We stopped where the paved road began, and Yeamon suggested we go to a place just a mile or so further on. Pretty good food and cheap drink, he said, and, besides, they’ll give me credit.
We followed him down the road until we came to a sign that said CASA CABRONES. An arrow pointed to a dirt road that branched off toward the beach. It went through a grove of palms and ended in a small parking lot, next to a ratty restaurant with tables on the patio and a jukebox beside the bar. Except for the palms and the Puerto Rican clientele, it reminded me of a third-rate tavern in the American Midwest. A string of blue bulbs hung from two poles on either side of the patio, and every thirty seconds or so the sky above us was sliced by a yellow beam from the airport tower, no more than a mile away.
As we sat down and ordered our drinks I realized we were the only gringos in the place. The others were locals. They made a great deal of noise, singing and shouting with the jukebox, but they all seemed tired and depressed. It was not the rhythmic sadness of Mexican music, but the howling emptiness of a sound I have never heard anywhere but in Puerto Rico — a combination of groaning and whining, backed up by a dreary thumping and the sound of voices bogged down in despair.
It was terribly sad — not the music itself, but the fact that it was the best they could do. Most of the tunes were translated versions of American rock-and-roll, with all the energy gone. I recognized one as Maybellene. The original version had been a hit when I was in high school. I recalled it as a wild and racy tune, but the Puerto Ricans had made it a repetitious dirge, as hollow and hopeless as the faces of the men who sang it now in this lonely wreck of a roadhouse. They were not hired musicians, but I had a feeling they were putting on a performance, and any moment I expected them to fall silent and pass the hat. Then they would finish their drinks and file quietly into the night, like a troupe of clowns at the end of a laughless day.
Suddenly the music stopped and several men rushed for the jukebox. A quarrel broke out, a flurry of insults — and then, from somewhere far in the distance, like a national anthem played to calm a frenzied crowd, came the slow tinkling of Brahms’ Lullaby. The quarrel ceased, there was a moment of silence, several coins fell into the bowels of the jukebox, and then it broke into a whimpering yell. The men returned to the bar, laughing and slapping each other on the back.
We ordered three more rums and the waiter brought them over. We’d decided to drink a while, putting off dinner till later, and by the time we got around to ordering food the waiter told us the kitchen was closed.
Never in hell! Yeamon exclaimed. That sign says midnight. He pointed to a sign above the bar.
The waiter shook his head.
Sala looked up at him. Please, he said, you’re my friend. I can’t stand this anymore. I’m hungry.
The waiter shook his head again, staring at the green order pad in his hand.
Suddenly Yeamon banged his fist on the table. The waiter looked fearful, then scurried behind the bar. Everyone in the place turned to look at us.
Let’s have some meat! Yeamon shouted. And more rum!
A fat little man wearing a white short-sleeve shirt came running out of the kitchen. He patted Yeamon on the shoulder. Good fellows, he said with a nervous smile. Good customers — no trouble, okay?
Yeamon looked at him. All we want is meat, he said pleasantly, and another round of drinks.
The little man shook his head. No dinner after ten, he said. See? He jabbed his finger at the clock. It was ten-twenty.
That sign says midnight, Yeamon replied.
The man shook his head.
What’s the problem? Sala asked. The steaks won’t take five minutes. Hell, forget the potatoes.