by Johnny Diaz
Mikey puts an assuring hand on my shoulder.
“I think you should write about your experiences in Boston. It’s a fish-out-of-water story. It would be great. I’d read that book. I just wouldn’t write a book about building muscles or anything. I’m kidding, cutie.”
“Um, thanks, Mikey. I think. I’ll take most of that as a compliment. But if I did write a book, you’d probably be my only reader.”
“Nah…I really believe you can add something new and fresh to all the tired Boston authors. I’ve read my share of Irish-Italian Boston books in school. This would be different, cutie.”
“I’ll take that to heart, Mikey, and think about it, but I don’t think books are in my future.”
We saunter to the biography section where I notice a new book on primatologist Jane Goodall. Mikey was always a big fan of hers. I remember when he took me to see a documentary of her lifelong dedication to chimpanzees at the Children’s Museum in Cambridge. Sitting in the angled seats gave me vertigo, but Mikey held my hand throughout the show and surprised me with a Diet Sprite to calm my tummy.
“I completely forgot about the new book. I’ll have to come back this weekend and buy it. I didn’t bring my debit card with me. I just have a few bucks. I can’t wait to read it,” Mikey says before excusing himself to go to the bathroom. “I’ll be right back, Tommy.”
“Take your time! I’m not going anywhere.”
As he heads to the back of the store, I grab the Jane Goodall book from its display table. I power walk to the cashier register and pay. I look back toward the bathroom and realize that Mikey is still inside. I dash outside to my Jeep, toss the bag in the trunk and then head back inside the store all within three minutes. Just as I walk back to the biography section, Mikey reappears and smiles as he walks back my way.
It’s just past eleven, and the store manager has announced over the store speakers that it’s closing time.
“I can’t believe we’ve shut down the store, Mikey.”
“I know, wild night, huh? We’re some of the last few in the house.”
We walk outside. A light snow falls over the South Shore. Mikey lights up a cigarette to warm up. We lean against the side of my Jeep and talk some more as the store’s front lights begin to shut off one by one like a flickering line of Christmas lights.
“What are you doing tomorrow, Tommy?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about the weekend. I was thinking of going hiking or coming back here to the store to read some of the news magazines. Actually, not a lot. What about you?”
“I was thinking we can have dinner or go to the movies. They’re replaying the U2 concert in 3-D at the IMAX theater. I’ve always been a big fan of theirs. I was thinking we can go to the theater at Providence Place. Remember the last time we were there, we lost your Jeep in the garage?”
“Yeah, how could I forget. We had the mall security guard drive us around in the little golf cart until we found my old Jeep on the other side of the parking garage. How embarrassing. Yeah, that sounds like fun. It’ll be nice to visit Providence again.”
“Okay, so it’s a plan. Do you think we can meet up here at the bookstore and drive in your car, Tommy? I’m not supposed to drive beyond work and groceries, according to my hardship license. The bookstore is sort of in the middle.”
“No worries, Mikey. I don’t mind driving.”
As we stand there and talk, Mikey’s eyes twinkle like the constellation of stars over Braintree. We smile and look away. We’re both quiet. I decide this is the moment to surprise him.
“Hey, wait right here. I got something for you.” I turn around, swing open my Jeep’s driver side door, and pull out a green bag.
“What are you talking about, Tommy?
I hand him the plastic bag and he looks puzzled. He opens it up and then he laughs.
“When did you…?”
“When you were in the bathroom,” I abruptly interrupt. “I thought you’d want it.”
“You’re so sweet, cutie. Thank you very much. I’ll start reading it tonight as soon as I get home,” he says, giving me a hug.
I return a hearty pat on the back even though every part of my body wants to grab him, kiss him, and not let go.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, and thanks again, Tommy, for meeting up and the book.”
“No problema.”
I hop into my Jeep and adjust my rearview mirror to watch Mikey walk back to his white Volkswagen Rabbit. Once inside the car, he flips through the pages of the book. I crank up the Wrangler, back up, and pull away. Tomorrow should be fun.
