by Johnny Diaz
“I didn’t say anything, Mr. Public School Teacher!” I say, cupping my hot tea.
A few minutes later, Nick returns with his drink in hand, and we settle into our seats and some good conversation. All around us, early holiday shoppers rummage through the tables of new books and holiday cards, while some other people sit in the plush sofa chairs and read the celebrity gossip magazines without paying for them.
“So what’s the latest on your hunt for your students’ hot fathers?” I say. My nose accordions at Nick.
“Nah, the one hot dad, the Tom Cruise look-alike, turned out to be really straight. I did my best, using my gifted charm and swagger, but he wouldn’t agree to meet me off campus to, ahem, discuss his son’s progress in class. Whenever I looked into his eyes, he’d immediately talk about his girlfriend, a publicist for a local department store. You win some, you lose some. But hey, I still think he’s a closet case or has some BT, bisexual tendencies. He’ll come around. You’ll see. One day, we’ll see him out on the dance floor at Estate.”
Nick loves a challenge. After all, he teaches middle schoolers in Somerville, which has a growing Latino population because of all the Mexican and Central American families that have migrated there. Sometimes, I help Nick with his Spanish when he needs to talk to a student’s parent. I don’t envy Nick’s job, because his students are hormone-driven and adapting to their ever-changing bodies, but Nick seems to have an endless well of patience and a knack for keeping them under control. I don’t think I could have that kind of patience with the Disney tween set.
“Speaking of coming around, where’s your young college boy? Word is that you guys are practically married in Quincy!” Nick blurts out.
I sip some more of my drink before answering. “We’re just hanging out and getting to know each other, Nick. No big deal.”
“No big deal? I can’t remember the last time I saw you. Yeah, I’m sure you guys are just hanging out and letting things just hang out. College boy has you whipped, slore!” Nick mimics a whipping sound. “Let me guess, Star Trek date nights… nice romantic runs along the bay… a secret classroom rendezvous now and then at the college?” Nick chides.
“Something like that,” I demur. “At school, we just say hi and keep it on the down low.”
“So, Gabriel, does this mean you guys are official, exclusive, one on one?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, we hang out and have fun. The other day, when I woke up, he had a caramel iced coffee and a warm bagel for me from Dunkin’ Donuts. Craig can be really sweet. Right now, I’m just going with the flow.”
“Yeah, I know what kind of flow that it is—the bump-and-grind kind.” Nick starts grooving in his chair, making sexual noises.
I reach across the table and playfully smack him in the arm. “Shh. Keep your voice down. There are some kids here,” I say, pointing to the three kids playing with the stuffed bears at a nearby table.
“Oh, like they don’t know what bump and grind is. They hear worse things on the Disney Channel or MTV. Anyway, amigo, if this guy makes you happy, I’m all for it. Just remember, the dude is still in college. He’s just beginning his life, and you’re, well, almost in the middle of yours.”
I narrow my eyes at Nick. “Yeah, how can I forget? When he talks about his classes or complains about his other professors, I know exactly who he’s talking about. Awkward! Hearing his stories remind me of my own college days. I feel ancient, and he looks so much younger than me.”
“You’ve got that whole father-and-son thing going on.” Nick jokes. “I can’t relate. I don’t look that much older than your students, Gabriel.”
I toss my napkin at Nick. “Don’t hold back, Nick. Just let it all out. You should say what’s on your mind, because you never do. You’re a real ego booster, I tell you,” I playfully scold him.
“Sorry, Gabriel. I’m just teasing you because you always set yourself up for it. You know I love you. If anything, I’m probably projecting. My hair dye used to last me five or six weeks. Now it lasts me less than a month.”
“Yeah, those grays are really coming out.” I pelt him with sarcasm. “Soon, people are going to call you Old Saint Nick! I’ll still hang out with you, even though you’re not far off from getting annual colonoscopies and prostate exams and appearing in those cholesterol commercials.”
“Oh no you didn’t, GG!”
