Postcards; continued.

Working, walking and meeting people in this neighborhood, on a daily basis, gave me an early opportunity to learn about aspects of life in my city which were totally foreign to me. It truly was an eye opener.

As I stood before the factory doors, it was like a homecoming of sorts. Many memories came flooding into my head of those times past when, as a small child, I roamed the walls and halls within.

-“Dios Mio muchacho, que te dieron de comer en este tiempo?” -“My God, what in the world did they feed you these past years? said one of the old faces, behind a huge Zapata like moustache. He was Pollux (last and only name to which he answered) a third generation worker and the guy who basically ran the production floor. After a big hug he took me around to the back warehouse.

-“Oye Juanito, mira a ver si te atreves a hacerle cosquillas ahora… A que no?” --“Hey Juanito, I bet you don’t dare tickle him now, huh?” Everyone laughed at the comment and they all, as one, came forward to greet me, laugh and welcome me back now as one more of the guys, rather than the kid who was always afoot. It really made me feel good then and it still does, when I think about those moments.

That morning, when I had walked down Casales Street on my first day on the job, now as a bigger guy (although 3 months shy of 14, I was already almost 6 feet tall, making me taller than most Cubans), I began to take in the realities of this stretch of a city I thought I knew fairly well. Parque Martí (Central Park) was only three blocks away physically, but a world away in feeling and style; the club where we went and where we swam, located on the other, swankier side of town, was another dimension altogether; the long way to school going by way of Santa Cruz Street; Paseo del Prado, the longest avenue in the city then and I believe still; the shopping areas, just on the other side of Central Park. What was known to me of the city where my life had begun and developed had nothing to do with this part of town.

It was relatively early in the morning; work started at 8:30am and it was a 35 minute walk from my grandfather's house. As I turned left into Casales street from the corner of Santa Cruz, the world I knew began to physically change. The further down my steps took me closer to where the factory was, the more unfamiliar the environment became. The neatly stacked boxes of empty beer and rum bottles, remnants of a busy and profitable night, were neatly stacked on the outside of the bar doors, the morning employees having done their early work of cleaning up the inside of the shops. Now, with hoses in hand, one by one they would appear at the front doors like mini fire fighters and hose down whatever happened to have stayed on the sidewalk as a reminder of the night before.

Despite the underlying dirt and the many things which were part of the junk being hosed down, the smell in the air was surprisingly clean and cleaning liquid fresh. I would say hello to everyone and they would in turn respond. At first, it was a tentative response; I was an outsider. As the days went past and I insisted in saying good morning, they also began to respond in kind. After a week or so, I was becoming a fixture of their morning routine and some would actually wave their greetings without waiting for me.

During the return walk, in the afternoon after 5 pm, it was a totally different story. At this time of the day, this business sector of the city was actually gearing up to their busier activity(ies) and many of the young ladies were to be seen, almost as if a collective wake up call had gone out up and down the street. Most were somewhere between 17 and death; a few closer to the latter. There were also children who were playing in the midst of the controlled turmoil. This is when I began to understand (remember I was 13) that these people were just that: people like me, save for the lack of social status, education and/or funds my family may have had at the time. I began to also say hello to these ladies and to their kids.

They, accustomed to being looked down on as lowlife, were much less enthusiastic about establishing contact with yours truly. Especially after finding out how old I was (or wasn’t) and that I had no interest in their more readily available services. There was one in particular. Rosie. She was 16 or 17 according to actual years lived, but was closer to 50 in experience. Sometime at the end of her earlier, perhaps more innocent years, she had been a natural brunette but now her hair had been forcibly changed into that sickly yellow that only comes from putting your head in a peroxide bath. In the beginning she had shown an interest in me, and some of the guys who worked at the factory were kidding me about how I had “conquered” this young street lady. At some point we started a conversation; after realizing that my business potential was really low, she asked me why I was showing an interest in “her” people; I simply answered her that I had always been interested in people, and that it was no different at this time.

This was the start of a short and bittersweet relationship, opening my life into a world that was heretofore truly unknown to me; a sub-society with its own rules, where the wrong word or look, or the wrong introduction could be very costly.