by Johnny Diaz
Fifteen minutes later, we finally make it inside the club. We drop off our black coats at the coat check and climb a steep set of narrow stairs that lead us to the boom-boom-boom dance floor. I immediately survey the scene: a circus of college students and guys in their thirties and older flouncing their bodies while holding and spilling their drinks in their hands. I love it!
“We got here just in time!” Nick says, eyes widening with delight—or horniness—as a herd of cologne-wearing guys walk in front, behind, and between us as if we were invisible.
“Drinks! I’ll get the first round,” I offer. As we stand by the lip of the bar and await our drinks from the bartender, my mind begins to whir, roaming to the night I bumped into Craig, which was the last time I came here. In fact, I’m standing in the exact same spot as I was that night.
“Snap out of it!” Nick chides me. “You’re thinking about your college boy. Tonight, it’s about us hanging out and having fun.”
“I know. I know. I’m just having a flashback, that’s all.” On that note, I turn around and pay the bartender for my vodka with Red Bull and Nick’s light beer. We grab our respective drinks and refocus back to the dance floor, which looks like one giant party. The lights above flicker and temporarily suspend everyone’s movements as if they were captured by a Polaroid camera. I never understood why young people sashay and jerk their bodies as if they are about to vomit.
Did I really just think that? I really do sound like a geezer.
“Let’s fucking dance!” Nick shouts. I urge him to start ahead of me, because I want to finish my drink and not spill it all over the dance floor or myself. Armed with his high-wattage smile, Nick then disappears into the sea of club revelers, grins, and waves to me. It doesn’t take long before he finds a dance partner, a young studly Irish boy with a crew cut and a tight white T-shirt and blue jeans.
I remain at the bar and watch the scene unfold like an MTV video. Again, I feel old, like an uncle standing on the sidelines of his nephew’s or niece’s birthday party. I feel out of place in an establishment that sits around the corner from my employer. I’m proud of the fact that I’m not coming to The Estate as often as I did, thanks to the time I’ve been spending with Craig. Still, I look at everyone dancing and having a good time and I feel that I no longer belong here, that I should find other things to do on a Thursday night or Saturday night. My gay-bar expiration date has come and gone, and I keep trying to extend it.
As I silently whine to myself and mentally file the observation away, the hip-hop and pop music blares, blasting every inch of the club and penetrating my core.
I finally decide to take the plunge and stroll over to the side of the dance floor and join Nick. But he’s preoccupied with the Irish boy, who dances awkwardly, with his shoulders hunched forward and his arms swaying left and right. Like a third wheel, I groove behind them and bop to the beats by myself. Nick pats me on the back now and then, probably so I won’t feel so left out.
I jam and swivel my hips. My arms create giant invisible looping number eights. Catching the beat and feeling the rhythm pulse inside me, I turn around, and my eyes pause on a familiar-looking fuzzy shaved head bouncing along to the rhythm. I pause, squint, and focus some more. I study the guy’s lean backside and the baggy jeans that sag at his thin waist. He’s dirty-dancing with another college-age guy.
I gulp and shake my head in confusion. It can’t be! Craig? And he’s dancing with that broadcast student, Tony, with whom he had dinner the other night. My heart pounds against my chest. A small fire churns in my gut. I stand there and watch them as they laugh and sway to the left and right without a care in the world. Their eyes are locked as if no one else were in the club with them. They don’t realize I’m a few feet away. I want to claw both their eyes out.
Nick suddenly taps me on the shoulder. “Hey, dudette… you okay?” Then his eyes see what mine see: Craig and Tony sucking face and embracing each other.
“Oh shit! What a friggin’ douche bag!” Nick says, pounding his right fist into his other hand.
“He’s a fucking asshole!” I shout as Nick pulls me off the dance floor and toward the front of the bar to get away from the scene. I reluctantly go with him.
“Forget about him, Gabriel. You deserve better. He’s a young guy. He doesn’t know what he wants,” Nick continues his pep talk. A small vein in his forehead bulges, and that distracts me from his green eyes.
