+fiction. jerry a. rodriguez

UNDER A PUERTO RICAN SKY
+story copyright 2006, Jerry A. Rodriguez
+images copyright 2006, Jerry A. Rodriguez

The view from the plane window unexpectedly transformed from blue skies/wisps of clouds into a blank movie screen. A frenetic black and white montage of images played. Images representing the past few years of his life, a time when things dramatically changed. For the worst. Cisco shifted in his seat as he fought off the leg cramp. Though he was on his way to Puerto Rico, he was still locked in a New York state of mind.

Gray.

Gloomy.

Caustic.

Just like those images gallivanting across his imaginary movie screen, taunting him, as if wanting him to piss him off. Cisco wagged his head, kneaded his calf, getting the cramp to subside. Cisco hoped, no, wanted this trip be more than a vacation. He wanted to rediscover the deepest part of himself on the island he hadn’t set foot on since childhood. The island his parents dragged him away from (kicking and screaming) at the age of twelve. Dragged him back to Nueva Jork’s brutal winters and palm tree deprived streets. Why had it taken him so long to return? Ricans flew back and forth to la isla all the time. Yet Cisco hadn’t. It was almost as if he betrayed a best friend in the worst kind of way, and was too ashamed to face him. Would he fit in now? A creature of Brooklyn whose Spanish, once perfect, was now fragmented and tentative; he hated how he sometimes stammered while translating in his head. But like the song “En Mi Viejo San Juan” said, “I’ll return…to dream again...”

Would be a nice change of pace, since he was tired of all the fucking nightmares.

Four years since the soft-spoken orthopedic oncologist with the polka-dot bowtie said, “We might have to amputate your foot.” Stomach churned. Difficulty breathing. All Cisco could think was: who the fuck gets cancer in the foot? Luckily, it hadn’t come to the surgeons hacking off his appendage. But there was a big price to pay. All those surgical procedures; muscle transplants and skin grafts. They rebuilt him like Steve Austin. Except he wouldn’t be better or faster: he’d end up enduring constant pain as he struggled to walk again. Then there were the emotional blows: the uncertainty and fear and resentment, all the same emotional blows he suffered as a kid when diagnosed with rheumatic fever. Six years old. Woke up, hyped to be attending first grade. Rolled of out bed and fell to the floor because he couldn’t feel his legs. What was supposed to be a two-week hospital stay, turned into a ten-month ordeal in a wheelchair. And a boy a faced the kind of challenge most adults would never want to endure. At the age of forty, seemed like Cisco was experiencing it all over again. Surgery. Recovery. New muscle from his forearm, and skin from his thigh, replaced the tendons and tissue, which were excised along with the golf size tumor. Months in a wheelchair. Grueling physical therapy. Recurrence. Start all over again. Then they hit his foot with radiation. Third degree burns. Foot cooked crispy like pork rinds. Only way to control the excruciating pain was by popping prescription methadone pills. Over the years, Cisco partook in his share of recreational drugs, but never expected to be nodding in front of the TV, resembling the junkies sitting on benches in Tompkins Square Park back in the big bad Eighties. Urban ghosts no one noticed. That’s how Cisco felt now: invisible.

“…And we will be landing…” the captain said. Cisco buckled his seat belt. Closed his eyes.

The August heat was intense: it wrapped itself around Cisco like a sexy, dark-skinned Dominican girl filled with desire. Hot never felt so good.

Cisco knocked on Pedro’s hotel room door.

“Entra.”

Cisco headed in. Pedro changed from jeans and sweater to khaki shorts and a white tank top. Pedro resembled a panther. Slim and sinewy. Prominent forehead and feline-hazel eyes. Moved like one too: stalked you with ferocious elegance. He was slipping on his leather sandals. “Ready for a walk?”

“Uh huh.”

“We’ll leave early Sunday for Cayey. In the meantime, let’s make trouble in El Condado.”

There they go, female tourists from Europe and the U.S. searching for a killer tan. Prowling for a rum-infused, decadently good time. Ashford Avenue was the main strip barreling through El Condado. Cisco made way for the squad of giggling blondes as he and Pedro crossed the street. Tourists galore. Traffic ambled forward, slower than the pedestrians. Lining each side of the boulevard were hotels. Old hotels. Giant hotels. New Hotels. Hotels under construction. Wydam. Marriot. All the usual suspects. The infectious, rolling beat of Reggaeton blasting from every crawling/parked car. Daddy Yankee and Tego Calderon manically rapping about hard streets and groovy culos/booties. Cisco was looking forward to hearing Salsa, Salsa y mas Salsa. So far, Reggaeton ruled. The Puerto Rican soundtrack dramatically changed since Cisco was a kid. These days, it was urban.

