CHAPTER SIX
TJ
“OI, PAI! I’VE GOT that rump cap for you.”
I drop the hunk of beef onto a metal table and my dad unwraps it. He inspects it silently, running the edge of his knife over the fat. Then he lets out a single grunt.
I know what’s coming.
“¿O seu tio que comprou essa?”
“Yeah, Uncle João bought it.”
I don’t dare call him Jay, even though that’s his preferred name. My dad hates it. I mean, it drives him nuts.
Another grunt, and then Dad’s back to cutting tenderloin medallions.
I pull out a knife and start to sharpen it against a stone. Then I position the meat to prep it.
Back here in the butcher room, where Dad and I spend all our Saturday afternoons, we call this cut of meat a “rump cap.” Out there, though—with the customers—I call it “top sirloin.” It’s for our specialty: “picanha, top sirloin seasoned with sea salt and grilled to perfection, the favorite churrasco meat of all Brazilians.” Every night I repeat that phrase fifty times, at least. And no one ever asks me how it’s possible that all Brazilians share a favorite churrasco meat. They also don’t ask me why sangria is our specialty drink, when it’s from Spain, or why the salad bar has potato salad and mac ’n’ cheese among the “twenty-five Brazilian specialty items.” I guess most of them are content to stuff themselves with all-you-can-eat meat and let it be.
“Três dedos,” my dad commands, holding up three fingers. “Três dedos, não mais.”
He says this as if it’s maybe my first time preparing the picanha—as if I haven’t been slicing this meat with him since I was ten years old.
“I know, Dad. Three fingers,” I say.
I carefully measure the width of three fingers between each slice, even though I’m pretty sure that by now I could cut this meat to perfect proportions with my eyes closed.
Dad and I work mostly in silence, except when he’s telling me, “Mais sal! Mais!” Even though I have already put plenty of salt on it. Or: “Apertado! Bem apertado,” as I’m already shoving the steaks onto skewers as tightly as is humanly possible.
Dad’s sort of a perfectionist when it comes to churrasco.
When the meat is finally prepped for the Saturday night onslaught, I tell Dad I’m heading home. I’m just removing my apron when Uncle João comes around the corner and into the butcher room. My uncle’s wearing a trim black suit and a white tie. I think he’s trying to look like an Armani model. I guess he’s pretty good-looking for an old man, but he’s also incredibly full of himself.
And a player.
I have no idea why Tia Luiza puts up with him, and I really don’t care. My mom, though. She cares. She’s constantly yelling about how she would have divorced him fifteen years ago, how she’d take every penny he had in alimony and never look back.
“He thinks he’s so American,” Mom says. “Living the dream with his fancy car and his fancy restaurant. But he’s the biggest machista there is.” And then: “If that man wants to be a real American, he’d better learn how Americans treat their women!”
I’m not really sure how Mom became the expert on how Americans treat their women. But I am sure of one thing: she’s spent my entire youth instructing me on how to be an “American man.” To this very day.
And my big sister, Mariana, she’s in on it too.
I guess, in a strange way, I have my uncle Jay to blame for all the talks Mom and Mariana have given me over the years. I mean, they lecture me about everything. From how important it is to do the dishes every night, to what I’m supposed to say when my woman asks if her ass has gotten fat.
No topic is off-limits for these women. Nothing is sacred. Once, when I was fourteen, they sat me down after school, fed me milk and Oreos, and told me about the importance of pleasuring a woman. For real.
I gulped down my milk, took a long shower, and spent the next several years feeling completely and totally grossed out that something my mother had said made me have that reaction.
As a result of all this, I’m pretty much incapable of entering into a normal relationship with any girl. I’m so neurotically worried that I’ll mistreat her, that I’ll get it wrong.
Who knows? Maybe that’s what it means to be an “American man.”
At least Mariana’s in Miami now. She’s got her own boys to lecture—a husband and an eight-month-old son. Poor kid.
