El Cubano

Juanito always loved the smell that filled the air after it rained in the city. Something about the sweet, earthy aroma reminded him it was summer and that there was nowhere he needed to be in the morning. That relaxed him. He breathed in the reminder and wanted to sigh but was too tired to get it out. Every situation over past few years had just taxed him to the point that he was tired of it all. He’d spent the night driving his cousin, Omar, around the city - tied up by proxy in all the drama that Omar immersed himself in. This night in particular involved his (again) trying to cultivate a new relationship while maintaining a current relationship, by being there for his new love interest when her most recent relationship went sour. Omar loved the thrill of it all, and initially it proved somewhat amusing for Juanito, like a soap opera that he got to play a minor role in; but more than anything it provided a sense of… escape. Escape from the problems immediate family provided.

Conversations with his mother were never something he needed an escape from. She was the kind of stability every kid needs in life, but rarely gets. Anything that Juanito wanted to discuss with her, he could; nothing was taboo for Mamá. More often than not it was understanding what lessons to learn from interactions with Papá and Dani, his elder brother. Papá’s upbringing never afforded him the luxury of learning how to effectively ‘play well with others’ but Mamá helped Juani understand that he was doing the best he could with what he had. Dani spent less time with his mother, dedicating his time to ‘the hustle’ from a fairly young age. He learned to work hard and apply himself to the most profitable of professions at his disposal. It started with selling marijuana in highschool - after graduating he kept his operations more clandestine but immersed his time in them nonetheless. Whatever it was, he was compensated handsomely.

Things in Juan’s life always seemed to change slow enough for no one else to notice, but quick enough to be perceptible to him. Juan was the first to notice changes in Dani’s behavior, and the first to notice Omar's itch for drama; he also was quick to notice his mother’s weight loss, and the fatigue that plagued her smiles and her sighs more and more often. Papá never noticed and Dani was rarely there, but Juanito was acutely aware. When he finally asked her about it (over cards and coffee) - she sighed, and held pause for what seemed like an eternity; then, as if changing the subject, she told him a story about a woman who’d allowed hospital bills to stack up, eventually crippling the family’s finances. The story was so compelling, and the way that she told it so impactful, that it really conveyed the gravity of what she was trying to say without making her confession absolutely implicit. He could still remember understanding the moral of it, without realizing the end that she hadn’t made completely evident.

“What happened to the woman?”

“What woman?”

“The woman in the story, Mami. What happened to her?”

“...she died, Juanito.”

And she did die. But there was not one medical bill received. Not one red cent owed to anyone. Juan knew that he should be appreciative of that - that many people, the people in the story that his mother had told would wish they had it just like him; but as much as he knew that, he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t see the silver lining in his situation at all, and the person that used to help him see that was gone.

It wasn’t until after she’d gone that he realized the impact that she had on each family members relationship with the other. She was Papá’s sense of paternity, and she was the only thing keeping Dani from recklessness, and she was Juan’s sense of normalcy in a world constantly changing. With Mamá gone, Papá would go entire days in complete silence, working all day - and would spend any free days he had in somber reticence. He used to make the attempt to connect with others - he’d go on walks with Juanito and Mamá, watch soccer, and even play cards - he had a knack for Rummy, a game he’d grown up playing. Dani handled Mamá’s passing in a completely different way. He spent much more time with his associates, and recently his mood swings and odd hours had Juanito suspecting that he’d taken on more irresponsibilities. Whatever he was doing was clearly lucrative - and this in and of itself was an added layer of confusion and stress for Juan and he knew it. It was a constant obstacle to contend with: the idea that his father was doing things right, learned a trade and had worked at the same shop for the past 30 years. There was never a car he couldn’t fix, and not a man that Juan knew of that could work harder for longer without complaining. Dani lived by breaking the law and he made more money in a month than Papá did in a year. Granted, he more than helped with the bills, and food - he was a criminal, but he wasn’t neglectful. And after Mamá’s passing, his activities had afforded a lot more compensation, and with that, even more for Juan to grapple with: the realization that often doing wrong seemed more profitable than doing right. The world was turning out differently than Juan had previously assumed. Not even assumed - he had been sure, and now he wasn’t. Juan missed ‘sure’, but as each day went by, it was more and more out of his grasp.

