Beantown Cubans Read online

  “Carlito, wake up! It’s time for you to get up.”

  “Ay, Mami. I’m really sleepy. Give me five more minutes.” I hide my face under my pillow, but even there, I cannot escape the seductive coffee as it permeates throughout my room.

  Mami grabs the pillow and starts tickling me.

  “Okay, okay, you win,” I say in between giggles. I am very ticklish, and Mami uses that as her other secret weapon to get me to do what she wants. “I’m up! I’ll be ready in ten minutes. Where are we going again?” My brain is still asleep.

  “Gracias, Carlito. Here’s your café. I need you to take me to the doctor. Remember?” Sometimes, I forget that she’s sick again except for little reminders such as these weekly appointments.

  She kisses me on the forehead and sets the coffee on my nightstand. I notice her bottle-green eyes try to hide her fear, but then she smiles and looks away, as she always does. She always has that look when we go to the doctor’s office for her chemo treatments. Papi had too much to do at the convenience store today, so it was my turn to take Mami this week. She slowly gets up from the bed and adjusts the light pink handkerchief she wears to hide her hair loss. I dread going to the doctor’s with Mami. I can’t escape the sterile smells of the room as an IV slowly pumps poison into her body. The monitors beep every so often and flash her heart rate. When I go with Mami, I sit with her, hold her hand, and watch The Bold and The Beautiful, my mother’s favorite soap opera, to keep her distracted. On days like this, I ask for a personal day from school so I can accompany her to the appointments. My principal, Mrs. Avila, always understands. Lying in the chair, Mami looks so vulnerable, but she makes the best of the situation by remaining positive and talking about everyday things.

  “Carlos, tu sabes que your birthday is coming up. Is there anything you want? I was thinking of inviting the family over and your friends or co-workers from the high school and of course, Daniel. We can have un big barbecue en el patio and dance to Celia Cruz and Ricky Martin. I want to have a big celebration.”

  “Ay, Mami! I hate those big parties. All everyone does is gossip about everyone else. Who lost their job? How much does he make? Where did they get the money to finance that house? What was Tia Christina wearing? I want something simple and low-key, maybe just a dinner out.”

  “I know, I know, Carlos. You don’t like big productions, but it’s been a while since we’ve had the family over for a big celebration. I want to celebrate your birthday in a big way. I want to celebrate life.”

  Coño! Now I feel bad. Mami wants to coordinate a big family gathering, and I’m being selfish about the whole thing. The party seems more important to her than to me, and who knows, it may be good for her, having the family around and keeping her mind off her cancer treatments. It will give Mami an excuse to dress up and be la grand dama in Coral Gables. I cave in. Although it’s my party, I want it to be about her.

  “Mami, you win again today. I think that’s a great idea! It would be great to see my cousins. We’re all so much older these days that we don’t see each other like we used to whenever someone had a birthday. Go wild!”

  “Trust me, Carlito, you will love this fiesta. No one can plan a party like your mama. Remember, I will always be there for your birthday. Always remember that no matter what bad things happen to us, celebrate the life that God has given you and not just on your birthday but every day, hijo. Appreciate what you have. Te quiero, Carlito,” she says, her eyes lighting up at the thought of organizing another Martin party.

  I hold her hand. “I promise, Mami. Just get better. You have to.”

  My cell phone vibrates like a jackhammer on my night table and stirs me from my dream, which felt more like a vivid memory, a reenactment of all the times I accompanied Mami to the hospital. Next to the phone is a big photograph of me with Mami. Papi took the photo on my twenty-sixth birthday, my last birthday with Mami. She didn’t seem sick at all that day even though we all knew better. In the photo, Mami’s arms caress me tightly from behind as she plops a kiss on my right cheek. Papi snapped the candid photo as I looked away, laughing. I smile whenever I see that photo. It captured Mami living life and not suffering. It’s the only way I want to remember Mami.

  “Mami, why are you doing this to me? You are not really helping me by showing up in my dreams,” I say to the photograph. I can imagine her response being, “Don’t talk to your Mami like that. If I want to talk to visit mi hijo, my only son, in his dreams, pues I will.” Again, she always wins.