“I know, but still. He lied to me. He said he was flying to Virginia. He made this big show about not wanting to leave. I’m so fucking stupid, Nick.” The whole time I talk to Nick, I observe Craig and Tony dance, kiss, and have a good time. They are lost in their own world, oblivious to the other dancers and drama swirling around them.
“Listen, maybe he has a good explanation. You never know!” Nick says, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“Um, how can you explain that?” I say, pointing to Craig and Tony, bouncing in unison. Nick turns his head and looks over to the young whores making out. “What could he possibly say that would excuse that? Their body language says it all, Nick.”
I shake my head and focus on the hypnotic flashing lights. Pangs of embarrassment detonate inside me like mini bombs. My eyes flare with anger, while a mix of sadness, hurt, and disappointment stews inside me like a thick emotional sauce. But none of these emotions can cloak how much of an idiot I feel. I should have known better. More than anything, I’m ashamed. I imagine the dance music washing over me and drowning out these conflicting feelings that consume me. I wish the flashing lights could wipe away the pain.
“Gabriel, let’s get out of here. You don’t have to see this. We can go somewhere else,” Nick offers. “Let’s go back to my place and eat the leftover desserts. We can even—wait for it—watch Star Trek… again!”
“You’re a true amigo, Nick. I know how much you hate our Star Trek nights, and yet you put up with my love of the Enterprise. I really appreciate it.”
“Hey, we all have our quirks. Yours are more geared to science fiction. Mine lean more toward the male anatomy.”
I summon my pride and my inner strength. I’m not letting an immature college student get the better of me. I tighten my right fist into a ball and try to release all the tension building inside me, but it’s to no avail.
“Nick, don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay. Go and have fun with the Irish guy, who keeps looking over here, probably wondering when you’re going to come back to the dance floor. I think I’m going to take a walk through the Common to think things through before heading back home.”
“I’ll go with you. I don’t want you to be alone while you’re upset,” Nick says, squeezing the top of my right shoulder.
I convince him otherwise. I want him to have fun, but more importantly, I want my space to process everything I’ve witnessed. “Seriously, Nick, I just want to be alone for now. I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll text when you I get home,” I say firmly.
Nick looks into my eyes. He knows that when I want to be left alone, no one can convince me otherwise. When I didn’t want to deal Papi and Mami arguing about his affair, I would take long drives along A1A in Fort Lauderdale, where the beach breezes soothed me. Sometimes being alone comforts me. It’s what I know best. No one can hurt you when you’re alone. It’s become a protective armor in my life.
Nick swings his right arm around me. “Okay, but call me if you need anything, even if it’s five in the morning. Remember, you’re not alone. I’m here for you, dude. I always have your back, amigo.”
I grin tightly. “I know, Nick. I love you too. I just want to get out of here. I’m taking off. I’ll text you later. And I want to hear all about what happens with you and your new friend. Your romp stories always cheer me up.”
And with that, I leave the musical chaos and drama of the dance floor behind and descend back down the narrow staircase to grab my coat. The music fades away with each step I take toward the front entrance.
Once outside, I
stand in the alley and smooth out my black coat in the chilly Boston air. Gaggles of young, drunk revelers, probably students at Jefferson, walk along Tremont Street. Their laughs fill the air like the soundtrack of young Boston. A pack of Jefferson smokers congregates on the sidewalk up ahead, where they shoot plumes of smoke into the sky.
I flip up my collar and button up my coat. I stroll along the cobblestone street toward the Boston Common. And then I smack into someone.
“Whoa, sorry. My bad,” he says. When I step back, I realize it’s Adam, the dance instructor from the Parkinson’s class. I light up at the vision. It takes me a second to process the scene.
I stutter, “Um… Adam? Wow, what a surprise. What are you doing around here?” We’re standing face to face. I rub my forehead to ease the pain from the collision.
