Chulito (20 page)

“You remind me of myself when I was your age, so I’m just trying to look out.”

Across from them on the wide street, Jennifer walked by holding Crystal’s hand. Jennifer didn’t look over to Brick, but Crystal waved to him. Brick waved back. “There goes my heart.”

When Chulito arrived at Poe Park in the Northwest Bronx, the setting sun was putting up a fight with its final bright rays of hot light. Everything was orange—the majestic oak trees, the young guys break dancing near the benches, the empty gazebo, the Art Deco buildings on the Grand Concourse, the poet Edgar Allan Poe’s cottage at the north end for which the park was named, and Carlos, who blazed a bright creamy orange as he sat on a bench, chin resting on his left knee. He was reading a book, eating an apple and his hair had fallen into his face. Chulito watched for a moment, and then, as if by instinct, Carlos looked up.

Chulito waved. “Yo, wassup!”

“Hey, Chulito.” Carlos smiled, closed his book and took one last bite out of the apple before tossing it into the garbage can.

Chulito ran over and sat next to him, but not too close.

“Sorry I’m late, man, my moms wanted something from the store as I was leavin’.”

“It’s alright. I got a mother, too. Besides I was reading.”

“Is that a book you bought last night?”

“Yeah, it’s really good. I’m almost finished with it.”

“Get the fuck out of here.” Chulito looked around the park to see if anybody was watching them.

“I’ve been reading it all day.”

“Fuck, a book that thick would take me forever. I don’t think I ever read a book that wasn’t for school or something.”

“I’ll lend it to you when I’m done.”

“Take your time, yo, I’m in no hurry.”

Carlos smiled and looked up at the sky. “Check out that sunset.”

Chulito loved the way Carlos always noticed everything—even things that didn’t seem important.

“It’s beautiful, don’t you think, Chulito?”

“Now that you mention it, it is pretty dope. Your face is all orange.”

“Yours, too.” Carlos gazed into Chulito’s eyes.

Chulito jerked away. “We two orange niggas.”

Carlos laughed.

Being with Carlos in Poe Park with the fading sun reminded Chulito of the last time they were there together.

It began with a race to the man selling Italian ices. Chulito and Carlos ran as fast as their young legs could carry them and yelled out their favorite flavors. “Cherry!” “Blueberry!” They watched with excitement as the strong, old man scooped out frosty mounds of iridescent ice. They slipped behind the park’s information center to eat their treats where no one could see them. Chulito looked at Carlos’ face with its curly lashes, tar pit eyes and skin that reminded him of the sweet creamy chocolate milk his mother made each morning.

That whole summer they had been inseparable. Since their rooms were right over each other’s, they would sneak out on the fire escape, spy on Doña Andrea on the third floor who walked around her apartment naked. They would secretly go up to their roof and Carlos would read Greek myths aloud, and sometimes they’d sword fight with broken TV antennas. They’d look out on the vast South Bronx landscape. Yankee Stadium in the distance became Mount Olympus, especially during night games when the stadium lit up the brooding urban sky with a supernal glow.

But that afternoon in the park, while eating their ices, they sniggered and stole glances, speaking their own language of gestures and expressions. Chulito checked to make sure no one was around and then he pressed his bright red cherry ice stained mouth to Carlos’ lips. The cherry and blueberry flavors swirled around for a quick moment when their tongues met. Chulito never forgot how when they separated he saw Carlos’ hot, turquoise tongue disappear inside of his blue smile.

“So, what’s up?”

“So, I asked you to meet me here ‘cause I wanted to thank you for taking me down to the Vil last night.” Chulito rubbed the red and white religious beads he wore around his neck.

“You’re welcome, but it—”

“Wait.” Chulito stood up, took two steps, hiked up the pants that he purposefully wore three sizes too big, turned to Carlos and spoke in one breath. “I just wanted to show you how much I appreciate you hanging with me, again, after all these years. I mean we used to be tight as kids, and we took real separate roads, and I didn’t think that we…”

Carlos stood up. “Relax, Chulito, it’s just me.”

