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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 5 A spidery old Cuban woman, in the bright colors of a spider, moves abruptly from the wood lace of her home to put out a dish of water for a dog about to go out of his mind in the heat. "Spanish omlettes--with the pimentos," February orders for them at El Cacique, "and picadillo, black beans and rice, cafe con leche-Dory we'll be going strong on Duval Street after midnight!" Peter Max colors on a van that empties a mime troop onto the way. Hear the clog dance of the hippie women across Mallory Square. Not fond of their mothers but their granny dresses express alternate generation affinity. They say, "Oh, wow," and applaud as the sun sinks into the west, and their enthusiasm seems a sort of infantile Ptolemaism. "Are you writing this--?" she asks, looking sideways at him, wound into wicked merriment, dancing just ahead of him with a guava ice cream cone and a Bolita ticket in her hand, "are you getting this all down?" Males on the street are bowing elaborately to February, good-for-nothings, perhaps, or boulevardiers in the cafe society. As the shrimp fleet comes in, men cry harbormaster or estibador. There are sudden Frog voices in the street; February runs from a grog shop to see a tricolor in the harbor. |
