Papá’s immaculately clean Malibú, ready to go. I checked the Mickey Mouse watch that my rich tía Gloria had given me for Christmas: 6 A.M. —we’d be there by 10 A.M. Grateful that Abuela had given my parents the money for the trip, I was also glad she wasn’t going, as I watched her waving good-bye, standing in the amber glow of the front porch light, the stars above our rooftop beginning to fade in the morning twilight.
Seven in the morning: only three more hours to go on the Florida Turnpike when Mamá smelled something funny. “ ¡Ay, qué peste! Did we go by a landfill out here?” She lowered her window to investigate whether the foul odor was coming from inside or outside the car. “Is from inside the car,” she concluded, and turned to look at me. “Was it you, mi’jo ? Did you fart?” she asked. “No, no,” I said, making my best angel face: eyebrows pulled up, eyes wide open showing I had nothing to hide behind them. “Oh, who was it then, your Fairy Fart Mother?” Caco blurted out, his cracking teenage voice underscoring his sarcasm. “Shut up, butt-face,” I shouted. “Did you hear what he said?” I turned to Mamá, trying to get Caco in trouble. “No, what he said?” she replied, unable to understand his smart-ass comment without translation. But how would I say “Fairy Fart Mother” in Spanish? ¿Mi Madrina de los Peos? ¿El Guardia de mis Peos ? I gave up. “Never mind.”
Ordinarily I would’ve admitted to the act—no biggie. Caco and I had fart wars all the time, competing to see who could outdo whom with the loudest, longest, or smelliest. But this was different. “ No, te lo juro, Mamá, it wasn’t me,” I repeated, not wanting anything—especially not impending diarrhea—to ruin my first trip to the promised land. But I did have to go—real bad. My stomach was in an uproar of anticipation; I was finally going to meet the most important man in my life: El Ratoncito Miguel, Mickey Mouse himself. And it was about time—I was already eleven years old, and the only kid in my class who hadn’t been to Walt Disney World yet.
“You need to go to el baño, don’t you?” Mamá asked. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine,” I lied again, trying to ignore my cramps, hoping I could hold it for the rest of the three hours to Orlando. But it was no use; a loud one slipped out like a foghorn. “¡Ay, Dios!” Mamá yelled, waving her hand in front of her nose and lowering her window as if she were going to pass out. “ Qué va, this boy can’t wait— va a explotar . He’s pale— míralo . Pull off the road someplace,” she instructed Papá, who was gripping the vinyl-wrapped wheel of his Chevy Malibu as proudly as if he were driving a Rolls-Royce. The last thing he wanted to do was stop in the middle of the turnpike. “ ¡No! ¿Tú estás loca? We can’t stop—what if they hit my car? You can wait, mi’jo, can’t you?” Papá hoped, finding my face in the rearview mirror. “Yes, yes. I don’t have to go, Papá,” I swore, even as my stomach cramped up again. Pointing through the windshield, Mamá directed Papá, “Over there —perfecto . Over there— ándale .” “Okay, okay. No jodas más! ” he shouted and switched on his hazard lights, inching the car onto the paved shoulder.
It still didn’t dawn on me that I was about to take my first shit in the woods until Mamá pulled a jumbo roll of toilet paper from her just-in-case tote bag. “ Menos mal I remember to bring this,” she said proudly, “ por si las moscas .” That was her favorite Cuban motto, por si las moscas—in case of the flies— an idiom meaning “always be prepared for the worst,” and she was—always. Besides the toilet paper, she had brought a cooler full of ham and cream cheese sandwiches, grapes, and pineapple sodas in case there were no convenience stores; five cans of OFF! mosquito repellent in case one wasn’t enough; a tube of Krazy Glue just in case something broke; and a spare
Seven in the morning: only three more hours to go on the Florida Turnpike when Mamá smelled something funny. “ ¡Ay, qué peste! Did we go by a landfill out here?” She lowered her window to investigate whether the foul odor was coming from inside or outside the car. “Is from inside the car,” she concluded, and turned to look at me. “Was it you, mi’jo ? Did you fart?” she asked. “No, no,” I said, making my best angel face: eyebrows pulled up, eyes wide open showing I had nothing to hide behind them. “Oh, who was it then, your Fairy Fart Mother?” Caco blurted out, his cracking teenage voice underscoring his sarcasm. “Shut up, butt-face,” I shouted. “Did you hear what he said?” I turned to Mamá, trying to get Caco in trouble. “No, what he said?” she replied, unable to understand his smart-ass comment without translation. But how would I say “Fairy Fart Mother” in Spanish? ¿Mi Madrina de los Peos? ¿El Guardia de mis Peos ? I gave up. “Never mind.”
Ordinarily I would’ve admitted to the act—no biggie. Caco and I had fart wars all the time, competing to see who could outdo whom with the loudest, longest, or smelliest. But this was different. “ No, te lo juro, Mamá, it wasn’t me,” I repeated, not wanting anything—especially not impending diarrhea—to ruin my first trip to the promised land. But I did have to go—real bad. My stomach was in an uproar of anticipation; I was finally going to meet the most important man in my life: El Ratoncito Miguel, Mickey Mouse himself. And it was about time—I was already eleven years old, and the only kid in my class who hadn’t been to Walt Disney World yet.
“You need to go to el baño, don’t you?” Mamá asked. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine,” I lied again, trying to ignore my cramps, hoping I could hold it for the rest of the three hours to Orlando. But it was no use; a loud one slipped out like a foghorn. “¡Ay, Dios!” Mamá yelled, waving her hand in front of her nose and lowering her window as if she were going to pass out. “ Qué va, this boy can’t wait— va a explotar . He’s pale— míralo . Pull off the road someplace,” she instructed Papá, who was gripping the vinyl-wrapped wheel of his Chevy Malibu as proudly as if he were driving a Rolls-Royce. The last thing he wanted to do was stop in the middle of the turnpike. “ ¡No! ¿Tú estás loca? We can’t stop—what if they hit my car? You can wait, mi’jo, can’t you?” Papá hoped, finding my face in the rearview mirror. “Yes, yes. I don’t have to go, Papá,” I swore, even as my stomach cramped up again. Pointing through the windshield, Mamá directed Papá, “Over there —perfecto . Over there— ándale .” “Okay, okay. No jodas más! ” he shouted and switched on his hazard lights, inching the car onto the paved shoulder.
It still didn’t dawn on me that I was about to take my first shit in the woods until Mamá pulled a jumbo roll of toilet paper from her just-in-case tote bag. “ Menos mal I remember to bring this,” she said proudly, “ por si las moscas .” That was her favorite Cuban motto, por si las moscas—in case of the flies— an idiom meaning “always be prepared for the worst,” and she was—always. Besides the toilet paper, she had brought a cooler full of ham and cream cheese sandwiches, grapes, and pineapple sodas in case there were no convenience stores; five cans of OFF! mosquito repellent in case one wasn’t enough; a tube of Krazy Glue just in case something broke; and a spare
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