Читать книгу Miami Manhunt - Johnny Diaz - Страница 10

Beep beep!

I honk the horn twice. Where is Racso? I’m sitting outside the Toyota dealership on Le Jeune Road waiting for my chronically-late brother. That’s one of the few things people say we have in common besides our looks, our penchant for tardiness. But at least I was on time this Saturday afternoon.

I finally see him emerge from the gleaming windows of the dealership, home to all those snazzy Scions and the new Camry. I keep telling Racso he could use a new car. His Corolla, with 110,000 miles, is on its last legs, which is why he’s back here for another repair. He approaches my Nissan 300 SX and sticks out his tongue at me. I do the same.

“Oye, it’s about time.” He opens the door and hops in.

“What are you talking about, little brother? It’s 11:05. I told you 11:00 yesterday,” Racso says, buckling his seatbelt.

“It’s 11:12,” I fire back.

“Well, my watch says five past eleven,” he says with a snicker.

“So what’s wrong with your car this time, Racso?” We pull away from the dealership and head back to Papi and Mami’s house off Miracle Mile in the less upscale part of Coral Gables, better known as “The City Beautiful.”

“It’s the catalytic converter. It’s shot. It’ll cost me about five hundred dollars,” he says, fiddling with the stereo and stopping on the country station. Faith Hill belts out her old hit This Kiss. He’s doing this to irk me. He knows I hate his country bumpkin music. Who has heard of a Cuban liking country music en Miami?

“Your car is barely worth five hundred dollars! In a few months, something else will go and I’ll have to pick you up all over again on my day off,” I say, as we drive down Le Jeune, passing the Blockbuster and the old Sears at the Miracle Mile intersection. I hang a left and switch the radio back to the new Madonna mega-mix CD. It has a new version of her hit Hung Up. I can’t wait to see her in concert again this fall with Ted and Brian, if he’s in town.

“Ray, we’ve been through this before. I’m a schoolteacher. I make almost half of what you make. I can’t afford a new car. I’m still living with Papi and Mami. I’m saving up to buy a house one day. No good comes from renting like you. All that money I save by living at home can go to buy me and Cindy a new little starter home maybe in Kendall or somewhere when we get married.”

“But all the money you’re pouring into your car can be a down payment on a new car! If you can pull off a new car, why not?” I tell him, grooving to Madonna with my right hand. When I’m not switching gears, I let my right hand do the dancing.

“Well, one day you’ll see that I’m right. I’m thinking about my future, Ray. Maintaining this Corolla and living at home will pay off for Cindy and me, you’ll see. If you met the right person, ah, I mean the right guy, you’d know what I’m talking about. You learn to sacrifice more. I’m not just thinking about me but about her too,” he says, changing the station back to the country channel, which has Keith Urban crooning It’s A Love Thing. Racso is really irking me right now, and I can’t help but show it by grinding my gears and gunning the car while making a right on Ponce de León Drive. It’s my Cuban passive-aggressiveness. Good thing we’re only a few blocks away from the house.

As I pull onto Ponce, passing rows of convertibles and sports cars parked in those slanted metered spaces in front of little boutiques and restaurants, Racso’s words replay in my head. If you met the right guy. Yeah, tell me about it. I’ve never really had a serious boyfriend. Just dates and hookups—no one serious enough to bring home to pass the Martinez inspection, which includes Papi, Mami, and Racso. And, of course, Gigli. If she doesn’t like the guy, which has happened before, I move on. I’m not going to bring just anyone home.

It’s hard finding someone who lives up to my standards. Professional (lawyer, teacher, fellow writer, intellect.) Lives alone (not with the ex-boyfriend, ex-wife, or his mom and dad). Out to his family (No bisexual or in-the-closet stuff). Good-looking (he has to be somewhat cute). Speaks English and Spanish. (This is Miami after all). HIV negative (I’m a little of a hypochondriac. Sorry). More or less my age (Give or take five years or so). Good taste in films (Scorsese, Manning, Spielberg, Almodovar). Then there’s the other Martinez standard. I hate to admit this, but I want the same thing Racso has with Cindy. As much as my brother heckles me, he has a great girlfriend and loving relationship. He and Cindy met at FIU where they were both education majors. She’s half Cuban and half Irish, with dark brown straight hair that falls to her chin, light brown eyes, and a very outgoing personality. No matter who she meets, she wins them over with her charm. She’s funny, too, and has cracked me up countless times with her witty comments. She and Racso started dating in their senior year of college, graduated together and went on to get their master’s in education at FIU. Mami and Papi immediately loved her, recognizing that she was a pretty Cuban girl who happens to look a lot like Neve Campbell, the Scream queen. She also converses with them in Spanish. The fact that she wanted to be an elementary school teacher just sealed the deal. Anyone who does that for a living must have patience and a heart of gold. Anyone who can put up with my sometimes obnoxious jock of a brother deserves a gold medal. When I see Racso and Cindy together, they just gel. There’s devotion in their eyes and a certain magic between them, similar to the way Papi and Mami interact with each other. They each know what to say to make the other laugh, as if they have their own secret language. I haven’t met my guy version of Cindy yet. Hopefully, when I do, Papi and Mami will take to him the same way they have embraced Cindy, who they consider the daughter they never had. She’s even invited to join us on family vacations, and her parents and my parents have bonded. But I know how uncomfortable my gayness makes Papi at times, so we just don’t talk about it. At least Cindy is cool with it, and I appreciate that. She always asks me if I’ve met a new guy and inquires about my nightlife experiences with Brian and Ted. Racso is really lucky to have her in his life.

