SPIRIT CAT

By Jose Bello

             My parent's retirement to Puerto Rico had finally worked out for Paco and Tula after returning from years of chasing the “American Dream” in New York City.  As so many Americans, they were fast reaching retirement age with finances not reflective of those they'd imagined in earlier times.  It was upon this realization, that they decided to use all they'd learned piloting their family through the cold, hard, though memory-filled years, as we assimilated into an American life.  They would commit to one final, concentrated effort, they believed would produce a comfortable and lasting existence in Puerto Rico, completing the circle of their lives. 

              Levittown was then a new housing community on the island, with sections still being built.  It seemed an ideal place for their revival in retirement.  They envisioned a life among people like those they'd known growing up on the island, as well as an emerging variation of ex-New Yorkers then returning mostly under similar circumstances.   A warmer climate, a feeling of home and, in their case, the possibility of Paco acquiring his own barber shop : All excellent reasons to seal their retirement plans on the island.  Their marriage was settling into a comfort zone of sorts, helping them, despite their meager income, to keep faith in hopes of a bright future.  

             Their challenges provided the goals that motivated them daily.  And when Paco finally named all six winners in the daily horse races he had played for so many years, he felt justified in his persistence, perseverance, and loyalty to his hobby.  Winning justified his faith in himself and in a God he knew all along was OK with gambling; contrary to what his church advocated.  He reasoned that if the church could gamble, why couldn't he?  This ongoing conflict, one he kept from the church, was a bothersome source of guilt Paco felt was unjustified, but couldn't shake. 

              He felt he didn't have a choice.  What other way could he ever hope to one day acquire the kind of money that could help them to achieve their retirement goals; no matter how slim the hope?  And it seemed that no amount of church going could dispel these feelings that haunted him.  But, this all changed on the day he won.  He felt proud, happy and as a man renewed! His great interest in conditions affecting the outcome of the races, things like track conditions, jockeys, their nuances, weather and such, were things he studied over his lifetime.  His long awaited success had finally arrived!  They now were able to afford to buy the house they'd been renting since their arrival.  And by the time Paco, some years later, was diagnosed with dementia, Tula fell into his care, with the appropriate adjustments.  Change was not only something she embraced, but something she had mastered.

              There was a cat that took to coming by their home. And each time the cat would stop by, Paco would feed him.  Consequently, a bond was formed between them.  Tula was not so taken by the cat.  Soon their sunny Island dwelling, a short walk from the blue waters of the Caribbean, was shared with the visiting cat.  Just to put things in perspective, I remember when we lived in New York City and my father complained in frustration at the “little freeloaders who contributed nothing, while invading the tenements,” in reference to the rats and roaches who “insisted on living in the tenements among the tenants.”  In their new home in Puerto Rico, it was a very different story.  And my sister Carmen and her family lived close by.   

               We agreed it was a good thing to see our parents, whose marriage had previously been marked by bickering and arguing, now settled into a fertile family life despite the fact that the cat was pampered by Paco and tolerated by Tula.  I think that bit of a wedge provided one of a number of small challenges that helped bring them closer together.  Paco had continued attending the small Evangelical church in Levittown, until he was placed in the hospital.  His Pastor continued visiting Paco at the hospital, sitting and praying at Paco's bed side, as the machine keeping him alive did its job.  Although Tula shied from committing to the church as Paco had, she was cordial with the Pastor, while resisting his efforts in acquiring her membership to the congregation.  She wasn't one to commit to organizations and such. She worshiped in her own way, by attending masses and studying church readings on her own.                    

