Читать книгу Beantown Cubans - Johnny Diaz - Страница 9

It was so good seeing you Sunday. Glad we had a chance to talk, cutie. Thanks for listening. Can’t wait for dinner tonight, Mikey writes in a text message.

I’m reading this as I work out on my gym’s elliptical machine. I’m one of those guys whose face is buried in a novel as I sweat and burn my calories away. (It’s the sweet potato casserole at Boston Market and all those chocolate chip cookies I devour for lunch.) The reading makes forty minutes of exercise feel like ten. I put my phone away and continue reading my latest book, We Disappear by Scott Heim. It’s a dark story about a crystal meth addict who returns to Kansas to help his mom as she battles cancer and some inner demons from her childhood. But right now, I wish the fat guy to my right with the really bad body odor would just disappear. I’m suffocating here.

As I pump up and struggle to breathe fresh air, my thoughts wander to my encounter with Mikey. I smile. He has really cleaned up his act. He seemed so at peace with himself as we talked at the bookstore. I also noticed the same serene glow during our little hiking excursion in the Blue Hills. My favorite part was when we sat at the top at the weather observatory and marveled at the city view and the scalding red sun as it began its descent.

“I can’t believe I’ve never been up here. This is a giant forest. Shrek-land, cutie,” Mikey said, as the view of the city unfolded before us to the north. Below, hilly acres of woodlands smeared the landscape with a sorbet of crimson and golden yellow leaves. Every now and then, the trees swayed as if waving us a greeting. The cool breeze lifted the front of Mikey’s straight hair.

“This is one of my favorite places. If something is on my mind or I get the Miami blues, I climb up here and enjoy the silence. You forget your troubles up here.”

“I can see why, Tommy. Thanks for letting me come with you,” Mikey said. Our shoulders kissed as our heads leaned over the granite perch. He stared at me longingly with those two bright-blue orbs, which had been trained on me throughout the hike. I can recall the instances: at the base of the observatory, halfway down the hill, in the parking lot next to the museum, and on the way back to the bookstore where I dropped Mikey off at his car. If the stare was more than five seconds, I veered away and pretended to fiddle with my iPod’s Gloria Estefan playlists. I looked away because I was afraid that Mikey might see the feelings that lingered in my heart.

“You’re always welcome to come. I usually drive out here on Sundays. You missed out on the snakes and coyotes today, though,” I said, our shoulders still touching.

“I’m sure they were hiding from you, Mr. Bad Ass Cubano, but I think I’ll take you up on that offer. I had a lot of fun with you. It was an adventure. Life is always an adventure with you, cutie.” Later on at the bookstore parking lot as Mikey climbed out of the Jeep, he smiled and shook my hand.

We exchanged numbers (I still had his programmed in my cell phone from the year before, but I didn’t tell him that).

“I’ll call ya, cutie.”

“Take care and drive safely, Mikey.”

“And watch out for the coyotes. I hear they hang around in Dorchester, too.”

“Only if you come and visit,” I teased.

And now I’m here, swaying left and right on the elliptical machine trying to stay trim for our dinner tonight. This is silly. I’m working out like a crazy mad man on the machine so that my Gap jeans will feel a little looser around the waist. This is dinner, not a date. But then why do I feel so excited, nervous, optimistic, euphoric, giddy, and fidgety at the same time? I’ve had this soft tingling sensation since Sunday when I first saw Mikey. I haven’t been able to stop grinning. Well, I usually smile a lot. I’m just smiling twice as much as usual. I need to stop this! We’re just friends or about to be friends. I know he needs a supportive sober friend. Seeing Mikey sparked feelings that were still simmering despite all that had happened.

I survive my wild cardio session and the bad-smelling gym rat (or rhino) to my right. I use my handy instant hand sanitizer to destroy any bad germs. I grab my red hoodie from the coat rack, wave good-bye to the salesgirls at the gym counter, and head back to my condo. The whole way, I’m thinking that I can’t wait for tonight.

