The Cuban Angle

After collecting his luggage at the baggage claim, Jose hailed a cab. It was déjà vu all over again.

‘I’m in a rut,’ he thought. ‘How many cities have I been to in a year? In the last month?’

A car pulled up and he climbed aboard. “Ybor City… the Hilton…”

The driver merged into the flow of airport traffic.

Sighing, Jose settled into the seat. He felt like he hadn’t seen his apartment in months.

‘Paying high rent for a place to store clean clothes and repack them… Need a storage unit. Cheaper…’

The editors, at Clickbait.com, loved Jose’s travel writing. They kept him busy sending him around the world but especially to Spanish speaking countries. That he didn’t know Spanish never came up. No one asked. Being the grandson of Cuban refugees, it was a given.

When needed, he conjured up some Spanglish and sold it with a perfect accent and his handlebar mustache. What else did he need?

Whatever the country, Jose always found a translator, or someone wanting to practice English. He got by.

This trip, his Clickbait editors wanted him to cover ‘the Cuban angle’ in Ybor City, Florida. A century ago, it was home to a dozen cigar factories.

He watched the bright city go by. ‘So exotic… Tampa, Florida… Where next?’

Jose wasn’t worried about the story. Deadlines didn’t faze him. Envious readers gobbled up his vivid prose. It tapped into their thirst for adventure away from humdrum lives. Clickbait.com loved his short pieces. Office workers distracted themselves at one minute per click.

Jose’s discontent went deeper. Staring out at traffic, he returned to his chronic existential wrestling match. Revisited often, he called it his ‘taxicab discontent.’ Sometimes he added, ‘…Opus 96, in D minor.’

‘People really have nothing in common. How can they?’

Being a writer, Jose saw the problem as rooted in cumbersome, flawed language. ‘How can any individual truly understand anyone or anything else? Someone thinks they share a set of common values and ethics. But if they dare test them… they risk ending up out on the curb. Language is a vast illusion. History is a euphemism for the cloud of ignorance within which we grope for understanding. We’re unaware of how lost we are. Language remains a collection of guttural sounds assigned arbitrary, abstract meanings to avoid warring over obscure issues. Like finding due north on a spinning top.’

Traffic slowed. He tapped his fingers against his knee.

‘Do women and men actually know what the other wants? Or do they give up and compromise out of desperation for some peace?’

He remembered one trip, early in his career. Lost in a strange city, he was late for an appointment. He naively made the mistake of using his English/Spanish dictionary to ask directions. The woman he asked insisted that he was hitting on her. The whole thing was absurd. They laughed about it. But she couldn’t imagine that he wanted only directions and nothing more.

Hoping to forestall an international incident, he returned to his dictionary to say he didn’t want to offend or disappoint her. He clumsily explained that it wasn’t her, that she was pretty, but he had no time and needed to be somewhere.

‘People are lonely. How do they connect in any but the most superficial ways? Eat, sleep, pass on the left… Survival demands cooperation. But how does one navigate the dark maze that exists beyond a thumbs up or a raised glass?’

‘I know what I’m saying, I think. But the words and intonation might fail to transmit my intended message. The recipient may misinterpret my statement in some bizarre fashion. What is their emotional state? Are they even listening? Why does a simple conversation so often resemble playing a pachinko game?’

These thoughts ran through his mind whenever he was alone. Jose was usually alone.

‘I’ve met parrots more articulate in any language, than 90% of the people I meet. Better stories too…’

On every trip, and at home, Jose asked himself, ‘Do I know any person with whom I can expect mutual understanding? No…’

~

The young woman, Carina, unlocked the doors to her uncle’s club, Domino Rico. Her day had officially begun. She left the door ajar to freshen the tobacco stale air.

A small radio on the counter played Cuban jazz.

Three regulars, Ramon, Eduardo and Jacobo stood on the step waiting. They flicked their cigarettes into the street. A stray rooster ran to investigate. Smiling and nodding, the men strode past Carina into the large club room and sat at the central domino table. Eduardo leaned his cane against a chair.

One said, “Fidelcito is late again… kids these days…” The men laughed.

Little Fidel got his name by being the youngest in the group, only sixty-two. He’d never lived in Cuba. His parents emigrated to the United States in 1960. When still a child, Fidelcito heard stories about his grandparents’ Cuban homeland. But he only knew life in America. The others were born in Cuba but fled with their parents when still in short pants.

Each day, Domino Rico hosted a dozen or so Cubanos. They came for espresso, Cuban sandwiches and endless rounds of dominos. The club also did a lively walk-in lunch business.

Over the years, the regulars had dwindled from hundreds to several dozen. The club’s business had changed. Now, more time was allotted to catering memorials for former domino players.