Chulito wanted it to be just Carlos, his best friend since he was five, but after the night they spent in the Village, Chulito’s feelings about Carlos excited and scared him. He knew that by going out the night before with Carlos and now by asking him to meet him away from their neighborhood to thank him for the good time they had in the Village he was moving closer to him. He was aware that he was making the move he’d been avoiding.

Chulito had stayed away because Carlos didn’t hide being a faggot. And the code of their neighborhood was that if you hang out with faggots then you must be one—as true now that Latinos and Blacks lived there as it was when Jews, Italians and Irish folks first came. It was as if that code was mixed into the concrete and asphalt that was used to build the neighborhood. It was also why, in order to be open, they had to leave Hunts Point.

“Just follow me.” Chulito led him to the front of Edgar Allan Poe’s Cottage at the north end of the park. His thoughts were louder than a block party in full swing. Carlos is my friend and so what if he’s gay, he does his thing and says fuck you to anybody who messes with him and that is what being a man is about so Carlos is a man and when we’re away from the ’hood, it feels real cool so it’s alright for me to be hanging with him and nobody needs to know jack.

Chulito looked back at Carlos. “You ever been inside?”

“No, it’s always closed.”

“Not tonight.”

Carlos stopped in his tracks. “You breakin’ in?”

“Nah, I know you’re a goody, goody, and I don’t want to get you into any trouble. Keep walking, bro. Since you were talking about old furniture last night I remembered my friend Angel worked here so I cashed in a favor.”

“We’re going inside?”

Chulito saw the excitement on Carlos’ face and smiled.

As they approached the gate, Angel, a round man with thick glasses, came out to meet them.

“Yo, wassup, Chulito?”

“Wassup, pana?” They shook hands and half hugged, and Chulito slipped Angel a nickel bag of weed. “This is my friend Carlos. The one I called you this morning about who’s doing the report on this Poe nigga.”

“Wassup, Carlos?” Angel looked suspiciously at Carlos because he wasn’t dressed according to ghetto Bronx code.

Carlos deepend his voice, “Hi.” Then he looked past Angel at the modest wood frame farmhouse.

“So, you guys got a half hour and then I gotta lock it up. Don’t fuck with anything.”

“Angel, man, I helped you clean that house a hundred times and I know all the shit in there, so go get your forty and let me show Carlos around. I want to show my college friend that I got some brains, too.”

Chulito led Carlos past the thick black gate. He ran up the painted wooden stairs and held the door open for Carlos. When Chulito shut the door behind them, they were no longer in the center of the Bronx but in a place far away. The sounds of the park—the radios, the kids, the barking dogs, the whizzing cars—were sealed out. The musky scent of damp oak filled the air and the floor boards groaned and creaked as if they would snap with the weight of each footstep. Chulito watched Carlos look from the small gift case at the entrance containing magnets, Poe Cottage wooden blocks, and brass Raven bookmarks, to the main room with an old wicker rocking chair and a dark wooden desk that had on its top an open book and a white quill pen below an electric candlestick. Even though Chulito had seen the Poe Cottage before, bringing Carlos made him see the house differently. The main room was like the rest of the house in that it was set up as if Poe and his wife Virginia were out for a stroll. A tea pot was set on a small table with two ivory cups sitting on matching gold rimmed saucers and the cast iron pots in the kitchen were resting on the squat wood burning stove.

Carlos checked out a desk, touching the edges and looking underneath it. Chulito wondered if he were trying to figure out how it was made. Carlos pointed toward a room and Chulito nodded. Carlos climbed over the thick rope and stepped into the room and did a slow three hundred and sixty degree turn with a chuckle. Chulito realized that that was the first sound either of them had uttered. They had been moving through the house communicating as if they had discovered the language of Poe Cottage and all they had to do was look and point. Chulito’s heart was beating so hard he thought Carlos could hear it.

