Читать книгу Beantown Cubans - Johnny Diaz - Страница 7

I can’t believe Carlos talked me into coming to Club Paradise. I hope no one from Club Café catches me here. I try to make a covert entry by walking quickly inside with my head down and my right hand on the side of my head, cloaking my face. Paradise isn’t such a bad place. There aren’t many cute guys here, that’s all. It’s just off the MIT campus, and looks like a former meat factory or deli. The only dance floor is in the basement and it smells like a mix of urine, club smoke, and alcohol. It’s dark in here, too, something out of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre but with pumping music and outdated strobe lights. (Did I just hear a chainsaw?) Ah no, just some nighttime construction workers hammering into a new condo high-rise down the street.

Once inside, I notice the bar is filled with unattractive guys who look as if they came here straight from Jabba the Hutt’s cantina in Star Wars. They seem like Club Café rejects. I’m not elitist or anything. I’m just being brutally honest. Club Café radiates more style with its cute young guys, thirtysomethings, and plasma monitors featuring the latest video mixes. But I’ve gone there one too many times in the last year, so a change of scenery might be good for me. Part of the reason why I want to maintain a low profile at Club Café is because it reminds me too much of Mikey, my ex-boyfriend. We met there one Thursday night, and I fell for him right then and there. I blame those piercing bright blue eyes and the way he spiked up his straight brown hair. I assign more blame to his endearing grin, which made me smile. I hold him guilty as charged for seducing me whenever he nodded his chin or bit down on his tongue when he thought he said something funny. Mikey was my first and, so far, my last boyfriend in Boston. He showed me Boston from a native’s point of view. He took me on road trips to Portland, Providence, and Provincetown. He slept over at my Cambridge condo in Harvard Square, where we cuddled through the night. We were inseparable. Something—an emotional pull or magnetic force—directed my heart toward Mikey, as if Cupid had a GPS and shot me stone cold on that chilly November night. When I was around Mikey, something clicked, lighting me up from the inside like an electric spark. An unspoken magic, an invisible energy, lingered between us whenever we were together. It surfaced when we did the most mundane things such as sitting on my big blue sofa, walking on Newbury Street, or watching Saturday Night Live. Spending time with Mikey felt natural and right—except on our nights out at Club Café.

His drinking gradually wore me down. He was drunk almost every weekend. He’d wake up on Sunday mornings hungover, slouched on the side of my bed. It didn’t matter how many times I tried to talk him into getting help, he just wouldn’t listen. After a few months of watching Mikey seesaw between drunk and sober, I had to move on and let him go. I confronted him about his drinking at the Barnes & Noble in Braintree, our meeting place, since he lived on the South Shore while I lived in Cambridge at the time. And right there near the Self Help section, he dumped me because I called him on his drinking. He walked away from me because he couldn’t walk away from his drinking, and that left me heartbroken. I haven’t been able to fill that hole in my heart. It didn’t help that I would see him sloshed at Club Café every time I dropped by with Rico, my reliable and studly Italian wingman. After a while, I stopped going to Club Café because I didn’t want to see Mikey drunk in the corner of the bar flirting with some guy. It hurt too much and reminded me of what might have been, if only he had cleaned himself up and stayed sober. It never happened.

“Loca, are you still with me?” Carlos says as we walk deeper into Paradise. “Stop thinking about Mikey and don’t deny that you are. His name is written all over your face in big bold letters.” Carlos knows me pretty well.

“Um, I was, um, just thinking about my next story, that’s all.” Carlos’s eyes roll like two light brown bowling balls at my statement.

“Por favor, Tommy! In the short time that we’ve known each other, I’ve learned to read you like a gay romance novel. You wear your expressions too well. Let’s have fun. Leave Mikey in the past. Comprende?”

And with that, we venture deeper into the bar. We walk a few steps up into the main bar, where some extremely young-looking guys pole-dance á la Britney or the Pussycat Dolls. They look too boyish to be legally working. Maybe a story for the Daily’s Metro section?

