by Johnny Diaz
A few minutes later, we pull into the long, winding road that leads to a small community of luxury townhouses with pristine lawns. We pass them on our right and then turn onto Marina Bay’s Victory Road, where restaurants, cafés, and gift stores sit shoulder to shoulder under a grand old towering town clock. The businesses all face the twinkling lights of the marina and bay. We stroll to Marina Bay Beach Club, a popular straight bar with outdoor seating. We perch ourselves on the bar stools and scan the menus. The bay’s breeze brushes against my face and makes Nick’s spiky black hair move slightly despite all the gel he doused it with.
“Ahh, this reminds me of Fort Lauderdale,” I say, looking at Nick over the rim of the menu.
“Yeah, I figured this might be something different for a change instead of going out in Boston. And besides, we have parking and a great view of the city from here.”
A cute college-age waiter greets us with a big smile that highlights his bright white teeth. He is fair-skinned with a black crew cut and soft brown eyes. I order a Red Bull with vodka. Nick orders a light beer and fried calamari as our appetizer.
“So let it out, what’s on your mind? It’s written all over your face,” Nick says, folding his arms as he leans back on the stool. His bulging veins map his strong forearms.
I tell him about Papi and what Aunt Cary said.
“That can’t be easy, Gabriel. Your dad is alone down there. It’s not like with me where I have my sister living with my parents in Providence. She keeps an eye on them, and I know I can always drive down there in less than an hour. I feel for you, dude. But at least your father is still active, and it sounds like he’s not letting the Parkinson’s overwhelm him.”
“Yeah, things would be so much easier if my parents were still together and if I had a sibling to share the responsibility.”
Nick extends his right hand and places it on mine. “You know what you have to do. Go with him to the doctor the next time you visit and see if there are any other medications he can take to help him regain more controlled movement in his right leg.”
“That’s just it. There are only so many medications out there. Luckily, the doctor started him off with a low dosage so he would have more to work with if he had to increase the dosage. Parkinson’s is a progressive disease. It’s only going to get worse.”
The waiter brings our appetizer and drinks. I twirl my red straw to mix the elixir.
“Well, GG, here’s to finding more advances in Parkinson’s, and to your father.” Nick holds up his beer bottle and clinks it with my glass.
“To Papi!” I say before slurping the rim of the glass.
“Gabriel, I have an idea. What if you started looking at hospitals and clinics up here? This is Boston, the medical Mecca of the world. I bet there are new programs and research trials happening here right under our noses. Have you thought about finding a local doctor for your father for a second opinion? It can’t hurt, dude.”
“You’re right. Maybe I can do some behind-the-scenes work here and share it with my father and his doctor in Miami. There has to be something in Boston that could help my dad.”
“And you can bring him up here for a few days. That way, you can monitor him better and really gauge how he’s doing. We can even take him to Club Café for a guy’s night out.”
“Ha!” I smile at the image of my father drinking a Corona surrounded by twinks at Boston’s most famous gay bar.
“Besides, I’d love to meet your dad. You’re always going down to Florida. It’s time your dad and mom visit you.”
“It’s just easier for me to visit them. Besides, I am planning to visit for a quick trip over Columbus Day weekend, which is right around the corner,” I say, cradling my cool drink with my right hand.
“That’s great. But if you got him up here someday, I think your dad would really like your condo and living so close to the beach. When you’re at work, he can walk along the seawall and explore your neighborhood. It would be a nice break for him from South Florida.”
“Thanks for taking me out, Nickers. I have a lot to think about, and getting out tonight is just what I needed.”
“Me too. Besides, I’ve been hearing that gay guys are going to more straight bars like this place lately. If you think about it, why do we have gay bars anymore? Everyone is blending in and hanging out in other places. Even the South End has more families than gay couples. If you want to hook up, you go online. The bars aren’t what they used to be. People are more accepting and open in general.”
“I read an article about that: the loss of the gayborhood,” I say, munching on some crispy calamari.
