Beantown Cubans

by Johnny Diaz

  The waitress returns, and we give her our orders and menus. I get a Cuban sandwich although I should order some tostones because I can hear the cook frying them or a breaded steak into an addictive sizzle. As we talk, Tommy leans his head against the window and curls a thick strand of his dark brown hair with his index finger, something he does repeatedly without even noticing.

  “Carlos, what did you want to talk to me about the other night? I was out with Mikey, and I didn’t want to be rude. I hope you understand that. If it’s an emergency, you know I’m there, anytime, right? But it didn’t sound like it was too important.”

  “I know. I’ve just been really down. And it’s not just my mother’s death. Something inside me feels defeated. I don’t know if I should even be here. I was crying the other night at home after Marcello left.”

  Tommy jumps in. “Did he have a tailpipe between his legs? I hear Brazilians are well-hung.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Well, yes. I’m not depressed about that, but that’s beside the point. I feel like a Latino Eeyore,” I softly blurt out, realizing how much of a wet blanket I must sound like now. Luckily, the restaurant isn’t too busy, so no one is sitting right next to us and listening. Tommy looks at me with his brown eyes, which always seem to hold some joy and laughter. He leans over and grabs my hand.

  “I think I know what’s going on. It happened to me too. I speak from experience,” Tommy says cryptically. I hate when he teases me like that.

  “Que? What are you talking about? What is it?”

  Tommy takes a deep breath and solemnly looks out the window, snow-caked from the weekend’s snowfall. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shakes his head.

  “Tommy, this isn’t funny. What is it?”

  He looks at me, and a smirk unfolds.

  “I’m surprised it hit you so quickly. You may need to take something.” Tommy tilts his head, shakes it side to side again, and frowns.

  “Tommy, what is it?”

  “I know exactly how you’re feeling. When it happened to me, I…”

  “Tommy! What do I have? Does it rhyme with just-go-on-and-tell-me-already?” I demand.

  “Chico, relax. You’ve got SAD.”

  “SAD? Que cosa?”

  Tommy grins.

  “You’re sad because of SAD. It’s seasonal affective disorder, the winter blues. A lot of people get it when there’s a lack of sunlight and because of gray winter days. It’s common. It’s the snow. It’s the cold. It just magnifies whatever you’re down about already. Your body misses the warmth, the sunshine. You will live. Carlos will live!” he declares, speaking to an invisible audience.

  “Have you been feeling a lack of energy, Carlos?”

  “Sí.”

  “Have you been feeling down?”

  “Sí.”

  “Have you been wanting to sleep more?”

  “Sí.”

  “Then you got it,” Tommy diagnoses me with the confidence of a doctor.

  “Okay, so how do I get rid of it?” Lately, I’ve been thinking about how depressing Boston is during the winter. The trees are naked. No one walks outside much. An eerily cold silence descends over Cambridge at night when I walk the three blocks from the gym to my apartment. Even on the subway, everyone looks as if they just left a funeral.

  “I feel so alone at times here, Tommy.”

  “Chico, we’ll get you a few things to cheer you up,” he says, opening up his jacket as if to reveal an invisible “ST” for Super Tommy. I love mi amigo, but I wasn’t joking when I thought he was a little weird, even quirky, when we first met.

  “But I can only help you with the winter depression. I think there’s more to what you’re feeling than the cold temperatures,” Tommy says with concern.

  “What do you mean, loco?”

  The waitress sets down our plates on the table. As soon as she walks away, Tommy continues.

  “Carlos, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you need to see someone.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. I’d love to have a guy to date.”

  Tommy half smiles and leans closer to me across the table.

  “No, I’m not talking about dating. I mean, I think you should see a therapist. I’ve never lost a parent, so I can’t imagine what you’re going through or what you’ve been dealing with. I would probably see a psychologist to deal with the jumble of emotions and to help me find my footing again. I think it would help if you had someone who is objective to sit with you and help you make sense of your feelings and tell you how to get back to the way you were in Miami. When you talk about your mom and how your life was in Miami, you seem so happy. I don’t see a lot of that from you in Boston. Sometimes, you laugh and we have fun, but I can sense that you’re hiding your sadness.”

