We Came All the Way from Cuba So You Could Dress Like This?

by Achy Obejas

  “Who gave it to you?” he asked me, his face blank from shock. We were sitting on a pair of stools at the bar, and the neon from behind the register cast an eerie green glow across his features. He looked monstrous, and for the first time since I’d known him, I wanted to get away from him.

  “Don’t you understand what I just said?”

  “Yes, I understand,” he said, looking down at his feet. “And I want to know who gave it to you, okay?” His palms rested on his thighs.

  “Rogelio, who the fuck knows who gave it to me?”

  “Well, you know, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t; how could I? It could be anybody. And it doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “It doesn’t matter?” he asked, amazed. His face contorted with anger. “I want to know who it is, so I can kill the son of a bitch.”

  “Look, Rogelio, my honor isn’t what’s at stake here,” I said, tired of the school yard bully in him. “It’s you—and your family. You’ve probably been exposed.”

  “But Tommy,” he said, his eyes narrowing into slits. “I’m not going to get this sickness. You, yes—you’re a homosexual.”

  I shrank from him, feeling my fingertips go cold. I wanted to go running down the street, not to believe we’d ever shared an intimate moment or any kind of peace together. This was a monster of a man, the cruel stranger who offered candy from the sedan window. I don’t know how it happened, only that suddenly I had my fingers wrapped like rope around his neck. His face disappeared into the black beneath the bar as I screamed at him. It was an awful, primitive howl.

  “You and your fucking masculinity!” I shouted, my hands going numb as I tried to strangle him. There were sudden, loud noises in the bar and stools toppling over, men hooking my arms with theirs and pulling, pushing. “You can marry Miss Mexico and have a million little Third World babies, and it won’t keep your cock from going up every time you’re with a man, motherfucker! I’ve seen you!”

  Somebody else’s arm tightened around my throat, pulling me off Rogelio, but I kept screaming and kicking, or trying to, until I was chest-down on the floor. Somebody sat on my shoulders, and somebody else held my hands behind my back. “Calm down, Tommy,” said a familiar voice. “Just calm down, baby.”

  I turned my head enough to see Rogelio being picked up off the floor by a muscular black man who held him as if he were a toy. His face was red, and his nose ran bloody all over his shirt.

  “You okay, Tommy?” said the voice on top of me, which I recognized as Stan’s. I thought his weight would flatten my lungs. “If I let you up, Tom, are you going to be okay?”

  I grunted something that meant yes, and he hopped off me, finally allowing me to breathe. Stan smoothed my hair with one hand and used the other to help me up, but I was dizzy and terrified I was going to pass out.

  “Just hold onto me if you need to, Tommy,” he said, being gentle and sweet. He kept the circle of men around us at a safe distance. The fight had drawn quite a crowd. I noticed Arthur, the bar owner, staring at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, but Stan just shook his head, telling me it was all right. My knees felt slippery; I had no energy. Stan pushed me against a chair.

  “How about a glass of water for Tommy?” he said in Arthur’s direction, and one appeared almost instantly. Stan wiped my face with a napkin and smiled. “You almost killed him,” he said.

  I looked across the room to where Rogelio had buried his face in the black man’s shoulder. At first I thought the bastard was necking with him, but then I realized from the way his body shook that he was sobbing, right there in front of everybody.

  “You want to tell me about it?” Stan asked.

  I sighed. I knew Arthur wouldn’t ban me for starting the fight, but the only decent thing would be to leave and not come back for a few weeks. I looked around the room, where most of the other men were relaxing now, the danger having passed. Stan, my healthy, good-looking buddy, was rubbing my shoulders. I hugged him and kissed his ear.

  “Come on,” he said, pulling back a little. “Tell Auntie Stan.”

  I chuckled. He can be such a queen sometimes. “It was nothing,” I said. “You know...AIDS-related dementia.” Then I cried and cried.

