By Jose Bello
My family and I came to live in New York City in 1948 on a ship called the Marine Tiger. As Puerto Rican American citizens, we came to the mainland in search of the prosperity so many others sought in the states at that time. My dad was raised on a farm in Puerto Rico, a fact that he has always been very proud of. A father of five, we didn’t see much of him during the work week and that included Saturdays. So Sunday was the day his guitar or “Cuatro” came out. I am the youngest of his sons. Our sister was the last to be born, having the distinction of being born in New York City. By the mid-sixties, my family had gone back to the island to restart their lives. I chose to stay behind and pursue a future with a girl I had been dating for nearly two years. I spent most of my time with her and her family. During my family’s last year in the Bronx, I was nineteen years old and spent very little time with them. My father had gone ahead and my mother, brother and sister were hyped about their move to Puerto Rico. I have two other brothers, the elders, and they’d moved on, remaining in the states with their families years prior. One was a retired Army Sergeant living in Kentucky, outside of Fort Knox. The other lived with his wife and five children in Pennsylvania.
Papi, as we called my father, was Paco to those outside our family. Downtown Manhattan at the barber shop where he worked with Italian-American barbers, he was called “Frank.” He’d left ahead of the family to set up a household in advance of the family’s arrival and landed a job managing a barber shop in “El Condado,” a tourist section of San Juan. Paco rented a house in the newly constructed, middle income community of Levittown, minutes along the beach from Catano. Levittown was a popular destination for those returning to Puerto Rico from New York City. Its name was familiar to ex-New Yorkers who associated it with Levittown, Long Island. The fact that prices there were more accommodating of a barber’s salary appealed to retirees and others watching their expenditures. He’d begun building his clientele at the shop, among a trendy string of pricey shops and businesses. It stood a short distance past the capitol from Old San Juan’s plaza, where buses were dispatched toward Loiza and Santurce. As a young man, he honed his trade, growing a clientele and making friends in a barber shop down one of the narrow streets from the plaza. He relished the opportunity of visiting with those who might still be around. A few miles in the other direction from the shop, past the cock fighting stadium and the LLoren Torres Public Housing project, stood the San Juan International Airport.
Many Puerto Ricans returning from the mainland had either managed to raise the money to retire or their dreams had been obliterated by prejudice, corruption, crime and stress they’d encountered on the mainland. Our family had sampled the down side of that equation. Each morning since they’d settIed in Levittown, they awoke to the sounds of exotic birds and a colorful rooster in the distance; a much welcomed change from the constant noise of the big city. Paco had finally fled that cold, colorless place. No more smells of urine in dark corners and subway stations. No more menacing addicts, alcoholics or aggressive beggars. Alleluia! A warm breeze swept over him as he exited the publico, to sit at a bench and await “La lancha”: The ferry that would take him across the bay to San Juan. Such was his daily ritual since he’d started work only days after his arrival in Puerto Rico. The publico stopped to pick him up near the back of the house he’d rented in Levittown. Publicos worked picking up passengers along established routes. Sometimes they were hired temporarily as chauffeurs. It was something after five in the morning when Paco was picked up near the back of the house. Just blocks away, three booted construction workers with helmets, jammed in next to Paco, who was wearing his usual attire, a suit, starched white shirt and tie.
“Ola’ Don Paco” came the gruff voice of one of the workers. He was one of Paco’s customers. Paco had clipped his hair in a barber’s chair he’d placed in the “marquesina” (carport) of his home, accommodating neighborhood customers. The laborer was on his way to work in nearby Catano. They conversed, as the car turned up toward the beach, stopping at the “Pare” on the corner. A stout tanned woman carrying a shopping bag, from which a pair of smart, black, short heeled pumps protruded, opened the front door and sat. Across the main road, a crab silently walked his sideway slant across white sands, resisting the foamy surf washing over him. The publico made a tight right and sped up the road. A short distance away the Bacardi plant could be seen, with its main building lit by flood lamps and a red light blinking at its peak. Just minutes later the car turned left onto the parking area reserved for publicos, near the terminal from where the ferry would carry Paco across the bay. The construction workers crossed the street, disappearing into a dimly lit street. A dog began barking as they approached.
