Beyond Nostalgia

by Winton, Tom

  Like a protective, yet indifferent, mother she took my hand and guided me through the cluster of towering buildings. They were identical to those in every other city housing project, in every borough - cold, characterless piles of brick with cement promenades winding through them, potential danger at every curve, a veritable criminal breeding ground for disadvantaged human beings.

  Inside her lobby, we didn't have to wait for an elevator - one was waiting for us - but the ride up seemed interminable. Instead of Muzak, this steel cubical was filled with the acrid stench of old piss. My temples throbbing, teetering on uncertain legs, the stink permeated my nostrils and I grimaced the whole way up. Rocking and swaying, I fought off the urge to vomit as the elevator ascended its shaft to God knows what floor. The shit backed up to my throat. I wondered what kind of animal could find peeing in an elevator to be a fascinating experience.

  When finally the doors opened and my accomplice led me down the dusky hallway, she suddenly seemed even more alien, being in her own environment and all. As we padded along, I noticed that all the steel-caged overhead light bulbs were broken, except for the one nearest her door. When we entered its pitifully dim glow, she attacked me, spun to me, grabbed me, started kissing me, almost what I'd call violently! Then she tongued my ear with a fervor and went to work on my neck for awhile, before leaning away, looking into my eyes and muttering something, something in a rat-a-tat-tat, staccato Spanglish that I didn't quite pick up on. But, though I may not have deciphered the words, the universal overtones of passion in them were unmistakable. Next, she slipped her serpents tongue back inside my mouth and drew my tongue into hers. Once she captured it, she held it in her teeth for a hot moment, then started sucking on it and slipped her hand down the front of my jeans. She knew her shit alright. She'd gotten me ready, real quick, despite my first-degree drunkenness.

  Still holding me firmly in her palm, she hastily unlocked the door with her free hand and led me inside like that.

  It was dark in there. There were no lights on. But with the murky remnants of light that penetrated an old sheet, I could, albeit barely, discern shades and shapes. Dark as it was, I could see that it was just a one-room apartment--a living room, bedroom and kitchen all mashed into one. Still tethered to this woman, I shuffled my feet like a blind pervert as she guided me across the cramped room. After considerable bumping and stubbing on my part, we reached a bed. She bent over and switched on a night-light that had been jammed into a socket just off the bare floor, and straightened up. I could see her face once again. Only inches from mine, shaded like a cheap, grainy black and white, its hard features appeared even harder. "Juss relax now, honey," she whispered, squeezing my thing one last time before removing her hand from inside my pants. "Watch me … and enjoy." Then, with her eyes still trained on mine, she took a slow half-step back, kicked off her heels and started squirming, teasingly, out of her brushed-on jumpsuit. Watching her shimmying, struggling to get it down past her half-bare hips, I knew she was enjoying this far more than I was. Once again, deep inside, I knew something was very wrong with this but still couldn't quite put my finger on it. But I couldn't back out now. What kind of man would I be? Her blouse came off next and then, lastly, her green bra. Somehow the loud color of it didn't shock me nearly as much as the fact that she bothered to wear one at all.

  Face to face now, her totally nude, she took my hand and put it right there, straight to her most erogenous zone. Square on the triangle! I did what came natural as she stripped off my clothes, first my varsity jacket, then my shirt. After that, my Levis and Fruit of the Looms came down together. She slipped away from my right hand when she squatted down to work my pants legs over my ankles. Looking down at her now, her naked body folded up like a pocketknife, down on her haunches like a catcher giving his signals, her ass pointed down like she was taking a dump, she no longer looked anything close to sexy. Even with all that long-flowing platinum hair, she only looked dirty. It was at that precise moment, looking down at this nude whore at my feet that, out of the black, a beautiful vision strobed inside my head. It was my Theresa, so innocent, so pure, so good. Somehow she'd risen in all her splendor to the surface of my inebriated mind, but she didn't stay there. Like a split-second vision of a most lovely portrait, Theresa was gone again, disappearing when this other women, this meaningless stranger, got on her knees and took me.

