Coffee for Evelio

A day or two after moving to Miami, I was desperate for a haircut. Steve, my landlord, was the first person I got to know in Miami. Evelio, was the second. I ran into his barbershop by accident and came away with one important lesson.

Steve had suggested where to get a haircut. He told me of a great place, the best in Miami, that few people knew of. There was a terrific hair stylist with whom he could make an appointment for me. But, I mentally paused on the term hair stylist. A vision played out in my mind of a guy with a lisp, methodically stretching my hair out, cutting it with his clippers, all the while his pinky fingers sticking out. Steve told me the best thing about this place was that it was not far and would cost only $35.00. Calmly, I thanked Steve. I asked for the phone number, told him I’d set it up myself and that simply pointing me in the right direction was more than sufficient. I thanked him and went on my way to find a barber shop with a candy cane.

When I met Evelio the barber for the first time, I saw an old man who appeared to never have had a decent meal to eat in his life. He was softspoken and always seemed to smile. Evelio would wear the white barber flock, his name in cursive, that never had a rogue hair hanging out on it. Evelio's hair way gray and thinning, combed back in his attempt to hide the ongoing loss. It was unlikely, I thought, that he’d go for regular haircuts.

Like so many older Cubans, Evelio never lacked for things about which to complain. But, he had a unique way of conveying annoyance at everything he saw as wrong. Evelio would hesitate, look around before sheepishly admitting that something was bothering him. He would speak just above a whisper after moving closer to my ear, while the blades kept churning to cover up his words. Was it worry that still, fifty years later and in the United States, someone would be listening in that would turn him over to authorities?

Evelio feared the wrath of God and hurricanes too. The barbershop had crosses, rosaries and pictures of the Virgin Mary on the walls. He had a hand painted sign that said, in Spanish, “Paying bills maintains friendships.” Another one said, “CASH ONLY.” He had been cutting hair since he was a young man in Havana. Apparently, he worked at the best barber shop back then and was known throughout the city. Sometimes, as I’d listen to him harken back to his hair cutting all star days, I’d feel sad, as if the time and distance from home blurred realities. It does for all of us.

While waiting for my turn, I would observe this kind old man. For being over 70 he’d move with surprising energy and alacrity. But, he also needed someone to keep reminding him of where he had placed a guard, or oil, or talcum powder. That someone was himself. We all talk to ourselves once in a while and Evelio was no different.

For two years I would go to Evelio’s to get my haircut. His barber shop was located in a run down strip mall on the border of Little Havana. There was a dollar store, a liquor store and a coffee shop, from where I would bring coffee for all that were in there. Sometimes, there would be one or two seemingly homeless guys that would wait their turn outside to sweep Evelio’s floors for a buck or two. His shop was hidden in plain sight under a sign that said, simply, “Barber Shop.” And, it had a candy cane. Sometimes, when I would get bored, I would just go to sit and listen to all the old Cubans yell, scream and complain at Evelio’s. It was entertaining. Except Evelio. He’d whisper something in a person’s ear, but I could not hear him because of the clippers.

I realized one day that there were more friends and visitors at Evelio’s than actual customers. He admitted to me that business was not good. Evelio told me that no one wanted to get a quality haircut anymore, no scissors, shaves or men talk. He’d whisper to me about the new generation being corrupted with blowouts, fades, and things unbecoming nice young men. Then he’d jump back look at me and shrug his shoulders, as if accepting his fate.

One day, I told him that I would be moving to the other side of Miami. See, Miami is a geographically a very large city. The area of Kendall where I had bought a house would be 20 miles west of Evelio’s, as far west as civilization dared go before confronting alligators and other nefarious creatures. Evelio was happy for me as he was for any news that I brought him about my life in Miami. Evelio would shake my hand with both of his, wildly, and a genuine smile across his face.

That day, I didn’t know it would be the last time I would walk out of Evelio’s barbershop. Sure, I was moving but I figured that on my way to and from meetings in the future, I could always stop back at Evelio’s to get my haircut, listen to some stories, laugh a little or drink some jet fuel coffee.

In my new neighborhood, they opened a new Hair Cuttery, at a new mall, with a newly paved parking lot. It was so close, I could walk. It had new paint and a synthetic feel. Pictures of the Virgin Mary were replaced by magazine cut outs for some gel or shampoo. No candycane outside the door. Gripes about life and doctors and politicians and Castro and bills were replaced by music, hair dryers and the credit card machine puking out its receipts. My life had become more hectic and the convience offered by the Hair Cuttery was valuable, even though it cost $20.00.

On occasion, I would think of Evelio and how he was holding up. He was one that always told me to work hard, fight but to never lose my soul. Five or six years later, I happened to drive right past the strip mall where I would first go and get my haircut. Everything was boarded up and for how long, I didn’t know. I had to pull in front Evelio’s window, which was now covered with plywood as if awaiting the fury of a hurricane. Mine was the only car in the parking lot. No homeless. No coffee shop. No dollar store. No more coffee for Evelio. I knew he’d be proud of me for my hard work and how I had fought adversity over the past few years.

Alone in that parking lot, I felt a heaviness that made it difficult to breathe. In five years I had not found one hour to drive to Evelio’s to just say hello. Now, his fate that he had so matter of factly accepted that one day in a spirited matter, had befallen him and he was no where to be found.

March back to New England

March is a sophomoric month, in like a lamb and out like a lost collegian. In New England, you don’t know from one day to the next what the weather will bring.

