to be Green Lantern, slipping into green and black tights and a mask, or Aqua Man because of the bright orange suit. And I got to wear a blonde wig.
Oh, and Racso is cheap, and I like to splurge. You should see the balance on my Miami News expense card. (One time, I went a little crazy at Bed, Bath and Beyond with picture frames and towels, but that’s between you and me.)
The Nair is cold on my back, and immediately, I feel the tingling sensations. The hair-eating glob is chewing away at my roots.
“Jou know, Raysito, I was listening to el radio the other morning and the locutor was talking about la SIDA and how there has been more infections aqui en Miami. I hope jou are using protection when jou go out con tu amigos. It’s getting muy bad aqui con todos los gays y touristas,” she says.
I don’t even want to turn around and face her when she starts talking like this. Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I am going to get AIDS. I’m super careful. Besides, I rarely hook up. I bet she doesn’t give Racso the same talk.
“Mami, por favor! I don’t need you to tell me what I can do and can’t do. I work for a newspaper. I read the news. I know what’s going on. I’m educated.” The Nair is burning as much as I am right now. I hate when she does this to me when we’re alone.
“I know jou are smart. I am just telling you what I heard en el radio. I tell jou Because I love jou, mi amor,” she says, grabbing a towel and dousing it with hot water to wipe the Nair and little black hairs off my back.
I know she means well, but it’s so awkward when she says these things. I begin to wonder whether she’s thinking about me having sex with some guy. It’s too weird. I wish people would stop equating AIDS with gay men. It’s everyone’s disease, not just gay men’s.
“It never hurts to take extra precautions, tu sabes. All it takes is one mistake, Raysito. One mistake!” She wipes my back up and down with the warm towel and washes it in the sink.
“Now see, you have no more pelitos. Jou hairs are gone. Tu espalda is all clean now.” She pats me on the back, and I turn around and see her staring at me with her big blue eyes, the same ones that Racso and I have. Papi has light brown eyes, which I think are more unique and look more Cuban, like my cousins Betty and Idelys.
I take a quick look in the mirror, and my back is as smooth as a baby’s behind. I smile. If this were a movie, it would be called She’s Got Her Son’s Back.
“Gracias, Mami, for your help,” I tell her, kissing her on the cheek.
“No hay problema,” she says before heading back to the kitchen and back to her radio. Come to think of it, I hate that little kitchen radio.
“Just be safe when jou go out. Remember what I told jou.”
“I know, Mami!” I tell her. “I know.”
After I brush off the remaining little hairs, I put on my Urban Outfitter’s T-shirt, the one with the Fight Club logo on the front. I’m reading the paper in the dining room when I feel my cell phone buzz in my pocket. It’s Ted.
“Oye, Ted…what’s up!” I say, taking the phone outside in the yard, where Papi has his small crop of banana trees and remove the large shady mango tree. He’s always secretly dreamed of having a farm one day, like his dad did back in his native Matanzas, Cuba.
“Hey, Ray. What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?” I can sense he’s up to something.
“I was gonna go to the beach, take Gigli for a walk along the seawall. Maybe hit Lincoln Road. Why? Wasssup?”
“Remember how you said how I’m overexposed and I go out too much?
“Yeeeah…and your point, Ted?
“Well…you’re gonna loooove this. There’s a new gay book club starting up at Books & Books near your parents’ house in the Gables. Wanna check it out?” he says.
A gay book club? Hmm. I do love to read. I just read the latest Dean Koontz suspense thriller. And I’m looking for something else to read. It could be fun and something different.
“That sounds cool, Ted. Wanna pick me up? I’m on the way. We can drive with the top down to the meeting. What about Brian?”
“Deal, but I don’t think Brian would be interested. He doesn’t read that much. Besides, I think he has his hands full with Eros, the Puerto Rican love god.”
We both laugh.
“I’ll swing by your place about noon. The meeting is at one.”
“See you then, chico!” I say, closing my flip phone.
5
Ted
“Do you think there will be some cute guys?” I turn to Ray who is sitting shotgun in my BMW grooving to the Scissor Sisters. We’re cruising along the MacArthur Causeway with the Port of Miami to our left and Star Island to our right. It’s another sundrenched South Florida day, and I’m glad I put on my Clinique moisturizer and sunscreen although I don’t think I can get any darker than I am. It’s my Portuguese DNA. My Portuguese cousins and I look like we could be Greg Louganis’s relatives even though he’s Samoan. My cousins from my dad’s side of the family look like your typical Boston Irish descendants with the fair skin and blue or green eyes. And some of them shared the same racist attitudes, looking down on people not quite as light as them and making people feel like outsiders. I remember one time at my Uncle John’s birthday party in Quincy, my cousins Trish and Marty, part of the Williams, Cunninghams, and Cavanaugh brood, kept calling me and my sister Lourdes sand-niggers and spics. We were ten years old, and it stings just as bad now as it did then. It was one of the last times my mother ever let us visit, and the incident put a further strain between my dad and his family because you know the kids picked the words up from my uncle and aunt. So I always felt more at home with my mom’s side of the family, and among Latinos especially, with the last name Martinez. My mom’s side of the family and even Ray’s familia are a lot like me, very affectionate/lovey-dovey/let’s-throw-a-party. My dad’s family is stiff, silent, and let’s go-to-prayer-meeting people. Among Cubans or just Latinos in general, I feel accepted and loved. I feel I’m among my own, especially here in Miami where I’m part of the brown rainbow of Hispanics and Latinos. In Boston I usually stood out in the bars and school and surprised people by speaking English perfectly sans accent and being (surprise!) on TV.
“I don’t know Ted. This is a book club, not Score. We’re hear to read and engage in lengthy discussions about specific literary works. I want to find a new book to read and perhaps, meet some other intellectual men to interact with beyond the ‘Where do you work out?’ bronzed muscle gods we meet out and about. I dunno about you though,” Ray says, lifting his sunglasses and his thin black eyebrows to make his point. When he’s done speaking, he lets his shades fall back into place. I now can see myself talk again in the reflection of his Ray-Bans.
“Well, you never know. There might be a hunk in the crowd that never goes out. I doubt these guys go out much if they’re meeting on a beautiful Sunday afternoon…in a bookstore!”
“Bueno, we’ll see.” Ray says, wearing his Lethal Weapon black T-shirt, another freebie from his job, his Old Navy shorts, and Converse sneakers. He looks like a big kid who would be seen hanging outside a mall and smoking a cigarette. I went for my usual preppy look: a beige Polo shirt, dark blue khaki shorts, and boat shoes. “If anything, Gilbert’s Bakery is around the corner. We can get some cafecito y pastelitos. Yum. They make the best ones. You can smell their succulent aroma while driving down Le Jeune. My parents would take me and Racso there on Sundays after lunch at La Carreta when we were little.”
Fifteen minutes later after passing rows of bridal shops and hair salons on Miracle Mile, I pull up to a meter outside the small bookstore. I see a small crowd gathering inside. I pop my top back up on the BMW, and Ray and I walk into the store and take off our sunglasses in slow motion like David Caruso on CSI: Miami.
And so