40 Years/40 Lessons. 27. The clock.

Illustration by Ana Lense Larrauri/The Miami Herald

Image courtesy of www.wallpapers.com

Time, they say, cures all. Or, time, they also say, mends a broken heart. “Time passes, but are you?”, read a note hanging above the blackboard in one of my college classes in the 60s.

But, what happens when time simply stops as if the hands on the clock somehow got stuck perhaps too tired to keep marching on, inertia settling in for the long ride as in a 53-year deep sleep with one coming to the realization that not only is history repeating itself, but it is not just time that has suffered from inertia.

The famous images of Dali's melted clocks come to mind as I think of the story I am about to tell you. You may ask: why is Mario thinking about clocks that are melting, their hands stuck?

This story happened recently. I have sold my big family house, the place where my wife and I raised four children, hosted countless parties, cried, laughed and welcomed the first grandchild (and then 10 more after her). It comes with the territory that a 27-year-old house needs some fixing prior to turning the keys over to the new owner. The ravages of time and occasional inclement Florida weather can manifest themselves in the bathroom plumbing or in a series of small cracks above the garage door. There is also the occasional broken tile on the roof. It all needs repair if one is to give the new owners a key to a house that is in tip top shape and with everything functioning well.

As a result, I have a crew doing work on our master bathroom. I want it to be re tiled and looking fresh before the new owners take over the house. After all, this old girl of a house was once a beauty queen, and, as such, it is still pretty enough that it deserves to get a little loving tender care in the hands of a dedicated crew of contractors.

This morning, the contractors added a new colleague, and he quickly introduced himself. A man about 24 years old, with a big smile and the look of someone scared. He seemed to be stepping on mud or perhaps walking on clouds, don’t know which, when he came in thru the front door.

He acted very respectfully and proceeded to tell me that until three weeks ago he was a singer with a Cuban orchestra, and that he abandoned it the moment he had a chance when the band came to play a gig in Canada.

“I got on a bus and arrived in Tampa four days later,” he said, proud of his trek down the North continent.

“Good for you,” I said. “Welcome to America.”

By coincidence, this same day, the first piece of furniture to leave my house was about to be removed: my baby grand piano, which has found a new owner with my oldest son and his family. My son Mario is the only one of my four children who plays the piano and follows the Garcia family music traditions.

I don’t know why since this was the least opportune time for a piano session, surrounded as I was by moving boxes, cans of paint and the chaos that is eminent in a house about to exchange owner. However, I looked at the piano, and knowing that it would not be there in one hour, sat down, and asked the young Cuban singer to join me.

He did, gladly, dropping the hammer and brushes he was carrying and following me on an old Cuban bolero, Sabor a Mi.

He sang beautifully, and deserved a better piano player. But the moment was sweet. Suddenly, the house seemed ready to take on the airs of the place it once was, where many who came to visit would join for sing alongs and the occasional dancing if the right cha cha or mambo was played.

When the last note ended, the young man singer looked at me and said:

“To think that three weeks ago I was a lead singer in a band, and now I am learning how to put tiles on the wall of a bathroom.”

I looked at him and I know I shocked him:

“I know only too well. I was a child actor one day and a bus boy picking up dirty dishes in a Miami restaurant three days later, and at the age of 14.”

He did not say anything, but kept looking at me, waiting for me to say something.

“You see, Eusebio, this is the land of opportunity. Don’t let anyone fool you. The American dream exists. I am it. You are young. You will sing again and again, but for now, you have to do what you have to do.”

He smiled. I saw the older contractor, also a Cuban exile, smile, too, his eyes a bit moist.

That’s exactly how I felt. The story of the Cubans. Time and inertia.

Here we are, two generations of exiles, comparing notes, 53 years apart, but the story is the same: escape, get to the land of the free, struggle to get back on your feet, and dream of living the American dream.

Somebody needs to get the hands of this old and melted Cuban clock unstuck.

The lesson

Sometimes we don't like the lesson we have just learned, as was the case here. More than a lesson, this incident made me wonder, with the curiosity of a child: why are things sometimes the way they are? If there is a lesson here, it is: accept that which you can't change, but continue to question it.