by Johnny Diaz
Mikey reaches over and gently squeezes my right hand. “I know, I was a crazy wabbit when I drank,” he says, making fun of himself with his Bugs Bunny voice.
“You were one drunk bunny, always hopping and skipping away with a Corona, but that’s the past. Let’s toast to the future. To your recovery!”
“To a new friendship.” Mikey clinks my glass of Diet Coke with his iced tea.
Throughout the dinner, we talk about all the fun things we did together: watching a screening of the new Jane Goodall movie at the Children’s Museum in Cambridge, getting lost in the disorienting Providence Place mall. I tell him that I still have the Red Sox baseball cap, the one he gave me after we first met. As we talk, I notice every now and then how Mikey stares longingly at the straight couple dining at the booth next to us. They each drink a glass of wine and my eyes follow his, which are fixed on their drinks. I can’t imagine not being able to savor something I truly enjoy. I do like to drink, but I stop after two or three because I often have to drive myself home. (Most guys in Boston don’t have cars.) I also stop at the local 7-Eleven for water and a candy bar to soak up the alcohol. When I notice Mikey glance at the couple drinking, I try to distract him with another fond memory. It works. He’s focused on me again.
“I still have that big seashell you gave me on Valentine’s Day after your trip to Key West,” Mikey says. “It sits in my window. Whenever I look at it, I wonder what you’re doing and if you’re okay.”
“Ditto, with the Red Sox baseball cap. When I wore it, I guess you could say, ‘You were always on my mind.’”
He gives me a high-five, and we burst out laughing. “Oh, Tommy, some things never change, and that’s a good thing. You’re still the cutie Cuban goofball. It’s nice to be able to sit and talk with you.”
“Same here.”
After dinner, we take a stroll through the mall, passing all the merchants who sell Russian dolls; fluffy, giant, animal-themed slippers; and Red Sox T-shirts and baseball caps. We stop by Ben & Jerry’s and grab two cups of ice cream. I ask for the fudge brownie flavor. Mikey gets the peanut butter and chocolate. We feed each other with our spoons. At one point, I miss and smear Mikey’s face with a glop of fudge brownie.
“Oops, sorry about that.”
“I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” says Mikey, cleaning his face with a napkin.
Around 9 p.m., we walk into the Prudential Tower corridor of the mall, which abuts the convention center. There’s a sign that reads “Observatory Deck Open.” We take a closer look. The sign states that the observatory is on the fiftieth floor and offers a 360-degree view of the city. I look at my watch.
“It’s only open for one more hour. Wanna go up?”
“Sure, I’ve never been up there. It will be safe, right? That’s kind of high. I’m scared of heights. I haven’t flown in ten years,” Mikey says nervously.
“Well, if you can tackle the Blue Hills, you can ride in an elevator. You have nothing to worry about. Besides, I’ll be right there.”
We cram into an elevator with ten other people. Mikey and I are sandwiched together, but I don’t mind. I smell his Dolce & Gabbana cologne, the same one he wore when we first met. Wherever I was, in town or in Miami, and I caught a whiff of that cologne, my heart would flutter because I thought Mikey was nearby. And here I am, squeezed in an elevator with him riding to the top of one of the city’s highest skyscrapers. A few months ago, I never would have imagined us doing this. We exchange smiles in the elevator until it pings at the fiftieth floor.
Inside, we pay the cover and move with the crowd of people dispersing to see their own personal slice of Boston despite the light fog, which appears as a transparent white curtain. Directly ahead, we see the John Hancock Building, which juts into the sky like a gleaming Rolex watch. Behind that is the tiny forest of skyscrapers that make up the financial district. Behind that, the harbor beckons with ships and sailboats dotting the horizon. Immediately below, Mikey and I marvel at the sea of red and brown buildings that line the South End and Back Bay neighborhoods.
“Who knew there were so many trees in Boston? Look at how the brownstones create the letter ‘U’ with trees in the middle. This is such an amazing view. I’ve never seen Boston this way, and I’m from here,” Mikey says, cupping his face against the glass with his hands.
