The Accidental Native by J.L. Torres Page B

old to cruise.” The university had an unofficial “don’t ask, don’t tell policy” in place, even before the U.S. Army came up with theirs. No one gay I met there ever admitted it, certainly not in public. Friends knew, but there lingered a tacit hush about how they did their business. It was sad, really. I looked at him as I clenched the dashboard and saw my face reflected off his mirror sunglasses, his tight, black dyed mustache embracing his purplish lips.
    â€œHe’s into that New Age stuff, with rocks and channeling,” he added.
    I nodded, though unclear exactly what he meant.
    At the exit to Monteverde Mall, traffic thickened. It didn’t matter to Micco, who snaked through cars, SUVs and trucks like he was on the last lap at Daytona. At times, he passed vehicles on the shoulder, once almost scraping against the concrete meridian. Ifhe could drive on top of the divider, he would. The other drivers on the road were just as bad or worse. Everyone raced and cut off other drivers.
    â€œThen, we have the resident gringo—the other new guy, Daniel Stiegler.”
    â€œWhat about Foley?”
    â€œFoley,” Montero paused. “He’s like fog, comes and goes, stealth-like. I think he’s CIA.” He whispered this and laughed at my surprised expression. Then, added, “Maybe he’s here to keep an eye on Stiegler.”
    Stiegler’s wild, bushy-mustached mountain man look came to mind, his unkempt hair, wrinkled clothes and weather-beaten hiking boots recalling his days as a lecturer in Montana.
    We exited on Río Piedras, passed the University of Puerto Rico’s main campus, an amalgam of huddled, parked automobiles and buildings withered by neglect and weather, and soon entered Marisol’s street, which like so many streets in Puerto Rico had no sign. Micco said that to this day he didn’t know its name. And like so many other San Juan streets, there wasn’t a parking space to be found. Micco drove around for fifteen minutes, past vehicles whose owners had given up and stranded them on sidewalks to await the parking ticket accepted as part of the cost of hanging out in “el área metropolitana.” He finally squeezed in between two SUVs, tapping one of the bumpers several times, and we walked to Marisol’s high-rise condo, which appeared no better than most “projects” in the Bronx. The same elongated, upturned rectangular, gray-cement structure with a splash of pastels.
    Inside, similar long, narrow corridors fronting a series of clone doors. Same hard, waxy, Formica floors. Except here you own the apartment; it was an investment. Once inside the apartment, I saw that it even had the same floor plan. The kitchen area was separated from the living room by a counter and bar stools. A hallway led to two bedrooms and a bathroom. I could find my way blindfolded around this apartment, because I had lived for years in a similar one in the Bronx, before my parents got a deal on a house in New Jersey.
    Across the room, a wide, sliding glass door opened onto a slim balcony with a view of San Juan’s swarming, concrete cityscape. I was glad for the sake of Marisol’s investment that she had more footage than those same floor plans in the South Bronx. The living room was airy and accommodated the dozen individuals already there, sipping mojitos and wine.
    â€œAh, here’s the guest of honor,” Marisol chirped, holding a glass of red. “Micco, you brought him late,” she scolded. She smiled at me.
    â€œI found the young man shamefully unprepared and utterly unattired,” he responded in his awful Brit accent. Montero taught British literature, and on occasion took delight in mimicking a purposefully annoying nasal English accent.
    â€œAy,” clucked Marisol, already tipsy, “at least now we can eat.”
    It was an inviting room, full of color and practical furniture. White rattan—big in