by Johnny Diaz
“Well, I leave right after class on Tuesday, so at least we’ll have this weekend to hang out.”
“Of course, I’m all yours ’til then,” I say, staring into those big Disney-deer brown eyes.
As Craig straddles me, we kiss long and deeply. I dim the light on the lamp that sits on the end table. We spend the rest of the evening switching positions on the sofa until we’re finally naked and performing our own sexual dance. Every now and then, my eyes glance to the corner of the living room and they catch Adam’s smiling photo poking from the brochure. Despite the incredible sexual chemistry I have with Craig, my mind temporarily flashes to Adam and the way he danced with the students. I try to will him out of my thoughts, but he appears when I close my eyes. I focus on Craig and his sinewy arms and soothing eyes and savor him the rest of the night until we collapse into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Chapter 18
“EVERYONE, pass your stories forward. I can’t wait to read them,” I announce as I begin to collect their news stories. Students shuffle their papers and chat about their holiday plans. Some of them talk about catching trains to New York and New Jersey, while others discuss their trips to Connecticut or Rhode Island. Like a deflating balloon, Boston empties out during Thanksgiving week. A mass exodus takes place, leaving the city with vacant parking spaces and less traffic on Interstate 93. I wish I could be on a plane going somewhere, but I need to save my cash for Christmas break.
“So when you guys come back, I’ll have your papers graded, and we’ll discuss some of your common grammar and style mistakes. And with that, class is over. Your break begins now,” I say, counting the papers in hand. On days when assignments are due, class attendance is full, at least in my journalism classes. I have a strict no-late-work policy, and the students know that. “I hope you guys have a great Thanksgiving. Don’t party too hard, capisce?”
My students gather their things and funnel out of the class.
“Bye, Professor!” says Alex, Mr. Anchorman, as he applies some lip balm.
“See you next week,” says Jenny, a red-haired student with thick black-framed glasses.
I’m leaning over the podium and waving as everyone leaves when Angie approaches me. She slowly walks up to me and tucks her straight, dark-brown strands behind her ears. She clenches her notebook against her chest. “Um… Professor Galan…,” she says meekly.
“Yes, that’s me. What’s up, Angie?”
“Um, like, I really want to ask you something?”
I gesture with my right hand for her to spit it out. “That’s what I’m here for, Angie. What can I do for you?”
“Well, there’s this opening for a resident advisor on campus and, like, I wanted to ask you for a recommendation, because I love your class and look forward to it even though it’s at 8 a.m. and I have a hard time getting up so early.” She shyly smiles, looks away, and continues tucking her hair behind her ears. “You’re the first professor I wanted to ask. So will you write one for me?”
I’m flattered that she asked, but sometimes I don’t know why my students or former students really want me to write a recommendation. Do they really like me as their instructor? Or is it because I usually say yes, if I like the student? I like to help out whenever I can, even though it brings me extra work. I’ve written three recommendations in the past few weeks. It’s become a job in itself. Nick was right, I am a slore, after all. “Sure, Angie. Just send me an e-mail explaining why you want this job with the recommendation form and I’ll put something together for you.”
“Really? Oh my God!” she squeaks, bouncing up and down with excitement. “Thank you so much, Professor. I really appreciate it. I need the money from this job to help pay my tuition,” she adds, playing with her hair. Angie is one of my better journalism students and one of my few Latina students. A native of Dallas, she attends Jefferson on a partial scholarship, so I am glad to help her pay for school.
“Are you heading off to Texas for Thanksgiving?” I ask as I neatly slip the assignments into my messenger bag.
“I can’t. The flight is too expensive, so I am staying with a friend in Cambridge. How about you, Professor Galan?”
“I’m in the same boat. I’m staying in town, but at least I’ll be in South Florida for Christmas.”
“Well that’s great, Professor. You can come back with a tan. You’re kinda pale for a Latino. Anyway, thanks again.”
I smile and wave.