“Oh yes, I did. You’ll be starring in your own Dulcolax commercials really soon,” I fire back.
“Well, at least I’m not on the wrong side of thirty, GG, which now stands for Geriatric Gabe! You’re closer to forty than I am.”
“And you’re not that far behind me. You’re right on my tail!” I wrinkle my nose again. We stick out our tongues and laugh at this silly, fun banter.
As we talk, two elderly men approach the café salesgirl, and one of them asks for two drinks before pointing to the golden cheesecake in the display case. The man ordering is about my height with short but mostly snow-white hair combed to the side. He wears a red plaid shirt, a black coat, and blue jeans. He stands slightly hunched with his hands in his pockets. His friend is taller, with mostly gray straight hair that is combed back. As they wait for their drinks, they talk and laugh about something. The taller guy puts his arm around the other one and messes his hair the way Nick often does to me. The shorter man then immediately pulls out a comb and brushes his hair to the side, a lot like my father does.
My mind briefly flashes to an image of Papi riding the bicycle and fighting Parkinson’s. He swears he has been using the bicycle and that he’s been feeling better since the doctor boosted his dosage. I won’t know for sure until I fly back for the holidays. I look again at the old men and imagine Nick and me as their younger version.
“Nick, reality check! I’m only three years older than you. We’re in the same demographic, like those older guys over there at the counter,” I say, casually pointing in their direction.
“Yeah, but you get to experience things first. I’m still catching up to you, you old dog!”
“You are who your friends are! Woof, woof, Lassie!” I announce with a silly grin.
With that, we start throwing our napkins at each other and laughing like two middle-school friends. The real kids nearby look at us quizzically, probably wondering, Who are these old dudes acting so immature in the corner of the store? The older men walk toward us and settle into the table behind us and laugh at their own private conversation.
“Let’s make a coffee toast. To old men: may we laugh and act like this when we’re eighty years old with walkers,” I say, holding up my drink.
“To dirty old men!” Nick toasts back.
“You know it, slore!”
Chapter 14
WHAT… is… this?
I’m standing in front of my bedroom mirror, getting dressed for work on Monday morning, when I notice something white, no, something gray, on my chest. I step closer to the mirror and study my chest. Oh no! It has finally happened. A gray hair has sprung up on my chest. Correction—make that two gray hairs right in the middle of my chest.
I yank them out and hold them up to the light. Each strand is scraggly and curly and… ugh! I glance down at my chest again and scan for more grays. I don’t see any others. Mission accomplished. Oh wait. I’m wrong again. There’s a tiny strand near my right nipple. I imagine all my black chest hairs quickly morphing into a sea of gray. Will my chest look like the top of Anderson Cooper’s head in a year or two? Will I have to resort to buying chest-hair dye?
I do have some grays above and around my ears, but my hair is predominantly dark-brown. I also keep it short so the salt isn’t as obvious as the pepper. But gray chest hair is a whole other matter. I instantly flash to visions of hairy old men with their tropical shirts unbuttoned to their navel, revealing huge clumps of white hair on their torso. These are the same men who walk around a cruise ship with a drink in one hand and a cigar in another while ogling every guy or girl that flounces by.
I won’t let my chest turn into a white carpet. If any more grays pop up, I may have to start trimming. I can understand why so many older gay men like Harrison Ford or Mark Harmon trim their chest or shave it. They are cloaking their gray hairs. I quickly check down there for any others. So far, the pubic coast is clear, but it’s official. I am becoming a gray gay.
I slip into my corduroy pants, a white T-shirt, a light green cardigan, and my brown shoes. I fix my hair in the mirror and grab my black pea coat. I also take a chocolate and peanut butter protein bar from my kitchen cabinet before slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder as I head to work.
As I walk to the subway stop on this chilly morning, the protein bar in my mouth, my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I smile when I see that it’s a text message from Craig.
Hey, cutie. I have a lot of schoolwork today. I’ll come over this weekend. Miss you and thinking of you. XOXO. Craig. By the way, read today’s paper. There’s a front-page story that will be of interest to you.
