by Johnny Diaz
Chapter 23
“HOW is Boston’s best writing professor?” Papi greets me over the phone.
“I don’t know. If I see him, I’ll ask him,” I tease. “How’s South Florida’s best exterminator?”
“He’s fine,” Papi says, laughing on the other end. “Is it snowing up there?”
I look out the window of my balcony, and the sky looks gray, just as it was two days ago when I last saw Craig. The gloomy sky reflects my mood. “It hasn’t snowed in a few days, Papi. It doesn’t snow every day here in winter.”
“I was just wondering, Gabrielito. In Chicago, there is una tormenta,” he says.
I exhale a long sigh. We’ve had this conversation before. The never-ending weather conversation. Mom and I have similar exchanges. “Papi… Chicago is in the Midwest. Boston is northeast. New England. Nueva Inglaterra. It’s like asking if Miami has the same weather as Dallas.”
“Bueno, it could. Both cities are south,” he says.
I prop my legs on my sofa and just smile at the mindless but good-natured conversation. It temporarily lifts my mood. “Okay, you win, Papi. How are you doing with the Parkinson’s?” I know he hates when I bring the subject up, but if I don’t ask, he won’t discuss it. I can’t help it. I have noticed that he has been more open in talking about it since I forced him to go to the doctor’s appointment, but again, I have to instigate the conversation.
“Ah, it’s okay. I have my good days and my bad days. I’ve been feeling more tired at night.”
I lean my head against my right hand. “Papi, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, ¿qué te pasa?”
“I know you like to work, but do you think it’s a good idea for you to keep exterminating? I remember how labor-intensive that job is. It can’t be healthy for you, especially as the Parkinson’s progresses.”
“I have to work, son. I have bills to pay.”
“I understand that, Papi, but maybe you can work and do something that doesn’t exhaust you so much. You are taking a lot of pills for the Parkinson’s. You can’t exterminate forever.”
“And what do you suggest I do? Retire? It won’t be enough to cover my expenses…. Estoy solo. I am alone.”
The last two words resonate with me. Sometimes, I feel just the same way.
“No, you’re not, Papi. You have Aunt Cary. I’m here up here. All I am suggesting is that you can still work, maybe part time in a job that is less stressful.”
“Like what, Gabrielito?”
“Maybe at Publix helping with the groceries? I know you always liked going to Costco to get the free samples. That’s an easy job, and you get to interact with the public. I see people your age sitting behind serving counters and offering shoppers samples of juice and pieces of fruit and desserts. And hey, you can give me some free food when I visit,” I joke.
“Oye, thank you for your concern, but I can exterminate a little while longer. When I can’t anymore, I won’t. I’ll apply for Social Security.” His stubbornness rears its ugly head.
“Whatever you feel comfortable doing, Papi. I just want to help.”
“Yo sé, and I appreciate it.”
The conversation moves on to more lighthearted fare. As Papi talks about the Miami Dolphins (I just listen, since I don’t follow sports), I hear some catchy dance music playing in the background.
“Is that Chayanne I’m hearing, Papi?”
“Sí, the Puerto Rican singer, and his real name is Elmer. He has a new album out.”
“Papi, he’s not Puerto Rican. He’s Mexican American, and I don’t believe his name is Elmer.”
“Gabrielito, he’s Puerto Rican. I know my Spanish music.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
As we verbally toggle back and forth, I quickly crank up my laptop on my coffee table and search for Chayanne’s Wikipedia page. The first line reads, Elmer Figueroa Arce (born June 28, 1968), best known under the stage name Chayanne, is a Puerto Rican Latin pop singer.
“Okay, you win again, Papi. You’re on a roll today.”
“I may be un viejo, but I know who sings the music that I like.”
We share a laugh. I feel better already. When I hang up the phone, I watch the local news station until I pass out on the sofa in a deep sleep.
