The teller, postal employee, looked at me and then he hummed along to a transistor radio, tinny-sounding, in the background, while Carlos Santana’s guitar moaned through the licks to “Oya como va.”
“Original song was by Tito Puente, you know that?” I asked.
“Isn’t Tito, like, more jazz now?” Clerk’s riposte.
I just nodded. Latin music – or whatever it’s called – is passionate. I like that.