I agreed to come here with Carlos because I wanted to show him another part of Boston, well, Cambridge, since the bar is on this side of the Charles River. Carlos is the newest addition to my crew of friends in Boston. I still have Rico to hang out with, but he’s been too busy with his sailor boyfriend and competing in the gay football league. That’s left some room to befriend Carlos, who is extremely nice but a little bit needy at times. When I met him at Club Café, we couldn’t stop talking. He reminded me so much of myself when I moved here from Miami. Carlos was lonely and adjusting to his new surroundings and trying to make sense of a city filled with icy stares from native Bostonians. But there’s one major difference between us. I still have my parents (who call me every night on cue). Carlos lost his mom to cancer. Out of the goodness of my heart, I decided to show him around The Hub. We became instant friends, as if we’ve known each other for years. There was a familiarity there. It never ceases to amaze me how at home I feel with a stranger when I learn that he is Cuban. We’re like instant oatmeal. Just add water or, in Carlos’s case, a Cuba Libre, and you get something that warms your tummy. Cuban comfort.

Carlos is your typical Cuban poster boy. He punctuates his speech with whiney Ay, Cuba or Ay, mi tierra and Spanglish phrases. Carlos is proud of his roots, even more so than I am, but I have always felt more American than Cuban after growing up in mainly Jewish Miami Beach. (I speak Spanish with an American accent.) With Carlos, it’s the other way around. He feels more Cuban due to his American upbringing and speaks with a true-to-Miami thick accent in both English and Spanish.

I remember what it was like to be a newcomer to Boston, so I couldn’t help but want to show Carlos that Boston is a great place to be, no matter where you are from. I found a good friend in Carlos, and that’s why I’m here, showing him something new even though it’s an old and tired place called Paradise. Wait, was that Antonio from Club Café standing in the corner? Nah, a look-alike. Whew.

I direct Carlos to the dance floor located in the basement. We squeeze through a musky herd of guys as we descend the dark steps to nowhere.

“Guao, there are so many guys here,” Carlos says, his brown eyes lighting up as much as they can in this sub-level dance arena.

“Where? I can’t see a thing. I left my glasses in the Jeep, so everything looks slightly fuzzy.” All I can see is Carlos’s eyes glowing from our new adventure tonight.

We head to the one-man bar in the front of the dance floor, where a gay Boston Benetton ad unfolds before us. Guys are crunking, gyrating, jumping, their bodies jerking to the left and sashaying to the right like wind-up dolls. Carlos and I grab our drinks. I ordered vodka and Diet Coke, my favorite. Carlos asked for a Cuba Libre. We clink our cheap imitation plastic glasses and take big sips.

“To Beantown Cubans,” we declare, using our new catch-phrase and taking swigs from our drinks. We lean against the bar and watch the parade of men stream by. Carlos nods my way to point out a cute guy he sees.

“Not really my type,” I say, eyeing the lean, tall, and tanned Brazilian guy with the green and yellow tight-fitting jersey and baggy blue jeans that seem to defy Cambridge gravity.

“I want to play some fútbol,” Carlos jokes.

“Well, go and be his Tom Brady! Have fun. Say hi or oi to that guy. I’m sure he can teach you a thing or two about Brazilian soccer.”

“Ha! You sure? I don’t want to leave you here by yourself,” Carlos says while eyeing the guy who is now dancing a few feet from us and staring at Carlos with seductive hazel eyes. Upon closer inspection, the guy is not bad on the eyes now that I can see him more clearly. (I need to order contacts for my night outings.) I feel like a dork wearing glasses outside of work or driving. Luckily, I am only slightly near-sighted. At work, I’m the Cuban Clark Kent with my reading glasses on.

“Don’t worry about me. I like to watch. I’m a news observer. I may get a story idea just by standing here. You never know. So go and have fun. This night was about getting you out and meeting new guys and having fun. Now go!”

Carlos grins, takes another sip, and power walks to the dance floor where Mr. Brazil awaits. I watch Carlos introduce himself, and Cuba and Brazil begin a steamy dance. At first, Carlos moves slowly and shyly as if unsure that he really wants to do this. But then he relaxes, and they start moving in sync. Every now and then, he looks my way, making faces or cocking one of his thin, dark brown eyebrows. When he mouths to me “He’s so hot!” I can’t help but laugh. Carlos has found dance heaven in Paradise.

I stand alone here surrounded by the darkness of the bar. No one from Club Café has spotted me, which is a good thing. I lean against the bar counter, which curves like the letter “c.” I enjoy watching the guys dance with boundless energy. I can tell most are single, lonely souls reeling from a break-up or wishing they had a boyfriend at home so they wouldn’t have to be out tonight. They’re here to make some of these solitary nights seem less lonely by being in a club that serves as an unofficial brotherhood of broken hearts. I know the feeling too well.

