by Johnny Diaz
“Yo, Mr. M! I’m gonna play video games with my cousins. I have eight of them. My family comes over for Christmas, and we have this enormous dinner with turkey, rice, cranberry sauce, sweet potato pie, pumpkin pie, and…”
“That sounds delicious,” I interrupt before he rattles off the entire menu at Boston Market. “Maybe you can save me a plate.”
“What are you going to do for Christmas, Mr. M?” Leroy asks, followed by similar inquiries from other students. Everyone leans in and suddenly focuses on me. I never thought I was that interesting, but my students always seem more intrigued with my personal life than English literature. I don’t think they know I’m gay. I don’t share that part of my life with them.
“Well, I’m going to Miami to visit my family. It’ll just be my sister, my dad, and me. Nothing too big or fancy. We’re low-key.”
“And what about your mom?” asks Blanca, one of my Dominican students who has a hard time focusing in class. I suspect she has ADHD.
“My mom passed away a little over a year ago. So, it’s just the three of us.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Martin,” Christa pipes in.
The rest of the class awws.
“That sucks,” Pedro says. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay. Really. Our holiday will be simple. Probably not much different than your typical gathering.”
After collecting the papers, I stand in front of the class and announce my Christmas gift to them.
“Now that I have your complete attention, we need to discuss your next assignment.” The entire class groans and I hear, “What?” and “Huh?” and “Another assignment?” and “Dang!”
“Yes! I have a homework assignment for you for winter break, and you absolutely must complete it. I don’t want to hear any excuses. Got it?”
“Ah, c’mon, Mr. Martin, give us a break!” Leroy pleads.
“But you’re going to enjoy this and thank me later.”
“But, Mr. Martin, it’s Christmas!” Sue says, combing her long strands of blonde hair.
“Now listen, class!”
More groans. I better get to my point before I have a mutiny in Dorchester.
“Your assignment is…” I tease them. More groans and grunts. I love making them squirm.
“To have a great holiday and to enjoy yourselves. I was just kidding. There’s no assignment. That’s my gift.”
The class exhales in relief. Some students laugh.
“That wasn’t very funny, Mr. Martin,” Pedro scolds me.
“I had you guys going, didn’t I?”
The bell rings, and everyone scatters to head home. I lean against the edge of my desk where some students drop off gifts for me. I thank them and smile. I open some of the gift bags, and I find envelopes with $5 and $10 gift cards to Dunkin’ Donuts and Starbucks. I’m moved. Many of my kids come from low-income homes. Their parents would have better use for this money than buying me gifts. One of the gift cards is for Boston Market. I bet Tommy would like that. The gifts are nice gestures, but what matters most is the thought behind them. A simple “Happy New Year” would have been good enough. My students show their appreciation for me when I least expect it.
I wave good-bye to everyone and wish them a happy holiday. By the time the students have vacated, a small mound of cards pile on my desk. As much as my job feels like never-ending work, I know I’ll miss these kids over the next two weeks. I’ll miss how Leroy doodles or how Pedro is always the first to raise his hand. I also enjoy hearing their stories about their weekend outings and their families. Grading their papers allows me to peek into their little lives. Whenever I say good-bye to them at the end of the week, I imagine what kind of adults and professionals they’ll grow up to be.
This was my last class of the day, so I gather some of the essays and paperwork and shove them into my brown backpack. I clear the blackboard, pull down the window shades, and arrange my desk in order. Before I lock the door, I stare at the empty classroom for a few seconds. I grin and then flick off the lights.
Juanita, my colleague, spots me outside my door.
“Well, Carlos, you survived your first half of the school year. You’re still coming back after the new year, right?” She tilts her head and gives me a quizzical glance with a half smirk.
“Of course! Where else would I go? Besides, imagine what my kids will give me at the end of the school year. Look at all these gift cards!” I hold up the bag of cards. We’re standing in front of my door, down from the rows of abused and slightly rusted school lockers. The students are long gone. Only the voices of fellow teachers and custodians fill the corridors.
