by Johnny Diaz
“I’m sure you got them all. You’re the Exterminator… you’ll be back,” I joke, channeling Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator character.
“Hijo, you need better material,” he says, laughing along with my joke.
“Well, then, come up with new stories, Papi,” I tease. “How are you feeling, Papi? How is your Parkinson’s today?”
“Parkinson’s? Por favor. I’m strong como un caballo. I work, I drive. I mow your aunt’s yard. Why?”
“Just asking, Papi.”
“Hmmm. Did you speak to your Aunt Cary?” Damn. Papi is good. He can read me from 1,600 miles away.
“Um, no.”
“Gabriel….”
“I just wanted to know if you’re okay. I saw a story on TV about a new drug for Parkinson’s patients.” Total lie. I’m such a bad liar.
“Gabrielito, soy tu papa. You’re talking to your father. Did your aunt call you?”
“Well….” Busted!
“I knew it. That’s your aunt for you. She sees me having trouble getting off the sofa and she thinks I’m in trouble. She doesn’t know when to mind her own business. She’s un busybody,” he says in annoyed tone.
“Well, since you brought it up, how is your right leg?”
“It gets weak sometimes, son, but that doesn’t stop me. I did fall the other day in the yard, but that can happen to anyone. I lost my balance,” Papi says defiantly, as if to spite the disease that is robbing him of his movement and control. He won’t let it, though. Good old macho stubbornness.
“Dad, you should have told me. When was the last time you saw your doctor?”
“More than six months ago. I hate going to the doctor in Aventura.”
“Well, I’m coming down soon, and we’ll go together.”
“Don’t worry about me. When you come here, you should see your mama and your aunt, Jessica, and your friends. I can go to the doctor myself.” Again, that macho pride.
“Papi, I’ve decided to come down for the long Columbus Day weekend. I am taking you to the doctor myself. End of discussion. ¿Comprende?”
“Wait, when did you start telling me what to do? I’m the parent.”
“When you started ignoring your health and keeping me in the dark. I need to get back to class. We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Go. I’m sure your students are waiting for the best writing professor in Boston.” Papi always likes to end a conversation with a compliment.
And with that, I say good-bye and begin to stroll back to class and finish up the rest of my workday. As I bound up the stairs up to the fifth floor and pass streams of students on the way—don’t they have class?—I reflect on how it hasn’t been easy watching my strong-willed and muscular father slowly decay because of this cruel disease.
With each trip I make to Fort Lauderdale, Papi appears older. He looks more like my late grandfather than the father I grew up with, the one whose image weighs in my mind. Papi still has the dark, thick hair combed back and the strong shoulders and arms from lugging around all his exterminating equipment. In my mind, he walks swiftly and with purpose. When I see him on my return visits, I notice he walks more cautiously and slower. His arms are more sinewy. Gray continues to raid his black hair. At times, Papi doesn’t show much facial expression. I’ve read that Parkinsonians have a particular masklike facial expression because of a lack of facial muscle control, which I have seen increasingly in actor Michael J. Fox in TV interviews. In the last photos I took with Papi for his birthday, he didn’t smile except with his eyes.
I love my father with all my heart, and if I could yank that horrible disease out of his body, I would. I’d fight it and win. But it’s Papi who is quietly engaged in his own private battle with his body. I would use every bit of my strength to help him. But with me being in Boston and him living in Fort Lauderdale, I’m at a disadvantage. I need to do more for my father because he has done so much for me, like working tirelessly for forty years in a blue-collar job so Mami and I could have the home he always dreamed of in Cuba. My mother got that house in their divorce, and Papi has his own apartment, where he lives alone.
Slightly out of breath, I reach the fifth floor of the college. I walk down the brightly lit hallway, its walls lined with bulletin boards about upcoming student events. Once again, the narrow hallways are jammed with students as they casually walk to and from class. As I walk around them, the rumbling sounds of several falling books interrupt my thoughts. I peek through the crowd of shoulders and backpacks to see the source of the commotion. A few feet away, I see a plump, blonde, curly-haired young woman with black-framed glasses kneeling on the floor. She looks like a newbie, a freshman. Everyone moves around her like a stream flowing around a rock. Just as I’m about to step in and help, Craig suddenly comes into focus. He bends down and collects her books.