“Well, I think the gayborhood is right here at this bar, Gabriel. Look at the guys at the bar. They look like those straight Southie guys, with the fuzzy hair, big blue eyes, and Irish-flag tattoos on their arms, as if they just walked off the set of a Ben Affleck Boston movie. One just looked at me and winked. See what I mean? The more masculine and cuter gay guys are the ones who don’t go to gay bars as much. They meet up with their straight friends at straight bars, which are the new gay bars.”
I laugh at the irony. “You might be onto something there, Nick. I don’t recognize any of these guys.”
“And wouldn’t it be nice to say that you met someone at a regular bar instead of the local gay watering hole where everyone knows your entire biography and sexual history?” Nick deadpans, his eyes locked on the Southie guy who winked at him. The bar’s speakers blare the latest booming pop songs, adding to the party vibe. I tap my right index finger along to the beat. The breeze carries the salty scent from the bay.
“I know. We all know way too much about everyone. That’s why this is a nice change of pace tonight. I believe we meet someone when we least expect it. Serendipity. When you’re at a gay bar, it’s obvious why you’re there. It takes away from the spontaneity. I know it was nothing like this for my parents back in Cuba. They met through a mutual friend at a house party. No bars. No online hookups. It was just meant to be, or so I thought it was.” I lean my face against my right hand and continue twirling my straw in my glass, creating a mini twister of Red Bull and vodka.
As we chat at the bar, couples walk by and gaze at the boats in the marina. Others sit on benches and share spoonfuls of ice cream from the nearby ice cream parlor. I lean back in my chair and feel the alcohol swirl in my system, warming me from within. I order another round, and we swap stories about our classes. I tell him about all the cute young guys at Jefferson, mostly closeted broadcast students. He tells me about his students’ hot fathers, whom he met during a recent parent-teacher night.
“I swear, I was flirting with Mark Levine’s father so much that one of my co-teachers, Lindsay, had to pull me away. He looked like a taller Tom Cruise. I think he’s bisexual,” Nick blurts out, his eyes widening at the thought. When Nick is buzzed, he becomes more animated and hyper like a cartoon character.
“Oh, one of those! They want to play, but they don’t want the sticky commitments because they’re married or have girlfriends. Just be careful, Nick. You don’t want to end up being a stepmother to one of your students.” I stick out my tongue at him. Nick tosses a wadded-up napkin at me.
“And while you’re at it, tell him to send his son to Jefferson when he’s older. I’ll take care of him there,” I tease.
As we gossip about work, a familiar voice calls my name. “Professor Galan!”
I look over my left shoulder toward the boardwalk. A handsome future broadcaster smiles at me. Craig. He happily waves and begins to walk toward us.
“Isn’t that your former student from the other night, the one you told me about?” Nick asks, raising his right eyebrow and flashing me a devilish expression.
“Um, yes! The one who left me a note on my car.”
“Stalker! It’s the stalker!” Nick teases a bit too loudly. I hush him up before Craig walks over.
“Hey, Professor, how’s it going?” Craig greets me with a handshake. I introduce him to Nick, who offe
rs a firm handshake. “What are you guys up to?”
I tell him that we wanted a quiet non-Boston night out.
“And you, Craig? You’re kind of far from Jefferson.”
“Me and some guys from the dorm wanted to hit the bars here.”
“Dorm?” Nick interjects.
“Yeah. I’m the only gay guy on my floor of the dorm. My dorm mates are cool with it. They’re over there, flirting with the girls at the other bar,” Craig tells us. As he talks, Craig stands two inches away from me. He’s wearing a tight polo shirt, and a few light brown chest hairs poke out from the buttons. I want to nuzzle my head against his chest and hug him.
“That’s great that your dorm mates are so accepting,” I say. Nick continues nursing his beer and watches as the conversation unfolds.
“Yeah, you’d be surprised. When straight guys drink too much, they get all affectionate and lovey-dovey, but they respect me. I’m just another guy to them. I even told them about this certain handsome writing professor. They all knew it was you. They took one of your creative writing classes as an elective. They thought it would be an easy A.”
