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