by Johnny Diaz
As Papi babbles about the Marlins and how the local female TV anchors on Spanish newscasts grow younger and more voluptuous each year, I think of the small family we once had and the new family he has embraced, although Aunt Cary told me that Gloria hasn’t been around in the past two months. Perhaps she found another guy and she’s simply distracted. Or maybe she’s seeing what I am seeing: Papi growing weaker from the Parkinson’s.
As Papi flips through the channels for some sports updates, I get up from the sofa to fetch a bottle of water from the kitchen. On the Formica counter in the corner, under the fluorescent kitchen lights, I notice several pill bottles lined up in a perfect row next to the jar of cookies, crackers, and sugar. I grab each bottle and read their labels. Amantadine, twice a day by mouth. Ropinirole, three times a day with each meal. There’s a bottle of vitamin E tablets and COQ10 (Coenzyme Q10 supplements). I read and reread the prescriptions. The number of pills unsettles me.
“Hey, Papi. Are all these pills for your Parkinson’s?” I shout from the kitchen as I study each bottle.
“Sí, Gabriel. Your Aunt Cary picks them up for me. She’s my younger hermana, but she acts like she’s my mother. She never leaves me alone. I’m surprised she doesn’t call you more often.”
“Well, she does, but that’s another story. At least she’s keeping an eye on you. My vision doesn’t stretch that far from Boston,” I joke to lighten the mood.
With a cool bottle of water in hand, I return to the living room, where Papi sits in his armchair and watches TV. I study him and my heart breaks. His right hand suddenly shakes up and down sporadically like a jackhammer pounding a pavement. His hand tremors remind me of skin softly hitting leather, a flapping sound. His once broad and strong shoulders curve forward. He seems smaller. Why haven’t I noticed this before?
“How are you really feeling, Papi? You never talk about the Parkinson’s, and I always assume that you’re okay. You never tell me anything.” I scoot over next to him as the TV blares the latest sports updates on Univision television.
“I’m not the way I used to be, but I manage,” he says, his right hand still shaking. A long yawn escapes him.
“When was the last time you saw the doctor?”
“A few months ago. Estoy bien, Gabrielito,” he says, with a tone that suggests that he wants to change the subject.
“You seem weaker than you did on my last trip. I think we should get you an appointment while I’m here and find out what’s going on.”
“I’m fine, chico. This is your vacation. Don’t worry about me. Go to the beach, see your mama, meet up with your friends. Do what you do when you go out to those clubs,” he says defensively.
“Oh, you mean like dance and have fun? Oh, I forgot, you hate to dance. God forbid that a masculine, okay, semi-masculine, Cuban man can go out and have some drinks and dance the night away.”
“I can dance. I just choose not to, Gabriel.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’d love to see you try one day, Papi. And don’t think I didn’t notice what you just did. You changed the subject. I used to be a reporter, and my students try this on me all the time. I know that old trick. Now back to the subject at hand, your doctor, an appointment. I’ll make an appointment, okay?”
“Gabrielito…,” he responds. We stare at each other. The father-son draw. Papi never liked hospitals or doctor’s offices. He and many Cuban immigrants from our family seem to believe that if you check into a hospital, you won’t leave. So they avoid doctors at all costs. They are superstitious. If they can find a home remedy, they will use it.
“Well, I don’t think it’ll hurt if I call your doctor and make an appointment. Besides, I haven’t been with you to a doctor’s appointment in a while. Who knows, maybe he can give you something stronger or boost your dosage. I went online at work and found that exercise can help. Are you exercising?”
For years, I’ve wanted Papi to retire from exterminating, but he enjoys having a regular work routine. He feels active and important when he exterminates, even though it’s becoming more challenging with his Parkinson’s—and he knows that all too well.
Papi shoots me a sidelong look. “I’m too tired with the exterminating. The most I do is walk around the development with your aunt when she visits, which is a lot. We need to find her un hombre so that she will leave me tranquilo,” he says with humor in his eyes.
“Well, that will be another project for another day. In the meantime, I’ll call your doctor and see if he can see us Monday before I leave Monday night.”
