by Johnny Diaz
The elevator gently lifts for a few seconds and then comes to a gentle stop.
When the elevator pings, I know that the dance adventure is about to begin. “You ready to get your groove back, Papi?
“Do I have a choice?” he says with a tight grin. “But for you, I will do anything, son.” He softly grabs the back of my neck and squeezes it with his trembling hand.
So here I am, trying to make my father dance, and we are well on our way. It may look and sound awkward, and it might be for him at first, but dancing can save his life, or what is left of it. We—what is left of the Galan family—certainly hope so.
As we step out of the elevator, we walk into a bright conference room.
“Welcome to our class. I’m Adam Smith, and I’ll be your instructor today,” Adam greets Papi. I flash a wide smile toward Adam, who has been my boyfriend the past four months. I like the sound of that.
Adam is as gracious and sexy now as he was the first time I visited the class.
I enjoy squeezing his biceps whenever I spend the night at his place, with his dog Louie sleeping at our feet. Adam is lean, and his tanned skin remains sun-kissed despite the fading winter. I know every freckle on his face and body. He’s wearing black sweatpants that define certain body parts a bit too much and a loose white T-shirt. His smile is sincere, and I can tell that Papi likes him and feels comfortable around him. Who wouldn’t? But I digress. This is class is about helping Papi, not about describing my own McDreamy.
With his right, sun-freckled hand, Papi shakes Adam’s hand and unveils his pearly white teeth and dashing smile, the same one that hooked my mom more than fifty years ago when they were teen sweethearts in Havana.
“Thank you. I am Guillermo, but you can call me Gil, and you already know my son, Gabrielito,” Papi says, shooting me a sidelong look. I told Papi all about Adam over Christmas, and he seemed happy that I was so excited about meeting someone so special.
“I know Gabriel, but Gabrielito? That’s a name I haven’t heard,” Adam teases.
“Um, yeah, that’s my family nickname. Forget you ever heard it.”
“How can I, Gabrielito? It’s so cute, just like you.” Adam winks and then stares at me intently, just like he does when we’re alone in the car, at a restaurant, or in his bed.
I then introduce him to my mom, whose cheeks blush upon greeting him.
“Great. We’ve got the whole family here! Nice for all of you to come to our class. Come with me, Gil, and we’ll get you a nametag and find you a chair. Gladys, you can take a seat over there by the windows, with the other guests.”
Adam places a comforting hand on Papi’s hunched back and slowly escorts him to the registration table as if they were old friends. As they walk away, Papi looks back and raises his right arm and waves slowly with a half-grin.
“We’ll be right there, Papi. You’re in good hands.” I stand in front of the doorway where other students are trickling in. Like me, they are adult children or spouses and loved ones of people with Parkinson’s.
As we watch everyone walk toward the registration table, Mami turns toward me. “Do you think this will really help tu Papa?” she says.
I tilt my head and offer a grin.
“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. And besides, he’s in great hands with Adam.”
Mami cranes her neck to plant a kiss on my cheek. “It’s up to you to take care of your Papi. He always took care of us and, of course, that woman he cheated on me with, but this isn’t the time or place to bring up that sucia’s name. Now it’s your turn to help your Papi. I am here to support you helping your Papi. Thank you for bringing him here, Gabrielito,” she says.
Despite her bitterness toward Papi, I know she still cares for him, or she wouldn’t be here helping me help him. He was her first love, and they know what goes on each other’s lives because of me and our tight Cuban family in South Florida. I invited her to Boston to spend time with me and Papi. Besides, I wanted her to meet the other man in my life, Adam. I can’t wait to hear what she thinks of him. I can tell by the way she marvels at his profile that she is smitten just as I was when I first met him.
“I will find a way to pay you back for the flight, hijo.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mom. Paying for this was the least I can do. I haven’t been down to Fort Lauderdale as much since I moved to Boston. This is my way of helping out in the best way I know how. By the way, you were the best thing that happened to Papi.”
