He was wearing a dark suit and had his arm around a woman who was probably his wife. They were with two other couples, all of the same age and same background. His eyes widened when he saw me, then narrowed menacingly.
The conga line dragged me forward, and I passed him without saying anything.
After the conga line disintegrated, I ended up back in my bed alone, jerking myself off to hazy fantasies fueled by lust and alcohol. Roberto kissed me, told me I was beautiful, and went down on me—but when he looked up from my crotch, it was Walter’s face I saw. His eyes looked the way they had in the men’s room—filled with a kind of desperate lust.
I closed my eyes and imagined that it was Walter’s hand on my dick, Walter’s lemon aftershave filling my nostrils, Walter’s lips on my own. The bed in Gavin’s room banged rhythmically against the wall, and I timed my thrusts to my roommate’s. My own cries were drowned out by the noise from next door.
Sunday I slept in until it was time to go out to my parents’ house for dinner. I was tempted to fake an illness and duck out, but I wanted to see if the night out had done anything to help Del feel better about her marriage.
When I got to Westchester, though, it was Beatriz who was the center of attention. As usual, I tried to duck in the back way and avoid the household drama. But I found Beatriz back there with my mother, wearing an unusually demure long-sleeved cotton blouse and a skirt that hung below her knees. Mami was yelling at her about running around with someone named Jesus—Hey, Zeus, as we pronounce the Lord’s name in Spanish. Mami had an apron over her Sunday dress, and there were splashes of tomato sauce that looked like blood against the starched white.
“You tell her, Manny!” Beatriz demanded. “Tell her I’m entitled to live my own life. If I want to accept Jesus Christ as my personal savior, it’s no business of hers.”
Oh, that Jesus. The one on her crucifix, which bounced up and down on her ample chest as she yelled and waved her arms.
“What’s the matter, Mami?” I asked. “Jesus is Jesus, right?”
“Not this one!” she said. Mami is the shortest one in our family—not that Papi is that tall, but Del and I sprouted up over her head in our teens, and even Beatriz had her beat by a couple of inches. She’d gotten plumper with the years; her wedding photo shows her as a slim-hipped, dark-haired beauty. But even back then you could see the fire in her eyes.
She ranted for a couple of minutes in rapid-fire Spanish, and I figured out that there was another Jesus, this one a man who had been accompanying Beatriz to church services.
“I still don’t understand,” I said. “So Beatriz is seeing a guy who takes her to church. Since when is that a sin?”
“
Es un culto
!” she exclaimed. “They believe in prophecies. And they say they are filled with the Lord’s Spirit. Hah! I can tell you what they are filled with!”
“Father Eugenio is a very spiritual man,” Beatriz said. “He’s guided by the Lord. And worshipping at Principe de Paz makes me feel closer to God.”
Mami stalked back inside, and Beatriz said, “I have no rights like a real human being! I’m like a prisoner of war!”
Had I been as dramatic as Beatriz when I was her age? I didn’t think so. I was so frightened of displaying too much emotion and being branded a maricón that I kept all my thoughts to myself. And Maria del Carmen had chosen to run rather than fight.
“Why don’t you cool it with the church for a while,” I said. “You’ll be in college in August. It’ll be easier for you to sneak around then.”
“Like you used to do?” she asked.
“Me? I never snuck around.”
“What about that time you ran off to South Beach, and Papi was waiting at the bus stop when you got back?”
Oh, that. There had been a gay and lesbian exposition the year I was seventeen, at the Miami Beach Convention Center, and I was determined to go. I had to take three buses to get over there, and fortunately nobody asked me for ID when I bought my ticket. Looking back now, it was a cheesy exhibition—a bunch of gay-owned and gay-friendly businesses shilling for customers.
I was disappointed to see how mundane it was. I had been hoping for a wild display of erotic stuff—magazines and books and sex toys I’d only dreamed of or furtively looked at online. I even daydreamed about meeting a guy who would drag me into the men’s room and have his way with me. But instead a dental plan was giving away free toothbrushes. One of the big warehouse stores was there touting its inclusive policies for customers and employees.
