by Johnny Diaz
“So have you spoken to the future Brian Williams lately?” Nick says, squaring his back, pulling the bar down to his chest and then releasing it. On the ride here, I told Nick what I had overheard between Craig and Tony in the hallway at Jefferson.
“We exchanged some texts today and yesterday. I should see him tonight, and I’ll ask him then about his new friend.”
After Nick finishes his set, I swap in to work out. I adjust the weight from a hundred pounds to eighty. I’m not as strong as my good friend here, who is scanning the entire gym like the beacon of a Cape Cod lighthouse.
“You don’t have the whole story yet with Craig. This is exactly why I like being single. No drama! You don’t have one guy saying he’s doing one thing while making plans with another. And this is exactly why I don’t get too serious with young dudes. They are so fickle.”
“Um, like you, Nick?” I zing him.
“Exactly, old buddy. Look, all I’m saying is don’t get too serious or attached to Mr. Wannabe Anchorman. But now this dance instructor, hmmm. That’s another story. Tell me why you didn’t just grab him right there in class and make out with him?”
I complete my set and Nick slides in again. “Because I was there as an observer for my dad, not to hook up.”
“Yeah, I could tell that you observed a lot. I want to see what this guy Adam looks like. Can I come with you the next time you visit his class? I’ll be your dance partner—or Adam’s,” Nick says, pulling the bar down.
“Actually, that might be a good idea, but hands off Adam. I saw him first.”
“Hey, but you’re already seeing someone else, so Adam is up for grabs.”
I narrow my eyes at Nick. “He’s in his mid-thirties, Nick. Oh, did I forget to mention that?”
Nick smirks. “Fine, he’s all yours. Besides, I like younger guys, not dudes older than me. That’s your department, Professor!”
For that, I playfully punch Nick in the arm. Then he suddenly grabs me into a headlock and starts shouting, “Who’s your daddy! Who’s the man!”
The group of Italian guys just stares at us as if we’re new oceanic life forms that just washed up on shore.
“Oh you are, master. You are, master!” I tease. Nick and I start laughing as we head to the locker room to change. The entire way there, the inescapable stench of sweat and gym shoes follows us like a smelly shadow.
“Seriously, buddy, it sounds like you have a lot of things to figure out, especially with Craig. This could be the beginning of a never-ending series of complications. And since you’re not officially dating Craig, I’d take this opportunity with the dance classes to get to know Adam better. He sounds like quite a catch. I bet your dad might even like him if he were to take the classes. This dude sounds like he enjoys helping people with Parkinson’s, and that says a lot about his character,” Nick says as we step inside the locker room. Inside, the place is filled with a dozen shirtless guys, who are mostly lean, sculpted men in their early twenties. They hunch over as they change in and out of their shorts and sweatpants. Some douse themselves with their sport body sprays, which thankfully temporarily cloak the sweaty stench.
As we open our red lockers, I consider Nick’s advice, which is reasonable and well-intentioned, as always. My mind immediately wanders back to the class and how Adam assisted his students. I remember how much care and time he took to make sure the participants enjoyed themselves, and yet he made sure that they didn’t overextend themselves, either. His eyes were filled with tenderness, and that moved me.
As I slip on my blue jeans, something vibrates in my right pocket. It’s my cell phone. I pull it out and notice a text message from Craig.
“Are you around tonight, cutie? I want to see you. Miss you.”
I turn to Nick, who is putting on his red sweatshirt. I hold up my phone to show how him the text message.
He grins. “Tonight’s forecast calls for some drama with a little sex, but that can change. More to come at eleven,” Nick says, mocking a news anchor.
“Thanks, weathergirl!” I whip Nick gently with the end of my towel.
“Just for that, you get another headlock. Who’s your daddy! Who’s the man?” Nick blurts out loud as he grabs my neck and tousles my hair. All around us, the other gym rats stare quizzically. Some laugh at the sight of two old friends horsing around, while others probably wonder if we’re rowdy gay lovers.
