The Hamazon

Blame him, Cuba

“Arthur, let’s do a Tuesdays with Morrie spinoff but call it Thursdays with Artie. You get sick and lob wisdom bombs at me; I come over and learn absolutely nothing.” He laughs and says okay.

“The tag line for Tuesdays with Morrie is an old man, a young man, and life’s greatest lesson. We’ll need to come up with one, too,” I say. An older man, a young lady depending on your definitions of ‘young’ and ‘lady,’ and zero lessons learned is the first one that comes to mind. It’s a little too honest.

“And at the end of every meeting, I think you should tragically perish like Kenny from South Park,” I suggest. He laughs again.

We drive to Lincoln Park in his car, a perky roving death knell of a Honda that wants desperately to live. Walking along the beach, we talk challenges, life, money, relationships. He tells a story about his father in a voice filled with anger; I feel the embers of a fire being doused in gasoline, and know he carries a box of matches with him everywhere he goes.

“Reason,” I say. “Forgiveness.” My hand movements are somehow apologetic, but my voice sounds bossy and hard. Compassion, I tell myself. Lovingkindness and all that shit. He walks with his hands clasped behind his back, like a dignified professor. It reminds me of my father, and of both my grandfathers.

“Weren’t there any male role models you looked up to in your family?” I ask. “Oh sure,” he says. “I had an uncle that was the CEO of a huge company. He was an okay guy; smart, good job. And my maternal grandfather was a higher-up at El Spectador, Colombia’s oldest newspaper. I heard a lot of great stories about him.”

“Interesting,” I say, taking my shoes off and tossing them aside. Sun rays break through the clouds and warm my feet on the sand.

“You know, he was actually pretty cool,” says Artie. There’s this story about him that I always loved:

Apparently, there was this kid — around 18 or 19 — who worked for the paper in the mailroom, or some sort of entry-level job. Homesick, he wanted to go back home to Cuba, but he didn’t have enough money. So my grandfather sent around a hat to collect money for the kid, allegedly throwing in like 50 or 60 bucks of his own money to buy him a ticket. Because of that, the kid was able to go back home.

“Neat,” I say absentmindedly. I lick a rock to see if it tastes like salt; it does, and it’s hot from the sun. “That’s a real heart-warming heart-warmer.”

“And that kid’s name,” Artie continues, ignoring me, “was Fidel Castro.”

“I’m sorry?” I say, staring at him. “Did you just say Fidel fucking Castro?”

“Yep,” he says with a widening grin. “My grandfather could be the reason Fidel got back to Cuba…”

“…so he could fulfill his dictatorial ambitions and make Cuban cigars harder to buy?” I finish.

“Exactly,” Artie says. The sun breaks out across the water, and we soak up Nature’s brilliant gaze. Then a convocation of ravenous eagles with a sophisticated palate for human flesh dive-bomb out of the sky, grab Artie by the face, and fly into the sun taking his car keys with him.

I hope he’s okay.