“No, Gabrielito, you are the best thing that happened to him.” She caresses the side of my cheek with the back of her sun-spotted hand. I offered her the same gesture whenever I caught her crying alone in the kitchen of our old house after the divorce.
As Adam, my beautiful and kind Adam, bends over the table to scrawl Papi’s name on a white rectangular sticker, I glance around the room.
After people sign in, they settle into one of the seats that form a giant circle in the middle of the center’s second floor. Just as in the previous classes, some people are hunched over, but they share laughs with one another. The more active seniors stretch their arms to warm up as they wait for the class to begin.
The class is one of two in Massachusetts for people with Parkinson’s, and there are two more being developed in South Florida. I credit Tommy Perez’s article in the Boston Daily for introducing me to this class, which also led me to Adam.
I’m hoping that Papi will want to take these classes down there once they start up in the spring. I plan to take the classes with Papi in South Florida whenever I visit.
And so here we are, about to take our first step together in a program that 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 will give me a little more time with Papi as time and Parkinson’s slowly rob me of him. I know that there is no cure for the disease, but this class may help boost his spirits and help him stay active in my life a few years longer.
“Welcome to the Dance Away Your Parkinson’s class!” Adam announces to the twenty students, who include my father and myself as we sit in a circle of chairs. Mami sits nearby and says a silent prayer with a rosary in her right hand. I commend her for willingly flying up here to help her ex-husband, but she promised that she would always do anything for me if I asked her, and that includes helping me get Papi to take this class.
Adam begins to play some soft familiar music by Enya, and the class begins with some gentle stretching exercises. I grab Papi’s shaking right hand. We look at each other and exchange a soft smile. Adam looks at me and smiles as well. I’m so glad that Adam is finally meeting my parents. They are three of the most important people in my life right now, along with Nick, who has a boyfriend. Yes, he does.
Remember Tommy Perez’s friend, Carlos, half of the so-called Beantown Cubans? They met up for coffee after our weekend in Providence. Nick thought Carlos would be another one of his many hookups, but Carlos resisted Nick’s advances. (Good for Carlos!) They continued having dates with Carlos not putting out, which surprised and impressed Nick. In the process, Nick realized he really did like Carlos, and he got to know him as a human being and not just as an orifice or body part. Feelings developed. Who would have guessed? They’ve been dating for the past few weeks. Papi, Mami, Adam, and I are meeting up with them after class at the Cuban restaurant in Jamaica Plain for dinner as soon as the class is over. I also invited Tommy Perez. The more friends, the better.
Remember how I was trying to get Papi to retire? We reached a compromise. He retired from exterminating, but he still works part-time to supplement his retirement checks. So when I visit South Florida, I always make sur
e to stop by the Costco warehouse near Miami Lakes, where Papi gives me extra samples of cheesecake, fruit juices, or whatever he is serving that day. I beam with pride when I see him gladly help shoppers from his serving station.
Adam’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts and back to his instructions. Papi and I begin the stretching exercises and a new journey together as father and son—and as dance partners. The proverbial curtain is raised, and we begin to dance. And to my surprise, Papi takes the lead.
About the Author
JOHNNY DIAZ is a Business staff writer for the Boston Globe where he writes about local TV news, radio, print, and advertising. Before that, he was a Living/Arts writer for three years where he wrote about pop culture, style trends, and Hispanic-related arts. He was also a reporter at the Miami Herald, where he shared in the 2000 Pulitzer award coverage of the federal seizure of Elian Gonzalez and the chaos that erupted in Miami afterward. He also covered some of the biggest breaking stories in South Florida, such as the Gianni Versace murder. He was a featured contributor in the first Chicken Soup for the Latino Soul book.
Johnny is the author of Boston Boys Club, Miami Manhunt, and Beantown Cubans. He lives in Boston.
Visit his web site at http://www.beantowncuban.com.
