When Hope Is Gone: The Story of Papo Salsa

By Pedro E. Acevedo

Eduardo Torres is a forty-five-year-old recovering drug addict, down on his luck, trying to survive on the streets of New Yorks South Bronx. Living in a homeless shelter, he spends his days begging for handouts and doing odd jobs for neighborhood merchants.

But he wasnt always like this.

In his dashing youth, Eduardo was known and loved for his love of salsa music and his natural dancing ability. Once revered as Papo Salsa in his neighborhood , Eduardo is now a different manbroken and hopeless. Hes one of many victims of the turbulent times of the late sixties and early seventies, when the Vietnam War shattered lives, tortured families, and stole innocence from even the most well-intentioned individuals.

One day, Papo Salsa encounters Jos Antonio Rivera, an educated professional from the same neighborhood as Papo. Though a few years younger, Jos remembers Papo as a heartthrob to girls of all ages, a guy the neighborhood boys looked up to. But Papo does not immediately recognize Jos. He begins telling a story of bad breaks and wrong decisions, in an attempt to explain why he is where he is now.

When Hope Is Gone is a graphic yet moving story of love found and lost, set in the volatile environments of urban life, war, and drug addiction. Throughout the years and the fears, the hypnotic rhythms of salsa musicthe soundtrack of the timesis the one thing these wounded souls could always turn to for inspiration.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Apr 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781426963322

Pedro E. Acevedo

Pedro E. Acevedo is a freelance writer living in Westbury, New York. Avid enthusiasts of salsa music, he and his wife are well known in the New York City Latin dance club community. Having served in the Armed Forces in the mid-70's alongside many Vietnam veterans, Pedro heard first-hand accounts of the horrors those soldiers endured and inspired him to write this book. He has since enjoyed a successful career as an accountant for various foreign banks.

Book preview

Chapter ONE

My name is José Antonio Rivera. I come from a big, Puerto Rican family. Mother, father, and 8 kids. I asked my mother once why I had so many brothers and sisters and she said blame it on the Bacardi.

My family was big on throwing parties, big dancing parties. We all loved to dance. We’d find any reason to have a dance party. Christmas, New Year’s, Thursday. If something happened, we’d throw a party. If Dad hit the number, we’d throw a party; relatives come to visit from the island, we’d throw a party; one of my sisters got pregnant, we’d throw a party. And when we threw parties everybody was given jobs to do, especially if you refused to dance. My brothers had to make sure we always had enough ice for the drinks. If we ran out of ice in our house, they had to go knocking on our neighbor’s door and get ice from them. Of course, most of the time the neighbors were already at our house for the party, so it would be okay for my brothers to just walk into their apartment and help themselves to the ice, and anything else they wanted. I remember right after my 11th birthday party my little brother, Mikey, came into our bedroom with a color TV and said Happy Birthday, bro’. Of course, whenever our neighbor came by we had to cover the TV with a sheet or a towel.

Before I learned how to dance my job was to make sure that the record player was working right and that the records didn’t skip. Dad hated to hear Tito Rodriquez get the hiccups right in the middle of his mambo solo. Back in those days if you had one of those old-fashion phonographs you’d know that the best way to keep the records from skipping was by taping a penny to the top of the needle. That kept the weight of the needle down on the record and made it plow right through the scratches and dirt. The older the record, the more weight it needed. I once got up to 87 cents on top of that damn needle.

Growing up in the South Bronx was a wild experience. There was always something going on. The Bronx always had the bad rap that in order to survive you had to know how to fight. That wasn’t always true. You had to be able to run fast too. But really, I lived my whole life there and never had a problem. Not because I was a good fighter, but because the block I grew up in was very close-knit. It was filled with Hispanic families, mostly Puerto Rican. Some of these families lived in the same apartments for years, so even neighbors who were of no relation were close enough to be thought of as family. That created a support and protection group that came in very handy in tough times.

