A BRIGHTER SHADE OF BROWN, PART 4

Politics of Amor!
Chapter Four in the Continuing Saga of a Group of Gay Latino Buddies!
—By Erick Serrato

It was 1:30pm at the BuenaVida Clinic in Hollywood. Javier closed the door to the patient room, leaving behind a thin, teenage Salvadorian to review a stack of glossy health brochures. Javier’s phone rang from the top drawer of his desk. He answered it, wiping a tiny tear from the corner of his eye.

“What are you doing?” Mark started, calling from his downtown loft apartment.

“Just gave somebody their test results. It wasn’t good.”

“Yikes,” Mark replied softly.

“The kid didn’t seem surprised. I don’t get it, it didn’t phase him at all. After I gave him the usual talk I asked him if he wanted to speak to someone, or if he had friends that could be with him, but all he wanted to know was which bus would get him back to the MetroLine. Some of these guys don’t think it’s a big deal,” Javier took a breath, “Freddie didn’t think it was a big deal, either. Remember?”

Both of them were quiet, as if they had just finished watching a depressing movie, until Mark broke the silence, “I’m waiting for this girl to show up and she’s fifteen minutes late. Ritmo Records asked me to style her for a new album or something. Gloria Lila, ever heard of her?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither. Girl, is it hot over there? It’s like 137 degrees here, I could fry on egg on my sidewalk. Eggs, girl, that sound kind of good,” Mark opened his refrigerator and grabbed for the chorizo con huevo leftovers. The doorbell rang, and Mark put the eggs back, disappointed. “That’s her. Hey, I’m picking you up at six for Carlos’ housewarming party. It’s her first time doing anything like this without Mauricio”

“Make it seven, I want to stop by St. Viviana’s,” Javier replied. Mark didn’t need an explanation. The first AIDS funeral they had ever went to was at St. Viviana’s for a friend named Freddie. Whenever work got too depressing, or another friend got sick, Javier lit a candle and spent a few minutes praying in the last pew.

“Fine, seven.” The doorbell rang again. Mark blew a telephone kiss, hung up and opened the door. He scanned his client from head to toe like a bar code, taking in every detail of what she looked like. He touched her hair, looked closely at her makeup and stood back, arms crossed. Still standing in the hallway in her tight black jeans, waist-length hair and princess tank top, Gloria looked awkwardly up to the ceiling, silent and confused.

“All right, come in. I’m Mark, and you’re Gloria, right? Right. Just go in the room and take everything off, I put some clothes on the bed for you. Then we’ll get to the hair,” Mark’s lazy mood had turned into a frenzy of activity. He hurried her into his bedroom, poured himself a mojito, turned up Selena on his stereo and began digging through a pile of torn out magazine pages. Mark found the Salma-as-Frida Kahlo picture he was looking for just as Gloria stepped out into the living room. He sat her in his bathroom, rubbed gloss through her hair into two Frida braids, plucked eyebrows, added eye-liner and bright red lipstick. He walked her out in front of a full length mirror, and they both admired the transformation. There she was, Gloria Lila, the soon-to-be cumbia super diva, in red-hot-sex high heels, black capri pants with Mariachi-embroidery, a backless satin top, and a purple rebozo.

Mark grabbed for the Polaroid camera, shot a few pictures and served Gloria a mojito.

Meanwhile, six miles east, Miguel was cleaning up and counting his tips from the lunch rush. Frank would be at the restaurant any minute and there was one table left: a trio of businessmen and the newly elected city councilman, Nick Sanchez.

As three of his colleagues finally got up to leave, the councilman motioned for Miguel to pick up the check.

“Was everything very good?” Miguel asked in his choppy English.

“It was, uh, great. Very handsome meal,” the councilman answered, looking directly into Miguel’s hazel eyes. A ray of afternoon sun came in through the window and brought a glow to Miguel’s cinnamon skin. The councilman noticed and smiled. If they were at a bar instead of a conservative East L.A. restaurant, Miguel would swear he was being hit on.
Miguel looked at the check as he walked to the back, his jaw dropping at the very generous tip scribbled on the credit card slip.

