by Desiree Span
Despite missing home and taking advantage of any occasion to go back and spend time with my family and friends, I was having a good time in Boston. Through my classes I made some new friends, who introduced me to their new friends, and we would hang out in popular pubs and nightclubs near to the Boston Architectural College I attended, on Lansdowne Street. I went out, partied regularly, and I appeared to be somewhat of a novelty, for girls I had never seen or spoken to before would pop up out of nowhere and start a conversation. Mainly this resulted in me going on several dates, and I won’t lie... some ended with me having sex with them. But, no matter how many distractions I had, parties I went to or girls I hooked up with, I still thought about Erica. I wondered about her, what she would be doing at that particular moment and what was going on in her life.
* * *
I spotted her a couple of times after; in the Boston Public Library, at a pub on Pratt Street, walking across the street in downtown Boston, but she always looked away; we never made eye contact.
I could have just walked up to her, said hi and apologized, but I had my pride. Plus, I was mortified by her rejection.
Of course my parents noticed something had happened between us. In the beginning, every time we spoke on the phone or I came home for the holidays, my mother would ask about her and if I had seen her lately. I would reply negatively and then she would dutifully fill me in on all the details she had heard from Erica’s mother. That Erica was doing very well studying history of art at Boston University, that she was living near campus, that she had come home to visit a couple of weeks ago, and so forth. In the end I got tired of having to make excuses, so I told them that we had grown apart and were actually not speaking.
“So please, drop the Erica topic,” I urged them, and thankfully they did.
* * *
It was 1995 now and one night during a long weekend I had taken off, I was home. Mike had come over, and together with my dad we were having a drink on the balcony of the treehouse. I loved hanging out there with them.
Even though I wasn’t living at home, Mike had stopped by once or twice to say hi to my parents. He was working with his father in the family-owned pizzeria, and during one of his friendly visits he had struck a deal with my dad. Every Friday he would go to his office and deliver three pizzas for the price of two, which my dad then put out in the cafeteria for lunch, for anyone to grab. The staff had called it their Free Pizza Fridays. My dad would always offer Mike a slice and while they ate together they chatted about whatever was going on at that moment.
My father was the good-listener type, and you knew you were in for a good conversation when he put his feet up on the table or any other surface and balanced his chair on its two hind legs. This time his feet were on the wooden railing of the balcony, showing his worn sandals and slightly calloused feet.
I was telling them about my architect studies and all my expectations, Mike described his new recipe for a killer-ass pizza he was planning to bring to the menu, and then Dad inquired about the results of the previous night’s football game, which triggered a new topic about how awful the game had been. Then after a final gulp of beer, Dad called it a night. He slapped Mike on the shoulder, told me he would see me in the morning, and left us to our own devices.
Mike and I continued our talking, and I teased him after he revealed that he had a steady girlfriend now. He then asked about my recent social activities in Boston. In other words, he wanted to know if the girls over there “were hot.” I laughed and shrugged without particularly answering the question. And then there it was: the “Erica topic” came up.
“So, Ol, I know it’s none of my business, but whatever happened between you and E?”
I frowned. “Why are you bringing this up now?”
“Just making conversation,” he said and took a large sip of beer before continuing. “I mean, it’s been many years now, but you two were very tight friends, or whatever it was you had going on with her. You can’t blame a man for being a tiny bit curious about what happened.”
“I don’t exactly know what happened,” I mumbled. “Basically, she wanted new experiences and for some reason that didn’t include me. She said I would be holding her back, or something like that. I can’t remember exactly.”
“Mmmh, I see.” He paused and took another sip. “You know, not to pick sides or anything, but I kind of get where she’s coming from. This is Erica we’re talking about. She’s traveled and seen more stuff then all of us here put together. I mean... maybe, life here is just too simple for her,” he said as he fished out one of the cigarettes I had stashed in the front pocket of my flannel checkered shirt.
“And what is wrong with a simple life?” I asked, looking at him.
“Absolutely nothing. Look at me, man!” he chuckled, pointing at himself. “But what is wrong with wanting more?” he said, returning my question, and then took a long drag from the cigarette before handing it over to me. “I mean this girl has seen the world. She must know there is some good shit going on out there. Wouldn’t you want to take advantage of that? ´Cause, you could be in Africa building stuff or, you could be sharing a beer with some dude in Europe!” He lifted his bottle as if saying “cheers.”
I smiled at him. “You’re an idiot,” I said, hiding the fact that in his own way Mike had actually had some kind of epiphany moment there.
“Listen, man. You should call her up. She’s living right there in Boston! I bumped into her here some months ago and we exchanged phone numbers. I think I’ve still got it written down somewhere,” he said.
“No way! It’s been years since I last spoke to her, Mike! Besides, what if she doesn’t want to see me?” I asked.
“Stop being such a chicken shit,” he said, “and call her!”
