by Johnny Diaz
“Well, come inside. It’s cold out here. You have to sit at one of my tables, handsome. But I need to get back to work. Tell the hostess that you are a friend of mine and she’ll take care of you,” he says in his Portuguese-accented English.
“Okay, chico. I’ll be right inside.”
Marcello winks and heads back in.
I stand in the cold, early November afternoon, my hands thrust into the pockets of my wool coat to keep warm. Cold puffs of my breath mark the air. Que frio! Channel 3 said it was thirty-five degrees today, so I wore my blue corduroy pants and a sage green cardigan. Mami always told me that green best complemented my eyes and hair, so I think I look pretty guapo for Marcello, if I may say so myself. I ask one of the preppy smokers for a light, and the cigarette begins to warm me from within. A plume of smoke rises before me, clouding my view of the small Starbucks across the street. As I puff, I hear a grinding, rumbling sound coming from my left. I turn and see a bouncy white Jeep Wrangler trudging this way. Tommy’s driving and waving to me at the same time. He abruptly pulls over and swings the passenger door open.
“I’m looking for parking. Hang on! I’ll be back in twelve minutes,” he declares. I wonder how he came up with that exact figure.
“Are you sure you don’t mean thirteen minutes and ten seconds, or ten minutes and forty seconds?”
“Because of that, make it thirteen minutes and thirty seconds,” Tommy says, sticking out his tongue and closing the Jeep’s passenger door. He hangs a right on the side street of unleveled cobblestones, which make his Jeep (and his head of curls) bounce like a toy bobblehead. Que loco!
Exactly twelve minutes later (how did he do that?) Tommy reappears. We hug in front of the Border Café, its logo marked by hand-painted, light blue letters on red wood.
“Tommy, you’re right on time! You’re so funny, chico.”
“Why thank you, Carlos. Has Marcello seen you lurking outside? It’s not like you’re inconspicuous. I noticed you peeking into the windows from up the street. He’s going to think you’re a stalker.”
“I was looking for you!” I demur.
“Bullshit! You were looking all right, but it wasn’t for me. You were looking for some Brazilian beef.” I playfully punch Tommy on the arm. We open the screen door of the restaurant, and a smiling young hostess with black-framed glasses seats us in Marcello’s work area. I peel off my coat, and Tommy unwraps himself from his scarf. We scoot into our chairs which screech against the weathered wooden floors. Marcello comes around with large glasses of ice water and a bowl of fresh nachos. He puts his arm behind my back as he introduces himself to Tommy.
“Nice to see you again.” Tommy shakes Marcello’s hand.
“Same here. Welcome to the Border Café. We have some specials tonight,” Marcello continues and hands us our menus. For a brief second, our fingers graze each other’s in the exchange and the touch instantly transports me to the night we met and danced at Paradise. As Tommy and I scan the menu, we give Marcello our drink orders. I get a Sprite. Tommy gets his must-have diet soda.
As Marcello walks away, Tommy leans and says, “Wow, he is better looking in the daytime. Usually it’s the other way around. You lucked out! Guys you meet at night look twice as bad in the day. They’re trolls.”
“Did you notice how the light brings out the yellow flecks in his hazel eyes? They remind me of shards of old Coca-Cola bottles,” I tell Tommy, leaning in with my menu. He whips out his portable hand sanitizer and cleans his hands.
“Now I can see why you wanted to play Spy Games with this guy.” As Tommy browses the menu, I notice he’s wearing that same red hoodie that he always wears. I haven’t been able to pinpoint the label. Come to think of it, Tommy doesn’t wear any designer brands. His blue jeans are pretty generic.
“Tommy, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, Papo, go ahead, I’m an open book,” Tommy says, repeatedly curling the white straw wrapper around his fingers.
“Where did you get that hoodie? Actually, where do you buy your clothes? I can’t really tell.”
A Cheshire cat grin unfolds on Tommy’s face.
“Really? You can’t tell?” He beams proudly.
“Yeah, I can’t. I mean, your clothes are cute, but I can’t figure out where you bought them. Sears? JCPenney?”
Tommy laughs, with his head flinging back and his hands on his stomach.