“Um, thanks, Craig, for the inside scoop, I think. I guess I have a reputation as being an easy professor.”
Nick then looks over to me and silently mouths, “Slore!” I narrow my eyes at him, silently firing back with, “Dick!”
Craig, oblivious to the private exchange between Nick and me, continues rambling. “I wouldn’t say you’re easy, but your class is so much fun, and you keep us so engaged that it feels easy. You’re one of the more popular professors among students. I bet your student evaluations are always high.”
My cheeks warm from the compliment. It is true; I average a 94 percent on my student evals, not that I am bragging or anything.
“Anyway, you should come and say hi. We’re over there,” Craig says, pointing to the bar at the other end of the marina. “I’m sure they’d love to pick your brain about the school and hear about your adventures in dating.”
“Uh, maybe another time, Craig. Nick and I are just being low-key tonight and taking it easy.”
“Okay, Professor, but one day, you’re going to give in to me,” he says confidently. “Well, I gotta get back to my friends. See you in school—or somewhere else.”
“Have fun, and don’t drink too much, Craig,” I say, shaking his hand, but Craig leans over the table and suddenly hugs me before he takes off.
Nick shoots me a surprised look and nods his head toward Craig. “That guy is really cute, GG, and he wants you… badly! Watch out. He wants some extra credit, and he knows just how to get it, Professor Slore!”
“Um, thanks, Nick. I think. I’ll have to keep my distance from that one.”
“But he’s not your student, right?”
“Correct. He was my student last year.”
“Well, what’s the issue? I have a feeling he’s gonna wear you down. He’s a journalist in training. They don’t give up that easily.”
“Yeah, but neither do I, Nick.” I wink at him and we exchange a toast. “I don’t want to have any problems at work. I would hate to be the butt of jokes among other students gossiping about how I look naked or what I do in bed.”
Nick shakes his head. “It’s college. That’s what it’s all about. I say just go with the flow and see what happens with Craig. He’s graduating next semester, right? So he’ll be off campus in a few months. If anything, get your rocks off. Have a fling. Don’t be Boring Professor Gabriel for once. Craig might keep your mind off your dad—and, dare I say… Star Trek!”
I feign offense and laugh. “Nick, that sounds highly logical,” I say in my best Spock voice.
“Live long, play long, and prosper,” Nick chides. We both hold up the Vulcan peace sign before ordering another round of drinks.
Chapter 5
WELL, I was right. As usual, Nick was on a manhunt, and tonight, he locks on his target early on—the cute straight-acting guy from South Boston. Throughout our conversation, I notice how Nick often leers over at the stud by the bar.
“Hey, I’m going to talk to the cutie at the bar,” Nick announces as he drains his beer. “I’ll be right back, Gabriel.”
I raise my eyebrows and glass and say, “Attaboy! I’ll be right here.”
Nick then confidently walks over to the guy and his friends, and he quickly strikes up a conversation. It doesn’t take long before Nick has the guy under his spell. I don’t want to interrupt Nick’s groove, so I decide to let him off the hook easily.
Nursing the rest of my drink, I walk over to Nick and his new friend, who greets me with a warm smile.
“Hey, I think I’m gonna take off,” I tell Nick.
“Hold on! I’ll give you a ride. We can leave together,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder. Nick’s new friend then momentarily turns his back as if to give us some privacy, which is difficult because we’re surrounded by a noisy, mingling crowd of single young men and women who are drinking and grooving in place to the blaring pop music. As Nick and I talk, I notice how the green-eyed South Boston guy can’t peel his eyes off my friend. I’ve never been one to cock-block, so I announce my exit.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll catch a taxi. It’s a short ride. I’m literally down the street,” I say, reassuring Nick that his night with this guy won’t be ruined and that I won’t be offended if he stays with him. I’m used to this. My buddy never has a problem meeting guys, and I like to support him when he does meet a fellow whom he likes—even though it’s usually for the night.
“Are you sure, Gabriel?”
“No problema! Have fun. I’ll be fine. I’m sleepy, anyway.”
