by Johnny Diaz
“To Providence?”
Nick glances at me with his trademark devilish look and wiggles his eyebrows. “Maybe.”
I roll my eyes and relax in my seat for the trip.
Forty-five minutes later, Nick parks his truck in downtown Providence, where the giant mall and the Westin Hotel hulk over the city. We get out of the car and pass several college-age students walking by on a pub crawl. We mosey along the collection of redbrick buildings that anchor almost every city block. We pass the arching windows that decorate the brick home of the state’s biggest newspaper, the Providence News. As we make our way to—well, I don’t even know where we’re headed—the city pulses with the sounds of twenty and thirtysomethings as they traipse along the grid-like downtown streets.
“Are we meeting up with your family down here?” I ask as we stroll toward a corner bar.
“Not tonight. We’re going to The Dark Lady, Señorita Galan,” Nick says, pointing to the bar that has a small figurine of a black horse above the entrance. A small line of men forms outside. Some smoke cigarettes. Eh. Others eye each other in line and look at Nick and me—the out-of-town fresh meat for the night. Ugh. None are cute, but that shouldn’t be my main focus of the night. It just feels good to be out and about with my good friend.
“I thought we could use a night away from Boston to get out of your element. I doubt you’ll bump into what’s-his-face or any of your students here. And besides, you always seemed to like coming down here to visit my family, so I thought we could have a boys’ night out in my hometown. A lot of the Brown University students and RISD art students are out and about getting hammered before finals week. We have them all to ourselves,” Nick says, his eyebrows shooting up.
We stand in the back of the line.
“Thanks, Nick, for doing this. I really appreciate it.”
“You’re my bro. Anytime. I love you, man!”
“I love you too, chico,” I say as he suddenly grabs me, puts me into a headlock, and rubs his knuckles against my hair. I burst out in giggles.
When I look up, the bald bouncer wearing a leather jacket and an unflattering V-neck shirt that reveals a carpet of hair stands before us with his arms folded like a prison guard. He doesn’t look amused and stares at us stoically as if to say, “These snobby Boston queens! Go back to where you came from.”
But instead, he politely says, “IDs, gentlemen!”
Nick and I turn to each other and grin. We pull out our licenses. “Gladly!” we shout at the same time, handing the bouncer our IDs. Nick and the bouncer have made my night. The last time a doorman asked me for ID was the night I met Craig at The Estate two months ago.
A few minutes later, Nick and I are inside the bar, which has sweeping Victorian ceilings. Once we arrive at the main bar, we bob our heads and dance in place. We immediately order our drinks. We groove to the pop music blaring in this rectangular bar, which has a small dance floor on the other side. My head sways to the left and right, and Nick and I sing out loud—and off-key—to some of the songs that dominate this bar. Small crowds of young and middle-aged men clog the lip of the bar, while streams of men flow to and from the dance floor. When a few pass us, they leave a trail of their heady colognes in their wake.
“See, look at all these young guys here. Who needs cute journalism students when you have all these Ivy League studs and twinky art students?” Nick shouts into my left ear.
“Now I know why they call this place The Dark Lady, Nick. It’s dark, and the guys here walk very ladylike,” I say, laughing at my own joke. “Yeah, there are some cute guys here, but we did see two cute guys tonight at the restaurant. I think you made a connection with Carlos.”
“Woof!” Nick barks before taking a swig of his drink, and he moves his eyebrows again in a cartoonish way.
“So does that mean you’ll hang out with Carlos Martin sometime soon?”
“We’ll see. Carlos seems like a nice-enough guy, and he’s very lean with some hair on his chest. You Cubans tend to be hairy. I’m curious to see what’s underneath his cardigan… and jeans and underwear. Me likes me some Carlos.”
“Well, don’t traumatize him or anything with your Portuguese-Irish dick or your manwhore ways. I really think we could all hang out one night as friends. It would be nice to have a little social group,” I say.
“And what should we call ourselves? The lady and the tramp?” Nick says into my ear as he takes another sip from his beer.
