Love Letters to Paris

When I was a little girl, I only had one dream. One dream that I clutched tightly too, like a young man to his first paycheque, anytime anyone mentioned my tall Eiffel Tower or my dark, smoky cafes my ears would prick, right up through high school until dad was busted growing opium and he went to prison for life, and mom went to rehab, more cocaine in her system then blood itself. Jackie joined the army and I hadn't heard from him in two years, he's fighting over in Vietnam right now and my roommate, whose own brother had died in the jungles, said it was highly unlikely the poor soul was coming back.

After graduation I began to work. I went from job to job, and then in 1980 the Mariel Boatlift came, bringing across the ocean one man that was going to change the face of the Miami underworld, and have a massive impact on my life as well. And still, you ask what my dream is? My dream, is to go to Paris, to live and learn and write, and breathe, walk the same streets as Hemingway and Mozart. Perhaps even travel all of Europe; observe the sunset from the Belvedere in Florence, sail the River Rhine in Germany, observe the cultures from long, intriciate boats in Venice waterways, smoke Italian cigarettes in Sicily, visit Buckingham Palace in London. I was a dreamer, a romantic, and probably a little naiive. It was this innocent ignorance that led me into very big trouble.

After the Cuban crime wave struck, hundreds of thousands of Cuban immigrants flooded Miami, LA and New York, hitting Miami probably the hardest. I had been searching for work, after foolishly quitting from Jean & Walters, a high-class restaurant downtown. I went from white silk shirts and tailer skirts and high heels to old plaid shirts that belonged to my brother and rumpled jeans and a stained apron, working in some dorky little sandwhich joint with a fat boss and two Cubans for coworkers. We were situated outside Theatre Romana, a place for the pictures, and it was usually very busy after a picture, and right now we were waiting for the next rush. It was just before 10 30 pm. My co workers consisted of Manolo Ribisi, sandwhich maker extraordinaire, and Antonion Montana, ever-bitching dishwasher. I did the same thing as Manny, while making drinks and ice cream and whatnot. A pathetic existance but soon I was to have another job at Casabianca, a Greek restaurant. One of their waitresses was quitting in a week or so and I only had one too wait one week at Little Havannah Restaurante. Fat boss Deek had went off somewhere, for he was not present in the stand.

The nightclub across the street became increasingly stuffed with the rich and famous, and I watched, envious. I was sitting on the only chair in the stand, the boys let me use it because "I'm a chica, ya need to rest ye' delicate feet, capiche?". An Impala roared up the road and parked and a valet took the ticket, and four people walked out-- gorgeous people. The beautiful people. Stoned. Laughing. Drinking tequila, smoking foreign cigarettes, their dresses costing more then what I made in three months. I smoked my own rolled, unbranded cigarette, the kind where tobacco rolled out the other end if you didn't hold it properly, and I had never felt more poor then when I watched the clubbers. My own hands were greasy, nails chewed down to the quick, burns and small scratches marring my hands. The heavy silver watch Jackie left for me hung off my wrist. The little gold hand ticked on steadily, but sometime soon I was going to have to get the wasted battery replaced. I imagined the people across the street, how their hands must have looked. Clean, elegant, manicured, underneath those pink and cerulean gloves.

Assholes. I thought, draining my coffee. Behind me, there was a loud crash.

"Hijo de puta! Dios y placas damn! Manolo, ¿qué tipo de chiquero sacaste Unidos creado en? Debo romper tu puto culo --" I had jumped and turned sharply, and having heard Manny's name I figured that's who he had been yelling at, but Manny had stepped outside to use the can, and Tony swivelled around. His huge dark eyes were bright with anger, but softened a little. "Shit, sorry, kid."

"Are you ok?"

"Fine, I'm fine, chica. Pass me one of 'em cigarettes."

I did, and he came over and lit a match on the counter. "Ya know, Vicki, I didn' come down all the way from Cuba, to work in a place like 'dis. In the brochure, they left stuff out, I guess." he laughed. I hadn't been to Cuba before he moved so I didn't really understand what was funny, but I knew of the communist problem.

"At least you're a free man, here."

"Really? I'm chained to tha' fuckin' sink. I was betta' off in prison, chica, 'n' that sayin' somethin'."

"Things will look up. It's always a little rocky at first out here."

"Well, I won' be here for long."

"Don't leave me!" I said, being sarcastic but also a little disappointed-- like hell I was going to stay here alone if Manny and Tony left. Besides the fact that they were grumpy, foul-mouted Cubans, they were probably the only real men I had ever met. They had backbones, they were tough, they spoke their minds and they defended what they believed in. The only people I had ever met like that were soldiers.

"Aw, chica, we'll take ya with us. You too pretty, to be workin' in a shit-hole like 'dis." I flushed a little.

"I can manage. I'm leaving next week, anyways."

"What! Where ya goin'?"

"Casabianca. Little Greek restaurant."

"Shit, take me wit' you, girl!" I laughed and Tony ruffled my hair affectionately.

"What you two laughin' 'bout?" Manny had returned, adjusting his apron. A customer followed him as well, and we went back to work. I flicked my cigarette and made an espresso for the man's wife, who looked down her nose at me. It was so weird, being a gourmet waitress and then suddenly serving coffee in a restaurante that lacked even a floor. But I loved working, though, it gave me time to think. I had worked in this little stand for about a month now, I was here two days before Montana and Manny, and I admitted to myself that I had a little crush on Tony-- he knew how to treat a lady, that's for sure.

Three weeks ago someone got shot across the street from where I was, some kind of drunk bar dispute. I had freaked out at the sight of blood on the pavement and the commotion and the cops, and when the police came over to question us I was thoroughly upset and didn't want to talk too them, but Tony beat them off for me and he and Manny drove me home instead of letting me walk. I guess I was kinda like the little waitress sister for the time we would work together, but I was thankful for it, young as I was.

Around midnight we closed. The boss left at 11 30, leaving us alone for the last half hour. We beat away any customers, Tony finishing his dishes and Manny wiping down the counters and machines, while I swept the concrete floor. We worked quietly, Manny and Tony speaking Cuban or Spanish in low voices, while I was just quiet and doing my thing. I was very tired, having to get up at 6 that morning to help Hannah, who couldn't start her car, to cleaning the shit out of the apartment, to running errands all afternoon, to work at six thirty. Payday was tomorrow, at least, thank God.

"Hey, Vicki," I stopped and looked over at the two men, who I noticed had removed their aprons and were ready to leave. "Wanna come too bar? Have few drink?"

"Um, no thanks, guys. Hannah will get worried."

"Ya sure? We can drive ya home." Tony said. "I good driver. Even when I'm drunk." he grinned.

"Maybe next time, Tony."

"Ok. It'll be our first date." he flashed that famous white-toothed smile at me, Manny winked and they went out the side door, talking and laughing rambunciously into the dark, steamed night. I heard their car start and they rolled off, the squealing tires echoing, making me feel a little alone and I wished I had gone with them. Hopefully I would get another offer next time. I finished sweeping in a hurry, since I didn't like to be downtown alone so late at night. A police siren wailed in the distance. Several cars cruised past, their headlights bright and accusing. The late July night was warm at least. I finally pulled off my apron, chucked it into a corner with the others, grabbed my jacket and purse, turned out the lights, and walked home.

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I know not very interesting. But next chapter it picks up . R & R.