by Johnny Diaz
“Yeah, the Red Sox are big here, Papi. Everyone wears their baseball caps and jerseys. The stadium is near Cambridge, over the Charles River. When you visit, I’ll show you. There’s a big Citgo sign that revolves during game nights.”
“I would love to see that, Carlos. So you’re okay? I worry about you, being there all alone and not knowing anyone.”
“Papi, estoy bien! I am making new friends. I even have a fellow Cuban friend from Miami, Tommy Perez. He grew up in Miami Beach. Remember? I told you about him a few weeks ago.”
“Ah, sí. El cubanito de Miami. El reportero with the Jeep, no? If he’s Cuban, you’re in good company. Bueno, I just wanted to say hola and see if you were okay. Remember, hijo, wear a coat. The Latina on The Weather Channel says it will be colder there in a month.”
“Gracias, Papi. I gotta go. Say hi to Lourdes for me.”
“Okay, hijo, cuidate.”
I press “end” on my cell, tuck it away in my backpack, and continue towards the Starbucks. I walk in, and I spot Marcello sitting at one of the tables, with two mocha lattes. Ay, Marcello. He looks so handsome with his snug green hoodie sweatshirt, which makes his hazel eyes more luminous. The hoodie also defines his tight, lean, and naturally tan body. Our eyes meet once again when something suddenly comes up. A boner mushrooms in my jeans. I quickly use my backpack to cover my groin. Que pena! It’s been a while since I’ve had sex. (The last time was right before I broke up with Daniel because he gave me crabs. The bastard cheated on me.) So when I am near a handsome man such as Marcello, my body can’t help but gladly react.
Marcello rises to greet me although I’ve already risen (in my pants) upon seeing him.
“Carlos, so good to see you again,” he says, with a hug. His warm embrace and grassy cologne soothe me.
“Same here. Is your boyfriend here?” I shoot back.
Marcello smirks.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“But he thinks you’re his.” I settle into my chair and place my backpack on my lap to hide how happy my body is to see Marcello.
“I don’t love him.”
“But he loves you, no?”
We continue going back and forth, a verbal tennis match. I enjoy taunting him.
“It’s complicated, Carlos. I asked you to meet me so I can explain.”
“Oye, what’s there to explain? You live with an older man who loves you but isn’t your boyfriend, but you need to live with him because you can’t afford to be on your own here in Boston. Did I get that right?”
“He is an old friend from Brazil. Nothing more. We don’t have sex.”
“You don’t need to explain anything to me. I’m not your boyfriend.”
“I just wanted you to know the truth. Richard likes my company. He doesn’t charge me a lot of money to live with him, as long as I spend time with him.”
“Like a boyfriend?”
“We are friends, or amigos, as you Cubans would say. As I said, it’s complicated, Carlos. But I like you. You are so smart, sweet, and extremely handsome. You are a good person. I can tell.”
Ay, he likes me. I like him too. But I don’t quite understand what he wants from me. This can’t go anywhere. I won’t date a guy who is living with his ex-boyfriend. Too complicated. I moved here to start fresh. I left complicated in Miami.
We sip our mocha lattes. Our feet accidentally tap one another’s. My throbbing boner remains intact. So maybe Marcello isn’t boyfriend material. Maybe he will never be. He’s obviously taken in some way, shape, or form. But having a play buddy/friend wouldn’t hurt because I know we can’t seriously date as long as he’s with Dick or Richard or el viejo, whatever his name is. I know what Tommy would say if he were here, “Just hook up with the guy! Live a little, Carlos. Let loose. You’re the new, cute, gay guy in town. You can have any guy you want here. Have fun, chico, just be safe.”
Marcello and I spend the rest of the hour at Starbucks, exchanging stories about our childhoods. I tell him about my brunches with Mami at Versailles and how much I miss her. He tells me about how much he enjoyed surfing in Brazil in high school and how much he misses his family and friends. I tell him how I worked at Papi’s convenience store in Miami Springs when I was in high school as a stock boy and cashier to buy my first car, a used red Dodge Neon. Marcello describes the beaches of Brazil, the annual carnival festivities, and why he enjoys being in Boston.
