by Johnny Diaz
I call up the image on my camera and show Papi as we stand in front of the stadium’s west side across from another pizza eatery and sports bar. He looks funny wearing the ski cap to keep his head warm.
“You look like how I did when I was twenty-eight years old, Carlito. Do you know what that means, hijo?”
“Que, Papi?”
He points to himself in the image and laughs.
“That is how you will look in thirty years.” He puts his arm around my shoulder.
“Ay, Papi! Don’t scare me like that,” I groan.
We stroll around the stadium for twenty minutes. Back at the car, Papi thanks me for bringing him here. Seeing Fenway up close made an impression on him. He is moved. I’m glad he enjoyed something other than watching TV and eating on this trip.
“Now I can tell all my friends that my son, el profesor en Boston, took me to Fenway Park, and I will have the photo to prove it!”
“I’ll have this printed before you leave, Papi.” I store my digital camera in my coat pocket.
As I open his door, Papi puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Carlito, I know I am not your Mami, and I know that you do not have fun taking me to places as you did with her. I know we don’t have the best relationship, hijo. But one thing I do know is that I love you even though I don’t always show it. I hope you know that.”
“I know, Papi. I know.” I don’t know what else to say. He smiles and messes up my hair again. I pull his ski cap over his nose.
“Carlos, enjoy that hair. You are my son in many ways and that includes la cabeza.”
“Bueno, hopefully the bald gene skips a generation.” We share a laugh, climb back into the car, and return to Cambridge.
16
Tommy
“Let’s meet at the Barnes & Noble at seven tonight and then head to dinner from there. Carlos is excited to meet you. Call me back. Love you!” I leave a message on Mikey’s voice mail. I haven’t spoken to him since last night when we took a romantic drive along the shore in Scituate and Hingham. We marveled at all the estates that were decorated with Christmas lights. Throughout the drive, we held hands and pointed out the majestic homes that we could imagine ourselves owning one day—if we ever suddenly became as wealthy as the families in these coastal towns.
It’s just past noon on Saturday. I’m standing in the parking lot of the Blue Hills and staring at the granite-filled mini-mountain I am about to tackle. I look around and notice only four other cars here. I put on my ski cap, smushing my curly hair. I look like the Michelin man in my blue puffy jacket, jeans, and sneakers. In the distance, snow covers all the trees in a wintery dandruff. The ground resembles a soft, thin layer of vanilla frosting pocked with twigs and dead leaves. To avoid any slip ups, I begin my hike on the paved trail where runners and other hikers hold their children’s hands or walk their dogs. It’s forty degrees, sunny, and there’s barely a breeze. Perfect!
As I trek on the winding road, my heart hammers, pumping harder with each inclined step. Silence fills the woods, and my thoughts drift back to Carlos’s Thanksgiving dinner with his family. I think this family visit was good for Carlos. He needed time to bond with his father. I don’t share the same awkwardness with my dad as Carlos does with his. My father and I talk about the Red Sox, cars, and my articles, now that he knows how to access them online. Well, with a little help from my sister Mary. Even though my dad knows I’m gay and he’s proud of my accomplishments, I still don’t detail every aspect of my life to him such as going to Club Café with Rico or hanging out with Mikey again. I did tell my parents about Mikey when we first dated. Whenever they asked me what my plans were for that weekend, they always included Mikey. My conversations were mostly about Mikey and me.
That changed when we stopped dating and my mom noticed the sudden singularity of my weekends, which consisted of running along the Charles River, shopping at Cambridgeside Galleria Mall, or checking out open houses. After two weeks, my mom asked me in her loving, concerned, Spanish-accented voice: “Y tu amigo, Mikey? You don’t talk about him no more. Que pasa?” My throat tightened like a pipe. I simply explained, “Oh, he made some other friends. We don’t hang out anymore. That’s Boston, Mami.” She must have read between the lines because she then said something that acted as a balm to my broken heart.
“Bueno, Tommy, that’s not the end of the world, right? You won’t die from that. You’ll make other amigos.” I laughed and absorbed her words because they were so true. She made a lot of sense. I would get over this. It’s just a guy. I felt better about the situation when I saw it through her logic.