The next few days float by with school, the gym, walks around the Boston Common and the Quincy shore, plus some late-night Star Trek episodes. I’ve managed to dodge Craig at school. Before we dated, I rarely saw him in the hallways or on campus. I have also changed my routine in entering the school (I am using a side door) and exiting through the back of the main building, which spills out into the alley of clubs and restaurants. I would rather keep my distance and avoid any awkward moments where I might see Craig with Tony or chatting with classmates. I do think about him often, but keeping busy has helped me get through the week. So has Nick, who wants to surprise me with a dinner this Saturday night.
He left a message on my cell phone while I was in class.
“Gay-briel! Don’t make any plans for Saturday and Sunday. I want to take you somewhere different for dinner. Talk to you later, slore!”
I replay the message. Saturday and Sunday? What is Nick getting me into? Whatever it is, I’m sure it will be fun. Life is always an adventure with Nick by my side.
Chapter 24
IT’S early Saturday evening, about 6 p.m., and I’m spritzing myself with my Cool Water cologne when Nick obnoxiously sounds his horn downstairs. I pop my head out the balcony and shout, “I’ll be right down.”
I imagine Nick sitting in his truck and fixing his spiky black hair in the rearview mirror.
A few minutes later, I’m riding shotgun in Nick’s truck as he makes a swift U-turn on my street.
“Where are we going? What’s with all the secrecy?” I turn to Nick.
“You’ll see. It will be fun. I promise,” Nick says with a conspiratorial glean in his eye.
“We have different interpretations of ‘fun’ and ‘different’, and that’s what I’m afraid of,” I say, buckling my seatbelt.
Nick playfully punches my left shoulder. “You can’t always be in control, Professor! You have to let loose sometimes and have fun, and I’m the perfect guy to do that with.”
“Oh brother!” I say as Nick steps on the gas. My body jerks back as we zoom over the Neponset Bridge that connects Quincy with Dorchester. In the darkening sky, the twinkling lights of downtown Boston beckon against the bay.
Fifteen minutes later, Nick pulls into Boston’s Jamaica Plain neighborhood, where I sometimes like to run around the big pond during the summer.
“Are we going to the lesbian bar here?” I turn to Nick, who unveils his trademark devilish grin.
“Now why would I want to torture you like that, GG? What fun could we have in there?” he says as he drives along Centre Street, the spine of the neighborhood. We pass the dimly lit independent mom-and-pop convenience stores, beauty salons, and auto garages. Shortly, Nick pulls up in front of El Oriental de Cuba, Boston’s most famous Cuban restaurant.
“We’re here!” he declares as he cuts the ignition. “We are going to have some good old Cuban food to cheer you up. It’s time to strip you of your ‘Saddest Gay of the Week’ title.”
I tilt my head and smile. “I haven’t been here in a while. This is perfect. Thank you, Nick,” I say, squeezing his upper right shoulder.
As soon as we climb out of his pickup truck, the succulent aroma of cooked Cuban food immediately greets us. Above the front door is a yellow sign that says, “Un pedacito de Cuba en Jamaica Plain” (A little piece of Cuban in Jamaica Plain). Once inside the restaurant, a friendly young ponytailed waitress with long black hair greets and seats us by the window mid-way into the restaurant. She hands us our menus before returning with two ice-filled glasses of water.
Pulsing Latin music softly plays in the background as other patrons eat and chat. The click and clack of forks, knives, and spoo
ns echo throughout the room. The sounds mix with the steamy sizzle of steaks against a grill. As I settle into my seat, I hear two guys toast, “Oye, to Beantown Cubans. Whoo hoo!”
I peek over the rows of diners and notice that the toast came from two guys with dark brown hair. I wonder what that toast was all about. They must have had too much sangria or something.
“I’m hungry already! I can eat everything off this menu,” I say, my eyes scanning the menu images of shredded beef, breaded steak, and tostones.
Nick rubs his flat stomach. “I fasted all day for this. If this doesn’t make you feel like home and cheer you up, I don’t know what will,” Nick chides.
When the waitress returns, we place our orders. I ask for the breaded-chicken sandwich with a side of black beans, rice, and a mamey shake, the creamy and sweet tropical fruit drink of my childhood. Nick orders the grilled chicken, also with black beans and rice, plus a Corona.
