Harlow Cuadra Online

The second night while I was in medical isolation, an elderly man was placed in my cell.

He barely knew any English. I could hear his frustration, trying to communicate with the nurse. Almost immediately I noticed that hew was Latin. He had the typical strong accent as he uttered the few English words he knew towards the nurse.

I jumped off my bunk and politely offered my help translating for the nurse. Annoyed, she said, “Just tell him that he will start his medication soon and in a few days he will be returned to a different section, in general population.” Then she quickly walked out locking the door behind her. My new cellmate was about to ask her a question, but she departed so quickly that she left him in mid-sentence.

I climbed in to bed and tried to return to sleep. A few minutes later, I awoke to the sound of my new cellmate crying. It was an uncomfortable moment. This was maybe the third time in my life that I have heard a grown man cry. Especially with Latin men, we are brought up to bottle it up.

Politely I asked him if I could be of any help, if he wanted to talk about anything. There was a long silence. I figured that I may have accidentally embarrassed him (we embarrass easily too), so maybe he was ignoring me.

He all of a sudden spoke. He explained to me (in Spanish) that while in general population he received a tuberculosis test on his left forearm. He ended up testing positive and that the other inmates did not want him around them in fear of becoming infected.

“Pienso que me voy a murier (I think I am gonna die),” he yelped.

Oh boy, I thought to myself and jumped off of the top bunk in order to console him. I sat close to him (Indian style) on the floor and began to explain to him the medical treatment procedure ahead for the treatment of T.B.

He was surprised that I did not keep an exaggerated safe distance like the other inmates. I responded by saying “Ignorancia (ignorance),” and that because of it he was having a hard time. I began to explain to him how he may have come into contact with it, how he would be on a certain medication with a “B” vitamin for a few months, and that he would need yearly X-rays to make sure that things are OK.

He let me know that he has a wife and kid at home, so I strongly recommended that he get them checked as well. He thanked me for the brief lesson and also for not treating him like some leper.

I advised him that one they move him into another cell unit to keep his T.B. status to himself. That there was a lot of ignorance around and they would just give him a hard time again.

Sensing that his fears were calmed, I ended the conversation. “Gracias Doctor (Thanks Doc),” he said. This made me feel good inside, made me quickly think back to my days as a Navy Corpsman.

His accent sounded familiar, so I asked him if he was Cuban. Surprised, he asked me how I knew? In Spanish I casually replied by saying it was just a hunch.

Anyways, one conversation led to another and then I felt comfortable enough to ask him how and when did he make it into the U.S.?

The question was a bit bold, but there’s nothing like a virus to break the ice.

So Began His Story… Sergio’s Story

WARNING: I have very little experience with Spanish spelling. (Hey @ least I tried!)

In the mid 90’s, Sergio was convicted of obtaining and using American currency to purchase food and medication. This violated a few laws in Cuba; because its residents were to use Communist “ration cards” in order to receive those items.

The Cuban government sentenced Sergio to 4 years in prison. A few months into his prison term, Fidel Castro decided to grant safe passage to anyone that chose to leave Cuba.

Secretly, Fidel had his army gather every vagrant, hooker, drug dealer, and political nuisance and forced them to leave. He also ordered the prisoners out as well. Some inmates that were scheduled to be released soon refused and did not want to leave their country or family. “Muerte o estados unidos (death or the United States)” was his ultimatum. Sergio and his two other cellmates took the later option.

Out of an old truck’s inner tubes and wood, Sergio and his new companions made a raft. During the construction of the raft, they spent around $15.00 U.S. currency for the supplies and parts.

Sergio’s family pleaded with him no to go. They feared that he would drown. Sergio was in his mid 50’s back then. With tears in his eyes, Sergio restrained his anger and apologized about his sudden trip. He explained to them how he had no choice. “Uno des estos dias voy a mandar por ustedes (one of these days I will send for you).” Those were among the last words he said to them.

