The Good Spic

Eugene Diaz was rudely woken up at 5:30 AM by the noxious smell of Cuban coffee. Feeling like his day was already ruined, he groaned and dragged himself out of bed. Eugene lived in a moderately sized house in Miami, Florida with his parents, who were Cuban immigrants. He had absolutely despised their foreign status; he felt it made him an outsider, in a city where 65 percent of the population were Hispanic. He worked as an op-ed writer for the Miami Herald, where he wrote about current events and politics, both in the US and in Latin America.

He dreamed of finding a blonde haired, blue eyed darling who would marry him and move him up north to be with the rest of her Boston Brahmin family. However, he was stuck in Miami, where his only dating options were Latin women, simple minded whores who had to present their posteriors whenever they walked. He dreaded to imagine how worse it would be if he lived in one of the black neighborhoods of the city.

He went downstairs, where his mother was making coffee. The dining room table was decorated with hideous paganistic idolatry, images of Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, and Saint Lazarus. As a self-proclaimed agnostic, Eugene was disgusted that his family kept the Latin Catholic traditions of their homeland, rather than at least conforming to the Protestant tradition of America. For all intents and purposes, his mother practiced Santeria, and was one second away from sacrificing a chicken to Shango and Olokun.

“Buenos días, mi amor,” his mother, Rosa Diaz, cooed. “¿Quieres café?”

“Morning, mother,” Eugene groaned. “You’ve lived in this country for forty years now, learn to speak English for once. And no, I don’t want coffee. It’s too damn sweet.”

“Ay, you have such an attitude. Your father left early this morning, he’s working a job in Broward.” Rosa was a housewife, taking care of the house while his father, Oscar Diaz, worked for a contracting company. His parents had been childhood friends and sweethearts in Cuba, and had emigrated to Miami together via the Mariel boatlift. A horrible foreign policy decision by the socialist Jimmy Carter, in Eugene’s opinion, for it allowed bloodthirsty criminals and deranged psychopaths into the United States and permanently changed the demographics of the city of Miami. Eugene didn’t care much for his father’s blue collar job, but was glad that it got him out of the house a lot.

“I don’t care. I need to get to work.” Eugene ate breakfast, a single slice of toast with margarine spread on it. As he was eating, he nearly screamed as he felt his mother hug him from behind and give him a kiss.

“Dios bendiga mi hijo,” she uttered. Eugene pulled away in disgust.

“Mother, can you quit it with that superstitious witchery? It’s really getting on my nerves.”

“Mi hijo, no soy una bruja. This is the Christianity I grew up with.”

“Well, it’s outdated for the modern day. You ought to give it a rest.”

“Your father and I left Cuba because Fidel Castro would not let us practice our religion in peace. We came to America because we were promised freedom here. I know you’re young, and it seems very old fashioned to you, but it’s my beliefs, my traditions, and I hope you can feel the same way as me one day.”

“Oh, you’re comparing me to Fidel? You’re the one that follows that communist Pope Francis.”

“Papa Francisco es un hombre bueno,” his mother stammered. “Más que tú, niño ingrato. Have a good day at work.” Tears in her eyes, she turned away and began washing dishes. Eugene walked back to his room, triumphant, to get ready for work. He had conquered the Latin predisposition to emotional hysteria, such as the kind his mother displayed. He changed into a business casual outfit, a gray button up shirt, a red tie, black dress pants, black socks, and brown loafers. He grabbed his satchel, which contained his laptop and several other important papers. He left his house at 7:30 AM, which was painted a light beige and had an orange tile roof, in a disgusting Mediterranean style, and got in his car to drive to work.

He arrived at the Miami Herald office at 8:30 AM, where he sat down at his desk and began working on some of his op-eds. None of his coworkers had arrived, like the typical inattentive roughnecks they were. He began to jump up and down in his seat at the thought of how exciting his op-eds were. He wrote an article how the US federal government should operate permanent martial law in states along the border of Mexico in order to curb immigration, another on how President Bolsonaro of Brazil is not doing enough to deforest the Amazon in order to rejuvenate Brazil’s lumber market, another on how the US government should send stimulus money meant for the unemployed to Israel instead, and finally, one on how President Trump should send the military to Cuba in order to annex it and make it a US territory a la Puerto Rico. As he finished the last one, he was greeted by Samuel Goldberg, the editor in chief and Eugene’s boss.

“Good morning, Eugene,” Samuel said.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Goldberg.” Eugene smiled. “I just finished some articles. I think you’d like this one on US-Israel relations.”

“Well, let’s see.” Samuel took the laptop and began reading the piece, his brow furling with concern as he read through. “Well, you certainly are opinionated.” He continued reading, with discomfort in his eyes. He returned the laptop to Eugene.

