His father loves watching Iris Chacón.
La Bomba de Puerto Rico.
La Vedette de América.
His father watches with a shit eating grin on his face as Iris and her fellow dancers gyrate to the Latin rhythms, their costumes barely holding everything in.
He walks through the living room, glances at the TV, wonders what his father is watching. Whatever it is, the expression on his father’s face speaks volumes.
Father notices his son watching, asks him to sit next to him, watch her with him.
All these beautiful women. The flashy costumes. The undulating bodies.
What is this?
Iris Chacón, his father says. She’s a dancer.
He doesn’t understand a word of it. Nor does his father. He doesn’t even think it matters since he can’t wipe the smile off his face. They watch in silence for awhile and he finds he is smiling too, although he’s not quite sure why.
His mother walks into the living room, glances at the TV, sees her little boy sitting with his father on the couch, their eyes glued to Iris’s gyrating body.
She says, Don’t you think he’s a little too young for this?
Leave him, he says. It’s okay.
It isn’t so much watching these half-naked women has any real effect on the boy’s seven year old mind. It’s the bond — father and son.
The smile never leaves his father’s face.
Nor his.
New York City, June 2002