorail platform.

I didn’t quite understand the words
efficiency
or
engineering,
but I felt them for the first time in the spiderweb of steel trusses holding up the skylight that capped the atrium, in the smooth hush of wind as the monorail pulled alongside the platform, and in the monorail doors that opened automatically as soon as it stopped. Inside, the cab felt like a spaceship, zooming above the ponds and emerald lawns, above another world more perfect than I had imagined. Overwhelmed, I closed my eyes, wanting to make sure to take in everything with my other senses too. I didn’t want to miss a sound or a scent or a feeling. Caco kept poking me in the ribs, trying to break my trance, but Mamá indulged me and led me by the hand off the monorail and down the ramp. I insisted on keeping my eyes shut, even as the attendant at the turnstile asked if we needed a wheelchair for me. Caco clarified the situation: “No, thanks, he’s not blind. He’s just a goon.”

When I popped open my eyes inside the park, I knew exactly where we were from the brochures I had memorized. We were right in the middle of Main Street. I had heard the words
gorgeous
and
paradise
many times before, when my parents spoke of Havana and Cienfuegos, the seaside colonial town in the province where they were from. But here I saw those words come to life in the evenly spaced antique lampposts, the litter-free streets lined with dainty willows and majestic oaks, the geometric rows of impatiens and rosebushes abloom, soft music rising from speakers hidden in the flower beds, the trolleys drawn by Clydesdales clopping their pom-pom hooves, and the costumed men in top hats and women in hoop skirts twirling lace-fringed umbrellas on their shoulders. But where was El Ratoncito Miguel?

“Is this what Cuba was like?” I asked Mamá. “Oh, no,” she answered, “it was even more better.”
How could anything be better than this?
I thought as we meandered down the street, through scented clouds of popcorn and chocolate fudge. After photo stops at the antique clock, at the old-fashioned ice cream shop, and at a number of benches, statues, and trickling water fountains, we finally reached the circular plaza at the foot of Cinderella’s castle, so perfect it hardly seemed real—a place where God might live. I couldn’t wait to cross over the moat, walk through the gate, stroll the royal halls, and find my way to Cinderella’s bedchamber; I’d hold her glass slippers and touch her dresses, then climb up to the tallest of the gilded spires reigning above the whole park. But I wanted to save that thrill for last. Weeks before I had plotted out a route for us that would end with a visit to the castle. “Let’s go this way first,” I insisted with map in hand, leading us over the footbridge and into Adventureland.

My first ride: the Jungle Cruise. Though I knew the animals weren’t real, I let my imagination scare me into a little fun, exaggerating my screams as we floated past the hissing boas curled around tree limbs and the hungry lions roaring along the far shore. Despite the fact that Mamá grew up in the countryside of Cuba, defecating in the woods, she was squeamish and easily frightened. When the mechanical alligator rose out of the swamp snapping its snout on her side of the boat, she jumped up and dropped her sunglasses into the water.
“¡Ay! ¡Ave María!”
she roared above the guide’s narration, making a scene—in Spanish no less—and demanding that Papá ask the guide to turn the boat around so she could fish out her faux Christian Dior glasses. “Ma’am, please keep your hands inside the boat. Ma’am, I’ll have to stop the boat unless you sit down,” the guide blared on his megaphone, causing twenty-something heads to turn around and witness the spectacle of Mamá in her
OUI
shirt. Caco darted into an empty seat a few rows in front of us. I wanted to dive into the water and be swallowed whole by the alligators. “
Ay
, I almost forgot,” Mamá said, reaching into her handbag. “
Gracias a Dios
. I brought another pair,
por si las moscas
.” She slipped on an identical pair and calmed down. But the damage was done.

Taking Caco’s lead at the Pirates of the Caribbean, I convinced Mamá that it would be better if he and I rode in the dinghy ahead of them so that she could take better pictures of us. She agreed, and we thought we had put one over on her. But not really. We missed half the ride turning around to face her camera and force smiles, blinded by flash cubes that were brighter than the cannon fire erupting from the pirate ships. That’s why flash photography was not allowed, but of course the sign was in English, so Mamá paid no mind to it, or the irritated faces of the others on the ride, for that matter. Papá kept shouting from their dinghy: “Look, Riqui! You saw that, Caco? Watch it, he’s going to shoot you!” as if we were five years old. The man seated next to us began losing his patience too. “Shh! Shh!” he finally said. “You shh, shh, shh,” Caco responded. Our parents were annoying; they were inconsiderate; they were loud. But they were our parents; no one could mess with them, except us.