* * *
So, there I was, being a chicken shit; afraid to call her. I inhaled deeply and dialed. It was ringing... a little too long... and then just as I was about to hang up, her voice sounded on the other side.
“Hello?” she said cheerfully.
I could hear music playing loudly on the background. I must have hesitated too long to respond for she tried again. “Heeelloooo? Who’s this?”
I cleared my throat. “Hi, it’s Oliver.”
A short pause.
“Hi,” she finally said softly.
“Uhm, well, it’s been so long, and I was-”
“Hold on,” she interrupted, and I could hear her walking away from the music and then shutting a door. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear a thing. What were you saying?” she said.
“I was wondering how you’ve been,” I said.
“Fine. Great. How about you?” she asked.
“Good. I’ve been good.”
And then an awkward silence. Just say it, I thought.
“You know, Erica, I’ve been wanting for so long to talk to you about what happened...” I started saying.
“Listen,” she interrupted again. “I’m kind of in a rush, ’cause I’m meeting up with some friends at a party.” She paused. “But if you want you can come and meet me there. The party is at Hemingway, this bar downtown. We can talk there; I mean, if you want.”
“Yeah sure, I know the place,” I said.
We agreed to meet there at around 10 p.m., and then she hung up.
I was there at 10 p.m. sharp. I walked around, scanning the room for her and snatched a beer from a random tray while I nodded to some familiar faces. I lit a cigarette, to give myself something to do. The place was packed and there were balloons and happy birthday signs everywhere, and they were playing some alternative rock music in the background. Then I saw her. She was standing in a corner with her back to me and talking to a couple of girls. I walked up to her and patted her on the shoulder. She turned around and her face lit up when she saw me.
“Hey,” she said, smiling. “You’re here! I was looking for you.”
“Hi,” I smiled back at her.
Two of the girls that had seen me walk up to her were gawking
at me and a third one who had also been standing with her back to me turned around.
“Oh my!” she gasped dramatically. “Where have you been hiding this one, Erica? Don’t be selfish and please introduce me.”
Before Erica could introduce us she leaned in and told me her name was so-and-so and kissed me on the cheek. The others girls shook my hand and sort of giggled.
“Calm down, girls. Jeez!” Erica laughed. She then excused us, took me by the arm, and pulled me toward the terrace of the bar, where it was much quieter.
“Sorry about the horny herd,” she said, laughing and signaling back inside with her thumb. “But you must be used to that by now, right?” she kidded.
I kind of shrugged, not knowing what to say to that and simply smiled back at her.
She leaned against the railing of the deck and looked up at the stars.
I joined her.
She then looked at me and pushed back her hair behind her ear. “I’m really glad you called, Oliver.”
“Me too,” I smiled.
“Look, about what I said that night...” she then started saying.
“Never mind that,” I interrupted quickly. “It was a very long time ago and I said things too and, well, it really doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” she gave me a little smile and then we both fell silent for a second.
“Friends again?” she then asked, lifting her eyebrows.
I nodded.
“Good. ’Cause we’ve got way too much catching up to do. First things first. Let’s get drunk together, Olly!” She laughed and started making her way to the bar.
* * *
We spent the rest of the night talking and drinking. She told me she was majoring in art history with a minor in studio art and that she gave an art class to second graders once a week at the local community center. We chatted about the past, bringing up funny anecdotes or fond memories, like the time we talked Jeff into dyeing his ginger hair black and it turned out sort of green. His mother was furious. We recalled when we decided to make a tent with blankets in my parents’ backyard and have a sleepover. Right after we had said our goodnights, it suddenly started pouring. Father ran back outside to rescue us from the hosing rain, and seeing how disappointed we were about the failed sleepover, he then let us set up another tent right in the middle of the treehouse. We both laughed about the fact that so many of our memories had been made in the treehouse.
* * *
“What are they going to do with it?” she asked.
“What? The treehouse? Nothing, I guess. The thing is huge and still as sturdy as a rock. I mean my dad has been using it as his man cave lately and hides in there whenever my mom organizes her book club evenings or Saturday brunches. So I don’t think he will be getting rid of it any time soon,” I said. She laughed at the picture of my dad trying to escape my mother and her friends.
“Besides, I think that when the time comes I would love for my own children to play in it,” I added.
“Really? You think about moving back after college?” she asked with surprise.
“Well, yeah. I mean, that’s my home. Aren’t you?” I asked carefully.
“No, definitely no. I mean, there is so much more out there, Olly. I have many plans. I want to travel. I want to work in Europe for a couple of years and — who knows — maybe even open my own gallery or something. Going back would be like the last thing I would do,” she said. She curled up her nose as if the simple idea stunk.
“But what about your family?” I asked.
“Well, of course I will visit occasionally, and they will come visit me. But I have to make my own life and follow my own dreams, and dreams are kind of hard to fulfill in our hometown, don’t you think?”
“Mmm, maybe.” I paused for a second. “Well, I think that all depends on what your dreams are, E. But yeah, I guess your dreams would be difficult to achieve from there,” I said softly.
