by Johnny Diaz
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, just as long as you stop the poor teacher act. You’ve been teaching for ten years. You should have some money put away. Don’t go blowing it on alcohol.”
“I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I am asking you to buy me a drink,” he says, punching me in the arm. He quickly puts me in a headlock, pulls off my cap, and starts to rub my hair with his knuckles. It kinda tickles. I let out a full-on belly laugh. Once Nick lets me loose, I smooth out my Star Trek T-shirt and flag down the bartender to add Nick’s beer to my order. Nick thanks me by spanking my ass, which makes me jump.
“Oye, stop that. People are going to think we’re together or something, not that they don’t already.”
“No offense, Gabriel, but you’re not my type. I like twinks… old man!”
I gasp and feign offense. This is the second time tonight someone has called me—I can’t even say it. “Oh, you want to go there, huh? I’m not the one who dyes his hair with Miss Clairol number 130 midnight-black every month to hide his gray hairs.”
“Shhh, Gabriel. Don’t say that too loud. Someone might hear you,” Nick whispers as he looks around us.
“And speaking of twinks, Mr. To Catch A Predator! Watch out for those hidden NBC cameras when you hook up with one of these younger guys. Whenever I turn on Dateline, I keep thinking I’m going to see you on there with your pants down and trying to explain your way out of a sticky situation,” I provoke him.
“Fuckin’ A. As long as they’re cute and cuddly, I’m game. I like being single. You avoid crazy drama that way,” he jokes. “I’m not like you, Gabriel—a sensitive Cuban Care Bear. One day, you’ll meet that special guy when you least expect it. Until then, have fun, have an affair or two. Be happy, get laid! Remember, he who procrastinates, masturbates.”
Okay, so Nick isn’t always the most socially appropriate person, but in his classroom, he’s the consummate professional who wears a dress shirt, tie, jeans, and nice dress shoes and a pair of black-framed Clark Kent glasses. One time when I visited him at his school for lunch, I noticed that he had the most disciplined group of students. The girls—and at least two boys—seemed to have a crush on him. I was impressed.
Whenever I need someone to talk to about my parents or issues with dating (or the lack of it) in Boston, Nick is there to listen. So I can excuse him for his sometimes-weird behavior and foul mouth. (Have I mentioned his underwear fetish? More on that later.) Good friends are hard to come by in this town of impenetrable cliques where gay men act like they are surrounded by invisible force fields that only come down for a select few. Boston can be its own private tea party: admission by special invitation only.
After the muscled bartender with the hairy chest hands me my overpriced drink ($10) and Nick’s (a $7 beer), I hand over a twenty-dollar bill and leave the change as a tip. If the bar overcharges for drinks, I under-tip. Fair is fair. Besides, there’s a ten-dollar cover just to get into this place.
“Thanks, Professor Galan,” Nick says, sipping his beer. “You’re my… hero!” He feigns admiration and puts his hand on his smooth chest.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. It’s funny how I’m always your hero when you want a drink. I know how it goes, Nickers.” But Nick is not paying any attention to what I say.
His eyes are trained on the Brazilian stud I was dancing with earlier. I should just let Nick have him, because I don’t hold a candle to Nick’s boyish dark Irish looks. Once the guy sees Nick, he’ll want to go home with him instead of me. I can’t compete with Nick’s tight body or green eyes. I do have some good qualities working in my favor. My best feature is my honesty, then my resume, followed by my cheesy humor and a head full of thick, short-brown hair. Someday some guy will find those qualities endearing, wherever he may be. Cupid, if you’re out there, I’m here and waiting to be struck with one of your arrows. Facebook me!
Nick then turns to me. “God bless Brazil! Look at that guy’s ass. I am going to take a loop.”
“Yeah, a fruit loop! Catch you later, Nick.”
And with that, he returns to his spot on the dance floor and introduces himself to the guy. I smile and raise my glass from a distance. It doesn’t take long before they start kissing. Nick has found his—well, you know—for the night.