             Paco's dress habits had begun to slowly change from the time his dementia had begun. His many years of neat and prim began a slow unraveling.  Strict adherence to white starched shirts and accompanying suits and ties from Monday to Friday, gave way to colorful short sleeved shirts, leisure slacks and even shorts.  Tula was there overseeing these changes, ever watchful and ensuring he didn't carry those changes into eccentricities.  Some changes previously unnoticed began to show; such as his child-like love of animals; staring after a butterfly in renewed wonder, worrying after the visiting cat's whereabouts and safety when he was away from their house; a prime reason for pleading Tula's acceptance of the cat as their pet.  My parents were well known in the neighborhood and wanted to be sure the cat was not already a member of a family.  And it was through neighbors, that they learned that the cat had been abandoned by a family who'd relocated to the mainland.

             When Paco made his case to Tula, she reluctantly agreed, though not before attaching rules concerning the cat's care and feeding, as this was a main concern for her.  We thought for sure it wouldn't last when Paco allowed the cat to solicit food by jumping onto the kitchen table; something so very contrary to Paco's nature before his illness.  He never would have accepted such behavior from an animal in the past. Tula would eventually warm up to the cat.  But the cat and his care was a small matter, as Paco's dementia progressed.  He got into the habit of wandering the area and one day he didn't show up for lunch and Tula began to worry, sending word around in trying to locate Paco.  It wasn't until late that afternoon that someone spotted him having coffee and conversing in the patio of a family living in an adjoining housing complex that no one of us, nor any of the neighbors knew.   My brother, Paquito, went to pick him up and bring him home.  The people there were nice and understanding of Paco's situation and admitted to Paquito their suspicions of his condition, as they'd conversed with Paco.  Paquito apologized for any inconvenience Paco may have caused them.  They in turn were adamant Paco had not been of any burden and that, in fact, they hoped he and Paquito would visit again in the near future.  

             While everything had turned out well and new friends had been made, everyone agreed there was need for him to be watched more carefully, as the outcome of this experience could have been radically different; an accident for instance or a variety of other outcomes could have been possible.  Paco remained the gentle and kind man he'd always been, that never changed.  Tula dealt with her usual daily chores; taking care of the bills and other mundane responsibilities which took up much of her time.  And with this potentially dangerous occurrence, she thought it prudent to put out the word to friends and neighbors to keep an eye on Paco if they saw him wandering off  near the outer parameters of Levittown.  She also took on some of the care and feeding of the cat.  As for her shopping and errands, she got help from my sister, Carmen, our brother, Paquito and on occasion, Carmen's husband.  She took care of doctor's appointments for Paco and herself, as well.   When they needed a ride, Paquito, my older brother, could be counted on.  He lived with my parents during some of this time.

  

             Tula had allowed the cat a sleeping space, curling up at Paco's feet, nestled among his covers.  Never would I have believed such a bending of my mother's rules, prior to Paco's illness.  While he'd always loved animals, Paco had, in the past drawn limitations to the closeness of animals, always believing a definite space between human beings and animals, domesticated or not, was necessary.  Paco had been raised on a farm; goats, chickens and other animals ever present, a fact he was very proud of.  As a barber, the importance he placed on cleanliness had manifested, before his illness, in his meticulous manner of dress.  He only used high quality scissors, straight razors and other tools he sanitized before each use.  His electric hair cutters  were subjected to similar standards and levels of cleanliness.  He placed cleanliness, respect for one another, education and setting goals, as things he considered essential for a good life.  

                                   

              About four years after Paco, Tula and the cat had settled into their retirement, we received a phone call from my mother urging us to travel to Puerto Rico because Paco's health had taken a turn and he'd been admitted to the hospital in Catano and attached to a life support unit.  My wife, Patty and I were living in Virginia at the time we got the notice.  Tula said I might want to come to Puerto Rico and be with my father in his last stage of life and, possibly, to say a last goodbye as well.

