Beantown Cubans

by Johnny Diaz

  “Okay, Carlito.” I carefully gather my keepsakes and place them on Papi’s nightstand table where their wedding photo sits under a lamp. He then helps me fold and pack some of the clothing into boxes for donation. After an hour, the bed is clear. We’re done.

  “Gracias, hijo. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  I hug my father as if I were hugging both my parents.

  “I love you, Papi. I know I haven’t always shown it, but I do. I have missed you more than you know. I’m so sorry for not being of more help around here and for pushing you away all these years. I should have stayed in Coral Gables with you and Lourdes.”

  Papi gently pulls away from the embrace and firmly plants his hands on my shoulders.

  “You left to find a new life. Don’t ever apologize for that,” he says sternly. “You made a new home and found a new job. You did what you had to do, and I am very proud of you, Carlito, especially now, more than ever. I know your Mami is very proud of you too.”

  We stand here in the bedroom, the place where we lost Mami, but where my father and I found our way back to each other.

  26

  Tommy

  “Welcome to Casa Perez!” I greet Carlos, as he walks up to my parents’ house in mid-Miami Beach.

  “Loco, this is a beautiful neighborhood. I passed all these mansions off Pine Tree Drive to get here.” We hug at the front door.

  “That’s why my dad bought this little house…the neighborhood! Ricky Martin lives three blocks away. Jennifer Lopez’s waterfront estate is not far either. This was a little fixer-upper that he bought with all the tips from his years of working at the restaurant. This is my dad’s castle.”

  Once inside, I give Carlos a quick tour of the house. We cross into the dining room where Mary sits at the dinner table. She’s online looking up real estate foreclosures. She wants to buy her own condo. I introduce them.

  “So nice to meet you, Carlos. Tomas tells me that you teach high school, too,” she says, getting up from the dining chair and hugging him.

  “Yeah, one of the urban schools in Boston.”

  “How do you like it?” Mary says, settling back into her chair.

  “It’s been an adjustment from teaching at Braddock High in Kendall, but the kids are pretty good. Not too many behavorial problems.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.” Mary turns around from her chair and tucks her short, dark brown strands of straight hair behind her ears. She has a pixie cut. “One of my students was suspended for writing on the board that I like—well, I won’t use such foul, disgusting language, but it wasn’t very appropriate. Once I find myself a rich husband, I’m quitting my teaching job and traveling the world,” Mary says, with an air of Latin royalty. My sister believes she’s a lost princess, waiting for a prince to come and rescue her from this ordinary life. She lets out a big sigh. I stand behind her chair and gesture to Carlos that my sister resides in la-la land with Snow White and friends.

  “Sorry to hear that, Mary. At least they arrested your student,” Carlos says, looking at the framed pictures of fruits in our dining room.

  “Thank God, they did. I gave him an F. Anyhoo, welcome to our little house.” Her eyes return to her laptop and real estate search. Carlos tightly grins as I lead him to room number two: the kitchen. We catch my mother swaying and swirling by herself to the music of Shakira. Her back is turned, and she doesn’t notice us right away.

  “Ahem, Ma. This is my amigo Carlos, from Boston. Carlos, this is my mother, Gladys.”

  Mami turns around and flashes her big smile and says “Hola.” She then rushes toward Carlos, grabs his hand, and starts dancing with him. Carlos looks at me, unsure of what to do.

  “Very nice to meet you. Now baila, chico, baila!” she commands Carlos, who looks surprised. He lets my mom lead the way as if he had a choice. They stomp two steps forward, then two steps back. They swish to the left and sashay to the right. Carlos looks like he is trying to kill invisible roaches instead of dance. He starts giggling. I like seeing him like this.

  “You go, Carlos! Kill those cucarachas even though you can’t see them,” I humor him. “Okay, Ma. Leave him alone. He just got here.”

  “Now I know who inspired your essay for ‘A Cup of Cuban Comfort,”’ Carlos says, his eyebrows perking up. Shakira continues singing, rolling her Rs like she has a speech impediment.

  My mom twirls him one more time toward me and releases him. She continues to dance with an invisible partner.