All the good-looking older men seemed to be partnered up. I gave up and walked up and down Lincoln Road for a while until I caught a bus back to the mainland. The westbound express bus broke down, and I was stuck near downtown Miami until after dark. By the time I got back to the stop near our house, Papi was waiting for me.
I told him a version of the truth. I’d gone to the beach, for some time to be alone and think. I told him about the broken-down bus, and he called the transit authority and verified my story. The next day he gave me a cell phone of my own, with instructions to call home if I was ever delayed again.
“You have it easier than I did,” I said to Beatriz. “They wore themselves out making up rules for me.”
“Don’t make me laugh. You’re the boy. You could always get away with anything. Me and Del, they crack the whip on.”
“Spare me the drama,
hermana pequeña
,” I said. “Come on, let’s go inside. I’m starving.”
I kept one eye on Del for a while; she seemed more relaxed and happier than she had the week before. Beatriz brooded the whole time. After dinner, Tío Teo and his brood arrived. The kids swarmed the house, and I joined Papi and Tío Teo in the kitchen. Papi was brewing a fresh pot of espresso.
“I heard a rumor the other day about your boss,” Tío Teo said to me.
“Yeah? What?” If a Cuban doesn’t have something to complain about, he’s got something to say about someone else.
“They say there is a reason why he is getting a divorce,” Tío Teo said.
“Yeah, because his wife is a bitch,” I said. “I’ve heard that one.”
“More than that.” He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “They say she does not have the right equipment to please him.”
“Equipment?”
Tío Teo pointed to his crotch. “She does not have one of these.”
“You’re saying he’s gay? That’s ridiculous, Tío. He’s very masculine.”
He shrugged. “You do not have to be a
mariposa
to be a maricón,” he said.
I laughed. I couldn’t imagine Walter Loredo as a butterfly. But could he be gay? Was that the undercurrent I had sensed between us? Would that explain his comments, the way he had looked at me in the men’s room? “How do you know?” I asked.
“I hear rumors. That’s all. Nobody has come forward with evidence.”
My father shook his head. “Just because the man is divorcing. People will always say things.” He pulled the coffeepot off the burner and asked, “Who wants café?”
Papi poured tiny cups of espresso, and I carried them around to my relatives, and by the time I got back to the kitchen they were deep in an argument about the strength of the Marlins’ pitching.
I made my excuses and left. All the way back home, I thought about what Tío Teo had said. Could Walter Loredo be gay? I ran through all my experiences with the man. Sure, there had been signs. A couple of times he’d said things that could be taken two ways, or been unexpectedly nice to me. And there was the way he had looked at me that time in the men’s room. But that could have been the effect of alcohol—on him and on me.
Where was my gaydar when I needed it?
That question forced me to think about what had happened on Saturday night—running into Camilo on Lincoln Road while I had my hands on a drag queen’s butt. With luck, he hadn’t recognized me, or he was willing to chalk the experience up to youthful indiscretion. Somehow, though, I didn’t think that would be the case.
Roberto called me late that night. “I’m sorry I could not see you this weekend,” he said.
“That’s okay. I already had plans.” I hesitated, remembering how every time I jerked off, it seemed like it was Walter’s face I saw, not Roberto’s. Why was I wasting my time with him when he wasn’t even that interested in me? “Listen, Roberto, I think you’re a very nice guy, a real gentleman. But the spark just isn’t there between us.”
There was a silence on the end of the phone until at last he said, “I wish you much happiness in life, Manuelito.” Then he ended the call.
Broken Glass
Monday morning, there were only a couple of cars in the parking lot when I pulled in. Camilo’s electric-yellow Mustang was there, though. I gritted my teeth and walked into the trailer. He was sitting in Estefani’s chair with his feet up on her desk, talking on his cell. Pierre, the plumbing superintendent, leaned against the wall across from him.
Camilo ended the call abruptly when I walked in. He lowered his legs to the ground. “Wouldn’t want to give you any ideas,” he said, grabbing his crotch.
I was a mouthy teenager. I had some effeminate mannerisms, and guys tried to pick on me. But I always lashed out with words, and I never got the worst of the bullying I saw around me. I’d be pushed in gym class, hear a couple of snide comments thrown in the locker room, maybe get knocked into a door as I walked down the hallway. But I never had bruises that showed, and I never had to turn to an adult to get me out of trouble.
