My friends were in awe. I told Paul that I’d give him Lynn now that I was done with her. I know that sounds crude, but, Christ, we were guys, and we all talked that way.
It was a great lunch time that afternoon. Usually we talked about all sorts of stuff—girls, sports, teachers, whatever. But that day all we talked about was me and Maria. They kept asking me if I hooked up with her, but I responded by smiling like a Cheshire cat, letting them believe what they wanted to. I had the feeling there would be plenty of stuff to tell them during lunch time in the future.
After lunch, me and my friends walked back up to our lockers. That year, our junior year, our lockers were close to one another. So after we got our books, as usual, we hung around near the stairwell and bullshitted for a while until the bell rang. Kyle towered over all of us. He’s about six foot two or three, maybe even taller. He had dirty blonde hair that fell straight down to his shoulder blades. His face was gaunt and seldom clean-shaven. A circle of dirty blonde stubble lined the circumference of his lips nearly every day. Worse than that, Kyle's stringy hair dangled below his shirt collar, well beyond his neck. This sort of hair style breached the school's dress code. But of course, Kyle never got caught by the Brothers. Not once! He slyly tucked his hair into his collar, never raising an eyebrow from the faculty. How he managed to escape trouble through four years of high school looking like an out-of-work drummer is beyond me.
Between his gray, creaseless, slacks and shit brown shoes Kyle was a fashion train wreck. And when I say he wore this crap every day, I mean every day. He could have passed easily for the poorest kid in school. Kyle was, well, Kyle was Kyle. But the thing was, he didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of him. And he was pretty happy with the way he was. I’ve always admired Kyle for that. I always wanted to know his secret. Still do.
I remember the first time I met Kyle. It was the last day of classes during our freshman year. Mike had known Kyle since elementary school. As everyone piled out of school, Mike plucked me from the crowd outside and said, “A.J., this is Kyle. Kyle, this is A.J.” As we shook hands hello, I noticed how unkempt he was. So there I was, with this weirdo friend of a friend, lanky as hell, and all I could think to say to him was, “You have an earring.” And he sure as hell did have one, a big gold spider web earring dangling from a thin gold chain attached to his ear lobe. I think it even had a spider on it, too. I couldn’t believe that Mike was friends with such a freak. Earrings were for losers!
“No shit? I have a dick, too. Wanna see?” Kyle replied, without missing a beat. And that was that. I didn’t see him again until the beginning of our sophomore year. But whenever I spoke with Mike over the summer, he had a new Kyle story to tell me. It wasn’t until the next fall when school began that Kyle and I became friends. And how did we become friends? How did two seemingly different people manage to kindle a relationship? The answer is simple: We both thought Mike was a Pollock.
See, we were both friends with Mike. But there was no doubt that Mike was, well, a geek. He was a great guy who wouldn't harm a fly. Strange thing is, though, Mike never hung out with anyone but Kyle and me. He was a geek for hanging out with us! Correction: Us and his Mom. "Momma’s boy,” we’d always call him. And that’s precisely what Kyle heard me say under my breath one day when Mike committed one of his usual blunders. Well, it wasn’t actually a blunder, but it was typical Mike. While walking down the hall in school with him and Kyle one morning, I started belting My Way, the Elvis Presley song. As I finished the final crescendo of the song, as that final "my way" echoed down the black and blue and beige tiled hallway past Mrs. Simpkin’s English class, I turned to Mike and said: “That’s the way Elvis sang it.”
“It’s Frank Sinatra song,” he said.
“No, Pollock, it’s an Elvis song.”
“But Sinatra also sang it,” he insisted. “I heard it on my Mom's Sinatra record last week.”
Shit. He was right. I searched for a response. “Go fuck yourself, Mike!” was about all I could muster. But then, under my breath, I said, “Momma’s boy,” and laughed. Mike didn’t hear it, but Kyle’s thin lips grinned from ear to ear. From that point on, I knew that Kyle and I were going to be terrific friends. On that day we discovered a bond that would gel any two people together, no matter how dissimilar: a mutual derision for a mutual third friend.
Although both Kyle and I loved Mike like a brother, we reveled equally in his nerdiness throughout high school. Christ, we’d make fun of everything about Mike: his messed up hair, his pot belly, his sloppy clothes.
He was an easy target, but not too easy. But the other two members of my high school quintet, Paul and Rick, were the insult magnets. Mike, however, was just a tad cooler than them, so Kyle and I considered it our duty to poke fun at him.
And there was plenty about Mike to dis. He stood about six feet, taller than me, but shorter than Kyle. But while I was kind of the average-sized member of the group, and Kyle was the emaciated member, Mike was the fat one. Not rolly-polly fat, not Jeff and his sister fat, but fat nonetheless. At sixteen, before he's ever tasted beer, he had a portly beer belly. And before he'd ever felt a chick's tit, he'd grown his own little pair of A-cups, the contour of which could be seen clearly through most any shirt. At school, between those tits there hung an unstylish pencil thin tie, usually an acrylic maroon one, no matter what color shirt he wore.
