I’m sitting with Fitz at the Econo lunch bar. This is my favorite place to eat, also virtually the only place in Rincon I can afford on my current budget. Our table faces a glass wall that looks out over the muggy parking lot. We watch the lot like a zoo exhibit. There’s a guy selling DC shoes beneath a colorful canopy. Shopping carts are parked at random across the lot. Drivers weave between and around them. Steam rises from the pavement.
My Styrofoam carton is stuffed with yellow rice and beans. I also ordered the meatloaf, corn fritters and amarillos; the sweet fried plantains that taste better than bananas. Despite the heat of the island, Puerto Ricans like heavy food. I struggled at first to put it away, but I’ve been here for nearly a month now and I’m getting used to it.
“Where are you from?” It’s the guy sitting at my left elbow. He’s eating an empanadilla with one hand and fondling an energy drink with the other. I know he works here because he was lurking behind the counter when I ordered and he’s wearing a bright red apron.
“I’m from Idaho,” I say.
“Do you like it here in Rincon?”
“Yeah! I mean, I stay in Anasco, but Rincon is nice too.”
“It’s a nice place. A peaceful place.” His English is good. “The most violent thing that ever happens here is occasionally someone gets burned alive.”
Now he has my attention. I laugh with eyebrows raised.
“Are you kidding?”
“No! But it’s nothing to worry about.” he laughs. “I don’t want you to think it’s dangerous here or anything. It doesn’t happen very often. Only a few times a month.”
Fitz has choked on his rice now. I glance over at him but he appears to be absorbed in a magazine.
“A few times a month?” I say.
“Yeah. It’s pretty rare. Mostly drug violence, you know. Black market stuff. They just tie people up and burn them alive.”
“Ok.”
“How long are you staying here?”
“Only a few more weeks,” I say. “I have to go back to school.”
“Ah, you are a student. What do you study?”
“Advertising. I make commercials.”
“Ok. That’s good. I’m in school too, you know. I only work this job part time.”
“Ok.”
Fitz, staring straight ahead, sticks an elbow in my ribs. His food is gone. My new friend on the left doesn’t seem ready to stop talking. He’s transitioned from involuntary immolation to Puerto Rican parenting techniques. As I wolf the last of my amarillos he’s demonstrating with vigorous aerial gestures how to beat a child with a flip-flop. I cut him off midstream.
“My friend,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you. I have to get back to work now, but good luck in school and maybe I’ll see you again.”
He smiles and shakes my hand. “Welcome to Puerto Rico!” he says. Fitz and I take our empty cartons to the trash and then saunter to the exit. It rains every afternoon here, and today is no exception. Rain is pouring from the sky. Through the glass doors I can see the shoe vendor dropping the canopy low over his wares. The rain falls straight down here, so standing directly beneath any kind of shelter keeps you relatively dry. In Idaho he’d never get away with that, I think. The rain would come at him sideways and his shoes would be ruined, canopy or no.
There are a few sunburned surfer types loading a scooter into the back of a small pickup. They don’t seem to mind the rain. The Puerto Ricans streaming in and out of Econo walk only a bit faster than they would in the sunshine. Everyone seems preoccupied, but in a happy way. The rain breaks the heat. It’s welcome. I survey the parking lot once more for signs of anyone that seems likely to burn me alive. The results come in negative. We walk out to the car, into the mad rain.