“In the past we’ve had new teachers disappear right after the winter break. I don’t want that to happen with you, you hear?” she scolds me in her sassy but well-meaning tone.
“Oh, I’ll be back, for sure. If not, who will watch my class when I need a cigarette break five times a day?” She playfully smacks my shoulder.
“Now don’t get me started on that bad habit of yours. Now go on and have a nice time in Miami with your family. I’m sure they miss you. As for me, I’m off to Jamaica to visit my sisters and brother. I need to get my color back,” she says, her fingers grazing her beautiful chocolate skin.
We hug and wish each other a Merry Christmas.
“See you next year, Carlos! Bring me back some of that Miami sun and get back some of your Cuban color. I know Cubans aren’t that white.” Juanita walks away with bags of student gifts.
“Happy New Year to you, too!”
With my backpack flung on my right shoulder and my bag of gifts in hand, I walk down the cracked steps of the school and saunter two blocks to the subway stop in Fields Corner. I normally drive, but my car was literally frozen in the street this morning. My tires were wedged into blocks of ice from the recent freezing weather and snowfall. I didn’t have time to de-ice all four of my tires. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have known how to do that, something to add to my Things To Learn In Boston list. So I rode the subway, a direct trip from Porter Square on the Red Line. I need to do this more often because when I ride the “T,” I feel more integrated into Boston city life. I’m surrounded by the colorful cast of characters who make up this town. I enjoy watching people flow in and out of the subway on their way to who knows where.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on the hard plastic seating of the inbound Red Line car. High above the other passengers are display ads for beer. Along the paneled walls, posters offer cash for anyone brave and desperate enough to volunteer to take part in obscure medical experiment studies. More ads promise quick classes to learn to speak English, Spanish, or Chinese. The fluorescent lights flicker whenever the subway picks up speed. An electronic voice announces that we’re approaching South Station. I sit back. My feet are flat against the black linoleum floor. I grab the Daily that someone left on the seat next to me, and I begin to read it when a loud feminine voice with a lisp booms overhead and interrupts me.
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Tommy Perez’s amigo, Carlos? I’m absolutely positive it’s you because I never ever forget a cute new face.” I crane my neck up and see this giant of a man with short, loose, dirty blonde curls and a face that resembles a male version of actress Rebecca Romijn. Ay no! I recognize the guy. It’s Kyle, the guy Tommy wrote about a few months ago for being the model on The Real World Boston season. He’s the guy who now uses his fifteen minutes of fame for good by being a spokesman for HIV awareness. He’s the guy who stands out in a crowd because he is so tall and muy loud, as he’s being now. He’s the guy everyone knows as “K-Y” because of a messy threesome episode with K-Y Jelly on the TV show. He’s also the guy sucking my space right now. I have nowhere to run.
“Hola, K-Y, ah I mean, Kyle! Yes, I’m Carlos. We met briefly at Club Café one night. Good memory! How’s it going?” Kyle takes my inquiry as an invitation to sit down next to me and chat. His lean model figure squishes into the seat and me. He folds his long, lanky right leg ove
r his left and places his hands on top of his knees like a proper lady.
“Well, things are fabulous! I have some fun events coming up. I’ll be the host of the White Fiesta fund-raiser in Miami later this month. Second time in a row! You must go! But right now, I’m on my way to my next project at the Make-A-Wish Foundation offices.”
“Make-A-Wish? Is that a catering company?”
Kyle laughs loudly, which makes his head bob back and his loose curls shake. Other passengers, plugged into their white iPod headphones, immediately shoot annoyed looks our way when Kyle laughs. Ay, que pena! How soon can I get off this train?
“No, darling. It’s a nonprofit group that makes wishes come true for sick children. I’m going to be a volunteer. I have a training session this afternoon. I thought I could lend some of my celebrity to the organization, you know, so they can raise more money.”
“Oye, that’s great. Anything to help sick kids. It sounds like you have a lot going on since your reality TV days. I read Tommy’s story on you.” I hold onto the metal support bar to my left as the subway car rocks and rattles to a halt at South Station.