WITH an hour break between classes, I saunter to my tiny, dimly lit windowless office and call Papi’s doctor. As I leave a message with his assistant, I boot up my computer, which is topped with framed photos of me with Mom, Dad, and my Aunt Cary. To the left of the monitor is a funny photo of Nick carrying me in his arms during our summer road trip to Provincetown. I remember I couldn’t sleep at all that weekend because Nick kept sneaking guys in and out of our hotel room and their sexual moans kept me up, but that’s another story.
My office is small, so there’s not much decorating to be done. It’s a picture of organized clutter. A small bulletin board bedecks the back wall and features some notes and letters from previous students. In the corner, a small bookshelf brims with several journalism and writing textbooks. At the edge of my desk is a bumper sticker that reads “Don’t Mess With Writers!” Years ago, one of my former students in Fort Lauderdale gave that to me as a gift. My pencil holder is a repurposed Dunkin’ Donuts mug.
There’s only enough room in this office for a desk, a chair for myself, and a chair for a visitor, usually a student looking to discuss a paper. In a nutshell, my office is akin to a retooled closet. Small college means small office. That’s why I prefer to grade papers at home or in the expansive school library downstairs.
As soon as my computer cranks up, I start researching Parkinson’s symptoms and frozen movements. I study the articles, and again, I’m surprised how aggressive this disease can be. Just when I believe things have settled down with the disease, another symptom or complication emerges for Papi. It’s as if the disease knows how to outsmart the medicines. The condition has its own trajectory, a mission that it won’t abandon until completed, leaving in its wake a small population of people who can no longer care for themselves. I hate you, Parkinson’s.
I square my shoulders and exhale in frustration. I continue reading additional articles on patients whose muscle movements freeze or are slow to respond, as if they suddenly stepped in puddles of crazy glue. The articles echo the same thing: this symptom is one of the difficult and most distressing struggles of people with Parkinson’s. About one out of every three Parkinsonians has issues with freezing or a sudden loss of mobility. It can happen when the person is about to say something, when they store laundry, or when they attempt to climb out of bed. Researchers suspect that freezing occurs when something in the brain interferes with the person’s normal flow of movement, but they don’t know why that is. The article goes on to state that patients become extremely agitated and frustrated when these episodes happen. As a result, they tend to become depressed, isolate themselves, or avoid crowded social settings in fear of a public episode. Again, my mind flashes to Papi stranded somewhere alone, unable to move, as if his feet are trapped in blocks of cement.
As the computer bathes me in its luminous blue glow and lights up the rest of the office—again, it doesn’t take that much lighting to do the trick—I place my right hand under my chin and use the mouse to scroll down the article with my left hand. Just when I decide to give up the search as fruitless, I stumble across a list of helpful tips that other Parkinson’s patients have shared with their doctors. Maybe these can help Papi.
I stare at the photo of us, which was taken outside the college when he helped me move to Boston a few years ago. We stand with our arms around each other’s shoulders by the entrance of Jefferson on Tremont Street. In that photo, he looks stronger and healthier, with his head up high, posture confident. He also looks at least seven pounds heavier. The disease has slowly ravaged him, and for
some time, I have been oblivious to the emotional toll this has exacted on him. My father has never been one to express his emotions, the way Mom does. She wears her heart on her sleeve (preferably a peach or pink color), while Papi has Teflon emotional armor.
When I visit for the holidays, I am going to sit down with Papi and ask him how he feels about the disease. I want to hear his frustrations, his fears, and what pulses through his mind. Does he feel less independent knowing that he sometimes struggles with buttoning a shirt or holding a glass without spilling it? Perhaps this might be as awkward for him to share as it is for him to ask about my personal life? I would feel somewhat uncomfortable revealing to Papi the details of my trysts, my drinking adventures with Nick, and most of all, my tangled feelings for Craig. It’s hard enough for my father to wrestle with my being gay. I don’t know how he would react knowing that I am dating or semi-dating a student at the college.
