by Winton, Tom
It must have taken a good five minutes before our funk had finally run its course. I know that doesn't sound like a long time, but don't forget, we're talking about teenagers here, teenagers with typical two-inch attention spans. Soon we were goofing on each other once again, rapping about mindless stuff. But I was only half paying attention, constantly stealing glances at the clock over Cy's sizzling, smoking grill.
At about ten o'clock, I weakened. I couldn't hold off any longer. I just had to call this girl.
As I expected, a rash of jeers and catcalls followed me to the phone booth. Closing the folding door on my friends' good-natured chop-breaking, I plopped down on the seat and drew a long, deep breath. Thank God! I thought when they turned back around and resumed their nonsensical conversation. Phoning Theresa for the first time is going to be hard enough.
I dropped a dime, read her phone number from the matchbook and dialed it. In the middle of the third ring, she answered. "Hello," she said, her greeting coated with anticipation.
It was a good sign, and it relaxed me a bit.
"Hi…er…Teresa. How you doing? This is Dean … from last night. Hope I didn't wake you."
"No, no,” she said, “I've been up for awhile now.” Then she paused a second, and I heard her let out a long breath. “Listen Dean … I'm really sorry I couldn't invite you into my house last night. It's really been bothering me."
"Shiii … ," I started, then caught myself, "I mean shoot, that's OK. I'm sure you've got your reasons. It's no big deal."
"But still, I felt bad. Really! I'll explain everything when I see you…" She paused then let the words hang in the air, waiting to see what I'd say.
I squirmed on the hard seat. I wanted to see her more than anything. But, as usual, I was just about broke. Only two bucks and change in my pocket. Not nearly enough to take a girl out on a date. My voice saturated with regret I said, "How `bout Friday night we catch a flick or something?"
She didn't answer right away. The break in the conversation was agonizing. When she finally did speak she did a poor job of hiding her dejection. But then, what did I expect? The best people are always the worst phonies. Her voice deflated she said, "Ohhh … yeah … sure. That would be great."
I felt I was letting a platinum opportunity slip away. What if she met somebody else by next weekend? Anything's possible! No way did I want to wait almost a whole week to see her. I had to fess up. "Listen Theresa, I'd like to see you … today … if you're not doing anything. But, the truth is, I'm just about broke. Heck, I'm smoking my father's cigarettes. I don't get paid till Wednesday night."
"I don't care about money or movies. It's gorgeous out today. If you want to come over here we can go to the park, down by the water … or … or we can just stay here at my house. Watch TV, or whatever you want."
I turned my face from the receiver, let out a loud sneeze, then a second one right behind it.
"S`cuse me … "
"Ohhh, you caught a cold last night, didn't you?"
"Naaah, it's nothing, I'm fine." I looked at my friends sitting at the booth. They were giving me exaggerated looks and goofing on me again. I'd better do this fast. "Yeah, I'd really like to see you. What time is good?"
"Anytime's fine. I can be ready whenever."
"I'm having coffee with my friends near Main Street. How about I leave here in about a half hour?"
"Sure, that'd be great. I'll make lunch when you get here. You remember how to get to my house … don't you?"
"Yeah, sure I remember." I thought of eating in front of Theresa, bread and whatever stuck between my teeth. "Listen, you don't have to make lunch or anything."
"It's no trouble. Honest."
"Maybe, we'll see." I said, looking back at the guys. "I better get going. My friends are startin' to act like bigger morons than they really are. You know how guys are."