“I remember Tommy mentioned you were a teacher. Have you ever thought about volunteering? I bet you’d be good at it.” He blinks at me, a flirtatious Minnie Mouse in the flesh.
Kyle leans in closer and stares at me with his big blue eyes as if he’s trying to put me into a trance with his looks. But it doesn’t work. Although he’s cute in a pretty-boy model sort of way, he’s also a giant ham, which I don’t like. I also don’t believe in reality television or the wannabe celebrity of the contestants. Why would anyone put their dirty laundry on national television, especially in a threesome episode that involved gobs of lube? Ay no! It’s not my thing. I don’t like the spotlight or attention. What I do is about my students, not about me. I believe people should help others simply to help them, not to boost their careers or public profile. Tommy can be a little like this at times, but he also has a goofy charm, which I find endearing. And besides, his stories do inform the public about what Hispanics are doing in Boston, so I don’t hold his ham factor against him when he starts to brag about his latest article. Tommy is proud and passionate about his writing. It’s who he is, and I accept that about mi amigo.
“I’m so busy with school and mentoring that I never really thought about volunteering. I have a lot on my plate as it is.”
“Well, we could always use cute Cubanos like yourself with Make-A-Wish or with the AIDE AIDS organization here in the city. We need to do more outreach with the Boston Hispanic community. Here’s my card. Think about it. If you want to help make a difference in the community, just call me. Or, ahem, if you want to volunteer your time one on one with moi, then definitely call me and you can teach me a lesson or two. My cell is scribbled on the back of the card.” He winks in an exaggerated way and hands me his card, which has a photo of himself with a big smile and wearing a tight blue shirt with three buttons open. Kyle’s contact information fills the card’s backside.
“Um, okay. I’ll think about it. Maybe when things slow down in the spring or summer when I’m on break. But right now, I have too much going on.”
“Fabulous, papi chulo! Just consider it. That’s all I ask,” says Kyle, three inches from my face. I smell his cherry Chapstick. He’s so girly.
The subway screeches to a stop and its doors slide open. Gracias a dios! Passengers scramble in and out like an urban herd. Another minute and Kyle would have slipped me his tongue, and I would have had my face and hands plastered against the glass windows screaming for help.
“This is my stop, Carlos. Call me! Buh-bye,” he says before giving me a double air kiss. He waves and begins to step off the subway. “Oh, and tell your amigo Tommy to call me. I think I have a story idea for him.”
I softly grin and wave back. Kyle disappears into the crowd of riders moseying on the platform.
The train slowly starts to rumble again toward Cambridge. When it crosses over the Charles River, I stand up, lean against the metal support pole, and take in the majestic scene. Brownstones rise in Beacon Hill like small brick dollhouses. Small boats dot the river. I pull out some of the gift cards that my students gave me and I smile. Leroy, Christa, Sue, Pedro, Blanca, and almost all my students gave me something. They are small gifts that mean so much. My heart bursts with pride. Boston continues to grow on me. The more time I spend here, the more I feel this is mi hogar. I have my students, my job, a good friend and a decent apartment. I think about what Kyle said about volunteering, and I start to wonder what I can do to help the community, my community. I think of Dr. Bella’s words from the other day. “You should find a way to honor your mother’s spirit,” she said. As the train forges ahead, so do my thoughts.
20
Tommy
Project MA (Mikey Ambush) is about to begin, and it’s going down at the Barnes & Noble tonight. He’s meeting me here for our usual latte/hot chocolate. I dial Carlos on my cell and fill him in on the plan.
“Hey! Mikey is on his way to the bookstore. Can you stop by? He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“Ay dios mio! I’m on my way. I can’t wait to finally meet this guy. I’ll make it look completely natural.”
“You better!”
“I promise, loco.”
I flip my cell phone closed and sit by the window that faces the parking lot where the fumes from the idling cars curl into the air. It’s about seven o’clock so Mikey should be here any minute. The after-work rush of professional suburban yuppies descends on the café for coffee, desserts, and newspapers.