Over the warm water in the near distance, the ferry was making its appearance and Paco could make out the few bodies standing at the front railing of the ferry in anticipation of its landing. It was the smaller of two ferries that made the daily run to and from Catano and San Juan. Upon boarding, he retrieved his glasses from his suit jacket. He pulled a racing form from his shirt pocket, and studied the horses participating in the day's race. Then he picked his presumed winners for the day’s race, as the boat bobbed softly over calm waters. The noisy engines roared and smoke trailed back, dissipating in the morning mist. The ship’s engine pitched higher, as though a clutch had been applied and gears silently merged. It paused momentarily, shifting slightly left, before finally straightening and floating silently into its harbor; a few impatient passengers jumped from the ship’s bordering ledge onto land as it touched parallel land on one side. Others lumbered toward the front exit and off the ship.
Most passengers, as Paco, leaned forward into the sloping cobblestone street leading to the plaza, where buses traveling to Loiza, and parts of Santurce awaited. Other passengers coming off the ferry walked to streets connecting to the plaza to jobs at banks, hotels and shops in the surrounding area. The sun could not yet be seen in the sky, as a small group from the ferry dispersed to find their bus of choice. Paco found his and stepped up, pausing to drop his change into the slot atop the box. Paco and the driver exchanged greetings: “Buenos dias” said Paco, the driver answering in kind. Once away from the plaza, the bus gained speed along the avenue, a glimmering ocean and white beach below appeared. Visible in the disappearing night, details sculpted into the capitol’s marble came into sight. The bus raced past the poor and cluttered infamous cliffside community of “La Perla.” Paco noticed two young women in light conversation sitting on the bench seat near the driver. They inspired thoughts of his life in Old San Juan as a young barber, free of familial responsibility and never lacking the company of young ladies, such as these.
Until he’d met my mother, he hadn’t thought seriously about marriage. She was from an upper middle income family whose ideal suitor for their daughter was not a barber. Tula was delicately slim at a time when heavier, more statuesque women were featured in current fashion magazines and art. By those standards, Tula would not have been mistaken for a model; pictures of her taken at the time, show her as the smiling, fun loving, though thin, young woman that attracted my father. She played piano to accompany silent films at local theatres. Her long fingers skimmed across the board, resisting, then applying the appropriate tone, moving the audience from sadness to joy, as she plied her musical influence upon a voiceless film. Paco pushed these thoughts away, reminding himself of his financially lagging condition. With his age nearing retirement, the very least he needed was a plan. Surely, though financially insecure, Paco’s life had been coming together nicely since their return to Puerto Rico. He wondered how he’d deal with a non-existent retirement plan. He let his mind wonder while staring out onto the blue green waters of the Caribbean glittering in the morning light. The bus raced past on its way to the high end Condado neighborhood. Minutes later he stood unlocking the shop’s door. The sun’s brilliant embrace surrounded the area around back of the shop. Pastel colored houses, plants in varying shades of green and brightly colored flowers all absorbed the sun’s life giving light.
Around the corner the ‘land lady’ of the “Paloma Verde” guest house was taking in the paper from the steps just outside its ornate iron gate. She unlocked the padlock, removing the lock itself. Reaching beside the last step she picked up a small cinder block and placed it in front of the gate keeping it from closing. At the end of the street, among the gently swaying palms, an early rising fruit juice vendor pushed his heavily supplied cart through the sand. He was bent so low, the front of his shirt nearly dipped into the sand. The wide brim of his straw hat hid his face from the sun. His sandals caught and struggled through the warm sand lest another vendor steal his valued spot, which could mean dollars lost by day’s end. Out on the blue waters there were several swimmers already in the water. An ambitious older couple was already toweling off from their salty swim. Their elderly bodies glimmered in the early morning sun; retirees who revealed themselves as they spoke in learned Spanish, wishing the vendor: “Bueno dayas, sinyor”. The vendor managed a forced smile, answering, “Muchas gracias y buen dia a ustedes.” And lowering his gaze, resumed his trek, landing on the coveted spot where he would remain, serving thirsty sun bathers and swimmers until the sun would complete an arch over his cart.
Paco Junior, whom we call Paquito, was Paco’s third son. The two elder sons, Ralph and Louie lived with their families back in the states. The oldest was a retired Army sergeant, the other a retired technical illustrator. I was a cab driver in New York City. The only female sibling was Carmen, the youngest and only one born on the mainland in New York City and at the time, approaching the birth of her tenth child. She was simultaneously in the process of attaining an accreditation for the title of “teacher.” Paco and Tula had done an admirable job of raising their children. Suffice to say, their hard work and sacrifice had paid off. Their children grew into the good, hard working, thoughtful, adults they’d intended. But, to say that Paco was at this late date in his life, dissatisfied with his finances, would be less than modest. Not only did he not have the savings required for a life without continual employment, he had no savings to cover current expenses or any unforeseen expenses that might occur without his job at the shop. He hadn’t yet fully recovered from the losses suffered in his failed attempts at owning a home back in Brooklyn. While he felt the stress of his situation, he also believed God would eventually offer an answer. His faith in God gave him relief in believing that God would not give him anything to deal with beyond his abilities. This was how he’d managed to get through other difficult times in his life; confident that God would provide an answer.