  I feel like I need Prozac right now. Pronto!

  “Thanks, Tommy. I appreciate your concern, but I don’t think most people see therapists whenever one of their relatives die.”

  “But this wasn’t just any relative. This was your mom, your best friend. I think that’s why you keep dreaming about her. There is something else going on that you need to figure out.” Tommy gently taps my right hand with his fingers.

  “I know. You don’t need to remind me. I’m doing my best. I really am. It’s just…” I grab one of the napkins and blow my nose loudly, which makes the waitress jump a little when she walks by. “It’s hard.”

  “Chico, I know. That’s why I think you could really benefit from having another perspective, someone else looking out for your best interests. I’m not equipped to help you with this. The best I can do is to listen and be your friend.”

  “And I appreciate you for that. But who would I see? I don’t know anyone here.”

  “I know the perfect person,” Tommy says. His dark brown eyes sparkle at the idea.

  “Quien?” I slurp the rest of my Sprite.

  “Her name is Bella Solis. I wrote a story about her earlier this year. She’s a Latina radio show psychologist here in Boston. Think of Julie Andrews with longer dirty blonde hair, green eyes, and a slight Spanish accent, and you’ve got Bella. She’s built up a following with her radio show because she’s the only Latina whose show helps people, mostly young women, in New England en español. Her show is about to go national.

  She’s super buena gente. She’s sort of like a typical Cuban mother but with the tell-it-like-it-is demeanor of a girlfriend. She’s tough but tender too. You’d like her.”

  “And you think she would see me?”

  “I can make the call for you. I really bonded with her after my story ran. Her son, a screenwriter in Miami, is gay too, so she would be great to talk to. I bet she’ll love you.”

  “Thanks, Tommy. She sounds really special. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to meet with her at least once.”

  “Trust me, Carlos, you’ll really like her. She’s very intuitive and spiritual. I listen to her show sometimes on my lunch break. In the meantime, we’re going to Target and CVS to pick up a few things after dinner. Operation SAD-Get-Glad begins,” Tommy announces with the determined look of a drill sergeant. Correction, make that a very gay drill sergeant with curly hair.

  “Uh oh. What are you thinking of buying? What did I get myself into? Ay dios mio! This feels like an intervention.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re in good hands.” Tommy winks with exaggeration.

  “I know exactly what we need to do to get you out of this slump. And plus, I need to get you into happier spirits to meet Mikey. I’m planning a dinner so the two of you can finally meet.”

  “What about your hunky friend Rico? Aren’t you going to invite him?”

  Tommy grimaces.

  “I don’t think he’s going to want to come. As much as he loves me as a friend, he can’t stand Mikey, no matter what I say about him, because of the way Mikey treated me when we dated. Maybe down the road they can hang out but not this soon in our new relationship.”

 
“Relationship, Tommy? Aren’t you jumping the gun here with Mikey?” I take another bite of my media noche. A piece of pickle dangles from the layers of pork, ham, and melted Swiss cheese, which is stuck on my right molar. I fling it off with my tongue.

  “Yeah, I guess we’re dating. We seem like a couple, and I’m not interested in anyone else. I can tell Mikey isn’t either.”

  “Well, this calls for another Beantown Cubans toast,” I offer, picking up my glass of mostly empty, fizzing Sprite.

  “To overcoming the winter blues!” Tommy boasts with his Diet Coke.

  “To you and Mikey!” I clink back, already feeling better about my depression.

  After a trip to Target in Somerville and then to the CVS in Porter Square where we leave with bags of essentials that Tommy insisted on buying, we head back to my apartment. He replaces my standard bulbs with brighter ones that seem to emulate sunlight. They really brighten up my apartment. Tommy shows me how to take the melatonin supplements just before the sun goes down to keep my levels of serotonin up. He pulls out a box of St. John’s Wort tea bags for me to brew before I go to bed.

  “See, look at how much brighter and sunnier your apartment is, Carlos,” Tommy says, standing by one of my lamps in the living room. It’s so bright in here, I might need to wear sunglasses and apply some sunscreen.