“Little more high energy, than expected,” Cisco said, voice raspy as he admired the sky bleeding amber. Sun lazily fading behind the gleaming sapphire ocean. An intricate tango between day and night and light and dark. The beauty of it made him choke back tears. He sucked in salty air. Deep breath.

“This part?” Pedro said. “They’re puttin’ up hotels like it’s Vegas. Casinos. Theme restaurants…”

“Progress, they call it.”

Cisco and Pedro stopped at a roadside cuchifrito joint at the outskirts of El Condado. Quieter. You could actually hear the ocean crashing against the surf. They savored greasy meat empanadas/patties and Medalla beer.

“Weird to be back?” Pedro asked wiping his mouth with a paper napkin.

“Not sure yet. But we have plenty of exploring to do.”

Old San Juan. Cobblestone streets and century Old Spanish style buildings painted in the brightest pastel colors. Aqua. Tangerine. Lemon. Bright as childhood memories. Memories of Cisco’s family strolling the same narrow streets, Mami regaling him and his siblings with stories about Puerto Rico’s history and cultura. About how they were part African, part Taino, part Spanish and a little Arab thrown in for good measure. How being Puerto Rican mixed blood and cultures of the world into one perfect hybrid. It was something to celebrate, something to be proud of.

While Pedro was perusing the shelves of a used bookstore, Cisco stood in the entrance watching the women stroll by. All impressive curves and sun-kissed, sun-caressed skin. Negra. Blanca. Mulata. India. Fine. Cisco grinned. A musician was across the street, sitting on cracked, stone steps, plucking the strings of a guitar, filling the air with festive, folkloric music. Cisco wanted this trip to wipe away the bitter taste of the past few years. Memories of how his ex-girlfriend unceremoniously sent him packing while he was still recovering from a lung biopsy (“It can’t always be about you,” she said). How he ended up crashing at Johnny’s crib. His wild writer friend whose apartment was more of a mess than a crack den. Cisco sleeping on a lumpy mattress, on a floor covered by books and magazines and papers and cigarette butts and empty forty-ounce beer bottles. A mouse scurried from under the door and stared at Cisco, who swore that Mickey’s black, beady eyes were filled with pity.

During those months staying at Johnny’s, Cisco started taking salsa classes at Pedro’s studio. The thing Cisco wanted to do most was dance again. But between the stiffness and the pain, and the lack of tendons in his charred foot, it didn’t seem possible. Shit, he couldn’t even run anymore. Dancing salsa filled Cisco with an overwhelming sense of euphoria. No matter how tired, or how miserable he felt, when he danced, he was alive. Rapture. Like touching heaven. That’s why Pedro preferred to call the dance by its original name: Mambo. Meant “Conversation with the Gods” in African.

Pedro was part of a Latin dance subculture called On 2. Dancers who danced to classic mambo and salsa music: percussion driven big sound. Not the commercial, namby-pamby Marc Anthony stuff they played on the radio. Tito Puente. El Gran Combo. Spanish Harlem Orchestra. Musica con swing. In the On 2 world, dancers worked relentlessly to improve their skills, and repertoire of “shines” (steps) and turn patterns, wanting to master the dance until their body became a musical instrument that expressed all the intricacies of each song they grooved to. It was a world in which half the dancers were Asian, Anglo and African-American and hoofin’ it with the same passion and sabor/flava as the Ricans.

And Cisco was glad to be a part of the On 2. He took classes with Pedro many years ago, back in the early days, but eventually dropped out of the On 2 scene because he was busy with his failed career as a painter. Came back to the dance after recovering from surgery. All the pain he suffered in class during the past couple of years finally paid off; now Cisco could move in ways he didn’t think he’d be able to, and he adored the dance more than ever.

The rent-a-car zoomed down the highway, Pedro behind the wheel as they headed south to Cayey to meet Ismael. He was an old friend who got married and moved back to Puerto Rico several years ago, and found bliss teaching Physical Education at the university during the day, teaching On 2 Mambo at his studio and performing at night. Cisco studied the lush emerald mountains they passed. He grinned in anticipation. Couldn’t wait to hit Las Fiestas Patronales, an annual festival to honor various Catholic saints held in towns all over Puerto Rico. Cayey’s was considered the best. One massive party featuring the best Salsa bands on the island, food, rides and PR pride. Cisco and his family used to drive two hours each way to attend Las Fiestas Patronales and never missed it in the seven years Cisco lived in Puerto Rico. Pedro and Cisco were going to be hanging out with Ismael, his wife Lali, and all their dancer friends.

“I hope you’re ready to party,” Pedro said.

