cordobas in the bank …
José Mateo laughed a harsh cackle from the back of his throat.
And the barbecuing capitán smiled and said, “Esa es una trágica historia, Cocinero.”
“Pero lo que te quiero decir,” stammered José Mateo, “es que … este… Pues, bueno,” and he stopped. He stared out at the rain through heavy-lidded, slitted eyes, his pupils two dots of murky bewilderment. Then he looked at Capitán Elias again and said, “Putamadre mi Capi—este barco es único.”
Capitán Elias tonelessly replied that it was definitely a unique ship and asked José Mateo if he’d mind telling the muchachos that the meat was done.
The crew ate sitting on the floor in the mess—dark but for the coppery light radiating from the Coleman lamp, barely casting a glow on rust-hued bulkheads—plates between their legs, on their laps, balanced in one hand under their chins. They chewed and chewed, for the steak was tough, with faraway looks in their eyes or eyes squeezed shut, murmuring, groaning with pleasure; washed the meat down with cold cans of soda; sopped up blood and grease with clumps of bread. A slowly widening puddle of rainwater was seeping in through the mess door. Brassy music, mainly salsa, blared tinnily from the music box in the corner now. They devoured their corn, surprised at the softness and diminutiveness of the kernels on this gringo corn, the delicate sweetness smothered in chili habanero sauce; buried meat and corn under heaping portions of gooey potato salad. José Mateo gnawed fiendishly at his ragged, denuded corncob, held it against his teeth noisily sucking moist air, biting into the cob as if that might release a little more—feeling sorry for the cook, Bernardo gave him back half the steak he’d bartered away; passed the other half, along with his extra ear of corn, to Esteban. By the end of the meal they all felt so stuffed they couldn’t even eat all the Oreo cookies.
Then, when everyone but Bernardo and the cook had finally started in on his deferred second beer, Capitán Elias stood in the middle of the floor and said he had a few things he wanted to talk to them about. But Tomaso Tostado interrupted, rising to his feet to thank the officers for the meal and the beer, clearly a tiding of better times ahead on the
Urus,
and everyone applauded and cheered, El Barbie blowing shrieking whistles with his fingers in his mouth, while Capitán Elias stood there curtly nodding, a small, rigid smile on his face, his T-shirt dark with sweat over his chest, under his arms, the crown of his high forehead slick and gleaming. Just as they’d anticipated, he began the meeting by telling the crew that he was satisfied with their progress sofar. “Everyone has been working hard. I can’t ask for more than that,” said Capitán Elias. The owner was very pleased, and, anticipating a reasonably imminent departure, was reinitiating his search for a new cargo to carry. “But I’m afraid I have some not so good news too, caballeros.” Due to the longer than originally expected delay in port, the canceled cargo, the mounting berthing fees, the price of all equipment and materials, the cost of reinsuring the ship… the owner was having a cash flow problem. As soon as the ship was declared seaworthy and the new cargo contracted, they’d be paid, of course. He and Mark were forgoing payment too—and him with a baby on the way, bills up the culo to pay, his wife wasn’t too thrilled! But there was a bright side to all of this, no? What did they need cash for in Brooklyn? They were illegal once they went off the ship anyway. Wouldn’t it be better, for themselves and for their families back home, to be paid all at once as soon as the ship was ready to sail? Hadn’t they all come here for a chance to better their economic circumstances and help their families? Better that than blowing their pay on televisions, watches, radios, and other junk in Brooklyn, verdad?
When Capitán Elias was finished,
José Mateo laughed a harsh cackle from the back of his throat.
And the barbecuing capitán smiled and said, “Esa es una trágica historia, Cocinero.”
“Pero lo que te quiero decir,” stammered José Mateo, “es que … este… Pues, bueno,” and he stopped. He stared out at the rain through heavy-lidded, slitted eyes, his pupils two dots of murky bewilderment. Then he looked at Capitán Elias again and said, “Putamadre mi Capi—este barco es único.”
Capitán Elias tonelessly replied that it was definitely a unique ship and asked José Mateo if he’d mind telling the muchachos that the meat was done.
The crew ate sitting on the floor in the mess—dark but for the coppery light radiating from the Coleman lamp, barely casting a glow on rust-hued bulkheads—plates between their legs, on their laps, balanced in one hand under their chins. They chewed and chewed, for the steak was tough, with faraway looks in their eyes or eyes squeezed shut, murmuring, groaning with pleasure; washed the meat down with cold cans of soda; sopped up blood and grease with clumps of bread. A slowly widening puddle of rainwater was seeping in through the mess door. Brassy music, mainly salsa, blared tinnily from the music box in the corner now. They devoured their corn, surprised at the softness and diminutiveness of the kernels on this gringo corn, the delicate sweetness smothered in chili habanero sauce; buried meat and corn under heaping portions of gooey potato salad. José Mateo gnawed fiendishly at his ragged, denuded corncob, held it against his teeth noisily sucking moist air, biting into the cob as if that might release a little more—feeling sorry for the cook, Bernardo gave him back half the steak he’d bartered away; passed the other half, along with his extra ear of corn, to Esteban. By the end of the meal they all felt so stuffed they couldn’t even eat all the Oreo cookies.
Then, when everyone but Bernardo and the cook had finally started in on his deferred second beer, Capitán Elias stood in the middle of the floor and said he had a few things he wanted to talk to them about. But Tomaso Tostado interrupted, rising to his feet to thank the officers for the meal and the beer, clearly a tiding of better times ahead on the
Urus,
and everyone applauded and cheered, El Barbie blowing shrieking whistles with his fingers in his mouth, while Capitán Elias stood there curtly nodding, a small, rigid smile on his face, his T-shirt dark with sweat over his chest, under his arms, the crown of his high forehead slick and gleaming. Just as they’d anticipated, he began the meeting by telling the crew that he was satisfied with their progress sofar. “Everyone has been working hard. I can’t ask for more than that,” said Capitán Elias. The owner was very pleased, and, anticipating a reasonably imminent departure, was reinitiating his search for a new cargo to carry. “But I’m afraid I have some not so good news too, caballeros.” Due to the longer than originally expected delay in port, the canceled cargo, the mounting berthing fees, the price of all equipment and materials, the cost of reinsuring the ship… the owner was having a cash flow problem. As soon as the ship was declared seaworthy and the new cargo contracted, they’d be paid, of course. He and Mark were forgoing payment too—and him with a baby on the way, bills up the culo to pay, his wife wasn’t too thrilled! But there was a bright side to all of this, no? What did they need cash for in Brooklyn? They were illegal once they went off the ship anyway. Wouldn’t it be better, for themselves and for their families back home, to be paid all at once as soon as the ship was ready to sail? Hadn’t they all come here for a chance to better their economic circumstances and help their families? Better that than blowing their pay on televisions, watches, radios, and other junk in Brooklyn, verdad?
When Capitán Elias was finished,
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