             We prepared for the trip. While I didn't look forward to seeing my father so close to death, I wanted to be with him in his last moments, if only to say my last goodbye. It was at a dinner Tula had fixed on the second day of our arrival and after our visit to Paco at the hospital, that we learned that the cat, so prominent in their lives, had been missing for some months prior to our arrival.  We hadn't thought much, if at all about the cat.  Our thoughts, concerns and conversation centered around Paco's health and care.  Although, we learned that the cat had been missing for months.  Tula did not show signs of missing the cat, though his absence was conspicuous indeed.  The fact that his bowl and plate were washed and put away, though not thrown away, I took as signs of her care of the cat and hope for his return.  And Carmen had noticed that there was still a full, yet to be opened, can of the cat's food near the bowl and plate.  Tula seemed to be coping with the obvious emptiness very well  and was grateful for her daughter's help, support and her new family's availability in her time of need. 

             My mother, as always, was in acceptance of the larger hand of God she and Paco always believed was to be credited in all results.  She was proud of her husband, and though she'd not said so in the past, she now readily did so.  I believe she was satisfied that, while she'd not always been happy with all the things that made him the man she'd long ago fallen in love with and married, she was happy with the man she'd ended with.  The fact that Paco helped Tula to soften and accept a pet into their lives, shows a degree of influence and love they had learned to share in the end; one that overcame obstacles.   

                

             I've always felt that cats harbor a mysterious air about them; it may be due to their association with witches and other “cryptic”  characters and events, fictional or not.  But regardless of these supposed influences, I can't deny feeling that this particular cat had influenced my parents' lives. And now that some time has passed, it seems to me that facts placed squarely in place with events that otherwise defy reasonable accounting, may be more easily answerable.  I can't dismiss what I know and have observed about this particular feline and the mystery surrounding his association with our family.  Having known little or nothing about cats before, I don't purport to know a whole lot more now.  But, I feel I've been further educated on the subject if only for what I experienced at my father's burial.  I have to admit that I too now see cats in a mysterious light.  I also now see how much more there is to cats and why so many before me have been drawn to them.  

                                                           

                      

             Although my view of the day Paco was buried is somewhat blurred by the overall sadness and grief present at the event, I can however, remember observing the activities of the grounds keepers and attendees of the burial, as my perspective begins to clear.  I recognized some as neighbors, friends of Paco, acquaintances and fellow church members who'd come to be a part of Paco's last day. It was a time for them to come together and show their respect for Paco.  Warm sunshine filtered through the leaves of the trees that grew among the graves in the small cemetery.  I remember watching the congregation of  his church in procession, walking behind pall bearers moving toward the site of Paco's final resting place.  A small group of, maybe twenty or so, of those who were able to attend;  regular working folk, neighbors, friends, acquaintances wanting to show respect for a fellow member of their church; some lagged behind the congregation from the church, wanting to remain separate, on their own.

                 

              They walked, praying hands ahead or clasped to the hand of someone beside them.  Together toward the open grave they walked.  The pastor led a ceremonial reading, as the small crowd formed around him. Most words were lost to me either by my mind's wondering or the Pastor's dramatic inflections making the words harder to understand; or  was it the distance  I'd placed before us?  It was then I remembered something my father had said to me as a boy. My  mother was showing me how to iron a pair of pants I needed to wear, when my father joined us and said: “We won't be here with you forever, you know.  You need to learn these things we teach you, now while we're here for you to learn them.” 

  

              I stood gratefully in the shade of a tree, as a warm breeze caused colorful plants and flowers to sway gently; the congregation listened to the Pastor's reading.  And I was suddenly distracted as I spotted the figure of a cat perched on a pile of freshly shoveled soil beside Paco's open grave. Looking more carefully then, I recognized the small figure looking straight ahead at the pall bearers, as the long lost cat belonging to my parents! The pall bearers neared the site, carrying the casquet containing Paco's remains. I was sure it was Paco's cat! I quickly turned around, looking for Paquito to tell him what I'd just seen! but by the time I turned again, the figure was gone.  It wasn't until the congregation was moving away from the site, that the figure reappeared again near the mound, as I was headed out of the cemetery.  I whispered to Paquito, a few steps ahead of me, then: “That was Paco's  Cat!”  I whispered.  We both stopped abruptly turning to face the cat at Paco's grave.  People leaving were forced to maneuver around us.  We stood fixated on the cat, unable or unwilling to move, watching the cat.  Then suddenly he glided from mound to monument, stealthily past everyone, until he was finally, out of sight.   