“My friends were inside The Estate, and I just left. They were all getting rowdy and drunk, and I have an early class tomorrow. So I was heading to the 7-Eleven for some water and to maybe grab a slice of pizza before heading home. Want to come with?”
I beam at the offer and nod yes, even though I’m still stuffed from dinner with Nick.
During the five-minute walk to the convenience store, we pass several panhandlers who harass us for spare change, and Adam recounts his day and the various classes he teaches. As he talks, I’m mesmerized by his looks but also by his dedication to his craft. He seems to have a burning passion for what he does, and I find that inspiring. What does this mean? It wasn’t like this with Craig or other guys I have dated.
“Don’t you get tired from teaching two to three classes a day?” I say as we grab two bottled waters from the refrigerator at the convenience store.
“You have to pace yourself. I break up the classes so they’re not back to back. But I don’t just teach Parkinsonians. I also have some side gigs teaching turbo cardio classes at local gyms. There’s one class I think you’d like.”
“Oh yeah? What it’s called?” I say as we stand at the register to pay for our drinks.
“Cardio Caliente!” he says.
I laugh at the way he pronounces the Spanish word.
“What, you don’t like the way I speak en espanol, hombre guapo!” he says in his broken Spanish. He screws up his face as if to laugh at himself.
I stifle another laugh because he sounds so American enunciating the Spanish words. Adam’s presence right now is comforting, a much-needed emotional balm. “No, it’s not that. Just the name of the class sounds, well, funny.”
“Well don’t laugh at it until you try it. We do choreographed steps to Latin dance music such as Shakira, Gloria Estefan—you name it, Gabriel. So bring your father to the Parkinson’s class and then come on your own for the Cardio Caliente,” he says, drawing out the word into cah-lien-te.
We leave the bright fluorescent lights of the 7-Eleven and walk over to the small pizza place many Jefferson students flock to after a night of clubbing or smoking pot. There are only four people inside, which means there won’t be a wait. After 2 a.m., a rowdy line extends from here to the park. We beat the crowd.
We each order a wide slice of greasy pizza that spills over our white paper plates. We grab two seats by the front windows that face Tremont Street and the college.
As we munch on our pizza, strings of cheese thread from our slices to our mouths. Adam says he’s been good all week about his diet.
“I get to cheat here and there with pizza. Hey, after teaching so many classes, I’ve earned my fatty-food pick of the week,” he says, his light-brown eyebrows arching.
“I love the Cheesecake Factory in Braintree!” I chime in. “In fact, the friendly women in the bakery know me by my order.”
“Who do you go with?” Adam asks, the soft lighting illuminating his sky-blue eyes.
“I usually get take-out food from there and eat it at home while grading papers.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend?” Adam asks incredulously.
I take another bite of the pizza, which burns the top of my mouth. I’m not sure how to answer his question. I definitely don’t want to date Craig after what I witnessed tonight. “You could say I’m single. I was seeing someone much younger, and it didn’t turn out how I had hoped.”
Adam tilts his head and puts his hand on my left shoulder. “Sorry to hear that. His loss! Besides, young guys are trouble.”
“Thanks, I think. Anyway, what about you? Is there a special guy in your life, Adam?”
He coughs as he begins to respond. Another gooey string of cheese stretches from the pizza slice and onto his hand. I grab a napkin and dab the cheese away from his hand.
“His name is Louie. He has gray hair, big brown eyes. He’s very loyal and he’s been by my side for six years.”
“Wow, that’s great. Congratulations.”
“Did I mention he loves to lick?”
“Um, I think that might be too much information, Adam.”
“And he’s really, really hairy—with curls.”
My forehead folds up in puzzlement. Why is he telling me all these personal physical details about his guy? “What does he do for a living?” I ask, led by my curiosity.
“He’s lazy. He’s home all day. He waits for me to come home to hang out. I basically take care of him.”
I take a swig of the bottled water. “He’s unemployed? That must be hard, especially if you’re living together. I can see why you teach so much.”