My dad wipes his hands on his already bloodstained apron and launches in. “Essa carne é de baixa qualidade.”
“The rump is fine,” my uncle says. “It’s good quality. No one knows the difference, anyway.”
“I know the difference,” my dad grumbles.
“And while you are back here, inspecting the meat, I’m out there paying the bills,” my uncle says, gesturing toward the restaurant floor. “So why don’t you let me make that decision?”
“Is this a restaurant or a bank?” my dad asks. “Because if it’s a restaurant, then somebody should pay attention to the actual food!”
“This guy,” my uncle says, turning to me and chuckling. “I mean, this guy! Back in Vila Velha, when we were kids, he couldn’t even sell coconut water to a tourist on the beach.” He throws up his hands. “Who can’t get a tourist to buy a goddamned fresh coconut?” He’s shaking his head. “The man knows nothing about business. Nada! Zero!”
This is my cue to exit. They’ll be at it for at least twenty minutes, and I’m not sticking around for the theatrics. It’s my first night off in eleven days, and I need a shower. I also need about fifteen hours of sleep. Maybe more.
“You’re a meat runner tonight,” my uncle says as I’m heading out the door.
I turn the corner, lean against the wall, and let my eyes fall shut.
Maybe he’ll think I didn’t hear him. Maybe he wasn’t talking to me.
“Ouve! TJ!”
I sigh and push off the wall. “I’m not on the schedule,” I say, heading for the exit.
“Well, now you are. We’ve got a big birthday party tonight.”
I whip around and shoot him a glare.
“Party of fifty. All hands on deck.”
Oh Jesus. If I stick around, I’ll have to play the freakin’ pandeiro and my cousins and I will stand around and sing “Happy Birthday” in Portuguese to some stranger. Because, yeah, stranger. There’s nowhere me and my cousins would rather be on a Saturday night than at your very special birthday dinner.
“What about Frankie? He could use a break from working the salad bar,” I say. Frankie’s the youngest of the cousins. He just turned thirteen, which—in this family—makes him old enough to handle a sharp knife.
“This night’s important. We need experienced churrasqueiros,” he says. This place always needs family. “You got somewhere else to be?”
Honestly, no. And even if I did, my uncle wouldn’t care.
Doesn’t matter. I need the money anyway.
“Okay,” I say. “But can I borrow your car? I’ve gotta run home and take a quick shower.”
“Where’s the Durango?” he asks.
“In the shop.”
“What’s the problem?” my dad asks, looking up from a lamb loin.
“Don’t know. I’m still waiting for Travis to call me and drop the news.”
“Get it taken care of,” my dad says. “We’ll need it for the Costco run next week.”
Of course, he doesn’t mention that I’ll need it to get to work. To my real job—the one that I actually need if I ever want to finish school. The one that’s gonna get me out of this restaurant for good.
Uncle Jay throws me the keys to his Mercedes.
“Be careful with my baby,” he says.
I catch the keys and mutter, “Thanks.” I guess maybe it’s appropriate for him to call that car his “baby.” I’m pretty sure he takes better care of it than he ever did of his four kids. As far as I can tell, my cousins and I were all brought into this world to be cheap labor—nothing
more, nothing less.
* * *
Twenty-five minutes later I’m back at the restaurant. My hair is still wet from the thirty-second-long shower, but I’m already sweating again because I’m standing over the mesquite coals, stoking the fire.
Why do I even bother?
“Hey, TJ,” my cousin Sabrina calls to me from the restaurant floor. “Come move this table for us.”
I leave the poker and head out to the floor. She’s standing around with three girls I’ve never seen before, all of them wearing tight sweatpants and tank tops.
“We’re gonna have to make more room here,” she says, pointing at a two-top table. “For the wings.”
“The what?” I ask, picking up the table.
“For the costumes,” she says, “for the dancers.” She gestures toward the three girls in sweatpants. They smile, and one of them winks.
Is this some sort of joke? I’m so confused.
