The Frontman
Page 8
Amy witnessed everything. “You know what? She’s absolutely right,” she stated before turning and walking out. Karma?
CHAPTER 14
“Please let me explain
I never meant to cause you sorrow or pain”
—JOHN LENNON’S “WOMAN,” FROM THE ALBUM DOUBLE
FANTASY, RELEASED JANUARY 12TH, 1981.
IT PEAKED AT NUMBER TWO ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT
100 SONGS.
The magnitude of Amy’s jealousy was unchartered territory for me. So much for trusting me. By the time I realized what had happened, she was gone, and I was hopelessly short of ideas to successfully make amends with her.
Set two of the Sadie Hawkins Dance was nothing short of spectacular. The pheromonal effect of the frontman paid off again, as after the show Benjie would receive yet another blow job, this time from none other than Lucy.
So my best friend and confidant was unavailable to offer suggestions on how to remedy the situation, and I knew that the sex-crazed duet of Tommy and Sundar were unlikely to provide cogent advice on how best to defuse a potentially explosive situation with a girl. Though I was clearly not cheating, my female friends would sympathize with Amy, and a chat with my parents was obviously not an option.
I thought about calling my sisters, but I remembered they were out for the night so I planned to sleep on it. By the time I reached home, my parents had already gone to bed. However, my grandmother Hannah, who was visiting from her adoptive home of Toronto, was still awake. For as long as I can remember, she was a night owl, and this evening was no exception. I found her sitting in the kitchen drinking tea, so I approached her to give her a kiss goodnight.
“Hey, Granny,” I said sullenly. “What are you doing up so late?”
Granny sensed that something was amiss. “Sit down, dahling,” she said. I didn’t want to have this conversation, but I was not in a position to say no to her. No one was.
She put her strangely youthful hand in mine. “Ronnie, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know . . . I just had a misunderstanding with . . . a friend.”
“A ‘friend’?” What kind of friend?”
How the hell was I going to answer this question? “You know. A good friend,” I said finally.
My grandmother considered my answer carefully before responding. “Ronnie, life is short. Trust me, I know. You don’t have time to waste ahguing with this girl.” She paused. We smiled. “Go to my room and get me my purse. I want to show you something.”
I returned a moment later, purse in hand. She took it from me and reached inside to grab a booklet. “This is a collection of poems I have written over the years,” she said, displaying the simple ruby red paperback to me. “I started writing after my second husband, your grandfather, died.” She looked up to the sky. “Rest his soul,” she added. “Writing has helped me cope with some difficult times. Open the book and go to page ten. I want you to read it out loud.”
“The Blessing of Friendship”
You argue
You fight
You explode
Then you completely clear the wreckage.
Now you start filling in with new materials:
Calmness
Guilt feeling
Regrets
And last of all forgiveness.
Then you cement all this with Understanding.
Now you have laid a stronger foundation
With your companion
Relation or friend for which you
Should be grateful to your maker.
“Now go to the laaast page. Thirty-three.”
“Forgiveness”
Oh, to forgive!
It is the tonic for all!
It is the cure for malice,
The cure for hatred.
It puts out the fire that might
Impair one for life.
Wine of forgiveness that rejuvenated
Every fiber of mine,
To life, to life, to life again.
“Ronnie, go to your friend. Life is precious, and so is time. God gave you both, and it’s a sin to waste either. I don’t care who’s at fault. Is she worth the effort?”
“Absolutely,” I said, grinning again.
“Then go to her and apologize.”
“But, Granny . . .”
“No ‘buts!’ Go.”
No one says “no” to Granny.
How on Earth did she understand what was going on? It would later occur to me that if one lives and suffers long enough, perspective and insight become second nature . . . especially with the right attitude. Melodramatic? Maybe. Awesome? Definitely.
I drove back to Amy’s house. The sky was clear, but by then it was midnight and a bone-chilling 2 degrees Fahrenheit outside. The Duster’s defroster was barely strong enough to form two tiny peepholes on the windshield, so I traveled mostly by feel and adrenaline over the icy roads. I parked one block away from Amy’s house to avoid raising Carol Andrews’ suspicion.