“Well, what did you think?”

“You know, you’ve talked about Israel for a while in these op-eds,” Samuel sighed. “For someone who’s not even Jewish, you seem to really like Israel. Frankly, I find it a little patronizing. I mean, I visited once after I had my bar mitzvah. I’m not obsessed with it the way you are.”

“Well, Mr. Goldberg, it’s all about affirming an alliance, and promoting security in the Middle East.”

“Yeah, all that, right. Look, they’re your opinions, so I’m not gonna say no to these, I’m just giving you a little personal feedback. Anyways, keep up the work, Eugene.” Samuel patted Eugene on the shoulder and left for his office.

Eugene continued to work, until a familiar voice echoed in the distance at 10:00 AM. He heard the booming voice of his dreaded coworker, Jose Montes, coming in through the door. Jose, like Eugene, was of Cuban descent, but he was scandalously proud of his outsider heritage. He was a journalist for the Herald. His desk was decorated with memorabilia of the Cuban flag, and pictures of Cuban national figures like Jose Marti and Antonio Maceo. He had many rowdy mannerisms, and often spoke in the dreaded pidgin of Spanglish. He also seemed to operate in the time zone of “Cuban Time,” as opposed to the proper Eastern Time Zone. He was carrying a basket of fruits, and was fraternizing with Pierre Toussaint, a fellow journalist of Haitian descent. Eugene had plenty to say about Haitians, but we’ll save that for another time.

“Looks like you’re late, Jose,” Eugene sneered. “Should I let Mr. Goldberg know?”

“Sam knows,” Jose replied, not missing a beat. “I was interviewing documentary filmmaker Billy Corben, who was recently criticizing Representative Donna Shalala on Twitter for insider trading. We talked about sports, politics, and Florida life in general. Maybe you should mind your business next time, Eugenio.”

“Don’t call me Eugenio,” Eugene seethed. He hated being reminded of his birth name, the one his parents gave him. Jose smirked and took a bite out of an apple. “It’s unprofessional.”

“It’s really not. You can call me Jose all you want. Coño, call me Pepe, all my tios call me that.”

“I don’t think Spanish should be spoken in the workplace. Isn’t it insensitive towards those who aren’t fluent?”

“Aren’t you the anti-political correctness guy?”

“That’s besides the point. Anyways, this isn’t the first time you’ve been late, and while you may have an excuse this time, you’ve cited “Cuban Time” as the reason for your tardiness.”

“Yeah, it’s called a joke.”

“I think it’s unprofessional to make ethnic references in the office.”

“No, it’s not, as long as you’re not putting down somebody else. I’m proud to be Cuban. I wouldn’t put somebody else down for being different from that, but that’s my heritage. It’s a dictatorship over there, so heritage is all we got. You’re Cuban too, bro, you should at least appreciate it a little bit.”

“Speaking of dictatorship, you should read this op-ed I wrote.” Eugene handed his laptop to Jose, who read through with a look of worry. When he finished the article, he handed the laptop back.

“Do you really believe that? That Cuba should be a territory?”

“Why, yes, it should’ve been from the start.”

“Look, hey, I’d love it if a bunch of Cubanos here got guns and sailed south and got rid of Raul and Miguel, but it wouldn’t be a good thing if the US took over. I mean, look at Puerto Rico, and how they got treated after Hurricane Irma. Like a second thought. Uncle Sam didn’t give a damn.”

“Cuba being a US territory is the only correct option. We don’t have the fortitude to govern our own island, nor the virtù, to reference Machiavelli.”

“Do you really hate being Cuban that much? Do you have no love for your people?”

“What, like we’re not a bunch of cigar smoking, rum drinking, buttocks ogling howler monkeys?”

“I’m gonna ignore how fucking racist that sounds. You know the sacrifices our forefathers made for us? Marti and Maceo, some of our greatest heroes, died so we could have the virtues of liberty and democracy.”

“Look at Cuba now. That was all in vain.”

“Maybe so, but hey, Cubans have done plenty of admirable things. You know how many of us were successful in entertainment? I mean, Celia Cruz, Gloria Estefan, Willy Chirino, Cesar Romero, Desi Arnaz, Ana de Armas, Oscar Isaac, the list goes on. We’re a talented people.”

“They only have their fame because of America.”

“Okay, fine. There’s been advances in the fields of science that Cubans have contributed. Carlos Finlay determined that yellow fever was transmitted through mosquitoes, and Luis Walter Alvarez developed the hydrogen bubble chamber which led to the discovery of resonance states in particle physics.”

“I’m sure those were enabled by American education.”