You’d see all kinds of characters in my neighborhood, some good, some bad. I remember this one cat, his name was Papo. Everybody called him Papo Salsa. See, on every block there were at least 10 guys named Papo, just like in every Italian neighborhood there were a dozen kids named Anthony. Everywhere you turned there was some kid named Papo. It’s like their brilliant parents couldn’t come up with a different nickname when their sons were small. They called them all ‘Papo’. When it was time to eat dinner, somebody’s mom would yell out the window "P- A - P - O ! ! Vén a comer, come up and eat!!" Six hungry ‘Papos’ would show up at her door.

So in order for us to tell them apart we’d give them a second nickname, usually for something they were known for. There was Papo DJ, who was the first on the block to have a big stereo system. He always provided the music for the hooky parties. There was Papo Cocólo. He was a kid who had a darker complexion than the rest of us, so he was a cocólo, which was a slang word for the blacks in the neighborhood. Papo Cocólo was the fastest runner on the block. He could even beat the older kids.

Then there was Papo Salsa. This guy loved his Latin music so much he refused to listen to anything else. He was one of the older guys, too cool for us to hang out with. He was the best Salsa dancer you’d ever seen, they called him the Fred Astaire of Soundview. He had a full head of dark, shiny hair that looked like it was always wet. He wore sharkskin pants and knit shirts, suede shoes with thick rubber soles. They called them shoes Playboys.

All the older girls were crazy about Papo Salsa. Not only was he handsome, he was also very smooth and gentle with the ladies. He was one of the few guys at that time who would be willing to dance with anybody. For most of the so-called tough guys in the neighborhood, it wasn’t a real hip thing to dance in the first place. But if you had to dance, or at least be seen with a girl, you always wanted to make sure the chick was fairly decent looking. If you hooked up with an ugly girl you’d never hear the end of it from your boys. Papo Salsa wasn’t like that, though. He’d take anybody out to dance. It didn’t matter if she was fat or tall or ugly or old. He’d be the one at family functions who would be seen dancing with everybody’s moms. Tias too! He just loved to dance. Being with him would give these ladies the biggest thrill of their night. Of course, he was always surrounded by the fine mamas too. They all would form a line for a chance to be his partner, even if it was just for one song. I’m sure each one of them - young or old, pretty or ugly - thought that she was the one who would win his heart. That’s just how he was. He made them all feel special, if only for just a brief moment. The girls loved him.

But then Papo met this young chick whose family moved to New York from Puerto Rico, and that was it. He fell in love and the other girls no longer had a chance. She was the perfect combination of beauty and innocence. The fact that she was new in the neighborhood meant that none of the other guys on the block had been with her. That was a big deal for him, as it is for all Latin men. Check it out: women are put into two categories. There are those who you can bring home to meet your mother, and there are those you bring home when your mother is not around. From the first group, you choose a girl you can fall in love with and hopefully get married to someday. You defend her honor when your boys are talking bad about women. You actually spend money on her and care how you smell when you’re around her. We used to call those the main squeeze (not to their faces, of course).

In the second group are the girls you fool around with and learn the things you’ll need to know when you finally get a chance with your main squeeze. These are the girls you take to the hooky parties to make out with. She could be with you one day and be with your pana the next day and you wouldn’t give a shit. These poor souls usually are the ones that end up with two or three babies from different guys before they’re eighteen. Try bringing one of these girls home to meet your mother and you can kiss the next plate of your mom’s rice and beans good-bye.

Papo’s girl was definitely one from the first group. He treated her like a queen and she could never say three sentences without mentioning his name. Stuff like Do you think Papo will like this new dress? Or I have to hurry home because Papo said he was going to call me after he comes home from school.

Everybody was sure that this was a couple that God had selected to be together forever. He got a job and started saving up to get married. Her father wasn’t too crazy about that idea. He was one of those old-fashion Puerto Rican men who was very protective of his daughter. It’s like he didn’t want her to even have a boyfriend until she was thirty. But even Dón Ramón liked Papo Salsa, that’s how charming this kid was.

Like a lot of other guys in the neighborhood at that time, Papo was drafted into the Army and sent to Vietnam. I was young, so I don’t remember when he came back. Years later, when I’d be home listening to some of my old records, I’d close my eyes and think about those times back in the days and I’d think about Papo Salsa, wondering whatever happened to him. Then one day, not too long ago, I was coming home from work…….

