Beantown Cubans

by Johnny Diaz

  “Yeah, Paul. I’m done for the day. I had to file a breaking news story…on girdles! What movies are you screening this week?”

  “I heard about your girdles story. Some of the editors were laughing about it in the cafeteria earlier. Who knows, maybe some of them wear them! Anyway, I’m screening Iron Man III. You know, Iron Man, Iron Man…” he says, singing the theme song to the old Spider-Man cartoon but with Iron Man as the character. “You’d like this latest installment. In the trailers, Robert Downey Jr. is even more flamboyant than in the other two.”

  “No way! Did he pump up for this one, or is he just slightly toned like in the first movie?” I ask, noticing how Paul’s muscles bulge under his tight gray T-shirt, which he wears backwards for some odd reason. I never understood that fashion statement. What is he trying to say? Did he get dressed in the dark?

  “Yeah, he’s in better shape. Trust me, you’ll like it! Anyway, I’m off to another screening at the Common. Maybe lunch this week?”

  “Yeah, definitely. I know the perfect place.”

  Paul rolls his eyes.

  “Oh, God, let me guess! Boston Market, your home away from home?” he says, stretching his arms, making his chest pop out even more. Yum! Sometimes, I want to reach out and touch that bulky, smooth chest.

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  “Please, Tommy, everyone knows that you go there with coupons. Boston Market is fine. You’re driving so I don’t have a choice. I’ll just have to survive another lunch there with you.” Paul waves good-bye and heads toward the escalators while I stroll the other way to our elevated parking lot.

  Fifteen minutes later, I pull up to Barnes & Noble. If my Jeep could, it would automatically drive itself here on cruise control because of my regular visits. I head inside, clean my feet on the big green welcome mat, and see Mikey sitting in our corner of the café. He smiles when he spots me and rises to give me a kiss and a hug. I embrace him tightly.

  “I got your drink and brownie right here, cutie.”

  “Thanks, Mikey. That was sweet of you.”

  I peel off my wool coat and settle into my chair. Mikey sips his tea and tells me about work and his car.

  “Did you see it when you pulled up?” he says, pointing out the window to his white Rabbit.

  “Yeah, the collision center did a nice job. The wabbit is healed. It’s ready to hop.”

  Mikey laughs. I tell him about my day and my girdle story.

  “You come up with the funniest stuff. Who would have ever thought of doing a story on that.”

  “It’s a different type of essay. As reporters, we have to think out of the box more to stay relevant. The dot-com-ization of newspapers is accelerating so our front page is less focused on breaking news and more on enterprise pieces. But that’s not the only thing I’ve written lately.”

  “Oh yeah?” Mikey asks, his eyes brimming with interest.

  “I wrote an essay.”

  “Really? What is it about? Can I read it?”

  “It’s about my mom teaching me how to dance in the kitchen. I’m planning on submitting it to a publisher. I have a copy here. Read it when you get home. I don’t like it when people read what I’ve written in front of me.”

  Mikey pats my hand as I give him the printout.

  “I’m sure it’s wonderful, like you.”

  “Thanks, Mikey. Actually, you gave me the idea after our talk about me writing about being a Hispanic in Boston.”

  “Well, I’m sure it will be published. Why wouldn’t they? You’re talented. I wish I could write like you. I wish I could write! I’m more of a math and numbers guy. I admire how you’re able to write and report. I have enough problems writing progress reports for my students.”

  “Actually, anyone can write. Just imagine you’re talking to your friend but put those words onto paper. That’s what I do.”

  “I think you’re making it sound easier than it is,” Mikey says.

  “It’s only hard when your mind is focused on one thing and you have to write a story on deadline. Sometimes, I have to force it. It’s easier to rewrite than write. As long as you get something—anything—on paper it will be easier to work with.”

  “Do you get bad cases of writer’s block?”

  I lean back in my chair and flash a smile.

  “Only when I think about you.”

  Mikey winks at me and says, “See, you have a way with words!”

  We slurp the rest of our tasty drinks. We get up and then head outside where Mikey smokes a cigarette under the darkening, early evening sky. The lights of the city add an incandescent aura over the Blue Hills in the distance.