  “Quieres Coca Cola de dieta, Carlos? We have plenty,” she says, opening the refrigerator and unveiling rows of the soda’s silver cans. She maintains her beat the whole time.

  “No gracias. Maybe later but thank you Señora Perez.”

  “Y flan? You will like my flan!” From the refrigerator, she pulls out a plate topped with the large, sweet, golden dome of a flan. She holds it up to Carlos’s face so he can smell it.

  “I’m not that hungry right now. How about in a little while?” Carlos says, doing his best to be polite. In Latin households, it’s hard to say no to food when the host insists on sharing.

  “Okay. I will save you a slice. Nuestra casa es tu casa. Feliz Navidad!” My mother closes the refrigerator door and continues dancing, clapping her hands to each beat of the conga rhythm.

  As we leave the kitchen, I softly tell Carlos, “Okay, so that’s my mom. Let’s go before she drags us into a conga line.” We pass Mary in the dining room again as I lead Carlos to our A-shaped roofed living room, which opens to our sun-filled Florida room. My father is there watching an old John Wayne western on AMC.

  “Pa, this is mi amigo Carlos, de Boston.” My father slowly gets up from his brown leather recliner and shakes Carlos’s hand. The room has two recliners and a small sofa that faces a large television. Each wall has a group shot of our family.

  “Bienvenido, Carlos! How do you like Boston? Very cold, no?” Papi sits back down and adjusts his Florida Marlins baseball cap, which hides his thick, gray, curly hair.

  “Ay, very cold but not too bad. I’m surviving.”

  “Do you live near Tommy?”

  “Ah no. I live in Cambridge.”

  “Oh, Tommy used to live there. You are in his old barrio.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Want to watch a western? They are my favorite movies. John Wayne. Clint Eastwood.” My dad points to his DVD collection of classic westerns that line the top of the TV set.

  I interrupt and save Carlos.

  “Pa, we’re gonna go to Lincoln Road soon, so maybe we’ll watch a Western later.” Carlos thanks me with his eyes. They shake hands again, and Papi returns to his John Wayne marathon. As we walk toward my bedroom, the sound of gunfire thunders from the Florida room TV set.

  “Your parents are so cute, Tommy. You look just like your father, but you act like your mother. I can see where you get your ticks from. You have a sweet family, chico,” Carlos says as we walk on the creaking wooden floors that line the entire house. When we arrive at my bedroom, I sit at my desk, and Carlos lies down on my twin bed. He props his head with a pillow.

  “And your sister reminds me of Lourdes. Not in looks but in personality. I bet they would get along. Maybe Lou can help your sister find a condo or something. She could use the extra business.”

  “That’s a good idea, Carlos.” As we talk about our Noche Buenas, Ceci, my white cat, pokes her head through an opening in the door and meows. She prances in. She looks up at me with her big brown eyes and then leaps onto my bed. She licks Carlos’s arm.

  “She’s so beautiful!”

  “And she knows it. She’s a big whore. She goes with anyone who pets her.” As Ceci’s white bushy tail curls up in front of Carlo’s face and tickles him, he laughs.

  “So what’s new with Mikey? Have you heard from him?”

  “He sent me a text message wishing me a Merry Christmas and telling me how much he loves and misses me.”

  “And how do you feel about
that, loco?”

  I lean back in my chair and prop my feet on the edge of the bed near Ceci. I exhale sharply.

  “I miss him too, but it’s nice being home. I needed this break from him. I’ll figure out what to do about Mikey when I get to Boston. Right now, I just want to disconnect from Boston, work, and him. Actually, the whole experience inspired me to write a short story.”

  Carlos massages Ceci’s thick coat. Her tail sails in his face.

  “Yeah? About what?”

  “On the plane, I wrote a story about three guys who meet up every Thursday at Club Café, kind of like a same Sex and the City but in Boston. One of the guys is a Cuban writer from Miami who has a hot Italian friend. The Cuban guy ends up falling for a blue-eyed teacher who has drinking issues.”

  “Hmm. Sounds familiar, Tommy. Where do you get your material from?” he taunts.

  “I don’t know. It just comes to me. Anyway, I wrote a continuation of the story this morning, like another chapter but through the point of view of the Italian stud character. The story is writing itself.”

