The Accidental Native

by J. L. Torres

  “I could be better.”

  A vague smile, and he opened the long green cardboard folder.

  “Well, you know we have had some discrepancies in your evaluation.”

  He stared at me, and I nodded. He seemed prepared to go into some long justification. I already knew his methods, having spent more time than I wanted in that office, listening to him talk and talk.

  I stopped him before he could begin. “Doctor Roque, please just tell me the Outside Committee’s results.”

  Narrowing his eyebrows to construct that charming unibrow, while the edges spread out ready for flight, he slid the paperwork toward me.

  “I see that they recommended renewal,” I said with a smile. “Unanimously.”

  “That’s their opinion. My recommendation is to terminate your contract.”

  “Well, I guess we have another discrepancy of opinion.” I looked at him hard. “What now?”

  “This case will go to the Institutional Personnel Committee. It’s in their hands.”

  “That’s it?”

  “You can write a rebuttal to my recommendation if you want. You have a week from today to do so. Good luck.” His lips pursed, he stared at me defiantly.

  I stood up to leave.

  “By the way, Professor Falto …” he signaled for me to close the door I had just opened. I did. “Your little relationship with Professor Santerrequi …” He shook his head, his fingertips tapping on his lap. “Ill-advised.”

  I bent over the desk to face him squarely.

  “I came here to discuss my performance review, Doctor Roque, not my private life. Are we done?”

  “She’s deluded this is going somewhere. Be honest, be a man and stop playing with her.”

  I didn’t know what to say. The audacity shocked the hell out of me. I just shook my head and stumbled out the office, slamming the door as I did.

  The music woke me up. I had fallen asleep reading. After leaving Roque’s office, I sat down to write that rebuttal to his recommendation. This was my first sentence: Dr. Roque is a vicious, ignorant, biased asshole and his recommendation cannot be taken any more seriously than his wardrobe.

  I thought it best to stop there and give it a little distance. Perhaps all the tension was more than I could handle. I felt exhausted, anxious, yet somewhat relieved to put down on paper what I really thought, even if I would not use it.

  I dozed off again. And the music, festive and loud, broke me out of it. Marisol had told me about the lighting of the Christmas tree. A big event, everyone turns out. I thought it was a bit late to light up a tree, relative to the States.

  “Christmas goes on longer here,” she told me. The Christmas spirit lasted until mid-February, in fact.

  I had nothing to do, so after throwing some water on my face and brushing my teeth, I walked over to the little plaza with the fountain in front of the administration building. Every year they decorated with lights the same tree, an enormous spruce that the Army had planted decades ago. Earlier in the day, I had seen groundskeepers on a hydraulic lift doing the honors.

  There was a substantial crowd when I arrived at the site, a short distance from the Guest House, where I still uneasily resided. Most of those gathered tended to be students. There was a smattering of professors, many staff, administrative people and their children. I didn’t see Marisol, who would have had to drive from San Juan, or any of the other English faculty.

  The highlight at this year’s lighting was the Tuna de la Guácara, a musical group organized at the college almost at the same time as the founding of the institution. Forty-something years later they had become an institution themselves, recording many records and giving concerts all over the world. This year, they had decided to celebrate their success by coming home. Their specialty seemed to be Puerto Rican Christmas tunes, which ran from the religious to the bawdy. They were draped in their traditional yellow capes—in the Spanish style, I’m told. It was a big group and they appeared in stride, clapping hands, playing guitars and other stringed and percussive instruments, putting everyone present in a party mood.

  They stopped, and the rector waddled to a little podium made tinier by his massive presence. He gave thanks to the group and said a few words about tradition, yadda, yadda, yadda. He turned on the switch and the tree was magnificent. Such a minor thing, and I felt warm and fuzzy inside. I thought about the happy Christmases in Jersey. My parents went all out and, being an only child, I was spoiled rotten. My heart ached, and I missed them so much. Will this ever end, I thought. This inconsolable pain, this inexpressible loss, only needing a memory to light it up like this Christmas tree.