Chapter 3
For the entire twenty-minute bus ride to College Point, I tried to imagine how it would be seeing Theresa again. So deep were my musings, that I didn't snap out of them until the bus was two blocks past my stop across from Bogart's Bar. As I back-tracked up Broadway, I thought it was weird, that again, like last night in the darkness, I was taking notice of the sky. I knew, but somehow didn't care, that it was nothing less than sappy for an eighteen-year-old guy to actually notice how high and how promising a blue spring sky could be. How a lone, puffy cloud riding gentle spring breezes seemed to brush the sun. A commercial airliner roared on the other side of Flushing Bay after lifting-off from La Guardia Airport. A young guy drove up in a '58 Chevy, his arm hanging coolly out the driver's window, radio blasting, styling for whatever chicks might be strolling the sidewalks. Winter had finally let go, allowing spring’s long-awaited grand entrance. This peaceful Sunday ambiance sweetened even more, when two pretty girls, dressed up for church, smiled at me as we crossed paths on the sidewalk.
That magical day, so full of promise, was April seventeenth, 1967. In my memories album, I still have a few freeze-frames of that day. After all these years, I can still bring back these pictures; and I have, hundreds of times. I remember the unnecessary funk I laid on myself when, nearing Theresa's place, I stopped alongside a car window to check myself out in its reflection and to comb my hair. I almost freaked when I discovered a solitary new pimple, bigger than life, just above my right eyebrow. Leaning closer to the glass, I touched the blemish lightly, feeling its devastating ripeness.
"Aw shit! Wonderful!" I said to myself. "That'll turn her off for sure."
That fast, I got disgusted and, as is my nature, I responded by becoming defensive. To hell with it, I thought as I walked away from the car, who knows, maybe she won't look all that great in the daylight either. Maybe her legs'll be too skinny, or something like that. Maybe I won't want to see her anymore once I find out why she acted so weird in front of her house last night. Maybe she'll be turned off by the jog on the bridge of my nose, the one I got that time I got knocked out, sucker punched at a party. Maybe she won't want to mess with me once she finds out that my mother is nutso, so out of it that she constantly threatens to kill herself. Maybe, maybe, maybe. I continued this self-inflicted torment until I reached Theresa's front door.
There were two bells alongside the door, one on top of the other. I rang the bottom where 'Wayman' had been scrawled with a ballpoint pen on a sliver of masking tape. Directing my eyes to the door now, I found myself nose to nose with one of three small windows that lined the top of it. There was that haunting reflection again. Vague as it was, what with a doily-like, white curtain backing the windows, I began toying with my hair nervously, patting it down low, strategically low, on my forehead with my finger tips. Still hung up on that pimple, I arched my brows high as they'd go, which in turn wrinkled my forehead. Then I rolled up my eyes. If I could see my hair up there, it might be hanging just low enough to conceal that disturbing zit.
Good news! I glimpsed at my hair. Maybe if I walk around with my forehead crinkled up all day, she won't notice the damned thing! I was giving this strategy serious consideration when suddenly the doily jumped aside and Theresa peeked out. Seeing her face again, albeit just a half-view of its loveliness from behind the curtain, instantly eradicated all my negativity. It was as if a long, violent storm had suddenly ended and the most brilliant sun you'd ever seen had broken through the clouds. And when she opened the door, looking oh so curvy in a sleeveless, burgundy v-neck and skin-tight blue jeans, she looked at me as if I was the special one, I knew instantly why I had I had come to see her.
After exchanging hellos, purse in hand, she asked, "Want to come inside, or would you rather go out for awhile?"
Being in no hurry to meet any parents yet, even though she lived only with her mom, I said, "Didn't you say there's a park around here?"
"Yes. But, you must want a drink or something to eat first?"
"No thanks, I'm not real hungry," I lied.
Out on the sidewalk anguishing over whether or not to take her hand, she
took mine, as if she had read my mind. Then she leaned her head against my shoulder, looked up at me, smiled, and said, "I'm so glad I didn't have to wait until Friday to see you."
It was a colossal understatement when I said, "Me too, Theresa."
For the longest time, we sat on a park bench down by the water.