  “Is there a nice Cuban teacher from Miami in this story?” Carlos asks, sitting up with Ceci in his lap. He rubs her stomach, and she purrs like the feline slut that she is.

  “Um, no. That could be another story. Actually, I think I can make this story into a book.”

  “That’s a great idea, Tommy. There aren’t a lot of gay novels about Hispanics. You’d do a great job. What would you call this?”

  I lean in closer to Carlos and whisper, “Boys of Boston!”

  “I love it! Hit it!” Carlos taps me on the arm like a little kid. “I’d read it! I think this could be very good for you, like therapy. Writing my thoughts down in a journal has helped me deal with my mother’s loss and my issues with my father.”

  “Thanks, chico. I’m just seeing where the writing takes me. So how was your day with your father?”

  Carlos takes in a deep breath before he recounts his day. He looks down at Ceci as he speaks. Behind him and above my bed is one of my front page stories from The Miami News that Papi framed for me.

  “We spent the afternoon going through Mami’s things. We’re donating her clothing to charity. It was so hard doing that. I hope you and your sister never have to do that, but we got through it. We did it together. I’ve been feeling a lot closer to my dad lately. I think this is the project my mother told me about in a recent dream.” Carlos then looks up with a half grin.

  I grab Ceci from him and coddle her in my arms like a baby. She continues her loud purring. Carlos sits up on my bed.

  “It’s great that you guys are bonding. He’s your only parent. You guys should be much closer than you’ve been.”

  “I know and we’re getting there. From now on, I’m going to do my best to spend more quality time with Papi. I believe that is what Mami has been telling me all along. Even Dr. Solis suggested that.”

  As we talk, I hear a gentle knock on my door. It’s my mother, and I tell her to come in.

  She opens the door, and the bang bang bang of Western gunfire spills into my room from the TV. My mother appears with a sweet smile, holding two plates with slices of flan. She also brought two cans of Diet Coke.

  “You cannot leave Miami until you eat my flan, Carlos.” She hands him his plate, a spoon, and a Diet Coke.

  “Gracias, Señora Perez.’’

  “Ay niño, call me Gladys!”

  She then hands me my plate and kisses the top of my head.

  “Enjoy!” she says, waving goodbye and strutting back into the hallway to her own beat.

  Carlos folds his legs like a human pretzel. We dive into our flans.

  “Thanks for having me over, Tommy. I feel like I’m home here,” he says, taking a pull from the soda.

  “You’re welcome anytime,” I say, watching Ceci leap out of my lap and onto the bed where she tries to lick Carlos’s flan.

  “Hey, want to go out later? I bet there’ll be a lot of people on Lincoln Road tonight,” I say with the pitch of a salesman. I take a sip from my soda.

  “But it’s Christmas. Who goes out on Christmas? Isn’t that like blasphemous or something?”

  I lean in closer to Carlos.

  “Dude, this is Miami. After everyone eats and exchanges gifts, they go out and party. What better way to celebrate the holiday than by getting dressed up and hitting the town? I can lend you some clothes so you won’t have to drive back to your dad’s house in Coral Gables.”

  “Ah, you mean, your Costco brand of jeans and shirts? I think I’d rather drive back to the house and change clothes.”

  I glare at Carlos and feign offense. I then hold up Ceci in front of my face as if she were speaking for me.

  “Don’t knock it until you try it. Seriously, we’ll go out and have fun. I know exactly what you should wear.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll wear your clothes. Want to go in my Papi’s car? He let me take his beloved Chevy Impala, which is a gift in itself,” Carlos offers, taking Ceci back and holding her in his arms.

  “I’ve got a better idea. We’ll go in my ride.”

  “Your ride? What are you talking about, loco?”

  “You’ll see. It’s how I get around in Miami Beach when I visit.”

  27

  Carlos

  It’s 10 o’clock, or I think it is. I can’t tell because my watch is shaking so much from the ride. Wearing matching black helmets, Tommy and I are bouncing along Pine Tree Drive on his Vespa. Yes, a Vespa.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Tommy shouts from the front seat of the scooter, which sounds like a buzzing chainsaw gone wild.

  “Yeah, if you like to eat bugs,” I shout back, bugs splattering the front of my helmet.

