Allen had a big luxurious room with paintings of seascapes, tropical birds, and happy locals with fruit baskets and drums. The vibe was appreciated. But the room was quiet and comfortable. The atmosphere outside was full of Spanish conversation, the overworked engines of old cars, and the occasional bongo beat or saxophone solo. Allen imagined the sidewalks outside covered with broad-smiling locals with old-school coolers selling chopped mangos and coconuts with straws. A potentially soothing escape from the inner world that collapsed when he was alone. He put an envelope containing $60,000 in a dresser drawer across from the bed for easy access, then ventured through manila hallways with dark wooden floors and carpeting covered in vines and rose designs. 

He waited for Steele at the bar. Classic and wooden glamour synonymous with the 1950s. The dining room behind him hosted three or four Western couples looking exhausted by heat with fingers around cups of watermelon juice. The cherry walls held wide and dramatic paintings every six feet of Cuba’s colonial era and the early 20th century: conquistadors walking among tropical marshes and impressionist dreams of urban and rural life in forceful colors. The captivating imagery sapped  Allen’s energy until he heard English. 

“Allen! I can’t believe you came down here, buddy. What a nice surprise.” said Richard. 

This fucker actually did shave into a mustache, which was died black. He also sported pitch-black hair that was heavily styled. It looked like he had asked the stylist to make him look like an international soccer star, but whoever had the unfortunate task couldn’t do anything about Steele’s age or physique. So, they sculpted his hair into a bedhead fohawk. 

“I mean, I did tell you I was coming,” said Allen. 

“Yeah, I didn’t believe you actually would.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a stuffy old woman about everything now. I really hope you can get what you need from a little rest and relaxation and no ability to contact Los Angeles.” Allen snickered. “What?” 

“Oh, nothing. I just…like how you said, ‘no ability to contact Los Angeles.’”

“Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it? Society can really get under our skin,” he said, sliding his fingers over the back of Allen’s left shoulder. “Living there creates a lot of pressure to be good. Keep a good job, a good family, a hot girlfriend. It’s not realistic. It’s important to get out and see how real people live.”

“Like in Cuba?” 

“Real Cuban people, anyway.” He looked at Allen lovingly, then gave his shoulder a light slap.

For three days, they did exactly as Steel's drawing had suggested - laying in pools, drinking rum cocktails, and smiling at passing women or making jokes with their tour guides and taxi drivers. Allen kept himself by Steele's side lest he hear his heart reminding him that he was guarding a cruel secret. When their last Saturday rolled around, Steele demanded that the two of them have a celebration. 

“Come on! I got you the room adjoining mine.” 

“Uh, Richard, I already have a room.”

“Allen, you’re going to stay next to me because we’re going to have some fun for my last night. You hear me?” he pointed a finger at Allen’s beak and fixed him a disciplinary look. 

“I’ll just grab my things then.”

“There’s a good boy.”

“What are you looking to do?”

“Well, Step 1: we get a bottle of aged Havana Club for $7. Step 2: we gorge ourselves on a dinner of Ropa Vieja and picadillo, which…fucking delicious. And Step 3: have some fun!”

“See some jazz?” asked Allen.

“Well, I don’t know about you, my good friend. But I’m looking to meet some real, local women.” he winked. “What do you say? Wanna hit the town with me?”

Allen sensed that Steele had likely done some carousing on his own but had not had much luck as a lone chubby white man. Dr. Steele’s chances improved with Allen. He was taller, fitter, and more stylish. Currently, Steele was wearing cargo shorts and a Guayabera shirt. Allen wore linen pants and a blue polo. But Steele was the funny one. Together, they’d clean up.

Allen smiled. “Bet your fuckin ass I do.”

Steele was about to find out just how fun and accommodating Allen could be. That’s because he didn’t know Allen was not going home. The end begins.  

Allen and Richard ate their dinners of meaty Cuban meals in a ravenous and piggish manner like a couple of American infantrymen euphoric after crushing a local rebellion for independence. They left for a nightclub, secreting pork and rum through their pours in the oppressive humidity. They spent hours standing by the bar cheersing one another and joking about times past. Steele made the odd attempt to catch the attention of young women walking past him on their way in or out of the ladies’ room. Eventually, the crowd of younger tourists thinned out, and the two men found a couple seats. Only a handful of locals remained.

Steele approached two women in cut-off shorts and button-down shirts with ripped-off sleeves. As soon as Steele walked up, the women looked at each other silently, asking one another what to do. Allen approached. “Podemos comprar bebidas para ustedes?” he asked. He spoke better Spanish now that he was drunk. The ladies had vodkas and lemonade. Allen kept heavily drinking straight rum. He made headway speaking grammatically poor Spanish to a pale woman with short black hair, thick lips, and an ample backside that vehemently protested its unjust confinement to its denim chamber like a pair of political prisoners. Her eyes sparkled at Allen, who had purchased several more rounds for Steele and the women and serviced enough cash to get them a more secluded table in the humid bar. 

It got late. Allen could see over Esmerelda’s shoulder - Steele was kissing her friend, Celia, and she wrapped his lips in a very passionate Latin way. She owned him. Allen was jealous of that. He also wanted to get away. The night was winding down, and the pool of other patrons at the bar was getting small. High time to make a move or strike out. “Donde quedas? Quieres salir a nuestro hotel ahorra?” Celia was straddling Steele and rocking back and forth on him: exactly the vacation the doctor was looking for. Allen had just made it happen for him. He smiled to himself proudly, then Esmerelda kissed him. He grabbed onto her seat and could no longer fit into his pants. We gotta get out of here. 

