the thump in my heart.
Hold on, baby, my father yells, and his hands grip the pole so tight I can see the veins popping out through his smooth, tan skin, and I hold on tight as I can, so tight around his waist that he gasps for air and says not so tight, baby, not so tight. But I don’t listen to him and don’t let up a bit. He’s pulling in the line a few inches at a time, but the pole is bent so much, like a half circle, that I can’t imagine what in God’s name he’s got on the other end of the line, maybe some sea monster or a whale. And we’re making our way, half step by half step, up toward the dune while my father works the reel. And then my heel hits something hard, a burned log in the sand. I trip and fall backward and, with my hands around my father, I pull him down to the beach with me—and before we hit the ground the pole breaks in half, shatters right in the center from the force of our fall, and the top half flies out into the sea and disappears into the water, attached to the sea monster. The bottom half stays in my father’s hands, a piece of broken wood attached to nothing.
I’m afraid my father will be angry with me, that he will blame me for the fall and the broken rod and the lost dinner, and the dampness under my arms gets worse. But instead, my father puts his arms around me and gives me a kiss on the forehead. You all right, Perlita, you all right? And I smile and tell him I’m fine and sorry for falling. Don’t worry, baby, don’t worry. And then he lifts me up off the ground, brushes the sand off my bony shoulders, holds my hand and we walk down the old beach road, where there’s a few goats and men selling trinkets and necklaces. We find a little stand and we getgrilled meat and arepas and sweet corn and take it back to the beach and talk about the past and the future, and we watch the sun set, amber and purple and thin lines of yellow.
I’m in the car, driving in the Florida rain, but I’m really on the beach with my father and tears are running down my cheeks. I’m not aware of the road around me and I almost run through a red light, and an old woman with powder-blue hair in a big old Cadillac, there’s lots of them down here, the Cadillacs
and
the old women with blue hair, well, she gives me the finger and points to her temple like she’s telling me to use my brain, and she mouths the word
stupid
.
It’s that woman calling me stupid that snaps me out of my state, bittersweet thoughts of my dad, and it’s only then I realize that I’m not driving toward Miami. Turns out I’m driving
east
, toward Julian’s hotel. I’m going past the dead strip malls, leftovers from a crazy time when it seemed that anyone who wanted to put up a building could do it. There were some girls from the club, two from Latvia and one from Baton Rouge, who got together, started a company called Brass Pole Development—yup, that’s the real name—pooled their money and built a little apartment building in Pompano Beach with four units and a wading pool in the back. They rented it out quick and figured they were real smart. But then the market crashed, the tenants didn’t pay and the girls couldn’t make the mortgage payments. And that was that. So much for being legit, one of them said after the bank took the property, we’re sticking to the pole from now on.
I see Julian’s hotel in the distance, all lit up, and figure I ended up here for a reason, that probably something guided me here. So I keep driving and pull into the hotel parking lot. The rain lets up and I grip the steering wheel. I’m breathing hard and it’s hot and muggy in the car and the windows fog up so no one can see in and I can’t see out. I open the window and look out to the hotel. There’s a fewpeople out front, gazing up at the dark sky, holding their palms out and trying to see if it’s still raining. I’m still angry about that ring, still confused. So I get out of the car and take a deep breath, a
courage
Hold on, baby, my father yells, and his hands grip the pole so tight I can see the veins popping out through his smooth, tan skin, and I hold on tight as I can, so tight around his waist that he gasps for air and says not so tight, baby, not so tight. But I don’t listen to him and don’t let up a bit. He’s pulling in the line a few inches at a time, but the pole is bent so much, like a half circle, that I can’t imagine what in God’s name he’s got on the other end of the line, maybe some sea monster or a whale. And we’re making our way, half step by half step, up toward the dune while my father works the reel. And then my heel hits something hard, a burned log in the sand. I trip and fall backward and, with my hands around my father, I pull him down to the beach with me—and before we hit the ground the pole breaks in half, shatters right in the center from the force of our fall, and the top half flies out into the sea and disappears into the water, attached to the sea monster. The bottom half stays in my father’s hands, a piece of broken wood attached to nothing.
I’m afraid my father will be angry with me, that he will blame me for the fall and the broken rod and the lost dinner, and the dampness under my arms gets worse. But instead, my father puts his arms around me and gives me a kiss on the forehead. You all right, Perlita, you all right? And I smile and tell him I’m fine and sorry for falling. Don’t worry, baby, don’t worry. And then he lifts me up off the ground, brushes the sand off my bony shoulders, holds my hand and we walk down the old beach road, where there’s a few goats and men selling trinkets and necklaces. We find a little stand and we getgrilled meat and arepas and sweet corn and take it back to the beach and talk about the past and the future, and we watch the sun set, amber and purple and thin lines of yellow.
I’m in the car, driving in the Florida rain, but I’m really on the beach with my father and tears are running down my cheeks. I’m not aware of the road around me and I almost run through a red light, and an old woman with powder-blue hair in a big old Cadillac, there’s lots of them down here, the Cadillacs
and
the old women with blue hair, well, she gives me the finger and points to her temple like she’s telling me to use my brain, and she mouths the word
stupid
.
It’s that woman calling me stupid that snaps me out of my state, bittersweet thoughts of my dad, and it’s only then I realize that I’m not driving toward Miami. Turns out I’m driving
east
, toward Julian’s hotel. I’m going past the dead strip malls, leftovers from a crazy time when it seemed that anyone who wanted to put up a building could do it. There were some girls from the club, two from Latvia and one from Baton Rouge, who got together, started a company called Brass Pole Development—yup, that’s the real name—pooled their money and built a little apartment building in Pompano Beach with four units and a wading pool in the back. They rented it out quick and figured they were real smart. But then the market crashed, the tenants didn’t pay and the girls couldn’t make the mortgage payments. And that was that. So much for being legit, one of them said after the bank took the property, we’re sticking to the pole from now on.
I see Julian’s hotel in the distance, all lit up, and figure I ended up here for a reason, that probably something guided me here. So I keep driving and pull into the hotel parking lot. The rain lets up and I grip the steering wheel. I’m breathing hard and it’s hot and muggy in the car and the windows fog up so no one can see in and I can’t see out. I open the window and look out to the hotel. There’s a fewpeople out front, gazing up at the dark sky, holding their palms out and trying to see if it’s still raining. I’m still angry about that ring, still confused. So I get out of the car and take a deep breath, a
courage
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