by Johnny Diaz
“I looked right here, but it’s hard to see with just one contact in,” I say, feeling embarrassed over this silly lie. I’m acting like one of my students trying to weasel out of an assignment. “Alisa, seriously. You don’t have to look. I would have found it by now. Someone may have stepped on it. I have a pair of glasses back in my office. I can just wear those to get back home.”
Alisa is now on all fours, looking within a five-foot radius of where we are. I cringe at the sight. “I don’t see anything, Gabriel. Sorry,” she says, rising back up and wiping her hands. “Well, I gotta get going. Mr. Contreras asked me to cover one of his classes because of jury duty. See you later this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Alisa. Talk to you later,” I say as I continue blinking with my right eye and waving good-bye to Alisa, whose heels echo down the hallway. When she walks, her hips sway from side to side as if she wants all the young men here to admire her bombshell physique. Alisa is one of the most attractive educational department heads I’ve ever encountered, and a lot of the male students have crushes on her.
As Alisa disappears from sight, I turn around and return to my own office, where I plan to make some phone calls to see when the next Parkinson’s class will take place. I want to see the class in action. As I walk, I carry with me a mix of confusion and disappointment. I try to make sense of what I witnessed between Craig and Tony. Is he about to cheat on me? Perhaps it’s time we define what our situation is.
Chapter 15
I’M AT the front lobby of the Jewish Family Center, where Doris, the receptionist, greets me with a warm grin. “Welcome to the JFC, how can I help you?”
“Hi! I’m Gabriel. I had called about the dance class for Parkinson’s. I wanted to check out the class and see if maybe it might be something for my father. I read about the class in an article in the Daily.”
“Oh yes, I remember. We spoke on the phone. Just sign in right here, and I’ll show you where the class is. It starts in a few minutes, so you’re right on time,” Doris says as she hands me a clipboard and pen.
I scribble my signature on the sign-in sheet.
Doris then directs me to the elevator. “The class is on the third floor. Ask for Adam Smith, the instructor. You can’t miss him,” she gushes. “Have fun, and hopefully, this will work out for you and your father.”
“Thanks, Doris. I appreciate it.” I wave good-bye as I walk toward the elevator.
Once I’m inside, the elevator gently lifts for a few seconds and then halts to a gentle stop.
When the elevator pings, I know that the dance adventure is about to begin.
Stepping out of the elevator, I walk into a bright conference room where tables have been pushed to the side to make way for a big carpeted dance floor. As I survey the room, I notice a blond blur coming into focus. Correction, it’s a blond god. This must be Adam Smith.
“Hi there, and welcome to our class! I’m Adam Smith, and I’ll be your instructor today,” Adam greets me. I’m paralyzed, stunned by his beauty. He looks even better in person than in the photos and video from the article. His short, spiked-up hair seems blonder, his eyes more cerulean. A smattering of freckles dots his arms. I want to touch each freckle with my finger. Speechless, I flash a wide smile and extend my hand.
“Are you ready to get your groove on?” he teases. “You’re a little younger than our typical student, but I’ll take care of you. You’re in good hands here,” he says with a warm grin.
I finally regain the use of my vocal cords. “Oh… I’m not dancing, although I love to dance. I’m here for my father. He has Parkinson’s, and I read about your program in the paper. I wanted to check out your class and see whether this might be something for my dad, although he hates to dance. I’m Gabriel, by the way.” I realize that I’m babbling. Inner butterflies feel more like birds soaring in my stomach. Why am I nervous? Maybe because I’m transfixed by Adam’s California surfer looks. Or it could also be that he’s wearing black sweatpants that outline his sculpted figure and a snug blue T-shirt emblazoned with the image of a two smiling stick figures dancing together.
Adam’s smile—dashing with pearly white teeth—radiates sincerity. Now that my nerves have calmed, I feel comfortable around him, yet I don’t know why. But I digress. This is class is about Papi, not about me finding Mr. Right in tights.