It’s 7:45 p.m., and I’m at Copley Place Mall, a sprawling city shopping center that connects the Back Bay and South End neighborhoods. Shoppers stroll transparent sky bridges that connect the Prudential Tower with bustling Boylston Street and Huntington Avenue. The skywalks become a Bostonian’s best friend when the weather turns to a chilly 35 degrees, as it is tonight. You can bypass several city blocks by traveling through the hotels that lead to the mall by these elevated enclosed walkways. I remember this area fondly because two years ago, I stayed at the Westin Hotel when the Daily flew me up for a job interview. Across the street, the mall had just opened a Cheesecake Factory, where Mikey and I plan to meet tonight. Parking is another matter, a nightmare with all the roving city meter maids. So I parked the Jeep at the Westin and sauntered like a hamster through the skywalk to get to the mall. Call me Tommy Skywalker.

I glide down the escalator to the ground floor to meet Mikey. From my moving perch, I scan the first floor for him. No sign yet.

My cell phone vibrates. It’s Carlos.

“Loco. What are you doing tonight?”

“Hey, Carlos. I’m on my way to meet Mikey. I really can’t talk.”

“Are you nervous? I bet you are! I bet you are!” Carlos teases.

“Um, no. Well, okay, I am, just a little.”

“But you’re friends, right? You shouldn’t be nervous to see a friend. I mean, you wouldn’t be nervous if we were meeting up tonight, which we’re not. I guess I’ll stay home and rent a movie or something.” Carlos sighs and continues, “Because mi amigo has ditched me for the night.”

“I didn’t ditch you. I really wanted you to hang with us, but I felt I should have some more one-on-one time with Mikey before I introduce you guys, that’s all. I need to rebuild my friendship with him slowly. If we’re not comfortable as friends, how am I going to be able to introduce him to another good friend?”

“Okay, I get that. But eventually, I want to meet the man you’ve talked about incessantly since we met.”

“And you will, I promise.”

As the escalator descends, I notice the crush of couples and families sitting around with restaurant pagers clenched in their hands. These hungry people fill the seating area along the glass vestibules that face Huntington.

“Carlos, I gotta go. I’m in front of the restaurant.”

“Okay, loca, good luck! Remember, it’s not a date. You’re just hanging out. Ha! My thoughts are with you. I am really happy for you. I hope you know that, chico. I think you could be a really good friend to Mikey.”

“Thanks, Carlos. Listen, you’ll get all the details first thing tomorrow. I promise. Adios!”

“Bye, loco!”

Before I reach the restaurant’s front doors, I flatten out my blue jeans. Check. I wipe the lint off my black wool coat. Check. I pull out my brown, long-sleeved shirt. Check. I apply some strawberry ChapStick. Check. I scrunch the top of my head so that my brown curls aren’t too puffy like members of the ’80s band Menudo. Check. I catch a quick glance of myself in the reflective windows. I smile. Thumbs up!

“Tommy! Over heah,” Mikey calls out in his sweet Boston vernacular. I forgot how thick his accent was. I hope he didn’t just catch me fixing myself up at the last minute.

I turn to the right and light up at the vision. Mikey stands alone under a lush decorative plant. He wears a chambray shirt pulled out over dark blue jeans. Some scruff fills his beard, but it works. The shirt complements his eyes, making them more ocean-blue than usual.

“Hey, Mikey! You look great! Have you been waiting long?” I’m not sure whether to shake his hand or hug him. We clumsily do both.

“Hey, cutie. You look so handsome.” He playfully tries to mess up my hair, but I duck quickly. I don’t like it when people (even Mikey) tamper with my hair. Like clay, my hair conforms to whatever touches it. If I sleep on one side of my head, then it will be flat while the other side is wildly curly.

“I got here a little early and got us a pager. We only have about five minutes left before our table is ready, cutie.”

“Great!” is all that I can muster. Here I go again with my one-word answers. Shyness suddenly envelopes me like the light fog over the city. I never used to clam up around Mikey. I could always talk about anything, a skill that helps me in my job when I interview Boston celebrities, Hispanic community leaders, and TV news anchors.