Thankfully, Amy and Carol lived in a ranch-style house, so I wouldn’t have to perform the traditional toss-the-rock-on-the-window-to-get-the-attention-of-the-girl-at-the-second-floor-bedroom. However, I did have to worry about Diego, Amy’s German Shepherd. Diego slept in Dr. Andrews’ bedroom, so I would have to employ all of my marginal ninja skills to pull off a moonlit apology. I scampered across ice and reached Amy’s window to find the shades halfway drawn. I could still see her through the frost of the window, and, as usual, she wore “pajamas” (grey sweats and an oversized Nebraska Cornhuskers T-shirt) while reading before going to bed. In her hands was a copy of Danielle Steel’s appropriately titled Once in A Lifetime.
While I was concerned about (a) disappointing Granny, (b) scaring the shit out of Amy, and (c) getting my balls munched by Diego, Defender of Single Moms, my overwhelming desire to make things right with my girlfriend willed me to stay.
I tapped lightly on the window. Amy jumped. “It’s me,” I said in a hushed tone.
Thankfully she heard me and quickly, but reluctantly, approached the window. I was certain she was more anxious to keep Diego from barking than she was excited to see me. She stretched her shirttail and used it to defrost a small circle on the window. “What are you doing here?” she asked, exasperated.
“I need to tell you about my grandmother.” I answered.
“Your grandmother? Are you drunk?”
“No, you know I don’t drink . . . okay, I know the grandmother thing sounded weird, but just hear me out. Open the window, please.” She turned the lock and attempted to raise the window . . . without success. The frame was frozen shut. I tried as well, in vain. Was this transparent barrier a cruel joke or just a bad metaphor? I must have looked pitiful.
Undeterred, I continued. “Amy, I’m sorry about what happened tonight . . . but I’m not like your dad and I never will be. Just try and be happy for me and my performance tonight, and stop worrying about whether or not you can trust me. All I know is that I love you, and I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”
“Ron, there’s nothing to make up. You don’t understand. You need to decide what you want: Do you want to be a doctor, or do you want to be a singer? Do you want to be with me, or do you want to play the field? I really don’t know what you’re thinking. Before we started dating, I told you I’d be around when you’re ready for me. Well, I’m still not convinced that you are.”
“Listen . . . I love medicine and I think I want to be a doctor. I love music and I think I might want to sing. But I know I love you. Period. Please give me another chance.”
“First, I need you to understand something . . . I will never, ever let anyone get away with treating me badly again.” She began to cry. Oh God, please don’t, I thought.
Just then, Diego let out a howl. Our eyes simultaneously widened. I put my hand on the window and mouthed the words “I love you.” Silence. I needed a response! Another howl.
She matched her hand with mine on the opposite sid
e of the window. “I love you too,” she echoed, voiceless and teary-eyed. Bewildered but relieved, I took off, forgetting about the slippery surface below. When I reached the sidewalk, I lost my balance, went airborne, and landed directly on my tail-bone. Too scared to moan, I gathered myself and, like a tightrope walker on speed, scurried to the Duster.
I could still hear Diego barking in the distance. Mercifully, the cold ignition turned on only the second attempt, and I skidded toward home. My ass was throbbing, and my heart was pounding; I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to cry.
CHAPTER 15
“Woman you want me give me a sign
And catch my breathing even closer behind”
—DURAN DURAN’S “HUNGRY LIKE THE WOLF,” FROM THE
ALBUM RIO, RELEASED JUNE 7TH, 1982.
IT PEAKED AT NUMBER THREE ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT
100 SONGS.
The following week, Amy left my professional aspirations alone, but she continued to question my commitment to our relationship. We spent no time together in either the Duster or the Rabbit. Instead, we reverted to a classic junior high school tactic: passing notes. There were no hearts circumscribing the name “AMY BAHAR,” nor were there any “AMY + RON = LOVE” equations on perfumed paper. There was, however, unbridled teenage passion:
Amy, I love you so much, it hurts.