I pull into the grassy driveway of our childhood home on Menores Ave., and I see Papi mixing his exterminating chemicals by the garage. We’re the third house in from Ponce de León. Our house is small and homey, but to Papi, it’s as special and majestic as the waterfront estates in Cocoplum. You see, Papi, aka Oscar Martinez, killed a lot of roaches to pay for that house. When he came here from Cuba in 1968 with Mami—Ana—he found a job as an exterminator through an old friend from Havana. He worked for Javier for a few years before earning his own exterminating license. With that, he opened his owned business, R and R Pest Control, named after me and Racso. The name is emblazoned on his little white Toyota pickup truck.

He hoped one day my brother and I would take over the business, but we had bigger dreams. I wanted to be a writer. Racso wanted to teach. In the end, Papi was happy that his two sons had ambitions beyond carrying a can of pesticide. He worked hard and sacrificed so much so we could grow up and have good lives in the United States. Papi and Mami personify what “good Cubans” are all about. They’re sincere, humble, honest, and kind-hearted souls open enough to share with you their life stories at the drop of a hat, especially tales from Cuba. But as much as they love me, I know they don’t share one particular story with many people, that their movie critic son is gay and hangs out at gay bars on South Beach. They tend to tell people about my reviews, my car, and even little Gigli.

There’s a Latino awkwardness in sharing that aspect of my life in casual conversation, though I wish it wasn’t so. Everyone en la familia knows that this twin likes guys, but they somehow dance around the issue of dating when we have family gatherings or birthday parties. That conversation always involves Racso, and he doesn’t have to say much because Cindy will be at his side, socializing with our big Cuban family as if she had always been a part of it. When my parents talk about Racso and Cindy, Mami and Papi glow bright enough to light up the American Airlines Arena. It’s just how things are, and I’ve grown accustomed to this double standard because I love my parents. I just hope one day they will extend the same courtesy to my boyfriend as they do to Cindy.

“Hola, how are mis hijos doing?” Papi greets from the garage door. He’s wearing his khaki work pants and white wife-beater shirt. He’s still wearing his R and R cap.

“Hey, Papi. Your cheap son needed a ride from the Toyota dealership,” I tell him, patting him on his sweaty back. The Miami sun is beating down on the city pretty hard today, and Papi wears a sheen of sweat. His crow’s feet crinkle into the sweetest smile whenever he looks up at us, as if he had just glanced at us for the first time at the Mercy Hospital baby ward.

“My car will be ready by 5 p.m., Papi. Do you think you can take me back there?” Racso asks.

“No hay problema, Racsito,” he calls him by his nickname. Mine is Raysito. Pick any Cuban kid, young or adult, and their nickname will be their name plus “ito—or, like me, plus sito.”

“Go inside, tu mama has made one of her super dulce flans,” Papi says, returning to his chemical concoction.

“I love seeing mis hijos together and helping each other. No matter what happens in jou lives, jou are always brothers and best friends. Jou will always have each other,” Papi tells us.

Racso rolls his eyes and walks ahead of me as I pat Papi on the shoulder. Whenever Racso and I would argue or get into a fist-fight, which happened every minute when we were younger (with Racso often being on top of me), Papi would forcefully separate us and repeat that saying. We’ve heard it a thousand times.

