Florida Gothic

Uno Ernesto Calixto Martinez is comfortable with routines. He sees no reason to open his door to disruption or conflict. An old man’s days are rarely filled with excitement, which suits him fine. He prefers to be a small boat gliding along calm seas; he doesn’t need the wind or the waves to push him along. His journey will reach its end soon enough. Every morning Ernesto takes a leisurely stroll to the same little cafecito place for a café cubano and a pastelito de guayaba. Even at this early hour the sweltering Miami heat lies like a suffocating blanket over his Little Havana neighborhood. He always sees the same people perched on stools at the counter or seated at the tables—businessmen in guayabera shirts already darkened with perspiration downing a quick jolt of caffeine before heading to the office; senior citizens looking to fill their mornings with something to do. Eventually the rush eases, leaving behind the smell of men’s cologne and sweat. It also leaves behind all the other old Cubanos who don’t need to be anywhere in a hurry—old Cubanos such as Ernesto. Like his aged countrymen with their demitasse cups and sticky guava squares, he has plenty of time to enjoy his morning ritual. Every afternoon Ernesto embarks on the preparations for his main meal of the day, which typically includes something prepared with arroz blanco, frijoles negros, and plátanos maduros (or tostones depending on what the local supermercados have that day). One Cuban market might have fresher plantains while another charges less for black beans. He’ll often visit several to find his desired ingredients; the added stops make the lonely hours of his day less lonely. If he’s feeling extravagant, he’ll splurge on a tres leches cake, but only if he has anything left from that month’s social security payment. Ernesto can spend an entire afternoon dealing with the business of food. Every evening after he’s eaten dinner and cleaned up in the kitchen, Ernesto settles in to watch Telemundo or one of the local Cuban TV channels, though he’s usually snoring in his easy chair before the ten o’clock news starts. Not that he wants to know what’s happening in the world. Husbands killing their wives and children; police officers being murdered while doing their jobs; Muslim fanatics butchering the innocent…. It really does seem like the End of Days. Ernesto can do without all these news reporters reminding him about the unfairness of life. Give him an old Cantinflas movie any day. The weekends are special, and Ernesto looks forward to them much as he did when he was a working man. On Saturday evenings, he changes into a nice clean shirt and sets off on the ten-minute walk to his local watering hole to enjoy a Cuba Libre and conversation. At Manny’s Lounge there’s always someone to talk to, swap stories with, even if it’s only Xavier, the bartender. Manny’s is nothing fancy; it’s just a hidey-hole for lonely old men and married ones trying to steal a few minutes away from their wives. Women don’t go to Manny’s. They’d feel out of place, and they probably wouldn’t be welcome. Ernesto’s been going there for years, even when his wife was still alive, though it was never his intention to get away from her. Usually she’d be the one pushing him out the door so she could have some private time to manicure her nails or set her hair or do whatever it is women do when their husbands aren’t around. Ernesto always orders a Cuba Libre. The sweet taste of the cola combined with the tart lime and rich molasses-y rum set his tongue on fire, along with his heart. He feels like a patriot when he drinks one, a freedom fighter fighting alongside the Americanos during the Spanish-American War. Cuba Libres taste like victory—a victory Ernesto hopes will once again rear its beautiful head to topple the filthy comunistas who stole his beloved homeland. On Sundays after morning mass, Ernesto joins his friends in Máximo Gómez Park for a lively game of dominos and a Cuban cigar. As they match up their tiles, the men reminisce about life in Cuba before Fidel Castro. Since they’re of similar age, their stories bring with them a sense of the familiar, as if they’ve lived the same lives. Like Ernesto, these men married their childhood sweethearts, only to later flee with their wives and families to America after the Bay of Pigs Invasion. Their beloved island was gone, and not even handsome young President Kennedy could save it. Not everyone made it out. Wives, parents, grandparents, even children—the domino players have all experienced personal loss, though that doesn’t stop them from romanticizing their homeland. Like men trying to slip their feet into a pair of shoes that no longer fit, they still fantasize about moving back to Cuba. Although Ernesto’s no different, he knows in his heart that he and the others are too set in their American ways to ever leave. He’d never give up his Sunday afternoons in the park, even if they do bring bitter memories. Ernesto enjoys his little routines, his rituals. They make sense of his day, give him a purpose. But death puts an end to that. Though it doesn’t put an end to Ernesto. After Ernesto dies, he begins to like other things. Dark things. The clicking of domino tiles is replaced by the clicking of palmetto bug wings as the insects scuttle back and forth in the perpetual twilight inside his house. The sound becomes strangely comforting, like soothing background music played in a doctor’s waiting room. Before, Ernesto