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Hey, Compy. Hey, man can you spare a quarter, man? (Sniff) I need to get on the subway. Aw, shit, man(sniff). Hey, m’MAN, can you spare a quarter? Damn, ain’t nobody givin’ up NUTTIN’ today. Shit, I need to get me some money (sniff). HEY! You in the suit, can you spare a quarter, man? Aw c’mon, pana, you got money, look at you, all dressed up like you somebody (sniff). Yeah, man I only need a dollar, I gotta get on the subway, man ….huh?….I know the subway cost more than a dollar, but….hey! Where ya goin’, HEY! Cabrón!! (sniff).

"Damn, it’s gettin’ cold out here (sniff). Hey, my brother, can I get a dollar, man? I’m hungry. I ain’t eaten in so long I forgot when was the last time I took a shit. Even when I fart nothing but fresh air comes out (sniff). All I need is a dollar… No, I don’t want you to buy me no sandwhich. I buy my own food, man, that shit in there is poison. (Sniff)……….. Anyways (sniff), as I was sayin’, I only need a couple of dollars, man. You see, I got a job interview (sniff) and I gotta get on the subway and…what?… My nose?! Man, I got a cold! Whatchu THINK is wrong with my nose…(sniff)…..can’t you see it’s cold out here, man?….I know you wanna help a brother out, or else you wouldn’t be standing here talkin’ to my ass….Huh? Hell no, I ain’t gonna use the money to buy no drugs! What? I look like a junkie to you?…..So what you gonna do, man? (sniff) You gonna give me the money? I ain’t got all day. You got a job, man? Shit yeah, you do. I used to have a job once. I sold peanuts at Yankee Stadium. That was a great gig, man (sniff). I’d get to watch all the games, meet all kinds o’ladies. Reggie Jackson, that was my man. You know his middle name is Martinez? People don’t know that, he’s one of us, a ‘Rican’. That’s right. Business was jumpin’ that summer, man (sniff). My Yankees were winning and the place was always packed. I sold a lotta peanuts. Never missed a day either ‘cause I remember what my Pops used to tell me, he said ‘Hijo, always work hard, even when you don’t feel well and the weather is bad you still gotta go out and work’. Then one day I got into a fight with this hijo puta who didn’t want to pay for the peanuts and that was it. They fired me, man. I missed the World Series and everything.

"Hey, Compy, that’s a nice coat you have on (sniff). Puñeta, it’s cold, man. C’mon, bro’, all I need is twenty dollars, maybe I can get me a coat like that one. Let me see how it feels…… What? What’s the matter with my ARMS? Man, ain’t nothin’, man (sniff). What, you never seen a man with measles before? The scars just bunched around my forearm, man. I don’t know why. They just came out like that. Ey, man, it’s not what you think (sniff). I told you, I’m not a junkie, I’m just sick, that’s all. If I had some money maybe I could go to a doctor and get checked up. I didn’t used to be like this, you know. Back then I had it all…(sniff)…."

Chapter TWO

Papo’s Story

It was a long time ago, man, when I was young. I used to live up by Randall Avenue. It was like the sun was always shinin’ back then, you know what I’m sayin’? The neighborhood wasn’t that great, but it was our whole world and it was home. Even though Pops worked hard we didn’t have much. It was rough sometimes, but I was good, man. I didn’t go around robbin’ and stealin’ like some of these other motherfuckers. My thing was dancing, man. Salsa dancing. And none of that merengue or boogaloo bullshit, either, man. It was Salsa caliente, HOT Salsa. Willie Colon, Larry Harlow, Eddie Palmieri. The Corso, the Cheetah, I snuck into all those places. Had to ‘cause I was only sixteen. But it was all right ‘cause I was good! They called me the Fred Astairs of Soundview. I wanted to be the first salsa dancer on American Bandstand, with that gringo Dick Clark, you heard of him, right? ALL the mami’s wanted to hang with me. Little kids used to look up to me, wanting me to teach them how to dance like me. They all wanted to be like Papo Salsa, an’ get all the girls.