  What followed next was the first, and the only, sexual experience I've ever had where I felt like I was being used. This woman, this Tina, whoever, totally dominated the entire dark liaison. She got off her knees, rose to her full height, tilted me onto the rumpled bed, and proceeded to search every inch and orifice of my body. I felt like a sacrificial virgin forced into some sixth-rate porno movie as she methodically felt with her hands and tongue, from one place to the next, all the while moaning Spanish words of passion to herself. She devoured me like a half-starved predator tearing at its prey. And, I just laid there. I thought about how perverse this seemed. I thought about how grimy the sheets felt beneath my naked body, how they smelled of worse things than just old, cheap perfume

  Finally, she stopped. I didn't know how much time had passed but knew it had been quite awhile because I'd heard several buses pass by down on the avenue and they didn't run all that frequent this late. She rolled onto her back and I mounted her like a roughrider. I rode her vengefully, working hard as I could to get even. I'd show her who the dominant one was. But the harder I tried, the more she liked it. And it went on and on, all the alcohol slushing inside my system prolonging the trauma. She was moaning and cursing beneath me, wiggling, rocking her hips, scratching my back violently, hurting me the whole time. She was so wild, so beastly that it scared me. But I had to be a man. Near the end of this bizarre tumultuous ride, I started having weird thoughts, scary thoughts. Who knows how someone like this gets her kicks. Maybe to her this bestial sex is just the beginning. Maybe she'll produce a razor and slit my throat. Maybe someone was behind or under the bed with a knife or a gun or something. Suddenly, I had a profound spooky feeling that we were not alone in this squalid room. Still bouncing on top of her, my wild eyes having adjusted to the semi-darkness by now, I scanned the room suspiciously for any movement.

  And then I saw one!

  Across the room, maybe ten feet away on the sofa, something or someone moved ever so slowly, ever so slightly, beneath a sheet. I thought, Jesus Christ, what the hell is that, a dog, a cat, nooo … it's too big.

  Then I heard my voice. It was dripping with doom. It said, "What's that ... moving on the couch?"

  Not stopping, still pumping away, she buried all her fingernails deep inside my behind, snuggling me yet tighter against her burning Latin flesh.

  "What the hell is that?" I asked again, still going through the motions.

  "It eez only my grandmother … Do not worry … " She was murmuring the words, urgently, expelling a few with every frenetic breath she released, “ ... she ees blind … and deaf … come on now… " she demanded, "do not stop … harder, harder … yesss … I am almost there!"

  I couldn't believe my ears. Here we are, humping away like two mongrels, and her grandmother is right there on the sofa.

  Then the whole room tilted. It wasn't spinning yet, but it was maybe ten, twenty degrees out of plumb. The bed started moving too, rolling, surging up and down as if it were afloat on old waves. But to my relief, my titanic relief, there was another surge building too. It was within my loins. The end was now in sight. I wanted to finish this thing and get the hell out of there before I got sick. I buried my face next to hers in that filthy pillow and clamped my eyes shut. I gritted and ground my teeth. Tightening my grip on this crazed woman, I concentrated the best I could as we bucked on. Just for a couple of moments more, for then my body began to tremor and twitch spasmatically, my eyes rolled frantically beneath their hoods, and I moaned with the sensation.

  In just seven seconds it was over, seven misspent seconds that prevented me from ever again looking at Ther
esa Wayman the same way, seven seconds that would, for the next thirty years of my life, taint every waking hour and so many of my dreams. Don't believe for a moment that time heals all wounds. Time may dull the pain but the deepest wounds never heal.