Thirty minutes later, they were smoking weed in Steel’s suite. Allen would not be able to stay awake much longer. He looked at Esmerelda and leaned his head toward his door. She got up and swayed her hips slowly as she walked toward it. Allen smirked at Steele, who had just absorbed some smoke from Celia’s mouth. He looked over at Allen and tapped his watch, “early flight back tomorrow, buddy,” He coughed. “Let’s get breakfast?”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” said Allen, who was slowly pushing Esmerelda’s belt loops toward the door, afraid that the moment was passing. 

“Ok. Don’t be an asshole when I come wake you up.” But Allen stopped caring what Steele had to say. 

Esmerelda was inexplicably willing to please Allen. She had already taken off her shorts and shirt, then pulled Allen’s pants down. Allen looked down and noticed, to his horror, that He was no longer boasting the same banana-like boner and now was, instead, carrying something more akin to a melted slush puppie.  He looked back towards the other room and wondered if it were too late to ask Steele if he had that viagra that the doctor put on his pre-Cuba ‘To-Do’ list. But Esmeralda had already noticed too, and she was compassionate. She reached between Allen’s legs, pulled him towards her by the taint, then began to administer fellatio.  Allen’s mouth dropped open. Hurry up, penis! He yelled at himself. Esmerlda carefully but swiftly stuck her index finger into his asshole avoiding a traumatic tissue-slicing with her long purple nails. She continued the enthusiastic dick-sucking with closed-eyed compassion and the focus of a legendary trumpet player. Allen heard himself emitting a weird guttural noise of simultaneous surprise and delight. That worked!

Allen had really hoped to watch himself going in and out of Esmerelda who…Is a fucking gift from God! But she had little interest in that atmosphere. So, she closed the light, and they crushed under irregular moonbeams. In the dark, something delicious, indulgent, and satisfying was achieved. The combination of lips, legs, sweat, and friction … Allen was floating in space, eating a very moist and nutritious fruit while watching a supernova. It ended - satisfying but all too fleeting. He let her lay on his chest and they passed out almost instantly. 

Nine-thirty rays poked Allen through the white-wooden window shades, and Allen slapped them shut resentfully. Boundless excitement flooded him via the freedom to return to sleep. But Steele knocked on the door with a knock like a battering ram to Allen’s dream world. 

“Allen? I’m hungry!”

He tried to ignore it. But Steele wouldn’t indulge his petulance. “Come on, buddy. You can sleep when I’m gone.” More knocking. The idea was agony. But something more than loyalty stirred him.  

Esmerelda observed him through half-open eyes, stroked his chin, then shook her head: I’m not getting up yet. You can’t make me, gringo.

Fair enough. Allen put on a shirt and staggered toward the door like he were wearing a suit of armor. He greeted Steele hoping he had a wheelchair for him. They ate tangy sweet breakfasts with eggs, black beans, and fried green plantains. They slapped each other on the back in the dining room overlooking the bar Allen met Richard at a several days before. On the crimson wall behind them hung a classic painting of two conquistadors approaching a pair of curious but apprehensive native Cubans. Steele tried to make Allen smell his fingers several times, and other guests in the tropical dining area noticed when the two men started slap-fighting briefly. 

Allen dutifully accompanied Steele to the hotel lobby, which was beginning to fill up with families. He felt very heavy and that other people could sense that he was unshowered and worn out from the night. Steel brought him in for a tight hug, then held him at arm's lengths and looked into Allen’s eyes like a long-lost brother. “Enjoy the rest of your time here, Allen.” He started to roll toward the entrance with his suitcase. “I want to see you back in my office in a couple days, ok?”

“Sure thing, Richard.”

Another look backward. “All’s well that ends well, eh buddy?” He waved at Allen, then climbed into the back of a taxi. 

When Allen returned to his room, he could hardly remember the fun conversation he had just had with his friend, and could hardly accept that now he was here alone. A tropical (communist) paradise by my-self. He hadn’t prepared to be with his thoughts before he embarked on this trip. He pushed open the door and fell down to sleep again.

Esmerelda woke him up some minutes or some hours later. Allen couldn’t tell. She said, “Voy a salir, pero necesito un regalito.” Allen’s brow furrowed while his face was pressed into a pillow. I’m not getting you a fucking gift, he thought.

“Hola? Buenas dias,” she said, pressing her palms into his shoulder. He got up and grabbed a $20 bill from his cash drawer. He handed it to her, gave her a hug, then a kiss, then asked her to leave her phone number. Allen climbed back onto his bed like an uncertain lizard, hoping the gesture sufficed. A brief silence. He could hear her clunking around and begged the universe for it to stop. Sleep came again like a black curtain, and he dreamed of Steele flying away from him on a magic carpet as he tried to run after him through sand dunes like a marooned Aladin. The landscape changed, and Allen was balled up in the fetal position as someone poured placenta over him. He was at the bottom of a deep cauldron. What the fuck? Two witches and a warlock were standing over the top. A high-pitched shrill collective cackle split the air. 

He woke up, but there was no more noise. He was alone and hoping against hope that the hotel had American movies on demand. He jostled around the room and became aware of the pungent odor he and Esmerelda had left. He opened the shutters and welcomed the impatient sunrays. He couldn’t look at them and turned back to the cabinet opposite his bed. A door hung open. That’s where I stashed the…oh fuck! No no no! He waddled over to it. Tens of thousands of US dollars had once covered the bottom of this shelf. He hastily scrapped up a few hundred-dollar bills that had mercifully gone unnoticed. Esmerelda hadn’t left her phone number.