Sergio, Carlos, and Miguel set out at night. They used the cloak of darkness to depart, in order to avoid young vandals robbing them. Sergio explained that the neighborhood thugs knew that the men and women leaving took money and other valuables. This unfortunately made them a lucrative target.

The next morning, Sergio and company awoke to the sight of NOTHING! Sergio explained that they awoke in the middle of nowhere. He also told me how Carlos began to get hysterical and agitated. Panicked, Sergio and Miguel decided to drop Carlos off in Cuba and continue the journey later without him.

They were annoyed at the delay it would cost them, especially after Carlos explained that he would miss his pet dog too much. Miguel griped that his little Papillon by the name of Celia was not worth all the trouble.

As the three crewmembers approached the bay of Cuba, they were intercepted by a Cuban warship. The Cuban sailors forced them to board the ship at gunpoint. The ship’s Captain was amused at seeing them row towards Cuba. Laughing at Sergio and his friends, he said, “This is the first time I see people rowing to Cuba instead of away from it!” Embarrassed, Sergio explained that Carlos was not up to it and to please let them continue on their journey. The Captain agreed (after a bribe of $3.00 U.S.) and kicked the tow off the ship (literally kicked off).

As they rowed away, Sergio yelled at Carlos, “Quida la pera (take care of the dog).” Sergio never saw Carlos again.

A day later, their little raft was intercepted by the U.S. Coast Guard. They joined a few dozen refugees aboard the ship. At night they were moved aboard a Navy vessel. Sergio explained how the joyous crew started to panic when they noticed the ship navigating back to Cuba. Some of them threatened to jump off the ship then be taken back. To calm the party down, a Spanish speaking Navy crewmember calmed their fears. He explained how first a trip to Guantanamo Bay was needed for processing. This made them happy again. Once they saw the Bay of Guantanamo they were verrry cheerful.

Sergio explained to me that people were happy to see Guantanamo because it was forbidden. They could only read about that section of their home in books or listen to the elderly talk about it. “I was in my fifties and seeing for the first time a part of my country that I never had seen before,” he explained.

They sat in the heat for days. Then all of a sudden they boarded the Navy ships and headed towards Panama for the last of their processing.

Extensive criminal background checks along with medical examinations began shortly after their arrival in Panama.

Miguel knew a good amount of English and was of great use to Sergio translating. Sergio grew suspicious of Miguel’s past and advised him not to speak any more English once they began the criminal checks. Sergio feared that this would stir suspicion. “Muy tarde (too late},” he said. Sergio explained that the woman (a U.S. soldier) performing the checks uncovered that Miguel had once cartel ties and that he was a fugitive. It turned out that Miguel was part of the Notorious Cocaine Cowboy era of the late 70’s and early 80’s. She gave him a strong warning that he was not to enter the U.S. again! Miguel escaped the camp but was later apprehended and deported back to Cuba by Panama officials.

Welcome to America

Sergio soon found himself in Florida. He was lucky to land a job that later turned into a trucking position that paid well. Sedano’s the place was called. Sedano’s is a small grocery chain of stores owned by a Cuban who came over to America in the 70’s.

The owner was reluctant to hire Sergio, fearing he was just another criminal that floated over. To prove otherwise, Sergio removed a locket with a picture of his mother inside of it. He handed it to the man and told him “Esto es todo lo que yo tengo. Si algo des parese, es tuyo. (This is all that I have. If something disappears it is yours.)” The owner returned it to Sergio, hired him, and had him shadow another employee until properly trained.

A few years later Sergio was able to purchase a home, “de tamanio descente (of decent size)” and his dream car, a Cadillac Fleetwood. He told me that shortly after arriving to America he fell in love with Cadillacs of the early 80’s. “Grande y espa cioso (large and spacious)” he described as his favorite reason for it.

Surprise, Surprise!

Sergio had acquired a CDL license, and with a good employment and driving history, he was soon approached by larger companies. In early 2005, Sergio accepted a job offer by a large trucking company up north.

