Take the Lead

by Johnny Diaz

  Copyright

  Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  4760 Preston Road

  Suite 244-149

  Frisco, TX 75034

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Take the Lead

  Copyright © 2011 by Johnny Diaz

  Cover Art by Catt Ford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  ISBN: 978-1-61581-956-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  June 2011

  eBook edition available

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-957-7

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all those people who bravely battle Parkinson’s disease and other degenerative conditions in their daily lives. May a cure soon loom on the horizon.

  Chapter 1

  I’M GETTING too old for this. What am I doing here? I should have outgrown the club phase in my twenties. Is there a support group for aging men who can’t stop hitting the bars? These thoughts invade my mind as I sway to the left and pelvic thrust to the right, coaxing my body to follow the beat. I wave my hands in the air and twirl them in a circular motion. Lights flash like indoor lightning and briefly illuminate everyone’s face. The pounding bass from the latest hip-hop music gets everyone (mostly guys in their twenties) to bump and grind on the dance floor. Me included, but I’m a member of the VH1 demographic, not the YouTube generation.

  My blue jeans sag at my waist, and my Star Trek T-shirt with a floating image of the Starship Enterprise is drenched with sweat. I briefly remove my black baseball cap, comb my fingers through my short, dark-brown hair, and then smush it down with the cap. It makes me look a little younger and boyish, or at least that’s what my friend Nick tells me. He’s around here somewhere, dancing the night away and pretending that he doesn’t have to teach grammar to his class of eighth graders tomorrow morning in Somerville.

  “Just dance!” I holler to another dancer, a sculpted Brazilian guy with a shaved head, tanned body, and piercing hazel eyes that resemble two small cups of honey lit by invisible sunlight.

  “Yeah, shake it, just like that!” the Brazilian cheers me on. I smile and then abandon him as I continue to orbit the dance floor to find another dance partner. Along the way, I nod my chin up at the other club revelers. I shimmy with a twentysomething girl who backs her bum up my way and then dry-humps me as she bends over. I playfully spank her and giggle. I mosey over to the other side of the club, where I join a dancing train of three Asian guys and a girl. Like a centipede, we flow forward and back with our arms waving up and down.

  “Move forward, and now back! Whew!” I shout over the music, leading the dancers as everyone high-fives me and booty-shakes me on the side. I continue to circle the dance floor and jam from one song to the next. The latest tunes from the pop princesses and hip-hop kings blare overhead with their addictive musical beats and catchy hooks. The entire club is an explosion of music and movement, a choreographed Boston dance party, and I’m glad to be one of its regulars.

  As I absorb the frenetic music, a slight, baby-faced guy shimmies my way and flashes a wide smile. He gyrates and crunks like a wind-up Latino doll. His gelled, short-cropped black hair reflects the bright strobe lights. I quicken my pace to match his beat. Is he old enough to be in here? Not a wrinkle in sight. He barely has any facial scruff. With each step that I match, the guy torques it up a notch. I do my best to keep up. So far, so good. No cardiac arrest. The image of the Puerto Rican flag on his black shirt blurs with his every move.

  “What’s your name?” I shout over the club’s soundtrack.

  “Pedro! You’re hot… for an older dude,” he says.

  Gasp! I scowl and my eyes widen in disbelief. Older dude? He might as well toss me a cane or a walker to dance with. “Um, thanks, I think. I’m Gabriel, and my nurse is outside waiting for me with my portable oxygen tank,” I greet him. He grins at my joke. As we shake hands, he moves closer toward me. Our faces are thisclose. I smell the mint gum he chews. He could easily be one of my students, a college freshman. I decide to forgive him for his immaturity.

  “Are you Puerto Rican?” I ask, my hands moving up and down while my hips swivel side to side like a Zumba dance student.

  “Sí, viva la patria,” he gushes, his hands rising with pride.

  “Well, I’m Cuban-American, so I can keep up with you. Dance as fast as you want,” I egg him on. “In fact, my nurse has two oxygen tanks on standby, in case you need one yourself.”

  “Oh yeah?” he says, considering the dare. “We’ll see about that.”

  Okay, big mistake on my part. My big mouth and sensitive ego can get me into trouble sometimes. Within seconds, he unleashes a burst of boundless energy. He jumps in place; his hands fly in all directions as if someone activated his inner fast-forward button. I stand there and wonder, What the hell did I get myself into? Again, I do my best to live up to my dare. Right now, I feel like I am watching a movie of someone else’s life. Again, my mind wonders, What am I doing here again?

  The more I keep apace, the faster Pedro the jumping bean moves. He smiles and laughs as I maintain his groove—well, just barely, with my nineties’ dance moves, but the lights help me look cool. After a few minutes, my heart feels like it’s about to burst out of my body and flop around on the dance floor like a goldfish sans water. I imagine myself chasing my bouncing heart around the club. I need a break before I break a body part.

  “Okay, you win. I gotta catch my breath,” I say with labored breaths as I place my hand over my heart to make sure it’s still there.

