by J. L. Torres
Fourteen
* * *
We passed the Jíbaro Monument, and I couldn’t hold back from smiling. Marisol saw my big-ass grin and punched my arm. I was in such a giddy mood that I would have smiled even if Roque himself had presented me with my dismissal letter. Sitting next to me, Marisol listened to Yankee Daddy’s “Gasolina,” which she took out of a portfolio full of CDs and popped into the car CD player. Her bronze legs propped up on the dashboard, she rocked her feet and toes to the beat as she sang the refrain. The song became our road anthem.
She had not hesitated when I called. “Give me an hour to pack and get to Baná,” she said, and then we were off.
We entered the autopista heading south, agreeing on the direction without any sense of destination. Soon, the highway broke through into the drier landscape of the leeward side of the Cordillera. Not desert like Death Valley, not even close, but for a tropical island where mostly everything was flush green, the sparse, yellowish flora appeared foreign. Marisol explained how despite its small area, Puerto Rico had two phosphorescent bays, a rainforest, karst topography, caves, wildlife refuges and biosphere reserves. I looked at her surprised, and she told me that in college she had entertained the idea of majoring in geology.
We rode past patches of uninhabited areas that added to the desert feel. Occasionally, we’d see a little house way up on an isolated, elevated alcove and wonder who the hell lived there.
We approached Guánica after noon, both hungry, so we exited the highway and decided to lunch somewhere along the little town’s malecón, or boardwalk. At an outside table, we ate a crab taco each, sharing a Medalla beer. The smell of the ocean wafted across the curving cement strip that constituted the boardwalk, and bright sunshine cascaded down on everything. Toward the water, fishing boats scurried off into the horizon, sailboats lingered on the turquoise expanse.
Noontime during a work day, and the place was empty. It had the peace and serenity that only remote vacation spots can have. I glanced at Marisol and saw in her sunglasses my own shaded reflection staring back. Then the tropical landscape was broken by a hideous sight: a big boulder surrounded by rusted, iron gates. I moved forward, looked over my sunglasses. Marisol saw me and turned around.
“It’s just a landmark,” she said.
“Of what?”
“Where the Americans landed in 1898.”
I wanted to see it closer, so Marisol gulped the rest of the beer and we took a look. It was some sort of commemoration of the event, a Plymouth rock-type of idea. This was where the American soldiers set foot to invade the island of Puerto Rico. It was a large coral boulder with the date September 16, 1898, and the words “3rd Battalion, U.S. V Engineers” carved on it.
As we walked back to the car, I turned around and saw how ridiculous it looked, jutting up from the ground, surrounded by an old, grated railing meant to protect it, from what or whom I wasn’t sure. Certainly, not from the seagulls and pigeons who had had their way with it. It looked like an ignored eyesore.
The boulder made me think about the invasion, made me revisit in my mind the status issue. I asked Marisol where she stood.
“Statehood,” she said.
I looked at her a bit stunned; many professors were pro-independence.
She read my face and smiled. “I know. I should be a pipiola, right?” she said, referring to the name for those in the independence party.
“Frankly, I have no opinion on the issue,” I said.
“You’re probably the only Puerto Rican alive who doesn’t.”
We both laughed.
As we drove into the lower elevation, the Caribbean sea appeared, warm and welcoming.
“How can you be so sure, Marisol?”
She threw her head back on the seat, looked out toward the foothills. “In my heart, I think it’s the best thing.”
“To become part of the nation that invaded and colonized Puerto Rico?”
“The U.S. has been nothing but good to me and my family. Why should I hate it?”
After Guánica, we headed west to the famous Phosphorescent Bay at La Parguera. After arriving, we parked the car in the lot of the Vistamar Hotel. We looked at each other with a “what now?” type of look. All sorts of thoughts began running through my mind. As we faced each other, the moment crackled with sexual energy, but it felt awkward. Two co-workers with a lot of R&R time on their hands, headed for a hotel suite located in a romantic, tropical setting. And we had already discussed sharing a room, out of financial necessity.