As he packed the last of his items into a moving truck, Sergio decided to visit his favorite “cafetera (Cuban coffee stand)” one last time. As he sipped on a “guarapo (sugar cane shake)”, Sergio noticed a familiar face.

Miguel (the fugitive) was at the cafe too! He approached Miguel with enthusiasm and asked how he made it over and where Carlos was?

Miguel explained that once he was returned to Cuba, he and Carlos made another raft. They set sail again with the addition of a new companion. Carlos brought his little female Papillon by the name of “Celia”.

They were intercepted once more by a Navy ship, but they refused the boarding of Celia. The Master at Arms made it clear that he did not want animals on board.

In defiance, Carlos boarded the raft again. He told the sailors that if “America did not want Celia, America does not want Carlos!” … LOL! Sergio almost dropped his shake at hearing this.

Sergio then asked Miguel how he made it through the criminal check? “Facil (easy),” he said. Miguel removed his Florida identification from his wallet. Sergio was shocked to learn that Miguel took over the identity of Carlos!

On queue, within 3 days, they transferred Sergio on to a new “block”. Out of good jailhouse etiquette, I never asked him his charge. Sergio, a gentleman, never asked of mine either.

He was possibly one of the top 40 people I have met in my life.

Thank you for stopping by the site. Y’all come back now, ya hear!

HRC2

[Note from the Angel of Truth: Harlow wrote and sent this post a few weeks ago. I apologize for the delay in posing it.]

This is a 2005 Suzuka Blue Honda S2000. There are many like it, but this one is mine. That was the thought coursing through me as I drove away from the dealership the day of purchase.

3 months I spent lurking online (szki.com), learning about maintenance costs, mechanical flaws, pricing, and general owner feedback.

Every time I passed by the Honda dealership, I would look around. See which colors were on the lot. Some days it would be “Silverstone” metallic; others “Grand Prix” white, even a few “Imola” oranges. All the cars were named after racetracks. The available colors were cool, but not my thing.

One day driving by the stealership… err… I mean dealership; we noticed an unmistakable silhouette of an S2000 in the showroom. I normally stay away from the shark pit, oops, I mean showroom, but this time, encouraged by my friend (Tommy from BoyBatter), I decided to go on in. Due to the buildings tinted glass, the color would remain a mystery until I was brave enough to open the door. I gripped the door handle with a nervous, sweaty grip, swung it open, and immediately fell in love. ♥

The color you ask? “Suzuka Blue Metallic”, named after a track in Japan. It just happens that it’s my favorite track in the video game “Gran Turismo”. So it was a double bonus.

At first I was skeptical on the color. Online pictures of it did it little to no justice. But in person, Bravo! It looked so creamy, clean, and sparkly. A dealer approached with a smile and kindly removed a sign, on the hood, that read “DO NOT TOUCH”. Without further invitation, Tommy and I got in the car. It felt good sliding into its supple blue interior. It smelled so new a shower was needed to get the newness scent off. The interior was so inviting. Felt like a leather-lined cachet. Small and comfy. Verry purpose built.

Steering wheel felt nicely padded, seats snug, and pedals sooo closely spaced, they just begged for heel and toe action at the track.

The drive home was a thrill. Blue (nickname Tommy gave it) purred like a bad little kitten. Tommy and I did some stoplight to stop light shenanigans that had me smiling so much my cheeks hurt from it. Even the shifting was outstanding, better than the feel of a rifle bolt on a hunting rifle.

A few weeks later, friends and I caravanned up to Virginia International Raceway, a.k.a. V.I.R. We had a friend there whose company had rented out the track for the day to compare the grip of his tires versus the competition. He let us have full run of the track once the car magazines finished their own independent tests. From this day forward, Blue would slowly change.

After three laps around V.I.R., Blue let me know of his shortcomings… Power! Racing around a track occupied by Corvettes made me feel so slow. Even though Blue clocked consistent times on the track, I wanted more go.