It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m back here at Barnes & Noble to meet Mikey. As soon as he pulls up, he hops into my Jeep and we embark on our short trip to Providence. Along the way, he fiddles with my CD player, which is playing Gloria Estefan.
“You’re still a fan of Gloria Estefan?” he says, looking perplexed as he sits shotgun.
“Um, of course! She’s my homegirl!” I shift gears as we pull onto Interstate 95, passing the Blue Hills on the right.
“Well, I brought some U2 CDs to get us in the mood for the movie. Do you mind, Tommy? I wouldn’t want to cut off Gloria in the middle of a “Conga” megamix.”
“No worries. Gloria won’t be offended. Go ahead and pop in some Bono.”
Mikey slides the band’s greatest hits into my CD player and the sounds of Bono, The Edge, and the two other guys whose names I never seem to remember blast inside the Jeep. Mikey uses his right hand to groove to “Mysterious Ways” as traffic whooshes by us.
Half an hour later, we pull off exit 22C into Providence Place, the grand city mall that looks like a stacked Lego architectural feat come to life but with a cement facade. We enter the garage and make our way inside the mall. We pass all the stores on the second floor as shoppers stroll on the carpeted walkways. When we pass the Abercrombie store, pounding music and an intoxicating men’s fragrance spill into the walkway. Midway through the mall, we stand in front of a wall of glass windows where the city unfolds before us. We notice the grand high-rises near the lip of the river. The afternoon sun reflects against them and the small houses in the distant residential neighborhood on the hilly side of town, home to Brown University. Mikey and I stand and point to all the little homes that are blue, yellow, white, or pink with snow-caked roofs. To the left, we see the lighted grand white Statehouse looming over the city like a watchful guardian. As we take in the view, Mikey puts his hand on my shoulder, and I smile at him. Being here with Mikey feels so right and natural. I take a mental snapshot of the moment to appreciate later on when I’m home alone.
We walk around some more and browse in some of the stores before we settle in at The Cheesecake Factory downstairs and chow down. After a twenty-five-minute wait, we find ourselves feasting. Mikey has the fish and chips and I eat my usual turkey club. We compare Providence to Boston.
“It’s like a mini Boston,” I say, sipping my Diet Coke at our table near the front of the restaurant where a mob of hungry people wait for their pagers to vibrate.
“It’s really cute here. It’s not as crazy as Boston, but then you don’t have as much to do here. It’s quieter.”
“Would you ever live here, Mikey?”
“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live here. I’ve never lived anywhere outside the South Shore. I’m not as brave as you, Tommy, moving from your hometown for Boston. I don’t think I could ever do that. But I love coming to this mall and walking around—when it’s warmer. During the summer, they have those fire nights when they light up the river with fire and soothing music. It’s a cute little city and cheaper to live in. You can buy a new condo here and not pay Boston prices. Why? Are you thinking of moving here, cutie?”
“Nah. I’ve just always been drawn to this town. I don’t know why. I know a lot of Daily reporters who commute to Boston from here. It’s about a forty-five-minute drive. I’m happy in Dorchester, but I wouldn’t rule out buying something newer down the
road. My condo has its share of warts because of its age, and as you know, crime keeps going up in Boston, especially in Dorchester. Two cars were broken into in my parking lot last month, so it’s spreading to Lower Mills. I keep seeing ads for new condos in Providence, and the prices aren’t that astronomical.”
“Well, maybe when you grow tired of Dorchester, Providence will be waiting for you. It’s not going anywhere,” Mikey says with a wink. “I would visit you here.”
“You better! I think Carlos would get lost coming here. He’s not very good with directions. He’s pretty much a Cambridge and Somerville guy.”
We finish our dinner and maneuver through the restaurant’s crowd and in between the waiters dashing with huge plates of food. We ride up three floors on the escalators to the IMAX theater. There’s a small crowd of young people, mostly college students and teenagers, in line. As Mikey grabs the tickets, I venture inside to buy us some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and M&M’s. Theater employees hand us our funky 3-D glasses as we head deeper into the auditorium. We plop ourselves in the rear seats and prop our feet up and relax. Our heads lean together as the lights dim.
