Somebody, Please Tell Me Who I Am

by Harry Mazer

  Chris nodded. “Oh, yes, you will.” He held up his right hand stiffly.

  Ben slapped it. “Da man, brother!”

  “Da man,” Chris said.

  Ben walked over to Ms. Moglia’s table and slid into the seat next to her. She offered him a steaming plate of shrimp with Mala sauce, but he shook her off. She looked at him slyly. “’Smatter, don’t you like Szechuan dishes?”

  Ben smiled. “They’s all right, I guess.”

  “You’re sharp,” she said with a surprised cackle. “Okay, details.”

  “Lady Sings the Blues,” Ben replied. “Billy Dee Williams and Diana Ross, playing Billie Holliday.”

  “Original line?”

  “’Smatter, don’t you like . . .’ some flower. Gardenias?”

  “Smart and talented!” She put her hand on his arm. “And lucky. I have some news for you. Come.”

  She stood up and headed for the nearby wall, looking over her shoulder as she evaded waiters and dancing patrons. The wall was flooded with crisscrossing lights in different shades of red and amber, and she turned to face him under a dragon-shaped wall sconce. “Okay, entre nous,” she said in an exaggerated stage whisper. “You know I hate to brag, but when I was at Northwestern I dated David Ashman.” The last two words were spoken in the reverential hush befitting a Hollywood director.

  “You’ve only told us that about once a week in class,” Ben said.

  Ms. Moglia gave her own cheek a theatrical slap. “Motormouth. Well, I Friended him last month and, lo and behold, he accepted. Okay. Are you sitting down? No, you’re not, because there are no seats. No matter. He’s not only the hottest young player in TV—well, young-ish—but, drum roll, he’s casting a new teen TV show. Are you ready for this? Musical theater high-school kids.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “Well, yada yada, a new twist, whatever,” Ms. Moglia said. “Point is, he’s in the NYC area. What do you think would be the chance I’d get him to come to see a high-school show? Zero, under normal circumstances—in other words, if he hadn’t just happened to be looking for teen talent . . .” She paused dramatically.

  “So . . . what are you saying? He was in the audience?”

  “Not only was he,” Ms. Moglia said, “but he asked about you.”

  Ben laughed. “Why, did I spit on him?”

  “Oy, you are so self-effacing I almost can’t see you.” She grabbed Ben by both shoulders, and from the look on her face it may have been to keep herself from flying away. “He said you were good. Which means he may want to see you for the show!”

  Ben felt a momentary rush. It was hard not to be swept up in the enthusiasm. But Ms. Moglia was a dreamer. She had “made it to the final cut” of a dozen Broadway shows, been “singled out” by every famous director alive, and would be a huge star today if not for finances/backstabbing/sickness/misunderstanding/her own refusal to compromise quality.

  She was a kickass drama teacher and a lovable person, but a grain of salt was required.

  “Great,” Ben said. “Maybe I’ll get a screen test someday.”

  “I have a message in to him right now about that very thing.” She smiled knowingly. “To think I will have known you when. Don’t forget me in your Oscar speech.”

  “I’ll let you write it for me.”

  “Done.”

  Ben turned to see Ariela waving at them. He waved back. He felt sweat beading on his forehead. Ms. Moglia was so happy, and he wanted to feel happy too. This was supposed to be a great night. The show had gotten a standing ovation, he hadn’t cracked on the high note in “Maria,” he hadn’t murdered Niko, and a famous director had witnessed his triumph. The music, the lights, the food, and Ms. Moglia’s news would make any normal person proud of himself. He tried.

  Ms. Moglia sighed. “Your reaction is noticeably muted.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said. “Sorry.”

  “Muted is not in the palette of emotions I would have predicted. What’s up, honey? You can tell me. Why?”

  He thought for a moment. What the hell. Everybody was going to know sooner or later, especially now that Niko knew. “Well, you might feel a little muted too if you were leaving for boot camp after graduation.”

  “Say what?” Ms. Moglia said.

