been the freshman or sophomore to his senior. He is my first friend in this new city, and I like the sound of that.
Too bad we didn’t know each other in Miami. With his warmth, confidence, and humor, he could have helped me a lot during my high school years at Christopher Columbus High, an all-boys private school. Tommy would have been a good guy friend to turn to when I told Papi that I was gay and infatuated with Rick on the track team. Tommy would have been great in Miami when I found out that my boyfriend Daniel cheated on me while my mother was sick. I don’t want to think about those details right now. Mami always said, “It’s important to listen to other people and not talk too much about ourselves.”
I glance at my watch again: It’s 6:30 p.m. Where is Tommy? Speak of the diablo and he finally shows up. Ay, dios mio! Tommy is driving with the top down on his new white Jeep Wrangler. He beeps twice and waves at me, his short, dark brown, curly hair quivering in all directions in the fall breeze. He’s showing off again, but it’s funny to watch because he’s proud of his new wheels. A few minutes later after parking the Jeep and leaving half of it sticking out on the street (he’s not a great parker), Tommy hoists his Boston Daily messenger bag over his shoulder and crosses the street. He flashes his big happy-go-lucky smile and walks up to the restaurant with a certain bounce in his step. His black bag bounces against his thin frame the entire way.
“Loco, where have you been?” I ask. Tommy greets me with a big, warm strong hug. I catch a whiff of his Cool Water cologne, which is very 90s to me, but that’s Tommy. He’s a creature of habit who sticks to what he knows, and that includes food. He has a penchant for Boston Market turkey sandwiches, Diet Cokes with vodka, and Jeeps. (He just traded in his twelve-year-old black Jeep Wrangler for the new white one.) If I hadn’t talked him into accompanying me to this restaurant, it would have been another meal of turkey carver sandwiches, corn, and sweet potatoes, and I couldn’t have that again! There are only so many times I can go to Boston Market with him.
“Sorry, Carlos. I got stuck in traffic coming from the Daily. I had to answer some questions from my editor about my story about this famous Dominican author who just published his second book. You hungry?”
“Um, yes! Let’s eat,” I say, seduced by the succulent aroma of breaded steaks and fresh Cuban bread and frying tostones from the kitchen. The hostess with the tight ponytail and perfectly formed curlycues glued with gel to the sides of her head, greets us in Spanish. She gingerly escorts us to a corner table by the window near other customers who nibble on croquettes, beans, and rice. Tommy and I follow our noses and the hostess deeper into this small eatery. It is decorated with bright colorful photographs of Cuba’s street-scapes, including a lime green 1950s’ Chevrolet and a cheery group of black smiling dancers dressed in white. No matter where they are located, Latin restaurants tend to have a familiar feel. Slow-moving ceiling fans whir above customers. Infectious laughter from the waitresses echoes as they gossip about their previous night out. And, of course, the rich aroma of garlic dances through the dining room, imbuing the scene with a palpable “sabor” in everyone’s mouth.
Tommy and I settle into our cushioned seats, and we immediately study the menus. It’s been months since I’ve had Cuban food in Miami, so this place will have to do.
“So what’s going on with you, chico? How was school today?” Tommy asks, putting down his menu, which features yet another image of my country on the cover. Ay, Havana! As we talk, Tommy begins to rip and twirl small pieces of his napkin over and over again into little balls, something he does often at restaurants.
“I’m still getting to know the students. They’re a mix of blacks, Hispanics, and Asians, and I have to wait about fifteen minutes at the beginning of class to get them to settle down. All they want to do is talk about their online profiles and who did who over the weekend. But when I sit in front and stare at them without saying a word, they finally start to settle down and let me talk. It’s all psychology, Mr. T, but sometimes I just want to start the day without them interrupting me.”
