The rounded heads of the bolts clamping the two-by-fours down to the cast concrete legs almost burned my palm. I didn't want to lean back, scared that the heat from the painted plywood back would go right through my shirt. "What letter is that, abuelo?" I pointed to the first big letter painted on the bench back.

"W'. And stop calling me 'Abuelo'. Can't you think of something else to call me?

"And this one?" I pointed to the second.

"'Q'. When you think of a name, I can call you the same. Quieres que te ayude?" (Do you need help?)

I shook my head again, I could do it. My body was squirming now, feet forward. My torso twisted almost parallel to the superman style letters. Blue with white on a red background. W..Q..B..A..I spelled to myself. Mami had already started to teach me my ABC's.

"Abuelo, what does it say?"

"Nada;" he pronounced the letters," It's the name of a radio station. A ver. Por que no me llamas..." (Let's see, why don't you call me...)

"Cuba?" I interrupted, as if I'd just made an incredible discovery. It sounded like the word on the bus bench. I had heard that word many times before. They were always talking about Cuba. Cuba this and in Cuba that. It seemed like something or someone that everyone I knew loved, including my grandfather.

"No. Not that. Don't call me that. I'd rather you call me abuelo for that matter."

He stood up, stepped off the curb and looked down the street.

When we boarded the bus, I mimicked the way my grandfather paid the fare. Small coins first. The money jingled past the slot of the machine. Through the squared glass dome at it's top I could see the nickels and dimes bounce on the bottom. Metal plates sloped down from the edge where the glass was to a hole in the center. The plates moved up and down, causing the change to bounce and roll. The machine made a sound like a maraca, only softer and steadier.

My grandfather held his hand out; "Two transfers please." His other hand slipped his leather change purse into his pocket. The purse was square on one side, rounded on the other when closed. Opened, it was round on both sides, with a pocket on one side and a little leather wall on the other that stopped the change from falling out as it slid out of the pocket.

The driver leaned over towards his window and pulled out one of three or four small pads. He tore two ticket-shaped sheets of thin paper from the perforations. From a black leather holster on his belt he pulled out what I thought were scissors. He slipped the two sheets into the mouth of the thing, aligned them, and squeezed the handle twice.

"Abuelo, why's he doing that? What's he doing to our papers?"

"He's punching holes in them. That's so the driver knows where we came from and where we're allowed to go when we take the other bus...Why do you keep calling me that? How about 'Pepe'?"

"No, asi se llama tio (No, that's my Uncle's name)," I told him. I took one of the two transfer slips from his hand and examined it. The holes were shaped like horses.

When the ticking of the money machine and the tinkling of the bouncing coins stopped, the machine let out a long hiss. It's job done. No more coins to count. We swayed our way to the rear of the bus and sat with our backs to the street.

"Abuelo, what's your name?"

"Jose de Jesus Lopez-Comas".

"Can I call you 'Jose', abuelo?"

"I don't think your mother would like that. Besides, nobody calls me that anymore."

"What does mami call you?"

"'Papa'. That's what all your aunts call me, too. Is that what you want to call me?"

I shook my head again, almost frowning. Somehow it didn't sound right, he wasn't my father.

Signs ran along the sides of the bus above the seats. I stared at them, pretending I could read each one, imagining something for each one except the one just like the sign on the bus bench.

"Abuelo, is it far?"

"Ya estamos llegando, niño. (We are almost there son.)" A gold chain dangled from his belt to the pocket he was reaching into. I waited for him to pull out whatever treasure he was hiding. It must be something important, I thought, why else would it be on a chain? It wasn't until it was in his open palm that I was able to see it. It was a watch unlike any I'd seen before. It was gold and round with a loop at the top that the chain attached to. With his index finger he pushed the loop and it flapped open. Letters took the place of numbers. I decided he probably put it in his pocket because it was too big to wear around his wrist.

Patiently he explained to me that the letters were actually numbers and that the little hand on the two and the big hand on the twelve meant it was 2 o'clock. We would be arriving when the big hand was at the three, at 2:15.