To pass time, I roam around the magazine stands and browse Consumer Reports and look up my Jeep Wrangler’s model. It ranks below average on reliability. Hmmm. I look up Mikey’s Volkswagen Rabbit and it gets a big check mark for “recommended.” As I study the car’s specs and features, which have grown on me since Mikey showed me his car, I hear a friendly, familiar, Boston accent that makes the hairs on my forearms rise in a good way.
“Hey, cutie!”
I turn around and see Mikey standing behind me. We hug and pop kiss. His light scruff on his face rubs and tickles my cheek.
“Good to see you, bunny!”
“Bunny?” he asks with a tight-lipped grin.
“Well, if I am going to be your Cuban bear, you can be my bunny. Got that, Roger Rabbit?”
“You’re so cute, Tommy. I’m going to get some coffee. Can I get you something, like a bowl of honey since you’re a bear?”
“Nah. Just the usual.”
“But there’s no Diet Coke here.”
“I meant what I usually get here. A hot chocolate. Low fat.”
Mikey heads to the café counter, and I grab our usual table by the window. I keep an eye out for Carlos’s beat-up Toyota Camry. I hope he doesn’t get lost. The guy is horrible with directions. I can’t imagine how he got around in Miami. He still confuses Dorchester with Roxbury and Mattapan, and Back Bay with the South End. They all look alike to a degree, but still. When I first moved to Boston, I got lost so many times that whenever I got lost, I recognized the street from a previous lost encounter. I learned Boston by getting lost. I should write a story about that.
A few minutes later, Mikey returns, cradling our drinks and carefully walking toward me as if he were carrying a tray of fine china. He sets down the two cups, and our eyes lock throughout the entire process. I look away momentarily and grin and I catch my reflection in the glass window. Mikey then takes off his bulky North Face green hoodie and wraps it around the back of his chair. We chat about our day.
“We had a holiday party for the kids at school. Rick, our physical education coach, dressed up as Santa. I came as an elf,” Mikey says, blowing the steam off his coffee. He pulls out his elf hat from his jacket and wears it for me.
“Aww. You were an elf? I bet you were the cutest one there!” I reach over and wrap my fingers around his.
“Well, I definitely wasn’t the shortest one. Our librarian an
d two teacher’s aides, who are in their early twenties, also played elves. You’d think we were extras from Lord of the Rings or something. I think we looked more like hobbits than elves.”
“I’m sure you guys looked great and the kids appreciated it. We don’t do anything like that at the Daily. I’m not really close to anyone there. Everyone is in their own world. It’s not like when I worked at The Miami News when we had a potluck lunch and Secret Santa. It’s a different work environment, more conservative than Miami. To each his own. Boston!”
“So no one gave you anything at work?” Mikey’s bright blue eyes bore into mine. He still has the elf hat on, which pushes his brown straight hair down into bangs.
“Just professional holiday cards from business associates and publicists whose clients I’ve written stories about. It’s no big deal. It’s work, not family or friends.”
“Well, I bet Santa will make up for that with lots of gifts when you go home. Your family is probably really excited that you’re coming.”
“They are! It’s Noche Buena, a big party with a pig. We call him Pepe.”
Mikey sticks out his tongue and bites down.
“Carlos is also headed to Miami. I feel bad for him. It’ll be the first Christmas without his mom.”
“Poor guy. That can’t be easy. Maybe I’ll meet him when you guys get back and we can go out to dinner or something.”
“Actually, that might happen sooner than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can meet him right now. I think he just walked in through the door, which is strange because he doesn’t live around here,” I say, squinting my eyes to focus on Carlos who is standing by the store’s entrance and scanning the place.
“He’s here?” Mikey asks. His face is full of panic and discomfort. Maybe he’s constipated or the coffee hit him in the wrong spot.
“Yeah, he just walked in. What a surprise!” I improvise.
I get up and wave to Carlos. He spots me and walks gingerly toward us.
I look back at Mikey who resembles a bird that wants to fly away but whose wings are clipped. Sweat begins to form on his forehead, and his thin, light brown eyebrows furrow. What’s going on with him?