                                                            AFTERTHOUGHT                  

x

                   I have come to believe that Paco's altered view of life in his dementia, was a blessing that God bestowed upon him in order for him to experience an innocent peace in his final days.  I was unprepared, however, for the stone like presence of whose artificially warmed hand I held during my last visit with him at the hospital.  I feel sure Paco missed his prized pet, companion and friend in his last days.  Paco will be missed and, yes, I believe they will meet again.  

                                                               THE  END  

Read also free pages of the author's life story: "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com  

PACO HITS THE HORSES

                                                                                    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

     

NOT JUST ANY JOB

by Jose Bello

          It was near eight o'clock on a hot August evening.  Thank God for air conditioning.  Annoyingly I'd picked up a fare that took me straight into the mouth of the lion; the west side Port Authority.  It was still daylight and I'd hoped to stay in the Bronx until sundown.  Although the trip down along the Hudson River was pleasant enough, taking a neighborhood where I'd done a considerable amount of growing up in just a few years, it wasn't compensation enough to be stuck in the human soup at the Port Authority.  I'd just dropped off a family trio of husband, wife and eight year old boy.  They'd come to  meet up with the kid's older brother on furlough from Fort Dix. 

          It was a mess, with everybody going everywhere; suitcases, packages, a conglomerate of odors, some fragrant, but mostly crass.  I hurried to put my off duty sign on before dropping the family off to look for their bus from New Jersey.  I hurried to fill in my trip sheet, hoping my next fare would take me uptown.  Nothing but “yellows,”  limos, vans and people, in the midst of Manhattan concrete, exhaust fumes and trains rumbling underground.  A lovely variety 'soup' consisting of  “broads” Sinatra sang about, the “Bo-jangles” Sammy Davis Jr. sang about and the endless hoards nobody sings about!     

          I figured someone would soon come yanking at one of the doors, anxious to get home after a day's work, to a tree lined street, way upstate somewhere and the hell away from here.  I wondered about the deals I'd heard some older cabbies talking about back at the garage.  It seems one could make deals with folks heading out to Connecticut or somewhere out of the city; usually somebody who'd missed a train and just wanted to be home at a negotiable price.    

          I could smell hot dogs soaking in a long day's hot water, just yards away, reminding me I should eat, before being consumed by a thumping headache.  But hey, if I held off for a couple of fares I could with luck, be closer to a real meal of meat and potatoes at one of the Irish joints with the steam coming up from the warming pans.  Just then I felt a jolt from a hit at the right rear bumper. I swung my head around to see a yellow cab backing up. He'd just dropped off some passengers and ran into my bumper as he tried to rush off.  He too wanted to be elsewhere picking up his next fare. 

          We exited our cabs, meeting at the back of mine.  The guy was older than me.  His slick dark hair, tan chinos, white shirt opened at the top and shiny brown shoes, indicated he wasn't my contemporary.  After assessing the potential damage, I could see that aside from the many old scratches and evidence of bygone damage, there was no new damage.  It had been no more than “bumper knocks” and in the cabby experience, not enough to ruffle any feathers.  We both agreed.  But, as I was about to get back into my taxi, this guy looks at me, a serious face quickly fading into a big smile and said:  “You're high, anyway man.”  Then he turned and got back into his cab and drove off.  I guess he mistook my tired, bleary eyes and disheveled appearance for being “High.”                                              

           I give great credit to my roaming attention span, born of my 'child like' curiosity, which is at least in part, the reason I never feel boredom.  Instead, I take a periphery interest in nearly anything or everything.  My mother used to say I was easily distracted.  I must agree.  I guess that's why my mother, an accomplished pianist, gave up trying to teach me to play piano.  I imagine that my subconscious mind borders close to the surface, fortuitously helping me to develop insights otherwise lost.  “Who thinks of that!?” - Indeed.  And why? I find it fruitful.  And I'm grateful for this process which I credit with my decision to becoming a cabby, among other critical decisions I've made.  Although, I've always felt that had I admitted this to anyone, I'd be looked upon as a “kook” or a crazy person.  Thanks to retirement, I don't have to care.