I remember one day I was hanging out on the stoop with my homies, makin’ time, listening to Joe Bataan on Radio WADO.

Hey, Papo, said my boy, Chico. He lived next door to me. Show Johnny that new turn you been practicin’ with my sister. She said she was with you last night at the Corso and all the people was checking the two of you out, cheering and whistling. She said you were so good you did shit she never even saw before. Go ahead, show ‘im.

"Man, that was nothin’, ‘mano. I was just playin’ around, that’s all, just having some fun. Besides, I been dancing with your sister since she was nine, she’s seen it all already."

Oh yeah? She said that on one song you even had TWO girls dancing with you at the same time. You know ain’t NOBODY seen that shit before.

"Two girls?, said my other friend, Johnny. Man, how do you DO that? I can’t even dance with one girl without messin’ up. If I don’t look down at my feet I get all confused and I miss my steps."

"Pues, ese es el problema, man, that’s the problem, I told him. You shouldn’t look down. That makes you think too much. Dancing Salsa is all about rhythm, you dig? You hear the beat and just go with it. Let it flow. To be good it’s gotta come from the inside, man, del corazón."

"Hey, I got corazón, challenged Chico. But that don’t get me all the girls wanting to dance with me like they do with you, Papo."

Yeah, Papo, said Louie. Louie Jimenez, he was the older of the Jimenez brothers who lived up the block. I know how to listen to the beat and stay in step. I don’t trip over my own feet and fall all over the place like Chico here.

Ey, fuck you, Louie!

"I’m just makin’ a point, panín, don’t take it personal. So, tell us, Papo, what do you got that we don’t got that makes all the women want to dance only with you?"

You want to know what it is, fellas?

Yeah, tell us, Mr. Fred Astaire of Latin Music, said Johnny, real sarcastic-like. What’s the secret?

I began to explain: "Two things. First thing is style. You gotta have your own style. You can’t be afraid to put on a show, no matter where you are, no matter what kind of party it is. You know how some pendejos won’t get up to dance unless there’s a hundred other motherfuckers already on the dance floor? They don’t want to be out there all alone with everybody checkin’ them out. They think that if they mess up everybody will see and start laughing at them. You can’t think like that, especially since most women don’t care about that shit. Somebody’s gotta break the ice and get the party goin’. Girls admire a man when he’s got the cojones to take a chance, even if he ends up makin’ a fool outta himself. Do you really think people are there lookin’ at you, waiting for you to fuck up so they can goof on you? The real deal is that THEY wish they were the ones out there gettin’ all the attention.

Once you get past being shy then you can start doing different things and gettin’ your own style. It may feel stupid at first, but after a while trying the same moves you start getting it right. Even if you mess up, you do it with style and nobody will notice the difference. They’ll think it’s all part of the show. That’s square business.

All my boys’ eyes were fixed on me, hangin’ on my every word. The floor was mine once more.

And what’s the second thing? asked Chico impatiently.

"Calma, hijo, I’m getting to it. The second thing is the way you treat the ladies themselves. All women love to dance and they love it when a man spends some time with them, even if it’s just for a five minute dance. In those five minutes you have to make that mami feel like the most important person in your world. You have to know when to grab her tight and hold her close to you as you glide around the floor, looking deep into her eyes so she can practically see what you are thinking. Then you have to know when to let her go so she can shake and show off her style. You still gotta keep your eyes on her, watching every move of her body con gusto and deseo. You should never let your eyes roam around the room no matter how cool you want to look, because then she’ll think you’re bored with her and are already checkin’ out the scene for the next dance. Women are orgullosa, my friends, very proud. If they feel like you’re not interested they’ll just leave you out on the dance floor. THAT is embarrassing, much more than just falling out of step. For those five minutes you and her have to be the most romantic, sexy, and passionate couple on earth. You do that and they’ll always come back for more."

My wiseguy buddy Johnny piped in, "Papo, man, I saw you dancing with my Titi Marta last Christmas. You bein’ romantic and sexy with her?" The other guys cracked up laughing.