Mikey and I join the throngs of couples and families who desperately wait for their pager to vibrate. We sit side by side and talk about our work week. I tell him that I began reporting a story on a CBS crime drama actor who lived in Boston for several years before moving to California, becoming a model, and hitting it big by landing a role on The Young and the Restless.

“I know that guy. He is wicked handsome, half black and half white, right? It sounds like you had a really tough assignment. I feel sorry for you. Poor Tommy,” Mikey teases.

“It was very hard, if you know what I mean. The guy was so painfully ugly to look at, but that’s my job,” I say sarcastically. “Occasionally, I get to interview some of the most beautiful people with a Boston connection.”

Mikey then talks about his students. He’s a guidance counselor, but his principal asked him to coach an after-school math club because Mikey wanted to have some sort of group to mentor. He’s also a math fiend. I remember when we dated last year, he would calculate tax and tip in his head for each of our restaurant bills.

“I have this one student, Melvin, who always raises his hand to answer my questions about labeling decimals or fractions. Every time I ask a question, his arm shoots up. Today, I had to tell him, ‘Melvin, I am impressed that you want to participate so much, but your fellow classmates deserve a chance to answer too,’” Mikey explains.

“When I met his grandmother and mother during open-house two weeks ago, I understood why Melvin is the way he is. His mother works two jobs, one at Shaw’s supermarket, another at Subway, to make ends meet. His grandmother sleeps in, so Melvin has to wake himself up each morning for school and prepare his own breakfast. I suspect he doesn’t get a lot of attention at home. One of his teachers told me that when the class had to write an essay about one of their heroes, he wrote about me.” Mikey grins humbly.

My heart swells with affection. Mikey is a positive influence on his students, especially Melvin. And I see that Mikey is still as passionate about helping his students as he was last year.

“Well, if I had a teacher who was as kind and cute as you, I wouldn’t write an essay. I’d write a book.”

Mikey bites down on his tongue and laughs.

“Thanks, Tommy. That’s very sweet of you. I’m just doing my job. I’d rather you write about the kids, not me. Maybe you can write an article one day about the math club. Those kids deserve some positive attention. They don’t get much at home.”

The restaurant’s pager vibrates in Mikey’s hand, alerting us that our table is ready. We rise from our perch by the mall windows and trudge through the restaurant’s crowded waiting area. It looks like a typical night at Club Café as we squeeze and maneuver through the logjam of people, all waiting to sit and chow down on the super-sized portions The Cheesecake Factory is legendary for.

Our college-age hostess with the bleached blonde hair and black business suit escorts us to a corner table by a window along Huntington Avenue. She hands us our menus, and our waiter appears and greets us.

“Any drinks to get started?” he says.

“He’ll have a Diet Coke,” Mikey informs the waiter, “and I’ll have an iced tea.” Mikey looks at me. “Did I get that right, Tommy? I’m pretty sure you’re still addicted to Diet Coke, right?”

Even though we haven’t talked in months, Mikey still knows me pretty well. Diet Coke is my tonic. Actually, vodka with Diet Coke is, but I don’t want to drink around Mikey tonight or even at all. I want to respect his sobriety.

We settle into our chairs. The waiter returns with our drinks and takes our order. I get the turkey club. Mikey orders crab cakes as an appetizer and the fish and chips for dinner.

I like this, sitting here, laughing and exchanging stories with someone who used to be a big part of my life. We are picking up where we left off as ex-boyfriends, but this time we are friends.

“Do your parents still call you every night? I remember them calling you on your cell phone or at your apartment in Cambridge whenever I was with you,” Mikey says, smearing butter on the wheat rolls.

“Yeah, it’s a Cuban thing. They must call me every day. If I don’t call them back, they imagine that I’m in some Stephen King horror situation or that my Jeep has gone off the road and I’m just out of arm’s reach from my cell phone. All this because I don’t return their calls. They sleep better knowing they’ve heard my voice, and that I’m breathing, that I’m alive in Boston.”

Mikey laughs.