Racso and I walk inside. The aroma of boiling evaporated milk, eggs and caramel wafts through the air, the sweet smell of my childhood. We follow our noses down the main hallway, where Papi and Mami have created a mini photo gallery of us as kids. There’s Papi and Mami each holding one of us at five years old in front of Parrot Jungle with bright red and orange birds posing on our shoulders. There we are at eight years old with matching white suits for our communion. We were both missing our front teeth. There we are at ten years old with matching buzz cuts, blue tank tops, and shorts, smiling with the captain of the cruise ship from our end-of-the-school-year trip to Mexico. There we are at sixteen, standing proudly in our used Honda Accord hatchback that Papi surprised us with on our birthday. And there we are at eighteen, standing in white graduation gowns and with diplomas in our hands and our arms around each other.

The photos also remind me of the old Miami, when Gloria and Emilio Estefan performed at local quinceañeras rather than cloaking themselves behind their publicists in their rich and fabulous lives on Star Island. When Miracle Mile was home to a grand Woolworth’s store before it was replaced by another Barnes & Noble and Starbuck’s cafe. When the hotels on Ocean Drive were rentals for aging retirees, waiting for their next destination, and not jammed with too-cool hip-hoppers trying to keep it real. When families descended on Calle Ocho to watch new movies at the Tower Theater for two dollars instead of dishing out five dollars just for popcorn at the flashy Lincoln Road Cinema. I remember when Miami Beach was simply referred to as la playa, not SoBe.

I can’t help but smile at the framed family album on the wall and all the memories it brings back. The photos are gentle reminders of our happy childhood and all the places we went as a family. These days, most of my trips are to movie junkets or down to Key West for a quick getaway or here, to the house, to help Mami and Papi with their errands.

A little bell rings furiously. It’s Mami summoning us to the kitchen.

“Are jou here, Raysito y Racsito? I made jou some flan and two media noche sandwiches for lunch,” she says, emerging from the kitchen and greeting us in the dining room, where there are more photos of the family.

I don’t know why Mami is so happy to see Racso. He still lives here.

“Raysito, how is mi nene, my baby,” she says, hugging me and giving me a kiss on the neck, as she did when we were younger, in front of our friends at Ponce de León Middle School.

“Jou never come over anymore. I have to call jou and see how jou are doing. I see more of jou movie reviews than I see jou,” she says, taking my hand and leading me to the breakfast room where our sandwiches and slices of flan await us.

“Yeah, Ray is never here. Because he lives sooo far, tu sabes? South Beach is what, ten miles away?” Racso interjects, while hunched down browsing through the refrigerator for a Sprite.

“Mami, I get busy with work. Besides, I was here last Saturday, helping Papi change the air conditioning vents.”

We sit and chow down on our food, the whole time Mami watching us, probably imagining us as little kids eating her dinners. While we eat, I hear Mami’s Spanish soap operas playing on the small kitchen radio that never seems too far away from her reach. She listens to the morning run of dirty jokes from Cuban DJs, the latest local news, and, of course, her novellas.

Racso finishes his sandwich and flan and thanks Mami. Then he then heads off to our home office to grade some papers.

“Hey, little brother, thanks again for the ride today. I appreciate it,” he says messing up my hair.

“Leave my hair alone. I’m gonna have to gel it again.”

“Oh, no! God forbid the famous movie critic is seen without every spiked hair in place,” Racso winks. “Keep Mami company for a little while. She feels like she never sees you or knows what’s going on with you, little brother,” he says, leaving the kitchen.

So it’s me and Mami and that darn little kitchen radio. I can feel it coming any minute now. A Ricky Martin or Shakira song will start playing, and Mami will start feeling the beat and whip me onto the kitchen dance floor, like she would when I was little. When no one’s home, she breaks out in dance with an invisible partner. Mami is wacky like that. While she whips meringue or a rich flan, she spins herself on the beige-tiled kitchen floor. If she’s stirring some rice and beans, she twirls herself to the music of Celia Cruz.

I hear Ricky Martin’s newest song come on and to avoid the dance routine, I ask her for a favor. I do this every once in a while, and it’s that time again. I need Mami’s help to use Nair on my back.

“Mami, can you do that thing you do for me on my back? It’s time,” I ask her.

She winks, knowing exactly what I’m talking about. I don’t believe in waxing, and I can’t reach that far down my back to shave. But Nair takes care of that small patch of hair I get on my back.

“Si, como no,” she says, grabbing her yellow dishwashing gloves for operation Nair. “Anything for my baby!”

We head into my old bathroom where she keeps the bottle of Nair handy for these mother and son moments.