“It’s my secret. Shhh! You’ll never guess, Mr. Urban Outfitters and Abercrombie.”
“Just tell me. I won’t tell anyone. Ay no! Don’t tell me you go to the Salvation Army clothes store in Central Square?”
Tommy laughs some more. He’s clearly enjoying this game.
“Guess?” he says.
“Okay, you buy your clothes at Guess. That’s a great store. Macy’s carries their line.”
Tommy can’t stop laughing.
“No, no, Carlos, not Guess the store. I mean, guess as in try again.”
“Chico, I give up. Where is this place?”
“Okay, but you promise you won’t tell anyone? I’ve been teased about this especially by my sister and my parents. They think I should wear nice clothes being a reporter and all.”
“I promise. Just spit it out.”
“Costco!” Tommy blurts out.
“Que cosa?”
“Costco, you know, as in the grocery warehouse. They sell clothes there. I buy my jeans there for $12. This hoodie,” he flips the hood over his head, which makes him look like a Cuban red riding hood, “was $15. I buy most of my clothes there. And I know the clothes look cute because people always ask me where I buy my stuff. It’s a great deal. Just don’t tell anyone, okay? It’s my shhh secret.”
“I regret to inform you that the Gay Fashion Mafia has suspended your lifetime membership. You must surrender your membership, now! The Gap and Abercrombie will post a Most Wanted Fashion Felon sign with your Daily press photo in their stores. The fashion tribe has spoken,” I say, as Tommy throws a nacho at me. “You’re too funny, Tommy, and cheap! I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
“And you probably never will,” Tommy says, now twirling my straw’s white paper wrapper into small little snakes.
I pick up the nacho and Tommy’s paper designs and neatly place them near the bowl. I wouldn’t want to make a mess in front of Marcello. He returns with our drinks and takes our orders. Unfortunately, there’s no turkey fajita here, so Tommy settles on the chicken fajitas. I order the beef burrito. When Marcello walks away, he gradually grazes the back of my upper shoulder with his fingers, which send pebbles of goosebumps along my neck.
“Carlos, you’re blushing. You’re like Rudolf, the red-nosed gaydeer.”
“Wouldn’t you? Look at him, but more importantly, doesn’t he seem like a nice guy?”
“Yeah, he does, and I bet his boyfriend would agree with you on that,” Tommy snaps back, sipping his towering glass of Diet Coke. If he could, Tommy would dive into it and playfully swim in it and drink it all day like it was a whimsical concoction from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. “Remember, Carlos, the dude has a guy at home. Don’t get too caught up with him. Just enjoy the, ahem, ride.”
“Trust me, chico, I know. There’s nothing wrong getting to know him—in bed. I need me some….” I lean in and whisper “dick!”
“Well, it’s right there for your taking. Maybe you can order it from the to-go menu.”
We slouch into our seats, and I notice that white flecks begin to dot the windows. I narrow my eyes to focus. It’s snowing. Quilts of white flakes sail over Harvard Square, making it look like a snow globe that has been rattled.
“Oh my gosh, look! It’s snowing!”
“Yeah, it’s official. Winter is here. Get ready, Carlos,” Tommy says before beginning one of his monologues. “You see, the snow is beautifully deceiving. It’s cute at first, softly falling like it is now. You fall in love with it. You want to capture and treasure the moment with photographs. But then, it keeps fa
lling and falling. It piles up. It gets mushy. The armies of snowplows come out and sweep the streets and pile it on every corner. Cars get stuck on the road, spinning in place. Three days later, you’re stuck in your apartment wondering if it will ever end. You wonder, can I leave the apartment without looking like an astronaut? So enjoy this light snowfall for now, because it’s going to get worse. Thanksgiving is two weeks away.”
“Um, okay. I get your point, but this is so pretty. After we eat, let’s walk in the snow. This is why I moved to Boston, to discover something new and different. I’ll take some photos with my cell phone and e-mail them to Papi and Lourdes.”
“Maybe you can mail the snow too! I hear FedEx has a special on snow deliveries!”
“Maybe I can FedEx you back to Miami!” I tease. Tommy responds by throwing back the nacho I had tossed at him earlier.