          Well, I happened to like driving a cab.  It was good and right for me.  I liked not going to work mornings, dreading having to spend eight hours or more, laboring at something I had no interest in, while wishing I were somewhere else.  Even those jobs that were of some interest, were spoiled knowing that I was treading water in a sea of workers focused on keeping their jobs.  It seemed for a while that maybe I should listen to others who advised ways to deal with the back biting, politics, pretending and putting up with the usual bullshit as so many others did.  “Everybody puts up with shit at the job, man! You think you're special?!”  was a typical response.

          For a long time, my answer was “no.”  But, in time I began to feel that if “taking shit” was the answer then, I would leave a job as soon as I saw shit coming my way.  I didn't care about the consequences.  I would bear the pain.  And I did.  Until I found driving was my answer.  And you can tell it was, because I'm still writing and talking about it.                                                            

          New York City is divided in ways that in all the years I lived there, I couldn't be bothered trying to figure it out.  “I'm going down to the “Village” man.”  Oh, yeah, the “Village” huh?  Well, have fun, see ya' later.” You say you'll be over at a party at “Hell's kitchen?”  You know, lately I've been hearing a lot about “gerrymandering” and “redistricting.”  I'd known all along about Richmond/Staten Island, The Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens and Manhattan.  Peter Cooper Village, I learned about when I drove for a diaper delivery service in Queens.  At about that time I began hearing about other designations assigned to other places unfamiliar to me.  

          Where did they come up with this? And who are 'they'!?  I guess “we” and by that I mean everybody I'd ever known while living in New York City, seemed to have been left “out of the loop”  when it came to “Hell's Kitchen”  “Peter Cooper Village”  “Stuyvesant Town” or whatever, when it came to these names we weren't familiar with. We never received any notice of these neighborhood names within the boroughs.  Maybe ignorance was bliss?  By the time I heard of them, (years into adulthood) who cared? 

            In those days there was no internet.  If you wanted to look into things like these neighborhood names, about their boundaries, how they came about and just about any such information, one had to visit the library and do the work of consulting the proper directory.  A librarian would help you find the proper directory to help you in your search.  All you had to do then was find the information within the directory.  As a general rule, one could not take a directory out of the library as you might most books for “lend” at the library.  

             These books could only be used at the library during their time of operation.  So, it's not hard to see while much of the information that today seems obvious to all, was not as obvious to all back then.  Finding the time and considering the effort of finding such information took some advance planning and interest in a particular subject.  It isn't hard to understand the awe and amazement felt by those of us who lived back then, at the wonder of having access to so much information at one's fingertips, when considering what the alternative was in a bygone era.                                   

          I'd always heard about Chinatown, which I thought sounded like such a mysterious and fun place to explore.  But I found all I needed to get around, was a simple street address.  Those “sub names” only seemed to complicate finding a simple street address.  No one seemed to agree upon borders, for one thing.  Others found it more advantageous to live in “Washington Heights” for instance, than to say they lived in “Hell's Kitchen” or vice versa.  And I was not the only one at a loss, when it came to knowing borders between these designations.  

          Not surprisingly, I never knew anyone certain of exactly where one ended and another began.   I don't know.  They already had a number.  They had already been given zip codes! You need more?  Really?  My solution was to ignore all the names and follow the addresses and their numbers.  Don't get me wrong.  I like the ring of an exotic name.  But, as a delivery driver,  I found it faster to follow the street address. I never did find any advantage to those neighborhood names.

