leaned over the windowsill and saw Bobo standing on the sidewalk holding a long stick in his hands. The stick had a crude hook tied around one end.
What is Bobo up to now? I wondered playfully.
“Come on, Jefe,” Bobo was yelling. “It’s getting late, and I have a great idea to make muchos billetes. Lots and lots of money!”
“I’ll be right down, mi compay! Meet me at the patio de recreo,” I shouted.
The school’s playground was our meeting place. Abuelo shot me a silent sideways glare that told me, with no misgiving, that I had better get away from the window and get on with my prayers. He continued to sing the ancient Hebrew words, intoning a bit louder now so that I could pick up and continue where I had left off with my own recitations.
Maldito prayers, I cursed to myself and immediately felt the shame and guilt fill in my scrawny chest. This morning ritual was so important to my dear grandfather, so for Abuelo’s sake, I begrudgingly carried on.
When I finally got to the school’s playground on the corner of Miguel Figueroa Street, a mere five-minute walk from my grandparents’ place, Bobo was already back with Chaki and Beto. Chaki had shimmied barefoot halfway up the trunk of a coconut palm, and Beto cautiously held the long stick with the hook in his two hands.
“¿Qué, coño, están haciendo, mis compadres?” I yelled, approaching the group with a mischievous grin. What are you guys doing?
Beto scrunched his eyebrows and pouted as if he had just been caught stealing a guava from the local market.
“We’re getting agua de coco, Jefe.” Bobo’s tone was as serious as a heart attack.
“Agua de what did you say?”
“Agua de coco,” Bobo repeated. “Coconut juice is all the buzz nowadays! It is very healthy to drink it. We’re going to sell it by the beach.”
All three of us looked up at Chaki who was now hanging precariously from the fronds at the top of the palm tree.
“Oy vey,” I snorted. We were going to get rich on coconut juice? Had Bobo lost his mind? “You can find coconuts for free everywhere you go on this island! You must have coconuts in your head, Bobo!” I chanted.
Beto prodded the soles of Chaki’s feet with the long stick. He blushed wildly and mumbled, “I tried to tell them that this was a complete waste of time. No one will buy this senseless idea.” Beto was always at the ready with empathy while making light of Bobo’s purely stupid ideas. Always the voice of understanding, always patient—that was Beto.
The relentless Caribbean sun burned brightly in our eyes and blinded our vision. Suddenly, there was a loud thud from above. Then another and another.
I recoiled instinctively, flying backward and tripping clumsily over my own two feet. Bobo let out a shrieking howl and crouched on the ground, clasping his head under his chunky, short arms trying to duck a barrage of raining coconuts that fell as Chaki scrambled down the tree. Streams of cloudy-white juice oozed from the falling coconuts and soaked the kinky mop of curls on Bobo’s head. Of course, the coconuts would land precisely on Bobo! It was no wonder we called our buddy Josef “El Bobo” all his life. The poor guy had such stupid, rotten luck.
Beto burst out in uncontrollable cackles, while Chaki shimmied down the tree trunk. I could not suppress my own laughter either, as I lost control of my breathing and gasped for air. I hugged my skinny arms around my middle, doubled over, and began to cough violently. I was choking on my own gooey phlegm, my lungs feeling like they were going to pop right up out of my throat. I squatted down on my heels, waiting for the coughing to subside. Beto put his arm around my shuddering shoulders and “tsk’d” until my breathing was under control.
“Que payaso eres, Bobo,” I finally wheezed as my coughing fit subsided. The clown of the group was always good for a hearty laugh.
“I think we’ve done enough ‘coco collecting’ for the day, compadres!” I announced. “And stop laughing at Bobo, you guys. It’s not his fault his plans always seem to clobber him right in the head!” I tried to offer some comfort to my buddy, but the four of us broke out in another round of laughter, screeching and hiccupping out of control. It was at least twenty-five minutes before any of us could move from the playground.
“Cocotazos en la cabeza,” we sang over and over again on our walk home. Coconuts in his head!
6
It was either the casino at the Hotel Capri or the club at the Hotel Nacionál. To make up for all the teasing and ridiculing of Bobo’s failed “agua de coco” scheme, I decided to treat the guys to a night at the Parisien Cabaret at the Hotel Nacionál. My compadres and I dressed up in freshly ironed linen guayaberas (shirts pinched from Abuelo’s closet) and new polished loafers (shoes pinched from the family factory). Despite our clean-shaven baby faces and scrawny, boyish builds, we doused ourselves in cologne and greased back our hair with thick dabs of Brylcreem the way we saw the older wealthy hotel guests do. We were dressed to the nines and ready for the night’s regalia, entertainment, and jackpots. I fantasized about how we might run into Ava Gardner or even Meyer Lansky himself. Los Cuatro Compadres were looking good and feeling lucky.
Bobo, Chaki, Beto, and I swaggered into the nightclub in a single file and made our way to a dark, concealed corner table. It would be a few more hours until the club filled beyond capacity, so it was smart that we arrived a bit early in order to secure a table. It was all worth it to just be able to catch a glimpse of the rich and famous who came to drink, dance, and escape into our island paradise. We self-consciously squirmed our way past three women who were already holding vigil at the bar. A well-endowed rhumba dancer in a costume adorned with loud splashes of color, sparkly sequins, and long feathers stood by the side of the small raised platform stage, readying herself for her first show of the evening. The tourists ate up this flamboyant provincial show. The boys and I melted into the overly ostentatious décor and the heavily smoke-filled atmosphere. I quickly scanned the room with my eyes.
It was grueling to wait for the night to get going. We were worked up with innocent anticipation. The three women sitting at the bar stared over at us. Giggling and batting their thick fake eyelashes, we couldn’t help but stare back and gawk at them like schoolchildren. All three were wearing skirts that exposed way too much leg and blouses that showed way too much cleavage. Two men emerged from the lasting haze of cigar smoke and approached the women at the bar. My compadres and I could hear the men stumble through some typical vulgar pick-up lines, making the girls giggle even louder. Beto’s face blushed from his forehead down to his bobbing Adam’s apple.
Chaki joked, “I think I’ll play number fifteen tomorrow in la bolita—the same number for both pretty girl and dog. It has to be a winner!”
“Nah, the winning numbers tomorrow will be ten and forty-nine—dinero and borracho,” I chimed in with a slightly impish tone of my own. “Look at that fat drunk over there next to the stage. He’s sure to lose all his money tonight!”
I counted each patron in the room. My fingers twitched. I fiddled with the gold star hanging around my neck.
There were six others scattered about the room, not counting the four restless waiters already preparing for the crowds that would be showing up later and generously spending their money on drinks and tips. The rhumba dancer by the stage continued to primp and pose, two barmen wiped down the long, sleek bar, and the three women remained perched on their barstools. I was beginning to think that it