“You have more opportunities in the United States,” he says. “I want to be a teacher, like you, Carlos.”
The conversation grows deeper as we talk about our desires to make a difference through education.
“Some days are good. Some days are hard, Marcello, but I know in my heart I was meant to be a teacher. If you focus on those good days, when you feel the class actually listened and learned, then the days when the students won’t behave or listen aren’t so bad. I still have the letters from my former students in Miami who thanked me for being their teacher and for being so enthusiastic about their progress. I keep those letters and their pictures in a folder at home. They remind me of why I keep teaching.”
“And that’s what I want: to help other people learn Portuguese so they can communicate and understand us better. I start community college next fall. But for now, I am saving money by working as a waiter.”
“Where do you work now, Marcello?” He smiles and points across the street to the Border Café, the happening and cheap Tex-Mex restaurant that all the college students go to. On weekends, a line spills out the door. Tommy and I went there once, and we waited thirty minutes for a table. It was worth it though. The chicken burrito was delicious. I also devoured two bowls of nachos.
“Well, maybe I’ll have to stop by sometime.”
“You and your friends can stop by anytime.”
“Bueno, I only have one close friend here—Tommy. He was at Club Paradise.”
“Well, now you have another friend, Carlos.” Marcello winks and finishes up his drink.
Maybe Marcello can be a new friend. Although he didn’t tell me about Richard immediately, he was honest and thoughtful enough to take the time to call and then come here to explain everything. He obviously wants to get to know me better, and for that, I may just give him the benefit of the doubt. Mami always taught me to see the best in people, but also, not to be taken advantage of. And so far, Marcello has scored some points with me.
Now if only I can get make my boner go away. Being friends with Marcello will literally be hard. I’m extremely attracted to him. I can’t wait to tell Tommy about him when we have dinner. I know he wants to tell me about his night with Mikey. Just as the leaves slowly fall over the city, Tommy may be falling for Mikey all over again. And that concerns me.
6
Tommy
“Loco, so what happened Saturday night with Mikey?” Carlos’s Cuban Inquistion begins as he peels off his Army-green windbreaker and settles into his chair.
“Nothing. We had dinner at The Cheesecake Factory, walked around Copley Mall, and took an elevator to the top of the Prudential. You should do that sometime, by the way. It will help you better understand Boston. And we walked around some more and talked, a lot.”
“Nothing else? Por favor, Tommy. As you reporters say, I smell a story. Spill it, ahora!”
“Dude, nothing happened. As I said before, Mikey and I are just friends. Got it?” I demur. I don’t know if I am trying to convince Carlos or myself, but nothing physical happened. Friends are platonic.
Carlos and I are here at El Oriental de Cuba for an early Sunday dinner. Since Carlos liked the restaurant so much the first time around, I thought he might appreciate an encore. Maybe it could be our meeting place since Carlos isn’t a huge fan of Club Café, and I’m still not a fan of Club Paradise.
I glance out the restaurant’s window, and I notice the sun has already faded at 5 p.m. Damn it! Winter is on its way, which means I will have to readjust to driving my Jeep on the snow-caked roads. Last year, I slid the Je
ep into a mound of snow that some genius had piled next to the Boston Market drive-thru. Another time, I rear-ended a Canadian couple’s Mazda on Memorial Drive when the Jeep slid on black ice. Carlos’s voice snaps me out of my mental winter collisions.
“He didn’t try to kiss you or anything? How did you leave things? I don’t have much man action or romance in my life, Tommy, so I have to live vicariously through you. So, que paso?” Carlos says, his eyes wide and animated. He also sips his mango shake, something my dad would make for me and my sister Mary when we were kids.
“No, no, and no! You’re making more of this than it really is. Mikey didn’t make a move on me. That’s not what dinner was all about. We had a fun, sober night out. No bars. No clubs. We explored Back Bay from fifty stories high. Seriously, you need to see the city view from up there.”
“Okay, if you say so. I just don’t think you guys are going to be just amigos no matter what you say, chico. So when am I going to meet this guy? I really want to see how much he looks like Ethan Hawke and what made him so special that you’ve been obsessed with him for over a year. I doubt he looks like Ethan Hawke because you’re—no offense, Tommy—terrible with comparing people to their celebrity look-alikes. You say I look like Josh Groban. Por favor!”