Papi sighs as if he’s surrendering. I inherited my stubbornness from him, and he knows that. “Whatever you say, if it makes you happy, Gabrielito, but you’re driving to Aventura.”
“No problem. I don’t mind driving your old ass around,” I say with a wink, and I playfully punch him. I suggest that we go to Don Shula’s Steak House for lunch the next day.
“I can never say no to steak with my son,” he says, rubbing his stomach as he lights up at the idea.
With that settled, I let Papi watch the rest of the newscasts and head back into the office, er, my bedroom, and make some phone calls on Papi’s business line. I manage to get through to his doctor’s assistant. She squeezes us in for an appointment for Monday morning, which surprises me because it’s a federal holiday. But doctors in Miami are always working. When you least expect it, the universe works its magic.
I’m glad I came on this short trip to see my parents. I’m glad that Aunt Cary gave me a heads-up as to Papi’s condition. But I’m not happy that I seem so distant, powerless in helping. How much can I help from Boston? Being back in South Florida seems to make a difference to Papi as well as Mami. I need to find a way to visit more often, but how I do I balance my life in Boston with my former one here? How do adult children care for their elderly parents from 1,600 miles away?
The voice from the doctor’s assistant snaps me out of these thoughts. “Do you know how to get here?” says Rose, the assistant on the other line.
“I remember. We’ll see you Monday morning. Thank you, Rose. We really appreciate this.”
“See you Monday. Have a good day.”
As I lean back in Papi’s pleather office chair with my hands folded behind my head, I glance at the corner of his desk, where there’s another photo of us. This was taken when I was in high school. Papi and I stand arm in arm in front of my first car, a used Nissan hatchback, which he and Mami bought me for my seventeenth birthday. Papi looks so strong and healthy, and I look so much thinner (and younger) with my bush of curly hair. My cheeks are fuller and my hair thicker. Sigh.
Then I wonder, Will I turn into my father someday? I look just like him, or at least I look the way he did at my age. We’re a living before-and-after shot. Does the Parkinson’s that flows through him silently sleep in me too? The questions come fast, and hopefully, Papi’s doctor can shed some light on this.
Chapter 9
SINCE Papi is such an early bird, passing out in his armchair to the latest Clint Eastwood movie on cable, I decide to have a night out on my own. It’s eleven, and the crickets and nearby cows sing, the unofficial soundtrack to Miami Lakes. Their sound mixes with Papi’s loud snores, which echo from the living room. I take a quick shower and luxuriate in the hot steam that fills Papi’s bathroom. The hot water rolls off my body. I clean my face and pat it dry with a towel. With my index finger, I wipe a clean spot on the mirror so that I can see myself through the hot vapor.
My hair is slick, wet, and combed down, just as it was when I was younger. I grab my Rogaine from my bag and apply some of the mousse on my crown. I take my anti-baldness pill with tap water. I apply some moisturizer to my face and neck. I massage some hair gel into my head and comb it to the right. I spritz some cologne and let it rain all over me. The older I get, the more I prepare for a night out. It wasn’t that long ago when I just towel-dried my hair and then bolted out the door. Those were the days. None of this cosmetic upkeep.
After I ch
ange into my clothes—blue jeans with a gray polo shirt and black loafers—I’m set to go. A night in South Beach, just like old times. I grab the keys to Mom’s Honda and my adventure begins.
As I drive on Interstate 95 toward Miami Beach, my cell phone rings its Star Trek ringtone. I glance at the caller ID, and it reads “Nick.” I answer.
“Gabriel, you won’t believe who’s sitting next to me at the bar.”
“Who? Who?” I say, sounding like an owl.
“No one, because you should be here with me hanging out. When does my buddy get back to Boston?”
I laugh into the phone as I gaze at the view of a gleaming downtown Miami in the distance. I try to imagine Nick sitting alone at a bar. “I’ll be back before you know it. If you really want to see me sooner rather than later, I could use a ride from the airport.”
“Deal, but then you owe me a drink or two the next time we go out.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll text you with the flight information. What are you doing tonight, Nick?”