“See the big gas tank with the vibrant rainbow design along the Southeast expressway? The Daily is to the left of that. And wow, look at the Blue Hills in the distance, lighted by the artificial glow of the city. During the day, it’s like looking at a colorful mountainscape because of the changing leaves. It’s hard to believe we were just there the other day. It’s like a beautiful Monet painting.” I turn to Mikey.
“You’re a beautiful painting, Tommy.”
I feel the warmth of a blush. “Gracias, Mikey!”
He winks.
“So where’s your condo? Isn’t it near the Daily?”
“Somewhere over there,” I point out ahead of me, “in the smattering of homes near the Neponset River. Look for the rundown four-story brick building surrounded by beautiful charming Victorian and Cape homes and renovated triple-deckers, and that’s where I live. It’s the eyesore of the neighborhood.”
“Don’t denigrate your home, cutie. I’m sure it’s a nice building. Your studio in Cambridge was very cute. I practically lived there every weekend. You could have charged me rent for passing out on your sofa so much,” says Mikey, standing two inches from me. I smell the minty gum he softly chews.
“My new place isn’t too bad. I bought it because I got a good deal. It’s a two-bedroom condo. It’s not the most beautiful building, but it’s my home. I’ve been happy there. I wish it looked like the building that I rented in West Cambridge. That looked more like a piece of Harvard University, but I was outpriced. All I could afford to buy in Cambridge was a tiny studio. So I looked in Dorchester where other gay guys have been migrating to, the pink gentrification. My building looks like it was a former housing development. Actually, it was before it went into foreclosure and the bank sold it off. But I do love my sliver of Dorchester. Despite the bad rap the neighborhood gets because of all the shootings, I can cycle to work along a bike path, and I’m a block from the Neponset River and a few minutes from Quincy and Milton. This is my home,” I say.
Mikey puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Tommy, you should be proud. You write for a big newspaper. You write about people trying to make a difference. You own your own home. You’re a good guy. That’s why I never stopped thinking about you.”
“Ditto,” is the only thing that comes to my mind because once again Mikey has my tongue and heart all twisted. Repeat to myself: Mikey is a friend. Mikey is just a friend. Un amigo, a friend, a cute comrade.
We take in the city from all vantage points. We gaze at the cluster of MIT buildings on the Cambridge side of the Charles River. On the other side, we point at the minions walking along the Esplanade, which lights up the Boston side of the Charles. At the rear of the observatory, we laugh at how tiny Fenway Park appears. It resembles a green cooking bowl. There’s the celebrated Citgo sign, rotating and aglow in red, blue, and white lights. Thousands of twinkling lights fill Beantown the same way that Mikey lights up my heart right now as we share this moment. It reminds me of our times together last year when alcohol wasn’t a third wheel in our relationship.
We spend the rest of the closing hour scrutinizing innumerable details from our bird’s-eye view of the city. As Mikey finds something familiar in a new light, I, too, adjust my own personal viewfinder of him. The freckles and scruff on his face. The way he furrows his thin, light brown eyebrows as he squints at another point in the distance. Watching him compounds my feelings of warmth toward him. But most of all, he seems centered, comforted by his own peace of mind. Mikey seems like a different person, someone unanchored by the weight of alcohol. He hasn’t brought up going to Club Café or ordering a drink, which is what I always dreaded him asking
on the weekends. Right now, he seems completely content to be here with me. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, with my, ahem, friend. I can just imagine what Carlos would say to me now if I shared these thoughts with him. Ay, loco! And maybe I am crazy to think that I can just be friends with Mikey. Well, I’m trying.
5
Carlos
Ay, fall! I’m in the Cambridge Common, a lush park near Harvard Square, strolling in a sea of yellow leaves. Bright yellow leaves. Golden ones. Sun-kissed leaves. Some are soft and mushy on the brick sidewalk. Other leaves appear dry and crisp as they pile up against the edges of the park. I kick them up with my feet. I grab a handful of leaves and toss them in the breezy air. I’ve never seen this before. In Miami, the closest we get to fall is when a hurricane threatens or passes through and plucks the leaves off all the coconut and palm trees. But these leaves in Boston aren’t shredded and damaged. They are intact, gently falling and floating like butterflies until they settle and rest on the ground. I wonder if heaven is like this, if Mami has her own fall there. She always loved her garden, manicuring her rose bushes, tending to her hibiscus trees, and slicing thorny pieces of her aloe vera plant to extract its soothing cream for her skin. I remember one time when I came home from work, I caught Mami talking to her lush gardenia tree. She called it “Nena.”