"Man, that’s the thing with you idiotas. You guys are so hung up with what a chick looks like. If she ain’t a fox you guys won’t give her the time o’day. So what if a girl is a little fat or ugly. The guys cracked up again. I’m serious, man. They deserve to have a good time too. Besides, if some fine mamis see you dancing real good with someone that ain’t so good lookin’, they’ll think you’re sweet and sensitive and they’ll want to be with you even more." The guys weren’t laughing much no more.

"When I go to a club and I see a table full of women, the first one I ask to dance is the ugliest one. Because you know that no matter how fine they all might be, there’s always one that came up a bit short in the looks and body department. She’s usually the cousin who’s visiting, or the aunt that they had to bring along, like a chaperone. Otherwise their parents wouldn’t let them come out. I dance with the ugly one first and ignore the other conceited princesses. They ain’t used to that shit. Believe me, they’ll be fightin’ each other for my pee-pee after that.

"And another thing - when was the last time any of you malagradecidos asked your moms out to dance, even if it’s just a merengue? You know how proud and happy she’ll get when she knows all her friends and neighbors are watching her and her hijo out on the dance floor together? It’ll make her feel young, too, like she’s part of the party. After everything she does for you in your lives it’s no big deal to do a little something nice like that for her once in a while. Man, women eat that shit up."

After that there was nothing but silence. Then Mr. Wiseguy spoke up and said Ey, Salsa, man, if you’re so good with the ladies, how come you ain’t got a girlfriend? Johnny was starting to get on my nerves with his ignorant questions.

Bro’, I’m still too young to tie myself down to one chick. I’m only sixteen. I’ll dance with all of them all night long, but for me to stay with just one, I don’t know. I can’t see that happenin’ anytime soon.

That’s when I saw her walking up the street, the most beautiful girl my eyes had ever seen, man. She was with her family - her parents and two sisters. It looked like they were checking out the building across the street.

Wow, would you look at that, said Louie. Who are they?

Johnny said I think they’re the people movin’ in. Johnny lived in that building, his father was the super. I heard my Pops say that this new family was coming, relocating to New York from Puerto Rico. Johnny always thought he was so smart and he liked using big words like ‘re-lo-ca-ting’. Maybe he wasn’t so smart ‘cause from what I heard, all Johnny ended up being was the super of that building after his Pops retired and moved back to P.R.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off of this angel. She had curly brown hair hanging around her shoulders, a smooth, milky-white face, dark black eyes. I was looking at her so much I didn’t realize she was staring back at me. Our eyes met for the first time and I knew it was love. Without realizing, I said out loud I’m gonna marry that girl. All my boys starting laughing and fuckin’ with me again.

Marry?! giggled Louie. "Which one, they’s three of them. You gonna marry them all? You’re slick, Papo, but you ain’t that slick. What the fuck you talking about, marry that girl."

"Yeah, bellaco, they just got here. Give them a chance to unpack" followed Chico.

Of course Johnny had to say something, too. Didn’t you just finish saying that you’re too young to get hooked up with one chick? Or was that just bullshit?

I didn’t care what they were saying. "All of y’all cabrones can kiss my ass. I’m talking about the one with the curly hair and the white blouse. Didn’t you see her checkin’ me out?"

Oh, she was checkin’ you out, alright, cracked Louie. She’s probably thinking it’s time to give your hair an oil change. Even I had to laugh at that one.

This angel and her family entered Johnny’s building with his Pops, but not before she turned around to give me one last look. Even though my heart was pounding like it never had before, I still managed a little smile, as if to send her a silent message of love. When I saw the corners of her lips turn up to smile, I could feel my heart ready to burst wide open.

We stayed on the stoop for a while, listening to more music and ranking on each other, playing the dozens. I kept looking across the street to see if my future wife would come back out, but I had to do it on the sly, you know, bien disimulado. If the fellas saw that I had a jones for that girl they’d start on me all over again. My rep as being the coolest dude in the gang would be ruined.