           In New York City, a number of addresses can be pressed into several buildings; each building labeled east, west, north and south.  That meant that if you made the mistake of being at the correct address, but the wrong building, you would suffer a significant loss of time.  Rushing to the wrong door and having the wrong person explaining your mistake, is not only disappointing, but time consuming with cumulative time loss, since returning to the basement and starting over to find the right building was your only option.  And in such buildings all deliveries were ruled to be made from the service area at the basement only.  It took days or weeks to become proficient at the job.  And there was a lot of running and sweating involved.  A delivery person (which in those days were still mostly “Delivery Men”) had to be courteous.  You also had to be responsible for the item being delivered.  And parking in Manhattan was nearly impossible.

          One incident stands out in my mind as though it had happened yesterday.  I had a delivery to make in a high rise apartment on 57th Street in Manhattan:  A very busy street that ran east to west.  When I arrived there, cars and trucks of all types were double parked beside those parked curbside.  I followed suit, parking behind the last double parked vehicle before me.  Running into the building and onto the elevator, I went up to make my delivery (luckily, this building didn't have a service entrance). I  delivered the package within minutes and ran back to the truck.  When I reached the door, I glanced left behind my truck and quickly in front.  Great!  No vehicles vehicles ahead or behind.  

          My truck was glaringly parked a car width's from the curb with no other vehicles surrounding it!  Then I noticed about eight feet in front of my truck stood a tall, large cop in dark blue uniform and white gloved fists pressed into either side of his waist.  “You! You better move that *&%*%$ truck the &%*#@ outta' here, before I kick your &*%#$ ….! Looking back, I know how lucky I was to have been allowed to leave.  The look on that cop's smoking red face is still burned into my memory after all of these years

          So, while my driving skills had an early start (around seven years of age), maneuvering through city traffic and searching for addresses in differing conditions in varying parts of the city, were earned in differing vehicles for varied purposes.  By the time I passed the test and acquired my hack license, I was better prepared than a complete novice.  As a cabby one may encounter people, situations, or events that encompass similar features.  And so, one occasion may easily blend into another.  The same can be said for delivery work.  And this one factor can make it difficult, if not impossible, to decipher these 'when', 'where', 'what'  or 'why' of events within a particular time frame.  And the more time passes, the more events begin to blur with the accumulation of all aspects of the similarities of each occurrence.  Even what actually occurred may come into question.   If someone had asked:  “Where were you on the day or night in question?  Were you alone?  Or can someone vouch for your whereabouts?”  Chances were good that in a court setting, I might have ended in jail. 

          I'm always annoyed that anyone is expected to have that fertile a memory.  Remembering what I had for breakfast the day before can present a challenge!  If I'm to depend on my memory at an actual hearing, I guess I'm more than likely to end up in prison.  And by the way, who among us can recite  the alphabet – backwards!? - without having to stop periodically to consider the letter that went before?  I guess I'd be on my way to jail on this one too, according to some, so called, “TV  Reality Shows.”  “I suppose I'd be forced to take a breathalyzer test, and oops! Too late?  I had already opted for the 'alphabet' test, and there are no 'Backsies'!?  I guess it's off to jail on this one, too!”                  

           Anyway, some jobs tend to become routine after a while.  And no matter how unique or interesting the events or other features of the work may be, to recall when or where they occurred may prove challenging, if not impossible a task.  I was happy to have become a cabby after years of labor intensive delivery driving, among a variety of other work.  In the end, it was driving a taxi that would become the job I would never regret doing.  Today I enjoy writing about my past experiences.  I am grateful to have been able to retire at the first opportunity open to me.  I've written a book about my life and some of my short stories are excerpts from that book, “Marine Tigers:  A NewyoRican Story”.   

 

Read also free pages of the author's life story: "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com