As I power walk to the subway stop with a pack of other harried commuters, I quickly text message Craig back.
No worries. Have a great day, smiley. Can’t wait to see you, and of course I’ll read the paper. :-D
Once inside the subway stop, I wave my commuter pass in front of the entry machine, and I pass through the turnstile. A Red Line subway car rumbles to a stop, and its doors open widely, swallowing me and the rest of the passengers. I grab a corner seat in the back, where I pick up a rumpled copy of today’s Daily that someone discarded. I scan the front page, and my eyes land on an article by Tommy Perez. It’s the Parkinson’s story he briefly discussed in my class a few weeks ago. The headline reads, “Just The Right Moves: Dance aids those with Parkinson’s.”
I read the story, which details a class for people with Parkinson’s here in Boston, actually Cambridge. The class is taught by a yoga and dance instructor named Adam Smith who incorporates movements from each of those disciplines to help people with Parkinson’s improve their coordination and flexibility as the disease gradually robs them of both. The story’s main photograph has Adam leading several elderly couples in a series of dance moves. The students are smiling, even laughing, and clearly enjoying themselves.
My eyes shift back to Adam, whose straight, dirty-blond hair spikes up like needles in a pincushion. In one close-up photograph, I can better see his eyes, which remind me of the color of the dark-blue waters off Provincetown. He has tight and perfectly curved biceps that I would give anything to squeeze. Adam is lean, and his tanned skin remains sun-kissed by the recent summer. He looks about my age too. He sports black sweatpants that define certain body parts a bit too much and a snug white T-shirt. His smile, like his students’, is sincere. But for some reason, I’m just as drawn to his image as I am moved by his quotes.
One of them reads, “You can still dance and have fun despite this disease. Dancing is one way of fighting back for these students. When they listen to the music and start to move, they forget, at least for a little while, that they have the disease. In this class, they are not patients. They are beautiful dancers.” I reread the quote, and it resonates with me. It must take a special person to have the patience to teach seniors and others with a chronic condition how to dance. I find that noble.
I read the rest of the article, which says that the class is the only one in Massachusetts. The article is heavy with meaning, comprehensive, and full of colorful details as well as many voices. The students are quoted as saying that the dancing helps ease their symptoms and gives them a sense of control over a disease that often renders them powerless over their own bodies.
Tommy Perez quotes a local neurologist’s explanation of the benefits of music. He also includes a brief biography of another dance student named Howard Rudavsky, a former Boston hospital executive who is funding the class with his own money and does fundraising for Parkinson’s research. The story also provides the backgrounds of two students, how long they’ve had Parkinson’s, and their struggles with the disease. One of them is quoted as saying, “My legs and arms now follow a choreography that I did not choose…. This class moves you to do better.”
The article also explains the social component of the class, which provides a recreational outlet for people with Parkinson’s. I reread the story and jot down Adam’s name and the location where the class takes place, the Jewish Family Center in Cambridge. I immediately think of Papi and wonder whether there is a similar class in Miami or Fort Lauderdale. A wave of optimism rushes over me. Maybe this class could help Papi stay physically fit but also socially active. It might help him meet other people his age who are experiencing similar symptoms.
I carefully tear the article out of the newspaper and tuck it into the front pouch of my messenger bag. As I zip up my bag, the subway’s automated electronic voice announces that we’re approaching Park Street, my stop. I get up from my seat and clench the metal support pole as the subway slowly comes to a stop.
My mind wanders to this special dance class and when the next session might be. I want to visit the class and see for myself what Tommy Perez wrote about.
An hour or so later, at Jefferson, I finish up in my beginning creative writing class. Some of my students are slumped in their chairs, still recovering from whatever they did last night in their dorm rooms. At Jefferson, almost every night after Wednesday is a party night.
“Okay, class, that’s all for today. Remember that your short story is due by Monday morning. If you are not in class, then you have to make sure I get it beforehand. You know the drill—via e-mail or leave it in my mailbox. No excuses, people!” I tell the thirteen students in today’s class as they collect their books, notebooks, and papers.
