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