Frank walked in as the register was spitting out the receipt. He walked with his head looking up, to appreciate the enormous Rufino Tamayo paintings that hung from every wall. He spotted Miguel in the corner among the rows of heavy Mexican furniture and exquisite South American art.

“Ready?” Frank asked.

“Almost. That guy was kind of flirting with me over there.”

Frank looked over at the table. “Nick Sanchez? You know, everybody says he’ll be mayor of L.A. someday. I think he was just being nice, all politicians are like that. Besides, he has a fiance, her name is Cynthia.”

Miguel looked puzzled.

“They’ve been over to the house,” Frank explained. “My Dad gave Nick a campaign contribution.”

Miguel opened the bill and showed Frank the $50 tip and the business card that included his private cell number.

“Poor Cynthia,” Frank conceded. “I’m gonna have a drink in the bar and check in with the office. Finish up with Bill Clinton over there and let’s go. We still have to buy Carlos a gift—and it can’t be anything that reminds him of Mauricio.”

In the heart of the Valley, just east of Van Nuys Boulevard, Carlos was putting the finishing touches on the apartment. He had spent the last two weeks painting the walls Nantucket gray, picking the perfect rug, shopping for silk curtains and making a flawless calla lily flower arrangement. It was nothing like the cozy house he had left behind when he broke up with Mauricio, but Carlos figured it was a new beginning and it was time to act—and decorate—like a single man. Everything was just right, except the calla lilies that were slumped over the edge of their vase from the heat.

Frank and Miguel were the first to arrive a few hours later, with a bottle of Chardonnay and a new set of wine glasses. “I don’t get it, it’s even hotter in here than it is outside,” Frank complained, loosening his Marc Jacobs tie.

Twenty minutes later, Javier and Mark walked through the front door with a Target gift card and Gloria’s Polaroid shots.
The doorbell rang a few minutes later. Mark and Frank opened it, while Javier, Miguel and Carlos sucked on popsicles out on the balcony. It was Rafa, and he was sweating.

“Look, I fucked up. It was an accident,” Rafa said, out of breath.

Mark looked him over, and with complete seriousness, said, “It’s okay, the ‘cholo look’ is hard to get right. See, the white t-shirt is a size too small and those Dickies are cut off a little too high. I give you a nine for effort, but only a seven for—“
“Not my clothes, fool!” Rafa interrupted. “I brought Mauricio. He’s parking the car. I didn’t mean to, I was getting ready and homie asked me where I was going and he looked all lonely, and when he asked if he could come, like, what was I suppose to say?”

Frank was unforgiving, “How about ‘no.’ Or, ‘you guys broke up four months ago, get over it.’”

Mauricio appeared in the doorway a moment later, giving each of them a simple hello. Carlos, wondering what all the commotion was about, came in from the balcony, “What’s going on?”

Mark and Frank peeled away like a pair of curtains and presented the boyfriend Carlos hadn’t seen in months. Rafa gave him an apologetic shrug.

“I like your place, it’s nice,” Mauricio said, offering Carlos a handshake. Frank and Mark slapped the back of Rafa’s neck with their melting popsicles. They all met Javier out on the balcony, the only cool spot in the apartment. At the sight of Mauricio, Javier pinched Rafa’s ear and Rafa let out an “alright, ya, I get it.”

All seven of them stood there on that balcony, on the hottest evening of the summer, leaning over the railing like a bunch of heat-stricken calla lilies. It was quiet and sweaty until Frank broke the silence. “Miguel got hit on today.”

Mark was unimpressed. “What else is new?”

“Did I forget to tell you it was the next mayor of L.A?” Frank teased.

Five sets of curious eyes stared at Miguel until he gave up all the embellished details. Mark passed around the Polaroids of Gloria, and mixed a round of mojitos. “Girl, how many of these have you had today?” Javier asked, and they laughed deep enough to, for a moment, forget about the oppressive heat.

They spent the rest of the evening like that, toasting drinks to global warming, to sexy bisexual politicians, and to the memory of Freddie Rodriguez. It was only after a couple of glasses of wine that Frank noticed something was missing.

“Hey, guys, where did Carlos and Mauricio go?”

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