“Are you okay?” I overhear him ask her.
She sheepishly smiles. “Yeah, thanks. I’m okay. I just slipped. It can happen to anyone, you know,” she says, her eyes blinking and her cheeks blushing. Then her eyes widen. She recognizes Craig. I back up a little, and I stand just a few feet away by the entrance of another classroom. I watch them and eavesdrop some more.
“Oh! I know you. You do the morning news for Jefferson Today. You’re Craig, right?” she says nervously as she uses her right hand to tuck her blonde curls behind her ears. She adjusts her glasses back into place and ruffles the back of her hair.
“Yep, that’s me. That makes you one of our two viewers. We’re up there in the ratings with American Idol. Not!” he deadpans as he finishes gathering her books off the floor and hands them to her.
“Like, please! You’re the cutest guy on that newscast. You make the newscast!”
Now Craig blushes back. I tilt my head, fold my arms, and lean against the doorway, smiling and quietly admiring Craig for helping this girl out. As he talks to her, Craig’s eyes radiate a certain tender kindness that moves me and piques my curiosity at the same time.
“Why, thank you. You’re too sweet. Anyway, I gotta get to my own class. Be careful walking these hallways. I’ve seen some nasty spills with people rushing to class,” Craig tells her as he quickly rushes off.
Once he’s gone, I emerge from the entrance of the classroom and head back to my own. I do so carrying the sweetness of the scene with me. While most students walked by and hustled to class, Craig was nice enough to stop and help this girl out. It shows that Craig isn’t just willing to help people but also to help someone feel welcomed. That warms my heart, and it allows me to see another side of Craig. Not that I didn’t think he was a nice guy before. He was a stellar and ambitious student, but I am beginning to see him in a different light, as if I put on a new pair of glasses and am discovering him in a whole new way. Before this morning and the night at the club, Craig was just another attractive aspiring young journalist. Today, I feel as if I know him a little better, another layer of him peeled back. Yet there are many layers to him that remain, and I’m curious. I admit that I’m growing more attracted to him than I want to—or should.
I charge into my next class, where my next group of students awaits and greets me with big smiles. “What’s up, Professor?” they ask, some waving, a few yawning. But in the back of my mind, my thoughts are with Craig and also with Papi.
Chapter 4
IT’S late Friday afternoon, and I’m riding the subway’s Red Line back to Quincy. I lean back in the plastic chair and hold onto the metal support bar as the train charges ahead. It’s rush hour, and the subway is packed with other commuters who, like me, are traveling outbound. I lean my head back against the window. I close my eyes and reflect on the long week of teaching.
Fifteen minutes later, the subway pulls into the Wollaston Beach stop and the electronic voice overhead announces our arrival. I open my eyes and rub them with my knuckles. I loop my messenger bag over my shoulders and step onto the subway platform with the crush of hurried passengers. I begin the mile or so trek to my bayside condo
at Ocean Cove Apartments. This short stroll is my way of decompressing. My thoughts wander benignly while I watch little Asian and Irish kids pedal bikes on the sidewalks, play ball in their front yards, or scurry about. Couples walk their dogs, and homeowners rake the rainbow of fallen, crinkly dry leaves that litter their yards and cake their sidewalks. In the distance, along the seawall, joggers run, and in-line skaters roll along the beach not far from the choppy waves. I’ll join those folks once I change out of my preppy professorial clothes.
When I approach my four-story bricked building, which is ribboned by a verdant lawn, I exhale deeply and smile. I embrace the end of the day, the end of the week. Home. I swiftly climb the stairs to the second floor and fidget with the lock to open my front door. Once inside the kitchen, I toss my keys in a big blue bowl shaped like a whale. Walking toward my bedroom, I peel off my bag, strip off my dress shirt and blue jeans, and throw them on my bed. I slip into a pair of blue sweatpants and a loose-fitting white T-shirt. Back in the kitchen, I munch on a chocolate and peanut butter protein bar for a much-needed energy boost. I then walk on my creaking wooden floors and approach the balcony’s sliding glass door. I open it and step outside, where sprouting red and orange flowers fill a handful of small IKEA pots.