I looked at my Mickey Mouse watch practically every fifteen minutes, counting down how much time we had left before the park closed. We were driving back early the next morning, so I had to make sure we got to see
everything,
including El Ratoncito Miguel. Luckily, according to my calculations, we were right on schedule, exactly halfway through the park by the time we reached the Hall of Presidents in Frontierland. It was the most elegant theater I’d ever seen, with chandeliers as big as flying saucers and carpet so plush I wanted to take my shoes off. We sank into seats so soft and pillowy, it was like sitting in a marshmallow. As the lights dimmed and the curtains parted, I feared my parents would act up again. But surprisingly they didn’t. They were perfectly still and quiet, mesmerized by the assembly of mechanized presidents, as the spotlight shone on each one and their names were announced. They listened so intently that if I didn’t know any better, I could have sworn that they understood exactly what Thomas Jefferson said when he rose from his chair and recited part of the Declaration of Independence; or when Lincoln recited an excerpt from the Gettysburg Address, his hand tucked inside his coat.

The history lessons from the glossy pages of my textbook came to life. For the first time, I felt this was indeed
my
country, even if it wasn’t my parents’ country. After all their talk about missing their wonderful lives back in Cuba, how could they be so fascinated by
my
country’s presidents? Perhaps they weren’t as Cuban as I made them out to be; perhaps someday we’d be a real American family. I was confused but strangely elated, until Richard Nixon stepped forward and Papá let out two sharp whistles for his favorite president. It had been Papá’s idea to name me Ricardo after Richard Nixon, who was, in Papá’s opinion, the first “decent” president after that “damn
democrata
” Kennedy who had betrayed “us” at the Bay of Pigs. Mamá jabbed him with her elbow. Caco and I shook our heads in silent disbelief and sank into our seats, out of sight until the show was over.

“I’m not riding that bullshit sissy ride,” Caco complained as we got in the line for It’s a Small World. Ordinarily, he (and I) could cuss a lot because our parents could hardly pick up bad words in English. But that time he added,
“Esa mierda es para maricones,”
in his best Spanish to make sure his objection was understood. Mamá gave him her dreadful
just-wait-until-I-get-you-at-home
face: eyes squinted and eyebrows pulled down low. “Did you say what I think you said,
cabrón
?” she asked him, as if she didn’t know. “
Esa mierda es para maricones
—for faggots,” he dared to repeat, with the same scowl as I remembered on Raphael Ramirez’s face whenever he called me a faggot at baseball practice. But this was my brother. Mamá wrapped the handles of her
twenty-pound tote bag around her wrist and gave him a good purse-whipping across his backside, making him lose his balance. I felt sorry for him, even though I felt he got what he deserved. Startled by the commotion, a little girl wearing saddle shoes started crying behind us in the line. “What did you say?” Mamá dared him again, her tote already cocked. There was no reply. “
Menos mal
—that’s what I thought,” she said firmly. “Stand straight—
caramba
—and move.” Defeated, he shuffled his feet all the way down the line and stomped into the riding boat.

Slouched in his seat, Caco put his fingers in his ears to block out the overjoyed dolls singing the theme song, their mechanical heads bobbing side to side like dashboard ornaments, each one dressed in the traditional garb of its country. Sissy ride or not, I sang the chorus along with the dolls, “It’s a small world after all, it’s a small, small world . . .” as the boat waded through the French dolls doing a cancan and jiggling their crinkled skirts, the Mexican dolls blindfolded under a piñata, the Chinese dolls counting on abacuses, and my favorite: the Arab dolls belly dancing in pink tulle and pointy slippers just like Barbara Eden from
I Dream of Jeannie
.

