I live in a building on the corner of Piedras shaded by a large tree, the muchachos gather beneath it to practice their lines. Their whistling, along with the hum of traffic and stifle of heat, are just a part of the air here.
There are three doormen, only one of whom I ever understand. Short, stout, middle aged they sit in plastic white chairs in the lobby listening to the radio, or stand outside leaning against the brick wall, smoking lazily waiting for the heat to subside they mark my coming and goings. Sometimes they open the elevator for me.