“If I were one of the two, that would work, but I’m not. So seriously, Beantown Cubans is taken, and you’re not Cuban, so that doesn’t work anyway.” I place my finger under my chin and consider some names.
“Hmm. I got it! Let’s make a toast, Nick!”
“To what?”
“Boston Boys On Top!”
“Not a bad name. It’ll do, but aren’t you a big Cuban bottom?” Nick cajoles me before continuing, “For a second there, I thought you were gonna say Dumb and Dumber.”
“Nah, that would only be half true.”
Nick unleashes his trademark high-wattage smile and sticks out his tongue. We clink our glasses and toast.
We spend the rest of the night dancing, drinking, and having fun. We may be men in our thirties, but deep down inside, we’re still as young and free-spirited as the college students here tonight. I don’t believe that the soul ever grows old, despite our physicality. A little bit of Cuban food and Providence was exactly what I needed. Correction—spending time with a good friend has been the best medicine for a broken heart. I’m blessed to have a great amigo like Nick by my side.
Chapter 26
IT’S just past 5 p.m. on Thursday as I walk into the Dance Away the Parkinson’s class, which has already begun. I practically tiptoe in and take a seat in the back of the class. There are sixteen people who are gathered near the large glass windows that overlook the small forest in Fresh Pond in West Cambridge. Adam spots me and winks. I grin and wave as I scoot into my chair.
“Look around the room, everyone! Look at the beautiful people we have here. They are going to be your dancing brothers and sisters today,” Adam tells the class as he extends his arms out and back toward his heart.
“I want you guys to really enjoy this time, relish it. Reward your bodies,” he says as everyone follows his lead.
The students, who are seated in their chairs, extend their arms out and fold them toward their torsos. Soft, comforting music by Enya plays in the background.
I look around the room, and everyone’s eyes are fixed on Adam. I can’t blame them. Today he wears black sweatpants and a snug, light-blue T-shirt that matches his eyes, which are framed by small crow’s feet. His blond hair is spiked up as usual.
Several walkers and canes are propped up against the windows. They must belong to the elderly couples here, most likely one partner afflicted with Parkinson’s. There are mother and daughter pairs, and one son with his elderly mother. Some wear sweatpants. Others wear shorts. One couple sports matching black headbands that say “His” and “Hers.” I imagine Papi sitting here performing the exercises with me at his side.
“Heels together, toes apart,” Adam continues, asking the class to repeat the sequence five times. I lean back in my chair and study everyone’s reactions. Smiles form. Spirits are lifted.
“Wiggle your fingers toward your neighbors and extend your arms like beautiful wings,” Adam says, performing the moves. “Wiggle your fingers at the ceiling. Your arms are like wet noodles, loose and free. You’re in control.”
The pace of the music gradually picks up, and the class is soothed by the jazz sounds of Nina Simone.
Adam walks around the room and compliments the students. “Good job, Esther,” he tells a woman who has white cotton hair and sports a pink T-shirt and matching leggings. Next to her is a sun-freckled man who appears to be her husband. He sits hunched over in his chair and gently lifts his arms.
“I see people moving in ways that honor their bodies,” Adam says as he continu
es to circle the room. Whenever his eyes meet mine, he grins or winks. “We are rewarding your bodies.”
I just nod at him like a happy bobblehead.
Gradually, the pace of the class accelerates some more. Students follow a series of exercises that involve twisting their arms left and right. Then, they cup their hands as if they had water in them and then throw their arms backward, tossing that imaginary water over their shoulders. At the same time, they jut a foot outward. They bring their arms and hands together before their faces, part their hands, and lean forward, arms dropped toward the floor and dangling.
“If you have any tension or anxiety, release it. We are dancing in defiance of the disease to take back control of our bodies. We are dancing to celebrate our bodies and spirits,” Adam cheers as he leads the students into another song, “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” by The Beatles. I can’t help but tap my right foot along to the beat and snap my fingers in rhythm.
“Now you can do this standing up or, if you feel more comfortable, remain seated in the chair. Either way, we are going to get our groove on to The Beatles.”