  There were so many times I had to take Mami to her appointments. With each trip, she grew weaker as the treatments intensified. The cancer persisted and made her frail, but Mami continued fighting back until she no longer could. She slowly wasted away, yet her spirit never waned (as evidenced by my dreams). She managed to keep the focus on me, Lourdes, and Papi, always pelting us questions about our days and what was on our minds. Mami wouldn’t allow us to keep her at the hospital. She wanted to be home with a view of her garden from the bedroom as hospice workers rotated in and out of their shifts. As we neared the end, when she was too sick to travel a few miles to Versailles restaurant, we managed to keep our Sunday brunches going. Mami would order from a menu, and I would pick up the food. In her room, we would sit down and eat our brunch and have our talks. I always brought her the coconut flan, and she always finished it despite her lack of appetite.

  I grab my cell phone, and I notice a missed call from Lourdes. I’ll call her in a few. I want to lie here on my side as tears gradually dampen my pillow. My hands are tucked under the pillow just as they were in the dream.

  The slanting rays of sunshine fill my bedroom, announcing the start of a new day in Cambridge. Lourdes always woke up early, so I’m not surprised by the 8 a.m. phone call. I slowly climb out of bed and straighten out my pajamas, which are decorated with little Red Sox bats and balls. Lourdes bought them for me when she and Papi helped me settle into Cambridge over the summer. I amble toward the kitchen where I start brewing some Cuban coffee the way Mami would. Somehow, it doesn’t taste the same, and I don’t know what I am doing wrong. Too much sugar? Too many coffee grounds? Not enough water? No se.

  I dial Lourdes, who by now has already gone to the gym and spent an hour on the treadmill with her latest Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez novel and cleaned the house. She has one of those type A personalities. Lourdes always thinks she knows best. She always believes she is right. Most of all, she tries to mother me, which I find annoying. We’re siblings, yet she gets into this disciplinarian mode with me. I remember how she would argue with Mami about what classes I should have taken in middle and high school. Lourdes pushed for me to take the honors and Advanced Placement classes. Mami always asked me what I wanted, while Papi was smart enough to stay out of the whole thing. To Mami, my being in a regular class where I had high B’s or low A’s was just as good as being in an Honors class where I often received low B’s and high C’s. I was your average B student, but Lourdes wanted me to be something more, to excel more. I never understood why she pushed me so hard. My plans were to go to Miami-Dade Community College like she did and then transfer to FIU like the rest of Miami.

  “Hey, little brother, how are you?” she says as she answers the phone.

  “Doing well. Just woke up or am trying to wake up.”

  “Did you try making Mom’s coffee? That always worked.”

  “I’ve tried, but it never tastes the way she made it.”

  “Carlos, you have to use Bustelo café. Don’t use the other brands. How many times do I have to tell you this,” Lourdes scolds me.

  “I do, Lourdes, but it doesn’t work. Oh well, coffee is coffee. This stuff wakes me up anyway.”

  “So how are you really doing? How do you like teaching in Boston compared to Miami? Are you getting lost in Boston?” she asks. I sprinkle some brown sugar into my coffee and sip it.

  “Doing okay, Lou. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine on my own. I’m not a little kid anymore. School is good
. I’m still adjusting to the various students. I think their accents are so cute. And I’ve lost count as to how many times I’ve been lost in this city, but Cambridge is pretty easy to figure out. I pretty much walk everywhere here.”

  “Well, good, little brother. I was checking in. You know, we worry about you being there all alone. I still don’t understand why you had to move so far away. At least you could have stayed in Florida and closer to home. Papi wonders how you’re really doing.”

  Here we go again. The Lourdes speech. Just because she can’t imagine herself moving away to another city doesn’t mean that it wasn’t the right decision for me. Between her mothering or smothering me and her personality, we never seem to get along. The stripes in our personalities don’t match. Lourdes is one small part of the reason I wanted to start anew in Boston and be on my own.

  “Ay, Lourdes, I’m doing fine. Seriously. Listen, I gotta get going. I’m headed to the gym in a few.”

  “Well, fine! I was going to talk to you about visiting you up there for Thanksgiving with Papi, but I guess you’re not so interested in seeing us so soon,” she says, using her manipulative guilt trip.