  “Pretty fine tree, isn’t it?”

  I looked to my right and I was surprised to see Foley, who had crept up on me from somewhere out of the amassed bodies.

  “Yes, it is—great lights.”

  I stared at him and if I stared hard enough, I could see right through him. He sure was pale enough. How, I wondered, could anyone live in the tropics and not get some shading of sun, a little bit of brown. It was chilly out, as it often gets in Baná during this time of year. Being at a higher altitude, the town gets cooler at night and early in the morning, although rarely dipping lower than the mid-sixties. Coming from the New York City area, I just didn’t see the need for a jacket or sweater in this type of weather. Foley had on a light, hooded windbreaker. But, then, he didn’t perspire.

  “Not Rockefeller Center,” I said, “but it’ll do.”

  For the first time, I saw his stark, blue eyes twinkle, and he smiled, not a bad one either. He had great teeth, intense white and even, not small.

  “Not a very fair comparison, is it?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “You’re going to drive yourself crazy, you keep comparing—it’s a different world, Falto. Take it from me. I’ve been here for over twenty-five years.”

  “And why are you telling me this?”

  He was surprised at my question, doing something like a double take. His head slanted and his grin turned into a disbelieving smirk. Like he was giving me pearls of wisdom, and maybe I was being swinish.

  “Well, for starters, because you’re having real problems adjusting, aren’t you?”

  “That the official line?”

  He grabbed my elbow and pulled me under a nearby tree, distancing us from the nearest group of people. He glared at me, his steel blue eyes locking onto mine. When he did this, his entire demeanor changed. He became another person, somebody who got your attention and maybe inspired fear despite being average height and slight of build.

  “Look, I’m on your side.”

  He stared at me again, and for some reason I believed him. I nodded and he let go of my elbow.

  “Roque has it out for you, no doubt about that,” he said in a low voice, turning his head to make sure no one was around. “But it’s so blatant, it’s pathetic, and he doesn’t have enough people on the Institutional Committee.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m the chair of the committee,” he said with his nice smile. “In fact, he’s becoming a bit of a nuisance.” He put his hands in the windbreaker’s pockets and looked up at the brilliant tree, toward the tuna which had gathered again for one last song.

  “Just don’t worry about it,” he reassured me. He was about to walk away.

  “Foley,” I yelled. He turned around. “Why?” I asked.

  “Why what?” he said, leaning in toward me from the distance.

  “Why are you helping me?”

  He smiled even more broadly, tugged at his ear. “It’s the American way, isn’t it?” Then, he got lost in the crowd.

  The music continued playing, way after the tuna had packed and left, piping out of gigantic speakers supplied by the college, and it flowed into the next week, and the next, until every day blurred into one long, ongoing party.

  Meanwhile, I struggled to write my “defense.” That’s what colleagues called it. “Rennie, how’s i
t coming along, tu defensa.” As if I had been accused of some charge and needed to clear my name and reputation. As if I was some criminal and needed to defend myself.

  Illustrious Members of the Most Respectful Institutional Personnel Committee, I am innocent of all charges that have been levied against me by this administrative tyrant, Dr. Roque, who clearly has lost his mind after being dumped—and who can blame her—by his ex-wife.

  Foley’s words served as comfort, but I didn’t know how much weight they held. What if Roque swayed enough members of that committee—my academic career would be shorter than some Hollywood marriages. It seemed so unfair. I was beginning to like the students, feel like I was making a difference, actually teaching them.

  I throw myself at the mercy of this Honorable Committee—the students’ evaluations speak for themselves. Have a heart, people. Isn’t this evaluation supposed to help me become better?

  I was struggling with la defensa when Marisol called to remind me about the big Christmas bash. Every year the rector threw a big party. No matter how bad the economy and the financial state of the institution, there was always money for partying.

