Category: Stories (Page 2 of 4)

The security guard stepped out of the bakery, his wrinkled navy
blue uniform baggy around his tightly cinched belt. He wore
comfortable shoes with thick white socks. He walks a lot during the
day, so comfort remains high on his priorities. He had gone into the
bakery to get a cafecito, a small coffee in a tiny white
styrofoam cup. Soon he would return to patrolling the tiny strip mall.

On his way through the swinging glass door, he jostled the full little cup and spilled
hot coffee on his fingers. Our man held on though, held on for dear
life. I could see the pain in his face, but he wasn’t going to give
up that coffee.

Damn
– now he had hot sticky coffee all over his hand. No napkin – he
checked his pants – clean. He sighed mild relief, the
uniform would go for one more day without washing.  He exchanged the
cup to his left hand and shook off the drops, and turned looking for
something upon which to wipe his little fingers. He reached out to a
bright
yellow metal pole, a parking barrier, its top peeling paint and, after
a quick glace around to see if anyone was looking, wiped his hand upon
its top, down the side, and gave it a slap.

He brought the cup to his lips and gingerly took a sip.

or, "Hanging out in a European Café."

Laura and I had an early morning meeting at a Cyber Cafe here in
Puerto Rico, in Rio Piedras. We arrived early because traffic was
light due to the day of remembrance for President Ronald Reagan.
What are we going to do for half an hour in Rio
Piedras, we asked ourselves?

"You know it kinda feels like we’re in a small European town
square," Laura remarked.

"Yeah," I said, "If you cover your eyes, your ears,
your nose, and your sense of aesthetic." I chuckled at my own
joke. Laura didn’t laugh. I repeated it in a lame attempt to get a
smile at least. She giggled slightly.

Then, in her ever indomitable spirit of can-do, she stated, "Let’s
see if there’s a coffee shop." We took a couple of steps up the
block, passed a stray dog, a homeless man, a coin operated laundry
mat, and abandoned our search.

"Hmmm, Europe, you say?" I chuckled again.

"Let’s check behind this street. I ambled off at Laura’s
heels like the dutiful dog that I am. It was eight in the morning
and already it was hot. I began to sweat as we walked across a large
parking lot to an adjacent street. "Hey, this looks promising,"
Laura said, nodding toward a corner café.

"Yeah and as we walk in, I hope we
don’t startle the grizzled old woman as she finishes her cigarette in
her nightgown." It looked like that kind of
place.

Once we stepped inside, the atmosphere
changed. Gone were my visions of an old woman in her pajamas with a
shotgun and a cigarette clenched between her teeth. No, they were
replaced by the cold grim reality of a couple of college kids in a
sparsely established tiny corner student hangout dump.

"Well, we’re here, I guess. What
should we have?" I mused. I checked out the selection. "Let’s
get quesitos and coffee. That okay with you?"

"Sure." I ordered two
expresos (that’s espresso in Spanish for you snobs out there), and two cream cheese pastry
rolls. We scoped out a clean table near a window with decent chairs
and sat down. We were then next to the street
in front of a large glass window. As the second homeless man passed,
Laura remarked.

"Don’t you just have the feel of a
European café nestled here against the window gazing at the
street?" She started to laugh.

"You know I like hanging out with
you, Laura. We should do these mini dates more often. I’m having
fun in my European café."

Laura started laughing harder and a
tear formed in her eye. "And you know if we put chairs out on
the sidewalk we could drink in the rich aroma of urine." She
started to lose it in a giggle fit, mascara streaming down here face.

With a flick of my wrist and a wistful
French flourish I sighed, "Aahh," and sat back in an
artful recline. Laura could not contain herself as she turned into a
hapless puddle of giggles and tears. She could barely sip her coffee
and eat her pastry. We commented on the buildings, how wonderfully
artful they were, with their square corners covered in mold and
pealing paint, and their imaginative shapes, concrete boxes stacked
one on top of each other for as far as the eye could see.

"This is the
life," I said. "An eternity of European cafes couldn’t replace this one moment I’ve spent with you, my dear."

We recently endured two straight weeks of rain, over 24 inches of
constant precipitation from morning, through the afternoon, during the
night. It has been tough. I don’t think I’ve endured being inside for
so long in a good many years. You get used to being able to go out
everyday and do some sort of activity. In Puerto Rico, you get sudden
cloud bursts, but in a few minutes that tropical sun mops it up and
life goes on.

Monday was my first morning bike ride in over
two weeks, and it felt good. My chain had rusted a bit from the
humidity. Annoying. You leave your keys a couple of days on the key
holder and you get rusty keys. Such is life.

"I’d like a dozen eggs, " I said to Estéban.

"There are none," he replied.

I sighed, drat. No eggs. I got my milk and headed out. It started raining again. Can’t catch a break, can I?

Tuesday
rolled around, and it’s a welcome relief, sunny and mild. Ooops, what’s
this? Black clouds were rolling in. I headed out in a hurry, hoping to
beat the inundation that was sure to come.