“And if I don’t respond to your e-mail, assume that I never got it. ¿Comprende?” I say as they begin to amble out of the classroom. “See you early next week!”
“Bye, Professor Galan,” says Gina, the class’s red-headed poet.
“Have a good weekend, everyone, and I can’t wait to read your work!”
As the students empty the room, some still holding the Starbucks cups they brought to class earlier, I, too, gather my papers. I yawn and stretch into a giant letter T as I extend my arms out side to side, standing on my toes as I then reach up toward the ceiling. I release a big groan. I wipe the white board clean and pick up after myself so that the room is ready for the next instructor. I have a two-hour break before my next class.
I grab my messenger bag and loop it across my torso. I stroll into the hallway, where a few students linger, chatting about weekend plans or upcoming holiday trips. I, too, am looking forward to the winter break. Three weeks off! I can sleep in and spend more time at the gym. And, of course, I can thaw out in Fort Lauderdale and let my mother spoil me with her cooking.
As I round the corner of the fifth floor, I notice a young man talking to another student. I pause and squint to focus. Though his back is to me, I would recognize that buzz cut anywhere. It’s Craig. Just as I’m about to approach him, I notice that he and the other guy are leaning closer to one another as they talk. I step back and retreat to a nearby corner. I’m standing a few feet away from them—close enough to watch and hear them, but I remain out of their view. Perhaps it’s my inner reporter that prods me to eavesdrop, but it’s one of the best ways to glean information. Like an addictive force, curiosity overtakes me. I tune in.
“So, maybe we can hang out sometime?” the guy asks Craig, whose head flirtatiously tilts to the side. He stands with one leg crossed over the other, and Craig playfully twirls his tie with his index finger.
The student, who has straight black hair spiked up and gelled, blue eyes, and thin eyebrows, flirts right back. The guy also has endearing dimples that can probably hold a dime in each cheek. Tiny jabs of jealousy poke me. I don’t like this feeling, but it hits me in small waves as I watch the scene.
“Sure. I have some projects I need to finish up, but I’ll be around before the holiday break,” Craig
responds cheerily.
“Great! I know this great little restaurant in Cambridge by Central Square that serves great Chinese food. I want to pick your brain about the college newscast,” Mr. Blue Eyes says to Craig. I imagine my eyes shooting invisible laser beams at the student and pulverizing him.
“Yeah, sure. We can talk about the newscast. You’d be a shoe-in for the team when we have auditions in the spring. It would be better if you had a mock reel to show the staff what you can do, but I can tell you all about that over dinner. ”
“Deal! I can’t wait,” the guy says.
Craig then scribbles something on a small piece of paper and hands it over to the guy. “Or just add me on Facebook, Tony!”
They shake hands and hug. Tony—so that’s his name—lets his hands fall to Craig’s lower back before pulling away from the embrace. The guy then walks with Craig to the south-side elevators. Their laughter and chatter fills the hallway.
More jealousy burns in my gut, but it’s now mixed with disappointment. I process the scene. They were just talking, right? How can I compete with that dapper younger guy with eyes the color of skies who also wants to be a TV reporter? This is exactly why I hesitated for so long to do anything with Craig. Dating a younger guy, especially a college student, can only lead to complications and those lingering bouts of doubt. The entire student body is my competition, and I’m the Socrates among the contestants. As these thoughts swirl inside me, I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Gabriel, good morning! What are you doing standing here in the hallway? Are you lost?” teases Alisa, my Journalism Department head.
I turn around and try to think of something plausible to say. “Um, I… was… just, um, I dropped something. One of my contacts popped out, but I can’t seem to find it. The floor is white, which isn’t helping,” I say, suddenly blinking repeatedly in my right eye to make the story sound more believable.
“Oh, let me help!” Alisa says, tucking her straight brown hair behind her ears. She places her purse on the floor and then bends down and looks around. I bend down too.