“What dancers?” I ask.
“You know,” she says. “Samba Saturdays. We’re starting tonight.”
“Oh hell no. For real? I thought Dad said we were gonna bring back the ‘family-friendly’ vibe.”
“Well, my dad wants to bring in the making-money vibe,” Sabrina shoots back. “Restaurants don’t pay for themselves, you know?”
“Are you gonna samba dance?” I ask my cousin. I’m thinking there’s no way Uncle Jay would let his daughter parade through this restaurant wearing nothing but a sparkly bikini, a headdress, and wings. But that man is full of surprises these days.
“No,” she says brightly, gesturing toward the three girls. “They are! We’ve been working on the choreography all week. They’re great!”
They look nice enough, but they don’t look like samba dancers. Or maybe they do. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never even been to Carnival.
“Hi!” One of them gives a little wave. “I’m Alisha.”
I put the table down a few feet to the left of the door. “I’m TJ.”
Alisha smiles big. “I like your costume,” she says. “You look really cute in it.”
I ignore the comment, because I’m not wearing a costume. I’m wearing my uniform.
“So, where did you three learn samba?” I ask.
“Oh,” Alisha says. “We’re belly dancers, actually. We teach at the studio down on Catalina. But I mean, it’s pretty much the same thing, you know?”
I nod and keep my mouth shut.
“I mean. The costumes are different,” Alisha says. “And the arms…” She starts to wave her arms around. I guess to demonstrate the subtle differences between samba and belly dancing.
I must be looking skeptical, because Sabrina is glaring at me.
“It’s hard to find samba dancers in St. Augustine,” she says, her voice sharp.
“Yeah,” I say. “I get that.”
Of course it’s freaking hard to find samba dancers here. I mean, we’re the only Brazilians for fifty miles in any direction! What’s next? Come February, is Uncle Jay gonna make us all parade down St. George Street in our own little desfile de Carnival? Is there anything he won’t do to bring in tourists?
“So what’s your story, TJ?” Alisha asks.
“My story?”
“Yeah,” she says, stepping closer. “What do you like to do when you’re not wearing that cute costume and serving up meat?”
I’m not liking the direction of this conversation.
“TJ is studying to be in the medical profession,” my cousin Demetrio says from behind the bar.
“Oh wow,” one of the other samba/belly dancers says. “That’s so great. You want to be a doctor?”
“Oh no!” my cousin Carlitos calls out. “TJ here wants to be a male nurse.”
And I’m out. I turn to walk away, because I know exactly what’s coming. When it comes to my career choice, my cousins are nothing if not predictable.
“He’s very nurturing,” Matheus says from the other side of the restaurant floor.
“Our TJ,” Demetrio calls out from the bar, his voice thick with sarcasm. “He loves to dream big.”
“And you?” I say to Demetrio, still heading for the kitchen. “What are you dreaming of back there? How to make the perfect lemon drop martini?”
That one gets laughs from Carlitos and Matheus.
“Nah, man,” Carlitos says. “Demetrio—he’s all about the mai tais!”
“I’m just gonna go back to quartering my limes,” Demetrio says. “And later on tonight I’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.”
He’s got a point. The bartender makes more money in one night than the rest of us put together.
“I mean, who even needs college when you’ve earned that beautiful certificate?” Carlitos asks, pointing at the health inspection report that’s framed behind the bar.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Matheus says. “Ninety-nine percent. That’s an A plus right there.”
Matheus actually did really well in school. When he was a senior, I tried to help him with some college applications. He worked on them for about a week, and then he quit. He actually said to me, “Why waste my time in college when I can start out at 40K a year, serving up caipirinhas?”
“You’re an idiot, Matheus,” Carlitos says. “You’d better get your ass to college next fall, or you’ll have me to answer to.”
“And me.” Demetrio reaches over the bar and smacks Matheus on the side of his head—not hard, though. He’s just playing around.