"Abuelo, why is it 2:15 instead of 2:3 , like it says?"

He tried to show me, but the concept was too confusing. Halfway through his explanation I was lost and paying attention to the signs again. I wanted to know what each one said.

"Muchacho despierta (Wake up, boy!)" he said, bringing me out of my daydream. I couldn't wait to get off the bus, eager to go somewhere, anywhere. I forgot that we would have to take another bus. I forgot about the transfers.

This other bench was in the shade and not as hot. One of the two-by-fours had come loose from the leg. The bolt was missing and I tried to look for it but was made to sit down. "That bolt hadn't been there for months," I was told. There were stains on my side of the bench right under the tree. I wasn't sure what they were but I kept my distance anyway.

"What does this one say, abuelo?" This bench back was white and had a pair of glasses painted on it.

"Optica Lopez. It's where I bought my glasses."

"Lopez? Isn't that your name? Do you own it, abuelo?"

"No, I don't own it. There's lots of people with my last name, it's very common. How are you doing with my new name?"

"How about 'Lopez'?"

"That's too formal. It's what they call me at work." He paused to think, "Muchacho, si tu abuela te oye nos regaña a los dos (Boy, if your grandmother here's you she'll scold us both.)."

The money machine didn't make a sound this time, we had transfers. The bus driver took them, looked them over, and then speared them onto a stick close to the steering wheel.

"Abuelo, can I call you 'Papachu'?"

"'Papachu'? Is that what you want to call me? Are you sure?"

I nodded. The man across from us put his newspaper away, stood up and pulled the cord to signal the driver that the next stop was his.

"Can I pull the cord this time, Papachu?”

"God bless you!" a woman's voice interrupted from behind.

My grandfather had a pretty laugh, loud and real. It was deep and contagious. "Everybody's going to think you have a cold if you call me that. Te van a decir 'el catarrozo' (They are going to call you flu-boy.)."

I agreed. This naming business was hard.

He had to lift me so I could reach the cord that ran along just below the signs. It wasn't stretched taut, it draped from one fastener to the other. I pulled it four times; I would have pulled it more, but my feet were quickly planted on the rubber mat that lined the center aisle of the bus. The bus driver looked at me through his big rearview mirror and frowned. I had to grab onto the seat in front of me because the bus was stopping but I wasn't.

"Lopez! Que paso? Se te quedo algo aqui ayer?" (Lopez, what happened? You forget something here yesterday?)The barber smiled. His hair was neat and trim, like my grandfather's. His white guayabera was perfectly pressed, just like my grandfather's. He stopped cutting the man's hair only to shake hands.

"This is my grandson," he introduced me by name. "His father wanted him to get a haircut but he didn't want to get one. I told him to come with me so he wouldn't have to ." Louder now, "I don't think he needs a haircut, do you? He can just watch me get mine."

The barber looked puzzled for a second, nodded, then smiled again. "It'll be a few minutes, have a seat."

There were mirrors opposite each other on the walls. One wall had a long counter just below the mirror. It had an assortment of spraycans, scissors, bottles.. all kinds of things I had never seen before. The other wall had a row of chairs and a table in the middle stacked with magazines and newspapers. The steel arms of the chairs turned downwards and became legs. The seats and backs were burgundy leather. They looked comfortable, not like the bus benches. When I sat down my bottom sunk in. It was bouncy.

"Abuelo, what's that blue stuff?" On the counter equally spaced were four clear glass containers. Combs and brushes floated in a blue liquid.

"It's a disinfectant, for keeping the combs and things clean." My grandfather looked at me and for a second I thought he was mad at me. His eyes turned to the other barbers but his face didn't.

"Abuelo?....Abuelo? Did you hear that, Juan? Lopez is being called 'abuelo'. Ya eso es el colmo." The other barbers chuckled but didn't take their eyes off their work.

"Let's go, abuelo, it's your turn," the barber stressed the word 'abuelo'.