I stand along the grooved edge of the bar and watch this Boston twilight circus of partiers. Why am I here again? It’s a question I ask myself each week, and the answers don’t come easily. Why are these people here, anyway? Oh yeah, because they are young and this is what you do when you’re in college and in your twenties. A rite of passage. It’s one that I have relived repeatedly since moving to the college capital of the world, where the median age is thirty-one, according to a recent article I read in the Boston Daily. This is a town where the colder it gets, the more people pack the bars and clubs. Each week I declare that I am not going to go out as much, and each week Nick calls me and I then find myself dancing and drinking like I used to when I was a college student.
Tonight, I’m surrounded by many younger guys, mostly college imports, students who study here for two or four years and then boomerang back to wherever they came from. Boston is known for this perpetual brain drain, but every year, a crop of newcomers arrives, and that included me three years ago. As a professor, I meet them firsthand in class, which can create some slight complications in my professional life. It’s hard for me to date when I see some of my students out and about and observing my every move so they can blog or gossip about me in the corridors of Jefferson. And any of these young guys could be a future student of mine, so I tread cautiously.
“Professor Galan! Is that you?” A voice beckons from my right as I sip my drink. I turn around and spot Craig, a former student. An aspiring broadcast journalist, he took my Covering the News class last year. He often wore a sports jacket and tie as if he were about to go live on the air at a moment’s notice. He’s a regular on Jefferson Today, the school’s morning newscast. Tonight, he wears a tight-fitting blue T-shirt that frames his slight build. The shirt complements his light-brown eyes and brown fuzzy crew cut, which resembles soft peach fuzz. Que lindo!
“Hey, Craig! How are you?” I say, holding up my drink. He comes over and hugs me tightly, which almost knocks my drink out of my hand. I spill some on the club’s carpeting. I awkwardly pat him on the back and breathe in his musky vanilla-scented cologne. I still don’t know the appropriate course of action to take when it comes to touching current and former students on and off campus, gay or straight, cute and super-cute. On the last day of classes, some students, even the straight guys, hug me, which I find very moving. They say, “I love you, Professor Galan! You rock, man!” I can’t recall ever hugging one of my professors in Miami, so I am always pleasantly surprised when a student wants to wish me farewell at the end of the semester with a man-hug. My female students like to wrap their arms around my waist, since I tower over them. But whenever I see Craig, who grows more adorable each year, I want to squeeze him tightly as if he were a plush doll. But again, that would be inappropriate even though he’s now a senior. He may not be my student, but he remains a student at the college. It’s one of the gray areas, an obscure boundary and a distance I maintain.
“I miss your class. You were the best, and you’re still my favorite professor. I use your writing tips for my other classes and for writing my scripts for the morning show.” He smiles and looks down. In class, he was the first to raise his hand and offer feedback on other students’ papers. His enthusiasm helped pull some of the other students out of their shells. Tonight, Craig is more animated and touchy-feely. Maybe the alcohol? He clenches a Bud Light in his hand. Every so often as he talks to me, he lets his lips linger on the beer bottle’s top a few seconds too long. I look away when he does that because my cheeks suddenly warm.
“Thanks, Craig. I’m glad you got something out of that morning class. I think 8 a.m. was way too early,” I say, stifling a yawn. “You were one of my better students. I was just happy you and th
e rest of the class managed to stay awake throughout the semester. I even had a hard time staying awake,” I say, feeling a little flirtatious, but I can’t cross the line, although I really wouldn’t mind doing so. Maybe when he graduates in the spring? Nah. By then, he will have landed a TV job in a small or midsize market in Somewhere USA with a fellow handsome broadcast-reporter boyfriend by his side.
What am I thinking? I must be drunk. This guy is twenty-one. I am thirty-five years old and dressed like someone trying to pass for Craig’s age. (The doorman did ask me for ID, so that made my night. It must be my baseball cap and the bad street lighting from the city gas lamps.)
Every year, I grow more embarrassed to be out drinking and dancing in Boston’s nightlife scene. I become more uncomfortable and feel increasingly out of place as the crowd looks younger and I don’t. I need to find other things to do than be an old poser.
Craig leans closer toward me and offers to toast my drink. Perhaps he read my thoughts.