Out on Long Island Sound, not far offshore, a small fleet of boats were anchored, fishing for spring flounders. A father and two small children flew box kites high in the spring breeze. Pairs of lovers, alone in their own worlds, strolled hand in hand along the pathways. Other couples lying on the new green grass whispered the world's only words to one another. An old lady talked to her Chihuahua as she coaxed it along on a delicate leash. When they got a little closer and the dog squatted to take a dump, I quickly deflected Theresa's attention to a huge cabin cruiser pushing east toward the Throggs Neck Bridge.
Conversation came easy, just as it had the night before. Time quickly stole away. By late afternoon, having gotten all prerequisite small talk out of the way, we started talking about something much larger. A subject I never discussed much with my friends let alone a girl, the future. Heck, up to this point in time, my perception of what lay over the horizon never transcended the next party, dance or basketball game.
But talking with Theresa was much different than it was with most kids my age, boys or girls. She was one of that rare breed of bright kids who, without being a bookworm, had skipped a grade at school. Just turned seventeen, and already she was finishing her senior year in high school. She was just that smart. Already she was thinking about ten years down the road, about goals and financial security and things like that. But, high as such things were on her list, I could see they were not at the very top. What was paramount to Theresa was having roots. She'd have her own place. "Maybe out on the Island or maybe somewhere else," she'd said, “but I’ll have that home. It blew me away when she emphasized that it had to be a home, not just a house, that a house was nothing more than wood, brick and glass, whereas a true 'home' actually has a soul. I considered this to be the most profound piece of thinking I'd ever heard come from another teenager, though at the time I had no idea what 'profound' meant.
When she began explaining why roots and security were so important, her voice became very intent. I could tell by that tone change and the seriousness in her mahogany eyes that I was about to hear some pretty heavy stuff.
"You see, Dean, my father died eight years ago. And since then, we've moved eight times."
Man, I thought, she must like me an awful lot to be telling me this stuff already.
Lifting a windblown lock of raven hair from her face, she went on, "It would have been bad enough had we moved around the block or across town all those times, but we didn't. We relocated, went to different states. Dean, we have lived in Florida, New Jersey, and North Carolina, twice … and, every time, we wound up coming back here, to where we started in the first place."
Suddenly, a dark damper was cast on our relationship's potential. My heart felt like it had dropped out of my ribcage. The afternoon sun seemed to have lost much of its brightness. Each of my words, saturated with concern, I asked, "How come your mother keeps moving you guys?"
Sliding to the edge of the slatted bench, looking deeper into my eyes, she took my hand in both of hers. "Please, don't get mad at me, Dean. But, that's something I just can't explain to you just yet. When I do tell you, you'll understand why. I like you … very, very much. I liked you the minute I first saw you last night. And now … now that I'm getting to know you, it's really important to me that I keep on seeing you."
Then she leaned toward me, put both her arms around my neck and drew me close. She kissed me, long and hard. Her shampooed hair lifted lightly in the breeze, feathering my cheek, tickling it. The subtle fragrance of just enough perfume added to the essence of this wonderful kiss. Her lip gloss lubricated both our lips, as hers massaged mine. It was as if she wanted to consume me. And, she did.
When our lips separated, our faces remained close, and she held my eyes with hers. Her breath, quickened from the exchange of passion, was sweet and warm on my face. But she didn't say anything. Silently, she waited for my reaction to her pleas for patience.
When I smiled and said, "Fine … take your time, Theresa. Tell me about your family when you're ready," her desperate look vanished, her mouth widened into a gleaming smile, and she pecked me on the lips, twice. And on that park bench, that glorious spring day so long ago, Theresa and I became one. After that, when we were apart, separated at school, at home, or anywhere else, no matter the distance, we were still together. Nothing would ever separate us, ever. Or so I thought.
By the time I walked Theresa home late that afternoon, the sun's rays had lost much of their heat. Sparrows chirped and hopped on lawns no bigger than area rugs. Small children played on sidewalks, while bigger kids had a stickball game going, out in the street. Their working-stiff fathers sat on stoops like urban kings, drinking Rheingold beer with neighbors, waiting for their wives to finish cooking dinner. And what dinners, scrumptious Sunday meals we could smell wafting from so many open windows, a cornucopia of delicious aromas that intensified my hunger, and surely Theresa’s, too. Boiling corn beef and cabbage, kielbasa and of course, from the Italian kitchens, the ambrosial all-day sauce, drifted out on to the street.