“Nena, how are you today, preciosa? You are growing fast and you look very healthy, mija,” Mami said, barefoot and wearing a farmer’s hat, her favorite light-green blouse, and denim blue shorts that hid her varicose veins. With the garden hose in hand, she gently sprayed water on the tree’s roots and the sprouting white flowers above. Mami’s back was turned to the front of our house as I walked up and briefly watched this endearing scene unfold. I quietly laughed at her affection for her flowers. She treated them like another set of children. She didn’t just shower them with water but with care, attention, and most of all love.
“Aldo is working all today, Carlos is teaching, and Lourdes is at her real estate office. So it’s just you and me, Nena, and all your beautiful amiguitas. Ay, you have a bad leaf! Don’t worry. I will take care of that, Nena,” she said, as she snipped off the bad leaf with her scissors. Mami then cut off one of the fragrant white flowers. She sniffed it and then tucked it behind her right ear.
After watering the gardenia, which was now beaded with droplets, Mami whirled around and caught me laughing. I surprised her.
“Oye, Carlos, you scared me!” she said, playfully nudging my arm.
“Sorry, Mami. You looked really sweet talking to, ahem, Nena. Mami, she’s a bush—a plant—not a real person.”
“She’s a beautiful being. She may not talk, but she listens to us, hijo. I talk to all my flowers and plants. And you know how I know they listen? They make themselves look bonita. I take care of them, and tu sabes, they take care of me. They give us beautiful flowers. Where do you think I get all the flowers to decorate the inside of the house?” Mami was always proud of her garden. The front of our house in Coral Gables looked like a colorful collection of Georgia O’Keeffe paintings. After Mami died, the garden slowly began to wither away. Papi hired a gardener to maintain Mami’s work but to no avail. It didn’t matter the number of times he visited each month or how much fertilizer and mulch he used—the garden wasn’t the same. It lost something when we lost Mami. Three of the six hibiscus flowers died. The trio of aloe vera plants? Down to one. The plants still standing were the gardenia and red, pink, and white rose bushes. They all stood proud and strong as if Nena and her friends were hanging on for Mami and for us. The best thing that came out of the garden wasn’t the rows of roses or the gardenia tree but my mother. This was her personal Garden of Eden, something she looked forward to every day. I think she truly would have appreciated the burst of colors in Boston. I could imagine her picking up and talking to the leaves and making a mosaic for a frame out of them.
I grab a few of the leaves and put them away in my backpack, between my students’ papers and Tommy’s most recent Daily articles. (He quizzes me on his most recent stories to make sure that I read them.) I want to send these leaves to Lourdes and Papi. I want them to see a slice of Boston. A teacher at the high school mentioned that you can preserve these leaves with wax paper and use them for decoration. Maybe I’ll put some of them in a frame for my apartment. It would serve as a reminder of my first year and my first fall in my new life in Boston.
I’m on my way to meet Marcello. Yes, that Marcello. The handsome Brazilian man from Club Paradise who forgot to mention that he had a novio. He text-messaged me the other day at school and asked to meet me so he could better explain his situation. After I finally triumphed in teaching The Old Man and the Sea, I called Marcello on my drive to Cambridge. He profusely apologized and explained.
“I am sorry for not explaining my situation. Richard isn’t my real boyfriend. He just thinks he is. I dated him in Brazil for a few months years ago. He is an ex-boyfriend, and he has helped me get settled here. He rents me a room in his house. But I don’t love him. He is still in love with me,” Marcello said over the phone as I crossed the Charles River into Harvard Square.
“So he is an ex-boyfriend who is still in love with you and you live with him? Chico, that is weird and awkward. How can you meet other guys with him around?”