He’d been raised a Catholic, abiding by the church’s stringent regulations as closely as he could manage for all of his life. However, he’d become disillusioned by changes invoked by Vatican II, in the nineteen sixties. As a result of those changes, he’d become disillusioned with the Catholic church and could no longer follow its doctrine. Ultimately he made a decision to abandon Catholicism and begin searching for a new religion. Upon his return to Puerto Rico, he found an evangelical group in Levittown whose pastor had gathered a congregation of some of Paco’s neighbors. In this new church he found comfort and a feeling of belonging in sharing their beliefs. And while neither his old, nor his new church, endorsed gambling, Paco simply accepted that he would quietly agree to disagree with the church, as, in his view, most church goers do regarding rules that challenge even the strictest believers. His reasoning was not necessarily flawed, since his feeling was that since the Catholic and other churches saw it convenient to use lotteries and bingo in acquiring funds for their church, why should their members be condemned for gambling in a similar manner?
This analysis freed him from what he considered an unfair rule. He would often buy Puerto Rican Lottery tickets on the island, sometimes winning a small prize. Although, he found he had better luck with his off-track betting of the daily horse races, since this was a subject he was well versed in. He’d come close to winning larger prizes by using the knowledge he’d gained studying races, jockeys, weather and other conditions affecting the outcome of the races. He wasn’t an average fan. He was a fan with more knowledge than most, to make a reasonable assessment as to who could win the race. Of course, there were many factors open to the public, and others that aren’t. Paco felt he was the exception to the rule. Making the right guess at which horses would win six out of six races would be a difficult challenge for anyone, no matter how well studied one might be. But Paco relied on his faith and his beliefs and wouldn't even consider ever quitting.
At times he’d stop in and place a bet at “La Hipica” (the off track betting establishment) at the strip mall near his home in Levittown. When at work, he used “La Hipica” near the shop. It was rare for him to go to the track; that would take a special occasion. He’d actually managed to win five out of six races at least once before. This difficult feat gave him the confidence to keep trying and although calling all six winners of all six races had eluded him thus far, he was determined to continue trying. It wasn’t like winning the lottery with a series of random numbers. He considered that winning at the lottery would be pure luck; just a feeling. But with horse racing, he could assess all the factors included in each event in order to reach a logical conclusion as to his best choices to win.
Each day in Paco’s life fell into a predictable pattern, meticulously working his trade on the heads of his clientele, while chatting with them; coffee, lunch, reading the newspaper between clients, studying the daily race forms and picking his horses. He felt he had an advantage in his exposure to a variety of ideas, points of view, opinions and knowledge of his customers. Some clients had worked with horses, others studied the races and jockeys as he did; still others had won prizes. He conducted his own research into racing in his own way. Paco was a good listener, assessing all of the varying ideas and information he gleaned from everyone, as he was a life student of his surroundings.
On most days he closed the shop around six or seven P.M., unless a special client was a little late, in which case he placed a “closed” sign on the door and shut the blinds, discouraging others. He wanted to get home on time for dinner or by the latest eight P.M. Paco wanted no static from his wife, Tula, who was not pleased about inconsistencies in his schedule; an attitude that persisted over the years, due to jealousies real or suspected in Paco’s past. When they were young and Paco worked at the barber shop in Old San Juan, Tula had made more than one scene, accusing Paco of indiscretions with young women she’d seen him talking to. She’d interpreted some of these incidents as flirting, and more in others. It had been a point of contention during the early part of their relationship, although they somehow had worked past all that, old ill feelings of the heart have afterlives. And in their case, afterlives simmered silently, even causing temporary separations on more than one occasion. Any questionable conditions arising from a smile, a touch of a hand in an otherwise presumed innocent gesture, might otherwise be misconstrued and suddenly shine a glaring light on old suspicions.