“To handsome hottie professors in Boston!” He unleashes his killer toothy smile, which reminds of actor James Franco. In fact, Craig looks like him but with a crew cut. That endearing smile will serve Craig well in future job interviews, especially with the network news.
“Um, yeah, wherever they are!” I tease back. “To the next Brian Williams!”
He glances down again and smiles. He seems embarrassed by my compliment. We take mouthfuls of our drinks, our eyes lock, and we smile. I break the spell by looking at my watch. I notice that it’s almost two in the morning, last call in Boston, which still runs on Puritan time. I promised myself that I would leave early because of my morning class. It’s difficult for me to be completely focused if I don’t get a full eight hours’ sleep. Being a professor is akin to performing. If you are off, the class will know, and these kids—did I just call them kids?—are paying forty thousand dollars a year to attend this liberal arts and communications school. I owe it to them to be prepared, alert, and on time. But they also like it when I veer off the syllabus and delve into the day’s news and celebrity gossip. It engages them after long lectures on writing leads, online reporting tools, and how to make your words shine.
“Are you hungry, Professor Galan? We can get pizza around the corner or something on Tremont?” Craig offers with his puppy-dog eyes. He smiles and looks away as he takes another sip of his beer. The thought is tempting like a cigarette to a smoker trying to quit, but the invite also sobers me up.
“Thanks, Craig, but don’t you have an early class tomorrow or something? I need to get going myself. I’m teaching the same class you took with me last year.”
“Oh, the way-too-early news class?”
“Bingo!”
“Alright, I can take a hint. I’ll see you in school,” Craig says, his eyes slightly disappointed.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Drink some water. It’ll help flush out the beer from your system. And be careful driving.”
“Driving? I live in the dorm down the street.”
“Ah, okay. Be careful walking, then. I have a twenty-minute drive home to Quincy with the rest of New England’s late-night set of drunk drivers.”
He winks at me. I turn around and start to navigate through the crowd of guys who are standing like lost cattle waiting to be herded somewhere else. I notice that Nick and his trick for the night are hopping into a cab on Boylston Street. I guess I’ll hear about this tomorrow, if he wakes up on time for school in Somerville. He always does, though. I’ve always admired Nick’s work ethic. No matter whom he is with or how late he’s out the night before, he remains the polished professional when it comes to his eighth graders.
I scurry over to the twenty-four-hour convenience store and buy a bag of those delicious peanut butter M&Ms and a bottled water for the drive home. I stand outside the store, eating and drinking while watching the crowds dissipate along the Boston Common as manhole covers leak steam along city streets. A nippy breeze tickles my face as I stare up and dread thinking about having to be fresh and chipper for class upstairs in six hours. I begin to walk toward my parked car, a newer model Nissan Sentra, and I notice a slip flapping on the front windshield wiper. Great, a parking ticket. Damn it! But when I remove the paper from the glass, I realize it’s not a ticket but a note from Craig.
Great seeing you tonight, Professor Galan. You looked as handsome as always. Sweet dreams and see you at Jefferson, the note reads.
I smile as I fold the note and stuff it in my back pocket. Just another student crush. Once Craig graduates, he’ll probably forget about me. The boy crushes always do, but I don’t. Sometimes, I hear from them when they need a recommendation for an internship or when they land jobs in TV stations or at big newspapers around the country. When they visit Boston to see their families or friends, I bump into them at the clubs, like tonight. They seem a little older and more mature, but not like me, the old man of the bar with the sore legs from trying to dance with a young Puerto Rican. But still, seeing Craig tonight was a nice surprise. Thoughts of Craig fill my head, and I don’t know why.
Chapter 2
DOES this stuff really work? I ask myself, standing in front of my bathroom mirror. I apply a dollop of Rogaine on the crown of my head. I carefully smear it at the top of my skull and rub it in. Then I style my hair and comb it from left to right. The sides are closely shaven, like a military look. I still have a lot of hair, but I have noticed in the past year or so that the top has thinned… just a little. At times, I notice some gaps, especially when I step out of the shower or when I begin to dry my hair. Every time I do that, I realize once again that I’m no longer the youthful-looking guy I have always been. I am gradually morphing into Papi, who always enjoyed bragging to everyone that I look just like he did. With time, I resemble him more and more.