“Shit, yeah. I haven’t seen El Gran Combo live since I was a kid. Gonna dance my ass off.”

Cisco was excited, not only because he was going to hear the best Latin band ever, but also because he’d be around his gente/people for real. This wasn’t no tourist attraction, this was down home Boricuas having a blast. Ismael and Lali were going to be performing with El Gran Combo. Cisco always loved Ismael’s staccato style footwork and was looking forward to seeing him do his thing after so many years.

They arrived at a suburban part of Cayey and the streets where one big fiesta. A crew of percussionists was in front of Ismael’s two-story cement house, getting down with congas bongos timbales as friends and neighbors crowded around them, and sang and danced with unrestrained joy. Ismael gave Pedro and Cisco big, welcoming hugs. He’d aged a bit, but was still wiry and energetic. No longer winter pale, Ismael’s strawberry blonde hair and hazel eyes stood out more than ever. Ismael introduced Cisco and Pedro to everyone.

“Pedro’s the best salsa dancer around,” Ismael said to his friends. “Taught me everything I know.” Cisco laughed. He’d never seen Pedro actually blush.

Cisco headed into Ismael’s marquesina/garage where a makeshift bar had been set-up. The blazing sun, the long ride, all called for a nice, cold one. The bartender was a woman in her forties. Wavy auburn hair danced across freckled shoulders as those allusive eyes and ingratiating smile made Cisco want to kiss her. She gave Cisco a cold cerveza and he reached into his pocket for money and she touched his forearm, the one with oval skin graft and long scar, and said, “You’re a friend of Ismael’s From Nueva York, papito. You don’t have to pay.”

“Gracias. I should give you tip, though.”

“How about un besito?” She leaned forward and puckered her lips and Cisco kissed her and she threw her arm around his neck and held it for a second and it was spicy and wet and Cisco swooned a little. She beamed and winked and said, “Have a good time.” Cisco headed back outside and could still feel her hot lips on his, and it was like he was ten again and shared his first kiss with his year older neighbor Chari, a scrawny girl with the stringy hair and gleaming braces. How swept away he’d been by that first beso. And he seemed to be re-experiencing those same feelings of innocent desire/discovery. Cisco sipped his beer; strolled over to the percussionists and listened to them feverishly play their instruments as if possessed by el epiritu of their African ancestors. You couldn’t wipe away the smile from Cisco’s face even if you slapped him. He heard clackity-clack noises, looked up and watched a man casually ride by on a gray and white horse. Cowboy hat and boots. Un vaquero. The man gave Cisco the peace sign and grinned.

Ismael put his arm around Cisco. “Good to see you, bro’.”

“Same here. How’s life in P.R. been treating you?”

“The best. When I first came, it was like whoa, I can’t adapt to this life. I was used to the hustle and bustle of New York, tu sabe’? Now it’s paradise, bro’,” he said while patting Cisco on the back. “We’re gonna have a blast tonight.”

When they arrived at Las Fiestas Patronales, Cisco wondered if it was going to be anything like the Puerto Rican Day Parade in New York. He used to attend the Parade every year, back when you could barbeque in the park and folks had picnics/played beisbol/ate traditional food/sipped rum and it was a fun family affair. But over the years it changed, thanks to the new law-and-order-quality-of-life mayor. The park was sealed off (can’t have all them spics fuckin’ up the grass), people were treated like cattle and herded through barricaded walkways, drinking became illegal and most of the families were replaced by a younger generation who seemed more interested in getting laid than celebrating their culture. Then there was the incident. The news showing disturbing video images of girls getting groped/fondled/stripped by posses of thug boys. Left a lasting, nasty tarnish on the parade. Cisco stopped going because he didn’t feel safe, or even like he belonged anymore.

The festival was packed. There were carnival rides and games and an explosion of light/color/noise. Food and liquor stands. You could drink rum and beer openly. The smell of alcapurias and lechon, and the sounds of Spanish permeated the warm, late afternoon breeze. What impressed Cisco most was how polite everyone was. Warm smiles and hellos. None of the New York urban emotional armor and attitude. An old fashion sense of respect that immediately reminded Cisco of his father.

Seemed like every one knew Ismael, who they called the unofficial alcalde/mayor of Cayey. People greeted Pedro and Cisco like they were celebrities. El Gran Combo on the stage. Trombones trumpets saxophones forming complex melodies over intricate African influenced percussive beats. Fifteen-piece orchestra was celebrating more than thirty-years as the most popular salsa band ever. With seventy-year-old Rafael Ithier, virtuoso pianist and bandleader at the helm, El Gran Combo managed to cross every generation and their big band music style survived every trend in Latin music virtually unchanged. Though considered “traditional” the band was as popular as ever.

