How I Paid for College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater

by Acito, Marc

  “Not really,” she says, digging into her fries. “Your energies are so scattered it's hard for me to keep balanced.”

  “Well, listen carefully,” I say, wiggling my fingers like I'm interpreting for the deaf. “Al . . . refuses . . . to . . . pay.”

  She looks at me like I've just slapped her in the face. “What are you talking about? That's ridiculous.”

  “He won't pay for me to go to acting school.”

  “He can't do that.”

  “Well, he has.”

  “No,” she says, “I mean, he can't. It's in violation of the divorce agreement.”

  Suddenly it feels like I'm looking at her through the wrong end of a telescope. Everything around me disappears—the clanging dishes, the little jukebox playing Sinatra in our booth, my friends—and all I can see and hear is my mother.

  “What did you say?”

  “Your father is in violation of the divorce agreement. It says very clearly: ‘Albert Zanni agrees to provide for the children's education, both undergraduate and graduate, at the college of their choice.' I insisted on it.”

  Do you know that scene at the end of The Wizard of Oz when Glinda tells Dorothy she's had the power to go home the whole time? That she only needs to click the ruby slippers three times and say, “There's no place like home”? It always amazes me that Dorothy takes the news so well. If I were her, I would have taken one of those slippers off and clocked Glinda right upside her big, pink-crowned head.

  “So what do I have to do?” I ask.

  “That's simple,” Natie says, plunking the bill back down in front of me. “You need to sue your father.”

  I stand outside Mamma's, squinting as I look up and down the street, the bright setting sun shining right in my eyes. It's been one of those perfect June days where everything looks sharp and clean and somehow new and I feel the same way, my skin tight and tingly from having sat out in the sun today, my hair wet from a quick shower.

  No sign of Al, though. I stuff a paperback copy of James Baldwin's Go Tell It on the Mountain in the back pocket of my chinos and go in. I'm also reading something Kathleen gave me called The Peter Pan Syndrome.

  Inside, a guy with a bad comb-over (is there any other kind?) snaps his fingers at me and says, “Hey, waiter, could we have some more bread here?”

  I look at his table. No entrées, no appetizers. I flash him a molar-grinding grin.

  “Certainly, sir,” I say, “but if you're hungry, why don't you try the antipasto plate? I can get one for you really fast.”

  “Yeah, sounds good,” he says, as I top off his wife's wineglass.

  There's no fucking way I'm going to let Mr. Comb-Over and his Wallingford Tennis Club wife fill up on free bread. People work here, people depend on these tips—I depend on these tips—and these two can fucking afford some goddamn appetizers if they're hungry. And none of this one-dessert-for-the-table crap, either.

  Al shuffles in the door and gives a half-hearted hello to Ernesto, the maître d', who chats with him a moment then leads him to a booth in the corner. I pour a couple of glasses of water and bring them over.

  He looks thin and he's got bags under his eyes.

  “What happened to your jaw?” I say.

  “She threw a goddamned coffee cup at my head,” he says through clenched teeth.

  “She what?”

  His jaw is wired shut. “It's the steroids in her allergy medication. They make her crazy.”

  So that explains it.

  “I had to get a restraining order against her,” he says.

  “Oh, Pop, I'm sorry.” I really am.

  “Eh, coulda been worse,” he says. “The cup coulda been full of coffee.”

  Dominick Ferretti saunters over. “Hey, Mr. Z,” he says.

  Al nods.

  Dominick turns to me. “You want me to cover for ya'?” he asks. He really is a nice guy once you get to know him.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “No problem. Youz guys want anything?”

  Al shakes his head “no” and I make a mental note to remind Dominick later not to say “youz guys.” If he's ever going to get anywhere in life he has to stop talking like he's one of the Bowery Boys.

  I slide into the booth. “So what happened?” I ask.

  Al sighs, like telling me is a big hassle. “I noticed somethin' was wrong as soon as I started getting my taxes ready,” he mumbles. “Turns out that bitch stole over twelve grand from me.”

