Hard Rock Blues

Who the hell travels out of country and then streams like lemmings in brown socks immediately to a kitchey American franchise restaurant to spend their fleeting 12 hours of shore leave in wonderful Old San Juan, Puerto Rico? 

Fearful and brain-washed Americans, us sad sheep of a civilization; people neutered by strip malls, by fast food, by mall cops but, mostly by too much comfort and too much ease.  Sadly we are driven by an instilled need for riskless situations.  We, us, you, all of us have been hypnotized by safety, by the security of the mediocre…..

 

Something was amiss, seemed off, wrong, sad, even to our young man’s eager eyes. The Starbuck Brothers and I were leaning against a heavy, anchor chain that acted as a barrier along the sea wall rising from the cruise ship docks.  We were watching people stream in an almost unbroken line from the breezeway of our cruise ship, up the Cll Comercio, a narrow cobble street, past the lovely Edificio Federal building and into the smoked glass doors of the Hard Rock Café. A few of the more independent beasts broke rank and meandered to the curio stands or took snapshots of the marina, the sea or the beautifully lit twilight walls of Old San Juan.  In the distance the ramparts of ancient Fort San Juan which stood like a tarnished old crown on the square head of a definant, crumbling king. 

These white, everyday people were not more than a block into the quaint splendor that is Old San Juan. Not a goddamn block.  After a long wait and poor service they would be treated to a generic cheese burger, coke and a t-shirt to mark the occasion.  The younger adventurers would likely then walk next door to a bad discothèque attempting, but failing, to recreate the shirtless revelry of spring break Mexico. The older cruisers marched back as perfect penguins to the pre-conceived, spoon feed entertainment of the ship’s ballroom filled with feather-headed chorus lines.

We were still young men, early 20’s, wet behind the ears in societies eye but despite our spry, puerile hearts we knew there was something wrong with the scene before us……a magnificent Caribbean night in a forgotten and mysterious place and the best these people could do was a block and a burger……. it was just sad.

The Starbuck Boys and I shook our heads, fuck that. We walked into the narrow European streets of Old San Juan.  Smiles and nods greeted us as we past old shop windows; candy shops, perfumeries, textile stores, actual cobblers, glinting jewels behind sagging, lead windows 200 years old.  Further we walked till these typical tourist shops dwindled, till the smiles we encountered were of local maids or workman walking home with carts of fresh vegetables and paper wrapped fish.  In a modest square that smelled like parament and the truth of 500 years of life; life trapped in the mortar like bugs in amber.  From a bank of rotary dial phones I called my parents, collect, just because I wanted to hear the operator mention Puerto Rico; I hadn’t told them I was going.  They were surprised.

Leathery old men played dominos and held palaver around concrete tables, groups of hunched-over women laughed, their dry, corn-husk cackles scraped the night.  It could have been Seville or Porto or 1680.  We were the only white people for blocks.  We wandered on passing groups of energetic youth laughing, juggling soccer balls, grab-assing with obsidian haired beauties.  They would stop and check us out, silent chin-pops of curious acknowledgement exchanged. No hostility.

Eventually we found a bar.  A tiny, six stool, open air-joint where two of four walls were roll-up garage doors.  It had a juke box with decent tunes, and if you were shooting pool from on corner of the table your ass hung out in the street.  It was the right kind of place.  We paid 75¢ for draft Bud, like I said, it was the right kind of place. 

Almost as we stepped “inside” a tropical rain started to fall, heavy all at once.  The cobblestone splatters created a beehive drone, an opague wall of sound that isolated us from the outside world.  We played pool and drank beer.  You could lean against the juke, sip a cold brew while the other hand was outside showering in 80 degree rain.  The butt of your cue would get soaked when shooting from the southeast corner.  Bosso nova and latin jazz bounced. If you add up the combine age of the Starbuck Brothers and I we would have been half as old as the next youngest patron.  The bartender was an English ex-pat living the Parrothead dream.  We bought our drafts ten dollars at a time.

A scraggly, young man came in begging.  The bartender warned us off buying him a beer but for 75¢ we didn’t care, we needed another to play partners pool.  For the next few hours we drank beer and shot pool with a Puerto Rican bum.  He was a nice dude, with enough English to thank us for the beer.  He smiled a lot.

It was time to speak with the whales.  The rain had stopped, the night was hot, moist, smelled like a new promise.  We shook hands, thanking the bartender. 

“Wanna smoke a joint?” we asked the bum.  He put pitched fingers to his dirty lips, questioning with his eyes.

“Mar-i-hauna?” he pronounce each syllable with surgeon’s care, “Si, Si, Si!!!!  Come, come !!”  He beckoned, smiling and trotted down the street.  Looking back, urgent, excited, waving with his ungroomed hand.

“Hermanos, come, hermanos, hermanos” he called.  We followed through twisting streets, narrow alleys; we hand no agenda but to make the boat and its midnight departure.  We finally emerged from the tight city walls to a narrow avenue running along the coastal cliffs.  

“Meet my f-r-i-endss, my a-meeegos” he waved and hopped over the barrier along the edge of the street, dropping mostly out of view and scampering a few feet out onto a ledge.  He whistled.  Soon dirty men started to appear, like a poof of bum magic, two, then four, then six.

This is literally, the spot we smoke the joint

The Brothers and I looked at each other, wary.  Suddenly we were outnumbered by Puerto Rican vagrants standing only feet from a 70 foot drop into the ocean. 

“Stay close together and away from that fucking edge” I said under my breath.  There was a moment where distrust hung as thick as the sea salt in the temperate air. The surf thundered on the rocks far below. 

“Todo bien, todo bien!! I-t OK.  D-eees m-y f-r-i-ends. OK OK”, he had sensed us prickle.

Soon eager handshakes passed, there was no danger.  Our hobo friend was beaming with pride at having us meet his compadres.

We laughed together passing joints as our legs dangled over the sea wall.  The antique mortar sticking to our shorts like Velcro, the far off lights of San Juan twinkled across the heaving sea, toots and bells from passing vessels echoed off the rocks and walls, we were beautiful in our simplicity.  Our bum friends talked and pointed excitedly, telling us stories we could not understand.  We were three white boys suddenly friends with a hand full of Puerto Rico’s homeless, in a city centuries old amid a humid tropical night; it was not your usual situation, was not in any travel guide but both sides were equally proud of the other. 

We had a ship to catch, leaving our friends to a life unknown.  We walked back toward the docks passing a loud group of drunken Americans.  Each had identical, white Hard Rock Café t-shirts.  They were on the patio of the Hard Rock Café. 

We didn’t have cool, t-shirts like they did but were willing to call it even.