As his immediate family wasn’t bonding and healing at that time, Juan found himself avoiding home as often as possible and had started spending more and more time with his cousins Omar, David and Carlos who also spent as much time away from home as possible and always found interesting ways to fill the hours. One bored weekend in particular, he and his cousins had fallen into shoplifting. It started in the usual way, one cousin had stolen something on a lark, and in each subsequent store that they walked in, a different cousin had to steal something. Carlos had his sunglasses, Omar a hat, and David even managed shoes. Juan found himself in a tight spot - the pressure to beat David’s shoes was immense, but for several reasons that wasn’t a possibility for him. For one, he felt certain he wouldn’t be lucky enough to pull it off; additionally, his father was acutely aware of what Juan owned and what he could and couldn't afford with the money he made doing odd jobs. He held Juan to a much higher standard of behavior than Dani. Besides, Dani was a criminal, but he was no thief.

The cowbell tied above the convenience store door seemed so much more jarring to Juan, upon entering that same old corner store he’d entered time and time before; it was a completely different experience and at the same time it was not at all what he’d expected. Where he’d imagined the store clerk would eye him suspiciously or that other customers would be more aware of him - he was totally invisible, as if he was just another guy walking into the store; but the difference lay in that he imagined that at any moment he might do or say the wrong thing that would break the spell. As he walked through the store he tried as best he could to act normal, and to find something that could fit in his coat pocket that would merit the approval of his cousins enough that he wouldn’t have to do this a second time - he feared that more than getting caught. In all of this though, he felt a paradigm shift that he found thrilling - as if he’d entered another sphere as it were. The same store, but a different store, the same action of shopping but different entirely. This juxtaposition of normal and aberrant was too much for Juan and he felt himself slipping into a more and more emotional state. He started thinking about how different things were now, thinking about Mamá and what she would think, Papá and how things used to be, and what he wouldn’t give for things to be the way they once were - and in that moment, in his scanning the aisles as calmly as he could seem, he saw an ordinary, deck of Bicycle playing cards. Normal. In a perfect, pocket sized case. Undetectable by any electronic anti-shoplifting measures. In a moment it was in his pocket, and Juan meandered his way out of the store. Despite the decision being made on the basis of his own personal impulse, his cousins found it a rather cool choice - except David, of course. Something about a deck of cards struck that balance - it seemed like a cool choice to cousins, but to Juan it was actually his reaching out for ‘normal’.

Little did Juan know that this was the beginning of a practice that would last for a few years. Over time, Juan realized that the margin of behavioral changes that would ‘break that spell’ were actually quite large - if you act normal, people will assume you’re normal; and if you act odd, people will assume you’re high. Once he’d learned this he would occasionally steal decks of playing cards from the stores that dotted his area. The cards were something that his dad wouldn’t notice because they weren’t extravagant like shoes or sunglasses, but something easily overlooked, and perfectly stored in a shoebox, stowed away in his closet. Occasionally he’d take out a deck just to shuffle it, and feel it - running his thumb over the embossed, air-cushioned finish of the cards, hearing their snap as he thumbed through the deck. The white whale of his collection was his mom’s deck, that held in it’s very fibers every conversation and memory ever shared between them, but after her passing they’d mysteriously disappeared. Juan would go through cycles of obsessively and meticulously picking over the apartment in search of those cards, and giving up - only to repeat the process after a month or two. This continued until he noticed the distinct shape of a deck in his fathers left chest coverall pocket, right next to his heart.

Juan realized that he wasn’t getting that deck, and that his father doubtless had the same practice as him - feathering through that deck, smelling the memories that they held and the scent of Mamá’s hands. It was a bitter sweet realization - Papá missed her as much as he did, and secretly had the same way of dealing with it; but that was the shame of it - it was a secret. This grief was not to be shared, but dealt with alone. Dealing with emotions was getting harder and harder to do; stealing had become increasingly easy for Juan, to the point that now it was not providing the same thrill that it once had - and his shoebox was full of, for the most part, identical decks of cards, but the idea of stealing something different felt odd.