The sunlight bathes the rows of Victorian and Cape houses across the bay in hilly Squantum in a dimming golden light. Nick likes to tease me by calling the neighborhood “Squat-um.” So Nick. A cool beach breeze greets me and serves as a gentle reminder that winter is not too far away. I lean over my balcony, take a few deep breaths, and release my tension. Down the boulevard, an older gay couple saunters along the seawall hand in hand. One man is bald with a beer belly. The other is slight with a sun-spotted face and snowy mane. They look at peace together, happy. I wave at them, and they reciprocate. Nearby, another elderly couple tosses pieces of bread at the cawing seagulls. The woman has gray hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Her companion sports a Boston Red Sox cap that hides most of his wisps of gray hair. They bend over and laugh as the birds swarm their feet. They remind me of the sweet couple in the beginning of the Pixar computer-animated movie Up.
Sometimes, I wish I had someone to come home to. Someone I could share my thoughts with about school, concerns about Papi’s condition, how I sometimes envision my parents being together again, and I imagine having my own special person to come home to. I do have Nick to talk to, and then there’s my cousin Jessica, but it’s not the same as having someone waiting at home for you who is excited to hear all about your day. I want to have a partner who shares similar interests and dreams of being together unconditionally.
I don’t have the best track record in love. The men I’ve dated are either cute but not ambitious in their careers or, if they are ambitious, then I’m not physically attracted to them. It’s always one thing or another, and I haven’t been fortunate enough to make commitments stick even though I’ve desperately tried. Other times, the men I like are too old for me and we don’t have much in common. Being a professor, most of my colleagues are well into their late forties or fifties. Then there are my students, who are too young for me, and they’re in a phase of their life that I was done with thirteen long years ago.
That’s why I don’t feel that getting involved with Craig is a good idea. It can only lead to disappointment, although I do relish the way he looks at me with his big light-brown eyes. His youthful energy is infectious. The note he left on my car was a nice touch. And why am I even considering this? I must be getting desperate.
Whenever I feel lonely or down about such things, I escape by reading my romance novels, cycling in my neighborhood, or watching my all-time favorite Star Trek episodes. The original series, not The Next Generation. I enjoy getting lost in space with Captain Kirk, Spock, Bones, and the rest of the Enterprise crew who keep me company in this condo.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been single for so long. I’m a closeted Trekkie. I remember last year, I met this cute firefighter named Kevin at Club Café. There was a charged, lust-filled attraction between us. He had thick salt-and-pepper hair combed back, mesmerizing hazel eyes, and a sculpted body. Just looking at him sent waves of tingles throughout my body. We left the bar, and I invited him over to my place. When I showed him my Star Trek DVD collection, he looked at me quizzically, as if I were an alien that the Enterprise crew had just encountered during one of their voyages. I recognized the look, which read, “Um, you’re weird, dude.” I don’t think it helped matters that a huge framed poster of the inaugural crew hung over my sofa and that another poster of Captain Kirk was displayed in my hallway. So I tend to keep the Star Trek fandom mostly on the down low, which is hard when I have the occasional guy visit. I remember how much Papi heckled me about my Trek fix when I was in high school.
“Oye, Gabrielito, let’s go. I need your help picking up some pesticides at the warehouse,” he said to me one time. But I couldn’t peel myself away from my TV. I loved watching the crew tease each other and banter. They were a family connected by friendship and loyalty despite not having any shared bloodline. Whenever I watched the show in reruns, I felt that I was a part of their extended family, even though mine was fracturing at the time because of the looming divorce. Sometimes, I wished I had been a member of the Enterprise family instead of my own.
