Well, it was the moment I had been expecting, or maybe fearing. I was on the side of the road just outside Río Grande, waiting for a público.
I had decided to do it. Get out of the house. Get onto the island. See something else, talk to other people, look outward, not inward.
It is a solitary business, after all, this writing thing. In New York, there are places where writers, poets, artists get together to work alone but with other people nearby. And they hang in the kitchen, drinking coffee, talking about their projects.
And I see why. So here was the challenge—how many of the island’s municipalities could I see by public transportation? And what would I see, what would I find there? And why do it?
Well, maybe just because. And maybe because there’s a whole subset of Puerto Rican culture out there that no one listens to. Or writes about. Or maybe it was just for that best of all reasons…
…just for the hell of it!
Well, Sonia thought it was a good idea, when I explained the project.
“I think Puerto Ricans may be very stratified,” I said, fearing she would sniff criticism.
“Yeah? BOOKS have been written on the topic!” she cried.
And then went on to tell me her público story.
It was early in the morning, she was on the way to work. Behind her, a middle-aged man was whispering his sad story to another.
“Papi died last week.”
“Ay,¡que lástima!” Wow, that’s a shame.
“Sí, but that’s not the worst of it.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“It was me. I was responsible. Listen, I killed my own father!”
“Listen, that’s crazy. I’m sure you’re just feeling guilty. Everybody feels that, after someone they love dies. Don’t worry, I know you were a good son.”
“No listen, you don’t get it. I’m not feeling guilty, I killed my own father, really killed him!”
Sonia, you remember, can’t see these guys, and also, well, can’t help but hone in on this radio show.
Be honest—could you?
“Look, whatever you did, I’m sure it was with a loving heart.”
“That was the problem. I couldn’t say no. He begged and begged me, even though the doctor told him—one drop of alcohol and you’ll die. But he’d been guzzling the Palo Viejo for years. He was going crazy. He pleaded and pleaded with me.”
Sonia is imagining the scene—the old man sitting on an ancient sofa; the sacred heart of Jesus, immediately above his head; the ceiling fan barely stirring the dust of the hot, humid room. The son, anguishing.
“So?”
“So I went to the colmadito and got him a caneca.”
A flask of Palo Viejo rum….
“No,” breathed the other man.
Sonia sees the old man’s gnarled hands, twisting off the cap in desperation, rushing the flask to the parched lips, spilling the rum on his guayabera on the way.
“So what happened?”
“It was terrible! Papi took the flask, drank the whole thing in one gulp, and…”
“Yeah?”
“Fell down dead on the floor!”
You can imagine the silence in the público…..
But it gets better!
“Wow—that’s terrible, just terrible. And how many years did Papi have?”
Ready?
“One hundred and three.”
Sonia is holding her breath, trying not to burst out in guffaws….
The other guy?
Goes on just the same as ever!
“Wow, qué trágico! That’s a shame. What a pity.”
So yeah, it’s a tradeoff. You cede all autonomy, comfort, personal space when you cast yourself to the fate of the público—which may in fact never even come.
Flip side?
Stories like that….