I take off my shirt and sit backwards on the yellow toilet seat, facing the sky-blue wallpaper with streaks of yellow. Mami squeezes the bottle and smears the Nair in the middle of my back. For some reason, Racso has a smooth back and doesn’t have to deal with this, but his chest is much hairier than mine. Funny how genetics works. We’re identical twins, so identical that people can’t tell us apart. But if you spend five minutes with us, our differences emerge. Racso is spontaneous and physical. He likes to punch me in the arm, allegedly playfully. He has a deep Cuban masculine voice like Papi. I’m more organized and stick to a routine. I’m not very physical except with the keyboard to write up my reviews or with the stick-shift on my Nissan. When Racso punches me, it hurts. When I try to wrestle him, he flips me on my back and nails me down. For Halloween, Racso enjoyed dressing up as Superman or Batman. I preferred to be Green Lantern, slipping into green and black tights and a mask, or Aqua Man because of the bright orange suit. And I got to wear a blonde wig.

Oh, and Racso is cheap, and I like to splurge. You should see the balance on my Miami News expense card. (One time, I went a little crazy at Bed, Bath and Beyond with picture frames and towels, but that’s between you and me.)

The Nair is cold on my back, and immediately, I feel the tingling sensations. The hair-eating glob is chewing away at my roots.

“Jou know, Raysito, I was listening to el radio the other morning and the locutor was talking about la SIDA and how there has been more infections aqui en Miami. I hope jou are using protection when jou go out con tu amigos. It’s getting muy bad aqui con todos los gays y touristas,” she says.

I don’t even want to turn around and face her when she starts talking like this. Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I am going to get AIDS. I’m super careful. Besides, I rarely hook up. I bet she doesn’t give Racso the same talk.

“Mami, por favor! I don’t need you to tell me what I can do and can’t do. I work for a newspaper. I read the news. I know what’s going on. I’m educated.” The Nair is burning as much as I am right now. I hate when she does this to me when we’re alone.

“I know jou are smart. I am just telling you what I heard en el radio. I tell jou Because I love jou, mi amor,” she says, grabbing a towel and dousing it with hot water to wipe the Nair and little black hairs off my back.

I know she means well, but it’s so awkward when she says these things. I begin to wonder whether she’s thinking about me having sex with some guy. It’s too weird. I wish people would stop equating AIDS with gay men. It’s everyone’s disease, not just gay men’s.

“It never hurts to take extra precautions, tu sabes. All it takes is one mistake, Raysito. One mistake!” She wipes my back up and down with the warm towel and washes it in the sink.

“Now see, you have no more pelitos. Jou hairs are gone. Tu espalda is all clean now.” She pats me on the back, and I turn around and see her staring at me with her big blue eyes, the same ones that Racso and I have. Papi has light brown eyes, which I think are more unique and look more Cuban, like my cousins Betty and Idelys.

I take a quick look in the mirror, and my back is as smooth as a baby’s behind. I smile. If this were a movie, it would be called She’s Got Her Son’s Back.

“Gracias, Mami, for your help,” I tell her, kissing her on the cheek.

“No hay problema,” she says before heading back to the kitchen and back to her radio. Come to think of it, I hate that little kitchen radio.

“Just be safe when jou go out. Remember what I told jou.”

“I know, Mami!” I tell her. “I know.”

After I brush off the remaining little hairs, I put on my Urban Outfitter’s T-shirt, the one with the Fight Club logo on the front. I’m reading the paper in the dining room when I feel my cell phone buzz in my pocket. It’s Ted.

“Oye, Ted…what’s up!” I say, taking the phone outside in the yard, where Papi has his small crop of banana trees and remove the large shady mango tree. He’s always secretly dreamed of having a farm one day, like his dad did back in his native Matanzas, Cuba.

“Hey, Ray. What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?” I can sense he’s up to something.

“I was gonna go to the beach, take Gigli for a walk along the seawall. Maybe hit Lincoln Road. Why? Wasssup?”

“Remember how you said how I’m overexposed and I go out too much?

“Yeeeah…and your point, Ted?

“Well…you’re gonna loooove this. There’s a new gay book club starting up at Books & Books near your parents’ house in the Gables. Wanna check it out?” he says.

A gay book club? Hmm. I do love to read. I just read the latest Dean Koontz suspense thriller. And I’m looking for something else to read. It could be fun and something different.

“That sounds cool, Ted. Wanna pick me up? I’m on the way. We can drive with the top down to the meeting. What about Brian?”

“Deal, but I don’t think Brian would be interested. He doesn’t read that much. Besides, I think he has his hands full with Eros, the Puerto Rican love god.”

We both laugh.

“I’ll swing by your place about noon. The meeting is at one.”

“See you then, chico!” I say, closing my flip phone.