“Um, nothing, because my wingman, my compadre is MIA in MIA. It’s been a while since I’ve flown solo.”
“Yeah, but you’re never alone for too long. I’m sure you can survive going out without me. You’ll live, Nick, you’ll live! Speaking of going out, I spent the day with my dad, and now that he’s asleep, I’m headed to South Beach for some fun of my own. Wish you were here!”
“You can say that again. Anyway, have fun tonight, GG, and I’ll see you at the airport in a few days.”
“Hey, Nick. I forgot to tell you something.”
“What, GG?”
“Slore!” I laugh into the phone.
“Yeah, that will be you tonight! See ya!”
Twenty-five minutes later, I pull into the frenetic public parking lot adjacent to Lincoln Road in South Beach. The pedestrian mall is jammed with night crawlers, a mix of tourists and locals who saunter up and down the boulevard of boutiques, cafés, restaurants, and bars that blare boom-boom-boom dance and tropical music into the Atlantic-whipped air.
As I walk onto the strip, I try to mix in with the crowd and soak up the scene. Younger, tanned men in tank tops or sleeveless shirts lounge at the tables outside Score, the local gay bar. They sit next to tables filled with straight couples and friends munching on vegetarian pizzas and pasta dishes from the neighboring cafés. The street is one giant carnival of models and wannabes. It’s as if everyone has something to show off, a hectic swirl of humanity, an exhibition of plumped and plucked body parts. In fact, most of the population here (men too) has been surgically enhanced by science in one way or another.
Not me. Although I grew up in Fort Lauderdale, I never subscribed to this scene. I always felt thin and average compared to these guys. When I visited, I became an outsider among the beautiful people in South Beach. In Fort Lauderdale, the gay community skews a little older (read: white men in their forties and fifties with mustaches and bellies). The scene there is also more cohesive, thanks to the town of Wilton Manors, which has blossomed into the epicenter of Broward’s gay community. We have two gay pride parades and we have gay politicians in office. In Miami, being gay has more to do with looks and superficiality than with advocacy and civil rights. Then why am I here again? Oh yes, the music, the men, an escape. A night out.
I pass the coffee shops and the dessert store that scents the strip with a sweet chocolate aroma. I stand in an eight-person line at Score as two overweight drag queens sashay in as if they own the place. Why do drag queens get to go in first? The bouncer with the bleached-blond hair air-kisses the pair of queens and grants them access while the rest of us paying folk wait in line.
Ten minutes later, I’m finally inside. The pounding dance music pulses inside me. I sit on a stool at the bar and order a vodka and Red Bull from the hunky Australian bartender with the sexy black goatee, which matches his thick, black, wavy, combed-back hair. He reminds me of the actor who plays Wolverine in all those X-Men movies. He whips up my drink, which makes his bicep bulge tightly like a basketball. I want to reach out and squeeze the delicious bicep. He serves my drink, and I leave him a two-dollar tip for the eight-dollar drink.
I twirl a red straw in my drink and study the scene. A gaggle of twinks giggles on the narrow sofa that lines the front bar window. Men linger by the front entrance and eye-fuck everyone that walks in. I’m leaning over my drink to take a few swigs when a booming anchorman voice startles me into raising my head.
“A cranberry with vodka, Dan,” the voice says. I turn to my right and see a dapper man in a crisp gray suit and pink tie. He has short-cropped black hair that has been relaxed and smoothed to the side. His skin is naturally tanned—he’s Portuguese, I suspect.
“Coming right up, Ted Williams,” the bartender says in a friendly but serious tone as the guy perches himself on the stool next to me. He flashes his ultra-white smile and says hi. We quickly do the how-are-you, I’m-fine, nice-to-meet-you pleasantries.
“I come here every week. You’d think the bartender would know my drink by now. Geez,” he says, slightly snarky. “Sorry, I’m babbling. I’m Ted Williams.” He extends his right hand, which bears a shiny Rolex, and I gladly shake it.
“No problem. I’m Gabriel,” I say, sipping my drink.
I take a closer look at this guy, and then it hits me. This is Ted Williams, famous reporter and anchor for Miami’s Channel 7 News.