The woman at the desk did not question our being together, or give us any type of snarky looks. As we entered our room, Marisol mentioned that lots of young couples used these rooms, especially during the weekend. “What does the hotel care? For them, money always trumps morals,” she said.
Now, I would be lying if I said thoughts of passionate love-making had not entered my mind as I checked out the full-size bed. But I wanted to remain faithful to the idea of non-committal friendship. Hours of chatting on the phone led us to a compromise. We could hang, but out of respect for my feelings—for Marisol, my commitment phobia—ours would remain a friendship without any sexual contact. That was the plan.
Vistamar Hotel must have been built in the sixties. The rooms were clean and comfortable, but held that worn-out, threadbare look. The walls could have used a new coat of paint, and the bathroom had small hexagonal tiles. The view was spectacular, though. From our balcony, we could see the pool below and the Caribbean Sea farther out. As soon as Marisol saw the pool, she wanted to go down for a dip and dug through her carry-on for her swimsuit.
“Come on, move it,” she said, running into the bathroom to change.
I was putting my few clothing items away when she came out in a yellow bikini. I had to smile and shake my head. She looked at me with playful eyes and laughed.
“That’s cruel,” I said, taking out my toiletries.
“Put yours on,” she said, pouting her lips and folding her arms. I nodded my head, opened a drawer and with two fingers waved my trunks.
“Just hurry up,” she said, throwing herself on the bed.
When I got out of the bathroom, I did not want to look at her eyes. From the corner of my eye, as I scrambled to put my carry-on away in the closet, to fumble around for the room card key, my wallet, I could see her checking me out. We had not seen this much skin on each other until now, not even that night in the car. I felt exposed and put on a tank tee. I turned to tell her, “Okay, let’s go,” and our eyes met for that one instant. Hers were dreamy and locked in on mine. Mine probably showed evasion, anxiety, maybe even fear.
She stood up and straightened her bikini top. “Okay, let’s go.” She kissed me on the cheek and patted me on the chest.
At poolside, I could not keep my eyes off her. She had a knockout figure, and the yellow bikini looked fantastic on her tanned skin. She loved the water and kept diving into the pool, coming out with that bikini wet, squeezing her hair dry like a towel. At one point I had to turn on my stomach to hide my erection.
“Take off that T-shirt, Rennie. It’s too hot.” She practically tore it off me. “Let me put some sunscreen on you.”
Her hands on my body felt good as she spread the cool lotion over my back and shoulders. As I turned over and she started to spread some on my chest and stomach, I held her hand to stop. She smiled a crooked little smile that made me desire her more. I had to jump in the water, finally. But she jumped right in to splash water on me and minutes later put her arms around me.
The tropical sun took its toll, and after a few hours and beers by the pool, we returned to the room and crashed out, too tired to think about anything but a nap and doing nothing more serious than spooning. When we awoke, it was dinnertime and we had to make arrangements for a boat ride if we were to see the phosphorescent bay. As soon as you come into the area of the hotel, a bunch of boat owners hold signs to try and get you to sign up with them. Marisol told me to ignore them because she already knew t
he best tour guide.
We showered, separately, and made our way down to Joey’s Boats and signed up for an 8:30 ride. That gave us enough time to eat dinner, and we both dug into our seafood and tostones. A band, Combo Guasua, had finished its last salsa set, and recorded music starting piping in hip hop and reggaetón. Marisol’s face lit up, her lips reciting the rap lines floating from the speakers.
On the drive, I found out how much she really loved this stuff. We had left the radio on a station featuring reggaetón and Latino hip hop tunes, much to my dismay. She seemed to be rolling with it, so I didn’t ask to change the station, although I was getting a headache from the tiresome rhythm. Then the music lesson began.
“Hip hop isn’t just ‘a black thang,’ you know,” she informed me, righteously. “Some of the best MCs and DJs of the early period had black-sounding names, but they were really Puerto Rican.”
