The Accidental Native by J.L. Torres Page A

ride the fog drifting over the green central mountains. From where I sat, I could see the neighborhood where my parents’ house was located amid houses perched on ground overlooking the college. That would always break the reverie, would upset me, so I had to get up and do something else.
    Today, in front of me, the task was reviewing the master syllabi given to me by the department secretary, Nitza. I was supposed to write my own course syllabus for each class and hand them out to students. Uninspiring work, especially with the emphasis on phonetics and grammar—it seemed like the principal objective was to teach the verb “to be.”
    So, one particular Saturday found me kicking the hacky sack, as I’m bound to do when procrastinating, avoiding a boring task like writing syllabi. I was lost in the rhythmic dance of keeping the sack in the air for minutes, when Micco came to pick me up for a welcome party I didn’t even want. Marisol Santerrequi had decided it was the collegial thing to do. Stiegler, a recent hire, told me he never got one. Watch her, Micco had said, referring to Marisol. “She’s got it bad for you.” I was not pleased by this. Nothing against Marisol. I had scanned her in those tight dresses—the cleavage impossible not to see. Not bad. But the last thing on my mind was having an affair with a colleague. The more I thought about it, the more unsettling it became, because she was persistent, and I didn’t need anything else on my plate.
    I opened the door and Micco, all five-feet-four and chunky, stood in front of me, dressed in white linen pants and a short sleeve, red silk shirt, his hairless chest held high as if he were displaying a series of medals. He dipped his sunglasses down his nose to look at me, and his from-the-bottle suntanned face turned to shock.
    â€œYou’re not wearing that.” He threw a finger at my outfit, which consisted of army fatigue shorts with a Yankees T-shirt and flip-flops.
    â€œHell no, let me get ready.” I kicked him the hacky sack and he dropped it.
    I showered, shaved and dressed, my newly donned clothes—a blue rolled-up sleeved, buttoned-down collared shirt, with khaki pants and boat shoes—did not receive any more of a compliment.
    â€œWhat’s that, Puerto Rican preppie?”
    The drive to San Juan from Baná on the autopista is forty minutes, in good traffic, which is rare, but with Micco driving we made it there faster. He drove his little red convertible like a NASCAR wannabe, moving in and out of traffic at a wild speed,turning the wheel in jerky motions, elbows upturned like it was appropriate etiquette. We still had time to chat. I found out he would be my office mate, and I suddenly sensed in him a responsibility to mentor me. All I could think of was that I was having to share such a tiny office with another human being too gabby for me. I liked my privacy, and when it was time to work, I didn’t want anyone around me talking stupid crap. In that short drive to San Juan, Montero gave me rundowns on everyone.
    â€œMost of these people,” he yelled, over the rushing air and speeding cars around us, “harmless, unless you get in the way of something they want. Like dogs, they’ll snap if you try to take the bone they’re chewing on.”
    So much for camaraderie, I thought. Passing us, a pick-up truck carried a huge, plastic cow.
    â€œPedro, though,” he continued, swinging elbows as he steered through dense traffic. “Keep an eye on him. They don’t call him The Rock for nothing.”
    The warm night air slapped at us. We passed congested, residential areas turned commercial, cluttered with signs advertising all types of businesses, and a string of junk food franchises. Montero pointed to one of many residential areas lining the highway, La Sierra Estates. “Freddie Rivas lives there,” he said. “A gay man who has yet to accept he’s too