  “In the time-honored Puerto Rican tradition,” Micco would say. “Baile, botella y baraja,” or “dance, bottle and cards.” Attributed to a Spanish governor, it was like his official governing policy, the idea being to keep the natives happy and distracted so they wouldn’t rebel.

  Marisol sensed my hesitancy. “Oh c’mon, you need to get out.” True, I thought. “What about the defense,” I said.

  “How long can that take to write?”

  Honorable Committee Members, I write these short lines to beg for more time to write my defensa—thanks to my girlfriend, whose name I must keep in secrecy, given the ridiculously conservative attitudes …

  Juanqui y Los Muchachos were in full swing when I arrived at the cafeteria, the site of the college Christmas party. Marisol and I agreed to come separately, even though it appeared as if everyone in the college knew about us. The band played a lively merengue, which got people up to dance. The dance floor was packed with faculty members “brillando la hebilla,” or “polishing the belt buckle,” as Mami used to say. Weird seeing intellectual gray heads dancing. Surreal, like an old episode of Twilight Zone. Everyone decked out in their best, the women had spent hours at the “beauty,” and the men had dusted off their suits and ties. Lots of satin and linen running around.

  I spotted the English table and Marisol. Our eyes met, and she gave me that little twisted, wicked smile of hers, which meant “happy to see you” and “you’re looking good.” I dislike suits but the occasion called for it, so here I was wearing the only one I owned, a tailor-made suit picked up on one of the family travels to Milan, and a skinny tie, because I hate the fat ones. Mami persuaded me to get it done.

  “When will you get this opportunity again,” she said. She got me on that alone, but it didn’t hurt that she offered to pay half. That was a few years ago, and it fit me well.

  I had to admit I felt great, despite all the crap coming down on me. Tonight, I thought, I can forget about Roque—who fortunately sat with friends somewhere else—and get lost in baile, botella y baraja.

  “You should wear suits more often,” Marisol said, pulling my tie, as I sat down next to her.

  I laughed. “I’m already dying to take this one off.”

  She bent over and whispered “Okay, later I can help you out of it.”

  I grabbed her hand and took her to the dance floor, me, the once apprehensive dancer. I had become better since hanging with Marisol. My spastic feet tapping had evolved into more fluid, rhythmic steps.

  “There’s hope for you, Falto,” she teased.

  I complimented her on her dress, a full length, red formal with a low-cut back. The silky material clung to her curves like a novice driver on a mountain highway. “Splendorous” was the word that came to my mind.

  The night floated along, one merengue after another, from salsa to cha cha, one conversation after another, drink following drink, and then the moment of zen came when, seated around most of my colleagues, I realized that during the course of the evening I had heard gossip about everyone seated at the table. Freddie had connived in winning a system-wide grant to study theater in Cuba, although he did not teach the subject and certainly not theater in Spanish. The truth, I was informed in a whisper, was he had a lover living in Cuba, and this was a way to get back to him.

  Micco, according to the grapevine, had gotten one of his undergraduate girlfriends pregnant. Roque insisted that Micco had the habit of sleeping with female students. When this came to me, disgusted, I almost approached him, but Marisol told me that it was a complete fabrication. Roque, she told me, had the bad habit of spreading malicious rumors and ugly gossip without evidence. He had marked several professors on campus with this gossip already.

  “He means well, to protect students in the college, but he gets carried away.”

  No shit, I thought.

  Rita Gómez didn’t come, a rarity, because although shy and demure, she loved to dance and party and never missed an event. She had made me promise her a dance. The word was that she had taken ill.

  Talk of infidelities, corruption, crimes and misdemeanors. Departmental intrigues, institutional failures, dirty college politics. And so it went in the world of the humanities. It had become stifling in the cafeteria, what with all the talk and people, so I stepped outside for fresh air. I sat on one of the cement benches, legs crossed Indian style, and watched three students kick a hacky sack around. I was about to stroll over and ask to join them, when Marisol strode up to me.