Some students get up, but a third of the class remains seated. Two students are in wheelchairs. Every now and then, the wife of the bald elderly hunched man dabs his chin with a handkerchief to wipe his drool. Arms sway in the air as if the class is creating big, invisible circles.
“Happy ever after in the marketplace….” Adam sings along to the song and encourages the students who are standing up to march in place. Those who are sitting down move their feet as much as they can. My own feet bop to their rhythm.
More smiles break out, and some students begin to clap to the beat. Me too.
“You’re doing a great job, everybody! And don’t mind that handsome gentleman sitting in the back. He’s our guest. Everybody, please say hi to Gabriel!”
The class turns around and welcomes me. I’m so embarrassed that I look down. I sheepishly grin and wave to everyone. My eyes widen like saucers as I look at Adam.
“Gabriel is a local writing professor and a good friend. He is checking out our class for his father, so let’s show him what you guys can do. We want to see him and his father in our class someday.”
After The Beatles medley, which also included “In My Life,” begins the tribal dance-pop sounds of the Pussycat Dolls. The Pussycat Dolls? ¿Que cosa?
Suddenly I hear the lyrics: “Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me...,” and I can’t help but laugh. My head bobs to the beat. The students also get into the groove and move in their own sexy ways.
Adam announces that the class is now going to tango—to the Pussycat Dolls! Okay, Adam gets an A for creativity in my grade book. I would have never thought of dancing the tango to the slutty pop group. Those students who feel comfortable standing up grab their partners and lead each other in cheek-to-cheek dances. Their arms are pointed like arrows about to be deployed. Rows of students gently glide forward toward the mirrored wall and then back as if they were floating to the music.
Laughter and giggles fill the room, including my own. This looks fun. Everyone is animated and having a good time. I feel the energy and the spirit of the music as well as the camaraderie of the class. I am also feeling closer to Adam. To see someone passionate about his or her work is to see that person shine. And right now, with the way he inspires and leads the class, Adam is a big bright star in my eyes—and my heart!
Distracted by the rows of dancers, I don’t notice Adam approaching me. He grabs my hand and pulls me onto the makeshift dance floor.
“Wait! Hold on… I’m just here to watch,” I say, resisting Adam’s pull.
“Why watch when you can dance, guapo?” he says, overpowering me. It doesn’t take much. “It’s your turn to dance! Everyone, let’s welcome Gabriel to our class,” he says, locking my arms in place.
“Um… I,” I say, not knowing what to say. Adam has completely blindsided me.
“Do you want to lead?” Adam offers, his eyes one inch from mine. Tiny freckles dot the tip of his nose. I want to reach out and touch them with my tongue.
I begin to stutter again, partly from the dance-floor ambush, but also because something about Adam makes my tummy flutter. My heart flips inside my chest whenever I see him or think about him. My heart just melts around him.
“Um… well… you can take the lead,” I say. And with that, we march toward the end of the mirrored wall, passing the other dancing pairs.
A middle-aged blonde woman with her elderly mother, who could be her older doppelganger, passes us.
“What do you think, Gabriel? Having fun?” says the daughter in a thick Boston accent.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” the mother pipes in with her crimson cheeks.
As Adam and I glide back and forth on the carpeted dance floor, I turn to him, narrow my eyes, and mouth, “I am going to kill you!”
He grins tightly and then suddenly dips me. Whoa!
I break out in laughter as he props me back up.
“You were saying?” Adam says.
“I just wanted to”—I say before he dips again in mid-sentence—“watch today.”
“But now you have a better idea of the class, right? Dancing is basically a conversation between two people. I’m just trying to get everyone to talk and have fun and reward their bodies,” he says before whipping me back up like a rag doll. I can completely relate to how Jennifer Grey’s character felt while dancing with Patrick Swayze’s in Dirty Dancing. In fact, I don’t want to stop dancing with Adam. I feel safe and warm in his strong arms. I want to wrap my legs around his waist and spin around the room. I just want to be with Adam.