I’ve been using Rogaine for a few months, and the top of my hair feels thicker, but I’m not sure if that’s because the mousse-like Rogaine is actually working or because I think it’s working. It could all be an illusion, psychological follicle comfort. I also started taking the anti-hair-loss pill. My doctor tried to talk me out of it, claiming that I didn’t need take the pill or use Rogaine, but I’ve always believed that the best defense is a good offense. So I am packing a double-punch against my war with hair loss. I’ve seen too many guys my age walking around with huge bald spots or receding hairlines or, even worse, hair pieces! I don’t want to look like Captain Picard from Star Trek: The Next Generation anytime soon. I want to hold onto every follicle for as long as I can.
Is this really me? I continue to study myself in the mirror, and I frown at the passage of time. I recognize my eyes, but I notice that my crinkles are more pronounced, and the thin lines across my forehead are more visible, like lines on a sheet of paper coming into focus. When did this all happen? When did the lines—er, wrinkles—begin to deepen like tiny roads in my face? How much more pronounced can they get? Actually, I do know. All I have to do is look at my father, whose crinkles I inherited. Thanks, Papi! I dab some moisturizer and some anti-wrinkle cream by my eyes. I smile often, and that has resulted in these laugh lines that aren’t making me laugh too much right about now.
I glance out my bathroom door and momentarily look at the framed photograph of Papi and me that hangs in the hallway. My mind begins to page through a backlog of fond memories. It’s a picture from my college graduation, when Papi draped his arms around me and plopped a kiss on my cheek. The photo makes me smile. Next to that photo is a similar one with my mom. I had to take separate photographs for each of their homes.
I remove my teeth-whitening strips and suck on the rim of my upper teeth, which creates a pucker sound. I wink at myself. Perfect. Before I leave, I recite a passage I wrote years ago that always boosts my spirits whenever I feel stressed or down: Gabriel, you are a beautiful man with a good heart who deserves the best in this world and nothing else. You are going to have a great day. Now I’m all set for another day of teaching college students how to report and write
. Thomas Jefferson College, here I come.
THERE’S nothing more humbling than teaching a group of young, energetic, and baby-faced college students with heads full of thick hair, small waistlines, and high metabolic rates. At thirty-five, I’m not that much older than them, which is why I suspect I was recruited to teach here. My department chairwoman, Alisa, said she believed that our students would connect with someone like me, who has had experience in journalism and isn’t jaded like the over-fifty-year-old tenured professors who began teaching after they accepted early retirement offers from their newspapers because of cutbacks. She also likes that I’m a minority in a school that houses a mostly ultra-white faculty and student body. That’s Boston for you. The city is a majority-minority population, although the professional work force remains Anglo. In my initial interview a few years ago, Alisa told me, “We want our minority students and those of color to know there are professionals who look and talk like them. You would be a great example of that, Gabriel. You would be a great addition to our faculty. Of course, your experience and references speak volumes about your teaching abilities.”
She was right. I still get e-mails and postcards from former students who have pursued careers in journalism across the country. They thank me for being an inspiration. I keep those letters with me in a manila folder in my work office. Whenever I’m stressed about my job or feel that I’m not reaching a particular student, I reread those letters, and I am instantly inspired and reminded why I became a teacher. Speaking of teaching, I’m going to be late for my 8 a.m. class, one of two morning classes today.
I grab my windbreaker, double lock the doors of my one-bedroom apartment, and sprint half a mile to catch the Red Line in North Quincy. With their old-world charm, Quincy and Boston have become my second chapter in life, and I’m proud and happy to report that I’m still writing that story. My career continues to bloom here like the daffodils and tulips that burst in the Boston Common and Public Gardens in spring. I live in Quincy, which is one of the more diverse zip codes, from Asian business owners to the region’s old-school Irish. I was drawn here because of the multicultural milieu the city offers. The various languages I hear at the supermarket or on my daily subway rides serve as my personal cultural soundtrack, music to my ears.