“Nice to meet you, Gabriel. Are you sure you don’t want to dance? I can probably convince Doris to be your temporary dance partner. I don’t think she would mind busting some moves with you.”
Oh my God, is he flirting with me? I think he is. I start to laugh. I also like the way he sounds younger than he is. “Thanks, but I just want to observe. I don’t want to hurt anyone with my break dancing or crunking,” I joke. “Just pretend that I’m not here. I’m a nice fly on the wall. I won’t get in the way.”
“Well, in that case, then, come with me and we’ll get you a name tag and find you a place to settle in.” As he talks, Adam places a comforting hand on my upper back and escorts me to the registration table as if we’re old friends. He writes my name down on a sticker and gently places it on my upper chest. I feel an instant tingle. Pat me again, por favor? He then hands me some brochures about the class.
“We’ll be forming a circle in the middle of the room for the class, but you can sit right over there,” he says, pointing to a corner by the window. “You’ll have a great view from there.” Little does Adam realize that I have a great view of him from right where I stand.
“If you’d like, we can talk after class about the program and your father and see how far along his Parkinson’s has progressed. But the best way to understand what I do with my students is to simply participate or, in your case, just watch.”
“Thanks, Adam. I really appreciate you and the JFC for letting me being here.”
“You’re welcome, Gabriel!” he says with the warmth of sunlight.
I settle into my designated corner of the room and watch the doorway as the students trickle in. Some have walkers. Others have canes. One gentleman is in a wheelchair. Many students are accompanied by their loved ones.
As I watch everyone approach the registration table, I overhear one woman in her sixties talking to a younger clone of herself, most likely her daughter. They chat a few feet away from me.
“Do you think this will really help your father?” says the elder woman, who has a bush of strawberry-blonde-and-gray-streaked curly hair just like one of the infamous Golden Girls characters.
The daughter, with matching blonde hair, tilts her head and offers a closed grin. She looks at her mother with affection. “I hope so. It can’t hurt. Studies have shown that music sparks coordinated movement. At least he’ll feel better and he’ll meet other people with Parkinson’s. He’ll see that he’s not alone, and that we’re not alone in dealing with this.”
The elder woman cranes her neck to plant a kiss on her daughter’s cheek and then loops her right arm in the crook of her daughter’s arm. The mother taps her daughter’s hand as they walk. “It’s up to us to take care of your father. He always took care of us. Now it’s your turn to help your pop,” the woman says as the man they’re talking about takes a seat in one of the chairs that forms a circle in the room. He is hunched over, and his left hand and leg shake. He reminds me of Papi.
As I take in the scene, beautiful Adam bends over the table to scrawl some other students’ names on white rectangular stickers. He clearly enjoys what he does and takes the time to greet everyone with a big smile. He exudes a positive energy that I can feel from across the room.
I manage to peel my eyes off Adam for the moment and survey the room. The place features wall-to-wall windows overlooking a lush forest in Fresh Pond Park across the way. Tree tops have shed their rust-colored and golden-yellow leaves. I can see a pond flanked by a running trail where joggers and dog-walkers trek despite the frigid thirty-degree weather.
A few minutes later, people finish signing in and settle into the seats that form a gi
ant circle. Some folks are hunched over but share in laughs with one another. Two seniors drool, and their caregivers quickly and lovingly wipe their faces with handkerchiefs. My heart aches at these scenes.
Dressed in sweatshirts and pants, the more active seniors stretch their arms to warm up as they wait for the class to begin. They all have different stages of Parkinson’s.
Although I know Papi has had the disease since he was seventy, it never became a disruptive issue until this past year, or perhaps I never really noticed until recently. Papi never complained about his condition. Whenever I visited, he seemed strong, positive, and active. He exuded a strong front so I wouldn’t worry.