“Okay, if you say so, GG.” Nick takes the bait. We exchange hearty hugs and pat each other on the back before saying goodnight. I wave to the guy whose heart (or ass) Nick is about to break.
I leave the rowdiness of the bar and stroll alone along the marina’s boardwalk, where an endless flock of boats softly rock with the tides. It’s such a beautiful cool night that I decide to walk home instead. It’s a two-mile trek, and the walk could help sober me up. I had three drinks, and the alcohol continues to swirl warmly in my system. With my hands in my front pockets, I saunter out of Marina Bay and onto the main road, which is lined with lampposts rimmed with small halos. Cars zip by me on their way to and from Quincy and Boston.
As I approach a traffic light, a small used Mazda pulls up on my left. The driver rolls down his window. I’m surprised to see that it’s Craig, whose eyes sparkle under the streetlights.
“Need a ride, Professor?” he greets me, leaning over the passenger seat to open the door. A small smile forms on my face.
“Ha! What are you doing over here? I thought you were with your dorm mates back there?” I say, leaning closer into his passenger window. I catch a whiff of Craig’s cologne.
“They wanted to stay. They can all hitch rides with each other. I was feeling beat from school. I just wanted to get out of there.”
“Me too,” I say, holding Craig’s intense stare. The cars behind him drive around.
“But seriously, do you need a ride?”
“I’m not that far. I was going to—”
“Hop in,” Craig interrupts, a huge grin plastered on his face. “Handsome young-looking men shouldn’t be walking alone at night like this. You might get picked up by some wacko.”
“Yeah, like right now?” I quickly consider his invitation. Would I be violating school code? Is this unethical? He’s not my student. It’s just a ride! We’re not even on campus. He’s so cute. It’s just a ride. He’s being nice. I begin to have second thoughts about the offer, and then I have second thoughts about those thoughts, which technically means that they’re third and fourth thoughts, right?
“Well…?” Craig says hopefully.
“Um, sure, why not?” I say, caving in and ignoring those niggling wiggling second, third, and fourth thoughts. Maybe I am the easy professor after all.
And w
ith that, Craig swings his door open, and I hop into the car and buckle up. As he pulls away, Craig gently places his right hand on my left knee. I leave his hand there because the touch comforts and stimulates at the same time. Thin, strong veins map his slightly hairy wrist. But then I realize that he might get the wrong message, so I gently remove his hand from my knee.
I advise him to turn left along Quincy Shore Drive, where the back porches of homes in Squantum glisten from afar. Like steel candles, the streetlights that line the boulevard shimmer against the shore. Before I know it, Craig is pulling up to the front of my complex. As we sit in the car, the bay breeze pours through his sunroof. I’m relaxed, slumped in his seat and gazing at my building. As soon as Craig cuts the engine, I hear a chorus of crickets begin to sing.
Craig turns down the volume on the radio, which is playing another song by a former Disney teen star trying to be taken seriously as an adult musician. “So this is where you live? Not bad, Professor Galan. You can’t beat the views and the water.”
“Thanks, Craig. I like it. It’s relaxing, a great place to end my day from Jefferson,” I say, stifling a yawn.
I feel like a shy schoolgirl in the car and not the energetic and outgoing professor that he knows me as.
“Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” he says, looking at me with his light-brown orbs.
“Sure. You can park on the side of the building for a few minutes. You won’t get towed there.”
A few minutes later, I flip on the lights inside my apartment as we walk in. I point to the bathroom and offer him some water for the ride back to downtown. But Craig is too focused on the family photos that top my corner bookshelf.
“These are your parents, right? I can tell. You look like your father.” I walk over to Craig and take hold of the framed photo of Papi and me at my college graduation. In the image, we stand shoulder to shoulder, Papi’s arm tightly around me.
“Yeah, that’s my dad,” I say proudly with a tight grin.
“Is this him too? He looks older in this photo, thinner. He isn’t smiling in this one,” Craig says, now focusing on the image from Papi’s birthday last year.