  “What you doing out here?”

  “Just getting fresh air.”

  “You could have told me. I thought you’d left.”

  “Sorry, couldn’t take all the b.s. flying around in there.” She nodded and sat down next to me. “Speaking of bullshit, you know what Roque told me?”

  Marisol sat down next to me. “What?”

  “To stay away from you.”

  She looked at me, stunned.

  “Yeah, you heard right,” I said.

  “When was this?”

  “During my performance review.” My eyes bobbed up and down, watching the guys kick around the footbag. Basic stuff, delays, one of them trying to do a flying inside.

  “That prick.”

  “Said you’re deluded to think this is going somewhere—that I’m using you.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “What else? To mind his own fucking business.”

  Her eyes widened.

  I laughed. “Well, not exactly like that. I had my work mouth on.”

  There was an extended moment of silence—never a good sign. She picked at her dress, staring at the ground. The guys had a good round going without dropping the bag.

  “Yeah, he’s nosey,” she finally said.

  They dropped it, and then came the usual cascade of shouts and laughter.

  She stood up to return inside, then did a turnaround, like she was lost. I jumped up and grabbed her arm.

  “You know what? I think I’m going home,” she said, looking at my arm holding hers.

  “Whoa,” I said, “what’s going on?”

  She went inside, retrieved her purse and passed me on the way back to her car. It seemed like a mile to her car in that silence. Her mood had changed, and I couldn’t help thinking that anywhere Roque’s name popped up, it was like a toxin, contaminating everything and everyone.

  “Mari, did I do something wrong?”

  I went to caress her face, but she held my hand and started to cry.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, that’s the point,” she said. “Nothing has happened or will happen with us.”

  “Don’t say that, c’mon. You letting Roque get to us?”

  “It’s not about Roque, dammit. It’s you, it’s you.”

  I was looking at her looking at me with those big brown eyes
, all teary, and minutes later I was wondering what the fuck had happened. The evening had started out great and suddenly I was hearing all this negative stuff.

  “What do you mean, it’s me?”

  “It’s me, too.”

  “Mari, you’re losing me here.”

  “Pedro is right—I’m fucking deluding myself.”

  “No, no. We’ve come a long way.”

  “Long way to what, Rennie? And, where are we going with this?”

  How could I answer that? I didn’t know the answer to that one. I just didn’t. And maybe I didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to be pushed to answer.

  Silence at the most inopportune times is a death warrant. She slipped into the car, slammed the door and drove away.

  Dear Committee Members, due to an unforeseen development, I beseech you to please bring down on me the harshest punishment allowed by this venerable institution. Quartering seems particularly and metaphorically appropriate at this time.…

  Walking the streets can be an antidote for the blues. After Marisol drove off, I went back and gulped a whisky with soda. I’m not the guy who’s going to sit and drink all night because his girl’s gone—not that guy. But I needed a jolt. Then, I had to walk, somewhere, anywhere, didn’t matter as long as I moved toward something and away from everything.

  My meandering took me up hilly Altavista, past the hospedajes, the private buildings housing students, the closest thing to dorms in the area. It was quiet, with the kids gone for Christmas break. Or wasted, watching mindless films, or becoming numb playing video games, who could tell? It was late, but I had lost track of time, had no watch and didn’t care to know the time. But it felt late.

  I spotted the corner that held my parents’ house. The house was brilliant with Christmas lights and ornaments. Cheap, tacky-as-hell, bought at a bargain basement. I could not find solace in their tackiness. Could not find satisfaction in laughing at their stupid attempt at festive happiness. Because they were happy. Squatters, yet they had the audacity to fix up the place like they had a right to it, a right to domestic bliss, a sense of home that they could adorn and decorate.

  Their inside lights were off and their battered Corolla was gone, so they were off spending their government check on more Christmas cheer—anything but paying their rent.