  “What are you doing Saturday, Mikey?” We stand under the store’s green awning where the indoor heat escapes as people pop in and out of the store. Cars pull in and out consecutively. One would think this place was a fast-food joint with all the traffic flowing through its doors.

  “Whatever you’re doing, cutie.”

  “Well, how about if we had dinner with my friend Carlos. I really want him to meet you. You’d like him. He’s a teacher. I’m sure you guys would have a lot to talk about.”

  Mikey takes a few puffs from his cigarette.

  “Sure, but I don’t want to go a bar or anything, Tommy. I don’t want to be around alcohol.”

  I place my hand on his shoulder.

  “No bars. I completely understand. I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m thinking we eat in Cambridge near Carlos’s. He’s heard me talk about you so much that I figure it’s time you guys meet. He’s been my hang out buddy in Boston these past few months. We’re almost like brothers.”

  “If it’s really important to you, I’d be happy to meet him.”

  “Thanks, Mikey.” I plant a soft kiss on his cheek. “I’ll let Carlos know and make the arrangements. I think his dad and his sister leave on Saturday after Thanksgiving. He’s been pretty down. I think a dinner with us would cheer him up. Maybe we can go somewhere different, some very Boston place that Carlos hasn’t been to.”

  “Anything for you, cutie,” Mikey says, nuzzling my neck outside the bookstore. Que pena! People are smiling at us as they walk by, including Selena as she heads in to start her shift.

  We stand outside in the cold, bitter weather and lean against each other to keep warm. Drivers circle the parking lot like vultures looking for an available spot.

  “What are you going to do now?” I ask him.

  “Whatever you’re doing, cutie. But, I should be headed home soon. I have to work early in the morning.”

  “Want to come over for a little bit?”

  “To your condo?”

  “No, to Miami. Of course, my place. I live five minutes away.”

  “Sure, but I can’t stay too long. I’m curious to see your new home. From what you’ve told me, it’s much bigger than your studio in Cambridge.”

  I explain to Mikey how to get there so he won’t get lost. I notice that he’s tailing my Jeep. He’s been behind me the whole way, waving or making faces whenever I glance in the rear mirror. He does look adorable in his white Volkswagen Rabbit. Mikey is my bunny.

  A few minutes later, we’re stomping our shoes clean of the old chunky snow that litters my building’s parking lot.

  “This looks like an old school house,” Mikey says, eyeing the four-story, red-brick building from top to bottom.

  “Well then, you should feel at home, counselor.”

  From the main entrance, we walk down about five steps to my unit. Once inside, I take his coat along with mine and hang it up in the hallway closet. I give him the grand tour, which takes about thirty seconds.

  Mikey takes it all in and scrutinizes each wall as if he were a tourist in Dorchester.

  “This is really nice. And to think you were complaining about your neighborhood. I’m really impressed, Tommy. Big kitchen. Pergo floors. Did you do these yourself?” he asks, standing in the middle of my living room where posters of Cuba, Miami, and Fort Lauderdale decora
te the sunny, yellow walls.

  “I had the floors done—four Brazilian guys did them for me. I’m not the most handy guy.”

  “I can tell. You missed some spots with your paint job, cutie,” he says, pointing to white spots near the northern wall.

  “Ooops. Pretend you didn’t see that.” I kiss him on the neck.

  “Is this the basement level?” he asks, pointing to the windows in my living room which are slightly below street-level. If someone walked by, you’d see their legs scurry along the window.

  “Well, it’s the A-level, first floor. The street is on a slope so technically, I’m on the lower level.”

  “So you’re on the basement floor then, Tommy?”

  “Well…I wouldn’t say basement level. I would say first floor,” I say, feeling slightly embarrassed that my condo is basically an updated version of the apartment where Laverne and Shirley lived in their ABC sitcom.

  “Okay, I got it. You don’t like to use the B-word. You’re sensitive about the base…okay. I won’t call it that, cutie.”

  “Hey, it was all I could afford for my first home. It’s a fixer-upper. At least it’s a two-bedroom. Want to see the rest of the crib?” Mikey nods and bites down on his tongue.