  Rogelio and I wound up speeding down Interstate 55 together for the same reason, I suppose, that desperate people do desperate things. As awful as it can be, there’s a strange sense we’re all we’ve got. Of course, I know that’s not quite true, and he probably does, too. Right now Rogelio is quietly bitching about having to stop in St. Louis. He’s in a hurry to get to Santa Fe only because it’s our goal; of course, I’m in no hurry at all. The mountains will still be there, as will Ron and Paul, their leather boys and buffalo skulls.

  “There’s a sign for the Arch,” I say, pointing.

  “Okay, okay,” Rogelio sighs, resigned to playing tourist. I can tell he thought we might pass it without my noticing. “I see it.” He means the Arch itself, which is shimmering just off the highway. Frankly, the Arch is the only thing I’ve ever noticed about St. Louis—that silver loop rising out of the riverfront. Otherwise, St. Louis seems pretty flat and innocuous; it could be any one of a million cities.

  “Do you know anything about the Arch?” I ask Rogelio, but he just shakes his head. “I wonder what kind of view it has.” Then I realize I’m not really thinking of St. Louis, but of Chicago, which is breathtaking from both the Sears Tower and the John Hancock. The panorama is more industrial, more metropolitan and complete from Sears, but I prefer the Hancock, with its strapping steel embrace. From the Hancock’s east windows the lake is an endless sheen of blue. As I picture it—the lake dotted with tiny sailboats and specks of people on the shore—I realize I’ll never see my hometown again. “Is the Arch a memorial or something?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, I don’t have any idea,” Rogelio says as he turns off the interstate and onto a busy city street. He’s annoyed.

  “Hmmm, does St. Louis have much of a skyline?” I’m determined to ignore his mood.

  “I don’t think so,” Rogelio says. We’re now stopped at a light, and the Arch is just to our right. The top of it disappears into the sky. “I don’t think St. Louis has much of anything.”

  “Well, it’s got Busch Stadium,” I tell him.

  “So what?” he says. “St. Louis lost the Cardinals to Phoenix.”

  “The football team, yeah, but not the baseball team.”

  We ride alongside the Mississippi River, where the city fathers are trying to develop a mall of sorts. There are a couple of riverboats that look permanently moored and have trendy hand-painted signs advertising authentic river cuisine, whatever that is. Rogelio grunts. He tries to figure out where to park, wanting to avoid the lots nestled under the interstate. We haven’t seen a cop anywhere, our car is filled with my things, and Rogelio’s silently convinced that leaving the car in the unguarded lot will spell trouble.

  “You’re the only Latin I know who doesn’t care about baseball,” I say. We take another turn, and I shade my eyes as I look at the glistening river. I need to buy sunglasses; I’ll certainly use them in Santa Fe.

  “I think Americans make too much of Latin fascination with baseball,” he says, trying to relax.

  “There are plenty of Latins at Cubs games,” I say.

  “Ah, yes, but that has another purpose,” Rogelio says, finally emitting a little laugh. “That has to do with psychological identification.” He’s loose enough now to consider the parking lot, which is empty of all human life.

  “Oh really?”

  He smiles. “People call the Cubs ‘lovable losers,’ right?” he asks, while pulling a ticket from the machine at the lot’s entrance. He maneuvers the car around the gravel and next to the chain-link fence. We are in the most exposed space in the lot.

  “So?” “Well, it fits in perfectly with the Latin inferiority complex,” he explains with a cynical smile. “We’re just trying to figure out why people like them, so we can imitate
them.” He turns off the car, pops his seat belt, and is out before I have a chance to hug him, which I very much want to do.

  The Arch is just beyond us, on the other side of a well-manicured little park. It looks a lot like the McDonald’s arch, only big and made of chrome. When I try to look at it, the reflection is blinding. “God, it’s bright,” I say. I’m dizzy again.

  “Do you want me to help you?” Rogelio’s standing above me, watching as I try to get out of the car.

  I shake my head. “It’ll pass. I just need a minute.”

  “No problem,” he says, but his foot is twitching, almost tapping. The muscles in his arms are tight again.

  “You look just like you did that first day,” I say, but actually he looks better.

  “So do you,” he lies, and reaches over to ruffle my hair. His touch is a little rough, but it’s kind.