When I saw the photos and online news video that showed elderly dancers doing their best to move to the beat, something awakened within me. The image gave me the feeling that this could help Papi somehow. Maybe the class would help him smile more. I’ve noticed that he doesn’t smile as much as he used to. The article served as a personal wake-up call for me to do something—anything—to help Papi.
And so here I am, a voyeur who hopes that this class won’t just help my father move a little faster and ease his symptoms but will also help us bond better as father and son, a relationship that has always been partially strained by what he did to my mother, and by his silent discomfort with my homosexuality. I hope this class might give me a little more time with Papi as the disease slowly takes him from me and the world.
“Welcome to the Dance Away Your Parkinson’s class!” Adam announces as he stands in front of the twenty students in the half-moon of chairs. One woman in her late fifties sits near me and says a silent prayer with a rosary in her right hand.
Gorgeous Adam plays some soft music by Enya, and the class begins with some gentle stretching exercises. The students’ caregivers fill the role of dance partners for the class, so they grab their dance partners’ shaky hands to get started. They look at each other and exchange small smiles. The proverbial curtain is raised, and the students dance. I sit back and watch everyone follow their own beat to the foxtrot, jazz moves, the tango, the Macarena, and the Hokey Pokey.
An hour later, the class ends and the room bursts with chatter and laughter. The students who had walked in slowly at the beginning of the class now appear energized, reinvigorated, and animated. I like what I am seeing.
“So, what did you think, Gabriel?” Adam’s voice suddenly jolts me from my concentration on the class.
From my seat, I look up and stare into his blue orbs. “Um, I’m impressed. Everyone looks like they have more energy. They seem… happier,” I say, rising from my seat.
“Isn’t it amazing? The music and social interaction is the best medicine for these students. That’s why they keep coming back. You should bring your dad sometime.”
“I’m definitely going to try and get him here, even if I have to drag him, but he has this whole Cuban macho-guy thing. I’m not so sure I can sell him on the dance class.”
Adam playfully pats my shoulder. “Oh come on. I bet you can talk anyone into doing anything, Gabriel.” Was he just flirting with me again? That’s twice in a row. I know why this class is so popular: Adam.
“If it helps, I’d be happy to speak with your father,” Adam offers. “At first, the class may be somewhat daunting for someone who has never danced in a group, but everyone is in this together. If someone falls or loses balance, we all step in. There is nothing for the student to be embarrassed about. It happens to all of us at some point,” Adam says reassuringly.
I take in everything he says and nod as he speaks.
“Why don’t you come back for the next class and dance with one of the students with Parkinson’s? It may give you an idea of what to expect with your father. I’m sure we’d have a lot of volunteers who’d want to dance with you, Gabriel.”
I’d rather do the tango with Adam, but his idea agrees with me. “Deal. I’ll come back for the next class and actually dance!”
Adam’s face lights up. “Your dad must be so proud,” Adam says, putting his hand on my upper back as we follow the rest of the students toward the elevator.
“Why do you think that? You don’t even know me,” I say.
“Because of what you did today. You must love your father a lot.”
“Yeah, I do. I don’t see him as often as I’d like to because he’s in Miami. I am hoping I can get him to visit and take the class.”
The elevator is packed with the other seniors who are gabbing about the class and music. Their laughter is music to my ears.
“Well, you know where to find us. You and your father are always welcome,” Adam says as we step into the next elevator, where we find ourselves alone. As we descend to the first floor, I glance down and grin. Shyness suddenly envelops me.
“What, are my pants too tight?” Adam says mischievously, adjusting the dangling string on his sweatpants. Flirtation número three.
“Umm, no. I just get giddy in elevators. My mom and I used to always laugh in elevators or doctor’s offices.” I look up and our eyes lock.
“Oh, you’re one of those. A perpetual giggler, huh?” Adam says with a playful expression.
“Yeah, something like that,” I answer, suddenly giggling. “I can’t help it sometimes. I even do this in front of my class once in a while.”
Adam looks at me with surprise. “Class? Do you teach dance too?” he teases.