Grandfather got up mumbling, whispered something to the barber and sat down on the swiveling chair. I followed the endless number of his reflections getting smaller and smaller, each a bit further into the mirror. He told his barber how I was supposed to think of something to call him and how I hadn't been able to.

"We used to call him 'Electrolux' in the old days. When he used to play shortstop for los Alacranes de Almendares," the barber said as he swept the imaginary hairs off my grandfather. His haircut had only taken a minute. There wasn't even any hair on the smock. "He never missed a ball, his glove was like a vacuum."

"'Electrolux', abuelo?" He didn't look like any baseball player I'd ever seen I thought, as I watched the barber stack big yellow books on the chair.

"Yes, that's right," he sighed, "but that was a long time ago... Ya yo estoy muy viejo para jugar pelota (I'm too old now to play baseball). Now all I have is television and radio. In the spring I'll take you to an Orioles game if you want."

My head almost came off from nodding. My bangs hit below my eyebrows and made me blink each time my head dropped.

"Well, I'm done." He turned to me, "Ya que estamos aqui, por que no dejas que Evelio te de un pelaito?" (Since we're already here, why dont you let Evelio give you a little trim?)

I agreed. A real baseball game, I thought. I couldn't wait.

I was so busy talking baseball that Evelio was done with me before I even noticed. He was already brushing the back of my neck with his soft little broom. With each sweep I felt more itching crawling down the center of my back. The talcum cloud almost made me sneeze.

"So, your grandfather doesn't want to be called grandfather, eh? That's just like him. No quiere soltar la juventud." My grandfather found that funny. He gave Evelio a strange grin. "Why don't you call him 'Hermano' or something. That way he'll think he's your age." Everyone laughed as Evelio helped me down.

The sound of the bell over the door was muffled as my grandfather closed it behind us. I still smelled the talco powdered on the back of my neck. I sat on the bench at the stop where the last bus had left us but was told that we had to cross la doce, we were going in the opposite direction. In my head I was running all the names my grandfather had. "Abuelo. Pepe. Papa. Lopez. Chu."
"You sure have alot of names, abuelo."

"That's why I want you to give me a new one. That way everyone can call me by the same name." He said this as he pulled me up on the curb at the corner with another bus bench. This one looked cool and inviting. It was freshly painted and was shaded by a big tree. It had no stains. I let go of his hand and hopped up on it.

"Niño! Bajate de ahi (Boy, get down from there!)." He said seriously, "I never sit there and when you're with me I don't want you sitting there either."

"Why can't we sit here, Abuelo? This bench is clean and it's in the shade." It was the best bus bench, I thought.

"I don't sit there because it reminds me of my friend Julio." He paused for a second, staring at the bench, "I would sit there with him and wait for the bus to work every morning... He was a good friend... Eramos inseparables (We were inseparable)."

He told me how he had met Julio on the plane from Cuba. How they had both worked for the railroad but had never met. How Julio, like him, had left his family, his home and his country and come to America. They had both been scared to come to Miami but were more afraid of what might have happened to them in Cuba. Here, he said, as old as they were, they were able to start a new life, and, in time, bring the rest of the family over. They had only had each other, he said. They shared everything. Julio had even gotten my grandfather a job where he worked by saying that they were cousins.

"Where is Julio now, abuelo?"

He let out a big sigh, stared beyond the empty bench, "He's gone. Died just before your grandmother got here." On the last word he turned his face away from me, as if looking down the street. "That's one of the reasons why I want you to give me a new name," he said,"para olvidar lo que deje y lo que he perdido. (To forget what I've left and what Ive lost.)"

"What did he call you, abuelo?"

"Primo."

"Primo?"

"Yes. That's what he called me, 'Primo'."

A bus was heading up the street towards us, getting bigger and noisier. It left a trail of smoke in its path. I looked for the number '7' on the front but the glare from the windshield wouldn't let me see. I pulled on his arm for his attention.

"Is that our bus, Primo?"

"Si, Primo."