  Of course, I look nothing like I did then. I’m pale and wasted, and I know my eyes are sinking into darkness. I wait a few minutes, then push myself off the car seat. I hold the car door for balance and notice Rogelio’s worried but impatient look.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks. I nod. “They probably have one of those elevators like at the Sears Tower—you leave your stomach on the ground level. It might make you sick.”

  I smile at him. “I think I can handle it. Besides, if I get dizzy again, I’ll hold on to you.” I wink.

  “Uh uh,” he says, shaking his head, but he’s still smiling. “What you need is to get to Santa Fe and relax with your friends.”

  “Rogelio, I’m not going to get better,” I tell him as we step onto the picturesque walkway to the Arch.

  “Sure you are.”

  “Only for a little while,” I say, measuring my breath as we walk up the hill. Then I casually reach over to him and touch his fingers. He looks around quickly and obviously, but he doesn’t freak out or push me away, as I might have expected. Instead, his hand covers and squeezes mine. I’m just thinking how exhilarating—and amazing—this is, when we hear a voice behind us.

  “Excuse me.”

  Rogelio stiffens, then moves his hand to my elbow as he turns toward me, pretending he’s helping me walk. His eyes are panic-stricken and silently pleading with me to cooperate with his charade.

  “Excuse me,” the voice says again, and Rogelio whirls around, momentarily stumped when he can’t find the source. When his eyes finally focus down on two women in wheelchairs trying to get by us, he jumps dramatically out of the way, muttering excuses under his breath.

  “My god,” he says, panting. “Where did they come from?”

  “I think they’re racing,” I say as the two shiny chairs disappear over the hill.

  “Do you think they saw?” he asks.

  “Saw what?” I’m disgusted: it wasn’t the women who ruined the moment, it was him. He doesn’t understand, but he feels badly and tries to make light of the situation by throwing his hands in the air in mock resignation. The problem is, I’m too angry, too disappointed to think it’s even a little amusing.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” I tell him, gasping on the incline.

  “Then let’s hurry,” he says, checking his watch and quickening his step toward the Arch. But he’s misunderstood me again.

  The fact is, I don’t really want to deal with the Arch, and I don’t really want to go to Santa Fe, which rings in my ears with an unexpected finality. About the only place I want to be is on the front porch of Stan’s old house, just a couple of blocks off Broadway back in Chicago. I spent the whole summer of 1978 lounging on that porch, reading about Anita Bryant’s antigay crusade in the papers and watching the boys walk by.

  I fell in love a million times that season, and each time there would be a triumphant moment when my new lover and I would walk hand in hand down Broadway. I had a real swagger then; I wore satin running shorts and sunglasses at night. At least half the fun came from the stares we got from the Greek restaurant owners and Korean dry cleaners. Gay men were all over Broadway then, even more so than now—we were the guys ordering gyros and bringing in Italian suits to be pressed, so nobody complained. We always said we didn’t care what people thought, but we did. And back then we cared even more. Public displays of affection were a statement: No queers had done it before, not like that—right there at high noon, trying desperately to make it seem as commonplace as taking a baby for a stroll.

  “Are you okay?” Rogelio asks as we near the Arch. My breathing is labored and my chest feels tight.

  I can tell he’s afraid I’ll get morbid on him; he practically cringes in anticipation. I do want to tell him the truth, but I don’t have the energy. As soon as I can, I sit down on the concrete steps just below the Arch, fold my arms on my knees, and put my head down. My legs seem extraordinarily long, and my head feels like a drum.

  “Are you all right?” asks a stranger’s voice.

  I look up enough to make out one of the wheelchair women. “I’m okay,” I tell her; she seems totally trustworthy. “I’m just a little dizzy.” Her friend is waiting for her, parked about ten yards from us but facing the parking lot. “You already went up?” I ask, surprised that they’re ready to leave so soon.

  “We can’t go up,” she says, and her tone is both wry and resigned. “The Arch isn’t accessible.”

  I can tell Rogelio doesn’t understand, his eyes scanning mine for meaning. “There aren’t any ramps?” I ask the woman, thinking Rogelio and I can help them, but then I realize I’m too weak to push a wheelchair, much less lift one, or two.