  “Ay, Tommy! Isn’t this a bit much? My electric bill is going to go through the roof! You’ve literally brought the sun into my corner of Cambridge.”

  “Okay, how about if you just leave the lamp in your living room on when you watch TV and the other lights off. At least you’ll get some artificial sunlight exposure. Trust me, this will work. You’ll feel better in no time, but you need to take the pills and drink the tea, okay?”

  “Alrighty!”

  “And there’s one more thing I need to get to complete Operation SAD-Get-Glad,” Tommy says, with a mischievous look in his eye. He puts two fingers to his chin, scanning the living room as if he’s mentally surveying the dimensions. He looks out the window where I have a small space for a hanging flower bed for warmer months.

  “Tommy, what are you planning? I can’t have any flowers there right now. They’ll die outside with the cold if that’s what you’re thinking.” He turns around and looks around my bedroom. I follow him.

  “Seriously, what are you going to do? I don’t like surprises, and my dad and sister are coming in a few days for Thanksgiving.”

  “Bueno, you’ll see. It’s the ultimate weapon to help soothe the blues. But I need some time to pick it up, and I’m sure your Papi and Lourdes will love it. In the meantime, I will call Dr. Bella Solis and see when she can meet with you.”

  Ay, what am I in for? But it’s nice being looked after by someone who cares.

  14

  Tommy

  Poor Carlos. My heart goes out to the guy. I’m hoping that my plan will help brighten his spirits, at least until spring arrives. I called Dr. Bella Solis (known to her listeners as la doctora) today at work and she gladly agreed to meet with Carlos after the Thanksgiving holiday. If anyone can help him climb out of his current emotional slump, it’s Bella. Next up on my list: finding a hibiscus tree for Carlos. Yes, that’s my surprise. I sense that Carlos needs something in his home to care for. I gather that he always looked out for his mother. Maybe having a beautiful flowering plant would add something to his home life. I remember thinking of adopting a pet when I moved out of Mami and Papi’s house in Miami Beach, but my brain tends to obsess on things. I kept imagining the cat or dog being home alone while I was at The Miami News working. I kept picturing myself driving home for lunch to check up on the dog or cat or not taking vacations. My brain was so fixated on the idea of having this imaginary pet that I thought it was better not to have one at all. I can only focus on one thing at a time.

  I do remember how lonely I was those first few weeks of living alone, but I was in Coral Gables and not far from the house. I can’t imagine adjusting to a new city and coping with the loss of a parent at the same time. That’s a tall order. I bet if Carlos had something to give some TLC to, something to nurture, it might fill some of the void he feels. A plant would do the trick because he can watch it grow.

  Sometimes when I look at Carlos, I wish I could be a little more like him. He seems like such a simple guy, uncomplicated. He doesn’t need to have a brand-new car. He’s content with his old Toyota Camry. He doesn’t spend a lot of money. He’s just as happy staying at home renting a movie with me or grading his papers. His job fulfills him in a way mine doesn’t. He makes a difference every day in his classroom. My articles do that but not as often. He’s able to stand comfortably in front of a group of people every day and lecture while I work from the confines of an office. Carlos doesn’t search for the spotlight the way I do sometimes by having my name on the front page or Features section of the Daily or appearing on TV to talk about one of my recent stories. And he’s not stuck in the ruts I find myself in: eating the same food, drinking Diet Coke, and constantly repeating myself, which I can’t help and sometimes I’m not aware of. One thing I don’t envy Carlos for—the loss of a parent.