I’m halfway up the hill and working up a sweat. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the sleeve of my jacket. My calves and thighs tighten. I breathe harder. I glance all around me and I only see bare trees, ice dripping from their branches. I take in the scene and allow Mother Nature to soothe and relax me. Walking through the hills makes me feel that I’m in another world, far from the brick buildings and subways of Boston. When I hike, I have these desolate woods all to myself. Hiking is my form of meditation, my Blue Hills therapy.
I continue lugging myself up the hill. I wave to a couple and their young daughter as they pass me. I smile at a built older man with salt-and-pepper hair walking his chocolate Labrador. My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Carlos.
“Loco, what are you doing? Are we still on for tonight?”
“Yeah, I left Mikey a message. I’m just here doing my weekly hike. Gotta work out those buns! Anyway, why don’t you come to my place, and we can leave from there and meet up with Mikey.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“And what are you up to? Have you recovered from the Miami invasion?” I say, approaching the steep incline that provides an amazing view of colonial homes in Dedham and Westwood and cars scurrying on Interstate 95.
“I just dropped off my dad and Lourdes at the airport. I think they had a nice visit. I took Lou shopping yesterday at Copley. Let’s just say she took advantage of the no sales tax on clothing incentive in Massachusetts. She had to buy another suitcase for all her clothes.”
“Ha! What about your dad?”
“He had a nice time, but he wanted to get back to the warm weather. He’s not a big fan of the cold. We had some father-and-son quality time, if you can believe that, loco.”
“No way!”
“Way! The highlight of his trip was Fenway Park.”
“See, Carlos, I told you that you guys needed to spend some time alone. I don’t always have to be in the picture.”
Carlos sighs on the other end.
“Ay, loco. I know. You were right. Tommy Perez knows it all. I bow down to you, oh holy Cuban one.”
“You know it! Anyway, let me get back to my hike. I’m almost at the observation tower. It’s hard to talk and hike. I’m out of breath. I may need your asthma inhaler.”
“Okay, see you tonight.”
I reach the observation tower, where other families wearing sweaters and gloves sit on the picnic benches outside the granite tower, which resembles a small fort. I plop myself on one of the ledges and gaze at the view—rolling green hills that seem to go on forever. To the north, I see the John Hancock and Prudential buildings rise into the bright blue sky and dwarf all the small three-and four-story homes and businesses. To the east, a line of planes begin their descent over Quincy and South Boston to land at Logan. The sun warmly kisses my face. My legs swing back and forth like a pendulum. I close my eyes, lean back, and relax. Ahhh!
A few hours later, I’m back in Dorchester, standing in front of my refrigerator where I try to decide between drinking a Diet Coke or a lemon-lime Gatorade. I call Mikey again. I’m forwarded to his voice mail. Hmmm. I leave another message.
“Hey, Mikey. I’m here just getting ready. Carlos and I are going to meet you at the bookstore. I can’t wait. Love you!” I settle for the Diet Coke. As I walk to my living room and plant myself on my blue sofa, I text him a similar message. I wonde
r why he hasn’t called back. Mikey is usually good about that. Maybe he’s at an AA meeting or helping his parents with groceries or something. I’m sure it’s nothing. He’ll be there tonight.
At five o’clock, Carlos pulls into my parking lot. He looks pretty handsome. He wears an olive-green jacket, dark blue jeans, loafers, and a brown scarf around his neck. His brown hair is gelled and styled back. For a second, he looks like a model because of his lanky, lean frame. He catches me watching him through the slits of my Venetian blinds like a peeping Tommy. He makes a silly face at me.
I buzz him in, and he wipes his shoes on my welcome mat, which is a caricature of a Jeep. (It was a gift from the dealership.)
“What’s up, loco!” He greets me with a hug. I smell his Dolce cologne.
“Are you ready?” he says. “I can’t believe I finally get to meet your man, the famous Mikey.”
“Yeah, I’m almost ready. I just need to tame my curls.”
“May I? I’ve wanted to style that head of hair for the longest time, Tommy. It needs an extra touch.”
“Sure, but don’t flatten it out. I like the curls.”
