The Prince of los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood (24 page)

I held out until Abuela got involved at Sonia’s request, as I suspected she would. One day during dinnertime at our house, she started on me: “Don’t you like Deycita? She wants you to be her
compañero. Qué te pasa,
you don’t like girls?” Mamá came to my defense: “
Déjalo tranquilo,
he’s only a boy.” “A boy?” Abuela said, “He’ll be ready for marriage in just a few years. He needs to start looking
ahora
.” Abuela dropped the conversation until later that evening. She came into my room in her robe and curlers and gave me her same old advice:
“Mira, es mejor serlo y no parecerlo, que no serlo y parecerlo,”
she said, which meant:
it’s better to be it but not act like it, than to not be it and yet act like it
. By
being it
she meant being gay—
un maricón
. I understood implicitly. “Whatever, Abuela,” I muttered.

The next morning, I found in my book bag an envelope with the same phrase written on it—and a twenty-dollar bill inside. A bribe, no doubt. I kept it just to spite her, though she had already shamed me into asking Deycita. On Saturday that week, I approached Deycita, who was sitting at the cafeteria counter. “Hi,” I said, thinking she’d be thrilled. “Oh, hi,” she said, looking up casually from the magazine she was paging through, pretending she was surprised to see me. “Listen, I heard you haven’t picked anyone for your
Quinces
. I’ll be your partner,” I said with confidence, thinking she would say yes without hesitation. “Oh, well . . . I hadn’t really thought about it, but that might be nice. Let me check with my mother, okay? I’ll let you know,” she said coyly, as if I didn’t know the whole ploy.

Deycita’s parents had only been in the United States a few years, and they were still struggling to get on their feet, but that didn’t matter. Sonia had saved up for months for the celebration—it would be a grandiose testament to achieving their American Dream, cloaked in the Cuban tradition of
Los Quinces
. For weeks, it was all Sonia and Deycita talked about to each other, to the customers, and to me. At first I pretended to be interested, but their enthusiasm was contagious, and the details began to engross me too. Deycita was having the girls’ satin shoes dyed champagne pink to match the color of their dresses. Her custom-ordered cape was made of peacock and pheasant feathers. Sonia rented the most expensive silver-plated tiara that Diamond’s had. And I helped design and assemble the party favors: miniature ceramic baskets filled with white Jordan almonds and baby’s breath, wrapped in the same tulle as Deycita’s dress. It wasn’t just a party; it would be an extravaganza, with a sit-down dinner from Manny’s Buffet, real champagne, and an open bar.

The only compromise they made was with the production company. They couldn’t afford the clamshell-themed option in which Deycita would emerge like a beautiful pearl out of a giant
mechanical shell. Instead, they went with the Cinderella theme. Nevertheless, it was to be a two-hour choreographed dance with a court of fourteen girls in hoop skirts and their escorts in coats and tails. Sonia organized weekly practice sessions on Tuesday nights in the parking lot of El Cocuyito, after the store had closed. She claimed that Osvaldo, the choreographer from the production company, had produced
Quinces
for many notables, including one of Gloria Estefan’s cousins. Stepping out of his 1970-something Jaguar, Osvaldo would arrive for every practice clutching a clipboard and wearing leg warmers despite the unbearable humidity. He’d plop a three-foot-long boom box on the roof of his car and then blow a whistle strung around his neck. “Okay—places, people—places,
por favor,
” he’d say, clapping his hands before cuing the cassette tape. Circling us like a house cat, he watched everyone’s moves. One night he grabbed Elio, one of the hopelessly left-footed boys, who couldn’t get the steps right. Osvaldo danced with him, leading him around with a hand on his waist before poor Elio knew what had happened. The girls burst into giggles and the boys whistled at him. “What? It’s not funny!” Elio shouted. I felt his embarrassment as I thought about Abuela and what she would say or do if she ever saw
me
dancing with Osvaldo like
that
.