  My jaw drops. “No!” I say. It's not a subtle performance, but a convincing one.

  “And would you believe she's actually got the balls to sue for alimony? Even though she knows I saw those . . .” He stops.

  “Those what?”

  “Never mind,” he says.

  I allow him his dignity. No man should have to tell his son that his wife had an orgy with a nun and two groundsmen.

  We sit in silence. Al arranges and rearranges his silverware. I look around the room.

  “House feels kinda empty now,” he says.

  “You should sell it.”

  “Ya' think?”

  “It's an unhappy house. And you'll make a lot on it.”

  “The capital gains'll kill me,” he says.

  I ask him what that means and for a moment it's just like the old days as Al explains onetime exemptions. He becomes animated for the first time in the conversation. His eyes grow lively and he's able to move his mouth more. This financial stuff really gets him going. I guess what theater is for me, finance is for Al.

  He clears his throat. “You, uh, wouldn't want to come back, wouldja?” he says, addressing the tablecloth.

  “I don't know,” I say. “Paula and I got jobs this summer as singing waiters down at the shore, and then . . . well . . .” I shrug.

  Neither one of us wants to talk about then.

  “You hear from your sister and your mom?” Al asks.

  “Not since they left.”

  “What are they doin' again?”

  “Indian sweat lodges,” I say. I just hope Karen's not taking peyote.

  Al grunts and shakes his head. Poor guy. Two wives and both are looney tunes.

  A slice of the setting sun shines across the wall as the front door opens. A young guy in a shirt and tie, a kid not much older than me, says something to Ernesto, who points to our table. The guys crosses the restaurant.

  I feel my mouth go dry.

  “Are you Al Zanni?” the kid says.

  “Yeah . . .”

  The guy hands him a manila envelope. “For you, sir.”

  Al frowns and shakes his head. He pats his chest looking for his glasses.

  “Try your jacket,” I say.

  The kid disappears. I curl my toes in my shoes.

  Al rips the envelope open, unfolds the document, and scans the first page. He frowns, then flips through the rest of the pages quickly. He looks up at me.

  “You wanna explain this to me?” he says quietly. Too quietly.

  I'd love to, but I can't think of a thing to say. Not a thing. I open my mouth, hoping some words will drop out on their own, but it just hangs there like I'm Dominick trying to figure out the cash register.

  Al tosses the agreement on the table and points a hairy finger right in my face. “There is nothing in that divorce agreement that says I hafta pay,” he barks.

  “Careful, Pop, you'll bust your stitches.”

  “Nothin', I tell ya'!” He swats the paper off the table.

  I pick it up from the floor and smooth the pages. “Actually, Pop, there is . . .”

  I flip to the place where it says he agreed to pay for the college of my choice and hand it to him.

  Al reads the page slowly, massaging the vein on the side of his head, then takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Son of a bitch,” he says.

  It's just an expression.

  Al puts the document on the table, looks up at me . . . and smiles. Well, as much as a man whose jaw has been wired shut can smile.
/>   “I can't imagine what I was thinkin' when I signed this dumb-ass thing,” he says.

  “But you did sign it.”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, I know.”

  “So?”

  Al cracks his hairy knuckles. “So?” he says. “I guess it's your choice.”

  “Really?”

  Al nods sadly. How sharper than a serpent's tooth is a thankless child.

  I take a deep breath. “Then I choose Juilliard.”

  Al folds up the papers. “Juilliard it is, then,” he says, his eyes glassy like mirrors.

  I've been waiting for this moment all year, all my life, really, always imagining how elated I'd feel when this dream finally, finally came true. But now that it has, I'm more exhausted than anything else. This isn't a battle I wanted to fight.

  Al twists one of his gold rings. “Y'know, son,” he says, “I just want what's best for you.”

  “I know, Pop.”