A built black guy with a red tight-fitting tank top and snug blue jeans eyes a thin Asian guy with tanned arms and a toned bum. A few minutes later, their lips brush softly together as their bodies remain entwined on the dance floor. Their kisses grow stronger and more sealed.

My mind alternates between past and present. I remember what it was like kissing Mikey. The sweetness his eyes radiated, which was eclipsed by his sweet gestures. Last year, he bought me my first Red Sox cap and welcomed me to Red Sox Nation. I wasn’t even a baseball fan, but it was the thought that counted. I remember how he helped me buy my first winter coat at The Gap at Copley Place. Then there was our road trip to Providence, where we clumsily lost my Jeep in the concrete parking maze at Providence Place mall.

A gargantuan man with a drink in his hand stumbles into me, interrupting my trek down memory lane.

“Sorry, dude,” he slurs in a Boston accent. He continues stumbling all the way to the dimly lit bathroom.

Two drinks and an hour or so later, I’m still standing at the bar, where I have a front-row seat to everyone else having fun. The alcohol numbs my senses and my cloaked loneliness. To my surprise, Carlos and Mr. Brazil lip-lock, swaying to the swirling beats. Carlos stumbles a bit trying to keep up with the man whose hips swivel faster than Shakira’s. Carlos finally takes a break from dancing and returns to the bar, leaving his friend dancing solo for the moment.

“So what’s the story?” I ask Carlos.

“He’s so guapo! His name is Marcello. He’s a waiter in town. He speaks a little Spanish but more English. We talked for a bit on the dance floor. He has this sexy Brazilian accent. He lives in East Cambridge, not far from here.” Carlos’s eyes widen like two saucers.

“So hit it! Teach him something new, give him a Spanish lesson,” I say. Carlos laughs at my suggestion. He stands to my right and orders another drink.

“We’re going to get pizza after this drink. Wanna come? That way you can tell me what you really think of him? I trust your judgment.”

“Nah, you guys go on ahead. You should be talking one-on-one. You don’t need a nosy reporter there asking him a hundred questions. Seriously. Have fun with him and be careful.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to feel like I’m ditching you, Tommy. While I was dancing, I noticed you seem a little sad.” Carlos places his free hand on the curve of my right shoulder.

“I’m cool. Sometimes when I drink, I get sad. It’s the alcohol. It’s supposed to do that. It makes me giddy and hyper, but then it brings me down. Don’t worry about me. I think I’m going to head on home. I’m a little tired. I had a long week at the Daily. I wrote two stories this week, one on how Brazilians don’t feel like they fit in among Boston Latinos. My other story focuses on a daytime soap opera actress who wrote a book about being raised in Boston with various foster moms. So I’m beat.”

“You were thinking about Mikey, weren’t you?”

“Ah, okay. You got me there. Yes, I was thinking of Mikey a little, but he’s the past and I’m moving on and right now, I want to head on home, maybe stop by 7-Eleven in Central Square for a Three Musketeers and a lime Gatorade. Anyway, everything is cool. Go and hang out with Marcello before he meets another cute guy, but by the looks of this place, he’s all yours. I want to hear all the dirty, juicy details tomorrow, okay?”

“Deal. Be careful driving. Text me when you get home so I know that you made it okay.”

“You sound like my overprotective parents. I’ll text you, I promise,” I say. We give each other a tight hug and say good night. Carlos then bounces back to the dance floor to get some more one-on-one dance time before the club closes at 2 a.m. The breezy cool fall air escorts me as I walk back to my Jeep. On Massachusetts Avenue, I drive on the bumpy bridge, which is flanked by bright light posts that resemble flickering candles on a cake. As soon as I cross the Charles River to Boston, I hear an old favorite song, “The First Cut Is the Deepest” by Sheryl Crow. The song reminds me of Mikey. I lean my head against my left wrist as I negotiate Boston’s pothole-filled streets. At each light, I wonder how Mikey is doing and whether I will ever meet another guy who will capture my heart the way he did. I knew Mikey was Mr. Right, but we met at the wrong time. We were in the wrong season of our lives.