  “No problem. Come back when you get your strength back, old man!” he says with a mischievous grin. I narrow my eyes and pretend that they’re shooting laser beams that eviscerate him. I imagine the starship on my T-shirt is firing backup photon torpedoes at him as well. I stalk through the crowded dance floor and wipe the beads of sweat away from my forehead. The words old man replay and sting in my mind. That little bastard. I’m not old. Or am I? Actually, I think I could use an oxygen mask right about now.

  I decide to cool off (and catch my breath) by scurrying to the bar, where I order a Red Bull with vodka, my third of the night. The tonic arms me with liquid courage to keep dancing, even though I have a class to teach in a few hours. Thomas Jefferson College is literally around the corner and five flights up from Estate, this alley dance club/bar.

  By the way, my name isn’t “old man.” It’s Gabriel Galan, although my parents call me Gabrielito. Some people in Boston recognize my face from a great article that appeared in the Boston Daily newspaper. The story focused on the lack of Latino college professors in Boston. There I was, my smiling face plastered on the front page of the newspaper as I stood before my Covering the News class. My students still tease me about the article. One student, Angie, even asked for my autograph to show to her mom in Texas. She was kissing up to me so I would overlook her late paper. Not a chance!

  Before I arrived in this capital of academia, I worked briefly as a newspaper reporter in Fort Lauderdale, my hometown. I covered extremely local gover
nment news in the cities of Pembroke Pines and Weston, where most Miami Dolphins players own majestic homes with intimidating high gates and spewing decorative fountains. Although I garnered several bylines a week, I felt that something was amiss in my professional life. I wanted to educate and inform people through my articles on government and everyday neighborly issues such as the lack of funding in local schools or the increases in property taxes. But over the years, as my old newspaper reduced its staff and shrunk its page size in an attempt to reinvent itself on the Internet, I realized that I could have more of an impact as a teacher. So at twenty-eight, I returned to Florida International University, my alma mater, and pursued my master’s in education with a focus on creative writing.

  Through my student-teaching courses, I was hired as an adjunct professor for writing and journalism. From the beginning, I liked the mix because I’m able to discuss current events as well as teach a new generation of journalists how to cover news and write short stories. The combo allows me to marry my two passions. I love reading about culture, style, trends, and stories of broad interest, but I also love to pen short stories about family and friendships. Only two of my stories have been published in anthologies, but that’s okay. I write them for myself, not the greater public.

  Two years into my burgeoning teaching career, I met a recruiter from Boston’s Thomas Jefferson College at an academic fair in Fort Lauderdale. She flew me up for an interview, and that’s how I literally landed in Boston. So yes, I am far away from the radiant sun-kissed tropical life of Las Olas Boulevard and AIA beaches, and yet I don’t miss it all that much. I always yearned for stimulating conversations with fellow academics, and Boston offered plenty of that. Also, being the only Hispanic associate professor at Thomas Jefferson College, which everyone simply calls Jefferson, has awarded me some mental job security. My presence adds to their diversity quota, but it also enhances my resume. When I was offered the job, I couldn’t say no. It was a great opportunity to cut my South Florida-Cuban umbilical cord and embrace a new way of living. I was also able to usher in my long-sought independence, something that eluded me in South Florida, where I shuttled back and forth between my parents’ homes—something I’ve become accustomed to since they divorced my senior year of high school.

  My father, Guillermo Galan, is a hard-working exterminator despite having Parkinson’s disease, which he’s been able to keep at bay over the years. The disease’s assault on his body has been a slow but persistent march, from what I can tell. My mother, Gladys, is strong and healthy, too, thanks to the Shaklee products she sells and swears by. Whenever she calls me, she reminds me to take my daily vitamins, which she ships to Boston in large care packages. I adore my parents even though at times I feel like I’m in a perpetual tug of war between them. That’s one of the reasons I chose to move away and be on my own in New England. I wanted my own home. I grew tired of being caught between two.

  While working in Boston’s cosmopolitan metropolis of college students, professors, and medical institutions has been a beautiful blessing—a gift—it has also kept me from my family, but that’s what frequent-flier miles are for. And there’s one thing I enjoy as much as reading and writing in Boston, and that’s dancing, one of the reasons I stop by this club every week. As much as I love to dance, my father never cared for the art form. It wasn’t the manliest thing to do, he would often say. That was one of our stark differences, and we have many, even though I am a genetic clone of him but forty years younger. I have the short-cropped dark-brown hair combed to the side, thick black eyebrows, a big smile, and an even bigger appetite for iced caramel coffees from Dunkin’ Donuts. (Caramel swirl and black coffee, please.) At seventy-five, Papi is thinner than me, although some people (my mother, for one) would say I’m slight like a coconut palm waiting for a Boston nor’easter to knock me over. The lack of a home-cooked meal and good Cuban food in Beantown will make any South Florida native shed a few pounds. Plus, I sometimes forget to eat because I lose track of time when I grade my students’ papers. I burn off the calories and stress with my daily runs along the beach in Quincy, the coastal town of American presidents that I live in and that borders Boston.