Under the brassy light of the streetlamps and over the cracked pavement and scattered litter, we practiced all the traditional dances—danzón, salsa, mambo—for hours. One short blow of Osvaldo’s whistle cued the boys to twirl the girls once; two blows meant two twirls, and so on. One long blow, and the girls would stop, curtsy, and open their silk fans, slowly. When we got tired and restless, Osvaldo reminded us that without practice and dedication we’d ruin the most important night in Deycita’s life—the moment she would be transformed from a girl into a woman before everyone’s eyes. One night we were especially rambunctious. He stopped the rehearsal and asked us to close our eyes and imagine Deycita as a princess, wearing a pearl-encrusted gown, arriving in a carriage gilded with plumes and rhinestones, drawn by six white horses. Then he asked me to picture myself as her dashing prince, carrying a sword and wearing patent leather boots, taking Deycita’s hand, kissing it, leading her into womanhood.
Me, a prince?
I amused myself with the thought:
His Royal Highness, Don Richard Jesus White, Sovereign of los Lechones, Keeper of the Vintages, Protector of the Village of El Cocuyito, Prince of los Cocuyos—of the Fireflies
.

There would be no sword or boots, but it was the first time I wore a tuxedo. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, fussing with my hair and the pink bow tie that matched Deycita’s dress. Gazing at my reflection, I remembered a photo of Papá at about my age in a suit and tie, and for an instant I was my father.
Is this it? Am I a man?
I wondered, looking into my eyes for an answer and thinking of how much my life had changed. Mamá rapped on the bathroom door, snapping me out of my reverie: “
¡Apúrate!
We’re going to be late! Sonia will kill you!”

“Why don’t boys have
Quinces
?” I asked Mamá in the car on the way to the affair. “
Bueno,
girls like all the fuss. It used to mean that a girl was ready to get married. But now it’s just
una tradición,
” Mamá answered as best she could. “
Qué,
you want to wear a dress now?” Abuela blurted out. “No—and so what if I did?
Cállate vieja
. Leave me alone,” I barked at her as we pulled into the parking lot of the Casablanca Banquet Hall. I dashed around the building to the backstage entrance as Osvaldo had instructed me. He was fanning himself with one of the programs Sonia had printed, and walking from couple to couple, adjusting the girls’ hoop skirts and the boys’ boutonnieres. He was as nervous as a whore in church, I thought, remembering one of Nuñez’s more apropos sayings. But so was I. “Okay everyone—this is it! Just like we practiced. Don’t let
me down,” Osvaldo said, and he signaled the DJ to start the opening music. The first couple stepped out arm in arm, pacing themselves slowly toward their place on the dance floor.

It would take another twenty minutes for the last of the fourteen couples to do the same. But Osvaldo didn’t take any chances. He called Deycita out of her dressing room. She looked as lovely as Osvaldo had said she would: her painted eyes were suddenly a woman’s eyes, deep and mysterious; her ringlets danced around her face soft as light; her skin sparkled with glitter as if there were tiny stars nested on her shoulders and arms. I was proud to be her partner. “You look beautiful—really,” I told her. “Do you remember all the steps?” she asked me, too nervous to reply to my compliment. “Yeah, don’t worry. If you forget, just hold on to me,” I reassured her, before Osvaldo whisked her away and helped her into the carriage set up backstage. I took my place out onstage; Osvaldo started the fog machines and cued the DJ, who announced: “And now,
damas y caballeros,
presenting for the first time ever, the beautiful, the exquisite, the charming,
señorita
Deycita Gomez-Moreno.”

The curtain parted to roaring applause as the smoke cleared and Deycita appeared as if out of thin air. As Osvaldo had promised, she was Princess Deycita, wearing a tiara and waving to her court from inside the dreamy carriage decorated with plumes and gold leaf, drawn by four make-believe horses cut out of plywood but decorated with real horsehair tails and rhinestone reins. Her father helped her down from the carriage, kissed her on the cheek, and presented her to me. I bowed to her and she took my arm, just as we had rehearsed. We stepped off the stage and onto the middle of the dance floor, encircled by the fourteen couples in her court. The DJ changed the music and everyone started dancing a traditional
danzón
, the slowest and easiest of all the dances in the choreography. As we twirled and sashayed from side to side through the salsa, waltz, and merengue, I caught spinning glimpses of
mi gente
from El Cocuyito: Emilio out of uniform, wearing a three-piece suit and wingtip shoes;
tío
Pipo with his arm around
tía
Gloria, whom I almost didn’t recognize in her halter-top dress as red and sexy as her lipstick; Raquel waving her hand to catch our attention and look into her camera, snapping photo after photo of us as if we were her own children.