  “We can talk later and figure something out. Say hi to Papi for me. Bye.”

  “But I…” I hear her say before I hang up the phone. I continue sipping my somewhat tasty, yet bitter coffee. I glance over to the refrigerator and stare at the family photo of all of us standing in front of Mami’s garden. Ay, Mami.

  I don’t want to start my day being a poster boy for a pity party. It’s Sunday and a little chilly from the draft that is seeping in through the kitchen window. I wonder what my loco amigo Tommy is doing. It’s too early to call him. One time, I called him at ten in the morning on a Saturday, and he pretty much put me in my place by saying, “Carlos, please don’t ever call me this early on a weekend. Wait until noon. I like to sleep in on the weekends. I’m tired from our night out last night.” Okay. From then on, I wait until noon.

  I jump in the tub and take a nice hot bath. I dry myself off and gel my wavy hair and tuck the longer loose strands behind my ears. I get dressed in my favorite blue jeans and long-sleeved white shirt and head outside. Que frio! I dash back into the apartment and grab a coat. It must be thirty-five degrees outside. I notice the sidewalks are strewn with dead leaves, their colors faded. The cold weather has stripped the trees of their leaves and I see puffs of cold air as I breathe. This must be winter. I decide to run back inside again and grab some gloves and a scarf, which I haven’t had to use so far.

  I walk down to the Starbucks in Davis Square, order a double espresso to really wake me up, and grab a copy of the Daily to read Tommy’s latest article. I sit at the counter on a bar stool surrounded by other young people tapping away on their laptops or gabbing with friends about their night out. The rising sun continues to warm up the coffee house. I browse the headlines, which sound like the same old stories. Economy is down. Housing market is slumping. The Patriots win again. Another student scandal at a suburban private school. My eyes stop when I come across an article about an increase in local Brazilians applying to college to become educators. The story goes on to explain how Brazilians represent the largest number of newcomers to Massachusetts. I read the article, and I think of Marcello and his interest in education. I carefully tear the story from the paper, fold it up, and store it in my pea coat’s pocket. I’m planning on giving it to Marcello the next time I see him, which may be today at the Border Café.

  8

  Tommy

  “Tommy Boy? No, it can’t be. You remembered your old pal Rico, your Italian brother, your first friend in Boston, your hot friend in Beantown, your—?”

  “Yes, Rico!” I interrupt him. “Of course I remember you. I’m the one calling you after all. How are you doing?”

  “Just great! David left today on his boat for Newport for a few days so I have some downtime. What are you up to, Mr. Cuban Clark Kent?”

  “Doing well. Too much to get into it on the phone, but it’s all good. Want to hit Club Café, for a drink? We haven’t done that in a while. It’s long overdue.” I fiddle with my phone at work. The Miami News online version appears on my screen. Some habits are hard to break. I like to keep tabs on what’s happening down there.

  “Just like old times. Meet me there at 11 p.m. I’ll have your vodka and Diet Coke ready if I get there first. It will be great to catch up. I’ve missed you, bro.”

  “Same here. See you tonight,” I say before hanging up my phone at my desk at the Daily where Post-its decorate the top rim of my computer like yellow flags. I finish transcribing my interview with a Cuban high school history teacher who has his own radio show in Boston. On air, he shares his own sarcastic brand of satire with Spanish-speaking listeners. Whenever I’m scrambling to find a new story, a story somehow finds me. Through the Cuban/Latino Boston grapevine, a steady flow of stories and news tips head my way. I know what the headline and my lead will be, but I can worry about the rest tomorrow morning. I usually find that I write better in the morning when I disappear into my creative writing zone and lose track of time.

  It’s 6:30, and the majority of the newsroom employees stampede out of the building to their suburban lives on the South Shore or even Rhode Island. Not me. My commute is five miles. I want to head to the gym, grab some dinner at Boston Market, and get ready to meet up with Rico. Although I have had Carlos to hang out with lately, Rico was my first Boston wingman, my chum, when I moved here. We were inseparable. He was there through all my Mikey drama. (It was Rico who first pointed Mikey out to me at Club Café.) I miss our nights at Club Café, our brunches at McKenna’s in Savin Hill, and our walks and talks along the Charles River and in P-town during warmer months. Part of the reason we haven’t spent as much time together is because he has a boyfriend, David the seaman. He really is a sailor as in the Popeye mold. David lives on a sailboat in an East Boston marina, home to a community of live-aboards like himself.