  “Muted but excited, I mean,” Ben said. “It’s a privilege and opportunity, too, but on a different scale. Though not much chance to sing and dance, I guess.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “Joke. Okay. You got me. I’m just a little gullible.”

  “I’m serious,” Ben said.

  “Yeah, and I’m Ethel Merman.” Ms. Moglia tossed back her head and laughed. “Now go dance with that hot chick who’s been staring at you all night before she burns a hole in the back of your head. And tell her the good news.”

  Ariela had run out of the restaurant barefoot and was halfway across the parking lot with a notion to walk all the way home, when Ben had found her and talked her into his car, where she was now sitting, a shoeless prisoner.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked.

  She couldn’t unclench her jaw to muster an answer. He had been yammering away with Ms. Moglia when Niko Petropoulos had sprung the news on her. And now here she was, trapped, driving into a parking lot at Jones Beach like a nighttime hookup in the dunes, and all she wanted to do was walk into the surf and keep going.

  “Okay,” he said as he pulled into a parking spot. “If you’re not going to talk, at least listen to me.”

  “You are an idiot,” she said, climbing out of the car. “Everything positive I have ever said about you, every word, I take back. How could you do this? How could you think of doing this? Tell me this is a joke, Ben. Tell me this is something Niko made up. Because if it is, I’m going to kill him. And if it isn’t, I’m going to kill you.”

  He was standing on the other side of the car now, his eyes brimming. “I wasn’t going to say anything. I was going to let you have the night.”

  “‘Let me have the night?’ What is that supposed to mean? You were going to humor me, let me bask unknowing in the innocent glow of this, the pinnacle of my high school career—all the while you and that jackass Niko are pitying me, laughing behind my back at my ignorance! And then what—tomorrow morning you call me? ‘Hey, later, Ariela, I’m going to war. You were killer as Maria!’”

  “No!” Ben said. “It wasn’t like that! And I’m not going to war!”

  Ariela turned her back. Looking at his face upset her too much. She began walking toward the ocean. The waves were calm, washing into the shore with confident little slaps. A couple of sandpipers followed the edge of the backwash, and a seagull swooped down loudly, making off with a Skittles wrapper. She could hear Ben padding behind her. He was a sensible guy to the last, and he was going to let her have some space. That was his modus operandi—do whatever the hell he felt like, and then let everyone else reel while he waited. “Don’t follow me,” she said.

  “I’m your ride,” he replied.

  “I can get home by myself.”

  “It’s eleven miles.”

  “I know how to take a bus.”

  “They don’t run at this hour.”

  “I’ll sleep here. I’ll float out to sea. I’ll keep walking until I reach Far Rockaway. And then Manhattan. And then Omaha.”

  She felt his arm touching her waist. “Please. Let me talk to you.”

  Ariela spun around. A tear was making its way down Ben’s right cheek, or maybe it was just condensation. She felt short of breath. “Why?” she said, fighting to keep the anger that despite her better judgment was dispersing like spindrift into the salty air. “Why did you do this without telling anyone?”

  “I knew you would all say I shouldn’t do it. And I knew I had to do it. I didn’t want the conflict to wreck the rehearsal period. So I figured I would just wait.” He shrugged. “It was stupid, I know. Selfish.”

  She looked into his soft, expressive face. She could identify every emotion that was washing
over it, one by one—he was embarrassed, resolute, wronged, sympathetic, protective, confused, afraid. As much as she hated him this minute, he amazed her. As she had watched other guys morph painfully into creaky, pimplified approximations of manhood, Ben had slid by them, arriving there quietly without losing the softness of a boy. “It’s not selfish, Ben. Not what you just agreed to. It’s the opposite. It’s masochistic. It’s saying you’re not worth anything. All your talent, all your brainpower, just give it to the U. S. and let some faceless jackass with a blackmarket AK-47—”

  “I’m not going to war!” Ben said. “I’m volunteering for the reserve. I’ve been thinking about this all my life. You’re the one who always says be different. Well, do we know anyone who is going to serve? No. Ninety-nine percent of our friends are going off to college, and then what? Finance? Law? Banking? That’s not a waste? People like us should volunteer—kids with privilege and skills and talent. So-called. I want to reach the end of my life and say, ‘I did something important. I saved lives.’ My grandfather was a prisoner of war, and he is the strongest, kindest, most accomplished man I know.”