"Any eggs today?" I asked.

Estéban chuckled and checked with the guy behind the counter. "Yeah, looks like there’s enough. We can spare a dozen."

I
thought to myself. Weird, they’re still short on eggs. Then it hit me.
Chickens don’t lay when it’s raining hard. It bothers them. An unhappy
chicken is a non-laying chicken. I remembered the last time we were hit
with tropical storms, there was a short term egg shortage on the island.

The guy next to me, curious, asked idly how much they were. "How much is a dozen?"

Estéban,
got a twinkle in his eye. He chuckled and recounted an incident where a
woman asked him that same question.  "’¿Cuanto es una docena?’ she
asked me, "Twelve little eggs, I told her. Doce huevitos. You know she
got mad? Told me that was more than she had expected."

The whole bakery started rolling. Chuckles went all around, and the mood was genial.

"Listen, are you waiting for a flood? Man, look at those pants."

"Hey, I like them like that. I’m prepared at all times!"

"And you, look at that old guayabera, VERY stylish."

"This shirt is quality. Q-u-a-l-i-t-y. I’ve had this shirt for over 15 years. You can’t get that kind of quality today."

"Oh, sure," he laughed poking the man’s shirt.

"Man, check that out?" pointing to a sexy bombshell on the morning TV show.

"Ay Dios Mío mami."

"I’d like a slice of that!"

"What are you gonna get?" Another asked.

"Coffee and some oatmeal."

"To go?"

"Hey, let a man finish his coffee and toast. You have some hurry?"

"Well some people have things to do. We can’t sit around on our asses and pretend to be useful."

Chuckles all around.

(Overheard conversation of a group of three 60 year old+ in a local bakery in Puerto Rico).

Just got in from a wonderful party, so I’m a little buzzed. Well,
actually, I can’t feel my fingers as I type this. Chuckle. My
sister-in-law, who is Lebanese, had an Arab-Lebanese party. Wow, what a
nice time. We drank, smoked the water pipe, laughed, told stories, ate
tabbouleh, babacanush, humus, kabobs of chicken, and a bunch of things
that I will never ever be able to spell.

Juan Carlos
brought some fabulous Rioja red wine. That got the thing rolling as we
took liberally of these fermented red grapes. Todd, an ethnic American,
who became friends with Miray’s brother, Lebanon and his party crew,
was an old hat with the whole thing. He knew most of the basic Arabic
terms and greetings, and seemed comfortable with his assimilation into
his adopted context outside of his own. He reminded me a little bit of
myself with the Puerto Rican crowd. Something about them demanded my
attention. They accepted me and I fell in, eventually marrying into the
culture. Todd, Mikey, Lebanon and Rami were a party group
extraordinaire.

Then somebody brought a couple of water
pipes, one of which was new, being used in a group setting for the
first time. They fiddled with it, complaining about the tightness, the
newness of the fitting, poking holes in the aluminum foil to aerate the
tobacco. No good, and away and away we puffed pulling the heat into the
tobacco through the water and into our mouths trying to get a good
draw. The cherry infused smoke was aromatic and we were even able to
convince most of the women to give it a go.

A dance began
with a particularly rhythmic song, as the hostess and her brother,
Lebanon began to circle in a traditional form. Arm in arm they circled,
laughing and dancing, winding their way through the house.

Most
of the evening was spend chuckling, drinking, sharing stories and
trying to get a good draw on the water pipes. I spend my fair share
drawing deeply. It was truly wonderful, and eventually we began to get
a good smoke. "This pipe is smoking good now," they would say, as they
fiddled with the other. I came and I went, as I chased down Jaimito,
checked on Olaia and Laura to see how they were and what they were up
to, but I kept making my way back to that pipe. There was just
something about it.

I was an extremely nice time because of
how differently the experiences played out from what I’m used to. It
was interesting and wonderful to enjoy good times, but in a slightly
different context. The brotherhood of man, shared over tobacco,
something as old as human-kind itself, takes on a perspective of
closeness, seen from an angle that makes me take notice. Sharing the
water pipe, puffing, and laughing and passing, gives a visceral and
immediate context to our lives. Sometimes we forget about the
commonality we all share, and it is a dead dried plant and some spittle
that brings it back into focus. What am I talking about? What else
could that be? We all come into this life the same way and we all leave
it eventually. What we miss is all those wonderful details in the
middle, those simple banal things upon which we rarely focus, quickly
and recklessly moving onto the next thing, the next destination. The
same feeling, I believe, can be found in other rituals around the
world, a Japanese tea ceremony, a Basque cider house, Catholic mass,
tribal or native dance, or a simple sharing of the hunt, alcohol, or
smoke. Taken in moderation and shared amongst people in a certain
context they can be powerful rituals of remembrance.

Bah,
but I write such drivel. Perhaps tomorrow I will be able to communicate
this in a better fashion. I feel like I do it such little justice with
these numb fingers and this swirling "mente" of mine.