ON THE drive back to Quincy, I dial Papi. When he answers the phone, his Spanish-TV newscast blares in the background as usual.
“Hola, Gabriel! You’re calling earlier than usual. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Dad. I’m just leaving the gym and heading home. I have plans tonight, so that’s why I’m calling earlier. How are you doing? How’s the Parkinson’s today?” I ask. As I drive along Memorial Drive, I notice Cambridge’s low-rise canyon of brick buildings on my left across the Charles River and the string of Boston University buildings ahead on my right.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
When Papi says “don’t worry about me,” it usually means the opposite.
“Papi….”
“Gabriel…,” he responds, mimicking me.
“Did something happen that I should know about?
“Nada, chico. How are your classes?” he says, trying to change the subject. I lower my radio’s volume to better hear what he has to say.
“Papi….”
“You’re not going to give up on this, are you, Gabrielito?”
“I’m just as stubborn as you are. We can do this all night. What happened?”
Papi takes a deep breath before he begins to explain. “I was driving to one of the apartment buildings that I exterminate here in Miami Lakes. At the traffic light, I tried to accelerate, but my right foot wouldn’t move.”
“Has that happened before, Papi? Are you okay?” I ask with alarm.
“Every now and then that happens when I drive or walk. My legs freeze. I can’t move, but it only lasts for a few seconds.”
I suddenly imagine Papi sitting stuck at a traffic light in his Chevy Impala while all these drivers behind him honk obnoxiously. I see him alone and scared, trying to retain control of his legs. My heart aches at the imagined sight. But I also feel a rush of anger at myself for not being down there.
“But I was able to move and drive home. It’s okay now. You don’t have to worry, son.”
In my research on Parkinson’s, I read that some patients shuffle as they walk, taking short steps, while others find themselves temporarily frozen and unable to move, as if they’re suspended in animation. “Papi, I don’t think you should be driving if these episodes keep happening. Why didn’t you mention this before?” I say, descending into the tunnel traffic under downtown Boston toward Interstate 93 south.
“I didn’t want to worry you. It has happened to me when I exterminate or when I go shopping for food.”
Again, my mind flashes to images of Papi being alone and helpless. Why is this happening to him? Why did God pick my father to inflict his cruel disease upon? Why does anyone have this vicious disease, anyway? It slowly robs the patient of any independence and strength.
“I am going to call Dr. Steinberg and let him know what you just told me. This is serious, Papi. What if you were trying to slow down in traffic and couldn’t move your foot? You could have seriously hurt someone.”
“I know, Gabriel. I know,” he says in a defeated voice.
“Papi, we’ll figure this out, okay?” I say reassuringly. “In the meantime, I would rather you not drive, but if you have to, keep your hand on the emergency brake in case your foot locks up again. Or ask Aunt Cary to drive you around if she can.”
“I only drive on my good days. Today was a complete surprise,” he confesses. The words replay in my mind—my good days. What else hasn’t my father been telling me? This reminds me of those sitcom episodes when a child only reveals information to his parents when cornered or put on the spot. The more I press with Papi, the
more he opens up. I thought I had gleaned everything I needed to know on my last visit. But with this latest episode, I realize I am going to have to press Papi more from now on. I have to be the reporter that I used to be and ask all sorts of direct questions that he will have to answer one way or another. And maybe it’s time I push him more on the possibility of retiring.
As I pull off my exit to Dorchester/Quincy, I tell Papi, “I’m almost home. I’ll make some phone calls and talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“I’m fine, Gabrielito. Now go have fun tonight with your friends.”
With that, I hang up.
On the short drive to Wollaston Beach, my mind is fixed on Papi. I grow frustrated as I realize this disease continues its forward march to erode my father’s body. The boosted medicine dosage seemed to help a little at first, but now we have another set of problems with Papi’s legs freezing up.
As I pull into my parking lot, I notice that Craig’s little Mazda is parked outside. I spot him standing by the front entrance of the building. He smiles at me as he leans against the wall. One of his legs is casually crossed over the other. He looks like an Abercrombie model posing for a picture. As I walk toward him, I realize that I would rather be home alone than deal with whatever Craig has to tell me or hide from me.