“If you want to turn up the spice a little, put some hip into it, Gabriel.”
I just nod my head and smile, shuffling like an amateur on the dance floor with him. I do my best to keep up, but I butcher the first few steps. Then I catch on and manage to match Adam’s every step. He seems impressed.
After the tango, Adam finally allows me to return to my seat in the rear of the room. For the next half hour, the class shimmies to “Runaround Sue,” struts to “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” and grooves to other songs by Lady Gaga and Tina Turner. Everyone scoots and shuffles at their own pace to the various dance styles. All the exercises emphasize balance and stretching the muscles.
Before the class ends, Adam winds everyone down by repeating the same arm-extending exercises from the beginning of the class.
At the end of the class, everyone seems invigorated. They chat as they gather around a rectangular table that has small plastic cups of juice and soda on it. I remain in the back of the room and watch everyone banter and talk to Adam. The students really look up to him. Some hug him good-bye.
As people leave the class and pack into the elevators, I walk up to Adam.
“So what do you think, Professor? Is this something your father would want to try out?” Adam says, leaning close to me. No one else is here, and our voices echo over the mechanical hum of the heater.
“I think this would be a wonderful class for my dad. I really think the social aspect of it would get him to talk about his condition and meet others like him.”
Adam puts his hand on my right shoulder. “Parkinsonians are so often isolated. The tendency for them is to stay home and watch TV because they are embarrassed to have people see their hands or bodies shake uncontrollably in public. This helps them break out of their shell. There’s no cure for Parkinson’s, but we see this as something that can sustain them.”
“I hope so,” I say, offering to help clean up the room. Adam gladly accepts my help.
It takes us ten minutes to clean up and then stack the chairs in the corner of the room.
“I think we’re all done!” I say, placing my hands on my waist as we survey the room.
“Actually, there’s one more lesson,” Adam says as he dashes to his CD player and pops in a disc.
He slowly walks toward me and takes my right hand.
“Gabriel, wil
l you dance with me?”
I grin and look at this beautiful man with such a kind heart and accept his invitation.
As he leans in closely, Michael Buble’s cover of “Save The Last Dance For Me” begins to play.
Adam gently pulls me toward him and then pushes me away. When he spins me around, he twirls me like a strand of pasta. We laugh and sing along to the song. We skip around the room as if we were waltzing on ABC’s Dancing with the Stars.
After each turn, he stands behind me and grooves to the beat, singing softly into my ear.
And just as the song ends, he spins me around one more time, but this time, we’re face to face; our legs are intertwined. He leans in, and we kiss slowly, softly, and deeply. Even after the music fades away, we continue to slow dance and kiss to our own imaginary soundtrack. I taste his strawberry-flavored lip balm as my tongue tickles his.
Adam did save the last dance for me. And somehow, I become the student who fell for his teacher.
Chapter 27
I APPLY a glop of pomade to the top of my head and comb my hair from left to right, smoothing it down. I touch up some spots I missed in my earlier shave in the shower and then smear on moisturizer evenly. I pluck some longer strands of my black eyebrows to look more groomed. Holding the tweezers in my right hand, I stare at myself and think, What am I doing? Why am I trying so hard?
The answer is Adam. I’m nervous, okay? After visiting Adam’s dance class the other day where he literally swept me off my feet, he asked me out on an official date.
And of course, I said yes. If he asked me to have a colonoscopy, I’d probably say yes to that, as well. I’d be crazy not to go out with this handsome, sweet, and passionate guy, but why am I overdoing it and trying so hard to look good and young for this guy who is my age and obviously likes me?
In the brief time I have known Adam, he has never given any indication that he cares whether I’m thirty, forty, or fifty, whether my crinkles are pronounced when I smile or that I might not know all the latest dance moves from the pop divas. I don’t think he’d care that some random gray hairs salt my hair. I sense that Adam likes me for me, Gabriel Galan, and not so much for what’s on the surface. So I decide to stop right here with all the vain cosmetic applications. I look fine. I spritz some of my cologne. Hey, a guy’s got to smell good, at least.