The following afternoon, I drive on Interstate 93 on my way to a hike in the Blue Hills. Hiking has become one of my favorite hobbies in Boston. The one-hour walks through the woods to the top of the old Weather Observation Tower calm my mind. I forget about my deadlines and stresses at the Daily as a general assignment Living/Arts writer, my dream job and the real reason I left Miami for a new start in Boston. Miami remains in my heart, but I felt there was something more beyond lazy afternoons en la playa, liquor-fueled bar nights in South Beach, and South Florida’s endless supply of gritty news stories which I covered at The Miami News. I wanted to work for a great newspaper and learn my way around a new city. I wanted to make it on my own. I considered Anchorage, Alaska, but there weren’t any direct flights to Miami. (My parents would have had a conniption.) New York City seemed too overwhelming and crazy. Boston seemed like a good place to begin anew, personally and professionally. It’s a big city but one that still exudes a small hometown feel. And since I had interned at the Daily one summer off from the University of Miami, I felt comfortable in Boston. Boston, with its clusters of low-rise redbrick brownstones, numerous bike paths that wrap both sides of the Charles River like concrete ribbons, and historic cobblestone streets in downtown agreed with me. Boston was, and still is, an outdoor museum that never seems to close. It marries the old world established by the Pilgrims with today’s ever-changing Wi-Fi culture. Today’s settlers are us newcomers, students, and immigrants. This place simply fuels my brain.

When the Daily offered me my job, it was to cover Boston neighborhoods for the city section. I wrote colorful city tales, about things such as the popularity of a local Santeria priest and the plight of a brave, young, homeless woman in Cambridge who kept an online diary of her city travels. Over the summer, my editors promoted me to features. I always wanted to work as a features reporter in Miami, but the editors there didn’t give me a chance. Bastards! They preferred that I cover breaking news in Fort Lauderdale, another county (and world away) from the main newsroom in Miami. I freelanced for my old paper’s features section while writing full time in Fort Lauderdale, but my efforts were like messages in a bottle, floating aimlessly. So my dream of becoming a features writer for my hometown paper and owning my place along Biscayne Bay was deferred. I had to start all over again. Boston was my second chance professionally, and I gladly took the job offer. And for that, I will always be grateful to The Boston Daily, my new professional home, for helping Boston become my permanent home. It’s also where I discovered a love of hiking. (The only hiking that happens in pancake-flat Miami involves excursions to the mall, beach, or plastic surgeons’ offices.)

When I hike, I embrace the peaceful serenity that Mother Nature offers me with 4,000 acres of preserved woodlands only ten miles from my condo. The hikes are also good workouts. I benefit more from hiking up 635 feet than riding the elliptical machine at the gym with my face buried in a novel. I have to remind myself to bring Carlos here sometime, but I enjoy having all these hills to myself. Maybe one day I’ll bring him and, perhaps Rico, if I can pull him away from his seafaring boyfriend.

But first, I pull into the Barnes & Noble perched on a hill off Granite Street in Braintree. I walk into the store, which is crowded with suburban mothers and older people leafing through the magazines for free as they drink their white mochas and freshly brewed teas. I approach the café counter. The friendly young Latina salesgirl greets me in Spanish. She says I’m the only customer she can chat with en español.

“Hola, Tommy! The usual, right? The chocolate brownie and bottled water?”

“Yeah, Selena. How did you guess?” I say, standing in front of the glass display of cookies, cheesecakes, and brownies.

“Oh, let me see. You order this almost every day. I guess you’re OCD or something, right? Don’t you get bored of eating the same thing?” With a pair of plastic tongs, she grabs my brownie from the display case.

“You’re right. It’s my OCD: Obsessive Chocolate Disorder. The brownies are delicious! How can anyone get bored?”

I pay Selena and use my Barnes & Noble membership card, which gives me ten percent off the total price. Since I come here daily, it pays off.

Just as Selena hands me my spare change, I hear a familiar raspy Boston accent behind me in line. The sound breaks my focus from Selena.

“Tommy Perez! Is…that…you?” the voice inquires.

I turn around, and my heart races at a million miles a minute. A flush of nervous energy fills me when I recognize the sparkling sky-blue eyes, the brown spiked hair, and freckled nose and cheeks. Mikey. My fluttery nerves temporarily paralyze my vocal chords. He’s standing behind me in line at our former meeting place.

“You’re still in Boston? I figured you’d be back in Miami by now after your first winter,” Mikey says, looking as cute as ever. I wish I could swim inside his eyes. His skin looks more vibrant and healthier than last year. The bags under his eyes are gone.

“Hey, you!” I blurt out as I realize that he’s right here in front of me. I gather my composure. I wouldn’t want him to think I’m nervous or excited or anything. Internally, I am jumping up and down at the vision.

