Free The Accidental Native by J.L. Torres

said. I asked for a beer. What the hell, I couldn’t sleep anyway.
    We sipped quietly, the voices from the jukebox singing about deceit and betrayal.
    â€œIs he always like that, Micco?”
    â€œThe Rock?”
    I nodded.
    He shrugged one shoulder. “Well, he’s gone through a lot with his ex.”
    An investment banker, she had been the love of his life, Montero said. And he recalled how Pedro would look into her eyes, ashe’d call her his sweet darling with so much genuine devotion, back when they danced at gatherings like the one today.
    â€œHe loved that woman, and she dumped him for a younger, handsome, upscale guy,” Montero said. The sweetheart type of love wears thin when one cannot negotiate middle age and realizes wealth buys you toys and a Stepford husband.
    â€œDivorce is like an amputation—you survive, but there’s less of you.”
    I looked at him, bending over a cocktail glass holding melted ice, knowing he hadn’t come up with that himself. He glanced my way, still wearing the mirrored sunglasses.
    â€œAtwood,” he said, reading my mind.
    The bartender alerted us that he was closing, so we dragged ourselves off the chairs and strolled back into the breezy night. In the gravel parking lot, a soft drizzle fell as we reached the convertible. Before getting in, Montero looked at me and said, “Be careful with Roque. He can make life miserable for you.”
    All the way home, I kept thinking about Roque’s angry face and Micco’s warning, and felt more lonesome than ever.

Seven
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    On the first day of classes, I woke up early. Still hadn’t been sleeping well, and with the thought of facing students for the first time, it seemed pointless to stay in bed. I kept thinking about entering the classroom and bumping into the desk or becoming apoplectic—something embarrassing and stupid happening. Short bursts of nervousness and insecurity overwhelmed me, my body flushed and tightened with anxiety. I jumped out of bed and did some pushups, kicked the hacky sack for a bit and took a shower—one of several I learned to take during a typical day in this climate.
    Over coffee and staring at the landscape, I wanted to review important items to discuss with students, but I couldn’t. My mind wandered, my heart pounded at the thought of entering the classroom. So I decided to take a walk before my first class at 10 am. I threw on a blue, short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants, with the customary Top-Siders.
    Outside, it was muggy and you couldn’t spot a patch of blue sky. The campus bustled with cars streaming in, professors and students marching to their destinations, carrying briefcases and knapsacks. College police wore their special “colors,” which included vibrant red berets sporting a small insignia of Cano the Coquí. They ushered cars to respective lots and assisted pedestrians with questions, their white-gloved hands waving, whistles blowing sharply.
    As I walked closer to the main gate, I heard shouting and laughter that grew louder as I approached the entrance and the avenue—La Tirilla—that ran parallel to it. Older students—“upperclassmen”—dozens of them, lined up on the sides of the gate, throwing flour, eggs, syrup, sometimes spraying dishwashing soap at the “prepas,” or first-year students. Every time one got hit with an egg or a smattering of flour, an outburst of gleeful, taunting “ooohs” would rise from the gathered crowd. The more brazen ones would walk right up and smash the egg on the prepa’s head.
    Shocked, I tried to stay clear of straying particles. The hazed students walked stoically to class, cake ingredients settled on their heads and faces, a few crying. I tip-toed across slippery layers of egg yolks, whites and shells, and blue and green soap streaking the sidewalk as I headed toward my destination: the post office.
    The overcast sky threatened rain,