by Johnny Diaz
“Tommy Boy!” Rico announces, while holding me up.
“H-i, R-i-c-o. I c-a-n’t b-r-e-a-t-h-e. P-u-t m-e d-o-w-n!” I manage to squeak out.
“Oops, sorry, man. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength,” Rico says as I fix my red hoodie and straighten out my blue jeans. To emphasize his point, he flexes his big biceps in his black V-neck shirt. I raise my thick eyebrows, and we laugh.
“So good to see you, Tommy!”
“Same here, Rico. I see that we’re as modest, as usual. If I had a pin, I would pop your bicep. It’s like you have a balloon under each arm.”
He flexes again with macho pride. “They look bigger? I’ve been trying to bulk them up by an inch. You just made my day, Tommy!”
He puts his arm around me, and we walk to our corner of the bar and stand along the wood-paneled wall. We order our drinks. Rico gets the low carb beer. (He has to maintain those tight abs somehow.) I get, well, the usual.
“Where’s your fellow Cuban friend?” Rico asks.
“Carlos is staying in for the night.”
“If I wasn’t with David, I wouldn’t mind, you know, hanging out with Carlos.”
“Don’t you mean, letting it all hang out, Rico?”
Some quick background on Rico and Carlos. I introduced them one night in the late summer hoping that we could be the three amigos in Boston. But sometimes, a friendship with one friend doesn’t automatically translate to an instant friendship with another. When they met, Carlos was immediately attracted to Rico. (Who isn’t? Geez, I still am!) And Rico thought Carlos was super cute and adorable. We all had drinks that night at Club Café. Later on, after we all went our separate ways, Carlos began joking to me that Rico was tacky, talking about money and his lack of it. Yet Carlos thought he was hot nonetheless. (Rico has always reminded me of the gorgeous, green-eyed, Italian guy who Diane Lane falls for in the 2003 movie Under the Tuscan Sun.) As much as I’m attracted to Rico, I’ve always mentally labeled him as a friend the same way I categorized Carlos. Anyway, I defended Rico, but Carlos did have a point. Rico is my friend, but sometimes he can act like a dork when he talks about doing anything to cut corners financially, even collecting all his Canada Dry cans to recycle for nickels or taking Metamucil to save on toilet paper, which he swears works. On the other hand, Rico thought Carlos’s accent was a bit thick. In our private conversations, he mimicked Carlos’s accent and kept referring to him as Mexican or Puerto Rican or simply Juan Valdez. I defended my Cuban friend to my Italian one, but there seemed to be a little tension between them. Probably sexual tension. I was the common denominator, and I had to realize, these two wouldn’t be friends on their own terms. A hook-up, possibly if Rico were single. But amigos, nah! I also have a hard time giving both of them attention at the same time. I am better one-on-one with people. Maybe it’s my OCD. So, I will always invite the other to hang out, but so far, it hasn’t happened since that night.
The bartender returns with our order, and we immediately start sipping.
“So…what’s going on? Is this about one of your stories?” Rico says, talking to me but eye-fucking every single, young, cute guy who walks into the main bar. Even though Rico is off the market, he still browses and flirts every now and then. He has told me that he memorizes each guy’s features so that when he’s home alone, he can jerk off to them. Even in coupledom, Rico needs his bag of eye candy.
“Remember Mikey?” I look down at my drink as I smirk.
“You mean, your alcoholic-ex-boyfriend-who-treated-you-like-shit-for-six-months-and-you-kept-on-putting-up-with-it-until-I-snapped-you-out-of-your-denial? If it’s that Mikey, shit yeah, I remember him. Is the dude calling you again?”
“Well…” I take another gulp.
“Oh no! You’re hanging out with him again. I don’t believe it.”
“Hold on, Rico. Let me finish—or begin.”
“Let me guess, bro. He’s sober and he apologized and misses his Cuban ex-boyfriend and wants to hang out with you as friends?” Wow, how did Rico guess all this?
“Something like that. Actually, you’re right on, Rico.”
“And you’re talking to him and being supportive?”
“Did you wiretap my phone? How do you know all this, Rico?”
“Because I know you. So did you guys do the do yet?”