Carlos walked over to an ornate floor lamp and pulled the cord. The dim light it gave was no match to the setting sun that was fighting to the end. Carlos went to the window. The pattern of the lace curtains made it look as if his face were tattooed. Chulito smiled at the thought of Carlos, the goody, goody college boy with any kind of tattoo.

“What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing. Well, you. The curtains look like…whatever,” he said trailing off, enjoying his private joke.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Check out the sun. It’s almost all gone.”

Chulito walked over, stood by him and felt the temperature in the already warm room rise about twenty degrees. Carlos turned his head to look at Chulito. They were about two inches away from each other. Chulito imagined himself jumping back saying, “Yo, you invading my space, bro.” But he stood there, staring into Carlos’ eyes, feeling the heat of the sun, the heat of the room and the heat from Carlos’ body.

“Thank you, Chulito.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“I love it.”

Chulito thought that he should be turning away at that moment, but he didn’t. He should put on the brakes, because he knew where this was heading, but he didn’t. He should have been doing a lot of things, but instead he leaned forward and closed the small gap of space between them and their lips met. They kissed gently at first. Almost as if their lips were accidentally bumping into each other. And then the small kisses grew longer. Carlos slipped his smooth, velvety tongue into Chulito’s mouth. Their tongues swirled slowly, one over the other, and Chulito could taste the apple Carlos had been eating earlier. It was the sweetest taste. Chulito reached for Carlos and caressed his bare arms, sliding his hands up to his shoulders and drawing him close. Carlos slipped his hands around Chulito’s waist and they gripped each other for dear life. When their chests met, Chulito felt Carlos’ heart beating just as hard as his, like two drums conjuring up dangerous spirits. The heat continued to rise and they continued to kiss without coming up for air. It was as if they had dived into an ocean and discovered they could breathe underwater. As they embraced tighter, Chulito could feel Carlos’ erection against his own.

How many people have kissed in this room? Chulito thought. He didn’t know the answer, but if the spirits were watching, he didn’t think they ever expected two Puerto Rican boys from the South Bronx to be locked in a kiss whose passion challenged that of the setting sun. And kiss they did, defying their neighborhood, defying their macho Latino culture and embracing each other.

Chulito touched Carlos—his back, his neck, his hair, his face—consuming him with his hands and breathing him in with his kisses—which went from strong and consuming to gentle and peaceful. Chulito opened his eyes to see Carlos watching him and he traced his lips with his tongue. When Carlos smiled, Chulito licked his smile, too. When their eyes opened, the sun had set and the only light in the room was from the dim lamp. They looked at each other, smiled and rocked gently. “Your friend should be back soon.”

“Damn. I should just send him out again, but—”

“Let’s go then.” Carlos leaned down and picked up his knapsack that had fallen during their kiss. Chulito turned out the light, the two adjusted themselves and felt their way out of the house. In the darkness, Chulito took Carlos’ hand and led him to the front door. As they waited for Angel, they sat on the steps and looked up at the deep indigo sky with a few stars trying to push through ridges of white clouds.

“Wow!” Carlos said. “Look at the sky.”

“Yeah, look at the sky,” Chulito repeated, but all the while he looked only at Carlos.

After leaving Poe Cottage and saying good night to Angel, Chulito and Carlos headed toward the Grand Concourse. They walked silently, sharing the secret they held along with all the ghosts in Poe Cottage, the only witnesses to their kiss.

As they neared the bench where they first met up that evening, Carlos broke the silence. “Now what?” A question that had a thousand echoes. Chulito was jolted from the kiss’ trance and realized that he had stepped through the mirror to another world. It was as if three drag queen spirits—incarnations of Julio the travel agent, Carlos’ friend Kenny and Lady Elektra from the pier—had sprung from Carlos’ words and were standing side by side behind him. Each guardian angel was decked with extravagant gowns and overloaded with accessories: hats, gloves, umbrellas, and lots of glittery jewelry. And all three swarmed Chulito snapping their fingers in the air asking, “Now what? Now what? Now what?” They stared and waited for his response.