since I first glanced at him at Starbucks tonight, I have felt this incredible pull toward him, like the gravitational force the moon has on Miami’s tides. I feel so warm and so safe with him. I feel alive. I told him earlier about my situation with Daniel, and he didn’t seem to care. Now I have to tell him what I tell all my tricks. We were a one-time deal. But for some reason, I don’t think I’m going to be able to do that. There’s so much about Eros I want to know more about. I want to know what it was like for him growing up in San Juan. What is his favorite food? What’s his favorite place? What are his dreams, his goals in life? I don’t know much about him. He works as a waiter at a Cuban restaurant on South Beach, and lives in an apartment near Flamingo Park. He seems like a simple guy and a hard worker, but there’s so much more to be explored. I can feel it.
“Brian, come back here. I want to see those beautiful blue eyes of yours,” he says. And with that, I tiptoe on the cold white marble tile, slip back into bed and into Eros’s strong arms.
As we kiss and cuddle again, I hear my cell phone vibrate on the tile. I have a feeling it’s Daniel.
4
Ray
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