“My mom’s the same way. She calls me four times a day, especially since the accident. My car was a total loss. May my Toyota Matrix rest in peace. I now have a used Volkswagen Rabbit. It was all I could afford with money from the insurance. It gets me around. I can’t complain. I’m just lucky to be alive. I did some crazy stuff when I drank.”

“You were very lucky. You could have killed yourself. I never want to see your obituary in the Daily. That would kill me. Thank God you’re not drinking. Thank God you found sobriety.”

Mikey reaches over and gently squeezes my right hand. “I know, I was a crazy wabbit when I drank,” he says, making fun of himself with his Bugs Bunny voice.

“You were one drunk bunny, always hopping and skipping away with a Corona, but that’s the past. Let’s toast to the future. To your recovery!”

“To a new friendship.” Mikey clinks my glass of Diet Coke with his iced tea.

Throughout the dinner, we talk about all the fun things we did together: watching a screening of the new Jane Goodall movie at the Children’s Museum in Cambridge, getting lost in the disorienting Providence Place mall. I tell him that I still have the Red Sox baseball cap, the one he gave me after we first met. As we talk, I notice every now and then how Mikey stares longingly at the straight couple dining at the booth next to us. They each drink a glass of wine and my eyes follow his, which are fixed on their drinks. I can’t imagine not being able to savor something I truly enjoy. I do like to drink, but I stop after two or three because I often have to drive myself home. (Most guys in Boston don’t have cars.) I also stop at the local 7-Eleven for water and a candy bar to soak up the alcohol. When I notice Mikey glance at the couple drinking, I try to distract him with another fond memory. It works. He’s focused on me again.

“I still have that big seashell you gave me on Valentine’s Day after your trip to Key West,” Mikey says. “It sits in my window. Whenever I look at it, I wonder what you’re doing and if you’re okay.”

“Ditto, with the Red Sox baseball cap. When I wore it, I guess you could say, ‘You were always on my mind.’”

He gives me a high-five, and we burst out laughing. “Oh, Tommy, some things never change, and that’s a good thing. You’re still the cutie Cuban goofball. It’s nice to be able to sit and talk with you.”

“Same here.”

After dinner, we take a stroll through the mall, passing all the merchants who sell Russian dolls; fluffy, giant, animal-themed slippers; and Red Sox T-shirts and baseball caps. We stop by Ben & Jerry’s and grab two cups of ice cream. I ask for the fudge brownie flavor. Mikey gets the peanut butter and chocolate. We feed each other with our spoons. At one point, I miss and smear Mikey’s face with a glop of fudge brownie.

“Oops, sorry about that.”

“I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” says Mikey, cleaning his face with a napkin.

Around 9 p.m., we walk into the Prudential Tower corridor of the mall, which abuts the convention center. There’s a sign that reads “Observatory Deck Open.” We take a closer look. The sign states that the observatory is on the fiftieth floor and offers a 360-degree view of the city. I look at my watch.

“It’s only open for one more hour. Wanna go up?”

“Sure, I’ve never been up there. It will be safe, right? That’s kind of high. I’m scared of heights. I haven’t flown in ten years,” Mikey says nervously.

“Well, if you can tackle the Blue Hills, you can ride in an elevator. You have nothing to worry about. Besides, I’ll be right there.”

We cram into an elevator with ten other people. Mikey and I are sandwiched together, but I don’t mind. I smell his Dolce & Gabbana cologne, the same one he wore when we first met. Wherever I was, in town or in Miami, and I caught a whiff of that cologne, my heart would flutter because I thought Mikey was nearby. And here I am, squeezed in an elevator with him riding to the top of one of the city’s highest skyscrapers. A few months ago, I never would have imagined us doing this. We exchange smiles in the elevator until it pings at the fiftieth floor.

Inside, we pay the cover and move with the crowd of people dispersing to see their own personal slice of Boston despite the light fog, which appears as a transparent white curtain. Directly ahead, we see the John Hancock Building, which juts into the sky like a gleaming Rolex watch. Behind that is the tiny forest of skyscrapers that make up the financial district. Behind that, the harbor beckons with ships and sailboats dotting the horizon. Immediately below, Mikey and I marvel at the sea of red and brown buildings that line the South End and Back Bay neighborhoods.