She riffed off some bona fide “classic” (her word) hip hop groups—her favorites being NWA, A Tribe Called Quest, Run DMC—and then she explained, what seemed to me, the whole history of Latin hip hop and reggaetón. By this time, I had spazzed out, but she was so into it, I couldn’t tell her to stop. To my disappointment, she began whipping out CDs from her green portfolio, to better illustrate some of the points she was making. She played Vico C’s “Saboréalo.”
As the song came on, she laughed. “I used to dance to this every time it played on the radio. Went to his concert in 06 … Awesome,” she said, punching my arm to accentuate both syllables.
“Oh, my god, you have to listen to this,” she said, and played me “La Recta Final,” translating the words, which admittedly were powerful and politically conscious, something I usually don’t associate with rappers. As Vico C continued in a tone that seemed angry, no matter what he rapped, I wished the lesson were over; it would have been a good moment to stop, I thought. But she moved on to Wisin y Yandel and “Rakata” and “Abusadora.”
“They’re from around Cayey,” she said, with pride, which was close to Baná.
The duo’s voices were beginning to grate on my ears. Why do rappers try to sing when most can’t? And the rhythm, it felt like someone beating on my head, a Latino version of the Chinese water torture. “Pam pam pam,” yelled Wisin y Yandel; pam pam pam went my head.
Of course, there was no way in hell I would have told her that. I was so embarrassed to confess that my teen soul had been nourished by grunge, alternative and a little heavy metal. That the only rap I ever listened to was by the Beastie Boys (when I eventually told her, she mentioned that one of them was Rican). At that moment, I would have rather listened to Rage screaming in something like “Take the Power Back,” or even Chris Cornell’s wailing vocals. Even Nine Inch Nails pounding away. Shit, I started getting nostalgic for something mellower like Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun.” Or some Radiohead—“Karma Police” would suffice.
I looked at Marisol sitting there, by my side, and those lyrics from “Creep” about being a creep and weirdo crept into my head. And as the breeze played with the palms outside, I kept hearing the Red Hot Chili Peppers singing about flying away on that zephyr. How sad, she would probably think, this dude, so assimilated, listening to all that white shit. Her face turned serious as she slid Tego Calderón into the player.
“You know, this music helped me get through high school.” She laughed, shaking her head a bit. “It was so hard moving here, Rennie. The kids, especially the girls, hated me. Called me all kinds of names. I had more fights that first year than I could remember.”
She caressed my hands on the table. “But I identified with the Nuyoricans, and we would dance to hip hop while on breaks, and that kept us tight, our little group.”
We finished our meal and as we each enjoyed the last glass of wine from the bottle I had ordered, the taped music blared on. Daddy Yankee’s “El Ritmo No Perdona” came up and a few couples started dancing the perreo, or “dog dance,” but the way they contorted into various positions a more likely name would be “doggie style.” Marisol caught me mesmerized and asked if I wanted to dance. I hesitated, but she took my hand and soon she was rubbing her booty against me, extending her arm backwards around my neck and up to my hair. I tried to keep with the rhythm, thinking pure thoughts as she bent over and gyrated her tush. At one point I had to smile and look away, whispering at her, “I can’t believe you.” She laughed, of course, and proceeded to shake her shoulders and breasts at me.
Outside, the low clouds had overpowered the last dint of blue, a slither of orange seeping through a sepia sunset. It was a perfect night for a ride on the phosphorescent bay. A quarter moon provided minimalist light, and when we had finished our dancing and headed for the launch area, it was pretty dark.
Our guide, Toño, met us with a hearty smile, effervescent handshakes and pats on the back. Six other passengers stepped into the long motorboat, which probably held no more than ten. Besides Marisol and me, there were two other couples—honeymooners from Minnesota and an older married couple from Florida. An older gentleman, a retired biology teacher from New York and a young woman from Ciales rounded out the explorers onboard. Toño welcomed us in heavily accented but understandable English, gave us the mandatory safety instructions, which included making us put on life vests, and then maneuvered the craft away from the pier and into the silent, black night.