  She laughs, but it isn’t bitter or mean. “Not just that,” she says. “The elevators aren’t accessible either.” Now I’m as confused as Rogelio, but before I have a chance to ask her anything, she’s saying good-bye and rolling back to her friend.

  There’s a whole subterranean world under the Arch: a museum, a video show, a couple of souvenir stores. There’s also a snake of a line to the elevators. I’m surprised there are so many people, especially because it’s a weekday, but then I realize most of the ticket holders are tourists, primarily Asians. Even though the line moves relatively well, I have to squat and lean against the wall. It’s getting harder to swallow, too, and I keep seeing little bursts of orange and blue light in front of my eyes.

  During all this, Rogelio is a phantom. He stands pale and quiet next to me, but he wants to run. His fingers are folded into tentative fists, and he keeps shifting his eyes from side to side. I know the crowd scares him; there are too many people in uniform. I tell him these are only Arch security people, not covert INS agents. But although he has never gotten so much as a traffic ticket, authority types frighten him, and he won’t be reassured.

  Me, I resent everything. I hate that with a mouthful of thrush I’m the one having to tell him everything’s okay. For once, I want him to do the talking, I want him to be brave, to take my hand, push his way to the front of the line and demand our own elevator. At the top of the Arch, I want us to grope and run our tongues along each other’s stubbly chins, right there in front of all the tourist groups and grade-school field trips.

  “Tommy?” There’s a hand on my cheek. “Tommy?” I lift my eyes and see Rogelio’s face emerging from a gray haze. “We should go,” he says. “You don’t look good.” He glances nervously next to me, where a woman with two small children is staring at us.

  “Fuck what I look like,” I say, my lips sticking to each other. I reach up to undo my mouth, but I can barely feel my fingers.

  “Tommy, let’s go,” Rogelio insists, and he starts to take my elbow.

  “No, damn it,” I say, standing up and jerking away. “I don’t want to go to Santa Fe yet.” I think of those ghostly buffalo skulls hung so artfully in Ron and Paul’s gallery. “I have a fashionable disease, you know.” Rogelio blanches, and I laugh. “Hey, don’t worry, you’re not going to get it,” I add, winking at him. I start to laugh again, but something gets caught in my throat, and I cough instead, my head rocking back an
d forth. After a minute, I see him through the watery channel in my eyes. He has stepped away a bit, almost as if he’s scared of me.

  “You look like shit,” he says in a whisper.

  Soon we’re in front of the elevators, and I understand why the wheelchair women were disenfranchised: You have to step up and hunch down to get in the elevators, which aren’t elevators at all but tiny little holding pens in which no one can stand. The doors open and shut like a vault. As I watch the tourists get in, I can’t help but think of Nazi ovens. A few people refuse to ride these little torture chambers, and I think they look suspiciously Jewish.

  “Get in, Tommy,” Rogelio orders, and I lift my legs one at a time, but I fall anyway, finally crawling up to a chair. I want to tell Rogelio I don’t think we’ll survive, but the only thing out of my mouth is air. I finally settle in, wiping my face on my sleeve, which is so wet I could wring it. I feel bruised and weary.

  Rogelio says nothing, he just sits quietly across from the two Asians assigned with us to this elevator. They are blank-faced and embarrassed. I supply the soundtrack for the trip, breathing like an iron lung. When the elevator starts moving—not a modern vacuum up some gigantic shaft but a jerky Ferris wheel ride—they’re relieved to hear the creaking and groaning of the gears.

  I look out the little window and realize we have no view at all. Instead, we’re traversing the very bowels of the St. Louis Arch—ancient stairwells, a landing filled with janitorial supplies, a caged room with lockers for maintenance workers. I start to laugh, quietly at first, but then I can’t help it, and I slap my thigh hysterically.

  Rogelio ignores me at first, then finally reaches over and reluctantly pats my shoulder. “Don’t cry, Tommy,” he says. But I’m not crying at all. I wipe my nose and brush my hair out of my face. I pull my pants up and dry my eyes. Then I tuck in my shirt, feeling the vast distance between my bones and the waistband.