“I can’t imagine being a teacher here, especially in Dorchester or Dotchestah as the native Bostonians say. It’s one of the rougher schools. It’s where all those shootings take place and close to where they filmed that 2007 Ben Affleck movie, Gone Baby Gone, which showed the grittier side of Beantown. You get SHOT in DOT!” Tommy jokes. He tends to preface his conversations with pop culture references.
“But don’t you live in Dorchester?” I break some of the warm bread the waitress brought us.
“Um yeah, that’s why I know what I’m talking about. Don’t leave home without your bulletproof vest! But I’m in the nice part of Dorchester, near Milton by the old Walter Baker Chocolate Factories, so I don’t have to strap on my bazooka. Actually, I’m teasing. I do like living there. It’s like a cute little urban hamlet. Speaking of cute, are there any cute teachers at your school?” As usual, Tommy plays reporter after hours. He flashes his big smile again. A chronic smiler, Tommy makes people wonder what he’s thinking about.
“Except for that night we met at Club Café, I haven’t met anyone. All the guys at Club Café are too good-looking. They’re all about themselves, and they seemed snobby. They’re all in their little cliques talking about everyone else like gossiping girls on a teen show. I don’t know why you like that place. I was about to head home when I met you that night. Everyone else seemed really rude. Is there another bar to go to?”
“Snobby? Club Café is fun, Carlos. Loosen up,” Tommy snaps back. Oops. I forgot how much he enjoys hanging out there. It’s where he met his ex-boyfriend Mikey, the alcoholic. I better not go there right now. If I get Tommy wound up again about Mikey, the Ethan Hawke clone, and how much he loved him, I’ll have to throw myself through this beautiful glass window, and I wouldn’t want to upset the Cuban restaurant owner. In the short time that I’ve known Tommy, I’ve noticed that he repeats himself with his stories, especially those concerning Mikey. From what Tommy has shared with me, Mikey made him feel at home in Boston when he moved here from Miami, but Mikey was constantly drowning himself inside a Corona bottle. I don’t know what that is like from personal experience except for Tio Augustin, my uncle who was never invited to family gatherings. We feared he would become an obnoxious drunk. From what Tommy has described, I don’t want to ever experience that with a boyfriend. I’ll take his word for it.
“Well, Club Café is more your scene, but is there another place we can go that is more laid back, more ethnic, sort of like Miami? Club Café is so white. I want to see the other side of Boston,” I say, sipping my water.
“Um, white, Carlos? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? You look like a Cuban Josh Groban except with shorter hair. You’re just as white as the guys here in Boston.”
“Yeah, but I’m Cuban so it’s not the same thing, but I don’t look like Josh Groban. I’ll take that as a compliment though because he’s handsome, so thank you. I just have more café mixed in me.” I joke back. Tommy is right though. I’m pretty pale for a Cuban. People often mistake me for a European from Spain. It’s the milkiness of my skin, my dark brown, wavy hair, and light brown eyes. Tommy is slightly darker with his olive skin, short, brown, curly hair, and cinnamon brown eyes. I would say that he looks like that soccer player who won Survivor a few years ago but with more tamed hair. (Just don’t tell Tommy that because it may go to his head.) Tommy appears more Greek and Italian, which is what caught my attention when we first met. He looked, well, ethnic, and I like ethnic-looking guys, which is something this city lacks unless you’re here in Jamaica Plain or in Dorchester or East Boston, Logan International Airport’s neighbor. When I first met Tommy, I thought we would hit it off romantically. I was interested. Tommy is very attractive, and I immediately sensed he has a good heart. But from the get-go, he talked endlessly about Mikey and their break-up. I could tell that this ex-boyfriend resided in a large part of his heart. Besides, I needed a friend here, un amigo, and Tommy seemed like he would be a great one. And Mami would agree. I can picture myself introducing her to him. He would have passed the Maria Martin test with flying colors. (Oops. I am talking about Mami again. Sorry. I tend to do that a lot.) Tommy tells really cheesy goofy jokes and announces the year when movies and songs came out as if he had OCD. I call him loco or loca but as terms of endearment.