“Rico!”
“Don’t Rico me, Tommy Boy. He’s sucking you back in. Don’t you get it? You’re falling for this all over again. Tommy and Mikey, part two, the sober season.”
“He stopped drinking after he got a DUI. He seems really sincere. He’s put his life back together. He’s going to AA meetings. He dumped Phil the pill. He’s a different guy. He’s the sober Mikey I fell in love with, the one I hoped could emerge from the drinking.”
“You’re my friend so I am going to tell it to you like it is. The guy is an alcoholic. Once is, always is. Let him find his own path. I know you’re trying to be the supportive friend, the nice guy, but you are so much happier without him. Why hang out with him and possibly start your old relationship up again? Why not find someone new and fresh, without any baggage? Look,” Rico points to the crowd of guys mingling and cruising and dancing in place to the latest pop music. “You can have any guy here. Why go back to Mr. Corona!”
“Because people deserve second chances. I always said that if he ever got sober, I would try and be supportive. Wouldn’t you want someone to give you a second chance, Rico?”
“Not if I was a total jerk to a great guy like you. You deserve better, my friend. That’s all I’m saying.” Rico pats my shoulder.
“We’re just friends. He hasn’t had a drink in months.”
“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. You’re too nice sometimes. You gave this guy second, third, and fourth chances. Why go back to him, even as a friend? Besides, new dicks are always more fun.”
“Because I believe in my heart that he has changed, and I will always make room for new friends or people trying to better themselves.”
“That’s just it. With your history together, I don’t think you guys can be just friends. Do you?”
“I can try. I have nothing to lose but so much to gain.”
“Tommy, I have a theory about dating. If it didn’t work out the first time, it won’t work out the second or third time, or tenth time.”
“We’re not dating!”
“But you will!”
“No we won’t!”
“Um, yes you will. Let’s make a bet on it. If you end up dating the guy, you have to let me borrow your new Jeep for a weekend. Shit, it’s hard getting around the city when it snows. It would be nice to have a car to run my errands one weekend.”
“Fine! You have a deal. But if we stay just friends, then you have to cook Mikey, Carlos, and myself one of your fabulous Italian dinners. Comprende? It would be nice to have all my close friends in Boston under one roof.”
“Capisce, Tommy! Deal.” Rico shakes my hand and pulverizes it with his strength, but he gives me one of his skeptical looks that says that he doesn’t buy any of this for one second and that I should stay away from Mikey for my own good.
“Dude, watch it with your grip. Remember, I’m fragile goods.”
“You should get some meat on your bones, Tommy Boy. Focus on the weights and not the cardio. I know you like to read your cheesy romance novels on those cardio machines, but if you spent as much time on the weights as you do on the cardio, you could be big and brawny like me,” he says, flexing those biceps again like a body builder.
We spend the rest of the night hanging out at the bar. We rotate from room to room, maneuvering through various batches of guys, from the older men wearing their Hollister and Abercrombie & Fitch shirts to look younger to the real young guys with spiked hair and T-shirts that are size “t” for twink. Three drinks later, Rico and I are pretty buzzed. We laugh and playfully punch each other on the arms. (Rico’s punches bowl me over.) We scan the crowd just as we did when we first met here over a year ago o
r so. I like this feeling. The alcohol makes me feel light and loose. I also enjoy feeling young and spending time with my friend. Every now and then, a cute guy catches my eye, and I smile, laugh, and turn to Rico, who nods for me to talk to him. But as much fun as I am having, my mind flashes to Mikey. I keep thinking about him and wondering where he is tonight. I bet he misses going out to the bars.
When a thin guy with short, dirty blonde, spiked up hair, á la Matt Damon, walks by me and says hi, our eyes lock, and I smile back. Rico suddenly shoves me and sends me right into the guy.
“Oops, my bad. Sorry about that. I must have slipped,” I say to the guy while narrowing my eyes at Rico.
“Hey, this is my friend Tommy and you are…?” Rico sandwiches himself between me and the guy.
“I’m Noah. You’re cute, Tommy,” Mr. Matt Damon says.
“Thanks, Noah. Nice to meet you.”