On this day in particular, Juan was sitting outside Maria’s building after a night of Omar’s shenanigans. Halfway through the night Maria had found out through the grapevine about Omar’s attentiveness to Dolores in distress. News travels fast in Hialeah. She was quick to make a scene and Omar (with Juanito in tow) spent the rest of the night securing his relationship with Maria - the final stage of which required Juanito to wait outside in the rain. Shortly before dawn the rain subsided, and Juanito rolled the windows down and breathed deep the petrichor emanating from the city streets while he watched the subtle changes in hue that painted the suburbs in a new light. His gaze fixed meditatively on a large house across the street. He must have passed it a thousand times growing up in this section of town. Victorian in architecture but Havana in soul and painted a bright purple, with the exterior molding a deep violet. Normally, the driveway was home to an old, teal 1957 Chevy Bel Air that happened to be absent this particular morning. Juan supposed even old men had their relationships to maintain that kept them out all night. While he thought on that, imagining Omar as an old man, pulling the same shenanigans that he pulls now (but with much older ladies), the realization dawned on him that in that old house was likely an old deck of cards - special in it’s own right in that you couldn’t swipe them from a store, and it would likely never be missed but only regarded as lost - never stolen. And the feeling was back - but stronger. The adventure of exploring that house, getting to see inside and rummage carefully through a house that he’d passed a thousand times without regard to find that small treasure and to have it as the hallmark of his collection - something special and different. A deck without the bland smell of manufacturing, but the smell that time and play brings. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted in that house. It wasn’t just about the collecting, but this was just the break from reality that Juan felt he needed and driven by this desire he pulled the keys from the ignition, stowed them in his pocket and left the car. Crossing the street in the pre-dawn light, he knew the sun would be up before long but he didn’t intend to stay. As he approached the house he could hear guajira playing softly inside the house, and apprehension set in that the occupant may be inside. Suddenly he realized that this was not like shoplifting; walking in a store and perusing the place is normal, the spectrum of normal behavior in the establishment is wide and doesn’t draw too much attention - but walking up to a house and gaining entry is, in and of itself, a noticeable thing, even walking into the backyard is remarkable if you’re not a usual visitor. Juan knew he couldn’t pause and plan this out in the middle of the yard, he’d have to think this through in the moment. So he did the most normal thing possible - he rang the doorbell. If the old man answered or even stirred in the house, he’d play the role of kid looking for his dog “have you seen him?”. As he stood by the door he strained with all his might to hear inside the house for the slightest of stirs, all the while trying to appear as normal as possible; he couldn’t hear a sound besides the music playing somewhere in the house. Before too much longer the sun would be up and he’d be a lot more conspicuous. Satisfied that indeed no one was home he quickly flipped up the corners of the welcome mat with the edge of his sneaker but found nothing. He left the porch and walked over to the fence that led to the back, looked around for any signs of a dog before opening the gate and quickly walking in. Even walking through the small backyard gave a rush of adrenaline, his mind quickly planning what he’d say if he were caught there - “I thought I heard someone crying for help - I thought the old man had fallen and couldn’t get up”. That was a plausible excuse. As soon as he got to the back door he tried it - locked. He flipped the mat to no avail. The backyard was full of potted plants, Juan started looking around for ones that would have been recently disturbed but it was hard to tell having just rained. His eyes darted to the lawn furniture - a table and a chair. On the table was an ashtray and a soggy cigar. He dared to hope, lifted the ashtray and found the key. “Yes'' he breathed as he grabbed it, unlocked the back door, and stepped inside.