“Obsessed? Nah-uh. Mikey’s just a sweet guy who had some issues, that’s all. We may hang out again at the end of the week, maybe meet up at the Barnes & Noble in Braintree for coffee. I would get the hot chocolate though. I’m not a big fan of coffee.”
“Tommy, how can you be a true Cubano, excuse me, Cuban-American, if you don’t drink café. I find that so strange. It’s in our blood. We were born to whip up café cubano and savor the creamy drink. It’s our crack, chico.”
“I know. My parents say the same thing. Pepe and Gladys Perez can’t go a day without at least two cups of cafécito. Well, my mom prefers un cortadito. They would tell me, ‘Por que no tomas café, Tomasito?”, and I would shrug my shoulders. I can’t help it. I prefer Gatorade and Diet Coke. I guess in that aspect, I’m more American.”
“And then there’s your gringo accent. You’re funny, Tommy. You speak Spanish like an Anglo who is learning it for the first time at school whose parents don’t speak a lick of English. I don’t get that. No c-o-m-p-r-e-n-d-o?” Carlos says, embellishing my accent. I toss a piece of bread at him and twitch my nose.
“Ha, very funny, meng,” I mimic his accent. He hurls the same bread roll back at me and sticks out his tongue. We laugh.
As we wait for the young waitress to return with our orders, Carlos tells me that he spent Saturday night at home with a Blockbuster rental. (Carlos lives a short walk from the Porter Square shopping plaza, home to Blockbuster, CVS, Dunkin’ Donuts, and McDonald’s. Basically, your typical Boston area square.) He then starts talking about Marcello and their afternoon together. He looks up and down, smiles here and there, as he recounts the story. I can tell right away that Carlos likes the guy. I think it would be good for him to have someone else to focus on in Boston besides me and his students. Maybe it will distract from dwelling too much on his mother and Miami. When I hang out with Carlos, I try not to babble too much about my parents. I don’t want to rub it in his face that I have two healthy but elderly parents in Miami and he has only one, who seems distant with him. When Mami calls me too much, I keep the complaints to myself and count my blessings. I know one day, I will miss those calls from home as Carlos does. I hope that Carlos finds strength, comfort, but most of all, fun from our friendship. But I also want him to go out, live, and enjoy himself in this town without me. He can be the new kid on the block for only so long, so he better live it up. After a year of living in Boston, I pretty much know most of the gay guys. I’m old news. Carlos is the newest headline.
“So the guy’s roommate is a sugar-daddy-ex-boyfriend-friend? What’s the deal with that, Carlos? From what you’ve told me, Marcello sounds like a nice guy, and from what I remember, he’s pretty sexy. Why not just have fun with him, you know, get a little something-something, have a little—or a lot—of Brazil in you, if you know what I mean? Just don’t get involved romantically. Who knows, he could be someone else to hang with. You’ll never find out unless you get to know him better.”
The waitress with the curly cues and expertly painted red nails arrives with our dishes. She serves me my usual: a turkey sandwich on Cuban bread and a side of tostones, which I madly salt. Carlos ordered the breaded chicken steak and rice and beans. Both smells mix with the aroma of garlic that fills the restaurant. As much as I enjoy devouring the food here, I don’t enjoy smelling like the restaurant when I leave. The last time I was here, my clothes wore the eatery’s perfume as if we had just walked out of the kitchen.
“I have a good feeling about him, Tommy. He’s just—there’s no other way to describe him but—guao! I can’t help but feel excited when I’m around him or when I think about him. Just looking at him gives me a boner. Those soothing hazel eyes, the taut tanned skin. The veins that bulge in his arms. The whole time we were talking, I mentally ripped off his clothes, jumped him, and went down on him. Ay, Marcello! When we hugged good-bye at Starbucks this afternoon, I rushed home and jerked off—twice. He makes me so horny. It’s driving me crazy.”
“So give him a chance—as a friend, like I am with Mikey. You’ll never know what can be unless you try.” As I listen, I bite into the scrumptious sandwich which rains crumbs on my plate. “So what’s next for you and Marcello?”