  I escort him down the hallway. I point out the small second bedroom which is my office. All I have in there is a desk in front of the lonely window, which has bars on it since I am on street level. Across from it is the bedroom, which is painted a light mint-green and accented with white carpeting.

  “I see you have your old sheets from Cambridge.” He points to my comforter, which looks as if it were stitched from squares of primary colors.

  “You remember that?”

  “Of course, I slept on this bed many times with you, especially when I was sick and you took care of me after I drank too much! How could I forget?”

  We stand in the middle of the bedroom, face to face. A dim light from the streetlamp filters into the room, highlighting the stack of novels that I have by my bedside.

  Mikey then looks at my bookshelf and spots the Red Sox baseball cap he gave me on our first date.

  “You still have this?” he says, holding the cap in his hands and marveling at it. He looks up at me with a half smile.

  “Yeah, it was one of my favorite gifts from our time together. Whenever I wore it, I thought about you. I know, cheesy, huh?”

  “Not at all, Tommy. That’s what I’ve always loved about you. You’re so different, funny, sweet, a little goofy. You’re just you.”

  We stand there by the lip of my bed and gaze into each other’s eyes. We kiss—open, closed, on the neck, the chin, and wherever our tongues lead us. I gently grab the soft strands of his hair where it falls behind his neck. My fingers brush and massage it. I softly kiss his eyes, and peck his forehead. I smell the remnants of the caramel from his latte. I graze his cheek with the back of my right hand. We hug tightly.

  We fall onto the bed and explore each other’s bodies like two lost souls who have finally reunited. We slowly remove our clothes. I pull off his T-shirt. He pulls off mine. I lick his freckled shoulders down to his sinewy, lightly hairy arms. I kiss each freckle that I spot. My fingers tickle the small patch of hair on his chest. All of it is familiar and so comfortable, like home. I’m revisiting and reacquainting myself with his body. We roll around on the bed. In the tumble, he swiftly unzips my jeans and yanks them off in one quick motion. I repeat the sequence on him. Naked, we take turns. I’m on top of Mikey, and then he’s perched on my waist. Our hands touch every speck of flesh.

  “Hey, I want to light a candle to make it more special,” I interrupt, rolling over on my side toward the nightstand under the window.

  Mikey starts to laugh.

  “You’re so funny. You always did this, Tommy. Stopping whatever we were doing in bed just so you could light a vanilla candle.”

  “It just adds to the moment,” I say, grabbing the candle, tilting it, and lighting it with a match.

  “You add to the moment, cutie.”

  Once I place the candle back down, it flickers and its soft light outlines our bodies against the wall. It shows Mikey and his beautiful silhouette as he massages my hairy chest. He licks his index finger and traces the outline of my nipples, which unlocks a series of tingles from within me. Our bodies move and flow as one vessel. Over the next hour, we make sweet, tender love.

  When we finish, we lie side by side on my bed. Mikey turns to me.

  “Tommy, do you think we’ll have other nights like this?”

  I lean over on my left elbow, smile, and answer, feeling his hot breath on my face.

  “Of course! But I think I need to stock up on more candles.” We both start to giggle.

  15

  Carlos

  Ay, Papi and Lourdes! Where are they? I’m standing under the blinking blue monitors in Terminal B at Logan waiting for Papi and my sister to come out of the gate. Their plane landed on time. Papi already called me to tell me that the plane was on the ground and heading to the gate. The airport buzzes with activity. It’s the day before Thanksgiving. Lines of people with their tickets in hand snake up and down along the terminal as people wait to check in their luggage. Tommy came with me this late afternoon. He offered to drive so I wouldn’t get lost at the airport and surrounding East Boston. But right now, he’s off looking for something to drink at the newsstand. Que loco! He also made a sign for me to hold up. It reads Los Martins in case Papi and Lourdes don’t spot me first among the crowds of families. I thought the sign was a cute touch.