We walk to my bathroom where Carlos rubs some lotion in his hands like a genie about to make a wish come true. His fingers poke through all sides of my hair like Edward Scissorhands. He combs the sides down and the front up.
“Now that’s how you should wear your hair.” I turn around and look in the mirror. My hair looks more groomed. I kinda like it.
“Thanks. Maybe I should call you the shear genius.”
I grab my coat and shoes, and lock the condo doors. We hop into my Jeep and we’re on our way. Ten minutes later, we pull into the bookstore’s parking lot.
“What car does he have again?” Carlos asks, as he gets out of my Jeep.
“A white Volkswagen Rabbit.”
“I don’t see it.”
“He’s probably on his way. I’ll call him again.”
I dial Mikey. His voice mail kicks in again. Something doesn’t feel right.
“Maybe he’s running late, Tommy. Let’s get some coffee and wait inside by the windows. That’s how we can see him when he pulls in.”
With our hot chocolate and espresso, Carlos and I grab the latest Entertainment Weekly and Latina magazines. We settle into a café table by the window that faces the parking lot and incoming traffic. My eyes train on every car that pulls in. A Ford Focus. A Toyota Camry. A Mazda van. No Rabbit. No Mikey.
We wait for twenty minutes. No sign of Mikey. No returned calls either.
“Oye, maybe something happened. You spoke to him today, right?” Carlos says, blowing the steam off his cup.
“Actually, I couldn’t get through to him. I left him several messages. We agreed during the week that we would have dinner tonight.”
“Bueno, let’s wait a little longer. There could be traffic or something where he lives.”
Two cups of hot chocolate later, I begin to grow restless. A mix of anger, concern, and frustration alternate inside me. Where is Mikey? Carlos senses all of this. “How about calling him one more time?”
I agree, and do so, but his voice mail kicks in. I leave another message.
“I’m sorry about this. I don’t know what happened,” I tell Carlos.
“No worries. It’s not your fault, but I think it’s kind of lame that Mikey did this to you. You realize he stood us up, don’t you? That’s not cool.”
I hear Carlos’s words, but I don’t quite believe them. Mikey wouldn’t stand me and my friend up. Or would he?
“Bueno, let’s get out of here and get something to eat,” Carlos suggests in a cheery voice. “You can deal with Mikey whenever he calls back. So tonight, it’s just a party of two. We can catch a movie after dinner.”
As we get up to leave, my eyes continue to lock on to every car that pulls in, but I don’t see what I want to see. I wonder what happened to Mikey. More importantly, why would he do this to me? Disappointment crumples my heart. My face reddens with humiliation.
Amazingly, it’s a rare sixty degrees today. Mother Nature is teasing us like a seductive temptress. Global warming? Who knows! It was thirty degrees yesterday, and it’s double that today. This is cause for celebration before the warm weather vanishes along with the afternoon’s light. I decide to take advantage of this with a good run in my neighborhood and Milton. I grab my iPod and step into a pair of black sweatpants, a matching hoodie, and hiking sneakers. I emerge from my dim, lower-level condo into the brightness of the afternoon. Ahh. This is more like it. I deeply inhale the nice cool air and walk the five steps down to the street level from the lobby. Once there, I flex my legs up and down to warm up for my run. I still haven’t heard back from Mikey about last night’s botched dinner plans. Carlos and I had a great dinner at Acapulco’s restaurant in Quincy. After stuffing our stomachs to their limits, we then rented Scarface. The entire night, Carlos and I impersonated Tony Montana. Jou cockroach! Say halo to my little friend! That’s another reason for this run: to burn off the quesadillas and the two bowls of tortilla chips that I consistently munched on at the restaurant. But this run will also serve to distract my mind a little bit. I must admit, I’ve been obsessing about what happened or didn’t happen with Mikey. I’m still unclear. Jerk!