“Bueno, I don’t know. We didn’t make plans, but I know that he works at the Border Café.”
“Uh oh, you know what that means, don’t you? We’re going to have to run to the Border sometime soon. I haven’t eaten there in a few months, so it would be nice to visit again and have the chicken quesadillas. I would order a turkey quesadilla, but they haven’t added that yet to the menu.”
“Tommy, I don’t think they will anytime soon, but let’s go sometime this week or next.”
“Deal.”
After Carlos and I finish our meal, we grab our windbreakers and say our good-byes at the restaurant’s entrance, which is lined with small stacks of Spanish weekly newspapers, the source of news for the majority of Latinos here. I walk back to my Jeep on Centre Street and begin to think about my long week ahead of me. I am writing a story on the lack of televised community programs aimed at Hispanics in Massachusetts. Only two shows exist, and they air at odd hours, 6 a.m. once a month and 8 a.m. each Saturday. In Miami, no question about it, there are a slew of shows on English and Spanish news outlets. In Boston, we don’t even have a full-time radio station. When I need my fix of Gloria Estefan, Shakira, or Juanes, I turn to my iPod. You’d think in a historic and cosmopolitan city such as Boston, the country’s seventh largest TV news market, there would be more programming tailored to the growing Hispanic population here. We are sixteen percent of the city. But then again, I’m the only Latino writer in the Features section. If the newspaper and online newsrooms aren’t diverse, then they can’t cover their cities fully. The same goes for radio and TV stations. Boston is old school in more ways than one, but I am trying to change that perception one story at a time and with my presence in the newsroom.
As I pop my Gloria Estefan CD in the player in my Jeep, my phone vibrates. It’s a text message from Mikey. I smile as I read the text.
Hey, cutie. I had a lot of fun last night. Thank you for hanging out with me. Coffee Friday night? Maybe dinner on Saturday? I know a good place on the South Shore. Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s so good to hang out with you again.
I reread the messages a few times and then read it out loud. I punch back an answer. I say yes to both invites and end the text with a smiley face. I then begin my drive back home. I pass the grand Victorian and colonial homes along the pond side of Jamaic-away and urban park, Arnold Aboretum. I drive by the rows of run-down pastel tripledeckers in Mattapan off Blue Hill Avenue where several panhandlers carry cardboard signs and bombard me with requests for spa
re change. I check that my windows are closed and my doors locked. A few minutes later, I pass a clutster of Cape homes, manicured tripledeckers, and the brick former chocolate candy factory that was turned into condos until I reach Adams Street, my block. Home.
As much as I would like to see Mikey this weekend, I also wouldn’t mind having a drink with Carlos on Thursday or maybe even Rico, who I haven’t seen in weeks. I would invite Mikey, but he said he’s uncomfortable hanging out in a bar with people drinking their apple martinis, Coronas, and cranberry vodkas. Plus, I know he has to get up early for school.
I haven’t had a drink since that night at Club Paradise with Carlos, and I’d like to have a vodka and Diet Coke or two. I want to be out and about and see who is doing what and what all the club boys are up to. I like how the alcohol loosens me up after a hard week at work and how it unleashes my spirit. When I occasionally drink, I temporarily forget about my problems and stresses at work where I am the resident Latino everything.
When I drink, something within me is freed. I let loose, and I’m just me, this fun and optimistic guy who enjoys having a good time and cruising. I don’t know how I am going to be able to balance that side of my personality with my new alcohol-free friendship with Mikey. I don’t want to disrespect his sobriety, but I’m not the alcoholic. He is. If I want to go out and drink, why should that be any of his business, even though I care about him immensely. He’s my friend, an ex-boyfriend. These thoughts fill my head as I pull up to my condo and put the Jeep in park. As I head inside, I wonder why am I so worried about what he may think of me drinking at a bar.
7
Carlos
The addictive aroma of café commands me to wake up. When I open my eyes, I see Mami sitting at the edge of my bed in Coral Gables with a nice steaming cup of café, her secret weapon. No matter how tired I am, Mami can summon me awake by brewing her special blend. It always works.