So if I’m not grading papers or scaring guys away with my Star Trek memorabilia, I really enjoy meeting up with Nick and listening to stories about his latest trysts with young men. He has encouraged me to date more often, but I just haven’t met a guy I’d want to see more than a few times (or who has wanted to see me and my Trek collection on a second visit). Someday, I will find my personal happy ending. The guy is out there somewhere, I hope.
As these thoughts fill my head, I decide to snap out of it and join the crush of Quincy residents enjoying the fading daylight. I grab my keys and prop my green bicycle onto my shoulders as I lug it into the elevator to go down to the ground level. Once downstairs, I hop on my bicycle, zip across the street, and ride along the seawall with the rest of my neighbors.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into Marina Bay, an upscale Quincy community that has always reminded me of Miami and Fort Lauderdale because of its waterfront condos, docked sailboats, and views of downtown Boston. During the summer, the neighborhood brims with wedding parties posing for photographs along the marina. As I cycle, my phone vibrates in my pocket. The display window reveals that it’s Nick.
“GG, what are you doing tonight?” he says, calling me by his nickname for me. It sounds like something you’d call a dog or cat.
“Hey, just relaxing. I’m riding in Marina Bay.”
“Well, it’s Friday. You know what that means, slore!”
Oh no, he probably wants to tear up the town with a bar crawl. “Um, that you want to hang out and look for cute young guys?”
“You got it, boyee! Let’s hit the city.”
“Not tonight, Nick. I have a lot of papers to grade this weekend, and I really don’t want to bump into any of my former or current students.” I lean my bike against a wooden bench in the marina and watch the sailboats and fancy yachts bob in the water like trinkets on a charm bracelet. The horn of a passing boat echoes in the distance.
“Oh come on, Gabriel! We could use a good night out, and you could spend some time away from the crew of the Enterprise,” Nick urges. He’s probably just horny and doesn’t want to be seen alone at a bar.
“Nah, you go ahead. I’d rather stay near my place.”
“What’s wrong? You usually love to go out. Is everything okay, dude?” Nick asks with concern.
“Yeah, just a long week. I have a lot on my mind, that’s all. I got a call earlier this week from Aunt Cary. She thinks my dad is getting worse from the Parkinson’s.”
“Sorry, dude. You wanna talk about it?”
“Actually, that might be good for me. Instead of hitting the gay clubs, how about if we go to a small pub and just get some drinks?”
Nick’s voice bri
ghtens audibly at the idea. A small pub would most likely have more straight men and bisexual men who don’t frequent the usual gay haunts. “Hey, as long as we don’t have to watch the Enterprise fight off the Klingons again this month, then you got it. Maybe we’ll go to Harp & Bard in Dorchester. It’s not that far from you. I’ll come over and pick you up.”
“Cool. See you tonight.”
“See you then, GG. And one more thing,” Nick offers before finishing the conversation.
“What’s that, Nickers?”
“You’re gonna be fine, and so is your dad. I’m here to listen. I’m your, as you Latinos would say, amigo, or as I like to say, your fellow slore.”
I smile into the phone. “I know, I know, Captain Cock. Thanks.”
IT’S five minutes to ten o’clock, and I’m gently popping my contact lenses into my eyes. I almost drop one of them when I hear a car honk loudly three consecutive times from the open sliding glass door of my balcony. It’s Nick. I spritz on some cologne, dab some Rogaine at the crown of my head, and wash my hands. I flash two thumbs up at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I’m ready to go out and start the weekend.
A few minutes later, I’m in Nick’s bouncy pickup truck heading to…. “Nick, destination, por favor?”
“Uranus. Just kidding… I thought we’d do something different. Instead of Harp & Bard, how about we go to Marina Bay?” he says as he drives, fidgeting with his iPod adaptor.
“Well, that would be different, even though I was just there on my bike earlier. But remember, it’s not Marina Gay, it’s Marina Bay—very heterosexual, Nick, and it’s a five-minute drive. If you meet someone, which you probably will, I could just walk home. Can I tell you something, Nick?”
“Yeah, GG.”
“You’re my hero…. Does that sound familiar?” I say sarcastically, placing my hand on my chest.
He punches me hard in my left arm with his right hand, and I start to laugh.