“You look so funny, Tommy!” Mikey turns to me, wearing the weird glasses.
“Yeah, tell me about it. I look as weird as you!” We laugh.
The lights dim, and Bono and company start rocking. Bono looks like he’s about to leap off the screen and land in our laps while singing “Even Better Than the Real Thing.” The Edge appears as if he will strike us in the face with his guitar. I feel I can reach out and touch the crowds rising and swaying in the film’s concert. This is pretty trippy. When I take off my glasses for a brief moment, I see a kaleidoscope of blue, green, and yellow hues outlining each of the band members like a halo. I begin to feel disoriented, so I put the glasses back on.
Throughout the concert, Mikey bobs his head and softly pounds his fist against his knee to the rhythm of the beat. He’s clearly enjoying himself. He sings along to the lyrics. As each song passes, I make a mental count and hope the concert doesn’t have more than thirteen songs, because then that would mean it’s more than ninety minutes long. I’m not the biggest U2 fan, but I am a fan of Mikey’s so I agreed to come here as a way of spending quality time with him. No bar. No drinking. Just Mikey and me, as I always envisioned us. At some point, I doze off. Mikey awakens me by playfully punching me in the arm.
“Oops, sorry. Must have been the digestion, Mikey.”
“Yeah, all that turkey. I bet if this was Gloria Estefan in 3-D, you’d be up on the stage doing the conga or the rumba or whatever you Cubans call it and dancing the night away.”
“You’re probably right, but hey, I’m here and I actually know the words to every song,” I say and sing the words to “One” to emphasize my point.
“Okay, okay, Tommy. You proved your point, but hush now. You sound like a howling dog, and the people in the front row are looking back at us and are going to demand their money back if you don’t stop,” Mikey whispers. I playfully hit him back.
At the end of the concert (Thank God!), we take off these dorky glasses, and we walk down the steps of the theater and back into the mall area. It’s nighttime, so the same view we marveled at earlier is now filled with the sparse and silent flickering nights of the city. We stroll around some more, past the Food Court where teenagers stand in line at Johnny Rockets, Ben & Jerry’s and Subway. We glide down the escalators as throngs of other shoppers and visitors exit this gargantuan mall. We actually find my Jeep on the first try.
On the drive back home, Mikey and I enjoy the silence of the night. I gaze out the window where I see the blur of the oncoming lights from southbound traffic. To my right, Mikey passes out, his head pressing against my Jeep’s glass window. A sliver of moonlight lands on his forehead. I pull down the sunviser to block the light so he can sleep peacefully. I like watching him sleep.
Forty minutes later, I pull into our regular meeting spot, the Barnes & Noble parking lot. Mikey finally wakes up.
“We’re here?” he yawns.
“Yep, this is your stop. You slept the whole way.”
He rubs his eyes with his knuckles and stretches like a cat in the car. He turns toward me, shakes my hand, and moves in closer for a quick hug, and we linger in the embrace.
“Thanks for hanging out with me tonight. I had a lot of fun, Tommy.”
“Me too, sleepyhead.”
He closes the door, looks my way again, and bites down on his tongue. He slowly walks back to his little Rabbit, which is parked a few spaces down. We have the only cars in the lot. The store is closed and cloaked in darkness. Mikey waves good-bye as he hops into his car. I stand by until he starts his engine. Once his headlights flash, I pull away.
About ten minutes later, as I drive on Granite Street in Braintree, my cell phone rings. The caller ID reads Mikey. I pick it up. Maybe he wants to wish me a sweet dream.
“Tommy! Tommy! Where are you? I need you.” He sounds frantic, alarmed.
“Hey…what’s wrong?”
“I just got into an accident. This woman hit my car outside the bookstore. I can’t move my car.”
Panic and adrenaline fill me. I imagine Mikey hurt and bleeding at the steering wheel. I immediately make a U-turn, almost tipping my Jeep over in the process, and floor my Wrangler. I grind my gears, rev the engine, and force my 200 horsepower into warp speed. My speedometer reads eighty-five mph.