“Now, this is only part one of our weekend. There’s more to come,” Nick says, his eyebrows arching and eyes widening with excitement.
“Oh yeah? What else is on our dance card? Inquiring Cuban minds want to know!” I say, leaning forward like a curious little kid.
“You’ll see. Before you know it, you’ll forget what’s-his-face, he whose name shall not be mentioned tonight or any other night.”
I raise my right eyebrow and sip the chilly water. “We’ll see about that.”
“Are you feeling any better since Thanksgiving, dude?”
“I’m taking it day by day. The whole thing was doomed from the beginning. Deep down inside, I knew that.” I look down as I fold my arms across my chest.
The waitress returns with our drinks and a red basket of bread rolls and butter.
“But at least you gave it a shot, and that’s what counts. I wouldn’t have gone that far with such a young dude. You took a risk, and you’re growing from it,” Nick says, munching on a piece of bread, which rains crumbs on his shirt. He immediately wipes them away with his right hand.
“I guess I was schooled, so to speak, by this experience.”
“Nah, I wouldn’t put it that way. You put your heart on your sleeve, Gabriel, and that’s one of your best qualities. You’ll find someone out there who will appreciate you for the great guy that you are. I believe that.”
I lean over and tap Nick on the hand. “Thanks, amigo! And maybe we’ll find someone for you too.”
Nick grimaces. “Um, not! No relationships for me. Just cute bums to tap. This is a drama-free, relationship-free zone,” he says pointing to himself.
It doesn’t take long for the waitress to return with plates bulging with our food. Nick and I immediately chow down and discuss our plans for Christmas. I’m headed to Miami for a long-overdue break. Nick is planning to visit his family in Providence and then do whatever he does when I’m not around—grade homework, work out, and drink and meet up with young men.
It only takes us twenty minutes to wipe our plates clean. The waitress offers us the dessert menu, but we pass, patting our bulging stomachs.
As soon as Nick pays the bill—he wouldn’t let me, even though I tried—we get up and gather our coats from behind our chairs. As we put them on, I hear a familiar voice.
“Gabriel Galan, the subject of a fabulous article in the Boston Daily newspaper?” the voice asks.
I turn around. It’s Tommy Perez, standing with his big happy-go-lucky smile and a Diet Coke can in his hand. He’s with another cute Spanish-looking guy who reminds me of Orlando Bloom, but thinner.
“Tommy Perez, the one and only!” I say, greeting him with a hug.
“Good to see you, Professor! What are you doing around here?” Tommy asks as he wraps his red scarf around his neck while his friend zips up his black coat.
Introductions are made, and everyone hugs and shakes hands. When Tommy introduces his friend Carlos Martin, Nick simply greets him with a big, “Woof,” which makes Carlos grin with a puzzled expression.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t mind my friend here. He sometimes turns into a wolf during a full moon, which may be tonight. But he does more than bark at cute guys… he humps them,” I joke.
To that, Nick playfully barks, “Woof, woof,” toward Carlos, which makes him smile sheepishly.
“We were craving for some good old Cuban food, just like you guys,” I say, standing face to face with Tommy. To my side, I notice Nick and Carlos staring at each other, their eyes locked, with Carlos turning away every few seconds or so with a shy smile. He is taller and leaner than Nick, while my friend is more muscular. An obvious mutual attraction flickers between them.
“Well, this is where Carlos and I meet up each week. We’re the Beantown Cubans. Carlos moved here a year ago from Miami. Does that sound like déjà-vu, Gabriel?”
I can’t help but laugh. We all share a similar migration pattern from South Florida to New England.
I turn to Carlos and explain. “I’m from Miami Lakes and Fort Lauderdale. My parents still live there, and I visit often. I’ve been in Boston for a few years.”
“I know all about you, Gabriel. I read Tommy’s article. I have to read all his articles. He gives me a pop quiz each week to see whether I’ve actually read them. It’s a requirement to be friends with Tommy,” Carlos says with humor in his eyes.
As Nick undresses Carlos with his eyes, Carlos seems excited to have made another Cuban connection in Boston.