Chapter 17
UPSTAIRS in my condo, Craig plops himself on my sofa and props his feet on my coffee table. I’m in the kitchen dropping off my gym stuff. I empty my keys, wallet, and loose change into a basket that I use for such things. I offer Craig something to drink, and he asks for wine, but not before he playfully shoots me with my Star Trek toy phaser, which sits next to my TV remote control.
“Resistance is futile, Gabriel!” Craig announces from the living room.
I fake being shot to the heart.
“Captain… you… got… me!” I cough, pretending to drop to the floor. “Seriously, though, put the phaser back on stun and I’ll get you some wine. I want to talk to you about something.”
“Uh-oh. That sounds important, serious,” Craig says as he places the toy phaser in its place and returns to his spot on the sofa.
I make myself a vodka with Red Bull and top off his wine glass and then join him in the living room. As soon as I sit next to him, Craig rubs his hand through my hair and kisses my cheek.
I close my eyes and enjoy his physical touch. “What is that for?” I tease, handing him his glass of wine.
“For being you. I haven’t been around as much lately because of school and the morning newscast, but I have been thinking of you.”
“Oh yeah? Sounds like you’ve had a lot on your plate, Craig,” I say, with a hint of disbelief.
He catches my tone and studies me with a perplexed look. “Yeah, I’ve been busy, but I’m here now, with you, the hottest professor in Boston. No, correction, make that the Commonwealth.” He gently strokes my inner thigh and smiles.
I place my hand on top of his and squeeze it. “So, anything new? Did you go out with classmates or anything this week?” Craig’s touch tingles, running through me like liquid heat. I try to stay focused.
Again, he looks at me quizzically. “Um, not really. I’ve been doing a lot of schoolwork now that the end of the semester is nearing.”
I pull away. “Craig, either you hung out with people or you didn’t. It’s a simple question,” I say, looking away.
He takes a sip of his drink and looks at me with surprise. “Where is this coming from? What’s with all the questions? Are you suddenly a reporter again?”
“I guess reporters don’t like to be pressed for answers when all they do is fire away. I just want to be clear on something. You didn’t have dinner or plans with someone this week?”
Craig begins to stutter. “Um, I, um,” he says before taking another sip.
I have my answer already. I finish my drink and realize I could be making phone calls on behalf of my dad or doing more research on Parkinson’s or reading one of my romance novels instead of playing these little games.
Craig finally answers the question. “Well, there’s this freshman who wants to be a correspondent for the school newscast. He asked me for advice, and we grabbed a bite to eat in Cambridge. I was just being helpful. I remember what it was like trying to break into the tight clique of student reporters here, so I was trying to help him out.”
“Over dinner? You couldn’t talk about this in school? Was he cute? Is he gay?”
Craig leans over and rakes his hands through my hair again. “He has nothing on you. Besides, you have my heart. He’s just a kid. He looks up to me because he sees me on the morning newscast every day. No big whoop.”
“See, this is what I don’t want to deal with—secrets! You couldn’t have told me this earlier? I had to press it out of you.”
“Because it wasn’t a big deal. I almost forgot about it.”
“You have dinner with a cute gay guy from school at a restaurant in Cambridge to talk about journalism. Sounds like a date to me, Craig.”
“It wasn’t,” he fires back. “And he’s not that cute.”
“I think it was a date. This is why I was stupid to get involved with a younger guy. I can’t compete with guys who are practically half my age,” I ramble on.
“You don’t have to compete. They have to compete with you, Gabriel,” Craig says with a small smile. He squeezes my right hand to reassure me. “You are mature, smart, successful, and sexy as hell. Who wouldn’t want that, Gabriel? Besides, you give great blow jobs!”