  Papi and Lourdes haven’t been back to Boston since early summer when we drove from Miami in my car, towing the U-Haul. I don’t know what I have would have done without their help. Lourdes accompanied me to Pier 1 and IKEA where we bought some furniture, dishes, and home furnishings. Papi, ever the handyman, assembled everything. When we weren’t unpacking or organizing my belongings, we had dinners and lunches in Cambridge, which I became familiar with quickly due to all these initial outings. Even without Mami, we felt like a family, sort of. When the three of us are together, it’s as if a leg to our table is missing. We try to stand as one as best as we can, but we’re still a little off somehow. Mami balanced us. After three days, I was settled in, and their jobs were done. They flew back to Miami. I haven’t seen them since—until now. Oh, there’s Papi! He’s waving toward me with one hand while lugging a suitcase with the other. Lourdes spots me, drops her bags, and charges toward me with a big grin.

  “Hey, little brother, good to see you,” she says warmly, giving me a soft hug. Her floral perfume greets me as well.

  “Thanks, Lou,” I call her by her nickname. “You look great! You also lost some weight. We’re going to fatten you up with some Boston Italian food.”

  “I lost weight? Why, thank you. That’s so sweet of you to say. But it looks like you’re the one who really lost a lot of weight, hermanito. You’re thinner than usual, and I can tell you’re still smoking. You smell like a chimney. I don’t understand how you smoke and have asthma. You’re playing with fire.” She twitches her nose to show her disapproval of my habit. I stick my tongue back out at her.

  “It’s the airport. All the smokers are outside, and when they return to the terminal, the smoke follows them. Blame them!” I lamely explain.

  “Yeah, right. You’re like a walking Marlboro Light.” We exchange closed-mouth grins. Ay, Lourdes! The nag has returned.

  I almost forget about Papi who finally reaches us after dragging his suitcase. He looks so cute, with his bald head and his husky body hidden under a thick wool coat. He’s all bundled up, in anticipation of the Boston winter weather. Mami would be laughing at this scene. Papi looks like he lost a little weight, too. Without Mami at home to cook us our fattening Cuban meals, Papi and Lourdes have had to make do with take-out dinners or Lourdes’s subpar cooking—which she thinks is the best. Luckily, Versailles and Miracle Mile aren’t far from the house. I guess we’ve all lost a little weight in the
last year.

  “Carlito!” Papi announces in his macho deep voice. He hugs me with the embrace of a Cuban bear.

  “Hola, Papi! Good to see you!” He messes up my wavy hair.

  “Tienes el pelo mas largo! I used to have hair like that,” he says, commenting on my longer hair. In Miami, my hair was short on top and faded on the sides. Now it’s wavy and bushier on the sides. I think Boston is growing on me because most guys here have their hair unkept and wind-blown, especially the goth kids who skateboard in the pit at Harvard Square.

  “You too!” I say, rubbing Papi’s bald head. It’s like a bowling ball with stubble.

  As we gather their things, Tommy power walks toward us drinking his Diet Coke through a straw.

  “Oye, did I miss the party?” he says with a warm smile. “I figured you were traveling on Cuban time, so I thought you’d be late.”

  I introduce everybody.

  “This is mi amigo Tommy, el loco reporter from Miami.”

  Papi shakes his hand and gives him a manly hug, which catches Tommy by surprise. Lourdes then gives him a hug and a sisterly kiss on the cheek.

  “Mucho gusto, Tommy! Carlito told us a lot about you. It’s always nice to meet another Cubano from Miami,” Papi tells Tommy, patting his shoulder. Sometimes I forget how well Papi speaks English. He’s come a long way. He perfected you from jou.

  “We’re trying to create our own Little Havana in Boston. Give us a few years. Boston will be like la saguesera.” Tommy explains, referring to the area off Calle Ocho in Little Havana. They all laugh, and Lourdes playfully hits his shoulder.

  “Tommy, you’re very funny, not!” she sarcastically teases him.

  “You kind of remind me of my older sister in a way. Did I mention that we’re close, not?”

  Tommy helps Papi with his bag, and I grab Lourdes’s carry-on. She slowly opens a white box that she has been carrying.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I ask, salivating over the succulent aroma.