My focus shifts back to the web site on my monitor, and I continue digesting some of the story’s tips. One of them involves marching like a soldier. The article explains that when patients find themselves locked in a frozen stance, they need to imagine themselves marching in the military or to music. The mental image can help trigger movement. Sound also helps. Some people can unfreeze themselves by thinking or speaking out loud in a rhythm, such as shouting, “One! Two! Three! Four!” or, “On my mark, get set, go!” I never thought about that. I can imagine Papi yelling on the street or at the supermarket, “Uno, dos, tres, cuatro!” and scaring nearby customers.
Other tips from the article include adding floor strips in areas where a Parkinson’s patient often finds himself freezing. People can unfreeze themselves by aiming their next step at a particular spot on the floor, as if they imagine there’s a fly on the ground and they want to squash it. Take that, mosquito! The research says that it gives the patient a target, a command for the patient to keep moving. With Papi’s line of work as an exterminator, this could be helpful in getting rid of roaches.
I print out the tips so I can share them with Papi later tonight. As the printer spits out the research, I notice the brochure on the dance class poking out of my messenger bag. I pull it out and notice how I scribbled Adam’s name in the top corner, then down below and again on the back. I’m like a schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher. I look at the schedule of classes and realize there’s another class coming up right after Thanksgiving. I note the date in my organizer.
My hope is that I can get a better sense of the class by actually participating and then ask Adam about the freezing symptoms. A small smile forms at the corner of my mouth as I picture Adam working with the students. I can see him coaching Papi on how to stay fit and active.
As I prepare to head to my next class, which is a creative writing one, there is a quiet knock on my door.
“Come in!” I log off my computer and click on “Shut Down.” Looking up, I notice Craig poking his head through the door.
“Professor, I have a complaint about my grade, and I want something done, now!” he teases.
“Oh yeah? We’ll have to see about that.”
He turns the lock on the door and drops his bag on the floor. He twirls me around in my chair and then straddles me. “I’m going to miss you. I won’t see you for a week,” he says, frowning. I softly rub the back of my right hand against his cheek.
“It’ll fly by. Before you know it, you’ll be back in Boston, Craig. It’s only a few days.”
“I know. I know. I just thought it would be fun if we could spend Thanksgiving together and you can meet my mom and sister and all my cousins.”
I imagine the look on his mom’s face if he were to bring me home. How would he introduce me? Hi, Mom, this is my former professor at Jefferson and my current lover. Oh, and he’s thirteen years older than me, but he looks great for his age. Cool, huh?
“That’s very sweet, Craig, but you should enjoy this time with your family. You never get to see them. Besides, I’ll be here grading some assignments and hanging out with Nick.”
Craig smirks. “Yeah, that’s why I’m worried. Don’t you refer to your friend as ‘Nick the dick’ because he likes it so much?”
I look away, stifling my laugh. “He is boy-crazy, but I’m not. I’m just crazy about a certain boy, and his name is Daniel,” I joke.
“Daniel? You better be kidding,” Craig fires back. He cups my face in his hands and smushes my cheeks. He pulls me closer to his chest, and I rub my hands against his firm back. “Correction, I mean Craig, who will break hearts all over the country when he becomes the next network evening news anchor.”
“That’s what I like to hear! I’m leaving for the airport after my last class, so I wanted to see you before I took off.”
We kiss some more, and my body grows aroused. I could have this guy right here, right now. I begin to lose myself in Craig’s long, wet kisses when a knock on my office door interrupts us. Our eyes widening like saucers, Craig and I suddenly stop and stare at each other in panic.
“Professor, it’s Angie. Are you in there? I thought I saw you walk in earlier,” she says from the other side of the door. I glance at the bottom of the small rectangular window by the door and see Angie’s brown boot tapping against the carpet. Before the semester, I had covered the top half of the window with wallpaper for privacy, but I never considered filling the bottom half, because who would really peek into the office for a cat’s eye perspective except for my mother’s cat, Clara?