  “This is the best way to get around South Beach. You always find parking in a Vespa.”

  “Um, I’ll take your word for it. Just focus on the driving!” I yell, as sports cars and SUVs whoosh by us on Dade Boulevard. We pass the convention center on the left and Miami Beach High School on the right. As we approach the Holocaust Memorial, Tommy hangs a sharp left by the giant green hand that extends into the sky. I remember when I went on a field trip there with my students and they got to meet real Holocaust survivors who were there for a special presentation. Straight ahead is Meridian Avenue and Lincoln Road. A few minutes later, he pulls into a spot in front of David’s Café. We dismount the white Vespa. We made it in one piece.

  “See, wasn’t that fun? We got here in less than ten minutes.”

  “Yeah…fun!” I say sarcastically. I remove my helmet, which has flattened my wavy hair. In the reflection of the restaurant’s windows, I fix my hair and spike it up.

  With our helmets in hand, we stroll on Lincoln Road, passing the Starbucks, boutiques, and outdoor café tables. Tommy was right. The strip is packed with tanned, sculpted men who seem to secretly want to be international models. Women and their artificial bulging cleavages bounce by as if they just left an open casting call for the Pussycat Dolls or a Spanish telenovela. We stop at Score bar and grab one of the smaller outdoor tables. We set our Vespa helmets on the chairs across from us.

  A manboy bartender takes our drink orders and then disappears into the club with its pounding dance music.

  “Isn’t this great? The warm tropical air. The swaying coconut palms. If we were in Boston right now, we’d be bundled up in our coats buried in snow,” Tommy says, leaning back in his chair and taking in the scene.

  “Yeah, this is kind of nice, Tommy. Good job, loco! Who knew so many people went out on Christmas. I’m still surprised there are so many people.”

  When the manboy bartender returns with our drinks, Tommy leans in closer and points to a table of three guys who sit two tables down from us.

  “Psst. Look at those guys. Two are pretty cute. One is okay. Actually, isn’t that Ted Williams, the Channel 7 news reporter?” Tommy says nonchalantly as he points to the Portuguese-looking guy with short black hair and extremely white teeth. The guy signs some
autographs from admiring fans from nearby tables.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I remember watching him on the news when I lived here. He’s such a ham, Tommy. His face is splashed on all the billboards and buses here.”

  “Oh my gosh, look who he’s with!” Tommy’s voice rises with sudden enthusiasm. He taps my right arm like a little kid.

  “Quien?”

  “The guy with the short black hair, blue eyes, skinny physique. He looks pretty Anglo.”

  “Oye, I can see the guy, but who is he?”

  “That’s Ray Martinez, the super cute Cuban movie critic at my old newspaper, The Miami News. I never got to meet him when I worked there because I was based in the Fort Lauderdale bureau. I always had a little crush on him. I read all his reviews.”

  “Chico, go and say hi. You have the perfect excuse. You’re Cuban gay journalists. Introduce yourself. I bet he’d be interested in talking to you about your experiences at The Boston Daily.”

  “I can’t. That would be awkward, Carlos,” Tommy says, biting the rim of his index finger. He has been excited and nervous since he noticed Ray Martinez a few feet away.

  “Besides, there’s another guy at the table, the American-looking one with a goatee and light-brown, spiked hair and a platinum necklace. He kind of looks like a former boy band member.”

  “Yeah, but that could be a friend. Actually, he’s pretty handsome. I’ve noticed Mr. Backstreet Boy keeps looking at all the Latin hotties, so I don’t think they’re on a date or anything. Uh oh, I think you missed your chance to meet the one and only Ray Martinez. Look who just arrived.”

  A thin college-age guy, who looks like a younger John Stamos, sits next to Mr. Martinez and plops a big wet kiss on his lips. Now they’re holding hands at the table. They look pretty happy together. A couple.

  “Oh well. I guess that’s his boyfriend,” Tommy says, probably shooting invisible daggers at the kid.

  “Yeah, and it looks like the other two are on some sort of Miami manhunt,” I offer, taking a swig from my Cuba Libre.

  “Yeah, but Ray Martinez is more my type. The other two, not so much.”