The sound of the door closing behind him seemed to reverberate in the air, having broken the silence, but the house remained still and seemed to absorb the sound into the guajira playing softly in the distance. Juan stood still as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, again listening intently for any sound that would indicate that someone was home. The aroma of old books and cigars with a tasteful hint of cologne permeated the air imbuing the house with a sense of personality, even familiarity. It smelled classy and erudite - a gentleman lived here. So much of that back entry way was unexpected that as his eyes adjusted he wasn’t quite sure what to make of anything. On a table to his left he noticed a lamp, and with the sun soon to rise he felt comfortable turning on a light. His fingers fumbled for the switch and found a dangling chain instead; he pulled it. Once lit, the room proved to be an emporium of curiosities. The walls contained matador posters, butterfly collections, shelves with oddities and tables with modest stacks of books. Juan was astonished, his curiosity piqued. But in the next moment, as he scanned the room, out of the corner of his eye he perceived a figure to his right. Immediately turning he found himself face to face with the snarling jaws of a bobcat. His heart skipped a beat and his stomach bottomed; his arms instinctively outstretched, palms up defensively as he stumbled back. But the predator didn’t move a muscle. The moment was surreal, his adrenaline peaked as he caught himself from stumbling back a second time, his eyes fixed on the cat - but not a move did it make. In a moment he realized it was stuffed - the bobcat, as threatening as it looked, was not alive at all. Juan put his hand on his chest, almost to reassure himself that it was ok to breathe again. He kept his gaze fixed on the cat, for a moment afraid that it might spring to life suddenly - but it remained motionless, with only the sound of a clock somewhere in another room and music softly playing. Juan reached out and touched the cat; the firmness of the body felt unnatural, but the fur was soft. Taxidermied animals were an occasional hallmark of the decorations in the room, a few of which in comical attire - two squirrels prepared for matrimony, one in tux and cumerbund, the other in veil and gown; a robin with a monocle and top hat, very tastefully done. A coyote, as real as the bobcat, so well done as to capture a sneaking posture held for eternity. Juan took in the sights and smells as he walked through open French doors into a den. The sun was coming up now and casting rays through the room. In the den the shelves held the books and the oddities adorned the tables. Foreign vases, the reassembled skeleton of what was perhaps a muskrat, vintage black and white photos & tintypes; on a small divan sofa sat two foxes, one dressed in a suit, reading a newspaper - the other, dressed as a high class victorian socialite, complete with a dress, hat, satin gloves and mink scarf; but most impressive of all - on a table in the far left corner sat an absolute masterpiece of a barn owl, perfectly positioned that it looked straight at the visitor as they entered from where Juan stood. The layering of the feathers had been done well enough that the owl actually looked alive. The shape of the face, from the widow's peak to the subtlest of points beneath the beak traced the similitude of a heart, and was so planar, and smooth - painted in sepia tones with the blackest of windows peering out. Juan was absolutely enthralled and, disregarding the rest of the room, curiously gravitated toward the display. Entranced by the bird's life-like appearance and how it seemed to make eye contact, he felt compelled to reach out and touch its face. And as he drew near and reached confidently forward, he imagined for a moment that it was alive, saying softly to himself “Hoooooo”.

And much to Juan’s horror, the owl answered. In that instant, mesmerized by its gaze, inches from touching its face, the owl emitted the most heinous, twisted screams ever to haunt a nightmare anywhere – ever. The sheer volume of it tore through the room and the length of it seemed an eternity – Juan was absolutely petrified with terror. The once beautiful trance had turned in an instant to a menacing nightmare.

“Don’t be scared.” Came a deep, Cubano accent from behind him. “That’s just Nani.”

Dread washed over Juanito in an instant as he spun around to look in the opposite corner of the room that he’d been distracted from surveilling upon entering. There sat the gentleman of the manor, sitting at a large wooden desk, his wiry frame ensconced in a Victorian leather arm chair.

“I-I’m sorry. I-I-I was loo-looking for my dog and…” Juan managed to stammer out, gripped with fear. He felt caught in a web, without an escape, and absolutely helpless. Nani screamed again behind him, long and shrill. Panic turned his heart to stone and pulled it to the pit of his stomach as his mouth went dry and he tried to catch his breath.

“Naniii” El Cubano cooed “You’re disturbing our guest. Come, sit down here. Unexpected as you may be, you're none-the-less welcome.” The old man’s intonations ebbed and flowed like the sea, as if the very act of speaking was an art that he relished. He motioned welcomingly towards a chair opposite the desk. Juan’s first instinct was to bolt, and that’s precisely what he planned to do until he heard his hosts next question:

“You’re the mechanic’s son, no? Joseito?” He was trapped now. El Cubano knew his Dad. If he ran, his dad was sure to hear about this, but if he stayed there was a chance he could talk his way out of this.

“Juanito…”

“Juaniiiito, si. I remember now.” He recalled fondly as he cut a cigar; “I used to see you at the shop when I drop off my Bel Air. You know, your father’s the only one I let touch my car. He’s a very gifted mechanic.” For as long as he’d been in the states, his ‘y’s were pronounced as ‘j’s - and to emphasize statements his meter changed to punctuate each word “a Very. Gifted. Mechanic” - both characteristics that Juani found comforting despite his situation. El Cubano reached across the desk to pick up a matchbook. Not knowing what to think of this ever changing situation, Juanito longed to be back outside, sitting in the car, content with lifting normal decks of cards from boring convenience stores. Knowing he couldn’t run, Juan sat in the chair across the desk as the old man puffed his cigar as he lit it.

“Why does your owl make that sound?” Juanito asked to start conversation and talk himself out of trouble.

“That’s the sound she makes. I don’t know how to say it exactly in English, but you imagine she makes the sound de un búho, but she is una lechuza”

“There are different kinds of owls?”