The boat cut a swath of bluish-green luminance as it puttered forward. We all oohed and aahed at the sight; a few of us dipped a hand into the warm water, to immerse it in the incandescent light provided by those flagellating tiny organisms in the water. Toño explained the science behind it, in that tone guides use after having given the same information countless times. Then, he took us into deeper water, but not far from shore, and cut the motor. In the stillness, he agitated the water with an oar, then took an empty plastic container and gathered some of the water so we could see it up close. We passed the container around, shaking it to see how the water glowed when we did.
Near the end of the tour, Toño took us closer inland and invited us to swim if we wanted to, as long as we did with the life vests. It was shallow enough for anyone who wanted to go in, and they had told us when we signed up that we should wear our swimsuits if we did. Most of us made a move to jump in, except the elderly couple from Florida. Even the retired teacher seemed enthusiastic for a dip. He took off his shirt, replaced the life vest and jumped in. He was in good shape for an old guy and soon he was cutting through the water in sharp strokes, the glow of the water surrounding him. The honeymooners went off to themselves and they kissed and hugged as the water bounced around them. The Ciales woman, gazing at the starred-filled sky, floated in what seemed a sea of stars.
Marisol and I were the last to jump in. In the water, she put her arms around me and kissed me hard. Surprised, I saw her take off and swim a few laps, stopping to tread water and look at the luminescence she was creating.
“Isn’t it amazing,” she yelled back to me.
“Yes, it is,” I said.
Farther ahead, I saw a young woman nearer to the shore. She was no more than twenty feet away from me, yet in the radiant water and quiet of the night, she seemed farther away, lost in an eerie aura that I could not enter. The water’s bluish-green incandescence made her face glow more than usual, and when she smiled I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She waved at me, and I recognized her—the Green-Eyed Girl. I floated in the water just staring at her. She laughed and swam back to the shore of the little island where a group of students had huddled around a campfire.
Toño returned us to the pier, on the way picking up plastic six-pack holders and floating bags. I marveled at how beautiful the bay looked, despite how hard Puerto Ricans tried to pollute it.
It had been an exhilarating outing, and both Marisol and I felt the adrenaline rushing through our veins as we headed back to our room. Around us hordes of young people yelled and screamed in various drunken states. Marisol recognized some from the colleg
e, but others were most likely from the area.
“Don’t worry,” she told me. “They’re too drunk to remember anything.”
Some were dancing, most of them laughing and having a good time; the more unfortunate puked against walls or lay fetal positioned on cars. It looked and felt like Spring Break.
We went upstairs to our room, showered and changed. I almost asked her to join me in the shower—it was faster after all—but decided against it. Marisol put on a sheer, white jersey dress that hugged her body. The whiteness of the gossamer material made her tanned body stand out more than usual. I stared at her applying her lip gloss, putting on big earrings.
The hotel dance floor was packed, the atmosphere charged with youthful energy. As night morphed into a new day, and my head buzzed with the alcohol we were consuming, I began to notice how other men scanned Marisol’s body. I’ve always considered jealousy a petty, possessive attitude, but I could not help myself. Even as I danced with her, they scoped her vertically, zoomed in on her butt or breasts. Perhaps if I had not drunk as much as I did, perhaps if I knew for sure at the end of the night she would lie naked against my own naked body, I could have laughed away their looks.
At one point, returning with Marisol’s Cosmopolitan, a guy was practically nuzzling her neck as he tried talking to her. Her laughter made me angrier. There is nothing more awkward than standing in front of a guy hitting on a woman you’re with while you’re holding two drinks. I felt like an idiot, a schmuck, a pendejo. It could be mere conversation, but your testosterone and macho pride magnifies the situation, makes you feel like you have barged in on something much more lurid or sexual. Where is the “Dear Abby” for guys on stuff like this? Holding two drinks, like some servant, makes the situation even more demeaning. I know all this sounds immature, but that’s how I felt. Perhaps the pent-up hormones had kicked in, I don’t know, but seeing this guy, who was attractive, bending over that close to Marisol was too intimate for my liking. Knowing what was going through his mind, making her laugh, it made me feel powerless, like she was slipping away and I could do nothing but watch and feel whatever sense of manhood I had left seep out of me too.