Looking for The Gulf Motel

Betting on America

9 Betting on America My grandmother was the bookie, set up at the kitchen table that night, her hair in curlers, pencil and pad jotting down two-dollar bets, paying five-to-one on which Miss would take the crown. Abuelo put his money on Miss Wyoming— She’s got great teeth, he pronounced as if complimenting a horse, not her smile filling the camera before she wisped away like a cloud in her creamy chiffon dress. I dug up enough change from the sofa and car seats to bet on Miss Wisconsin, thinking I was as American as she because I was as blond as she was, and I knew that’s where all the cheese came from. That wasn’t all: chocolate was from Miss Pennsylvania, the capital of Miss Montana was Helena, Mount Rushmore was in Miss South Dakota, and I knew how to say Miss Con-nec-ti-cut, unlike my Tía Gloria who just pointed at the tv: Esa—that one, claiming she had her same figure before leaving Cuba. It’s true . . . I have pictures, she declared before cramming another bocadito sandwich into her mouth. 10 Papá refused to bet on any of the Misses because Americanas all have skinny butts, he complained. There’s nothing like a big culo cubano. Everyone agreed—es verdad— except for me and my little cousin Julito, who apparently was a breast man at five, reaching for Miss Alabama’s bosom on the screen, the leggy mulata sashaying in pumps, swimsuit, seducing Tío Pedro into picking her as the sure winner. She’s the one! She looks Cubana, he swore, and she did, but she cost him five bucks.¡Cojones! he exploded as confetti rained, Bert Parks leading Miss Ohio, the new Miss America, by the hand to the runway. Gloves up to her elbows, velvet down to her feet, crying diamonds into her bouquet, the queen of our country, our land of the free, amid the purple mountains of her majesty floating across the stage, our living room, though no one bet on her, and none of us —not even me—could answer Mamá when she asked: ¿Dónde está Ohio? ...