Mamá and Papá caught on to the lyrics, sort of, and sang along too: “Is a small world after all . . . is a small, small world . . . ,” their accent thankfully drowned out by the dolls’ singing. But as soon as the ride was over, Mamá ranted, “Why no dolls from Cuba? There was dolls from Puerto Rico
y México
. Why no Cuba? You know if it wasn’t for
los cubanos,
Miami would still be
nada
—a swamp.
Los americanos
could show us a little thanks, no?” “Yeah, maybe they should have a doll of Fidel Castro smoking a cigar,” Caco jabbed at Mamá. “Good one!” I told Caco.
“Qué estúpidos,”
Mamá said to both of us. “One day you’ll know—one day.” She had her tote bag cocked again, but left it at that.

Keeping a cool distance from our parents, Caco and I led the way, turning the corner at the humongous merry-go-round, where I spotted Snow White with Grumpy. Before I could even point them out, Mamá had already whipped out her Instamatic, directing me to get in line for a photo. Snow White was beautiful—just as I had imagined her from my coloring books, but already colored: hair as silky and black as my cat Misu, the bow on her head red as a lollipop, and her slender arms as delicate as the willow branches I’d seen along the Main Street entrance. But Grumpy scared me. His face resembled a dried-up mango. I imagined Grumpy smelled bad too, rotten like Caco’s sweaty gym shirts. When my turn came for the photo, I blatantly told Mamá:
“Con el enano no”
—not with the midget—in Spanish so Snow White wouldn’t understand what I was saying. Or maybe she did? She didn’t smile at me when she took my hand and positioned me between herself and Grumpy. Regardless, I scurried to one side and pulled her away from Grumpy just long enough for Mamá to snap the photo.

Snow White sauntered back to her spot without kissing me on the cheek the way she’d kissed the other kids. I wanted to ask her if she knew where Mickey Mouse was, but I was too embarrassed after what I had just done. So I coerced Caco into asking her, threatening him I’d tell Mamá about
his
stunt with the food order at the service plaza. “Oh, he’s around. You never know when he’ll surprise you,” she told Caco.
Around,
I thought.
Around? What? Where? When?
I didn’t want to be surprised; I wanted to see El Ratoncito Miguel right then and there. I made us all wait at the Carousel for Mickey to show up: five minutes, and no Mickey; fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, no Mickey.

“This is stupid. Let’s go!” Caco finally broke. I gave in after Papá reassured me that we’d see El Ratoncito Miguel later; he carried me on his shoulders through the rest of Fantasyland and into Tomorrowland. Perched above his head, I spotted Space Mountain in the distance. As soon as I saw its silver slopes glinting in the sun and its steel needle towering above the entire park, a
rush of adrenaline stiffened my legs. Not out of excitement, but out of dread. “Ooh—awesome! There it is!” Caco let out. “Are you gonna ride it like you said, chicken?” he asked me. I knew I was in for it. Weeks before the trip, he had bet me five dollars that I’d be too scared to ride Space Mountain, which he had ridden “like ten times” the year before. “It’s super scary, like a roller coaster, but in the dark. You even go upside down and everything,” he had explained to me; I thought he was exaggerating just to brag and scare me, so I called his bluff and took the bet.

But as we got closer and closer, I realized he had been telling the truth, and as the mountain grew bigger and bigger, my heart beat faster and faster, pulsing through my entire body. I was on the verge of pretending my diarrhea was back, but I knew Caco would still demand his five bucks right on the spot. That was all the money I had on me, which I’d saved up for weeks to buy myself something at Disney World. I was holding on to it until I found something special, something I really wanted and could afford. If I lost the bet, I’d come home with nothing to show off in class come September. At the entrance to the ride there were warnings about heart attacks and motion sickness in bold red letters full of exclamation points. One of the signs read
YOU MUST BE THIS TALL FOR THIS RIDE
. I figured I was tall enough, but I stepped up to the sign anyway and checked my height, bending my knees slightly, hoping for the perfect way out. But no, I had to ride Space Mountain.

My parents decided to sit this one out on a bench and started gobbling down some guava
pastelitos
Mamá had stashed inside her
por si las moscas
tote, all crumbled from the whack she had given Caco earlier. We ignored their good-bye waves as we walked into the mouth of a dark hallway, strobed by pulsing lights, from which there seemed to be no turning back. And there wasn’t. Corralled by metal stalls into a single file line that twisted and turned for thirty heart-pounding minutes, I tried calming myself down—
It’ll be all right . . . It can’t be that bad
. I shamed myself into courage by concentrating on the younger kids in line who didn’t seem a bit scared.