“Yeah, I decided to stick around. You Bostonians can’t get rid of me that easily.” I regain my composure after the words pop out of my mouth.

A smile flashes across Mikey’s face.

“What are you doing around here? You’re kinda far from Cambridge,” he says in his Boston accent, which makes “far” sound like “fahr.”

“Actually, I bought a condo in Dorchester. I’m pretty close. I hike in the Blue Hills on Saturdays. Ever been?”

“You know, I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never been to the Blue Hills. That’s very adventurous of you. Hiking alone.”

“Well, there are families hiking, too, so I never feel too alone.” I stand with my bagged brownie in one hand and my bottled water in the other. As we stand here, our eyes lock wordlessly as other customers mosey around and give Selena their orders. In this moment, I take a full visual inventory of Mikey. I am lust, err, lost in thought. He sports a dark blue hooded jacket with a brown T-shirt underneath, baggy blue jeans, and brown sneakers. He always liked matching blue with brown.

My brown eyes quickly reacquaint themselves with his blue ones, which look like portals into a bright sky. Oh, those eyes! They seem to mesmerize and seduce at the same time, just like they did when we first met a year ago. I couldn’t break away from his stare then, and I certainly can’t break away from it now. I’m surprised that we bumped into each other here. I always figured I would see him out at a bar drinking, as usual.

“Well, I haven’t seen any mountain lions in the Blue Hills. One time I got lost and I felt like I was in a scene from The Blair Witch Project. It took me two hours to find my way out of the forest. I was lost in Shrek land.”

Mikey bites down on his tongue and smiles. I could always make him laugh with my goofy jokes. His smile inspires me to smile widely. That powerful unspoken magic between us remains alive and well. It hits me with a physical force as he holds my gaze. I remember the feeling fondly. That old desire returns.

“Want to sit down and talk?” he suggests as he gently runs his hand through his hair, similar to the way Ethan Hawke has in his many films.

“Um, sure. I’ll meet you at the corner table, like old times.”

I walk to the corner table. The whole way, I’m floating on air just from seeing Mikey and being able to talk to him while he’s sober. I wait for him as he orders from Selena, who quickly winks at me when she sees Mikey headed my way. She silently mouths to me, “He’s so cute!” with her wide-eyed enthusiasm. I mouth back, “I know!” and raise my thick black eyebrows to emphasize the point. As I wait for Mikey, I run my right hand through my gelled curls.

Mikey scoots into his chair and sits across from me. He holds his steaming white mocha latte. He softly blows on the drink and takes a sip. We sit by the window facing a parking lot of SUVs. People run in and out grabbing cups of coffee or tasty desserts. The late afternoon sun holds steady, lighting up the highway and hills in the distance. If I don’t leave soon, it will be too dark for me to hike, but I don’t get many opportunities to hang out with Mikey. I don’t want this moment to fade with the looming sunset.

“So, Tommy, what have you been up to? You look really good. I like the fact that you cut your hair shorter. Those wild curls of yours were getting out of control,” he says, sticking out his tongue and biting down on it, his trademark playfulness surfacing. I have always been amused by Mikey’s expressions. They are windows into his feelings. Right now, he’s quite happy to see me again.

“Thanks. This is more of my clean-cut look. It’s better for work. I represent The Boston Daily wherever I go, and having a brown curly nest for hair didn’t match my professional image when I reported my stories. You like it? I still have some curls on top, but they’re just more tamed.”

“Yes, I like it a lot, my Cubanito.” Mikey uses the same nickname he used for me when we dated and fell in love last year.

“Well, I’m not your Cubanito anymore. Remember? So what’s going on with you? I haven’t seen you at all,” I say, leaning back in my chair. The last time I saw Mikey, he was drunk at Club Café with his boyfriend, Phil the pill. By pill, I mean that the guy always wore a constipated facial expression like he had just taken some Dulcolax. I listen raptly.

“I’m not the same guy you used to know. I’ve been through a lot this past year. For one, I’m sober. I stopped drinking.”

The admission catches me by surprise. Last year, I hoped—I prayed—that Mikey would have said those words, but he wasn’t ready. He just pushed me away when I tried to make him aware of how alcohol was affecting me and most of all, him.

“Mikey, that’s wonderful.” I reach out to touch his right hand, and my fingers quickly graze the top of it. “I’m so proud of you. That couldn’t have been easy. I remember how much you enjoyed drinking. What made you stop?”

Mikey takes a deep breath and continues.