“Who knew there were so many trees in Boston? Look at how the brownstones create the letter ‘U’ with trees in the middle. This is such an amazing view. I’ve never seen Boston this way, and I’m from here,” Mikey says, cupping his face against the glass with his hands.

“See the big gas tank with the vibrant rainbow design along the Southeast expressway? The Daily is to the left of that. And wow, look at the Blue Hills in the distance, lighted by the artificial glow of the city. During the day, it’s like looking at a colorful mountainscape because of the changing leaves. It’s hard to believe we were just there the other day. It’s like a beautiful Monet painting.” I turn to Mikey.

“You’re a beautiful painting, Tommy.”

I feel the warmth of a blush. “Gracias, Mikey!”

He winks.

“So where’s your condo? Isn’t it near the Daily?”

“Somewhere over there,” I point out ahead of me, “in the smattering of homes near the Neponset River. Look for the rundown four-story brick building surrounded by beautiful charming Victorian and Cape homes and renovated triple-deckers, and that’s where I live. It’s the eyesore of the neighborhood.”

“Don’t denigrate your home, cutie. I’m sure it’s a nice building. Your studio in Cambridge was very cute. I practically lived there every weekend. You could have charged me rent for passing out on your sofa so much,” says Mikey, standing two inches from me. I smell the minty gum he softly chews.

“My new place isn’t too bad. I bought it because I got a good deal. It’s a two-bedroom condo. It’s not the most beautiful building, but it’s my home. I’ve been happy there. I wish it looked like the building that I rented in West Cambridge. That looked more like a piece of Harvard University, but I was outpriced. All I could afford to buy in Cambridge was a tiny studio. So I looked in Dorchester where other gay guys have been migrating to, the pink gentrification. My building looks like it was a former housing development. Actually, it was before it went into foreclosure and the bank sold it off. But I do love my sliver of Dorchester. Despite the bad rap the neighborhood gets because of all the shootings, I can cycle to work along a bike path, and I’m a block from the Neponset River and a few minutes from Quincy and Milton. This is my home,” I say.

Mikey puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Tommy, you should be proud. You write for a big newspaper. You write about people trying to make a difference. You own your own home. You’re a good guy. That’s why I never stopped thinking about you.”

“Ditto,” is the only thing that comes to my mind because once again Mikey has my tongue and heart all twisted. Repeat to myself: Mikey is a friend. Mikey is just a friend. Un amigo, a friend, a cute comrade.

We take in the city from all vantage points. We gaze at the cluster of MIT buildings on the Cambridge side of the Charles River. On the other side, we point at the minions walking along the Esplanade, which lights up the Boston side of the Charles. At the rear of the observatory, we laugh at how tiny Fenway Park appears. It resembles a green cooking bowl. There’s the celebrated Citgo sign, rotating and aglow in red, blue, and white lights. Thousands of twinkling lights fill Beantown the same way that Mikey lights up my heart right now as we share this moment. It reminds me of our times together last year when alcohol wasn’t a third wheel in our relationship.

We spend the rest of the closing hour scrutinizing innumerable details from our bird’s-eye view of the city. As Mikey finds something familiar in a new light, I, too, adjust my own personal viewfinder of him. The freckles and scruff on his face. The way he furrows his thin, light brown eyebrows as he squints at another point in the distance. Watching him compounds my feelings of warmth toward him. But most of all, he seems centered, comforted by his own peace of mind. Mikey seems like a different person, someone unanchored by the weight of alcohol. He hasn’t brought up going to Club Café or ordering a drink, which is what I always dreaded him asking on the weekends. Right now, he seems completely content to be here with me. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, with my, ahem, friend. I can just imagine what Carlos would say to me now if I shared these thoughts with him. Ay, loco! And maybe I am crazy to think that I can just be friends with Mikey. Well, I’m trying.