***
It’s funny, because even though I started losing knowledge right around the time I met Maria, that was also the time when I really broke out of my shell, and really started talking a lot more. I hadn’t always been a talker. Mom, ever since I was a little kid my you’d always tried to get me to play with and talk to my classmates. You would pick me up after elementary school, and before we went home you’d ask some kid I knew if he wanted to come over my house and play with me. It sounds stupid, I know; but it always bothered me. I never wanted to get involved with most people. And now once again I prefer hanging out alone in my room and watching late-night TV movies. Everyone else I know goes to bars or goes dancing. I hate that shit. I’d rather be alone in my room.
But for a brief time after I met Maria, I could be pretetty witty and gregarious. And, of course, I really like talking about jets and the Air Force, but other than Maria, it was always hard to find girls that like to talk about that stuff. With Maria, instead of talking about what I was into, I tried to discuss what I think she was interested in. But I was never interested in the same things that others were. Which is why, until Maria, and after Maria, I never really could stand being with a girl—or anyone, really—for more than just a little while.
My relationships with girls never lasted for more than a few months. I suppose that’s natural for a teenager. While my behavior was common, my reasons were not. At some point in each relationship, when I grew bored with the girl, I’d become really obnoxious. I did it by choice, though. I did it so that the girls would become disgusted with me, leaving them no choice but to dump me. I never, ever could break up with a girl. Lynn was the closest I’d ever come, and even that was forced by me. I just couldn’t bring myself to say, “I think we should just be friends” because that was a big lie. I didn’t want to be friends. And while so many other guys didn’t want to either, I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
My friend Kyle likes to talk, too. But the thing with Kyle is that he says just what he needs to say—nothing superfluous. And even though we’re both funny guys, he always knows just what to say, and just when to stop. Example: A few days after we went Upstate, me and The Family went out for my birthday. We always went out for our birthdays. It was a tradition.
But on the day that we were supposed to go out for my birthday, Mike and Rick decided to play a little joke on me and Kyle. It was a hot day in June, right after Maria and I started dating, and I drove over to Astoria to meet The Family. I parked in front of Kyle’s house off Steinway Street and we walked up to Mike’s. On our way up the block, from Mike’s fifth floor window, Rick saw me and Kyle and figured it would be fun to dump some cold water on us from Mike’s apartment. Kyle and I were walking up the block, oblivious to their plan. As we passed below Mike’s window, Rick soaked us with ice water. Coupled with his love of films, Mike had a habit of videotaping things, so he taped the whole event and showed it to us later.
It wasn’t until I watched it all on tape that I realized what had happened. As the water slapped down on us, I pointed at Mike’s window and yelled out: “Mother-fuckers!” I didn’t notice that there were little kids playing baseball in the street, and moms with their children in strollers right in front of Mike’s apartment building. All I felt was my soaked shirt; all I heard was the echo of Mike’s laughter.
I suppose that the neighbors must’ve been pretty pissed off. I know I was, because Mike and Rick had actually surprised me, and it was in a way that I would’ve liked to have surprised them. It was actually one of the most clever jokes anyone had ever played on me, even though it wasn’t that brilliant.
Mike gave me a copy of the tape, and I’ve watched it over and over again, literally hundreds of times, ever since it happened. In fact, I watched it earlier this evening. I never show it to anyone else, of course; but I can’t stop watching it. I don’t get a thrill from seeing myself get soaked. There’s something else about that video that I’m fascinated with—and that’s Kyle. As the water sprayed all over us, I looked up at the window and cursed and yelled. But Kyle—Kyle didn’t say a goddamn word at first. In fact, he didn’t even look up to find out where the water came from. He casually strolled through the water, as if it were not there. He just mumbled a quiet “thank you” to no one in particular, almost as if he appreciated being wet.
Rick and Mike laughed from above. When Kyle and I got into the elevator, we looked at one another, each wearing faces that said: “Oh well, they got us.” And we both knew that we’d strike back with an even bigger and better joke when Mike and Rick least expected it.
“Why aren’t you angry at them for soaking us, why don’t you care?” I asked in disbelief, as the elevator in Mike’s building slowly rose to the third floor.
Just as the elevator doors opened up to a dark hallway, Kyle placed his hand on my shoulder, looked dead-straight into my eye, and said: “’Because I always win.”
***
It was time to get a job, or at least that’s what my parents kept telling me. So I walked along 69th Street, near my house, looking for one. My father kept hounding me to get another office job. But I didn’t want to do that shit. Just the thought of faxing and filing and wearing a tie made me cringe. So instead, I started working at Key Food deli, a few blocks away. It didn’t pay much, but the hours were good—four to eight each weekday afternoon except Fridays, and all day ever other weekend. It was nice to have Fridayss off, because the beach wouldn’t be too crowded. I couldn’t wait to get back to Rockaway.
