Looking for The Gulf Motel

Abuelo in a Western

37 Abuelo in a Western A stranger steps into our Florida room, glaring at Abuelo and me on the couch. He shoots a man in the gut, then spits. A real hombre, Abuelo says. The stranger speaks mostly with his eyes, his gun, shoots another man, punches another. He never misses or loses, unlike Abuelo, who misses his farm, his only brother, and his Cuba, all lost to the revolution. The stranger meets a woman, pins her against a barrel. She pushes back but then kisses him—he leaves her crying. He can have any women he wants but doesn’t need a woman, like Abuelo, who still holds my grandmother’s hand down the supermarket aisle, dances slow on New Year’s Eve with her. The stranger doesn’t have a wife, a home. He doesn’t watch tv like me and Abuelo, who lets me rest my head on his lap while he scratches my back, goose bumps daze my body limp. He carries me to bed, kisses my forehead, and leaves me in the dark, goes back to the stranger, the hall echoing with more 38 bottles breaking, chairs smashing, women screaming, shots that won’t let me sleep— Abuelo is nothing like that stranger, is he? ...