  “He would have been even if he didn’t serve,” Ariela snapped back. “And what makes you think you wouldn’t do something important if you didn’t go? Think about it, Ben. Your grandfather had to serve. He had no choice back then. In this century there are always people who’ll want to join the Army. But you have amazing things to give the world now. Why wait?”

  “Singing? Acting? There are always people who’ll want to do that, too. The world will get along fine waiting for me to return.”

  Ariela felt a migraine coming on. The air was suddenly way too cold, and the screeching of the seagulls was getting on her nerves. She turned away, not willing to let him have the satisfaction of seeing her disintegrate.

  “Maybe the world can wait,” she said, heading back toward the parking lot. “But I’m not so sure I can.”

  Letter left by Ben Bright on June 21 upon his departure for basic training in Fort Benning, in an envelope on his bedroom desk and marked DO NOT OPEN UNTIL AFTER I LEAVE.

  Dear Mom, Dad, and Chris,

  You have been amazing to me these last few weeks. Very respectful. Thank you for not screaming and making feel like a moron. But I know you’re keeping stuff inside, and so am I. I suck at speaking up and explaining myself, so I hope you don’t mind me doing it here. It’s kind of chicken of me, I know. Basically if I write it down instead of saying it, I don’t have to see you crying.

  I know how you guys feel about the war. Dad, you especially, with what happened to Uncle Brian in Vietnam. But believe it or not, that’s one factor in my decision. Also 9/11. I know I was a kid then. But Mom, you still talk about watching the news about Kent State when you were a girl. How they killed those innocent kids and how it scared you and stuck in your mind and shaped you as a grown-up. Same thing. And Dad, you talk about how as a defense attorney sometimes you have to represent people you think are total dirtbags. But you do it with all your heart and skill, because it’s your job to make the system work for ALL the accused. Because “only through a robust and honest legal system, with dedicated and competent professionals, can there be justice.” Your words.

  I think of both of those things all the time. I understand all the politics. I know the U.S. could have responded in different ways back in 2001, etc. But I still dream about those buildings, and the people who were inside them. Who had no choice and no chance. When jumping 100 stories is the better of two options to a person who’s done nothing wrong, that’s more than injustice. That’s a country under siege by thugs. I still think defense is an important part of what makes democracy work, just like you do, Dad. And it needs dedicated and competent professionals.

  Like the person I’m about to become.

  I love you, and Gram and Gramps and Papa and Nana and Chris, more than I can say. I’m doing this so my kids and their kids can have the freedom to say the same things to me.

  Love,

  Ben

  P.S. Chris, I’m counting on you to keep me up on the Mets this season. I want to know everything.

  P.P.S. Hold on to the other two envelopes I’ve enclosed—the one that says Do Not Open (that’s yours) and the other that says To Ariela. I’ll take them back when I get home. Open them if I don’t. Sounds morbid, I know. Don’t worry, you know me, drama at any cost. Please take care of her while I’m gone. No matter what happens. In my life or hers.

  “I’m proud of you.”

  Ben had not expected that from the mouth of Ariela Cruz. She had waited till the last minute, till they were standing on the platform of the Long Island Rail Road station next to Ben’s overpacked duffel bag, while both their families sat tactfully in the waiting room.

  It sure made what he had been gathering the courage to tell her a heck of a lot easier. “Really? Proud?” he replied. “Can I unlock my knees now? I was prepared for you to push me onto the tracks.”

  “That’s not funny,” Ariela said. “That’s not even close to funny.”

  “Sorry. I’m just shocked. And glad.” After weeks of arguments, explanations, political discussions, crying, near-breakups, and truces, this was the first time she expressed anything more than a grudging understanding. “But . . . really? Why?”