  Chapter 14

  The next day was hell. Forget my four-star hangover - I'd weathered those before - this was much worse than physical trauma. From the moment I opened my bleary eyes that Sunday morning (and vomited in the aluminum trash can alongside the bed), I was overwhelmed by guilt in its darkest form. I suppose that's one of my few commendable traits; I don't carry guilt well. I suffer hard for my misdeeds. Some people can simply write off all their dishonourable behaviour, just dismiss it, forget about it, but not me. I can only handle it for so long, and then I weaken. Once the burden of my deceitfulness becomes too heavy, I can't handle it. I have to shed it. And now, keeping the truth from Theresa, seeing her suffer was beyond torturous. She kept looking at me with such sad, sad eyes. So concerned, she kept asking, "You sure you're OK, Dean? Did I do something wrong? Are you getting tired of me?" Hearing these innocent questions from my best friend, my lover, my soul mate, ate at me like a malignancy. My guilt was only compounded by each of her questions, her pleas, and each one brought me closer to a confession. After just a few days I was on the brink.

  By the time Friday lumbered around, I'd admitted to myself the inevitable, that I could no longer handle it, that I couldn't contain this immense burden. I had to tell Theresa everything. It's funny, but just coming to this decision allowed me a small feeling of consolation, like a bit of my black soul had lightened-up again. You know the feeling. You've had it! We all have, albeit some more than others. Coming clean can be damn hard, but be that as it may, as early as the planning stages, just thinking about fessing-up always rejuvenates one's hope in themself.

  Anyway, getting back to my story, the small relief I'd enjoyed quickly disappeared when I got home from work Friday. When I came upon the entrance to my building and saw Ma's extra sad face waiting for me in the kitchen window, I knew something was up. Normally she'd be in 'the chair' or on her knees so this had to be something real serious. Two steps later, when I pulled open the heavy steel and glass entrance door, I realized what it must be. Instantly my stomach felt like it had stretched and dropped to my knees, like someone had dropped a ten-pound mushroom anchor in it. Next, before I could even put my key to the lock, Ma opened the door to 1B. She began to sob as she lifted an official looking envelope to me. Inside that envelope was a subway token and a letter that began with the word "Greetings”.

  My suspicions had been correct. I had been drafted.

  At seven-thirty, I met Theresa under the clock. My plans had been to tell her all the bad news after we took in a flick at the Prospect. But as soon as we started toward the theater, I knew there was no way I could sit through a two-hour movie. We looked at each other in silence as we crossed Main street with a herd of other people. We hung a left and, as we passed in front of Triple Nickel Pizza where you could still get a slice and a Coke for a quarter, a tear rolled down my cheek and I said, "Theresa … we need to talk … "

  I remember the smell of cheese and sauce wafting from the parlor's street-front counter when I asked Theresa, "Do ya mind if we go to Jahn's for awhile … before the movie … have coffee or somethin' … We have to talk."

  "Of course," she said. "Sure … whatever's bothering you … we can work it out, honey." She, too, was tremendously relieved that this thing was finally coming to a head. But when she smiled up at me from beneath my arm I also saw that apprehension had shoved the brightness from her eyes. Her face lost its glow like the sun does when a dark cloud drifts over it. She too had been frazzled for almost a week, and by now she just had to find out what was wrong.

  Two blocks later, when we stepped inside Jahn's Ice Cream Parlor, she tightened her grip on my waist even more, stretched her lips, though they didn't part, and looked at me with as much assurance as her big chocolate eyes could muster. We took a booth at the back of the rustic establishment where a much better Tiffany lamp than the one at Theresa's house provided a subtle glow on a lacquered, mahogany table. The place was almost empty, unlike it used to be after one of our school basketball games or it would be after the movies let out later on. The waitress was upon us almost instantly and she didn't do much to hide her disappointment when all we ordered was coffee. Nevertheless, by the time I pulled out my cigarettes, offered Theresa one, and just lit only one for myself, the waitress was back with two steaming cups. When she left, I took a long hit and prepared to spill my guts. "There's two things I have to tell you, Theresa." With hopes of softening her up, maybe getting a little sympathy on my side, I figured I'd tell her about the lesser of the evils first, that I had been drafted and might get myself killed. I paused, took another hit from my Kool, wearily exhaled the smoke with my words. "The first is that I got my draft notice today. I've gotta go down for my physical next week. I'll be going to Fort Dix in a few weeks … for basic training."