Do you?
Yes, don’t you know by now?
Maybe. But you need to let me know where you stand.
Where I stand? Are you kidding? We’ve been through this a million times. I love you and only you.
You know what I mean.
No, I actually don’t.
I’m not a plaything. You can’t just have me when it suits you. I have feelings. I’m not asking for a long-term commitment. I’m asking for your undivided attention.
Why are you punishing me? What I did was wrong, but how many times can I say I’m sorry. AND WHAT I DID WASN’ THAT BAD!!!
I’m going to ignore the “wasn’t that bad” part. I know you’re sorry. I believe that. I want to know if you’re really into us. Meaning you and me. Together.
Amy, you have no idea how . . .
I stopped writing. I sensed something, someone, in my space. I looked up.
“Ron, I realize it’s second semester of your senior year, and that you know just about everything, but I’m sure you’ll find that if you actually listen to this lesson on the mating call of the sea lion, you’ll find it fascinating . . . and pertinent,” said Mr. Dupuis, with a wink and a sarcastic grin. A brief chorus of giggles filled the room, then silence.
I could feel my face turning hot; certainly it was red as well. Mr. Dupuis was not the type of teacher who would take the paper from my hand. He simply let me crumple it and shove it in my pants pocket. I dared not even glance at Amy, who undoubtedly was mortified as well.
My heart was blue, but my balls were bluer. I couldn’t stop thinking about Amy. She had a point. I did want her, all of her, and I needed to show it. While I was wracked with a Nebraskan tornado of guilt by betraying my parents’ trust, I was also gripped with the primal urges that make us all human. Yes, I loved her, but fuck it, I was also horny.
———
THE following weekend, my grandmother accompanied us to Sabbath services. She was overwhelmed with excitement about reading aloud from the Torah on the temple’s bimah, Hebrew for altar. In her traditional Iraqi and Indian cultures, Jewish women were strictly forbidden from this activity. However, Hannah Bahar’s conventional mind succumbed to her progressive heart. “Your grandfather would be proud,” she said confidently. Unlike me, she experienced no guilt.
Her voice was beautiful and clear. It took a center-stage performance for me to appreciate how her mystical, Sephardic, Middle-Eastern Jewish dialect distinguished itself from the Ashkenazi, Eastern-European American synagogue drone, diluted by two generations of Midwestern drawl. This week’s Torah portion was Mishpatim, Hebrew for laws.
Though I had heard Mishpatim once a year since I could remember, I didn’t pay much attention to it until now. In the midst of her reading, my own grandmother chanted the following verse (Exodus 21:10):
Hebrew:
Transliteration: “Eem acheret yicach lo she-erah kesutah v’onatah lo yigrah.”
Literal Translation: “If he takes another for himself, he should not diminish her sustenance, her clothing, or her conjugal rights.”
Intended Translation: “Give her what she wants, Tiger!”
My ears perked up, and a broad smile formed on my face. Being amorous, in and of itself, was not a sin. Was Granny giving me permission to have sex? She paused between each verse for dramatic effect, so when I chuckled aloud upon hearing these words, the entire congregation turned to me and offered a collective and disapproving, “Shhhhhh!”
Undaunted by a second moment of profound embarrassment in less than a week, I planned to walk home from the service on my own. I had a plan.
“I’m just going to stop by Benjie’s on the way,” I said.
“Okay, but don’t be long. Your grandmother made us curry chicken,” answered my mother.
I headed straight for the corner of 33rd Street and Pioneers Boulevard to The Swing In, the 1980s Nebraska equivalent of 7-Eleven, complete with video games, dirty magazines, and condoms.
I had forgotten that Mark Gross worked behind the counter on weekends. Good Lord, not Mark. Anyone but Mark, I thought to myself. I marked time by playing Ms. Pac-Man and Tempest in the video game section, as though I would Swing In for this purpose every day.