“Oye, how many of us are there here in Boston? Have we started a northward migration trend?” Carlos says, his grin broadening into an infectious smile. Carlos has the lightest and prettiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, even nicer than what’s-his-face’s.
“The more, the merrier,” Nick jumps in, resting his right hand just above his belt buckle. Nick probably has a boner in his pants right about now.
“Carlos, my friend Nick here is from Providence, but he’s a middle-school teacher in Somerville. I still like to consider him an honorary Latino.”
Tommy jumps in. “What a coincidence! Carlos lives on the Somerville-Cambridge border, but he teaches at Dorchester High. So we’ve got two schoolteachers, a professor, and a reporter extraordinaire here. What does that make?”
“An orgy?” Nick blurts out loudly as he and Carlos just smile at each other.
“Well, maybe we can all come back here for dinner sometime,” Tommy suggests as he plays with one of his long dark-brown curls with his free hand while taking a sip from the Diet Coke.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say as I finish buttoning up my jacket. “By the way, Tommy, I really enjoyed your article on the dance class for people with Parkinson’s. We discussed it in class, and I attended one of the classes out of curiosity.”
Tommy’s forehead creases. “Oh yeah? That’s great. Do you know someone with Parkinson’s, Gabriel?”
“My dad. I thought I could check out the class and see if this is something he may want to do.”
“That class would be great for him. I remember how animated the students were during and after the class. But one thing I left out in the article because of space is that similar classes are being organized in South Florida because of the large elderly population and interest there among families with Parkinson’s. You also have the Bob Hope Center for Parkinson’s near Jackson Memorial Hospital, so the resources are available. If I had known your dad had Parkinson’s, I would have mentioned that to you early on. I can get you the contact information if you’d like,” Tommy offers as we stand by the entrance of the restaurant.
“Please, that would be terrific, Tommy. ¡Muchas gracias!” I say.
“Hey, anything that can help a fellow Cuban in Boston, I’m there,” Tommy says, moving in for a hug.
“Well, we have to get going. Carlos and I are going to attend a book reading by a Latina radio psychologist that we both know—la doctora Bella Solis. We don’t want to be late, but let’s keep in touch and make plans to hang out again.”
“Deal!” I say as Carlos and I hug good-
bye, followed by Nick and Carlos and then Tommy and Nick.
Before they leave, Nick pulls out his cell phone and asks Carlos for his number.
“I’m in Somerville most of the time. Maybe we can grab a drink or coffee,” Nick offers, punching Carlos’s name into his phone.
Carlos lights up at the idea, leaning closely over Nick as he recites his phone number. As I watch them, I can’t help but think what a cute couple they would make, if Nick allowed himself anything beyond a simple hook-up.
And with that, we all say good-bye.
Tommy and Carlos hang a left, heading south and walking toward a white Jeep Wrangler parked toward the other end of Centre Street. As Nick and I walk back the opposite way toward his truck, laughter erupts in the distance. We hear, “To Beantown Cubans! Whoo hoo!” That must have been Tommy and Carlos, our new friends. Nick and I look at each other, laugh, and wrap our arms around each other as we continue walking.
Chapter 25
“AND now we begin the second half of the night,” Nick announces as he navigates his truck off of Jamaica Plain’s service roads before following signs to Interstate 95.
I fiddle with his CD player and pop in some of Lady Gaga’s best hits before I lean back in the passenger seat. I prop my right foot on his dashboard, and my foot taps along to the music. “There’s more? I thought we were just doing dinner!” I say, folding my arms behind my head as my bulging stomach rocks side to side.
“And since when do have such an early night, GG? The night is still young, and so are we, sort of. Maybe not as young as the so-called Beantown Cubans, but we look good for mid-thirties,” he says, fixing his hair with his right hand in the rearview mirror. He turns to me and says, “I would try to get comfortable. We have a bit of a drive.”
“Can you at least give me an idea of where we’re going, Nick?”
“We’re going to one place where no one will know us, well, at least not you, GG. We’re heading south!” Nick then hops on I-95 following the traffic signs for Providence.