“Okay, fine. What about someone like Alfred-Maurice Zayas? He’s a human rights expert, and he’s worked with the UN. Impressive, right?”

“He’s a raging liberal who opposed the Iraq War. What does he know?”

“Okay, fine. You’re a conservative, right? Look at people like Marco Rubio and Ted Cruz. Politics aside, it’s pretty impressive that Cubans like them got that far ahead in a country where Hispanics are still kind of a marginalized community.”

“As long as they do their job and push the Republican agenda, I’ll overlook their ethnic predisposition.”

“You really are a lost cause.” Jose scoffed and left to his desk. Eugene smirked and giggled. He had won a debate with the boorish loudmouth, using logic and reason. American Enlightenment rationalism had trumped irrational Latin lunacy.

Eugene continued with his op-eds as usual. During their lunch break, Eugene watched in horror as he saw a woman walk towards Jose’s desk. She had a jarring burnt red-brown complexion, hideous obsidian colored hair, Mongoloid eyes, and a pygmy stature. She wore a red dress that hugged her Jezebel-esque figure, and she walked over to Jose and kissed him on the mouth. Despite his annoyance of him, Eugene was truly worried that the savage seductress was going to stab Jose and tear his heart out.

“What the hell is that thing?” Eugene screeched, pointing at the woman. Everyone in the office gasped in shock, and Jose drew the woman closer to him.

“What the fuck, Eugene?” he yelled. “This is my girlfriend Gabriela. What the fuck is your problem?” Gabriela Estevez was a Nicaraguan woman who was an IT specialist. She often helped the Herald with their computers, and to everybody else in the office, she was a familiar face. However, to Eugene, who did not waste time fraternizing with his sad excuses of coworkers, had no idea who she was.

“Look at her! She’s an illegal criminal! She was trying to kill you!”

“No, I’m not,” Gabriela said. “My parents immigrated here from Nicaragua. I was born here in Miami. I work in IT!”

“You’re fucking insane!” Jose shouted.

“No, you’re insane, dating a hideous Indian savage like that.” Gabriela burst into tears and dropped to her knees.

“¡Te voy a matar!” Jose screamed, his face as red as a tomato. He lunged at Eugene, forcing him to the floor. Coworkers stepped in and held Jose back, preventing him from beating Eugene into a bloody pulp.

Once the chaos had subsided, Jose and Eugene were seated in Samuel’s office, like schoolboys who were to be scolded by their principal. Jose was breathing heavily and shaking his leg, trying hard to avoid eye contact. Eugene smirked, knowing the brute would finally be punished for his Latin irascibility.

“Alright,” Samuel began. “I heard everything that happened. I’m gonna keep this short, because I know this is really stressful for the both of you. Jose, I understand why you did what you did. If someone insulted my wife, I would’ve done the same. However, I do have to take some action. You’re not fired, don’t worry, but I’m gonna require you to undergo some anger management training. My hand is tied, otherwise I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“I understand, sir,” Jose replied.

“Now, for Eugene, you schlump.” Eugene’s smirk left his face as he realized he would be penalized. “You got a lot of chutzpah for what you did. Blatantly being racist in the office, and screaming loudly while doing it. This shouldn’t be tolerated anywhere, especially not in a city as diverse as Miami. Pack up your things. You’re fired.”

“What?” Eugene cried in shock.

“Yeah, you heard me right. You’re done. I don’t want your op-eds. You’re a khnyok, a bigot.”

“Please!” Eugene begged, dropping to his knees. “I had so much to write about the relationship between Trump and Netanyahu.”

“Fuck Netanyahu! Get out of my office, Eugene!” Eugene nodded and stood up, sobbing profusely. He left in shame, with tears streaming from his eyes and snot bubbling from his nose. His now former coworkers watched with ire as he packed his belongings up. As he was about to leave, Jose stepped in front of him, with his arm around Gabriela’s shoulder.

“I want you to say sorry to my girl,” Jose uttered. “She’s smart and beautiful, and you got no right to be as nasty to her as you did.” Eugene began sobbing even harder and shoved past them, running out of the building. He fled to his car and drove home. His mother had left for the afternoon to go out with friends, first to eat dinner at Versailles, and then to play at Magic City Casino. His father would arrive from Broward later at night, so Eugene knew he was alone. He collapsed into his bed, staining his pillowcase with tears and mucus. He absolutely hated himself at the moment. Not because he got fired, for he knew he wasn’t the first conservative to be fired for refusing to bow to political correctness. No, he had entered this state of self-loathing because he had become the very thing he sought to avoid, a Hispanic who is controlled by his emotions. For this, he wept the whole night, knowing he was forever cursed with the blight of Latinidad.