At his wife’s funeral, a couple of her covolunteers from the Red Cross had had the audacity to jump-start their flirtations. To his credit, Goyo had remained a chaste widower for nearly three months before taking up with theirrepressible Vilmita. Mentira. He’d made an exception for Mrs. Anderson, a former Rockette who’d shown up at his condo eight days after Luisa’s burial wearing a sequined pink leotard and fishnet stockings under her mink coat. God bless Mrs. Anderson.
Goyo settled into his Cadillac, checked the mirrors, and sidled into traffic. In the four and a half seconds that it took him to straighten his wheel, a black Camaro with tinted windows slammed into him from behind. The impact jolted his spine and sent his Cadillac crashing into the air pressure pump of the Shell station. The pain radiated from his sternum, where the seat belt had struck. His sacrum flared with needle points. Blood oozed from where he’d bitten his tongue. Goyo’s fists stiffened on the steering wheel, and his right foot was stuck to the brake, as if a curse had frozen it there. The driver of the Camaro jumped out, swearing a blue streak.
The ambulance arrived, sirens wailing. Against his protests, the attendants lifted Goyo onto a stretcher and slid him into the back of the ambulance like a corpse. They checked his blood pressure, injected him with who knew what, and strapped his legs down, all the while discussing the prospects of Los Crocodilos, the city’s second-string baseball team, a source of heartbreak to its many violence-prone fans. There’d been talk of pitting Cuba’s national team (an all-star lineup that included Bobby Relleno, a once-in-a-generation pitcher who’d be cleaning up in the States given half a chance) against an American one, but exile leaders had put a stop to that tentative thawing of bilateral relations.
As the ambulance sped across the causeway that connected Key Biscayne to the steaming maze of Miami’s streets, the pain seared through Goyo’s body. He tried to distract himself with baseball memories. In Honduras, he and his friends had played with broomsticks and bottle caps that they’d bundled together with rubber bands. Later, he played on his school teams in Cuba andin Canada, occasionally distinguishing himself with outfield heroics: leaping into the bleachers to intercept a ball, and once pulling a Willie Mays over-the-shoulder catch (before there was a Willie Mays) to triumph over the execrable Montreal Moose.
Goyo was growing drowsy. The attendants must’ve given him a sedative. Through the back door windows he spotted a pair of herons, elegant against the blustery Miami skies. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he began to dream that he was wandering around a sepia-toned city wearing Old Testament robes. His left big toe was blackened with fungus and his wife’s perfume suffused the air, a floral amalgam so potent that it’d made his eyes water in close quarters. “Luisa, is that you? I’ve come to join you, mi amor!” He might as well cover his bases. Goyo missed his wife, but he wasn’t looking forward to meeting up with her in the afterlife, not after today’s boisterous romp with Vilma.
A tropical island floated into view, chalked with cumulus clouds. He longed to reach it, but there was no cliff to leap off, no sea to traverse. Then as if propelled by a giant spring, Goyo found himself streaking through the clouds like a cannonball. Coño, I’m flying, he thought loud enough to hear. He raised his arms to temper the turbulence, but a whacking pressure kept them at his sides. His robes ballooned in the wind, and Goyo realized, to his mortification, that he wasn’t wearing so much as a jockstrap. An enormous bird—a raven or a vulture, he couldn’t tell which—with feathers so sleekly black they looked oiled, appeared out of nowhere and cruised beside him. Goyo tried to wave, hoping it was friendly and disinclined to peck at his vulnerable flesh. A row of hooked
Goyo settled into his Cadillac, checked the mirrors, and sidled into traffic. In the four and a half seconds that it took him to straighten his wheel, a black Camaro with tinted windows slammed into him from behind. The impact jolted his spine and sent his Cadillac crashing into the air pressure pump of the Shell station. The pain radiated from his sternum, where the seat belt had struck. His sacrum flared with needle points. Blood oozed from where he’d bitten his tongue. Goyo’s fists stiffened on the steering wheel, and his right foot was stuck to the brake, as if a curse had frozen it there. The driver of the Camaro jumped out, swearing a blue streak.
The ambulance arrived, sirens wailing. Against his protests, the attendants lifted Goyo onto a stretcher and slid him into the back of the ambulance like a corpse. They checked his blood pressure, injected him with who knew what, and strapped his legs down, all the while discussing the prospects of Los Crocodilos, the city’s second-string baseball team, a source of heartbreak to its many violence-prone fans. There’d been talk of pitting Cuba’s national team (an all-star lineup that included Bobby Relleno, a once-in-a-generation pitcher who’d be cleaning up in the States given half a chance) against an American one, but exile leaders had put a stop to that tentative thawing of bilateral relations.
As the ambulance sped across the causeway that connected Key Biscayne to the steaming maze of Miami’s streets, the pain seared through Goyo’s body. He tried to distract himself with baseball memories. In Honduras, he and his friends had played with broomsticks and bottle caps that they’d bundled together with rubber bands. Later, he played on his school teams in Cuba andin Canada, occasionally distinguishing himself with outfield heroics: leaping into the bleachers to intercept a ball, and once pulling a Willie Mays over-the-shoulder catch (before there was a Willie Mays) to triumph over the execrable Montreal Moose.
Goyo was growing drowsy. The attendants must’ve given him a sedative. Through the back door windows he spotted a pair of herons, elegant against the blustery Miami skies. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he began to dream that he was wandering around a sepia-toned city wearing Old Testament robes. His left big toe was blackened with fungus and his wife’s perfume suffused the air, a floral amalgam so potent that it’d made his eyes water in close quarters. “Luisa, is that you? I’ve come to join you, mi amor!” He might as well cover his bases. Goyo missed his wife, but he wasn’t looking forward to meeting up with her in the afterlife, not after today’s boisterous romp with Vilma.
A tropical island floated into view, chalked with cumulus clouds. He longed to reach it, but there was no cliff to leap off, no sea to traverse. Then as if propelled by a giant spring, Goyo found himself streaking through the clouds like a cannonball. Coño, I’m flying, he thought loud enough to hear. He raised his arms to temper the turbulence, but a whacking pressure kept them at his sides. His robes ballooned in the wind, and Goyo realized, to his mortification, that he wasn’t wearing so much as a jockstrap. An enormous bird—a raven or a vulture, he couldn’t tell which—with feathers so sleekly black they looked oiled, appeared out of nowhere and cruised beside him. Goyo tried to wave, hoping it was friendly and disinclined to peck at his vulnerable flesh. A row of hooked
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