“I crashed my Toyota into a large tree along the side of the road on my way back home to Duxbury one night. A cop found me. I don’t remember much. It’s a blur. The look on my parents’ faces the next morning was enough to sober me up. I almost killed myself. The car was a total wreck.”

“Oh my God, Mikey. You could have died. Do you know how lucky you are?”

I sit back and listen for a few minutes. I don’t interrupt because I know this can’t be easy for him to share.

“I know. They gave me a DUI, but I received a hardship license so I can drive to work and buy groceries. I also have to attend mandatory AA meetings. I go once a week. They’ve been helpful. At first it was hard sitting in these meetings, but I’ve gotten used to it. I share my frustrations about not drinking and my feelings about hurting so many people that I love.”

I take a few sips from my bottled water and process everything Mikey just told me. Mikey is sober and getting help. God answered my prayer.

“Tommy, I wanted to talk to you because I want to apologize for my immature and stupid behavior whenever I got drunk. You always tried to help me and make me see that drinking was slowly killing me. I wasn’t ready to hear it. I’m so sorry for putting you through that hell last year. You didn’t deserve it. You’re a special guy.” He gently grabs my hand and squeezes it in his. His touch sends a rush of tingles throughout my body.

“I just wanted you to get better, that’s all, whether we were together or not. Thank God everything is okay, that you’re okay.”

Mikey and I sit in the corner, our corner of the café, and we carry on a conversation that is easy and casual, like we’re old friends. He tells me about his AA meetings. He recounts how he came out to his parents, who completely accepted him. I always figured they would have since they’re educators. He also tells me how he read one of my stories, a profile on New England’s most popular and cutest soccer player. I’m surprised and flattered that he kept up with my articles. Mikey also tells me about how he ended his relationship with Phil, and that he didn’t really love him.

“I needed to focus on me, so I broke up with Phil. He wasn’t the right guy for me anyway.” Mikey’s eyes are trained on me as he cups his drink with both hands.

“I’m so happy for you. I’m glad you were able to find your way and that you’re healthy. Listen, if you ever need someone to talk to or someone to go with you to an AA meeting, just let me know. I want to support you, as a friend.”

I say friend, but I don’t know if Mikey and I can ever be just friends. But I want to try, for his sake and mine. A friendship could heal our wounds from last year. We always had fun and enjoyed being together. Perhaps we can redefine our relationship into a meaningful friendship.

“Thanks, Tommy. I really appreciate that. I could use a sober friend. Most of my friends still go to bars and drink. I don’t feel comfortable at a bar. It’s not healthy for me. I come here a lot to read magazines and books. I also fill out my progress reports for my students. You can say that Barnes & Noble is my new bar and white mocha lattes are my new drinks.” He smiles.

“You don’t have to go to a bar to have fun. We can meet here at Barnes & Noble and talk whenever you need to,” I offer.

“Thanks. You’ve got a deal! It’s so good talking to you again. You were always a great listener.” I look down, and when I glance back up again, his smile greets me.

“If you call me, I will always listen. I will always be here for you, as long as you are sober,” I say. I take a big sip of my water and I get up. I momentarily take my eyes off Mikey and glance at the softening sun. As I look away, I can feel him looking at me. I really want to go hiking, but I’m enjoying this time with Mikey as well. Maybe it’s time that I get going because I’m nervous, excited, and euphoric just from sitting here with him. Some of my old feelings are resurfacing. A hike right about now might be good for me, to get me grounded.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I really want to go hiking today before it gets dark.”

“Oh. I don’t want to hold you up. Your hiking sounds like fun.” He seems like he wants to keep talking, so I make a friendly suggestion.

“Well, would you like to come?”

“Um, sure. As long as there aren’t any mountain lions, right?” Mikey says, stretching his arms out to form the cutest human letter “T” I have ever seen.

“You won’t have to worry about the mountain lions if the coyotes get us first,” I joke. “I’ll protect you.”

Mikey laughs.

“What are you going to do if we come across a wild animal, whip out a pen and paper and write a newspaper article?”

“Well, I have my secret powers.”

“Oh yeah, Tommy? Like what?”

“The power of positive thinking. I wished you would get sober, and my prayers have been answered. So it works.”

Mikey tilts his head and grins, his eyes crinkling at each corner.

“It’s so good to talk to you again, Tommy.”

“Ditto.”

And with that, we walk outside with our drinks in our hands, climb into my Jeep, and embark on a new adventure together, almost like old times.