THE END.
There were many interesting days at the factory. Not only the street people I met and befriended, but also those who worked there. They were, for the most part, second and third generation workers. They knew our families and our families knew them, making for the relationship between workers and employers an easy going one. The conditions were not bad; salaries were paid every Friday and the moneys earned, even by bottle washers, were more than enough to feed the family and pay the rent; no cell phone contracts or internet fees in those days. Listening to the radio, drinking a beer, holding a conversation and reading books were still the things to do.
While working at the factory, I learned to “carry” basic accounting ledgers and to deal with merchants, since they would come to the office in order to get “credit”, which was 50% now and 50% in one week. Since the mark up was around 100%, that initial 50% would, in a worst case scenario, pay for the cost of the goods taken. The overall payment rate was pretty good, although there were always those who made a big deal about not being able to pay the remainder of the bill. But these last were the few, not the more. In any event, I learned about dealing with them, setting up their accounts and following up; I learned about the sales process from beginning to end; we had 4 regional salesmen at the time, covering 75% of the national territory. We did not sell in Havana or beyond, with the biggest customers not being in the big cities, but small bars and watering holes in the countryside.
I could not know it at the time, but these basic things I was learning did come back to help a bit many years later, as I became involved more and more in the sales world. I met 2 of our 4 sales “managers”. These were the ones who covered the closer areas to our city; our own province and the province of Matanzas, relatively close by. The other two guys had their cars, but the trip to make it in to the factory was fairly long, so they called their orders in or sent them by telegraph (remember this marvelous means of communication?) and this was dispatched by train to their cities, where the product would then be distributed. Each of our guys had his “company car”, a 1955 Chevy closed wagon in which they went around their territory, taking orders and then delivering the goods.
The two guys I knew were Ramon, a big guy always in his “guayabera” (a typical dress shirt, worn by men instead of a coat or suit; it made for a hot weather friendly garment) and not usually sporting a great sense of humor.
The other guy was Pancho. He was the father of my best childhood friend and, therefore, the target of many of our pranks. His wagon was bright blue (Ramon’s was white) and we knew it had a problem which had never been fixed. The ignition switch was faulty and the engine could be easily started without the benefit of a key. This was a ready made opportunity for a prank and a joy ride.
Whenever we knew that the sales people were coming, another young guy who was working at the factory served as the lookout. He would let me know when Pancho’s car would come around the corner and we would hide behind the entry wall until he came in and parked on the street. After he went in the shop, we counted to 20 and then I would sneak into the car, start it and drive away. Someone else would go to Pancho to let him know that his car was gone, and the show would begin in earnest. Poor guy. I am not sure as to why he did not drop on the spot, since he had high blood pressure and turned red as a beet anytime he was upset. Of course, I paid dearly whenever I went to see my friend after one of these pranks. But he took it in stride and we all had a good time. Besides, being the owner’s grandson did offer a degree of life protection, although there were moments I wasn’t too sure I would come out breathing.
I had been working at the factory now for some 6 months, and enjoying the financial freedom this meant. My salary was 10 pesos per week and, to put it into perspective, a soda cost 10 cents, a bus ride anywhere in the city would cost 5 cents, and a record (yes, a 33 1/3 vinyl type record) cost somewhere around 1.50 to two pesos. On Sundays, I would take the full afternoon and first, take the bus to the movies. Then, before going to the matinee (2 cartoons, shorts, a serial and 3 movies; about 5 hours worth of theatre) I would go to the Chinese restaurant for lunch and a soda, then buy the ticket for the movie and have snacks between the shows. After the shows were over, there would be the bus ride back to the house. All included, about 5.50. So there was still half a week’s pay left. It definitely was a different world then.
One late summer Monday morning, about 10 in the am, there was a commotion at the front door.
-“Compañeros” Said someone who was around 24 years old, long haired and bearded . He was at the door, followed by a group of armed militiamen.
-“Estoy acá para intervenir esta fábrica, en el nombre del gobierno revolucionario” – “I am here to, in the name of the revolutionary government, confiscate this factory”
We all looked at each other and the silence was deafening. Pollux was restrained quietly by the comptroller, Juan, who was standing next to him and knew his man very well. My uncle, my cousin and I had talked about this probability a few days before. Our factory, for some reason unknown to us, had gone unnoticed far longer than other similar places that had been confiscated months before so, in reality, it did not come as a complete surprise when we received this permanent visit. But, it still hurt to realize that the hard work that many people had done, for more than 30 years, was about to be lost.
After the guy was taken around the factory, faking a welcome none of us felt, those of us who were members of the owner family had to leave the premises. And so we did. There was one more hurdle left, and this fell on my shoulders: to tell my grandfather, the original founder and owner.
I took the long way home, in part because I really dreaded the moment I would come face to face with my granddad and also because I wanted to take my time in one last walk through this neighborhood which had brought so much into my life in such a short time. Finally, I arrived at the house and was ready to tell, when I realized my grandfather was taking his nap on a rocking chair, next to the jasmine flower pots, his favorite spot in the patio. He simply loved the aroma of these, his very favorite flowers.
I waited for him to awaken and, when he did, the “speech” I had mentally been working on simply became a blurted bit of news.
-“Abuelo, hoy intervinieron la fábrica” – “Grandpa, the factory was confiscated today”
There were many business people who had committed suicide on receiving very similar news; I was afraid of his reaction because I knew the long and hard years of work he had put into this business. After a few minutes of silence, he turned, looked at me and simply said:
-“M’ijo” –“Son, let’s be thankful we could enjoy it for so many years”. And that was the end of his comments regarding this sad episode. A hard lesson learned early in life, regarding reality and the truly fleeting value of material things. This lesson has been always present in my mind and has helped me get through many a difficult moment in my own life.
End of the postcards from Calle Casales.
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