  “When you have kids you'll understand.” He snorts a half laugh. “And I hope you have ten just like yourself.”

  I laugh, too.

  “What I mean is, when you see your kid headin' straight for a cliff, you wanna grab 'em and stop 'em like in . . . uh . . . what's it called . . . Catcher in the Rye.”

  “You've read Catcher in the Rye?”

  “What do you think I am, stupid? I was a teenager once, too, y'know.”

  It may sound dumb, but it's never occurred to me that Al was ever a teenager. I always imagined he just sprang forth from the mind of Zeus, fully equipped with a briefcase and an ulcer.

  “You sure you don't want to study business?” Al says. Hope springs eternal, I guess. I think back to last summer, a lifetime ago, when Al first brought Dagmar into this very restaurant. How could I have been so naïve? How could I not know Al wouldn't pay for acting school? All those frigging business dinners, and it never occurred to me he might want me to major in business? What was I thinking? He and I lived like strangers in that house, passing one another at the fridge or in the hallway, never noticing what the other was saying or doing. It must have been lonely for him.

  I know it was for me.

  I put my hand on top of his. The hair on his knuckles scratches against the soft flesh of my palm. “Pop, there are a lot of things I'm not sure of, but there's one thing I know for certain: I definitely do not want to study business.”

  He shrugs, the Internationally Recognized Signal for “Well, ya' can't blame a guy for tryin'.”

  I take his hand in mine. “Besides,” I say, “I don't need a degree in business. I've got you to teach me.”

  Al grips my hand for a moment, then lets go to rearrange his place setting. “So,” he says, blinking and sniffing, “waddya wanna know, kid?”

  Aunt Glo was right. With Italians, you're not a man until you can beat up your father.

  I rub my hand over my head. I'm still not used to short hair. Everyone tells me they like it better, that I look more grown-up, but the fact is the only reason I cut it is so Laurel Watkins won't recognize me when I start Juilliard in the fall. Plus Paula tells me we're going to be running our asses off as singing waiters at the beach and there's no air-conditioning. Believe me, it gets really hot underneath all those curls. I put my mortarboard back on my head and wait for my marching orders.

  The sky is a bright baby blue and we've got that kind of morning sun that makes people insist you turn around so it doesn't spoil the picture. All around me there's the buzz of excited chatter, but I stand by quietly, waiting for my signal to go. I've always assumed, having a name that begins with Z, that I'd be bringing up the rear at my high-school graduation, marching between Roger Young and Debbie Zimmerman, but since I'm starting off the ceremony by singing the national anthem I actually get to lead the class in. It's a real Pied Piper–Dr Pepper Guy moment and I feel a tingle across the back of my neck when the band begins playing “Pomp and Circumstance.”

  A cheer erupts from the crowd as we walk out onto the field; I know, of course, that it's not for me, but I can't help but smile, partly from the soothing, waves-on-a-beach sound of applause, partly from the delightful irony of being the person to lead the entrance onto a football field: me, the guy who never learned the rules of the game and got out of gym by faking a medical excuse. I wave to the crowd (I can't help myself), then climb the stairs to the platform to join Principal Farley, the Dork of the Universe, who is trying to look solemn and profound. He tells me to take off my sunglasses.

  I stand and watch the rest of the class of '84 file in. There are more than five hundred students graduating, but even with the sun in my eyes I can still see my friends. There's Doug, flirting with the girl next to him. He and Paula say they have a committed relationship, but their commitment is really to having as much hot monkey sex as they can. (“It's a very deep commitment,” Paula says.) Doug's staying in town this summer, playing Sky Masterson in the Summer Workshop's production of Guys and Dolls before starting community college in the fall. He also convinced TeeJay and a good number of the Floor Masters to be in the show, too. Revolting Renée is thrilled to finally have some guys in the chorus who can dance.