Cisco watched a cluster of dancers getting down to Ithier and his boys’ sizzling jam session. The heaviness of heart Cisco experienced before coming on this trip lifted.

Cisco noticed a particular girl dancing. She was maybe twenty, slinky, lengthy black hair tied in a ponytail. Skintight jeans and a red tank top with On 2 blazed across her chest. She moved and turned and shook her hips with an eloquence and style that spoke to Cisco. He was mesmerized by her delicate beauty and dazzling smile. It wasn’t only Cisco, though: plenty of other people stopped to admire the island angel perform her spicy moves. Her partner was dancing his ass off too, but it was all about her. In mambo dancing it should always be about the woman.

Ismael said, “That’s one of my students. Yacelis”

“Que divina.”

“Yeah. You should dance with her.”

“I don’ think I can keep up. Lookit her partner. Homeboy’s the shit.”

“Just have fun, bro’. Yacelis always likes having fun.”

Cisco chickened out. Like it was a high school prom and he was the pimply nerd too afraid to ask the popular girl to dance. Instead, he cruised around. Savored all kinds of food. Drank shots of rum. Took pictures of families having a wonderful time. Never once did Cisco look over his shoulder. Never once did he feel unsafe.

He returned to the area where Ismael’s crew was dancing. El Gran Combo started to play Un Verano En Nueva York. A summer in New York. The Rican flags were waving as the crowd boogie downed and cheered and sang the lyrics to the song.

“Con su permiso,” Yacelis said as she touched Cisco’s shoulder. Tingles slithered up his back. “Ismael said I should dance with you.”

Cisco grinned. “Yeah, you should.” He took Yacelis’ dainty hand and escorted her to an area where there was space to move. While the singer was singing about the fun of summer in New York, Cisco was lost under the star-filled Puerto Rican sky and Yacelis’ sparkling eyes. He took her in his arms, held her close, hit the beat and their bodies were swept up by the passionate rhythm of the congas. The air escaped from Cisco’s lungs and his chest tightened. Relax. Relax. Feel the music. Relate to your partner. Cisco smoothly turned Yacelis to the left, and then to the right, both hands now, twirled her around so her back was to him and his arms locked around her waist, pulling her into an intimate embrace. Yacelis read his every signal to perfection. The nervousness vanished as he surrendered to music, to the dance, and put Yacelis through complex turn patterns, always keeping more weight on his right foot, his good foot. The cancer foot? For the first time in years, there was no pain. Yacelis became his paintbrush, and he painted a beautiful mambo dance with her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, hips undulating, eyes locked, lips smiling. It was a four-minute romance. Cisco loved the way they clicked; lost in each other’s sensual caresses, laughing at every challenge met every, and every discovery made. They broke away and started doing shines. Fancy footwork. Mirroring and copying each other. Shoulders rolling. Waists undulating. Feet criss-crossing. From the corner of his eye, Cisco could see Pedro and Ismael dancing with Lali, stealing her away from each other, egging each other on, driving Lali into a dance frenzy. Cisco swept up Yacelis in his arms again. All the lights and bodies and sweat and sounds and scents overtook him, setting him free from the emotional cage he’d built for himself. As Cisco did a dramatic Fred Astaire style dip, staring deep into Yacelis’ enchanting eyes, he knew he was home.

She gave him a big hug. Held it for a moment. Warm feelings between them.

“Nice,” she said. That’s all she needed to say.

Cisco mambo-ed his ass off, set after set, band after band. Light rain began to fall. Soon, it started pouring sheets, and the band was forced to leave the stage. The throngs sought refuge from the tropical thunderstorm anywhere they could: under food stands, rides, cardboard boxes, even the stage. Many began to exit, quickly heading for their cars.

Pedro and Cisco were crouched underneath the elevated stage, crammed with dozens of others waiting out the torrential downpour.

“Hell of way to end the night,” Pedro said.

“Yeah,” Cisco said as he admired a large crowd that remained in front of stage, holding up a legion of colorful umbrellas, patiently waiting out the storm, eager to be possessed by the rhythm of the music again.

Cisco abruptly stepped out into the rain. He closed his eyes. Held his head up. And as cool, thick raindrops splattered across his face, for the first time, in a very long time, he dared to dream.

Jerry A. Rodriguez is a writer-director living in Brooklyn. He wrote and directed the critically acclaimed short film El Deseo/The Desire and is currently developing a documentary about Mambo dancing. Kensington Books will publish his first novel in a thriller series, featuring ex-cop Nicholas Esperanza, in the fall of 2007.

www.jerryarodriguez.com