CLOSE, BUT NO CIGAR

Since gas prices were exorbitant, I thought it best not to go directly home from Swampwater U. Instead, I drove down SW 8th—not out of the way at all, since that’s the direction of Highway 826. I drove until the canal running beside the road turned off, until I passed beneath the 826 underpass, until the strip malls and condos gave way to seedy motels and cracked concrete. The leaves on the palm trees that lined the road gradually turned yellower, wilder-looking. Soon I found that the street had narrowed to one lane, as squat pink shops and shanties elbowed the car on both sides. I had hopped the railroad track not too long ago. Now I was on the wrong side of civilization, in more dangerous territory. Calle Ocho, Little Havana…

But this is where I wanted to be. I was a man on a mission, seeking a forbidden grail, a myth. I came to Little Havana in search of cigars. Cuban ones. Aficionados would call them the crème de la crème, though I wasn’t much of a cigar smoker myself. I’d heard rumors they were illegal, and almost impossible to get ahold of, now that there was an embargo on goods coming in from Castro-land. But I’d also heard that a cubano cigar could be obtained with a little luck. And if you happened to be short on luck, the shadow told me, drive down to Calle Ocho and try hagglin’ with the tobacconists.

The first shop had a name that sounded promising: Trans-Atlantic Cigars. The tobacconist was an old man with a tanned face and chewed-up hands. He asked me what I wanted, and I said, “I’m in the market for a Cuban cigar.” “Impossible,” he said. “Even if I had some, it’d be illegal for me to sell them to you.”

“I can make it worth your while,” I replied, loosening up some portraits of George Washington from a roll of green paper I concealed in my pocket. Before the man could reply, I continued, “Come on, amigo. The embargo on Cuban goods must be like transporting tequila across the Mexican border. If you show up with a truckload’s worth to sell, they’ll send you back. But what about personal consumption? Surely you’ve got connections to someone who may have an extra parejo lying around that he don’t need…”

The tobacconist nodded, showing a mouth full of teeth ruined by years of sampling his own product. But he seemed to have gotten my drift, and disappeared into a back room. I spent several minutes pretending to inspect the display cases, when the man suddenly reappeared, accompanied by another Latino, a bigger guy with hair in a ponytail. The other man introduced himself as Rudy, and placed a suitcase atop the nearest display case. Smiling broadly, he explained that he had many wonderful cigars in his suitcase, which he usually reserved for only the most discriminating connoisseur. Surely I was such a man, he said, and would find these gems especially tantalizing. With his forefingers, he undid the two locks on the suitcase. As the lid on the leather case opened, a rich, pungent aroma rose up and gently greeted my nostrils.

For the next half-hour, Rudy showed me all sorts of wonderful cigars, which came from parts all over the world. Each hand-rolled beauty had a story as vivid as the origin of a comic book hero. I could tell the man knew how to sell. Occasionally, he pumped me for personal information, and I replied with believable lies. I told him I was a graduate student in the field of clinical Speech Pathology, looking to purchase a very special parejo for my mentor.

“Ah, medicine!” Rudy exclaimed, clapping his hands together as if bowled over by the force of his new thought. “Just the other day, I sold this wonderful cigar to a physician—a foot doctor, I think. Peruvian, finely aged. Smell this one, young man.”

The bouquet of the cigars affected me like a magic spell. But I fought hard to resist its power. I had come looking for the elusive Cuban parejo, and while these other cigars were appealing in their own way, I only had room in my heart for one, and I did not see her in the suitcase. At one point, while Rudy chatted on and on in his endless way, words slowly boring a hole in my brain like water drops on a stone, I had to stand up, had to try and escape. “Pardon me, senor,” I said. “A thousand apologies. I came here seeking the Cuban parejo, but I see you do not have it. I will not waste any more of your time…”

My mind still reeling from the pungency of aged tobacco, I faltered slightly, and had to place my hand on a display case to keep from falling off-balance. While Rudy and the other tobacconist quickly rose to their feet, I briefly glimpsed behind the glass, and saw beside my hand the words “Cuban Bullet” printed on a label wrapped around a seven-inch long stogie. “What is that one?” I asked.

“Oh that,” said Rudy. “It’s considered a fine cigar. Unfortunately, it was hand-rolled and aged in Nicaragua.” He put special emphasis on that last part, as if Nicaragua and cigars were equivalent to Ocean Drive and good taste.

“So why does it say ‘Cuban Bullet?’” I asked.

“The cigars are made with Cuban tobacco seeds,” said Rudy. “But they’re cultivated in Nicaragua. The soil makes all the difference.”

“But is it good?” I asked.

“’Cigar Aficionado’ gave it a five-out-of-five review,” chimed in the first man I had encountered. Rudy waved his arm to silence him. “Senor,” he began. “You want something better, believe me…”

“You don’t seem to have much variety as far as these Cuban tobacco parejos,” I said.

“They make them right here in Miami,” said the man who mentioned the review. Doubtless, Rudy opened his mouth to speak again. By that time, however, the door was closing shut, and I had gone.