I begin running along the bike trail that connects Boston to Milton and where the little orange subway trolley centipedes to and from the Ashmont T stop. It’s the same trolley that wakes me up whenever it rumbles by early in the morning to ferry the office workers and blue-collar employees from Milton and Mattapan to downtown. Joggers dot the bike trail in full force, enjoying this spring-like anomaly. They wave to me as I pass them. As my heart pumps, so does the music from my iPod. Shania Twain and Dolly Parton sing about broken hearts; Gloria Estefan and some Shakira make my hips want to shake and shimmy. With each beat, I move faster and pick up the pace. A film of sweat beads on my forehead, and I wipe it off with the back of my sleeve. As my hair bounces with each step (I feel like one of Charlie’s Angels when I run…perhaps Sabrina, the smart one), I pass the old red-bricked chocolate factories on my right. Bustling Milton Square sits above me. When a trolley chugs by, I try and race it, but it eventually outruns me. I slow down as I approach the stretch along the Neponset River where it breaks and flows east toward Quincy and Dorchester Bay. My sneakers splash against the puddles of melting snow that flank the trail.
My mind replays the same thoughts the same way a scratched CD abruptly skips. I have two stories to write this week. One focuses on the lack of bilingual Hispanic on-air talent on Boston TV news stations. (There are only two Latinos on English-language news outlets. Que pasa, Boston? In Miami, it’s the complete opposite.) The other story I am about to embark on involves a behind-the-scenes look at the Make-A-Wish Foundation and how it wields its magic to make wishes come true for sick kids. I’m looking forward to that one. It’s one of my feel-good features that everyone will relate to, but more importantly, I am highlighting the work of the unsung heroes, the wish-granters who volunteer their time to give these kids some spiritual medicine. On Saturday, I’ll drive to Gillette Stadium and watch a ten-year-old boy with leukemia as his wish comes true—meeting Patriots quarterback Tom Brady after a game. His wish-granter coordinated with the Patriots organization so that the boy can have season tickets to all the home games. Talk about a wish that keeps on scoring! I smile at the mental image of the boy sitting in the stands watching the Patriots play.
As I continue my run, my heart pumps harder, like the pistons in my Jeep. I run up the trolley stop’s stairs to Milton Square and head west toward Eliot Street, a quiet idyllic neighborhood street where rows of lovely Victorian, colonial, and clapboard homes sit on perched granite foundations. Mostly Volvo station wagons and expensive brand-name SUVs fill the driveways. When one crosses from my Dorchester neighborhood to these parts, even though it’s only two blocks, the housing prices spike thirty percent. Go figure! This neighborhood is out of my reach, like Cambridge was mo
re than a year ago.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text message from Mikey. I stop in front of a renovated tripledecker that has beautifully decorative pines sculpted in the shape of cones. I catch my breath and read the message.
Cutie, I’m so sorry about last night. I was sick at the hospital. Call me when you get this. Love you!
I reread the message a few times, and questions immediately invade my thoughts. Why didn’t he at least call to say he was sick? He seemed fine the other night. Why is he text-messaging me and not calling me? We confirmed these plans all week, and he knew how important this was to me. Why would he blow me off? I delete the message and continue my run. I blow off some more steam and run harder, my feet pounding against the pavement. My legs throb, and my breathing quickens. After I reach Blue Hill Avenue, I turn around on Eliot Street and sprint back toward Milton Square. A few minutes later, I scoot down the stairs on the trolley stop in Milton and run down the bike path at full speed. I pass the colorful mural of butterflies, bees, and frogs painted on the wall that hugs the bike path. I pass my building on the left and continue toward the drawbridge a mile away. With the trolley tracks on my right and the overpass above me, I pass the small rolling fields of sawgrass that ribbons the bike trail before stopping at the rusted red bridge at Granite Avenue. Once there, I’m winded, completely wiped out. I bend over and grab my knees to catch my breath. I trudge toward the wooden benches that local fishermen use during their breaks from casting their lines. I receive another text message. It’s Mikey again.
Call me. I’m so sorry. We need to talk. I want to make this up to you. Love you, cutie.
I delete this one too. I decide to slowly stroll back along the dirt trail to my condo. Anger and confusion roil inside me, just as they did the other night.
Fifteen minutes later, I reach my condo, and I’m surprised to find Mikey sitting on the cracked cement steps outside my building. He holds a bouquet of white carnations and a six-pack of Diet Coke. He smiles when he sees me. I’m not that happy to see him though.