I laugh a little. The last comment caught me off guard. I do think I’m pretty good at doing that. “Why thanks, I think. Maybe you can write me a recommendation on my oral presentation. But seriously, I can’t stand secrets, especially with what happened with my parents years ago. Listen, if you want to date other guys, just say the word and we’ll stop doing whatever it is that we’re doing. This is the time in your life when you should be having fun and going out. I don’t want to hold you back your senior year of college, and I don’t want to look like an old fool for being with a younger guy.”
Craig kisses my cheek and cups my chin with his right hand. I melt in his touch. “You’re not holding me back. You’re helping me grow as a person and move forward. That’s why I care about you so much. I feel like a better person when I’m around you.” He leans in and softly kisses my lips. Our tongues intertwine and perform their own private dance.
I pull away to continue explaining how I feel. “I need you to be open and upfront with me. I know what I’m getting myself into. The day you want to explore and be with someone closer to your age, just say the word. I can handle it.”
“Deal, but I don’t think that is going to happen anytime soon,” Craig says as he climbs on top of me to straddle me. He plays with my hair again.
He leans back a little when he notices the brochure for the dance class for Parkinson’s sitting on the top of the end table. He reaches over to pick up the brochure and starts leafing through it. He notices my notes on the brochure. “Hey, did you go to the class?” he asks. “Is this the one that Tommy Perez wrote about in the Boston Daily?”
“Yeah, I went two days ago. I forgot to tell you with everything going on. It’s a great class, something I want to get my father involved in, if there’s a similar class in Miami. I had a lot of fun watching. I’m planning on going back and actually dancing next time.”
“Hmmm. I can see why you enjoyed the class so much. Was this hot blond instructor there?” Craig says, holding up the page of the brochure with Adam’s smiling photo. Adam’s buff arms are folded across his chest.
“Oh, that’s just Adam Smith, the instructor,” I say nonchalantly. “Adam let me sit in on the class and then later explained the benefits the class has for people with Parkinson’s. He’s a really nice guy.”
Craig raises his right eyebrow, tilts his head to the right, and stares at me. “And is he gay?”
“Yeah, I think so. I didn’t ask. I was there for the class, not the guy’s ass
, but he teaches a dance class, so the odds are low that he’s straight,” I joke.
“So he has a nice ass, then? Well, it looks like you definitely liked what you saw, Gabriel. You scribbled Adam’s name three times on the brochure.”
“Huh? Really? No, I didn’t.” I grab the brochure to see for myself.
Craig is right. I did write Adam’s name three times in different areas of the brochure.
“Oops. I must have been taking notes, Craig,” I say, letting out a nervous laugh.
Craig takes hold of the brochure again and folds it up. “Now is there something that you’re not telling me, Professor Galan? Do you like this guy?” Craig looks crestfallen. He reaches over to the end table again and takes another mouthful of his wine.
“Okay, Adam is obviously attractive. I’m not blind. But I was there for my dad, and I can’t help it if the instructor is nice and handsome and friendly.”
“Well, that deal we just agreed to, about not having any secrets, it applies to you too, Gabriel. And if you decide you don’t want to date someone younger and would rather be with an older dude, then just say the word. This guy Adam looks more or less your age, and he’s obviously your type based on the, ahem, notes you took.”
I pull Craig closer to me and wrap my arms around his thin, tight back. “I am interested in you. You’re in my heart, Craig. ¿Comprende?”
He leans in for another kiss. “You’re in mine too,” he says, tossing the brochure into the corner of the living room so that Adam’s smiling face isn’t visible anymore. “I’m going to miss you during Thanksgiving break. I wish I could bring you home with me. Are you going to visit your family, Gabriel?”
“I’m staying in Boston. I’m trying to save money for my trip for Christmas.”
“So you’re going to be alone for Thanksgiving?” Craig says, massaging my head.
“Not really. Nick invited me to his parents’ house in Providence, so I’ll be down there. I haven’t been a big fan of Thanksgiving since my parents split. The holiday lost its meaning, in my eyes. I look forward to Christmas. What I do is spend Christmas Eve with my mom and then Christmas Day with Papi.”