As we wait for our food to arrive under the soothing tropical sounds of Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville, I bring up something that I’ve been wanting to talk to someone, anyone, about: my dreams with Mami. I haven’t mentioned this because I don’t want Tommy to think I’m some weirdo who dreams of dead people. But I think he might be able to explain what’s going on. If anything, it would be nice to actually talk about it for once. I’ve been keeping this bottled up inside. I dare not bring it up to Papi or Lourdes because what if they’re not having the same visits from Mami? I wouldn’t want to rub it in their faces, yet I don’t want to appear that I am making this stuff up either. I don’t want them to think I am desperately mourning Mami and need to see a psychiatrist. So here I go.
“Have you ever dreamt of someone you were close to who had passed away?” I ask, munching on the nachos.
“Do you mean, do I dream about my dead grandparents or friends?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
Tommy furrows his thick black eyebrows and scratches his head. “Um, no. It hasn’t happened to me yet. Carlos, I think I would freak out if my Abuela Marie popped into my dream and started chatting with me as if we were at her house in Little Havana. I don’t think I could handle it. I’d wake up screaming and lock the doors, but that’s just me. I have heard of what you’re talking about on 20/20 and Dateline. Why do you ask? Are you being visited from the other side?”
“Well…sort of.”
“Is it Celia Cruz?”
“Um, no. That’s not funny.”
“Okay. Bad joke. Hmm. It’s your mom, right?”
“Yeah. Good guess. Ever since I moved to Boston, she appears in my dreams. It’s like she’s still with me. I don’t understand it.”
Tommy leans over and listens more intently.
“What does she say? Are they nightmares? I’ve heard that souls or ghosts stick around sometimes until they feel that they can truly leave, like on that CBS show Ghost Whisperer. Maybe your mom is just watching over you, making sure that you’re okay, and when she feels that you’ve healed or moved on from her death or adjusted to Boston, maybe she’ll go on to the afterlife or something,” Tommy says, putting his hand over my right hand and gently squeezing it. He looks at me with a gentle half smirk.
“I don’t know what’s going on. In the dreams, we’re having our weekly brunches at Versailles like we used to. She tells me things, gives me advice about what’s going on in my life.”
“Really?” Tommy’s eyes widen.
“Yeah. After I met Marcello at Paradise, she basically told me not to settle for less. In another dream, after I felt drained from teaching, she reminded me why I wanted to be a teacher.”
“Has she mentioned me at all?” Tommy inquires.
“Yeah, she said, ‘Tu amigo is a little loco. Watch out!’ Just kidding, Tommy. This is about me, not about you or one of your stories. But since you asked, she seems to like you. She says you seem like a good guy and a good friend.”
“Well, your mom has good taste then,” Tommy says with a smile and a cheesy wink. “Wow, this is so weird but in a sweet way. She’s keeping an eye on you. Maybe she senses that you’re still trying to figure out what you want in Boston or in life. I think it’s wonderful that she’s talking to you in your dreams. It’s her way of communicating with you. Appreciate this. Not many people have this kind of experience.”
“Thanks. The thing is, I wake up so sad or I don’t want to wake up at all. I miss her so much,” I say, my eyes brimming with tears.
“Hey there…it’s okay,” Tommy says, reassuringly. “That’s natural. I don’t know what I would do if I lost my mom or dad. I would be a complete wreck and probably move back to Miami for good to help Mary. I know you’ve had a hard time dealing with the loss of your mom, which is why I never bring it up because I don’t want to get you down. But I think she would be really proud of you, Carlos. It sounds like she’s told you so. Not anyone can just relocate to a new city and not know anyone and start all over again. That’s really brave of you. Why don’t you start writing down your dreams? Keep a journal next to your bed and as soon as you wake up from one of these dreams, write down what she says. Maybe she’s trying to tell you something. You might feel better getting this out on paper. Writing can be like therapy.”
“That’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll do that.” I already feel better about sharing this with someone.
“Carlos, listen. I know I can be goofy at times and cheesy with my jokes and my quirky habits, but if you need me to be serious and listen, I will, okay? If I act silly sometimes, I do so because I want you to have fun in Boston. I want to bring some jolly into your life.”