If I had to summarize Mike, I'd say that looked as ridiculous as Kyle, but unlike Kyle, he longed to look like me. Kyle was happy with his appearance. His style was being out of style. But Mike wished he didn't look like himself, he tried like hell to appear cool and hip. But he was what he was, and that's what Kyle and I found so hilarious. That's why we made fun of him incessantly.
This'll sound funny, but most of all, we made fun of Mike because me and Kyle were his only friends. Our friendship is reminiscent of an adage my father used to recite: "I wouldn't join any club that would have me as a member." Applied to us, Kyle and I picked on Mike because he wasn't sophisticated enough to have any friends other than two guys who constantly ridiculed him.
When Mike wasn't being laughed at by me and Kyle, he was at home watching movies with his mother. Almost every day, especially on Mondays following a weekend full of movie-watching, Mike would try to impress the gang by citing all sorts of extraneous facts about movies he's seen. Sometimes, I'll admit, his comments were interesting.
At lunch one day when Mike announced that he'd just seen The Godfather, and that we should all go over his house that weekend and watch it with him. Reluctantly, we went. It began as a typical afternoon: Rick's Mom picked up me and Paul. Kyle, who also lived in Astoria, just walked over there around three. As usual, Mike's Mom doted all over the five of us, probably because she was so happy he had more than one friend.
We settled in Mike's oversized stuffed sofa and thought, in unison: Mike is making a big deal over nothing...Mike is making a big deal over nothing. And then we saw it. Christ, Mike was right. The Godfather was great. It’s one of my favorite movies of all time now. Most people have seen it, but nobody has studied it like Kyle and I did that day. Everything about it was great—the dialogue, the acting, everything. What astonished me and Kyle the most, though, were the characters. Since there were five main Mafia guys in the movie, Kyle and I named our little high school clique after those guys.
Here's the rundown: I was Vito Coreleone, the Godfather himself, the composed, revered, dapper don that gently petted his cat as he plotted to brutally murder his enemies. Kyle was Tom Hagen, the Godfather's collected and thoughtful aide-de-camp or, as it's called in Italian, consigliere, which translated means "most trusted advisor." Paul was Fredo. Fredo’s basically a loser in the movie, and his timidity results in the Godfather getting shot in cold blood on a curbside in Little Italy. Rick was Tessio, which was perfect, because in the movie Tessio is a quiet caporegime, or lieutenant. And Mike was Clemenza, the other caporegime, Tessio's portly counterpart. He wasn't Mike's identical twin, but the
comparison annoyed Mike. If Mike hadn't been so annoyed, he wouldn't have been such a perfect Clemenza.
Toward the end of the flick, after the Godfather’s son, the new Godfather, annihilates all of his enemies, Clemenza, Fredo, and Tom Hagen are his only loyal partners left in the world. Throughout the movie they referred to themselves as The Family. Consequently, everyone started calling our quintet The Family, too. Not that my friends and I were anything close to a murderous gang or anything; hell, we thought farting in public was bold. But we always called ourselves The Family and referred to ourselves by our Mafia names. Me and Kyle did, at least.
Chapter 5
Zenith
Not one week after the dance, Maria called me. What a spectacular conversation! I was so fucking cool it was unbelievable. I can't even remember most of the shit I said. But I remember the feeling like it happened five minutes ago. Had it gone awry, believe me, I would have etched every painful detail into my brain. But that's not the case; I don't remember or give a shit about any of the particulars. That's how awesome the phone call went. I only recollect being cloaked by a refreshing sensation, a feeling of invincibility, an awareness that until that moment had eluded me for my entire life.
We must have spoken for two or three hours. We went on talking like that almost every night for another week or so. From that point on, I’d miss my favorite TV shows to talk to Maria; I’d cancel study sessions; I’d drop a Playboy just to hear her voice. Occasionally, I’d call her right back after we’d already spoken for hours, just to ask her what she was thinking about, just to here her recite my name. I never stopped smiling when I spoke to her, and I could feel her smile back at me over the phone. I swear, I smiled so much my face hurt. We had so much in common, much more than she'd like to admit these days.
We continued our phone dating for two or three months. Meanwhile, Lynn and I kept dating for real—sort of. I called her less and less often, and went out with her so infrequently that I could hardly believe she still seemed to like me. We were still an item, so to speak—that was our public image. But privately I was planning a break-up. I had to take it slowly, of course. After all, Lynn and Maria were great friends, and I didn’t want to get Maria in trouble by forcing her to steal Lynn’s boyfriend. At the same time, I didn't want them to be fucking friends anymore at all. Breaking my relationship off with Lynn and simultaneously enticing Maria would be difficult. Patiently, I waited. As The Godfather had taught me, timeliness was the key to victory.
Occasionally, at school dances and parties, Maria and I would see one another other. Talk about awkward! We never, of course, gave the public the impression that we liked each other. But that was easier said than done. Standing next to her at a party, I'd beam a "Please fuck me" look," while she'd emit a "Please hug me" gaze. Actually, I wanted to embrace her as badly as I wanted to screw her—that’s how I knew I was in love. Given the choice between only hugging Maria for eternity, or only fucking Maria for eternity, I would’ve chosen the former.