Not saying much now, just taking in the sights, sounds, smells of her neighborhood, our bellies empty but our young hearts full, Theresa and I strolled ever-so contentedly toward her place. But my half of this peaceful, easy feeling quickly vanished, when I recognized a guy from school coming up the sidewalk toward us. It was Mike Trueblood, disgustingly-handsome, Mike Trueblood. Just what I needed, when things had been going so well with Theresa. Every girl at Flushing High had a crush on him. Not only was he a terrific looking guy, but he also worked out with weights and had the super physique to prove it. It was bad enough that he had all those attributes, but he was conceited as all hell on top of it. Trueblood was forever peeking into mirrors, windows, hell probably even puddles. Anywhere he could cop a reflection of himself, he would. It was almost comical. He'd stop any time he thought somebody might be watching, dig on himself awhile, then run a comb through his impeccable, beach-boy-blonde hair, all the while tensing his goddamn phenomenal biceps for affect. I knew who he was alright, but I didn't know him. Never wanting to give him the satisfaction the slightest gesture of recognition might bring, I’d always gone out of my way not to even make eye contact with him.
As he approached us, a most excruciating silence seemed to separate Theresa and I. This creep, Trueblood, had desecrated the greatest day of my life in a matter of seconds. Heat rose in my face as it flushed. You can't imagine how much I hated myself for this. For sure, Theresa would swoon over the sight of Trueblood now, just like all the girls at school. Maybe she'd make a comment after he passed, maybe the uncomfortable silence between us would simply linger. Maybe she'd loosen her grip on my hip. Surely she'd show some sign of being zapped by the Michael Trueblood's genetic gifts. I felt like an intruder. For one gut-wrenching, ego-mortifying moment, I felt more inadequate than ever before. Like an idiot. Like some lame poser with a huge zit on his head who had just realized he'd been a fool to think he could ever have had a future with a girl so far out of his league.
With Trueblood only three struts away from us now, I braced myself for disappointment, inevitable, monumental disappointment. Prepared for the annihilation of all my pride, battling the true pull of my emotions, trying my best to hide my humility, my eyes met Mike Trueblood's.
I wanted to disappear, just wither away, somehow dissolve into the cement sidewalk.
But the weirdest thing happened. Trueblood actually nodded at me, said, "What's happenin'?" It was the first time either of us had ever shown the other any sign of recognition. He acted like he respected me, like we knew each other. But that wasn't all. What happened next really blew me away. Trueblood shifted his eyes to Theresa, and he said, "Ho
w ya doin' Theresa?"
Holy cow! I thought. They know each other! How could it be? How could two such extraordinarily good-looking kids know each other and not hook up. Hate to admit it, but he's the goddamn best lookin' guy in school. And Theresa, shit, she's the best-looking girl I've ever seen. They're made for each other.
But Theresa tightened her hold on my waist. Her head a little higher now, obviously proud to be with me, almost like she was showing me off, she greeted Trueblood. Her tone casual, yet polite, almost like an adult speaking to a child, she said, "Fine, Michael. How are you?"
His trademark confident smile seemed actually bashful now. I swear! And his face reddened too! Even Mike Trueblood, my school's biggest playboy, every girl's dream-guy, was stupefied by Theresa's beauty. Let me tell you, I felt like King Kong. Had I been on a basketball court at that moment, I could have dunked two hands backwards. My biceps felt two inches bigger than Trueblood's and I was a full foot taller. Lord, I was wild about this girl. What guy wouldn't be? Hell, everywhere we'd gone that day, the park, the ice cream parlor for Cokes, walking down Broadway, as well as all those side streets, male eyes of all ages had ogled at Theresa.