  Ariela took his arm. “I guess I think you’re brave. And the military is lucky to have you. And that even if the other soldiers are, like, ten percent as good as you, the country’s in excellent hands. I think that I’m sorry I’ve been so awful to you. I think I love you. And I think I better shut up before I totally make an ass of myself.”

  She buried her head in Ben’s down coat. Her shoulders began to heave gently, rhythmically. He held her tight. He’d always felt lucky to have her in his life. He knew he would be way too lucky if she were still in it by the time he returned. He was determined to do everything in his power to make that happen.

  And for the three thousandth time, he followed this chain of reasoning to conclude he was an idiot for agreeing to do this instead of going to college. Life would have been so much easier.

  He told himself for the three thousand and first time that college would be there when he returned. The country was full of kids filling seats at colleges of their choice, but not so many willing to fight for the society that made those choices possible. He believed this deeply, but he’d learned the hard way not to announce it to too many others because it tended either to make people glaze over with false bravado or spit out scripted-sounding antiwar screeds.

  “Promise me one thing,” Ben said. “No matter what happens, you’ll stay in college and finish.”

  “Duh. You thought I was going to sit around like Penelope and wait for you?”

  Ben hip-checked her, gently and away from the tracks. “Seriously. When I leave, you’re going to start feeling all guilty. From those people who tell you that you should be going to New York and audition before you get too old. College is a really good investment.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Ariela grinned. “You promise me one thing. When you get back, you’ll go to college too. So I can outrank you because I’ll be a year ahead.”

  “Deal,” Ben said.

  “And take this with you,” Ariela said solemnly, pulling an oblong box from her pocket, “so you’ll always remember what you’re fighting for.”

  Ben felt his eyes moisten. He opened the box carefully, unwrapped the neatly folded tissue, and pulled out the plastic retractable knife from West Side Story.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, call me sentimental,” Ariela said.

  Ben laughed. But there was something else rattling inside the box. A silver chain with a simple locket. He pulled it out and sprang the locket open.

  Inside was a photo Ariela had taken, of the two of them at Jones Beach.

  He put the chain around his neck and tucked it into his shirt. “Thanks,” he said. This was it, the moment. If he let it pass he might never have the guts to do it again. “I have something for you, too.”


  He pulled out a Cartier box that represented five years of mowing lawns, babysitting, homework tutoring, selling stuff on eBay, and a couple of magazine print jobs and TV spots. Not to mention a substantial loan from Mom and Dad, who were reluctant about the idea at first but gave in when he enlisted.

  “Oh my god,” Ariela said.

  “I know, it’s a cliché, right?” Ben said. “I’m marching off, the train is coming in—”

  “I wasn’t thinking that at all.” She wiped a tear from her face and carefully opened the box. In the dullness of the overcast morning, the diamond looked less impressive than it had at the store.

  “What were you thinking?” he asked.

  She was crying now. “I was thinking yes.”

  Then he kissed her, as the 7:14 to Penn Station barreled in.

  Email received by Ariela Cruz, July 19:

  FROM: US ARMY

  TO: ARIELA CRUZ

  hey! cant take a lot of time so pls forgiove mistakes . well just as we kinda expected we r gonna be deployed. its not too bad tho b/c if yr going to pick an area of iraq this one is relatively safe. the It is this guy named nails (it has nothign to do with maincures hahaha) actualy hes supposedly the best in the military at, aking friend s w/ the hajjis (that’s the name we call iraqis, after the muslim hadj( and they say its like mr rogers neighborhood. i told them i was glad it wasnt peewees playhouse but they didnt get the joke. so dont wory ok? i will c u very very soon w/ lots of cool stories to tell already i have some I cant print here!

  xoxoxoxxoxoxox,

  u know who

  ps. pls tell mom & dad & chris the news. i wrote earlier today but wew hadnt got the deployment orders at that time. tell chris we have a yankees fan here his name is mendez but everyone calls him da bronx. for about a week i had him convinced i was derek jeters 2nd cousin. dont know why i did that, maybe b/c YANKEE FANS ARE SO GULLIBLE!!!!