PAT’E PLANCHA (liberal translation: He who walks on a foot like an iron… big, flat and wide).
“Rafelito, dale un trago a Pata” – “Hey, Rafa, give Pata a drink”.
Part of my “job” was to dispense the free drinks every day. These were given out to dock workers who, every time a supply truck would arrive, would come to the back dock and unload the truck, usually for free. Most preferred to be paid in “kind”. Translation: a free drink a couple of times a day. One drink in the morning on their way to the docks and one in the afternoon to get warmed up for the bar, or for the way home.
And it wasn’t just any drink. At the factory, we would produce several types of poison. After dinner drinks; the best selling dessert wine in Cuba, made out of papaya fruit. Also, different kinds of rum, the younger, clear or “white” rum and the darker, oak aged version. One aged for 5 years and one for 12 years. Now, please, these weren’t just any rums, they had been given 1st and 2nd prizes for quality, taste, etc. in more than one exhibition, in Europe as well as Cuba. But, the Piece de Resistance was the “Aguardiente”; literally: “Burning Water”.
Over the years and in different countries, I have drank other “aguardientes”. Some are sweet, some are drier, most are in the league of a liquor, as far as alcohol content goes. If you drink enough of any of them, it will put you out, no question and next morning, the sweeter the version you drank, the worse the headache.
Cuban aguardiente is not sweet at all; it is almost pure alcohol. In fact, we put out two versions of this drink: the milder version, at 90 proof or 45% alcohol. Then, there was the brew that was sold in the eastern provinces. This version was 150 proof or 75% alcohol. This drink, in its two versions, accounted for probably up to 50% of the total sales of the factory. And it had also won more than one prize at fairs and expositions. Probably after one drink, the judges weren’t too sure as to what they were doing.
All the preceding was to establish that this last was the preferred drink of all those who came to the door looking for their freebie. I remember the first time I actually opened a bottle of the stronger version. I made the mistake of doing so a little too close to my face… the cloud of vapor that came out of the bottle almost put me out. And, of course, the guys waiting for their drink laughed at my reaction, saying in the middle of their friendly laughter that I wasn’t still “man enough” to drink this stuff. I guess I am glad about the fact that 49 years later, I have to yet attain that kind of manhood.
One of our more common visitors (also always present at any time we needed to unload something) was Pata (the equivalent of “hoof” – for short). He religiously came every morning between 8:30 and 9am and then in the afternoon between 5 and 5:30 and just as religiously had his drinks.
How to describe this physical specimen of a man? About 33 years old, but looking more like 45. He was tall, about 6’1” or 6’2”, and weighed about 220 solid pounds. He was a light mulatto with green eyes and always ready with a smile and a joke; always after the drink, of course… every morning he would come by and shoot the breeze for a few minutes, take his drink, crack a couple of jokes and then he would go on his way. In the afternoons, the cycle would repeat and, no matter how tired he may have been from a very physical work day, there would always be the flash of the teeth and the joke. He was a definite fixture at the factory, and always welcome by all of us; almost like one more of the guys.
He was but one of the cast of very amazing characters I met while working at Ron San Carlos. And I must say he was one of the most easily identifiable; all knew him around the neighborhood. It is a piece of my life which has never ceased to surprise me, no matter how many times I may go back and review it. Like it happened yesterday and not almost 5 decades ago.
One morning, about 4 months into my eventual 6 months on the job, he did not show up for his drink. I was a little surprised but then, it was just one morning. When the afternoon came about and he did not come at this time either, there was some surprise amongst those of us who knew him. Unfortunately, we had no idea as to where he lived, or whether he had a family. He was just Pata and that is all he wanted others to know and, so it was that we did not know who to contact in order to inquire about him.
About 8 days into his absence, someone who did know of his whereabouts came to ask for a drink. After he drank it, we asked him about Pata. -“Oh, Pata?” he answered, -“He’s coming out of the hospital tomorrow, he had pneumonia and also alcohol withdrawal”, he continued, “I’m sure he’ll come directly here from the hospital”… he paused and with a wink, added –“necesita su trago”… -“needs his fix”.
Sure enough, next day about mid-morning here came someone who resembled the man we knew as Pata. He seemed to have shrunk about 2-3 inches, had lost about 25 pounds and his skin had that sickly pallor which screams hospital room to you. Where there had been a proud, long and sure stride, there was now an almost shuffle movement to his walk. He walked up to the door and stood there; almost was like it would be an exhausting exercise just to talk. We all greeted him and invited him to a drink. At this, he perked up somewhat and looked at us like his saviors. I don’t really think any further descriptions are needed; much to our real dismay, this hard working man had become, in just 10 days, a shell of what he had been. He finished his full drink and then held out the glass (a normal, big size water glass, not a shot glass) and after the second glass looked to a third which, although normally we would not go beyond the first glass, we gave him. He finished it in one gulp and let out a long sigh, as if some life had come back to him.
At this point we realized that this man had literally drunk a full bottle of the 75% stuff, just like you and I might drink a glass of water. After he went on to his daily routine, now with a little more color to his face, we just looked at each other and silently voiced our disbelief. Even some of the hard drinking guys at the office could not actually absorb what had just transpired.
Where is this story going? It is one of the postcards which mark my life. Since that moment, the concept of getting drunk has never been a possibility for me. Yes, I drink. I enjoy a shot of vodka, a glass of wine or two; and no, don’t like beer much. But never will I drink to the point of getting drunk and used to the alcohol; anytime I may have come close, the picture of this destroyed shell of a man desperately drinking his alcohol like it was water, comes into my mind and stops me. I can see Pata before me, like I saw him that day 49 years ago. Something clicks inside of me and a voice which vaguely resembles what I remember his voice was says: “don’t be like me”. Nothing more; but it is enough to stop me dead on my tracks, and I simply answer “thanks, friend…" Then I pray that, in the end, he found that elusive, true peace he was trying to get in the bottle.
Just another page of a postcard of years gone by.
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