Friday, January 22, 2010

From Puerto Rico, With Love...


The tides shift once again. In retrospect, it seems that these turn on their own time and sometimes -and only sometimes- these tides of life allow us to think and believe that we have some control over what is going on. Perhaps it is better this way; otherwise, we could not blame "circumstances" for whatever ails us.

Around late springtime of 1966, there were some problem clouds brewing around the house. My father, trying to get some potential income to move forward, had teamed up with a partner. Their intent, if my memory serves me right, was to establish a Cuban food restaurant and store somewhere in the metropolitan area. I do not remember where. The long and the short of this story was that not only did the project never get off the ground, but the partner had used funds he should have never used. So, financial clouds came over the household and, whenever financial clouds come over the horizon, an emotional outburst is sure to follow, destroying a lot of personal dams along the way.

This was no different. My earnings were primarily going to school costs and my own expenses, so I could not help much at the house. The end result were some confrontations and my looking for a small apartment where I could park my weary bones at the end of the day or night. I did find a garage apartment in Hato Rey, actually close to the university, and this would do for the time being. Actually, I did not now it then, but this move would definitely have consequences later in the year.

In the meantime, Sheila and I were having a good time. Funny, but the cultural baggage can be very hard to carry at times. Puerto Rico was definitely a full blown latin culture, with all the machismo this implied. Having been brought up by a working mother as well as two working aunts and a very non-domineering grandfather, I was pretty much –even though I loved to go out and party- a person to commit to one partner at a time. So it was interesting when Sheila one day asked me why I did not have affairs with other women. –“People are saying that maybe you don’t like women enough”, she told me one night. It was really weird. If you truly think about this, it does not speak well for the person who was doing the chastising, being she the person who would bear the negative impact of an outside relationship. Actually I did have a couple of “affairs” in those times when we were in the middle of a “separation” but she never knew about them.

One to remember was with a singer for a NYC based orchestra, several years my senior, touring then the San Juan show/cabaret circuit. While the band leader(s) stayed at a main hotel, the entourage stayed with us. I met “Connie from The Bronx” (who, after make up and a fake birthmark on her forehead was put in place, was billed as Krishna, the singer from Calcutta) and she became my nightly partner (except Thursday - Saturday when they were playing) at the Piano bar. She would sing duets with Luis and sometimes I would join in a song or two; we really had a good time. This lasted until the group’s contract expired and had to come back to the States, about 2 months after we had started going out. She actually was willing to break her contract in order to stay and make something out of the relationship; I was far from ready to do so and said this to her in a long conversation. So when the orchestra left for Las Vegas, she left with it. But it was truly good while we were together.

In the summer of ’66 I went to work at a summer camp as a counselor (yeah, me, a summer camp counselor... wanna make an issue out of it??). Amongst all the kids assigned to my group, was “Billy the Kid”. Actually, Billy was a small, thin, dark haired 10 year old who had some issues, coming from a home where there were some problems. It took the better part of the first two weeks but, somehow, we broke the ice and became friends of a sort; he became my assistant with the group. He turned out to be one of those many children who get very little attention at home, for the oh-so-many reasons of which we are all aware. This story had a happy ending; he adjusted well into the group and one day, well into the fall and the early part of the school year, I was at Sears in Hato Rey shopping for some “whatevers”. I heard a child screaming my name, followed by a flash that ended up in my arms. It was Billy, whom I had not seen since camp had ended some 4 weeks before. This was a nice; a “for-the-memory-book-moment” and it made all the summer sacrifices well worth while.

At the beginning of the school year –what was to be my junior year at the Inter- my digs were the apartment I had rented during the summer, after the decision was made to leave my father’s house. This change in life brought me to another one of those “crucial” decision moments, except that I –as usual- did not know this. In the midst of all the little things going on for some time, I had not bothered to put money aside for the full amount of the tuition which would be needed. My pride could (should) have been put aside and I should have gone to my father for a loan which, I’m sure, he would have found the way to extend to me. But having left the nest in a semi-huff and all that, my pride was bigger than I and the decision was made to go into the semester on a part time basis, rather than full time. Again, no consultation with school counselors for me, that was for those who did not know what they wanted… right? Only variable that was not put into the mix, was the date, what was going on at the time and the true consequences of doing what I did.

So, I registered mid September of 1966 as a part time student, not realizing that the only thing that had kept me from the military draft had been my full time student status. In those Viet Nam build up days all universities had to report to the military draft board on the students’ status, especially those who were on –or had shifted to- a part time basis. On October 12, I received a call from my father.

–“You have an official letter here” he said and, after a few seconds, he added

-“it seems like some sort of notification”.

When the envelope was opened I realized that, once again, my world was shifting.

Uncle Sam Wants You… You are hereby required to come to a physical exam at Fort Brooke, San Juan on…. and there was a date and time which did not give me many options. On that morning, my exam consisted of a knee flex, a vision check and body temperature check.

“You are fit for service” said the doctor, after a very cursory look (short of being dead and stiff or blind, all qualified as fit for service then) he added

–“Be ready to report to Fort Brooke for service in the US Armed Forces on October 20th at 10:00am”

This gave me about one week to get my things in order. Sheila put together a “send off” party which was an all night affair at a private room at “El Convento” in Old San Juan, the premier night club restaurant of the time. A select group of friends was invited and the idea was that they would take me directly from there to the reporting place on the following morning...

So it was, on the morning of October 20th , 1966 I became one of a good size group who left the beautiful island of Puerto Rico on a journey which would be at least life changing for all and for some, a journey without return.

Be Well…

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