After some online research, I found a shop located in Northern Virginia called Inline Pro. They definitely had what I needed for more power… a turbo kit! I began reading the 16 digits of my credit card number, when the shop owner interrupts me with a warning, “The additional power will unstabilize the car, many other components would have to be upgraded as well.” Whatever, I thought (I was cocky), and continued with payment info.

7 days later, UPS leaves several large boxes at my doorstep. Amazed I was at how many pieces were part of this kit. Bewildered I became upon finding no assembly instructions. Rolling up my sleeves “no sweat” I thought and headed for battle in the garage. What I thought would be no harder than an erector set, ended up bruising my ego in 1 day. I got nowhere and knew it quick. Tommy came by and made the suggestion of turning the surgery over to Millennium Autosports, out of Portsmouth, Virginia.

I explained to the shop owner that the internet advertising promoted the kit as a project for be-ginners. The ad said “simple install”, I told him. He responded with “Yeah, simple if you have done it a bunch of times, in a shop with lots of tools.” We negotiated an install price and I hesitantly handed over the keys. 420 horsepower later, I was glad I did.

The Steering Wheel

Since Blue spent more time on the track than on the street, I ran the risk of having the driver air bag blow up in my face while lightly tapping a competitor’s back bumper (trading paint). Something I avoided, but still happened occasionally.

During some research, I decided on the Spoon Sports (a Japanese tuning company) steering wheel. It was light, ergonomic, and, best of all, looked cool!

I spent about 4 days locating the part. Everywhere I called, the response was the same, “sorry no”, “It’s a made to order part only”, and my favorite, “out-of-stock”. Painfully reaching the bottom of the barrel, I hit pay dirt. A company out of California advertised itself as a Spoon Sports distributor. A young woman answered the phone with a friendly “Hello”. At first she gave me the same disappointing news, but placed me on hold quickly before I could utter a word of disappointment. She returned to me excitedly, explaining how her father was at the Spoon factory in Japan. She told me that her father would pick one up before his return flight and bring it to the states as a carry-on. Fully excited, I provided my payment information. She also discounted the part since her father would not pay the import or shipment container fees.

A week later the part arrived to me with a note from the owner, Mr. Lin, “You should have seen the look on the customs officer’s face when I showed the wheel as my item to declare.”

The Seats & Belts

The added power of Blue bounced me around while hard cornering at the track. Even though I was properly restrained for everyday street driving, it was useless around the corners of V.I.R. While price shopping, I lucked out and found a forum member on szki.com parting out his “Show Queen” (a poser with real race parts). He had the exact seats and 5-point seat belts I was looking for. Through multiple private messages, he named a price I would not refuse, then sent his phone number to make arrangements.

As I dialed his number, I noticed that his member name was “krazy korean”, he lived up to it.

Communication was tough! He huffed and puffed, mostly because we could barely understand each other. Plus he was hard of hearing (say again!)

Two weeks later the seats arrive. They looked so mint I doubted they were used (a true show queen). The seats were beautiful, finished in the same blue as the factory seats. Waaay lighter too!

The green “Tahata” harnesses were mint as well, with over 3 years left on the “FIA” tag of offi-cial race use. (FIA equipment has expiration dates.) The seats and belts were more than I needed, but all that I wanted.

Justin (from BoyBatter) was hanging out with me that day, so I quickly “volunteered” him to help me in installation.

Justin and I spent the whole day, into the night, performing the install. Removing the stockers and swapping in the new ones was harder than we thought. Justin’s little hands came in handy when tightening bolts in hard to reach places. Multiple trips to the hardware store slowed us down too. But our biggest handicap was the multiple Corona’s Justin kept smuggling into the garage. Taught us that drinking and wrenching was just as dumb as drinking and driving.

Once completed, Justin hopped in one of them and secured the belts around himself. He looked like an over-grown trailer park baby with a beer bottle instead of a binky.

Joe (Trent) walked into the garage once all the labor was done. His encouraging comment was, “Yeah, like you really need all that just to drive to Burger King”.

