"That fat SOB," the old man with the Cuban flag on his lapel thought. "He would have killed me if he had the chance; probably had to rush home to barbecue that pack of cigarettes on his teeth. Of course, the mineral water that he also bought is going to do him a lot of good. Burn your lungs by 50 and then marinade them in mineral water! That's the answer! I swear, I don't know what's wrong with these niños canosos. In such a hurry always to get nowhere fast. No patience for life; no consideration for their elders who paved the way for them in this country, slowly, very slowly, because there was no royal way then.
"Now, those two fresh-faced kids tending the counter, one of whom is certainly Cuban, are the hope of the future, as the Apostle said. Yes, everything is a joke to them now and they care about nothing but themselves. It is that stage of life but they will soon outgrow it (unlike that bitongo who is trapped in perpetual adolescense). But, of course, we raised them that way, sheltered them from our realities, did everything in our power to hide our anguish and make their lives as happy and comfortable as we could. What else could we have done? And now this SOB sneers at me when I pick up a copy of El Diario Las Américas while he lugs his Miami Herald. He must think I am trapped in a time warp; maybe I am, but those were better times peopled by better men. I feel sorry for him, though. So much anger and misdirected rage should have a more constructive outlet than trying to run down old men."