Paco’s life with Tula had grown into a delicate balance over the years. Their life experience had mellowed their passion with age. It seemed as though their wisdom was reshaping their priorities. Their desire to live a peaceful existence seemed to temper Tula’s suspicions, while causing Paco to try harder at pleasing her. Clashes of disharmony lessened over time, as Paco approached retirement. Still, a client might come in at the last minute and cause Paco to delay his trip home, and to take a later bus, which in turn made him miss the earlier ferry; a sequence of events that could cost him an hour’s delay or more. But Paco avoided such situations once he’d bought a family car, in spite of the fact that Paco had never learned to drive. His son, my brother, Paquito, would pick Paco up at the barber shop. After standing, circling the barber’s chair and often having to lift children into their special seating throughout the day, Paco was grateful to leave the shop. And with Paquito waiting to chauffeur him to Levittwon at the end of his day, he was more than ready to leave the shop and enter the waiting car and be driven directly home. Often, I'd tag along with Paquito and accompany them. On such occasions, we'd stop along the side of the beach and have a snack of fried chicken innards and a shot of rum and maybe a beer at one of the kiosks by the side of the ocean.
In his heart, Paco was a family man. He had suffered a hernia on each side of his torso in the course of his career as a barber, when he lived in New York City. And by his early sixties he’d wisely relegated controversies such as questions of his loyalty to his wife, to his past, where they belonged. Tula was coming around to the new truth, although perhaps a bit grudgingly. Her suspicions were now presented more as humorous afterthoughts, rather than outright accusations. This proved to make their conversation increasingly positive. It also brought them closer to one another. Their joint efforts brought their relationship, and therefore, their marriage, to a happier, peaceful place. It was a comforting relief for us as a family. But, other differing ideas concerning expenditures would not be avoided. Although in this, Paco had thought ahead, having long ago considered the potential for trouble his long awaited win could bring. Paco had worked out bills and other financial priorities without discussion with Tula. How much money he would admit to winning and plans he worked on, on his own in advance of perhaps winning in an attempt to ensure his priority list of expenses might be followed. Part of his plan anticipated inclusion by Tula. But, he’d also taken into account that no matter what amount he claimed to have won, Tula would assume the winnings were actually more. He would stick to his plan.
And it was in this more placid environment that Paco one day came to be rewarded. He finally managed to name each winner in all of the six races marked on his racing form. Slowly as one swallowing an overflowing spoonful of a favorite dessert, Paco’s eyes froze on the sight of his list of winners over and over again, in a slowly growing, warming thought that was gaining volume in his head: “GANASTES, CHICO!” - “ YOU WON, CHICO!” – His mind’s voice repeated “GANASTES! – Has Ganado, Por Fin, has Ganado, Chico!” “Finally, you've Won, Chico!”
He glowed with happiness, and it was all he could do to hold his excitement until he could reach home and tell Tula. He closed the barber shop early, leaving one of the other barbers to lock up for him. Tula could not hold back a loud yet short laugh, as Paco finished his statement: “Gane! Gane, las carreras!” “ I won” “I won the races!” She was pleasantly surprised when he came home early, carrying her favorite lechosa sweets usually reserved for holidays. He paid a visit across the street to his daughter Carmen’s house, leaving some sweets for the children and secretly giving Carmen an envelope containing a modest amount of money. He made Carmen promise not to reveal the amount to anyone, a promise she honored. With tears welling in her eyes, she thanked her father.
While Paco continued making his daily picks and filling out the daily racing forms, he no longer questioned if it was worth playing the game. The small amounts he’d invested over the years had finally paid off! Yes, it was a fair portion of a year's salary, give or take some, or maybe better; Paco wouldn't disclose an exact amount, even to us.
AFTERTHOUGHT
You could count this story as one of the rare times in life when everything comes together. Or you can be a pessimist and know that there will be other negative events that could potentially ruin everything. But either way, this STORY is true and worth contemplating; how sometimes fate or maybe faith, can alter one's life. Sure, Paco's winnings didn’t take Paco to incredible heights financially or otherwise. But, his winnings sure went a long way to making his and Tula’s life easier as they entered the last part of their lives. Of course their lives would not be void of negativity. “That’s life” as the saying goes. None of our lives will ever be perfect. But, show me a perfect life and I’ll show you some bullshit. Yeah, Paco years later would eventually develop Alzheimer’s disease and didn’t recognize me on my last visit with him and my mother, Tula. Occasional bickering and disagreements between family members and financial woes will never cease. It's all predictable and expected: It's Life and life is a balance; a delicate dance, or sometimes a storm with intermittent pauses of joy and pleasure and others of tears and woe. Enjoy.
Read also free pages of the author's life story: "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com
