matter, a nightmare with all the roving city meter maids. So I parked the Jeep at the Westin and sauntered like a hamster through the skywalk to get to the mall. Call me Tommy Skywalker.
I glide down the escalator to the ground floor to meet Mikey. From my moving perch, I scan the first floor for him. No sign yet.
My cell phone vibrates. It’s Carlos.
“Loco. What are you doing tonight?”
“Hey, Carlos. I’m on my way to meet Mikey. I really can’t talk.”
“Are you nervous? I bet you are! I bet you are!” Carlos teases.
“Um, no. Well, okay, I am, just a little.”
“But you’re friends, right? You shouldn’t be nervous to see a friend. I mean, you wouldn’t be nervous if we were meeting up tonight, which we’re not. I guess I’ll stay home and rent a movie or something.” Carlos sighs and continues, “Because mi amigo has ditched me for the night.”
“I didn’t ditch you. I really wanted you to hang with us, but I felt I should have some more one-on-one time with Mikey before I introduce you guys, that’s all. I need to rebuild my friendship with him slowly. If we’re not comfortable as friends, how am I going to be able to introduce him to another good friend?”
“Okay, I get that. But eventually, I want to meet the man you’ve talked about incessantly since we met.”
“And you will, I promise.”
As the escalator descends, I notice the crush of couples and families sitting around with restaurant pagers clenched in their hands. These hungry people fill the seating area along the glass vestibules that face Huntington.
“Carlos, I gotta go. I’m in front of the restaurant.”
“Okay, loca, good luck! Remember, it’s not a date. You’re just hanging out. Ha! My thoughts are with you. I am really happy for you. I hope you know that, chico. I think you could be a really good friend to Mikey.”
“Thanks, Carlos. Listen, you’ll get all the details first thing tomorrow. I promise. Adios!”
“Bye, loco!”
Before I reach the restaurant’s front doors, I flatten out my blue jeans. Check. I wipe the lint off my black wool coat. Check. I pull out my brown, long-sleeved shirt. Check. I apply some strawberry ChapStick. Check. I scrunch the top of my head so that my brown curls aren’t too puffy like members of the ’80s band Menudo. Check. I catch a quick glance of myself in the reflective windows. I smile. Thumbs up!
“Tommy! Over heah,” Mikey calls out in his sweet Boston vernacular. I forgot how thick his accent was. I hope he didn’t just catch me fixing myself up at the last minute.
I turn to the right and light up at the vision. Mikey stands alone under a lush decorative plant. He wears a chambray shirt pulled out over dark blue jeans. Some scruff fills his beard, but it works. The shirt complements his eyes, making them more ocean-blue than usual.
“Hey, Mikey! You look great! Have you been waiting long?” I’m not sure whether to shake his hand or hug him. We clumsily do both.
“Hey, cutie. You look so handsome.” He playfully tries to mess up my hair, but I duck quickly. I don’t like it when people (even Mikey) tamper with my hair. Like clay, my hair conforms to whatever touches it. If I sleep on one side of my head, then it will be flat while the other side is wildly curly.
“I got here a little early and got us a pager. We only have about five minutes left before our table is ready, cutie.”
“Great!” is all that I can muster. Here I go again with my one-word answers. Shyness suddenly envelopes me like the light fog over the city. I never used to clam up around Mikey. I could always talk about anything, a skill that helps me in my job when I interview Boston celebrities, Hispanic community leaders, and TV news anchors.
Mikey and I join the throngs of couples and families who desperately wait for their pager to vibrate. We sit side by side and talk about our work week. I tell him that I began reporting a story on a CBS crime drama actor who lived in Boston for several years before moving to California, becoming a model, and hitting it big by landing a role on The Young and the Restless.
“I know that guy. He is wicked handsome, half black and half white, right? It sounds like you had a really tough assignment. I feel sorry for you. Poor Tommy,” Mikey teases.
“It was very hard, if you know what I mean. The guy was so painfully ugly to look at, but that’s my job,” I say sarcastically. “Occasionally, I get to interview some of the most beautiful people with a Boston connection.”
Mikey then talks about his students. He’s a guidance counselor, but his principal asked him to coach an after-school math club because Mikey wanted to have some sort of group to mentor. He’s also a math fiend. I remember when we dated last year, he would calculate tax and tip in his head for each of our restaurant bills.
“I have this one student, Melvin, who always raises his hand to answer my questions about labeling decimals or fractions. Every time I ask a question, his arm shoots up. Today, I had to tell him, ‘Melvin, I am impressed that you want to participate so much, but your fellow classmates deserve a chance to answer too,’” Mikey explains.
“When I met his grandmother and mother during open-house two weeks ago, I understood why Melvin is the way he is. His mother works two jobs, one at Shaw’s supermarket, another at Subway, to make ends meet. His grandmother sleeps in, so Melvin has to wake himself up each morning for school and prepare his own breakfast. I suspect he doesn’t get a lot of attention at home. One of his teachers told me that when the class had to write an essay about one of their heroes, he wrote about me.” Mikey grins humbly.
My heart swells with affection. Mikey is a positive influence on his students, especially Melvin. And I see that Mikey is still as passionate about helping his students as he was last year.
“Well, if I had a teacher who was as kind and cute as you, I wouldn’t write an essay. I’d write a book.”
Mikey bites down on his tongue and laughs.
“Thanks, Tommy. That’s very sweet of you. I’m just doing my job. I’d rather you write about the kids, not me. Maybe you can write an article one day about the math club. Those kids deserve some positive attention. They don’t get much at home.”
The restaurant’s pager vibrates in Mikey’s hand, alerting us that our table is ready. We rise from our perch by the mall windows and trudge through the restaurant’s crowded waiting area. It looks like a typical night at Club Café as we squeeze and maneuver through the logjam of people, all waiting to sit and chow down on the super-sized portions The Cheesecake Factory is legendary for.
Our college-age hostess with the bleached blonde hair and black business suit escorts us to a corner table by a window along Huntington Avenue. She hands us our menus, and our waiter appears and greets us.
“Any drinks to get started?” he says.
“He’ll have a Diet Coke,” Mikey informs the waiter, “and I’ll have an iced tea.” Mikey looks at me. “Did I get that right, Tommy? I’m pretty sure you’re still addicted to Diet Coke, right?”
Even though we haven’t talked in months, Mikey still knows me pretty well. Diet Coke is my tonic. Actually, vodka with Diet Coke is, but I don’t want to drink around Mikey tonight or even at all. I want to respect his sobriety.
We settle into our chairs. The waiter returns with our drinks and takes our order. I get the turkey club. Mikey orders crab cakes as an appetizer and the fish and chips for dinner.
I like this, sitting here, laughing and exchanging stories with someone who used to be a big part of my life. We are picking up where we left off as ex-boyfriends, but this time we are friends.
“Do your parents still call you every night? I remember them calling you on your cell phone or at your apartment in Cambridge whenever