I drove home. Then I looked up “Cuban Bullet cigars” online and got the name of the company that produced them. I followed the link to their company’s web site. Turns out the man in the shop had been right. The makers of “Cuban Bullets” made all sorts of cigars out of Cuban tobacco grown in Nicaragua. What I hadn’t been prepared for was their address. The Miami Lakes area, a mere ten-minute drive from the house.

* * *
Their office was dry and dimly-lit, with a wood finish. Comfortable and cool. In the corner of the lobby was an old Latin fella, hunched over a desk covered in tobacco leaves and paper. I could smell fresh leaves. The tobacco was still green, and after he rolled up one of the new beauties, he slipped it through a hole in the side of this small concrete block. I said hello to the man, but he was too absorbed in his work to notice me. From the other corner of the lobby entered a receptionist, tall and reedy. She took me to the walk-in humidor.

Parejos wrapped in varying colors of plastic, on display like books in a bookstore. I settled on something of good quality, high volume, and decent price. The receptionist put the cigar in a clear plastic bag and handed it back to me. She said, “Hope you enjoy it, sir,” and as I took the goods—dumb, naïve palooka—I actually believed she was being sincere. But as I turned around to walk away, I sensed something wrong. Too late. The shot rang out. Not that loud, actually. Could have been a starter’s pistol, for all I knew. I hit the floor, blood slowly oozing out of my back, not really pooling so much as being absorbed into the rich, red carpet. Through a haze of lamplight—kinda dim, like the gaslights you see in movies about Jack the Ripper—I saw the dame stepping lightly towards me in her small, black heels.

My last thoughts—shoulda stayed out of the shadows, out of Little Havana, shouldn’t have taken up this dangerous game—fluttered across my brain in no particular order. The dame crouched down, aimed the derringer carefully. “My, gas prices sure are high,” she said. Then she pulled the trigger, and everything went black.

MUG SHOT

So I got up this morning, took a brief dip in the pool, then drove for an hour over to Sweetwater, where my old university is.

I went to the university bookstore under the premise of buying a coffee mug, or some sort of souvenir commemorating my 3 years at that fine institution. It was my home before I transferred to NYU, and I daresay it contributed more to my development than the private college I graduated from. Privately, I still consider myself more of a Swampwater U rat than an NYU high-flyer. Sometimes, I even think about writing to my old college, and inquiring about the possibility of a “degree swap,” where I trade in the parchment I have, for the one I probably deserve. It wouldn’t be very difficult for me to uphold my half of the bargain; currently, my NYU degree sits on the floor of my room in Sheepshead Bay, still tucked away in the oversized envelope it arrived in.

However, there are days like today, where I find myself wondering—did I actually attend Swampwater U? For one thing, since the time I attended (only five years ago), the campus seems to have changed dramatically. Trudging along the walking paths, I was surprised by how many buildings had sprung up during my absence. There was an entire quadrant of new facilities that I did not recognize from memory. Only after I checked a directory did I realize that all these new buildings stood on what had been the big grassy mound behind the library, where I spent many a happy hour lying in the sun, composing bad poems.

Now don’t get me wrong. While I tend to be a nostalgic fellow, I do understand that change is often necessary. Sometimes, it can even be for the better, as in the case of Swampwater U erecting an edifice where a series of trailers used to sit. I remember having to go to these makeshift classrooms at least once every term, and it was kind of demoralizing having to attend college in a trailer park. Clearly, removing them was a positive change. But at the same time, seeing how much better shape the university is in now, compared to when I attended, made me a little jealous. Why did they wait until I left to make this place nice? I muttered bitterly to myself.

But then I stopped in at the Swampwater U bookstore, and realized that some things never really change. I perused the selection of coffee mugs, which was, in a word, dreadful. Choice of navy blue or white, with some vague spiel scrawled across in fancy-looking script. Naturally, the logo of the institution also appeared on the mug, but it was turned on its side, block letters stenciled into a mustard-yellow blob. Sure, to each their own, I suppose. But these “souvenirs” simply looked cheap.

When I realized the cheapness of the artifacts before me, I had a flashback to when I was still a student at Swampwater U, standing here in the bookstore (which was much smaller then, and arranged differently, of course), looking at the same mugs and thinking, “God, these fuckers sure are ugly. No way am I going to purchase one of these.”

Back then, did I really say that? I don’t know, maybe I did. But the point is, at the moment I suffered that flashback, I realized that Swampwater U was probably never as good, or bad, as I thought it was. The truth probably lay somewhere in the middle, as many good times as bad ones. Perhaps the same could be said for any life in its entirety. If my days at Swampwater U appeared any different in hindsight, that was because those specific memories had been filtered through time and incidence (those incidents being my struggles at NYU, and my feeling that the vast majority of other NYU students were pricks).

And so, two important facts became clear to me: Fact #1: Romanticizing the past only works to a certain degree. Once you put your nose right up to it, and get a good peek, it’s apparent that it was probably neutral. Benign, with any luck at all. Fact #2: Ugly coffee mugs should not be purchased, so the entire morning was a waste, except for me learning Fact #1. Yeah, I drove over an hour to get to Swampwater U. Cost of regular unleaded gasoline in Miami? Nearly three dollars per gallon. Hopefully, there will be a good morning in my near-future, to balance out this sucky one. In the meantime, anyone interested in purchasing a slightly-used Fact #1?