“Dude, check this out,” I heard from the register. Mark beckoned me with the February 1983 Playboy cover photo of Kim Basinger. “She’s super hot.” I offered a perfunctory nod of approval. My mind was on the Trojans placed, appropriately, next to the cigarettes. I summoned all of my courage and nonchalantly grabbed a pack of Juicy Fruit, some strawberry Poprocks, and a three-pack of larges (I had briefly contemplated Magnums before recalling my experiences in the men’s locker room).
“I thought your parents didn’t allow you to use money on the Sabbath, Ron,” I heard a voice state inquisitively from behind. This time I was not embarrassed. I was panicked, as I could recognize Old Mrs. Goldberg’s squeaky voice from anywhere.
I simultaneously threw my intended purchases behind the register and turned around. Sweat poured down my face. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Goldberg! I was just . . . uh . . . looking . . . and talking to my friend, Mark.”
“I know Mark . . . he’s a nice boy.” She turned to him; he shoved aside the Playboy and offered his best Leave-It-to-Beaver-Eddie-Haskell smile. She continued, “Mark, did you hear Ron was going to medical school next year? And he sings so beautifully, too. The whole community is so proud of him.”
“Yes, I know . . . about medical school and about his singing. He’s a good boy too,” he added, scarcely containing his laughter.
Mrs. Goldberg tortured me as she rummaged slowly through her change purse to find the $5.39 needed to purchase toilet paper, Pringles, and a box of tea bags. When she finally left, Mark looked at me, smiled, and said “‘Just looking’ . . . my ass.” He picked up the three items and put away the Juicy Fruit and the Poprocks. “I’m assuming you won’t be needing those. Would you like some smokes with your cock socks, big boy?” Mark was relentless. I paid for the Trojans and left.
I placed the condoms in my wallet and raced home to an Indian feast. My grandmother was still on cloud nine after the morning’s triumph. “Granny, that was awesome,” I declared.
“Acha,” she answered in Hindi with affirmation, still glowing. After a sip of Manischewitz and a slice of challah, I scarfed down the chicken curry. “Slow down dahling,” she said, smiling and briefly peering at my mother with a competitive glance. Mom could only roll her eyes.
By the time I had finished eating, my entire body was permeated with curry. Though I loved the aura, I didn’t want to lose my virginity smelling like a samosa. I took a quick shower and replaced
the curry with Old Spice.
Thankfully, as a rule my parents spent Saturday afternoons napping (both a Bahar and a Jewish tradition), so this time was always my own. I knew Carol Andrews was out of town attending a conference, and that Amy would be working, at home alone, on a big history paper. Not surprisingly, she was writing about Israeli Independence. She told me she wanted to understand me better. She made it difficult not to love her.
I went to the basement to call her in private. She picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“It’s me. Are you home alone?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“I’m coming over. I’ll be there in, like, ten minutes.”
“Ron, are you sure you want to . . .”
“Yes. I’m on my way.”
I walked at a rapid pace. While my heart was pounding and my gloveless hands were freezing, I tried to convince myself that I was thinking more with my head than with my dick. Before I knew it, I was at her door. I knocked only once. She opened it quickly and shuttled me inside. She had on the same T-shirt and sweat pants she wore the night I saw her after the dance. It didn’t matter what she wore; she was always hot.
“Ron, it’s broad daylight. You know it’s not a good idea to . . .”
Once again, I interrupted her. “I don’t care. I needed to see you.”
She could only stare. Those eyes. She was beautiful.
I continued. “Remember when you asked me if I was ‘really into us’? Meaning you and me? Together?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I am.” She let me hold her. We kissed. Without thinking, we walked, clutching each other, into her room. We kissed some more, eventually horizontally on her bed. A hamstrung Diego barked ineffectively, as he was locked in Carol’s bedroom. I could feel my heart beating in my ears. We smiled at each other. It was the most passionate moment of my life. Did I mention she was beautiful?