Johnny Diaz's Take The Lead.

Johnny Diaz is not just a business writer for the Boston Globe -- he's also a novelist who chronicles the gay Latino everyman. In his new book Take The Lead, Diaz introduces us to Gavriel Galan, a journalism professor at a Boston College. Galan has a job he adores in Boston, a hot young lover, and a buddy who goes along on pub crawls and Star Trek nights alike. But Gabriel wants more.

When Gabriel's stubbornly independent father needs help managing his Parkinson's disease, Gabriel takes on more than he bargained for, and his smooth-cruising life is about to take a sharp turn as he teeters on the edge of a new crush on Adam, his father's physical therapy dance class instructor.

Enjoy part one of our four-part series. Learn more about Diaz and Take The Lead at www.beantowncuban.com.

Chapter 1
Part 1 of 4

I'm getting too old for this. What am I doing here? I should have outgrown the club phase in my twenties. Is there a support group for aging men who can't stop hitting the bars? These thoughts invade my mind as I sway to the left and pelvic thrust to the right, coaxing my body to follow the beat. I wave my hands in the air and twirl them in a circular motion. Lights flash like indoor lightning and briefly illuminate everyone's face. The pounding bass from the latest hip-hop music gets everyone (mostly guys in their twenties) to bump and grind on the dance floor. Me included, but I'm a member of the VH1 demographic, not the YouTube generation.

My blue jeans sag at my waist, and my Star Trek T-shirt with a floating image of the Starship Enterprise is drenched with sweat. I briefly remove my black baseball cap, comb my fingers through my short, dark-brown hair, and then smush it down with the cap. It makes me look a little younger and boyish, or at least that's what my friend Nick tells me. He's around here somewhere, dancing the night away and pretending that he doesn't have to teach grammar to his class of eighth graders tomorrow morning in Somerville. "Just dance!" I holler to another dancer, a sculpted Brazilian guy with a shaved head, tanned body, and piercing hazel eyes that resemble two small cups of honey lit by invisible sunlight.

"Yeah, shake it, just like that!" the Brazilian cheers me on. I smile and then abandon him as I continue to orbit the dance floor to find another dance partner. Along the way, I nod my chin up at the other club revelers. I shimmy with a twentysomething girl who backs her bum up my way and then dry-humps me as she bends over. I playfully spank her and giggle. I mosey over to the other side of the club, where I join a dancing train of three Asian guys and a girl. Like a centipede, we flow forward and back with our arms waving up and down.

"Move forward, and now back! Whew!" I shout over the music, leading the dancers as everyone high-fives me and booty-shakes me on the side. I continue to circle the dance floor and jam from one song to the next. The latest tunes from the pop princesses and hip-hop kings blare overhead with their addictive musical beats and catchy hooks. The entire club is an explosion of music and movement, a choreographed Boston dance party, and I'm glad to be one of its regulars.

As I absorb the frenetic music, a slight, baby-faced guy shimmies my way and flashes a wide smile. He gyrates and crunks like a wind-up Latino doll. His gelled, short-cropped black hair reflects the bright strobe lights. I quicken my pace to match his beat. Is he old enough to be in here? Not a wrinkle in sight. He barely has any facial scruff. With each step that I match, the guy torques it up a notch. I do my best to keep up. So far, so good. No cardiac arrest. The image of the Puerto Rican flag on his black shirt blurs with his every move.

"What's your name?" I shout over the club's soundtrack.

"Pedro! You're hot...for an older dude," he says.

Gasp! I scowl and my eyes widen in disbelief. Older dude? He might as well toss me a cane or a walker to dance with. "Um, thanks, I think. I'm Gabriel, and my nurse is outside waiting for me with my portable oxygen tank," I greet him.

He grins at my joke. As we shake hands, he moves closer toward me. Our faces are thisclose. I smell the mint gum he chews. He could easily be one of my students, a college freshman. I decide to forgive him for his immaturity.

"Are you Puerto Rican?" I ask, my hands moving up and down while my hips swivel side to side like a Zumba dance student.

"Sí, viva la patria," he gushes, his hands rising with pride.

"Well, I'm Cuban-American, so I can keep up with you. Dance as fast as you want," I egg him on. "In fact, my nurse has two oxygen tanks on standby, in case you need one yourself."