After the choreography ended, Deycita and I made rounds among the guests, who grabbed us to take photos with them and paid us compliments about how beautiful she looked and how handsome I’d become. Many of them had seen both of us grow from children into teenagers. The women whispered in my ear, not too subtly hinting that I get together with Deycita: “She’s ready . . . I heard she cooks as good as her mother . . .
Apúrate,
before someone else steals her away.” The men were more obvious and vulgar: “You’ll be the first one at bat . . . Don’t wait until that mango falls to the ground and rots.” Nuñez spoke in my ear: “Eat. Eat and don’t leave anything on her plate,” and patted me hard on the back. Mamá had run out of film by the time we got to her table—thank goodness. Abuela was beside herself: “If you get married, I’ll pay for the wedding—
¡te lo juro!
” she said. I hugged Deycita to mess around with Abuela. “
De verdad,
how much?” I asked Abuela. “Whatever it costs,” she said, “
lo que sea
.” Her face lit up, as if I was serious.

Prompted by the DJ, the crowd quieted down for the happy birthday sing-along. Deycita blew out her fifteen candles, giving one to me and one to each of the girls in her court. Then the DJ announced a surprise, which wasn’t really a surprise, but a tradition. The fourteen couples had chipped in five dollars each to buy Deycita a memento for her
Quinces
; I had tossed in Abuela’s twenty-dollar bribe so that we could get Deycita something extra nice. Sonia presented the gift—a genuine pearl-and-gold-filled brooch—and helped her pin it to her dress. Then the DJ announced
another surprise, which was a real a surprise to me: “
La señorita
Deycita and Sonia want to present a gift to our handsome
caballero,
our
príncipe,
Riqui.” Sonia and Deycita kissed me simultaneously on either cheek and handed me a small box and a card.

All eyes were on me, my hands trembling as I tore the box open: a gold pen and pencil set engraved with my initials, and a card signed by Deycita:
Ricky, thank you very much for making my
Quinces
so special. You are a great dancer! Good luck and I hope we can keep in touch
. And also signed by everyone from El Cocuyito—they had banded together and chipped in for the gift: Para
my make-believe son, may all your dreams come true,
mi’jo. |
Riqui,
acuérdate
everything I taught you. You are not
un hombre,
yet!
| Muchacho,
may you see the real Havana for yourself someday—not out of cardboard
. | ¡Camina por la sombra que la mierda se derrite!
Shit melts—walk in the shade, wherever you go and you be fine!
| Para
my nephew,
gracias
for all your help—you’re the best
bodeguero
in all Miami!
|
Study hard, Riqui, and put this pen to good use—you don’t want to roast
lechones
for the rest of your life!
I finished reading the card, looked around the ballroom at the faces of
mi gente
smiling back at me;
mi pueblo
clapping and cheering. Indeed they were my village, and for this night, I was their prince.

A
few weeks after sophomore year began, Julio called me at home after school: “Blanco, be ready in ten minutes. I’m gonna pick you up.” I was confused. “What do you mean? Is your mom picking us up? Where are we going?” I asked. “I can’t explain—I got a cool-ass surprise. Just tell your Abuela that you’re coming over to my house, but hide your bike somewhere,” he said, and hung up the phone. What was Julio up to now? Without Abuela or Abuelo noticing, I took my ten-speed from the back terrace and hid it behind the storage shed in the backyard. When I answered the door, Julio held his index finger over his lips, signaling me to keep quiet. “I’m riding over to Julio’s,” I yelled to Abuela. “
Está bien
—come back in time for dinner,” she said—no questions asked.

I followed Julio halfway down the block to a convertible Corvette painted a glittery apple green. “What the hell is this, man?” I asked. “I told you my parents were getting me a car for my birthday. This is it—I got it! Fuckin’ beautiful, isn’t it? Get in, Blanco,” he said.

I wasn’t much into cars, but I had to admit the Corvette was gorgeous: red leather seats, wooden stick shift knob, chrome-trimmed dashboard. It didn’t feel like a car; it felt like a painting, like we were riding inside a work of art doing sixty-five down the suburban streets of Güecheste: me still in my Catholic school uniform; Julio wearing a Hawaiian-print shirt and Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses. I was thrilled. I was petrified. I knew that Julio—like me—only had his learner’s permit. When I questioned him, he said his parents were out of town and he was just taking the car out for a spin to test it out. “Be careful, man. If a cop stops us, you’re screwed. We should get back,” I cautioned. “Come on, Blanco—don’t be such a chicken!” he said. “Let’s go to the Hardee’s drive-thru and show off.”