“Jes. Exactly.” He puffed his cigar as Juanito shifted in his chair. Nani had relaxed back to her previous, statuesque state, the soothing rhythms of Cuban music resonating from a distant radio through the morning light streaming through the windows. “But you didn’t come to talk about owls - what brings you, this morning, to my humble home.”

“I thought I heard someone crying for help.” Juanito lied, trying to gain some ground.

“So you rang the doorbell.” El Cubano smiled without a hint of maliciousness but the patient understanding of a grandfather. Juanito felt stupid; honesty was doubtless the best option here. “Do me a favor - to your left is a cigar box, under the clock. Pass me what you find inside.” Juanito looked to his left and espied a Cuesta-Rey Cigar box. Inside was a dark red box with gold lettering “White Heather *Luxury* Habana Cigars”. He passed it across the desk. El Cubano slid the top of the case, and, much to Juan’s surprise, removed a deck of playing cards and began to shuffle them. Juanito felt caught in his scheme but was nonetheless taken by the novelty of this deck of cards, so clearly precious and old, but still well maintained.

“Do you play cards?” He asked kindly, and with a sly smile added “or just steal them?”

“H-how did you know?” Juan felt laid bare.

“I’ve seen you steal them once or twice.” He confessed as he cut the deck and puffed from his cigar. “From then on, I see you walk in a store and eventually you make it to that section. Don’t worry - your secret’s safe with me.”

Despite finding out that his secret was known, he felt a bit more at ease. If the old man had wanted to out him, he would have done it already. And if he was able to keep that secret without feeling compelled to alert the authorities, then perhaps he could be convinced to not mention Juanito’s unlawful entry to his father.

“So?” He puffed while shuffling, more as meditation than randomization.

“So what?”

“Do you play?”

“I used to, a lot.”

“You know how to play hold’em?”

“What’s that?”

“Nevermind. What do you play?”

“Rummy?”

“I know the one. I’ll deal us in” And he dealt them in.

So they played. One hand led to two, then two to three, and before Juanito knew it he was having a good time again. Somewhere along the way they struck up conversation and Juanito told El Cubano everything that had been on his mind; all about his mother and how he missed her, and how different the dynamic in his family was after her passing, his father, his bother, his cousins, the shoplifting - but not about his plans to steal his deck of cards, the very deck of cards they were playing with then. Something about the medium of sitting down, and playing cards made it that much easier to talk, just like he had with his mother in days gone by. And as he got it all off his chest, and he began talking less and just playing the game - he realized that it wasn’t that things had changed, and it wasn’t that he desired to go back to a time when those changes didn’t exist - it was that the communion that he had with his mother, the person who he discussed all changes with was gone. It wasn’t the deck of cards, or even an escape from the chaos, but the playing and discussing the chaos.

“You and your father are not so different, Juanito” El Cubano remarked. They’d long since stopped playing and had continued to sit and talk. “I believe you’re both missing the exact same thing. And it’s not the playing, it’s the communion. Play first, and the talking will come in time. He needs it, as much as you”

“What about everything else?”

“What else?”

“My cousins, my brother, the craziness that’s going on in their lives.”

“Those are things your father has to deal with too, and he’s likely more concerned about it than you.” Answered the old man, looking out the window, checking on Maria’s house. “Speak of your cousin, it seems he’s patched things up with his amoricita and he’s looking for his ride.”

Juanito was silent for a beat, reluctant to leave. It wasn’t the same as playing cards with his mom by a long shot, but there was still something calming about the experience and he wasn’t in a hurry to leave it.

“Can I come back?” El Cubano smiled.

“On the condition that you play with your father at least a few times, then come back by.”

“Ok” Juanito smiled, “I will.”

El Cubano stacked the cards and slid them back in their case and closed it, then slid it across the desk. They came to rest just in front of Juanito.

“Hold on to those for me.” he said in a grandfatherly tone. “Keep them somewhere safe till next time you visit.” Juanito had not expected that at all and in light of his original intentions, he felt he didn’t deserve the gesture. But El Cubano insisted, and Juanito graciously accepted.

Juanito left out the front door and walked down the steps into the Florida heat. Once again, he’d experienced that paradigm shift, a new normal - in understanding that it was the sitting down, and playing that facilitated the communion that he missed so much. It wasn’t the deck of cards, or even an escape from the chaos, but the playing and discussing the chaos that made a difference for him, and his father both. That’s what they both missed and needed; and motivated by that realization, Juan found his desire to steal decks replaced by a drive to pick up where Mamá left off and start communing with his Papá.