“Aren’t you a TV reporter?” I ask, admiring his profile and panache. I’ve always had a weakness for journalists even though I’m no longer one. We tend to speak the same special language of reporting and writing. We understand each other when we talk about story ideas, coverage, media analysis, and how overbearing editors can ruin a good story.
Ted beams from the recognition. “Why, yes. That’s me, the one and only. You must be one of our loyal viewers, or you’ve seen my billboards around town.” He forms the number seven with his right hand against his chest to emphasize his station.
“I used to watch the station when I lived here, but I tune into your sister station in Boston,” I say.
Ted suddenly grows more animated. “You live in Beantown?” Ted says with curiosity. “That’s where I’m from, well, the Cape. I was a reporter up there before taking a weekend-anchor job down here in good old Miami. What brings you back to Miami, Gabriel?”
He leans in closer. I catch a whiff of his strong Dolce & Gabbana cologne, which perfumes the air immediately around us. The sweet, powdery scent makes me tingle. I could breathe it in all day. From my seat, I notice other guys whispering and pointing to Ted. It must be nice to be a celebrity. I wonder why he’s here alone.
The bartender plops Ted’s drink on the counter.
“I’m visiting my parents. My dad lives in Miami Lakes. Mom is in Fort Lauderdale. Just here for the long weekend to get away from Boston.”
Ted sighs and smiles. “Ah, Boston! My dream job is to be the main anchorman at the ABC affiliate, the most respected station in New England. But for now, Miami will do. I can’t complain. One day, you’ll see,” Ted says, with a wink. “I’ll be back in Boston as the main guy.”
We sit, side by side, with our faces toward each other. And as I sit there, thoughts of Craig slowly surface. The memory of our kiss in my apartment flashes before me. I push the thought away by asking Ted about his work.
“So what stories have you been working on?”
Ted lights up. Journalists love to talk about their work. That’s why I invite them as guest speakers to my classes at Jefferson. It takes the pressure off me and allows someone else to do all the talking.
“Well… let’s see. It’s all a big blur by the time the weekend rolls around. This week, I covered a high-speed chase on I-95 that tied up traffic between Broward and Miami-Dade, as well as a story on how the housing market has picked up again. I did a story on how a Miami officer used crime tips for profit. Oh, I had a sit-down with former attorney general Janet Reno. She’s been out of the spotlight since retirin
g. That story did really well on our station’s website. The story was picked up by the network, so the clip will be part of my reel.”
“I remember her. Didn’t Saturday Night Live run a spoof about her years ago as if she had her own TV dance party?”
Ted laughs. “Yeah. She still has her red Ford pickup truck. The focus of my story was on her work on behalf of Parkinson’s research. Sometimes, she headlines fundraisers in South Florida.”
“How is she doing with it?” I ask out of concern and curiosity.
“As well as she can. She’s had it for some time. Her body shakes a lot. We didn’t show her too much on camera because of her condition. We cut away a lot to her years in office and the work she has done.”
“Well, at least she’s getting out there and doing something,” I say, my shoulders slouching on the bar stool. “There aren’t that many big names with the disease besides Michael J. Fox.”
Ted tilts his head to the right and studies me for a few seconds. He rubs his chin with his index finger. Every now and again as Ted talks, his Rolex reflects the nearby club lights. “I take it you have an interest in Parkinson’s, Gabriel. How come?” Ted asks, twirling the straw in his glass.
“It’s a long story, but the Cliff Notes version is that my dad has the disease. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I’m checking up on him.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry, Gabriel.” Ted places his hand on my right hand. His lips tighten into a frown. I’m getting used to that expression.
“Thanks, Ted. We’re going to see his doctor on Monday. He’s been getting weaker, and he hasn’t been telling me about it. That’s my macho Cuban father for you. He holds everything inside.”
“I know the feeling. My dad is the same way. I think that’s why I became a reporter, because no one ever told me what was going on in our family. I had to ferret out all the information. I had to investigate.” Ted smiles, which makes me smile. My face is beginning to ache from all the smiling, but I’m not complaining. I’m having fun.