After about an hour Louie said he had to go over to Dón Marco’s bodega where his little brother worked part-time. Ricardo – everybody called him Ricky - was more serious than the rest of us. He actually had plans for his life even though he was only fourteen. He wanted to work hard and save some money to buy his own store someday, and Dón Marco was teaching him everything he knew. Ricky was like the son that Dón Marco never had. He never hung out with us or did the crazy things we did. He just went about his business and nobody bothered him. It helped having an older brother like Louie because Louie was big and strong, the best fighter on the block. Even though the two brothers were completely different, they were very close and Louie protected Ricky. Nobody ever messed with them.

I couldn’t stall the fellas anymore without making it obvious I was waiting for you-know-who. So we all ran down the stoop and headed down the block towards the bodega. I wished I could’ve waited longer, but I figured her Pops was signing the lease for the apartment with Johnny’s dad. If that was true, and I hoped it was, I knew I’d be seeing my angel again.

Chapter THREE

We never got into any kind of serious trouble back then. Every now and then we’d play hooky from school when Papo DJ’s parents went away and he’d throw one of his parties at his crib. That’s right, he was also nicknamed Papo like me, but we called him Papo DJ because he had a bad stereo. DJ’s father had a good job in Manhattan, I think he cut diamonds for the Judios, or some shit. He made more money than the rest of the fathers on the block, at least the ones who had jobs. Him and DJ’s moms would always be taking trips to the island, or to a house they owned in Las Villas in upstate New York where a whole bunch of Puerto Rican families would go in the summertime. On DJ’s fifteenth birthday his parents gave him the stereo. Pa’ qué fue eso? You couldn’t walk past his building without hearing the music going full blast. Every week he’d buy two or three new records, so he had all the latest jams of all kinds of music, not just salsa. He had the Temptations, Smokey Robinson, Dion, remember him? He sang that street-corner doo-wop harmony shit. That was still a big thing in the Bronx, even though it was old. At first the neighbors complained about the noise, but after a while everybody got used to it. It gave the block life.

The hooky parties were the best, believe that. We’d all go to school in the morning so we’d be there when the teachers took attendance. If we weren’t there for attendance the principal would call home and tell our parents we weren’t in school. Nobody wanted a correaso from their moms for cutting out. But after one or two classes we’d be able to slip out the cafeteria entrance without anybody noticing and make it up to DJ’s apartment. We still had to go one or two at a time so as not to attract attention in case anybody was looking out the window. It was less risky when the weather was a little cold and people’s windows were closed. Shit, in the summertime it was like a regular way of life for mothers to be hanging out the window, looking at everything going on down in the street. If we played hooky when it was warm out we’d usually go up to Van Cortland Park and play handball all day. It was safe there. But in the wintertime? Pa’ la casa de Papo DJ! Good thing his parents always picked the wintertime to go to Puerto Rico.

Other than cutting out of school there was nothing really bad about the hooky parties. Sure, we brought some girls from school with us to have a little fun, usually the easy ones. A lot of us boys became men in those parties. If DJ’s folks only knew what went on in their bedroom sometimes they’d kick him and his stereo out on his ass. But that didn’t happen all that much. It was just us hanging out, listening and dancing to some beat music for a while. Then DJ would turn the lights down and switch to a slow jam by Marvin Gaye. Remember Distant Love? That’s when things got good. Girls digged Marvin Gaye and didn’t mind grinding with us fellas when he sang. We used to do a thing called the 500 Grind, where the guy and the girl would hold each other real tight and press their thighs into each other’s crotches. As the song got hotter and hotter the couple would grind into each other and try to get as low to the floor as possible without falling over. A good grind would make a dude pop a boner that he’d rub up against the girl’s leg when they danced. We weren’t shy about that, bro’. A lotta dudes had bulges sticking out of their pants when the dance was finished. Sometimes you’d see a wet spot on a guy’s pants. Then you’d know it was a really good grind. We’d goof on him for that, but then we’d all be fighting to be the next one to dance with that same girl. A mami with a rep for being able to make a guy come while grinding would ALWAYS be invited to the hooky parties.

It was at one of these parties that I got my first real taste of drugs and alcohol. It was no big deal at first. I had tasted wine and beer in my house when I was growing up. My folks had family get-togethers all the time, like for the