  Ziba is easy to spot, of course. How could you miss a six-foot-tall Persian lesbian with a mortarboard slanted stylishly over one eye? She leans slouchingly on the folding chair in front of her, exhausted from a late night making last-minute alterations. She's taking this whole Fashion Institute of Technology thing very seriously; she's the only member of the class of '84 whose graduation gown is cut on the bias. She and her manicured mother (who still waves at me like she knows me but doesn't) leave next week for a month in the south of France. Ziba gets to bring a friend, so Kelly's going with her. I went bikini shopping with them and we kind of had a little three-way in the changing room of Saks. Don't say anything to Doug.

  I don't know what to tell you about the sex thing anymore. Kelly and I have fallen into bed a couple of more times (don't say anything to Ziba), but with Kelly going off to Bennington in the fall, we both know it's not going to lead anywhere. We're friends—friends who screw around occasionally—but most of all, friends. I'm still adjusting to her new raunchy persona; she really is Sandy at the end of Grease, except she's got the good sense not to wear black eyeliner in broad daylight. When she saw I was voted “Most Likely to Succeed” in the yearbook, she crossed it out and changed it to “Most Likely to Suck Cock.”

  As for me, I got a second job working as a soloist at Father Angelo's church in Hoboken. Aunt Glo says it's my penance, but at $50 a pop, I think it's more like a gift from God.

  I feel the same way about Mass as I do about Gilbert and Sullivan: it's a lot more fun to do than to watch. To actually be an integral part of the worship service, as necessary as the Holy Host and the wine, is an experience that's both heady and humbling, and every weekend I walk away from it feeling refreshed and invigorated. Plus, I've really hit it off with the organist, who is also a Juilliard student and moonlights occasionally at Something for the Boys.

  What can I say? I'm a sucker for a guy with a big organ.

  Oh, I forgot to tell you about Natie. Normally it's a cinch to spot his orange Afro in a crowd, but ever since TeeJay taught him how to use hair relaxer you'd hardly recognize him. He almost looks attractive, though without the extra boost from the hair, he's now about three inches shorter. Regardless, in a sure sign of the coming apocalypse, Natie landed his first date ever. TeeJay set him up with his cousin Margaret, the little lumpy one who looks like a Cabbage Patch doll. Apparently Margaret was equally eager to score because she gave Natie a discreet hand job while watching a community theater production of How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying. Natie leaves immediately for a summer internship in the office of Senator Jordan Craig. I don't know how he got it and I don't ask.

  So we're all off on our separate ways. There'll be no more Creative Vandalism, no more su-hum-mer nights, no more days spent lounging by Aunt Glo's pool. (Not that there would be, anyway. Angelo finally convinced Aun
t Glo to sell her place in Cramptown and take an apartment in Hoboken so she can be nearer to him.) Even if we do get together at the end of the summer to say goodbye, it will already be a reunion. I can't believe we're old enough to be re-anythinged.

  The class president leads us in the Pledge of Allegiance, then I step up to the podium to sing the national anthem. There's a drum roll. I'm to begin a cappella. We've been saying for weeks that I could, if I chose, sing anything I wanted at this point (“Come Fly with Me” for instance, or the theme from Green Acres) and no one could stop me, but I take my civic responsibility seriously, even if I am a poor choice for representing our precious American way of life. Plus, if you've ever sung in a stadium you know how difficult it is because just about the time you're starting the third line you hear the echo of yourself singing the first line come back to you, a syndrome which invariably causes you to slow down and try to let your echo catch up. But despite concentrating on not singing a duet with myself I can't help but notice Al and Kathleen together in the picture-taking area. Al's been seeing Kathleen. As a cryent. He's decided he could use some help dealing with his relationship issues, like why he's attracted to mentally unbalanced women. Being a little unbalanced herself, Kathleen has a unique perspective on the issue. Al elbows somebody out of his way to get a shot while Kathleen shushes the people so she can hear me better. Seeing my father smack someone on my behalf makes me feel loved and I hold on to the high note until my echo catches up with me: