By Kate Lynch, January 2014
A lo hecho, pecho...
One more hour on the Cuban Jet.
Emanating from F-24 was an aura of body odor and stale booze. Mine.
“Oy! here she comes.” I close my eyes. She takes a baby bottle of Bacardi Silver from the clunky tray she coaxes up and down the aisle and hands it to me. She winks. I can't make small talk with the sky warrior. I grab it and nod. I’m a fraud: thirty years as a Spanish teacher, pero no hablo español. I’m having a hell of a time trying to decipher what these Cubanos are crackling on about over the PA. Sounds like they have hard-boiled eggs stuffed in their mouths blocking the words. And fast. So fast.
I’m a walking bank. Make that a sitting bank. 5,300 bucks stuffed into my socks, underwear and pockets. I don’t need anybody cozying up to me. Gotta get through Customs, ask them not to stamp my passport. Smile and say Gringo. Play dumb. I know they want my cash flowing into their busted economy. Customs guys will think I’m a viejo verde, old-man perv, looking to get laid. Maybe? But, not the purpose of the trip.
My stomach in knots, I feel scant effect from six hours of in-flight drinking. Adrenaline has blocked inebriation in some Darwinian way, quite phenomenal is my level of clarity. I’m fucked if I lose my cash, my return ticket, or passport. No diplomatic relations, no embassy. I cough. A dry, nervous cough. One of the ticks my ex-wife resented.
“Every time you do that, I jump. How many times has my heart missed a beat because you cough so goddamn loud. Hearing damage. And harassment, Dean. Emotional,” Joanne’s voice: perpetual, relentless.
The cash sticking to my balls shuts her up. Be in the moment screamed Jackson, Grant and Franklin. The moment was survival. The Caribbean cooed to me through the port hole - Your future awaits.