The Accidental Native (16 page)

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 college, 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.

The guy had this smirk that invited a punch in the face. You could tell by his Christian Dior shirt, by how he spoke, by his sense of entitlement and self-worth, that he was a blanquito, the vernacular on the island for upper class and snobby. By now, I was immersed in a thick, stewing anger. When he saw me with the drinks, for the benefit of Marisol and his friends, he made a crack about “our” drinks finally getting here and how slow I had been.

“Your drinks?” I responded, “Sure,” then threw them both, along with plastic cups and straws, in his smug face and nice polo.

It was fortunate that Marisol and the guy's friends had been in control, so the scuffle was more separation than fight. I had lost my cool and felt terrible, but just as easily I would have gotten pleasure out of beating the crap out of that guy.

Marisol grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the dance floor and toward the elevators and then threw my hand away out of anger.

“What the hell was that?” she asked, pounding the floor button on the elevator, glaring at me with such a disgusted look that I held my head down in shame.

“He was hitting on you,” I said, sheepishly, folding my arms.

She laughed to herself and shook her head.

“Well, he was,” I said.

She sprinted out of the elevator. I followed, shuffling my feet, sullen and upset at the guy, at myself.

The night was hard getting through. I sunk into a chair by a corner of the room, watched as she changed into shorts and a tee, heard as she brushed her teeth and did all those things women do at night to stay beautiful.

Right before she slipped under the light bed cover, she stared at me and said, “That was really stupid, Rennie.”

I nodded, said softly, “I know.”

“I can take care of myself, okay?” After a few minutes she shot up and said, “And, by the way, what difference is it to you?”

She turned off the light, and I remained seated in the same chair, in the dark, the moonlight straining through the window and settling on my body.

As I watched her fall into deep sleep, my eyes sweeping the bedcovers outlining her body's curves, my buzzed mind ran images of our entangled nude bodies making love again.

I stood up and walked over to the balcony. Below, the empty pool gleamed blue under the lights. Farther away, the sea was a blanket of darkness. Besides the occasional distant drunken voice laughing or a car burning rubber, the night was serene.

I now regretted bringing her along. Yes, I deeply regretted making a fool of myself, too, but the incident with the blanquito would not have occurred if I had come alone. Maybe that's what I needed, some alone time to think through all the shit that was coming down on me. But then I thought about the trip here and the fun we both had. Just talking to her was great. Somehow the situation seemed abnormal, unnatural, though. How could we share one room, intimately close, wanting each other, and not get it on? It was insane. It was self-inflicted cruelty. But if we gave in, then what?

I did not know if I could stand kissing her, touching her and not make love to her. On top of everything else, it just seemed to add more weight to all my problems. I began to regret coming to Puerto Rico. Why did I bother? What was there for me here?

She stirred in bed. I turned around and saw her get up on her side. She squinted at me.

“Rennie, come to bed.”

I stripped to my underwear and jumped into bed with her. We spooned, my face cradling her hair and neck. She smelled clean and floral, and inhaling her made my skin tingle. I wanted to kiss her so bad. I tightened my arm around her, pushed my hips into her butt and became aroused.