I thought about the conversation I had had with Mike. The idiot was right; Erica wasn’t made to stay in a small town, and if I wanted to play any part at all in her life, I would have to accept that.
* * *
We decided to walk all the way back. I brought her to the entrance of where her apartment was, which, just as I, she also shared with a roommate. It had gotten kind of nippy so I had lent her my jacket, which she gave back to me at that moment.
“Well here you are... delivered home safe and sound,” I said.
She smiled, then suddenly put her arms around me and gave me a tight hug.
“I missed this. I missed you,” she whispered into my ear, slightly intoxicated. She held on for a couple of seconds and then just as suddenly let me go and walked toward the door. While she was fishing for her keys in her bag she said that she would give me a call sometime next week to get together for coffee. She opened her door and before going in she turned around and gave me a huge, beautiful smile.
Chapter Nine
OLIVER
1996
* * *
It had been many months since Erica and I had found our friendship again. We met almost every other day and got together for coffee, or she came by my apartment and hung out. We would catch the latest movie, go to concerts, go to different art exhibitions or meet at Hemingway. We had picked up just were we had left off before our big fight. Well actually, just before that kiss in the treehouse.
* * *
“Olly!” she called as she stormed into my room. “My roomie is out of town and she said I could borrow her car if I needed to, right? Now, I know you said that was a bad idea. But I really needed a ride, and you weren’t available, sooooo... there has been a slight accident. In fact, it’s more like an incident... uhm, a tiny mishap,” she said and looked at me with big eyes.
“What did you do?” I asked, but I could already fill in the dots.
“Okay,” she continued carefully. “Well, it’s just an eeny, meeny, miny scratch on the—,”
“You didn’t,” I interrupted her. “I knew this would happen!” I scolded.
“Are you implying I’m a bad driver?” she asked defensively and put her hands on her hips.
“No, I’m not implying. I’m telling you! You are a terrible driver!” I said.
She sighed and threw her hands in the air.
“Well, anyway, I have to get it repaired before my roommate comes back and I was guessing... maybe I could borrow the money from our ‘journey jar.’”
“No. No way! You always do this, E! The last time you told me that that would be the last time. The money of the “journey jar” is just and only for that—our journey! I’m sorry but I have to say no to you. So here it is: definitely NO!” I stated.
“Pleeaaasse, Olly,” she pleaded. “I can’t ask my parents and I just don’t have it. I promise to replace it and even double it,” she said and put her hands together as if begging.
“Yeah right,” I snorted sarcastically, frowning at her. She looked at me with big goo-goo eyes and put on a pouty face.
I sighed. She was impossible to resist. “How much do you need?” I then said, and she smiled and hugged me.
* * *
The “journey jar” was invented on a short trip we had spontaneously taken to New York for a weekend. Erica had wanted to go to New York because there seemed to be some kind of art exhibition that weekend that she needed to see really badly, and I never said no to a trip to New York, so I offered we take the Scooby-Doo van.
It was one of those unplanned, Erica-style spontaneous trips that seem like a terrible idea but turn out to be a great adventure. We drove for about four hours, stopping only once for gas, and because we didn’t have money for a hotel we slept in the van, in the parking lot of a supermarket. We bought some water, bread and cheese for sandwiches and decided that it was best to spend the remaining money on beer and a big bottle of tequila. I put on the radio and then hauled the mattress out of the back of the van and lay it on the asphalt floor, just beside it. On t
he mattress she spread a thick blanket with all the pillows we had brought with us.
We lay there on the mattress looking up at the stars and taking turns drinking out of the tequila bottle. While we were enjoying the slight buzz it gave us, we decided that we were going to make a trip through Europe. She was overexcited about me agreeing to finally go with her and had it all figured out. We were going to take a couple of months off after college and we would backpack through the old continent. We planned out almost everything, except for the money aspect. That was going to be tricky.
So I came up with the “journey jar.” The jar would be placed on my desk in my room and we would each put in as much as we could during the month. It could be spare change, small bills, or anything we could afford. It would be like we were tipping ourselves. Then once in a while we would take the money out of the jar, count it, and put it with the rest of the savings in one of my drawers for safe keeping.
But alas, the “journey jar” was no success. Too often the money ended up as a last resource to buy beer, order pizza, or pay for her overdue library books or my cigarettes. From our total savings we paid for calamities like parking tickets, a phone being cut off, and, well I guess now, scratched cars. Anyway. I think after months of saving we had about a hundred bucks. That was about enough to go to the airport, park the van, eat a burger there, and drive back to campus.
During all the time we hung out, I tried many times to let Erica know how I felt about her. But I just couldn’t find the right moment. She was either dating someone or telling me about the asshole she didn’t want to date and I believed I had blown it by letting my rekindled relationship with her turn into one of her seeing me as some kind of asexual best friend she could always count on.