“Nah, I teach journalism and writing at a college downtown.”
Adam nods, a small smile forming in the corner of his mouth. “I figured you were a TV reporter or something. You could easily be on any of the news channels here.”
Flirtation, flirtation, flirtation! I could listen to him all day. “Why, thank you, Adam. That is very sweet of you to say,” I say. My cheeks suddenly warm.
With my ego boosted, we arrive at the ground floor, and we step out of the elevator. I extend my hand to shake Adam’s, but he surprises me with a friendly small hug. “See you next week, Gabriel.”
“Thanks for everything, Adam,” I say, my gaze lingering.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Adam says. “Save the last dance for me.”
“Ha! I bet you say that to all your students!” I say as I walk toward the front entrance of the center. Adam waves good-bye before turning around and reentering the elevator to return to the dance area.
A few minutes later, I traipse back to my Nissan with an extra spring in my step. I also carry the brochures that Adam gave me earlier. The whole way, I positively float on the excitement of meeting Adam and seeing the class up close. As I hop into my car, my thoughts remain on Adam and the effect he had on me in such a short time. I felt good around him but also inspired—a feeling similar to the one I had when Craig and I began hanging out. I’m looking forward to returning to the class and getting a better sense of the class—and Adam. I wonder if this is how Craig felt when he talked to Tony in the hallway the other day.
Chapter 16
“HE WAS that hot? How big was his sausage?” Nick says as I spot him on the bench for a set of curls. Nick is sitting down, and I’m standing right next to him in this basement-level gym on the Cambridge/Somerville border, not far from where he teaches middle school.
“Shhh. Keep your voice down. We don’t have to announce to the world that we’re horny gay dudes!”
“Sorry, Gay-briel,” Nicks declares louder so that the nearby pack of brawny Italian guys at the upper-body machine can hear us.
“So, how big was this dancing queen?”
“I saw an outline of it, so I’m not completely sure, but—”
“Oh just say it, Gabriel! The dude was hung. Stop dancing around it, so to speak,” Nick interrupts me. He lifts the thirty-five-pound dumbbell and gently lowers it. His bicep tightens into a ball with a bulging vein in the middle. He performs five more reps before stepping aside for my turn.
“Yes, he was huge! There, you got me,” I say, picking up the twenty-pound dumbbell to begin my set of reps.
“I knew it. Now the bigger question is, is he bigger than Craig? Remember him? Your student, er, I mean former student but current student at your place of employment nonetheless.”
“Thanks for reminding me of whom I’m dating or spending time with or whatever. What would I do without you, Nick?” I sigh and place my free hand over my chest.
“See, GG, without me, you’d be completely clueless. At least with me, you are just semi-clueless.”
I hold up the dumbbell to Nick’s face and widen my eyes. “You know, I think it’s the other way around. I could just drop this right now if I really wanted to, since I’m so, you know, clueless.”
Nick tilts his head to the right and offers his most charming sexy smile. “But you wouldn’t because I’m your best friend and you love me,” Nick says, now leaning his head on my upper right shoulder like a little kid. He’s endearing. I don’t think I’ve ever been mad at my friend. He always seems to know what to do to defuse a situation.
“You always know what to say when your life is threatened,” I joke.
“Whatever you say, slore!” Nick fires back.
We each perform three sets of reps before moving on to the military press machine. As we continue chatting, the chorus of weights clank in the background. Overhead, small speakers blare the latest dance music. The gym is packed, mostly with students from nearby Harvard and Tufts universities, and their muscular young figures are reflected on the wall-to-wall mirrors that adorn this place. These guys are easy to spot because they wear T-shirts with their school logos. That’s why Nick prefers to come here: fresh young faces—mostly straight, though—that you wouldn’t see out and about in a bar.
Nick is up first at the military press machine. The fluorescent lights glisten against his naturally tanned Portuguese skin. His tight-fitting black tank top sports some sweat spots below his nipples.