"Oh yeah?" he says, considering the dare. "We'll see about that."

Okay, big mistake on my part. My big mouth and sensitive ego can get me into trouble sometimes. Within seconds, he unleashes a burst of boundless energy. He jumps in place; his hands fly in all directions as if someone activated his inner fast-forward button. I stand there and wonder, What the hell did I get myself into? Again, I do my best to live up to my dare. Right now, I feel like I am watching a movie of someone else's life. Again, my mind wonders, What am I doing here again?

The more I keep apace, the faster Pedro the jumping bean moves. He smiles and laughs as I maintain his groove -- well, just barely, with my nineties dance moves, but the lights help me look cool. After a few minutes, my heart feels like it's about to burst out of my body and flop around on the dance floor like a goldfish sans water. I imagine myself chasing my bouncing heart around the club. I need a break before I break a body part.

"Okay, you win. I gotta catch my breath," I say with labored breaths as I place my hand over my heart to make sure it's still there.

"No problem. Come back when you get your strength back, old man!" he says with a mischievous grin. I narrow my eyes and pretend that they're shooting laser beams that eviscerate him. I imagine the starship on my T-shirt is firing backup photon torpedoes at him as well. I stalk through the crowded dance floor and wipe the beads of sweat away from my forehead. The words old man replay and sting in my mind. That little bastard. I'm not old. Or am I? Actually, I think I could use an oxygen mask right about now.

I decide to cool off (and catch my breath) by scurrying to the bar, where I order a Red Bull with vodka, my third of the night. The tonic arms me with liquid courage to keep dancing, even though I have a class to teach in a few hours. Thomas Jefferson College is literally around the corner and five flights up from Estate, this alley dance club/bar.

By the way, my name isn't "old man." It's Gabriel Galan, although my parents call me Gabrielito. Some people in Boston recognize my face from a great article that appeared in the Boston Daily newspaper. The story focused on the lack of Latino college professors in Boston. There I was, my smiling face plastered on the front page of the newspaper as I stood before my Covering the News class. My students still tease me about the article. One student, Angie, even asked for my autograph to show to her mom in Texas. She was kissing up to me so I would overlook her late paper. Not a chance!

Before I arrived in this capital of academia, I worked briefly as a newspaper reporter in Fort Lauderdale, my hometown. I covered extremely local government news in the cities of Pembroke Pines and Weston, where most Miami Dolphins players own majestic homes with intimidating high gates and spewing decorative fountains. Although I garnered several bylines a week, I felt that something was amiss in my professional life. I wanted to educate and inform people through my articles on government and everyday neighborly issues such as the lack of funding in local schools or the increases in property taxes. But over the years, as my old newspaper reduced its staff and shrunk its page size in attempt to reinvent itself on the Internet, I realized that I could have more of an impact as a teacher. So at twenty-eight, I returned to Florida International University, my alma mater, and pursued my master's in education with a focus on creative writing.

Through my student-teaching courses, I was hired as an adjunct professor for writing and journalism. From the beginning, I liked the mix because I'm able to discuss current events as well as teach a new generation of journalists how to cover news and write short stories. The combo allows me to marry my two passions. I love reading about culture, style, trends, and stories of broad interest, but I also love to pen short stories about family and friendships. Only two of my stories have been published in anthologies, but that's okay. I write them for myself, not the greater public.

Two years into my burgeoning teaching career, I met a recruiter from Boston's Thomas Jefferson College at an academic fair in Fort Lauderdale. She flew me up for an interview, and that's how I literally landed in Boston. So yes, I am far away from the radiant sun-kissed tropical life of Las Olas Boulevard and AIA beaches, and yet I don't miss it all that much. I always yearned for stimulating conversations with fellow academics, and Boston offered plenty of that. Also, being the only Hispanic associate professor at Thomas Jefferson College, which everyone simply calls Jefferson, has awarded me some mental job security. My presence adds to their diversity quota, but it also enhances my resume. When I was offered the job, I couldn't say no. It was a great opportunity to cut my South Florida-Cuban umbilical cord and embrace a new way of living. I was also able to usher in my long-sought independence, something that eluded me in South Florida, where I shuttled back and forth between my parents' homes -- something I've become accustomed to since they divorced my senior year of high school.