“I know and gracias.” Just as we high-five one another, Marcello returns with our food on teardrop-shaped dishes. Tommy’s fajitas sizzle and crackle. Marcello warns him not to touch the plate. He then swings over to my side and gently places my burrito before me on the worn wooden table.
Marcello leans over. “Enjoy, Carlos!”
Over the rest of our late lunch, Tommy and I chow down and talk about the next few weeks. I tell him that Papi and Lourdes have decided to fly up and spend Thanksgiving with me in Cambridge.
“Hey, that’ll be nice, having your family up here. If I could ever get my mom on a plane, I’d invite her up here too. She never leaves Miami Beach, if you can believe that. I’ll be in Boston for Sanguiven.”
“Having you here for Thanksgiving would help take the edge off of entertaining them. I bet you can keep my dad talking on just about anything.”
“I’d love to meet your dad and sister, so count me in.”
When Marcello comes back to pick up the check, Tommy suggests we split the bill.
“But put more on his check,” I joke. “He makes more than I do.”
After we pay the bill, I say good-bye to Marcello, who gives me a hug. Again, that musky smell, the tingling arousal stirs in my pants.
“I’ll call you later,” he says by the restaurant’s entrance.
“Yeah, that would be nice.”
Tommy shakes Marcello’s hand. We venture outside into the winter wonderland.
“Bueno, chico, I think this is my stop for today. I’m gonna head on home and do laundry. Need a ride? My Jeep is two blocks away.” Tommy zips up his black coat and pulls out his red hood over it.
“Thanks for coming out this afternoon. Who knows, maybe Marcello will call me later and want to hang out for a bit. I could use the company. Don’t worry about me. I just want to walk under the snow back to the apartment. I want to experience this weather.”
“Okay, be careful. The snow can get slippery. We’ll talk later in the week. Take it easy,” Tommy says, hugging me and patting me on the back.
“You too, loco!” A few minutes later, I spot Tommy hanging a right on Massachusetts Avenue and disappearing into the curtain of snow, which makes Harvard Square look like a holiday postcard. I hang a left on the busy street and begin my walk back home to Porter Square. I pass the Cambridge Common on my left and Harvard Law School on my right as the lumbering, white, city buses circle the rotary around the park. As I walk, I take in all th
e snowy wonders as if I were an explorer on a newfound land. I feel snowflakes freckle my face where they coolly dissolve upon impact. I stick my tongue out and taste the fresh white droplets. I look back and see a trail of my footprints along the sidewalk.
At the light outside the Starbucks on Shepherd Street, I hold out my gloved hands and watch the snow transform my brown gloves into white ones. I pass beauty shops, clothing stores, and real estate offices along the way. In each of their glass windows, I see my brown wavy hair soaked in white. I shake the snow off and watch it fall from my head to the ground. At each intersection, the snow quickly accumulates on each corner, replacing the leaves that were there a few weeks ago. I step on the mounds, and my feet slightly sink into the newly formed powdery piles. Approaching Porter Square, I bend down and pack some of the snow into a small ball, but it crumbles when I try to lift it. I still manage to hurl some of it like a Red Sox pitcher. Papi would be so proud. Not! I love this place. Optimism and happiness bubble up within me as I enjoy Mother Nature’s snowy exhibition. I whip out my cell phone and snap the images of the snow salting the rotating sign at the Porter Square subway stop. I hold my cell up and photograph myself (as best as I can) surrounded by the snow in the background.
By the time I reach the front of my three-story tripledecker, my black wool coat is completely white. I smile as I brush off the excess snow and it sprinkles to the ground. I climb the three flights to my one-bedroom apartment, soaking the wooden steps with my wet shoes, when my phone vibrates. It’s a text message from Marcello.
I leave work in an hour. Can I come and see you?
I stand midway between the second and third floors and type back: Sure, followed by my address. This has been a one-night stand that has been waiting one too many nights to happen. Maybe I’ll finally be able to see Marcello in the flesh, once and for all. Maybe I will have a nice warm body to cuddle with tonight. Finally!
It’s 8 p.m., and the buzzer goes off. It must be him. Ay, Marcello! When I press the intercom, I hear his Brazilian accent. I am instantly aroused. I’ve had an erection since he text-messaged me that he was going to stop by after work.