  My father and I differ in other ways. I’m more liberal and open. I stood in the Boston Common to fight for local gay marriage and equal rights. Papi is a staunch conservative, stuck in the old-world ways of his native Cuba, which is trapped in a time warp. Another difference between us: I would never cheat on my partner if I had one, which is a whole other story. Papi cheated on my mother when I was in high school. That led to a divorce and the current state of my fractured family. Papi’s betrayal continues to sting me emotionally, but he is my father, my one and only. I can’t be mad at him forever, especially with his Parkinson’s. At times, you have to overlook the flaws of your loved ones and love them unconditionally.

  And we also differ in our views on dance. Papi has zero interest in the artistic expression, while I always viewed it as a form of recreational escapism. Dancing always felt natural and liberating, an extension of my creativity. My body funneled the beats and rhythms into coordinated movements and steps. I sprung to life whenever I jammed at high school dances in Fort Lauderdale, at sweet sixteens and quinceañeras for my cousin and friends in Miami Lakes. Later, in college, I wildly danced at South Beach clubs, which became another home away from home; I flung my sweaty shirt in the air as I partied topless with a sea of fellow young, tanned, and sculpted revelers.

  My father, on the other hand, would do just about anything to avoid the traditional dance floor. If my mother began twirling and swaying in our kitchen to Celia Cruz or Shakira while preparing our lunch or early-evening dinners—when we were a family—Papi disappeared by finding an excuse to run an errand to avoid being dragged onto my mother’s makeshift kitchen dance floor. I always served as her dance partner at family gatherings and wedding receptions while my dad sat glued to his chair, watching us with a cool Corona bottle clenched in his hands. No matter how hard my mother and I tried to pry my father away from his chair, he wouldn’t will himself to the dance floor. He was the poster man for the I-can-do-it-all father, but he didn’t think dancing was a macho thing to do, even though his wife loved it as much as whipping up her favorite sweet flan for us. I miss those moments when we were a trio, the Galan family.

  As I wait for my drink at the bar, my train of thought is suddenly interrupted when a finger flicks the back of my right earlobe. This annoys me the same way a mosquito might—it invades your personal space and you want to swat it.

  I turn around and I see that the annoying finger belongs to a friend with a big old dirty grin. “You know I hate when you do that, Nickers!” I say, calling Nick by his nickname.

  “Oh please, GG. If it had been any other hot guy, you’d be giggling and flirting and acting all shy like a little girl… not! You’re Boston’s naughty professor.”

  “I wish! I’m more like the nutty professor,” I joke.

  “Or a slore!” he sputters. We’re playing our usual name-calling game.

  “A slore? What’s that?” I rub my finger against my chin out of curiosity as if trying to decipher a clue in one of Dan Brown’s novels.

  “A slut and a whore. A slore. Get it?” Nick says, proud of his word invention.

  “Is that something you learned from your middle-school students?”

  “Nah, I made it up. I thought you’d appreciate the play on words.”

  “No, but I appreciate your effort, Nickers. I’ll give you a B plus for that,” I say, patting him on the shoulder.

  “What am I going to do with you, GG?” Nick says, rolling his eyes.

  “The more fitting question is, what would you do in Boston without me?”

  A few words about Nick. He has been my wingman since I moved here. With his black spiked-up straight hair, emerald green eyes, and olive skin, he personifies the gorgeous Portuguese-Irish men of Rhode Island. Okay, he’s one of the few but proud good-looking ones from there. He also comes
with a thick, butch Providence accent that I find intriguing and, yes, a little sexy. We instantly clicked as friends the night we met here at the club as we both stood in a long line of guys, girls, and drag queens waiting to pee. I accidentally bumped into Nick and apologized. He noticed my FIU T-shirt and struck up a conversation. He had dated, okay, more like hooked up with, a college student at my alma mater during a spring-break trip to Fort Lauderdale. Immediately, Nick and I started comparing my hometown to Boston and Providence and the guys each city seems to attract.

  I learned right away that Nick majored in education in Boston and works as a middle-school teacher. He still complains that his students are a pain in the ass, yet I know he misses them every summer. From that night on, we’ve been buddies. Nick even indulges me by watching old episodes of the original Star Trek series, my favorite. (That’s the hallmark of a true friend.) I know Nick is not the biggest fan of the sci-fi show, but he knows that I am, and he boldly goes where no other friend of mine in Fort Lauderdale had wanted to go: a night of reruns with me in my condo at least twice a month. Nick is game as long I serve him his preferred drink and venture out with him to the bars to man-hunt, or more like boy-hunt, in exchange. He believes in emotion-free seductions, and he usually has penis on the brain. I guess you could say that I’m the Cuban Spock, the sensible and more logical one, to Nick’s gay Kirk, who is always on the prowl and looking for new adventures in bed. He sets his phaser to “hooking up.”

  I must admit that I do enjoy watching Nick chase guys ten years younger than him. Nick is thirty-two, but his thin, tight, muscular build (size twink) and some makeup help him pass for twenty-five, and he knows it. Tonight he’s wearing a dark-green T-shirt that reads “Hit It!”

  “So are you going to treat me to a drink, Mr. Professor? You know us public school teachers don’t make crap,” Nick says, flashing those beautiful green orbs of his like a seductive vampire so he can persuade me to buy him a drink. It usually works. I’m a sucker for green eyes, even if they belong to good friends.