“Yeah, I’m basically his daddy. Did I also mention he has four legs?” Adam leans back and releases a big belly laugh.
I’m such a goof. I should have seen that coming. I toss a wadded-up napkin at Adam. “So you have a dog. I got that. I meant, do you have a boyfriend?”
Adam then fishes into his back pocket and fetches his wallet. He shows me a picture of Louie, a beautiful gray poodle. “Louie is the only guy in my life right now. I just haven’t met the right guy yet.”
“Well, when it happens, you’ll know.” Our eyes lock for a second and then two before we both look away at the street scene of passing cars and late-night revelers.
As we finish our pizza, I tell him about my students and my move to Boston from Fort Lauderdale. He recounts how he adopted Louie from the pound in Somerville a few years ago because he wanted some company at home.
“Dogs have so much love to give, and you give it right back. It’s nice to know that Louie is home waiting for me to walk him or run with him after a long day of dancing,” Adam says.
After the pizza, we pass the club, and guys begin trickling out. It’s just shy of two in the morning. Adam offers to walk me to my car, but I parked one block away.
“Gabriel, let me know when you want to visit the Parkinson’s class again or when you want to do the Cardio Caliente class. I’m curious to see your Cuban dance moves,” Adam says as we stand on Tremont Street under the bright halo of a streetlight.
“I’ll let you know. It would be fun to do both and hang out sometime.”
“I’m sure Louie wouldn’t mind meeting you, hombre guapo,” Adams says again in his broken Spanish. I guess that would make flirtation number five, not that I am counting or anything.
We stand face to face, smile to smile. We both lean in for a hug. He pats me on the back and wishes me a good night.
As I walk back to my Nissan, I reflect on how good I feel around Adam. My anger and disappointment toward Craig temporarily float away. The whole drive back to Quincy, I think of how I would really like to see Adam again. Maybe he can teach me something else, like how to mend a broken heart.
Chapter 21
THANKSGIVING weekend passes in a blur of errands to the grocery store, workouts at the gym, and grading student papers. I still haven’t heard from Craig. After all, he’s allegedly in Virginia. I spend my time alone in the warmth of my condo, watching reruns of Law & Order.
At the end of one episode, just as the jury is about to announce the verdict, my landline rings. The caller ID says it’s Aunt Cary. Curled up on my sofa in a fetal
position, I pause the episode (thanks to my handy DVR) with the remote control to answer the phone.
“Gabrielito, we missed you this year for Sanguiven,” she says in her Spanish-accented English, using the Cuban slang for Thanksgiving. “Even your cousin Jessica was here.”
I smile at the gentle scolding. She’s just teasing. “I know, I know. I’ll be down for Christmas for a week or so. I can make it up to you then. How are you doing?”
“Everything is the same down here. Your Papi came over for dinner, but I’m sure you already knew that.”
“Yep! He’s still stuffed. I spoke to him yesterday afternoon. Is everything okay?”
My aunt pauses for a few seconds and takes a deep breath. “I wanted to wait to talk to you about this when you were here down here, but I don’t want this to wait a few more weeks, Gabriel.”
I mute the volume on the TV and prop myself up on the sofa. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s your father… I don’t think he should work anymore. I know he likes his independence and he’s worked ever since he was a teenager back in Cuba, but he continues to grow weaker. The Parkinson’s.” She exhales.
“But I just saw him a few weeks ago. He told me he’s riding the electric bike and that he’s been feeling better.”
“He is, Gabrielito, but I don’t think it’s healthy for him to work all the hours he does as an exterminator, with the climbing up the stairs and bending down to spray under kitchen cabinets. Those fumes can’t be helpful either.”
“So what are you suggesting, that he change jobs?”
“Your papa cannot not work, you know that. But I think he needs a job that isn’t as stressful on his body and doesn’t require him driving everywhere. I worry about him.”
“Me too,” I say. “Have you told him how you feel, Aunt Cary?”
“I wanted to discuss it with you first. There are other part-time jobs he could do that would make him feel productive.”