“I care about him, but I am only staying with him until I can afford my own apartment. Rent is very expensive. You have to have a month’s deposit, first month’s rent, and last month’s. I only have a few more months to save, maybe until April. Then I can be on my own. I was going to explain my situation when Richard showed up at the restaurant. Can we talk in person? I enjoyed spending time with you. I have not been able to stop thinking about you. When can I see you?” he said. My heart softened at those words. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Marcello either. He seemed so kind and fun when we met. He’s the first guy I’ve met in Boston, besides Tommy, who has intrigued me. He seemed real, a hard worker. He didn’t offer any pretenses of who he was or where he was from.
“Bueno, I am headed home to take a nap. Maybe we can meet this weekend. I like to walk around Cambridge and look at the leaves. Do you know where the Starbucks in Harvard Square is? Maybe we can meet there Sunday afternoon.”
“Thank you, Carlos. That would be nice. I look forward to it.”
And so here I am, taking the scenic route to Harvard Square by cutting through the Cambridge Common where hunky guys play football in the center of the park. My eyes focus on some of the shirtless guys. No matter where you go in Cambridge, you can’t help but run into some taut collegiate bodies, especially along the Charles River. But instead of the tanned, hairless bodies I marveled at (and fantasized about) in South Beach, the guys here are pasty-white, hairy, and lean. But nonetheless, hot in a Matt Damon sort of way.
I saunter down Massachusetts Avenue, as the bright red sign of the Sheraton Commander Hotel beckons down the street. I pass the centuries-old cemetery on my right, the crimson gates of Harvard on my left, and the cosmopolitan crowds of students and residents making their way to and from the square, a city circus. I notice the Starbucks straight ahead when my phone vibrates. I glance at the caller ID. It’s Papi calling from his store. I haven’t spoken to him in a few days. Mami used to call me every night even though I lived only a few miles from our house in Coral Gables. She would tell me the latest gossip in the family or (surprise!) talk about her flowers. Papi, however, isn’t much of a phone person. He calls me every now and then to check up on me. I guess I can chat briefly. Our conversations are typically short since we don’t have a lot to talk about. Just mundane everyday things like the weather, my job, or my car. He’ll talk about the Red Sox and the Marlins, even though I’m not a sports fan. He doesn’t ask me about my personal life except for friends and co-workers. We don’t talk about Mami either.
“Hola, Carlos, how are you? Are you cold yet?” he says in his accented English, which was always better than Mami’s. His proficiency in English helped him
open his business, Martin Mercado, as soon as we arrived in Miami from Mariel.
“Hey, Papi. Not yet. The weather has been in the sixties like Miami in the winter. I’m doing okay. Busy with the students and learning my way around Boston. All the leaves are changing colors. It’s very pretty here.”
“How is your car doing there? On television, I see that the roads are very old. Ten cuidado, hijo. A friend of your tia’s told me that people are super loco drivers up there.”
“Papi, my Toyota Camry is still in good condition, even though it’s eight years old. I drove up here, didn’t I? It’s still in one piece. I’m just happy it’s paid off. How is the store? Has it been busy this month?”
“Sí, hijo. I had to lay off one of my cashiers. She was stealing from me. Carajo! So I am working extra behind the counter. But business is good. Did you see the Red Sox game from last weekend? They are winning again. Watch them head back to the World Series this season. The Marlins are doing horrible, Carlos. Horrible! Son tremenda mierda.”
I don’t know why I never shared the same passion for football and baseball as Papi has. When I was younger, he tried to teach me to catch a ball and enlist me in Coral Gables’ little league team. I resisted. I preferred to hang out with Mami as she window-shopped on Miracle Mile while waiting for Lourdes to come out of her Barbizon modeling classes when she was in middle school. (Most Cuban women enrolled their daughters in modeling classes to teach them how to walk and apply make-up. Cuban mothers all believe their daughters are undiscovered models.) Thank God Mami was around and talked Papi out of forcing me to play baseball with my uncles at Tropical Park every Sunday. To make up for my lack of interest in sports, Mami urged me to help Papi at the store when we had three-day weekends off from school or during the summers. I know the price of every Chef Boyardee can, bag of Doritos, pack of Marlboro cigarettes, and candy bar that stock his shelves. Even then, Papi and I didn’t have much to say to each other besides shop talk. So I can understand how he is trying to fill today’s conversation with the sports talk.