HEY, LOOK! A BLOG POST!

Once again, it’s been over a month since I’ve posted about anything. Not that life hasn’t been interesting in the meantime. I’ve settled on a place in Boston, which is conveniently located when it comes to class, but probably won’t bust my budget. I move there in a few weeks; until then, I am staying with K. in her new apartment in the Village (Expect a twist ending, Shymalan fans).

Actually, I WOULD be staying in K.’s new apartment, only I am currently in Miami. Just like last summer, I am vacationing in the city where I was raised. I’m doing the usual, avoiding the sun as much as possible, save for when I hit the pool and impersonate Aquaman to the best of my ability. I got here two days ago, and my return flight isn’t until next Monday. Frankly, if I spend one morning at the nearby Flamingo Gardens, starin’ at foliage and sleeping alligators, and divvy up the remaining hours between sleeping, doing the breaststroke, and playing video games on a first-generation Playstation, I will consider this one week in Florida a smashing success.

I suppose I could also watch movies while I’m here. It’s the other thing I manage to do whenever I’m on vacation. This morning I saw “J.S.A.,” the 2001 Chanwook Park thriller that exploited the tension between North and South Korea. For those (like me) without prior knowledge of the Korean peninsula, North equals “Commie,” while South equals “Yankee.” “Yankees” and “Commies” don’t like each other, as anyone who wasn’t a sperm cell in the 1970’s and 80’s can tell you. In an attempt to simplify the politics in the peninsula for viewers outside of Asia, the screenwriters have characters yell “Commie bastard!” and “Yankee puppet!” repeatedly, as if either phrase could embody their complex feelings. I’m ashamed to say the ploy works.

It’s a blessing not having to dwell on the politics that have shaped the geographical powder keg that is Korea, especially since “J.S.A.” tells a mystery in complex, “Rashomon”-style format. The title refers to the “Joint Security Area,” the American-occupied territory between the two countries, which belongs neither to the north, nor the south. One night, shooting is heard on the northern side of the J.S.A. A South Korean sergeant named Lee staggers across a foot bridge, back to the southern side, just as troops from both armies gather and exchange heavy fire. When an investigator from the Neutral Nations Security Council (N.N.S.C.) arrives to get facts, and calm what threatens to become a provocation for war, she gets conflicting stories from both sides. Along with being different, both "official reports" sound highly unlikely.

According to the report from Lee, North Korean soldiers slipped across the J.S.A. and kidnapped him. They took him back across the border, and held him hostage until he broke loose, then killed two of his abductors. Meanwhile, the report by Sergeant Oh of the North Korean army states that Lee crossed into enemy territory of his own volition, then acted out of cold blood, wounding Sergeant Oh, and killing two of his comrades. Like “Rashomon,” or movies heavily-influenced by the Kurosawa original, such as “Courage Under Fire,” “Basic,” and “Hero,” the mystery of what happened north of the “J.S.A.” is slowly unraveled. As each new tidbit of information is introduced, pivotal scenes are shown again, in light of what Inspector Sophie Jean, and the audience, are now aware of. Ultimately, the truth is more complicated than either “official story” we had been given. Nevertheless, it all fits together in a logical way. It’s never impossible to believe.

Like the more successful Rashomon clones, the flashback technique helps tell the story. Technique, however, does not replace story. “J.S.A.” has an extremely interesting, timely tale to tell, in light of current events in North Korea, and the strong reunification urge pervading that region. While Chanwook Park’s film seems to ignore the possible consequences of the two countries becoming one again (specifically if it occurs under the flag of Kim Jong-Il), its overriding message, about the tragedy of one people turned against itself due to borders and nationalism, remains potent.

Also potent: Park’s directing style, a mixture of high-end Hong Kong (most of the movie has the sleekness of an Andrew Lau film), and MTV. While Park has had greater international success with his 2003 revenge flick “Oldboy,” I prefer this slightly older film, which has less of an S&M edge. Also, where “Oldboy” was intimate and psychological, “J.S.A.” takes place across a broader canvas, and has action sequences that require more elaborate forethought. Park manages to nimbly direct the sequence where Lee’s rescue team fights to suppress the North Koreans, while retrieving him from the footbridge. The battle culminates in one of those shots you can’t help remembering afterward: An overhead crane looking down on Lee, then slowly panning upward while CGI-bullets whiz past in both directions.

Park also uses the overhead crane shot several times at the border—above the actual line that is supposed to separate North from South Korea. By framing it this way, guarded on either side by soldiers from one country or the other, it looks very thin, very unimpressive. This could be Chanwook Park’s way of pointing out the ridiculousness of the line, how a strip of paint on the ground determines the fate of an entire people. And wouldn’t he have a point? Not that reunification should happen, but let’s face it, if a flimsy line is all that stands between two willing peoples, isn’t reconciliation simply inevitable?