Carina had lived upstairs her whole life, and grown into the job. She ran the front and had two helpers in the kitchen. Uncle Rico usually came by, before the rush, for his favorite sandwich and a Cuban coffee. Pretty hands-off, he trusted Carina with the day-to-day operations.

The ceiling fans spun languidly beneath century old, decorative tin ceiling tiles. Only a few tiles were missing. For years, Rico talked about replacing them. But he wanted to match the originals. Rico was a talker.

Light flooding through the picture window soon became hazy with tobacco smoke. A calico cat observed the quiet street from its perch on the window sill.

After taking their orders, Carina scanned the place where she had grown up. She couldn’t help wondering what would happen after the last domino fell? She had always been in Uncle Rico’s shadow.

Working there was a continuation of what had always been. She opened in the morning, closed at night and then retreated upstairs to her apartment.

Ybor City had changed since its heyday. The Cuban flavor had faded, taken over by new money and bright tourist attractions.

The cigar factories and vibrant Cuban culture had largely been replaced. Hundreds of women once rolled cigars in brick warehouses. Now they housed flamboyant clubs and restaurants catering to tourists. Garish and superficial, they offered little of interest to Carina. She knew a few traditional places which survived the changes.

Ybor City no longer charmed her. But Domino Rico was her home. There was nowhere else she belonged. ‘Why get pretty for a bunch of old domino players?’

Carina turned away after taking their order for another round. Fidelcito said ‘cara de nada’ (nothing face) under his breath. His friends roared with laughter since her nickname was Cara. She didn’t hear his words but knew his tone.

No one thought Carina was ugly or plain. That distinction would require seeing and rejecting her. Carina didn’t feel rejected. She felt invisible, never seen at all.

No one thought of Carina unless they needed another coffee or sandwich. They would call out, “Chica…!”

~

Jose found the commemorative plaque to Teddy Roosevelt while exploring Ybor City. Wilting, blue Jacaranda blossoms nearly covered the text describing Roosevelt’s exploits. His Roughriders embarked from Tampa to Cuba to win the Battle of San Juan Hill. They helped Cuba gain independence from Spain.

But that was not Jose’s story to write. The Domino Rico with the cat watching from the window called to him.

Following his intuition, he crossed the street. Entering, he saw the four Cubanos intent on their game. Years of tobacco smoke scented the air. Lively music poured from the little radio. It felt so familiar. Jose felt at home.

He caught Carina’s eye from across the room and mimed sipping a coffee. Pulling a chair, he sat to observe the game. No one looked up.

When one finally glanced at him, Jose pounced.

“Hey, amigos! You regulars here?”

Thinking he was a salesman, no one responded.

‘Tough crowd…’

He tried again, “Anyone been to Havana lately?” He sprinkled his question with his best Spanglish.

They heard him but acted like he must be talking to someone else. ‘Can’t he see we’re playing?’

Jose continued with his impeccable Cuban accent. “I was there back in March. So beautiful. Springtime there is magnifico…”

Nothing.

“Remember the vintage cars? All those great ancio American cars from before the Revolucion…?”

Someone made a move and hit the table in triumph. The others groaned at his coup.

Jose let them settle. When the play continued, he tried again. “I saw one there. Ohhh! A fifty-nine Buick coupe. Mui perfecto…! She looked new. Shiny, as if fresh off the showroom floor.”

Fidelcito smiled at the thought, but said nothing.

“She was so sleek and round, I wanted to marry her right then.”

As Jose finished speaking, Carina arrived with the coffee. Ramon saw the look on her face and guffawed. The others turned and also laughed.

She served Jose’s coffee and asked, “Anything else?”

This brought more laughter from the players.

Jose knew he had caused her embarrassment. He took a moment to breathe in the aroma of the delicious Cuban coffee sweetened with a touch of molasses. He sipped and smiled at its unique flavor.

Searching, their eyes met. He felt her embarrassment.

Jose stammered, “This is exquisite... The best ever...”

Carina’s eyes sparkled at his discomfort. She’d never before felt so seen. Understanding passed between them inexpressible in words.

He glanced at the domino players. They had stopped to watch him talk to Carina. He noted their winks and gestures.

Turning to Carina, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

She huffed and rolled her eyes, dismissing the players. “It’s okay. I don’t care. They’re fools.”

Time slowed for them both. This unexpected moment connected them more deeply than either had ever felt.

From the radio, a band’s horn section blasted a song’s intro.

Jose stood. “So, just the coffee for now… and a dance?” He reached for her hand.

The players chuckled. Carina’s sharp glance silenced them.

Eyes twinkling, she said, “I’m working. But thank you.”

Jose nodded. “Do you have dinner plans?”

Nodding, she smiled. “I do now.”

“I just came to town… for work...”

“I know a place. I finish here at six.”

He took a sip. “I love your…”

“Coffee?”

“No… uhm, your humor…”

They burst into laughter at their private joke. The domino players could only wonder.