hated the things and did whatever he could to get rid of a creature that nothing can get rid of. Armed with store-bought insecticide, he’d pull out the heavy old refrigerator to spray behind it; he’d get down on hands and knees to spray beneath sinks, cabinetry and furniture; he’d spray around windows and doors. Ernesto felt like a soldier doing battle, which, in a way, he was. Each time he spotted one of the filthy cucarachas lurking in the kitchen or bathroom, he’d launch a stream of poison directly onto it, taking pride in his do-it-yourself ethos as he watched the insect flip over onto its back, its spindly bug-legs kicking the air until it finally died. It wasn’t a pleasant death. But then, neither is Ernesto’s. On a muggy Sunday evening, Ernesto Calixto Martinez is run over by an expensive black Hummer with the vanity license plate KNGPDRO. There are no calls to 9-1-1, no attempts to keep him from going into shock, no offers of comfort. There’s nothing but the SUV driver speeding away, leaving a broken old man to die in his own pee and s**t on a dark Miami road by a smelly canal. Ernesto’s not yet fully dead when the alligator finds him. After making quick work of his left arm, it takes some chunks out of his already scrawny right leg. As he listens to the sound of sharp prehistoric teeth crunching tired old bone, he drifts in and out of consciousness, convinced he must be dreaming—hoping he must be dreaming. His brain feels like a waterlogged ball of cotton, but it’s not water but blood that’s misting his thoughts. Only after he dies does Ernesto appreciate the extent of the damage done to his body. His left arm has been torn off at the shoulder, leaving behind a bleeding gash festooned with ribbons of raw flesh and tendon, the alligator having slithered back into the murky canal to savor its tasty prize. As for his leg, its meat and muscle have been pulverized to a lumpy pulp by a primitive creature as efficient in killing as it is lying in wait for victims. Ernesto nearly vomits when he sees it. Except the dead can’t vomit. A silvery shard of moon above his head disappears behind thick black clouds. The blood-soaked ground trembles with thunder as Ernesto staggers in circles of confusion before an instinct to seek safety kicks in. His mauled leg drags a trail of blood behind it as he limps up one street, then down another as he tries to find the familiar lights of his street. He has no idea if he’s going in the right direction or how he can move at all. Occasionally a car comes by, but no one stops to help. Once the drivers get an eyeful of Ernesto, they bullet away, leaving him in a fog of exhaust that would’ve made him cough if he had any pulmonary function left. “¡Bastardos!” he shouts weakly. He tries to shake his fist at them, but being left-handed, the fist he’d use is no longer there. A dead man’s rage is like no other. Ernesto can feel it bubbling like boiled tar inside the dead shell of him until it spills from his lips in gluey strings of blood-blackened bile. He rages at the man who hit him; he rages at the drivers who ignored him; he rages at the people responsible for the creature that took what remained of his life away. That’s what happens when baby alligators are dumped in lakes and canals after their owners discover their “pets” won’t stay small forever. Usually you hear about it when the adult versions show up on a golf course and interrupt someone’s game. Then it’s reported as a funny news story—something to be chuckled over after the reports of d**g busts, government corruption and murder are presented. An old Cubano’s gator-mangled body probably wouldn’t qualify as a funny news story. The sickly yellow glow of the streetlight on the corner looks brighter than usual. If not for the street sign, Ernesto might’ve kept going. Everything’s off kilter to him, a cityscape inside a plastic globe tilted to one side. Yet it must be his street—it has the same houses with the same front yards with the same cars parked outside. Even the same garbage and recycling bins are still there, toppled over at the ends of driveways, waiting for their owners to wheel them back to their proper places. There’s no doubt in Ernesto’s mind that this is where he’s been living for the past five decades. Maybe his dead eyes see things differently now. Except for a constant hum, the neighborhood’s quiet. Suddenly he realizes the sound is the electricity flowing through the power lines. He’s either never noticed it before or his ears hear differently too. Ernesto’s modest house sits dark and lifeless beneath the roiling black clouds clustering over it like eager predators. Warm globules of rain have begun to fall, pattering against his head, soaking into his bloodstained clothing. The rain doesn’t bother him, nor does the empty welcome of his house. Normally when he plans to be out after dark, he’ll leave the front porch light on as well as a lamp or two inside to deter burglars. Even with the wrought-iron security bars on the windows a thief can still get in by picking the locks. Not that Ernesto has anything of value other than a few family photo albums and the television he bought when George W. Bush was elected president. But these days it’s no longer about stealing; there’s vandalism too. People go away for a few days or even a few hours, only to return home to graffiti-covered walls or worse, a fire. He lets himself in with his house key. A palmetto bug hiding beneath the rubber welcome mat follows him inside.