“Mikey! Stay right there, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I gun my Jeep to the scene and pray that Mikey is okay.
11
Carlos
Mami snips the leaves from her gardenias. Her back is turned to me as I sit on the cement decorative garden bench along her verdant green lawns. Behind me is a row of Mami’s radiant red hibiscus flowers and yellow daffodils that throb with life in our backyard. The sun casts an almost ethereal, buttery light over Coral Gables and Mami. I have to squint and cover the rim of my forehead with my hand to look at her.
“Carlito, can you pass me the plastic bag for the leaves?” she asks. “You know, gardening is very healing. Maybe one day, you will have your own casita full of beautiful flowers like these,” she says, snipping the bad leaves.
“Mami, you’re not helping. I don’t want my own garden. I don’t have the touch that you do. I don’t think I can afford a house with a yard in Boston on my teacher’s salary. I don’t even know if I want to stay there,” I blurt out, sitting with my hand touching the right side of my chin as I watch her in action.
“Carlito, que te pasa hijo? Why are you so sad?”
“Ay, I’m fine, Mami. The gardenias are getting bigger. They look like white dangling bulbs.” Mami turns around with her scissors in one hand and her other hand on her waist, and she gently scolds me.
“Carlito, you are talking to your Mami. Que te pasa? Why were you crying so much last night? That’s not like you.”
“Ay, Mami. I thought Boston would be different. I thought things would be better if I left Miami. I’m still depressed. I want to make things the way they were, when you were here, when we were still a family, when things felt right.” My voice trails off, and I look down at the grass, which looks like saturated paint strokes of green coming to life. Mami’s garden is still lush and healthy like she is at this moment.
Mami slowly walks toward me. As she moves closer, a white glow laces her body and highlights the grass and all the flowers and plants and everything in this garden, our garden. She scoots by my side and puts the scissors down. She then loops her arm around my shoulder and gives me a reassuring embrace followed by a sweet kiss on my cheek.
“Now listen to me,” she points at me with her index finger. “You are doing so well in Boston. You have a new friend, el loco with his Diet Cokes and his Jeep. He’s a good person, a little weird but buena gente. I like him. He makes you laugh and I believe he is un bueno amigo para ti. You also have an amazing job and your students respect you. You have to walk in life, Carlito, no
t crawl. You have been crawling too much and crying. I want you to walk with confianza,” she says, standing up to show me how it’s done. She paces back and forth like a soldier to emphasize her point. “Stand up tall with your chest out like a proud Martin man. Life is not over because I am not in Miami. I am here,” she says, leaning over me and grabbing my right hand to pat my heart with it. “Remember that, always. You are young, and I see a beautiful future for you, hijo. Tu sabes que tu Papi needs you. He misses you at the house. Without you, nuestra casa is not the same.”
She scoots next to me and points below at the grass. With her index finger, she outlines a square in the grass. The square opens up to a bird’s-eye view of our living room. Papi sits in his reclining chair and watches a baseball game by himself. He looks serious and sad. Mami then outlines another invisible square against the grass and that opens up to another view. This one features Lourdes sitting in her closet picking out clothes for a suitcase. The house does seem empty and lifeless.
“Carlos, look at their faces.” She points to each of them in their own individual squares. I feel like I am peeking into a dollhouse of our house.
“What is missing en la casa?” Mami looks back at me.
“You!” I fire back.
“Not just me…who else?”
“Me?” I ask, feeling stupid for not having followed her train of thought.
Mami simply nods.
“They need you, Carlos.”
“Well, Papi and Lourdes are coming to Boston for Thanksgiving, so it will be nice to have them around, I think.”
Mami smiles.
“Just because you do not have a lot to talk about with your Papi doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. Lourdes is taking care of him, but he needs you too. I need you to be good to him in Boston. Show him all the beautiful parks, the Boston Common. Take him to ese Cuban restaurant that tu amigo Tommy takes you to. Show him el estadio de los Red Sox. He would like that, Carlos. Take Lourdes shopping. Make this Thanksgiving a new tradition for the three of you. I won’t be there but I will be watching in my own way, mijo.”