We exchanged all sorts of looks and exchanges that would've made Jeff and Lynn shit their pants. Especially Lynn. Jeff and his sister and their new crowd were obviously suspicious.
This was the status quo until one night when Maria called me up and asked me out. I couldn’t believe it! We’d been talking since January, and now it was April, just after Easter. I'd waited too long. She'd beaten me to the punch. Thing is, I still hadn’t broken it off with Lynn yet. Maria didn't care. Truthfully, neither did I. By then, there was no escaping the fact that we were in love.
She was smart, though. She didn't exactly ask me out on a date, but she’s the one who got us to hang out, even though I was still technically dating Lynn. I had been telling her for weeks about how beautiful Central Park was. I told her all about Strawberry Fields and the ponds and Cleopatra’s Needle. So her invitation was a "Let's have a picnic in Central Park" sort of thing. Hey, she'd tell Lynn, it's the 'nineties. A girl can hang out with her best friend’s boyfriend—as long as it’s platonic.
You can’t blame Maria. I'd built up to her asking me out. But the fact is that it was her idea to have a picnic there, to actually do something that I'd only dreamed of. We made plans for the following Saturday afternoon. We lived somewhat far apart, she in Ridgewood, me in Fresh Meadows, considering I didn’t have a car. So, instead of getting our parents involved, we each took the bus and met at the Queens Center Mall at eleven in the morning, roughly halfway between our neighborhoods.
Eager to begin the picnic as soon as possible, Maria and I ignored the stream of shoppers entering the mall and descended into the subway. Despite all the people aboveground, the Woodhaven Boulevard-Slattery Plaza train station was always so eerily quiet. And filthy. The moment we descended the stairs, the stench of urine overpowered us. I handed the clerk $5.00 for four tokens and led Maria down yet another staircase and on to the platform. It was warm and humid down there, and black rats scurried along the tracks searching for scraps of food. The tiles lining the walls were covered with grime. A long, long time ago, it seemed, those tiles were white. Now they were the color of shit.
These weren’t exactly romantic surroundings, I admit. But when I was with Maria the environment never mattered. Whether in a subway platform or a mall, it always felt like we were surrounded by a palace. While waiting for the R train, I grew lost in thought. In my crazy, mixed-up mind, I developed a plan. I’m still dating Lynn, so I have to take it easy with Maria. But I have to show her a spectacular time, or else she’ll never see me again after I dump Lynn.
The silver subway rumbled into the station, we boarded, and it rumbled away. In a flash, the G train pulled into the 59th Street Station. Maria and I crossed Fifth Avenue and entered the park at the corner of Central Park South. We strolled around Central Park for a while talking and laughing. I had a warm feeling inside. The best word to describe our dispositions that day is relaxed. Completely at ease, we talked about every topic known to a pair of adolescents, like movies and sports, but also delved into politics, literature, and art.
“Have you ever seen The Godfather?” I remember asking.
“Sure have. It’s my favorite movie,” she said.
We sat down by the pond near Central Park South, across from Wollman Rink. I lay down on a blanket flat on my back, and Maria sat Indian-style right night to me. Her knee brushed against my thigh and it felt wonderful. It was a warm day—New York Aprils can be really nice—and an occasional breeze blew the scent of blooming flowers and fresh-cut grass in our direction.
I glared at Maria’s beautiful face, glowing despite the shade beneath the trees. Her wonderful perfume—she was wearing it again—delicately blended with the surrounding spring air. She was wearing little blue corduroy short-shorts and a blue and white vertical-striped top. I studied her arms and legs as though that was all I would ever see of her body. Her arms were like ivory, her thighs stubby little white pillows. I couldn’t help but smile in admiration. She noticed but didn’t say anything. She just smiled back—not so much smile, but grin—and ran her fingers through my hair. Her attitude was modest, even though she knew I was admiring every inch of her body. I think she was just happy like I was. I wanted to grab her right then and there, just throw her on the ground and kiss her passionately. But I didn’t. There will be time, I thought. There will be time.
“There will be time,” I said to her, nonchalantly.
“Time for what?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about how I’d like to kiss you.” And I smiled. She didn’t respond, opting to smile back at me.
I didn’t know what else to say, really. We’d been talking for several hours, but I was stuck for a moment. Don’t get me wrong—it was a comfortable silence. But I had to think of something quick. I wanted to know so much about her. Her hopes, her dreams, her fears. Everything. I wanted to be an expert on Maria, earn a doctorate of her mind. And I wanted her to love me for my curiosity.
Desperate for something to break the silence, my
mind began wandering. And then a question hit me: I wondered, Does she come her with other guys? Briefly—ever so briefly—I hated even the thought that she may have had a boyfriend besides me. And I wasn’t even her boyfriend!
“So tell me about your boyfriends,” I asked her.
“What boyfriends?” she said with a contempt for the question. But we had talked so much that day, and revealed so much, that I couldn’t help but press on. I needed to know more.
“You know, tell me, have you had a lot of boyfriends?”
“Well, not really,” she said. “I’ve never really had a boyfriend.”
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