Free The Accidental Native by J.L. Torres Page A

and I began thinking a walk wasn’t such a good idea. But I had to mail paperwork to my parents’ lawyer in the states. The college bordered the center of town, walking distance from the plaza, which typical of Spanish town planning had a Catholic church on one side and La Alcaldía, City Hall, on the other. Narrow streets crisscrossed without any logic, and people tried to walk on slim sidewalks, pedestrians bumping into the decreasing number of shoppers coming out of the stores in town. Most townspeople today preferred to shop at the malls.
    There was a long line in the post office; it extended past the rented mailboxes and almost out of the building. One clerk attended to everyone. It didn’t help that customers felt a need to talk to the man behind the counter about family and current events. I looked to see if any machines were available as an alternative, but no. All I wanted were a few stamps, and I had to wait for around thirty minutes, shuffling along the cordoned velvet ropes as if waiting to enter an exclusive nightclub.
    An old woman started screaming about her son sending a package—did anyone have it? Anyone seen her son? Everyone in line looked away, making her invisible. I had lived in New York City long enough to know you don’t make eye contact with weirdoes. But I felt sorry for her, saddened everyone else was icing her. In a metro area, with millions of people, neglecting homeless and crazy people was considered a survival tactic, but here, in a small town, it seemed cruel. I pitied her and she saw a chance, someone who obviously gave a shit, and I had a conversation on my hands.She went on and on, I nodded, uttering encouraging filler words in my limited Spanish. She was off her gourd. The clerk kept saying, Doña Lili, leave the customers alone, go home. She turned to him and started insulting him for losing her son’s package, then left in a huff, talking to herself.
    I mailed my letter and glanced at my watch, alarmed my class was about to start in half an hour. I walked and breathed in the smell of wet dirt, felt the first, light raindrop. I sped up, walking like an Olympic marathon walker. The clouds cracked open and as I entered the college’s main gates, I got drenched. Garbage streamed rapidly down the curb, dragging along eggshells and pasty flour balls in soapy water. Suddenly, a bright blue VW Bug stopped, and the driver’s window rolled down.
    â€œNeed a ride?” A pair of green eyes looked over the slightly opened window.
    I was stunned at the pretty, tanned face with the kick-ass smile and piercing eyes; a beauty mark at the base of her neck bordered her cleavage like a landmark. But I also felt stupid, standing there getting wet by the second, undecided. I said no, waving her along, more dismissively than I wanted. She yanked the stick shift into gear and smirked as to say, “comemierda,” and sped off.
    Common sense dictates you take an offer like that rather than getting soaking wet and offending someone at the same time. But she was a student, and I was new at this teaching thing. I didn’t think it proper to fraternize with students in any way. Innocent me.
    â€œYou look like an animal that came out of the rain.” Micco dropped David Mitchell’s
Cloud Atlas
to review me up and down.
    I went to the men’s room and grabbed paper towels to dab myself, hoping to get dry before entering class. I took my shirt off and patted dry my underarms, chest, arms.
    A knock at the door. I opened it to find Marisol holding a hair dryer. She stared at my naked torso.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said, covering myself with the shirt.
    â€œI thought you might need this,” she said, smiling. I took the dryer and thanked her.
    I dried what I could and ran out of the bathroom, wet areas dotting my clothes. I passed Roque, who had stepped out of his office to get a cup of coffee.
    In my office, I went in circles trying to find materials