The weather in March makes you feel lost. You are at the mercy of mother nature's whims, a helpless victim. You do not belong to either winter nor Spring. One day you’re winter’s slave, the next day Spring teases your feelings, blows a 75 degree kiss across your cheek, and as you go to return it, you’re met with old man winter’s nose. When the weather man tells you snow is coming, you’re waiting and wanting to die. Then looking at the calendar you can feel reborn. It can get warm and and the air injects you with a new lease on life. You feel as if your whole life ahead of you will not have one down moment. Everything will finally be straightened out in your life and that of all around you.

I remember how every one of my 20 years in New England, without fail, I complained about winter, about Spring, about summer, about fall. Everyone did, that was cultural. But, we had normal complaints too like Republicans about Democrats and vice versa. Traffic. Neighbors. Work. School. Actually, the only years we didn’t complain much about sports was 1984-1986, when even Boston College made us proud.

Complaining about the weather is an undeniable right in New England, like life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. They did not even have to write it in the Bill of Rights. When I began working after college, I recall how people would gather around the window, look out over the parking lot and complain about the weather. Each year it was the same. A coworker would say “When will it stop raining? I hate April!” Or in December, “Look it’s 4pm and it’s already dark!”

In high school, my mother used to get into the mix too. When she she would have to drive me to basketball practice, she’d always proclaim “I hate snow!” in such a way as to insinuate that I had been in cahoots with Mother Nature the night before to make it snow. Of course, July would bring those three weeks of Miami heat and humidity for all to complain about how miserably sweaty and sticky we were, craving for February for just a night. Then in February we’d always wish it were July. August would bring nights of 50 degree temperatures. My friends and I would stand around prematurely mourning the loss of summer, in heavy sighs, at the Friendly’s parking lot, weighed down by sweatshirts. We all knew full well that in little time September would mean one last breath for summer, even if for a few short weeks. But, by then we’d be back at school, so it wouldn’t really matter.

Every August it was the same, every May was the same, as was every July and every February. It was the same in 1997 as it was in 1987 and as it was in 1977, only cars, clothes and governors changed. But we had to treat each month, each season, each year as if it were the first one we had ever lived and the last one we might live, for that is how special it was to live in New England.

My father wore plaid and hated rap

In middle school, high school and college, my musical world revolved around the likes of Doug E. Fresh, De La Soul, Big Daddy Kane, Erik B and Rakim and Run DMC. Once introduced to rap, I held it close like a drunk the bottle. Many people were bewildered by me: a rap connoiseur, from white suburbia, way before it became popular with that demographic. Rap came and went for me and left me a lesson.

Back in the day, whenever I drove anywhere, the smooth sounding voice of Q-tip would ooze out of my speakers for the world to hear. I’d listen to how Erick and Parrish shot the sherriff, the potholes in De La Soul’s lawn or BDP’s philosophy. Sure, most rappers couldn’t differentiate between a c-note and a c-chord. But, that was not the point. The lyrics were fresh and fun, DJ's were real and there was real scratching, pioneered by Grandmaster Flash. Rappers were classical poets and rapped about their sneakers, or how good they could rap, or about dancing or other innocuous themes. Also, who could forget the beat box masters like Doug E. Fresh, the Fat Boys and Biz Markie?

Rap got a bad rap. There were many positive and good messages conveyed to listeners. Stop the Violence. Streets of New York. Don’t Curse. The Message. There were so many more. Rap was once legitimate. It had a roster full of talented artists that provided a venue for those who otherwise would have had no voice. There was political rap like Public Enemy and KRS One or playful like Heavy D and Kid’n’Play. There were battles (LL Cool J vs. Kool Moe Dee). It was a rich and deep movement of music, culture and freedom that is now lost.

Today no one will listen to songs like How Ya Like Me Now, Paid in Full, or Stop the Violence. Rap today consists of tales of shootings or references to ones crotch, or some woman’s breasts, or money, bling, cars. If you can swear, rhyme without reason, brag about your Tech-9 or your ho's, you may just find yourself on BET, MTV or blaring out of car speakers at a stoplight. The beats and lyrics are bit and recycled and lack creativity. Once, I asked a person younger than I buying a Souljah something or other CD. "Hey--you ever hear the Symphony? Raw?" I might as well have asked him if he thought the Civil War was fought over slavery or state's rights.

Rap sells today exponentially more than it did when I was "in the house." It has sold out. I do recall KRS-One saying prophetically in 1988, "Here is the message we bring today, Hip-Hop will surely decay, if we as a people don't stand up and say, Stop the Violence."

Sometime around 1996, I sobered up and came to realize that rap, as I knew it, was dying. I was passing from one life to another and was closer to being certified parent material. You may not know or recognize the rappers mentioned, or the songs, or the messages. But, that was not the point. It meant one thing to me, to the select few that were lucky to have grown up when rap was underground and in its infancy. Today, it surely means something a whole lot different to the kids, although I can’t quite comprehend it. It was difficult to accept the fact that quietly and quickly I shed that phase and left it behind.

At some point in life, sooner or later, each one of us will realize the passing from one stage to another. My grandparents and my parents went through their stages. Boy, I thought my parents were habitual sighers, because before each complaint there would be a deep breath: “What is that crap you’re listening to?” “Kids these days!” New things spring into vogueness while others, to make room, must die. All things pass but the meaning of our lives hopefully remains.

Not too many years ago my parents could not understand how Kurtis Blow's "Basketball" could have been considered music or much less how anyone could have liked it. To them it was junk, to me, freedom. Now, I walk in the shoes they did twenty years ago as I listen to a corrupted art form. Kids these days, if only they could appreciate good music. I neither see nor derive any benefit from rap today and I can’t stand it. And I only thought my father wore plaid and complained about rap.