Craig immediately leaps off me, straightens his shirt, and grabs his bag.
I silently motion for Craig to open the door as I wipe my mouth and groom my hair by running my hands through it.
“So, Professor, thanks for the advice on the internship,” Craig says as he opens the office door and walks out. “And Happy Thanksgiving!” He passes Angie standing in the doorway.
She offers him a small smile.
“Thanks, Craig. You too! Don’t eat too much turkey!” I casually wave.
Angie looks at Craig and then at me as if she knows that she just interrupted something. Well, she did, so I can’t blame her for the probing, suspicious eyes. I glance down at my desk and notice that all my papers are brushed to one side and some of the framed photographs have toppled over. This mess must have happened after Craig and I became frisky.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your time with another student.” She sits down, crosses one leg over another, and pulls out some forms from her notebook.
I lean forward from my chair. “Not at all. I did him, ah, I mean, I was done with him,” I stutter, trying unsuccessfully to regain my composure.
Angie laughs at the bumbling. She then gladly hands me the recommendation forms for the resident-advisor job. “I thought it would be easier if I printed them out and gave them to you right away. So here you go,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Thanks, Angie. I’ll get these back to you after the break.”
“Fantastic!” she says, her eyes now focusing on the dance-class brochure sitting at the corner of the desk with the rest of my shuffled paperwork. She picks up the brochure and studies it. “What is this for? Are you looking to take dance classes? I think that’s so cool, a professor who can dance,” she says, leafing through the brochure.
“Why thank you, Angie. I’m sure I’m not the only instructor who can bust a move or, perhaps, crunk here and there. But the class isn’t for me. It’s for my dad.” I point to the photograph of Papi on the corner of my desk.
“Professor, you look just like him. Is he okay? This brochure says that the class is for people with Parkinson’s.” She looks up at me with her big, black, soulful eyes. Her face softens as she listens.
“Yep, you’re right. This was the class that our guest speaker Tommy Perez was talking about a few weeks ago. I checked it out, and I’m trying to see if it’s something my dad would want to do. Do you dance?”
Angie’s eyes light up, and her voice rises in volume at the sound of the word. “
Oh… my… gosh! Yes! I studied ballet for years in Dallas. I still carry my ballet slippers wherever I go. Whenever I feel down or homesick, I slip them on and dance. It lifts me up, so I bet this class will do wonders for your dad and other people with Parkinson’s. Dancing and music have magical qualities,” she says, pressing her notebook against her chest.
“Thanks, I’m hoping so.” With that, I wish Angie well, and she gets up and wishes me a happy holiday in return. As she leaves, she forgets to close the door behind her. I hate when that happens.
I grab some of the articles from the printer and place them inside my messenger bag, where something bulges from the right side. I wonder what that could be. I fish into the deep abyss of the bag and am surprised to pull out a black rectangular box with an attached card. I immediately recognize Craig’s handwriting. Now I know why he turned my chair around before he straddled me. He was trying to distract me so he could slip in this gift as a surprise. I prop open the smooth box, and there’s a pin of the Starship Enterprise. I hold it up and admire the tiny flat ship glimmering in the light of my office. I attach the pin to the right side of my blue polo shirt, just over my heart. I peel open the envelope and read the card.
Gabriel, thank you so much for coming into my life. You’ve taught me in so many different ways, and I’m not talking about journalism. Because of your warmth and kindness and the way you see the world, I feel that I am a better and wiser person. I hope this gift reminds you of me, of all our Star Trek nights, and this wild and crazy journey we’ve embarked on, Captain!
Always, Craig.
I reread the card a few more times, and my heart melts. I was stupid to doubt Craig. He cares about me deeply. I carefully fold the card and place it in my bag. I sling it over my shoulder and lock up my office as I head to my next class. On the way there, I glance down at the pin and let my index finger graze over it. The little ship sits near my heart, which Craig has.