  At first she took this news as if she'd expected it, because she did. As much as she'd tried to block it out of her mind, she knew deep down that since I was pushing nineteen, I'd probably be drafted before I could get enough credits to go to school full-time and qualify for a student deferment. We'd both known it was all but inevitable. But her resignation quickly turned to shock just like mine had a couple of hours earlier when I had read the notice for the first time. Now the inside of her eyebrows arched high and the tears I'd expected welled. Mixed with mascara, they fell in dark rivulets down her cheeks.

  "Oh shit! Oh no, Dean! Tell me you're kidding. Tell me this is just a bad joke."

  I punched out my KOOL, took her hands in mine, and held them on the wooden tabletop. "I wish to hell it was. But it's true. I've gotta' go. It's … " I paused and looked at our hands piled together, and tried to be brave. " … It's just two years. It'll go fast," I lied. I knew this was complete bullshit. We were still at the age when a summer lasted forever. To us, twenty-four months was no different than twenty-four years. Anyway, it wasn't just the time thing that was on our minds. We both knew there was a damn good possibility I might wind up in combat, or worse.

  "I'll write every day and call when I can … " I said, trying to force a reassuring smile. It didn't work. It was too much of an effort. I couldn't prevent my face from drooping when I said, "Ahhh shit, Theresa, I don't want to go."

  We just sat there for awhile holding hands on the table, saying nothing, just taking in, no, adoring, each other's teary face. Then I glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to hear, sucked in a long breath, let it out real slow and said, "I've gotta' tell you the other thing too, Theresa. But, I want you to know … this isn't gonna be easy for me … matter of fact it's gonna be even harder than what I just told you."

  "What? What?" she pleaded, trying to coax the words out of me as fast as possible. "What could possibly be worse than you getting draaaf…?”

  It had dawned on her!

  Her eyes widened like I'd never seen them. Her jaw fell. She looked at me as if I'd just slid a honed steel blade into her chest and turned the handle. Her face blanched. "Ohhh no! Nooo! Don't tell me, Dean."

  "Yeah, Theresa, I did," I said in a defeated tone. "I had sex with another girl … I mean a woman. Last weekend … the night of the bachelor party. But Theresa, honey, I was drun …" She jerked her hands from mine now. Like they were suddenly in a fire, she yanked them away. She dragged them across her eyes, then her cheeks and put them around her neck like she was fighting off a strangler. She froze like that, staring at me, no, through me, seeing who I really was. Shock, disbelief, hurt, and then disdain flashed over her face in that precise order. I saw these emotions evolve in her eyes and in the configurations her lips took on.

  In a weary voice, like someone drawing their final breath, angry tears spilling from her eyes, she asked weakly, "Why … Dean … why?"

  I almost upended my coffee as I desperately reached
my hands across the table, palms up, hoping she would take them. But she didn't. She pulled way back into her seat, putting as much distance as possible between us.

  "Theresa, honey, please, I told you … I was drunk. I would never, never in a million years … "

  "Never mind, Dean," she snapped. "Save it." Her voice had gone icy, icier than I'd ever heard it. Her tone was more hateful now than it had been to her mother the night she introduced me to her, more than during the misplaced camera episode on our prom night. I knew then there was no turning this mess around.

  She jammed her cigarette pack into her purse and she stood to leave. "Don't even tell me why. I don't want to know all the details. I know enough already. Myyy God, after all we've been through together, after all the plans we had … and … everything we shared. The special feelings, I, like a sucker, thought we shared." She paused briefly, sniffled once, then raised her voice and summed it all up, "My friends were right about you, once a run-around always a run-around. You turned out to be some bastard, Dean Cassidy!"