I’d become accustomed to taking care of myself with my mouth, and I wasn’t going to change that habit because Camilo wanted to push me around. “
Me cago en tu puta madre por haberte parido
,” I said, conversationally.
I shit on your whore mother for having given birth to you.
As I reached behind him for the glass coffeepot, he jumped up and punched me in the stomach. The pot went flying against the wall, smashing to pieces as I stumbled backward. Camilo assumed a fighter’s stance with his fists clenched.
Then Walter Loredo walked in.
“
Qué mierda está pasando por aquí
?” What the fuck is going on here?
I was too astonished to speak. My mouth was hanging open, and I had my right hand on my gut where Camilo had punched me.
Camilo started talking fast in Spanish, how I had taunted him and teased him and he had finally broken. I was a devil, he said, a cancer on the site, and I needed to be removed.
Walter looked at Pierre. “Sorry,
maître
, I no understand Spanish,” Pierre said in a heavy Haitian accent.
“Then tell me in English,” Walter said.
The door opened and Adrian started to step in. “Outside,” Walter said. “Keep everybody out.”
Adrian took a quick look at the mess in the office and backed out, closing the door.
“Camilo call for parts,” Pierre said. “I wait. Manny come in, and Camilo say something to him and go like this.” He mimed grabbing his crotch, as Camilo had done. “Manny say something in Spanish, and Camilo punch him. Coffeepot go boom.”
Walter nodded toward the door. “Conference room,” he said to Pierre. The plumber scrambled for the hallway.
“We’ll talk about this after the meeting,” Walter said. “Until then, no more fighting, no more trash talk.” He repeated it in Spanish to make sure Camilo understood. “
Queda claro
?”
We both nodded.
“Get into the conference room.”
The tone of his voice hurt more than Camilo’s punch. I heard Walter open the trailer door and say, “Everybody inside,” as I walked down the hall.
Fuck, I thought as I sat down. I was probably going to get fired. If I were Walter, I’d fire both of us. You can’t have that kind of dissension going on in a business—it’s toxic. Two months on the job and out on my ass. I hadn’t even worked enough for unemployment.
I wanted to kill Camilo. Not just because he was a homophobic asshole, but because he had ruined my life. How could I explain the situation when I looked for a new job? What if there weren’t any jobs for me? I’d end up working at Pollo Tropical asking,
“Do you want plantains with that?”
Everyone filed into the conference room. Nobody said anything, but I could see the questions on their faces. Walter didn’t even check the weather. “Anything we need to talk about?” he asked.
He glared around the room. In a very small voice, Pierre said, “We short pipe for warehouse three. Camilo call for more.”
Walter swiveled his gaze to Camilo. “And?”
“More pipe coming late this morning.”
“Good. Anything else?”
No one spoke. “Camilo, my office,” Walter said. “Manny, don’t leave this trailer until I talk to you.”
“Yes, boss,” I said.
Walter stalked out of the room, and Camilo followed him. The rest of us stood up.
“What’s going on?” Adrian asked me.
I shrugged and walked to my office. I heard the door to Walter’s slam shut, and the low rumble of angry voices.
I closed my office door and sat there, trying not to cry. I heard Adrian call one of the laborers into the trailer to clean up the broken glass.
Ten minutes passed. Then the door to my office swung open, and Walter Loredo was in the doorway. “My office,” he said and walked away.
I hopped up and followed him to his office. “Close the door behind you,” he said. I did and sat on the metal chair across from him.
I took a deep breath. So this was what getting fired felt like. There was a huge hole in the bottom of my stomach, and I thought I might throw up. I had always known I was taking a risk, choosing to major in construction management when I was gay, but I had hoped that all the positive moves in society would mean it wouldn’t matter.
It had only been two months since I’d started with Loredo. How could I hope to get another job when all the entry-level ones available had already been snapped up by my classmates? I knew a couple of fellow FU grads who were unemployed or working part-time jobs or unpaid internships and hoping for something more.
And if I had no income, I couldn’t continue to live on South Beach. I’d have to move back in with my parents. That would be the end of my social life. No more late-night parties with the guys, and certainly no bringing lovers back to my place. I swallowed hard and forced myself to look Walter in the face.