  I’m here at the Daily finishing up my latest story on men who wear girdles. (Mirdles, if you will.) It’s a new trend. As men grow vain about their appearances, they are resorting to bodywear or support boxers to make them look extra svelte. I can picture the headline: Don’t Call It a Girdle! After posting an inquiry on the newspaper’s Web site, I found several men willing to be interviewed about their bodyshaping underwear. Businessmen, publicists, and some TV anchors wear male girdles although no one would ever know by looking at them. I love these kinds of stories because they are light and fun. They inform our readers about the obscure trends in today’s culture. These are the kinds of stories that one can only find in a newspaper’s Style or Features section. It gives people a reason to read us, whether online or in print. With all the hard news percolating in various sections of the newspaper and online about the crime in Dorchester or immigrants in East Boston, I believe this is the kind of story that will have people chatting or at least chuckling. I print out a copy of the story, grab my bright blue winter hoodie, and dash outside into the Daily’s parking lot, which is full of hybrid cars and weathered Toyota Corollas and Honda Civics. Where is my Jeep? I lose my car almost daily. For someone who allegedly has a great memory, even recalling the most minute details, I can’t help but keep losing my vehicle. Back in college, I would lose fifteen minutes walking up and down the parking lot searching for my little Honda. So much for being the observant journalist. I’m ambling up and down the lanes of parked cars in the bitter late afternoon cold when I finally see the Wrangler’s hardtop. Jeep found. I’m such a goof.

  I hop into my Jeep, crank the heater on, and read the story out loud three times, so I can catch any run-on sentences, grammatical errors, or fragments. Spellcheck can only take a writer so far. This is part of my self-editing technique. Two Metro editors walk by and wave to me, probably wondering why I’m talking to myself. I’m not crazy, people! I’m just editing my copy. As I continue to narrate the details of the male girdle, my phone vibrates. It’s Mikey sending a text message.

  Hey cutie, want to meet up tonight at Barnes & Noble? My car is fixed. I can meet you there. Can’t wait to see you!

  My heart melts like a mango sorbet on a hot Miami day. I text him back.

  Sure, Mr. Speed Racer. See you there after work. And ditto!

  I read my story one more time. On my passenger seat, I notice a printout of an essay I wrote. I took Mikey’s advice about writing about my experiences of being a Cuban in Boston. The other night, I wrote an essay called “Dancing En La Cocina” about my mother teaching me how to dance in the kitchen when I was younger. I am reminded of those days whenever I listen to music in my kitchen. The entire essay is a flashback of when I was ten years old and Mami grabbed me in the kitchen and forced me to dance to Celia Cruz. I plan on submitting the essay to a new book of inspirational stor
ies called A Cup of Cuban Comfort. A writer friend in Miami sent me a call for submissions. Hopefully, my piece will be accepted and published. Although my articles are in third person, I sometimes want to write in first person to express my emotions, feelings, and perspectives on being a gay Cuban. Perhaps this essay is the beginning of that. I would never be allowed to do that at work.

  I grab that printout along with my copy of the male girdle story. I flash my ID card in front of the electronic reader at the parking lot door and head back inside the stuffy, dimly lit newsroom. Rows of business and metro reporters line the newsroom as writers hunch over their desks with phones glued to their ears. Their hands waltz on their keyboards as they file stories for tomorrow’s edition or for later online. Back at my desk, some black smut cakes the top of my computer. Sometimes, the air vents spit ink particles from the presses, which I rarely see but can definitely feel vibrating softly like a mechanical purring monster underneath the floor. Sometimes, the fluorescent bulbs above my desk blink like a nightclub.

  I make some quick revisions to my article and send the file to my editor. I’m done for the day. I sign off the computer. I glance and smile at the photo of myself with Gloria Estefan after her concert in Boston. I grab my messenger bag and prepare to leave when Paul Harris, our cute arts writer who sits on the other side of the department, walks by and chats with me.

  “Hey, Tommy Boy! Heading out?” says Paul, who is a muscular, hunky, black guy. We met here on our first day at the daylong new employee orientation. Although I found him very attractive and sexy, I didn’t want to blur my professional and personal lines. We became instant friends. We chat at work and go to lunch and compare our notes as minorities surviving in Boston. Once in a while, he emerges from his cocoon in Central Square in Cambridge and makes an appearance at Club Café. When I see him there, we have a few drinks and gossip about work. Paul and I share a nice kinship. We are the only gay minorities in our department, and we’re about the same age. He’s one of my few friends from work. The other writers and editors tend to keep to themselves.