  For some time, Rico resisted David’s charms. Rico didn’t see himself dating anyone seriously after his ex-boyfriend cheated on him and scarred his heart. But eventually (with my urging), Rico realized he had to take a chance with David and open up the brick wall around his heart. They’ve been a couple ever since. I’ve noticed that couples hang out with other couples, and single people hang out with other bachelors and bachelorettes. It makes things easier. The couples meet up for dinner and do couple things such as rent movies or bowl. More often than not, they’d rather not be at a bar or going away on trips with their single counterparts. Perhaps that is why I’ve gravitated toward Carlos. It’s easy for me to call him on a moment’s notice to meet up and not worry about him breaking his plans with a boyfriend. I can’t really talk about things with Rico when David is around because I find that I censor myself. Although he is Rico’s boyfriend, he’s not really my friend. But he makes Rico happy, and that makes me content. As a couple, they’d rather do their own thing on the weekends, from sailing to the Cape or playing on the gay football league in South Boston. So it’s been a few weeks since Rico and I spent quality time together like we used to. I understand and respect his desires to spend time with his man. Sometimes, friendships have their seasons, but that doesn’t always mean that they fade and die. True friendships are unconditional. I know that if I really need to talk to Rico, he will be there for me, no questions asked, at a moment’s notice—unless he’s having some hot sex with David on his boat. Then I would have to wait a little bit or a few hours.

  At 10:30 p.m., I’m halfway to the South End from Dorchester. Mikey calls to say hi, and I tell him about my plans with Rico.

  “Oh yeah, I remember that guy with the green eyes, black crew cut, and big arms. I always thought he had a crush on you, Tommy, but then again, who wouldn’t, cutie?” Mikey says.

  “We’re just friends. He has a boyfriend now. We’re going to catch up. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks.” I hop on Interstate 93, passing the newspaper building on my right. The city�
��s small skyline unfolds before me and rises in the distance like a pop-up book. I slow down as I approach the upcoming South End/Back Bay exit.

  “Well, be careful driving. We’re still on for tomorrow night at Barnes & Noble, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s a…um. Mikey, I’ve confirmed this with you twice this week. I’ll be there. Don’t worry.” I avoid the word “date” because I don’t want to think of it as that, but what else do I call it? A coffee meet-up?

  “I’m not worried. I just wanted to make sure you remembered.”

  “I do, and I will. Anyway, I gotta jump off here. I’m almost there.”

  “See you tomorrow, cutie.”

  “Hasta luego!”

  I manage to find a parking space outside of Club Café, which is a miracle on a Thursday night because of all the guys pumping, sweating, and cruising in the gym downstairs from the bar. (All those work-outs will prepare them for another kind of pumping, sweating, and cruising later on upstairs.) I called Carlos earlier to see if he wanted to join us, but he’s pooped out from his workday and wants to rent the newest Almodóvar movie or watch another movie on Lifetime: Television for Women, Their Gay Friends, and Carlos Martin. He wants to take it easy. I have a feeling that he’s going to call Marcello or make an excuse to see him or something.

  As soon as I walk into Club Café, a wave of music hits me. Memories of my nights return in flashes. Couples or first dates eat in the dinner salon that faces Columbus Avenue. I venture deeper into the bar and there’s a line of twinks at the ATM machine. Along the hallway walls, posters of cute young men entice patrons to return on Wednesdays for karaoke night and Sundays for eighties retro night. I hang up my jacket at the coat check and begin to walk into the main video bar where a pack of gay skinny and built Italian guys in snug T-shirts with over-gelled spiked up black hair and eyebrows that have been plucked to near extinction slurp their drinks. Near them: a trio of gay Asians (or gaysians) with copper highlights in their perfectly straight, flowing, black hair. That’s Boston for you. Everyone lingers in their little social circle defined by ethnicity. As I try and count how many Latinos are here (that’s easy, none!) someone suddenly hugs me from behind and lifts me off my feet. I know this embrace well.