We stand there staring when Rico announces, “Hey, I gotta get going. Tommy, great seeing you tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow. Noah, will you keep my friend company?” Rico pats the guy’s back.
“Sure, I’d be happy to,” Noah says.
I’m left speechless, my mouth forming the giant letter “o” as Rico makes his exit and leaves me with this cute guy. Tonight was about Rico and me catching up, not about me looking for a hookup, but this guy is cute and seems to radiate good energy. Rico waves good-bye, winks at me, and sticks out his tongue. He silently mouths to me, “Have fun. He’s cute. Forget about Mikey.”
It’s just past midnight, and Noah and I sit and talk in the corner of the bar as the monitors flash the latest videos and dance remixes, which make me want to groove in my bar stool. Noah offers to buy me another drink, and I gladly accept.
“Vodka with Diet Coke,” I tell him.
“Huh? Are you sure you don’t mean rum and Coke, handsome?” he says.
“Nope. Vodka with Diet. It’s my own concoction. Try it, you might like it. It’s strong but not heavy on the calories.” I smile, which makes him smile.
“You got it. Be right back, Tommy.”
As I sit alone at the bar table, I watch the flow of guys stream in and out of the main bar under a cloud of noise and cheap cologne. I look over at the bar counter and I see Noah waiting to order our drinks. I’m tickled by how cute and mellow he is. He looks over at me to make sure I’m okay. I grin. As he orders the drinks, I notice a guy with light brown hair and big blue eyes. For a moment, I believe it’s Mikey. My heart pounds into my stomach. Why would Mikey be in a bar if he doesn’t drink? But as the image becomes clearer, I notice it’s a Mikey look-alike. Once again, my thoughts drift back to Mikey, even as this cute Good Will Hunting guy returns with a big smile on his face as he carefully walks with our drinks.
For the next half hour, we talk about our jobs. (Noah works as an assistant in the media relations department at Channel 3, the breaking news in-your-face station with all the cute young reporters.)
“I know your byline. You’ve written some stories about our anchor, Ryan Rudat, and about local TV news. Is that your beat?” Noah asks, eyes trained on me as he sips his drink.
“I write about anything going on in Boston, but I watch a lot of local TV news and sometimes, I get ideas from my viewing. So every now and then, I pitch a story. You guys are number one again at eleven o’clock, and you win in the key demographics.” Noah seems impressed by my knowledge about his job and his industry. A warm alcohol flurry fills me as we talk.
“Tommy, you shouldn’t be writing about the news. You should be on the news. Have you ever thought about being a TV reporter?” The lighting in the bar causes Noah’s eyes to change from blue to green or a mix of both. A smattering of freckles, like grains of Cape Cod sand, sprinkle his nose and cheeks.
“You are too kind. Not with this bush of curly hair,” I say, twirling one of my brown curls. “Anyway, how did you end up in media relations? Why aren’t you on camera? You’ve got the looks, and I bet you can talk to just about anyone. You’re definitely not shy,” I say, leaning in closer.
“Why thank you, Mr. Perez. I enjoy what I do. I help coordinate interviews with local media. I help orchestrate local community events such as our annual health expo. I don’t need to be on camera. I enjoy being the puppeteer behind the scenes. Someone has to help our reporters look good,” he says, leaning closer my way. We stand in the corner of the bar, my buzz beginning to hijack my judgment. We lean in closer and kiss long, wet, and open. I forget about the guys at the bar. I forget about work. I forget that my new Jeep is killing me in gas mileage. I’m in the moment, kissing this guy and feeling the stubble from his chin gently brush against mine. A boner mushrooms in my jeans, and we rub against one another. I’m having trouble standing, so I lean more on him.
“Wow, great kisser,” Noah says, recovering.
“That’s what my sister says,” I joke. We start to laugh.
We continue kissing, and I start to purr and pant a little. He starts kissing my neck, slipping his tongue in a certain spot behind my right ear, which sends a rush of tingles racing throughout my body. I halfway close my eyes and through the veil of eyelashes, I barely see Noah. I surrender to the feeling when Mikey’s sweet face pops into my mind. Huh? I open my eyes again and I’m face to face with Noah.
“Are you okay, Tommy?”