“Ow! Damn, y’all stop messing with me!” Matheus grabs the side of his head like he’s been mortally wounded or something.
“Kid doesn’t even know a joke when he hears one,” Demetrio mutters, shaking his head.
A bunch of idiots. All of them. Here they are threatening to hurt their little brother if he doesn’t go to college, but they make fun of me endlessly because I want an actual profession? I love those guys, though. They’re family, and I know they don’t mean anything by the teasing. That’s just what we do—we give each other shit.
I turn back to the girls and smile. “It was nice to meet you,” I say. “I look forward to seeing your, uh, performance.”
All three smile big.
“I’ve, um—I’ve gotta go set some tables.”
I wander off to prep for the dinner crowd and my phone rings. It’s Travis, the mechanic.
“Hey, Travis.”
“Hey, buddy. I’ve got some bad news.”
“Seems to be the only kind I get these days.” I shake my head and let out a breath. “So what is it? The ignition switch?”
“No, man. It’s the transmission.”
“No way.”
“Would I lie to you about this?”
He wouldn’t. Travis and I have been friends for fifteen years. This man and his dad took me alligator hunting when I was eleven. I mean, you’ve gotta trust the guy who takes you out to a swamp to search for giant mammal-eating reptiles in the pitch-black dark.
“I’ve got a buddy up in Jacksonville,” he says. “He’s gonna look for a rebuilt one. But it’ll cost you. Even the rebuilt ones aren’t cheap.”
“How much?”
“Don’t know yet. I’m guessing eight hundred to a thousand.”
“What? Is the old girl even worth that much?”
“Unless you’ve got a wad of cash stashed somewhere that’s gonna buy you a brand-new car, you’re gonna have to take care of that Durango.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I get it.”
“Plus, she’s the only girl you got.”
Leave it to an old friend to remind me how pathetic my love life is.
“How long?”
“No idea,” he says. “I’ll keep her here until we get that part.”
I hang up and then immediately start to stress. How am I gonna get to work? There’s no way my cousin can take me every day. She has her own day job. I’ve gotta come up with something. I’m not going to let a broken-down SUV keep me from getting out of this place.
/> I stare at my phone for a full minute, while my cousins move around me, getting the restaurant ready for another Saturday night.
And then I do the only thing I can think of. I start to compose a text to Prashanti.
Can you give me Vivi’s number?
My thumb hovers over the send button. Do I really want to do this? Do I have any choice?
I hit send.
CHAPTER SEVEN
VIVI
BIRD JOURNAL
June 16, 7:43 P.M.
Swallow-tailed kite (Elanoides forficatus)
Oh wow. This swallow-tailed kite is an absolute joy to watch! I can’t tear my eyes away from him.
Habitat: uncommon and local. Often seen soaring over swamps and along the edges of woods.
Physical Description: a beautiful bird of prey, striking in its shape and pattern. Extraordinarily graceful.
Flight: hanging motionless in the air, swooping and gliding, rolling upside down and then zooming high in the air with barely any motion of its wings.
Mating Patterns: usually involves aerial chases by both sexes; male may feed female.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” TJ practically barks from the passenger seat.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I ask. “I’m pulling over.”
I pull onto the shoulder of the two-lane highway, grab my journal from the center console, and get out of the car. I can feel TJ watching me, which makes me feel incredibly unsettled. But I ignore his stare and look up at the sky.
I’ve never seen a swallow-tailed kite, but I’ve read plenty about them. They used to be common throughout much of North America, but now they can only be found in Florida, only at certain times of year, and rarely as far north as St. Augustine.
Here he is, right above me, the “coolest bird on the planet,” according to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. And he’s calling out with that high-pitched squeal, like he’s talking directly to me.
Klee-klee-klee. Klee-klee-klee.
TJ gets out of the car and slams the door.
“Shhhhh,” I hiss, pointing up to the sky as the magnificent kite soars and swoops and dives.
“What?” he asks. “Why are we being quiet?”
Flight Season Page 7