The Roll Bar

The additional power and the added seats encouraged me to go faster and faster at the track. 3 close calls later, I decided to add a roll bar. It was either that or “slow down” a track official said. Wanting to continue my high-speed bravado, I went with the first option. Since I was giving in to the rules of “the man”, I decided to do it in style and ordered a 4-point chromoly roll bar (in blue, for Blue) from a popular racing manufacturer out of Japan called “Cusco” (not Costco… LOL). After waiting an eternity for its arrival (2months), it finally arrived. The installation of my newest ego… err… safety device was a total BITCH! I so regretted going with an option (A). Sever boys from BoyBatter were enlisted for this project (it takes a village to build a car), however only Justin and Tommy were worth a damn. Justin was the true trooper of the operation. The entire interior was removed and placed back together (including the pain in the ass seats) several times, until we got it right. The rear tires had to be removed, the fuel filler and entire trunk carpeting was also removed. Justin became a pro text messaging with one finger his “hoochy mama’s” while wrenching with his other hand. 3 weekends of bruised knuckles, cussing, and sweaty nuts later, we finally tightened the last bolt… or so we thought. Justin and I sneaked two cigars out of a secret stash (Trent) and along with some stomp hole whiskey (moonshine), quietly celebrated in the garage while picking up our tools. Justin noticed a peculiar smell coming from the real of Blue. Upon closer inspection, we quickly stomped out the cigars after we noticed that the fuel lines were loose still and the filler undone. Oops!

Getting Greedy

Knowing that the Virginia wet and chilly season had arrived, Millennium Auto gave me a call asking how I was “enjoying the car”.

I told them that I loved it. Also explained to them that the drive, from my home to the local bur-rito bar was exhilarating.

Then the head of the shop made a sneaky sales pitch. After massaging my ego and pumping my imagination with tales of more power, I gave in and dropped Blue off for his next round of surgeries.

A bigger turbo, a tweak here, a turn there, and a few months later (Easter ’07) and Blue was dropped off at my doorstep. The shop owner (Gary) walked around the car with me explaining all the things performed. The minute the hood was propped open I could tell that Blue was all business. The new snail (turbo) was bigger than my … Anywho, I turned the key and immediately goose bumps decorated my arms. The car’s melodious cacophony of new mechanical sounds filled the atmosphere. Deep bass made your torso vibrate. I love the smell of race gas in the morning!

Fully entrance by Blue’s new evil ways, I placed him in 1st gear and dabbed some throttle and the most amazing thing happened… Nothing! The back stock tires spun so fast I did not move at all. The shop owner approached the driver side slowly, leaned in like a state trooper whiffing for the scent of alcohol, and said in a Southern accent “Ya gotta get wiiiderrr tires there chief.”

My Last Ride in Blue

I awoke May 14th to attend to some errands. I ended up just blowing off all responsibilities to cruise around. I just felt like living for the moment that day. So glad I did.

Anyway, Blue was never meant to be a comfortable, or pleasant, car… for the passenger. Blue’s sole purpose was to be an excellent drivers car. Both hands on the wheel. Gear-up. Gear-down. Double clutch, ease it out. To drive Blue was to be committed to Blue. I had suc-ceeded in building a toy car, kinda like the car simulator games at the Chucky Cheese’s ar-cade section. I loved doing that as a kid. (Still do! Shhhhh…)

I wrapped up he days drive by visiting a friend on the other side of town.

The weather was perfect. Football weather (not too hot, not too cold.) Placed the top down and felt like a king.

By this time Blue was mechanically complete. The rest of his body panels were either at home or on their way.

Pulling out of the driveway the morning of the 15th, all I could think about was yesterday’s drive and deciding how many coats of clear the body shop would apply after a fresh paint job.

The memory that most sticks out about the last drive was when I parked Blue, out on the driveway to cool down. I stood back and admired the hard work and was grateful for all the people that helped complete my project. As was customer, I tapped his rear fender that night, same as I do after every drive, and said “Good night Blue!”
HRC2