“Yeah, totally fine.”
We keep kissing. I close my eyes again, but Mikey invades my thoughts. I picture him at Barnes & Noble or hiking along the trail with me. I see his sweet smile. I feel confused and disoriented.
“Whoa, hold on. I gotta drink some water. I’m a little dizzy,” I say to Noah as I balance myself against the bar table.
“Sure, no problem. I’ll get you some water. I’ll be right back,” he says, softly squeezing my shoulder.
I sit back on the stool and the reality of the situation begins to sober me up somewhat. I made out with a guy I barely know (but wouldn’t mind getting to know) in the corner of a bar while I’m wobbly. And why is Mikey stuck in my head? This doesn’t feel right.
Noah returns with the bottled water, and I immediately start nursing it. All I want to do is go home and hit the sack—alone. What do I do with Noah, who seems so nice? The alcohol got the better of me. I notice some chest hairs poking out of his green shirt, and my boner returns.
“Do you need a ride home? My car is just outside.” Noah offers, being a gentleman.
I decline. It’s better that I call it a night before I become a sloppy and slutty drunk.
“Thanks, but I drove. My Jeep is on Berkeley by the 7-Eleven. Listen, Noah, I think I’m gonna get going. I have an early day tomorrow, and I need to get something to eat at the store before I drive.”
“You sure?” he offers again, his aqua eyes pleading with me to go home with him.
“Yeah, maybe another time. I have to get going.” He takes out his business card with the big Channel 3 logo and the rainbow-colored peacock. He scribbles down his personal e-mail and cell number. I do the same, but I’m not sure I’m going to be calling him.
We kiss again, hug, and say our goodnights. As he disappears back in the bar, I grab my jacket from the coat check and descend outside into the South End. I take a long walk along Berkeley and Clarendon, under the twinkling constellation of stars, with Mikey on my mind and in my heart. With each step along the bricked sidewalks, I reflect on the entire night and last few days. Perhaps Rico was right. What am I getting myself into again?
9
Carlos
Ay, Marcello. He dashes back and forth in his white long-sleeved shirt and black jeans as he caters to the whims of his customers at the Border Café. I’m peeking through the glass windows that face Church Street in Harvard Square. I can stare at him all afternoon. I hope no one inside the restaurant thinks I’m some sort of weirdo for peeking the same way kids gaze into the shark tank at the Miami Seaquarium. I can imagine what the pack of preppy smokers down the street must think I’m doing here. It’s called spying, and I�
��m guilty as charged as my eyes are trained on this sexy Brazilian man. His biceps curl under his snug shirt when he carries a plate of quesadillas, sizzling fajitas, overweight burritos, or those crunchy fresh-baked nachos that I can never have enough of. Too bad I can’t have Marcello on a plate. I’d feast on that beautiful, dark, lean body hidden underneath those clothes.
Ay, what am I doing? This is ridiculous. I’m spying on a guy I barely know. This is the kind of thing that you see on those NBC Dateline predator specials. I should get out of here, head home, watch Lifetime or PBS, grade some papers, and enjoy my day off because Mondays are usually a headache for me at school. Just as I’m about to turn away, Marcello turns my way. He looks surprised, but then a gentle smile forms. He nods at me because his hands are occupied with the dishes. Que pena! He is probably wondering what I’m doing here. Luckily, I have a good excuse this time. I invited Tommy to meet me here for a late lunch.
Ay no, Marcello is coming outside. What do I say? What do I do? Tommy, donde estas?
“Carlos! What are you doing outside in the cold? Come in, Cubano!” he says, hugging me. He smells like today’s special (maybe beef fajitas), but I don’t mind. My nose digs deeper into his neck, under his curls, where I catch a trace of his musky cologne, the one that makes me want to rip off his clothes and eat him right here. The scent is masculine, grassy, and raw, calling to mind those sleeveless, muscular Latin gardeners who would manicure my neighbors’ lawns in Coral Gables. I would spy on them as well.
“Hey, Marcello. I was just in the neighborhood. Actually, mi amigo Tommy is meeting me here. We were thinking of getting something to eat. Tommy is—should be—on his way. He’s probably running late, as usual.”