So the first Friday I had off I went to the beach and brought Maria with me. We piled into my car on a scorching July day. I’ll never forget the date: July 31, 1992. On the ride to Rockaway Beach, I popped a tape into the cassette player and blasted some Frank Sinatra. Maria loved Old Blue Eyes, too. After a few songs, I switched to the Yankee game. They were having a summer to remember, just like me. Man, was I happy. There’s nothing like driving on the bridge over Jamaica Bay with a beautiful girl at your side.
I thought about writing a poem for Maria. There she was, donning a crimson red tee shirt and white shorts—she looked especially sexy in white shorts—right over her tight white bikini. My god, she was beautiful.
It was a uniquely dry afternoon. As we cruised over Cross Bay Bridge toward the water, arid, salty air blew through the window of my car as if it were funneled by a giant fan. The asphalt barreling toward me sparkled like tin foil in the sun. I played more Sinatra, and just as the Chairman of the Board sang the last line of Summer Wind, I pulled into a parking space within a few feet of the beach boardwalk.
By the time we nestled down on the beach, I’d heard at least half a dozen languages being spoken, all calm and pleasant. Rockaway represented the best that the city had to offer. People respected the beach, and noise was kept to a minimum by the gush of the waves hitting the white sandy shore.
I took my shirt off, and basked in the sun, singling Under the Boardwalk by the Drifters. Maria smiled along. What a fabulous day. She’d prepared ham and cheese sandwiches for us, and carried a little red cooler that kept the root beer icy cold. I couldn’t have asked for a better afternoon.
Maria wore purple sunglasses and a yellow sun hat. I wore my favorite white Yankees cap. I buried her in the sand; she splashed me in the water. It was wonderful.
Laying on our backs in the sun, I held Maria’s hand. “So, you’ve never been to this beach before, right?” I asked her, assuming that she hadn’t.
“Oh,” she said, “I have many times. I used to come here with Rosie, and a few other kids I hung out with in the park. A bunch of us used to come.”
Huh? “Well, how did you get here?” I asked.
“I came here in Guido’s car. Rosie was his sister, and he used to drive us here a lot.”
“Who the fuck is Guido?” I asked. I will never forget that goddamn name—Guido. That fucking guinea bastard brought my Maria to the beach before I did.
“I told you, he’s just my friend’s sister. I didn’t
really know him all that well.”
“You drove in a guy’s car, and you didn’t know him that well?”
“A.J.!” She said it like she should be pissed. I don’t think so, I thought. “What kind of girl drives around in a car, a stranger’s car, owned by a wop named Guido? Jesus Christ! I thought you never came to this beach before.”
“I never said that. And besides, who really cares? I didn’t even hang out with him at all. Only like once or twice.”
I knew the answer to my next question, but I asked it anyway, just to make myself feel a little better. “Did you ever kiss him?”
She paused. “Once,” she said.
“You kissed this guy! You kissed a guy named Guido? What are you fucking crazy?” My voice raced across the mellow beach. Heads popped up from the sand and stared. “Where did you do it?” I was in shock.
“In the water,” she said.
“What do you mean—you just started making out with this guinea, right there in the water?”
“No, I mean he kissed me. And then I told him to stop, because I really didn’t like him.”
“Did you think he was cute?”
“A little,” she said. “But I really didn’t like him, and that’s why it only happened that one time. Even his sister yelled at him for doing it.”
“Who was his sister, this hero of yours?” I asked.
“It was this girl, Rosie. You don’t know her, but I’ve mentioned her before. She’s the girl who made fun of me at school.”
“Why don’t you come to the beach with her anymore?” I asked.
“Because I’m not friends with her anymore. And because I have you now.” With that, Maria’s eyes became a bit glossy, and I sensed she was about to cry. “Let’s go in the water,” I commanded. “Right now.” And we did.
We didn’t go in the water like any other couple at the beach that day. We didn’t stand along the water’s edge, allowing the ripples to tickle our toes for a few moments, gradually immersing our bodies in the cool ocean. We didn’t gaze at the beautiful summertime horizon, arm in arm, ankle-seep, cuddling in the midday heat. Instead, I grabbed her wrist and practically dragged her, sloshing through the ocean with one arm, lugging Maria with the other. She didn’t know what the hell I was doing. And, to be honest, neither did I. I just knew I had to get out there, away from all the shit, away from the conversation we were having.
Soon we were wading in at least five feet of water. I was just tall enough to keep my head above the surface. Maria’s little body would’ve been well submerged had I not scooped her up into my arms, like an infant swaddled in rags. One arm was underneath her bare white thighs, the other wrapped around her bare back. The slippery seawater made it hard to clutch her body, but I did it. Quickly, I turned around and stared up at the white sun shining above. Squinting my eyes, I proceeded to look straight into the sunshine. Maria didn’t say a word.
“You see that sun,” I asked, “and that big wide blue sky around it? Some day, Maria, someday I’m going to fly up there with you. And we’re going to soar above this beach together away from everything. Away from all the people. Away from your father. Away from Rosie. Far way. I promise. And we’re just going to look down at everyone, laughing, knowing that we’ve discovered a peace in the sky that no other human has ever experienced. Because that sky is a sanctuary, Maria. A real church.”
I thought about Guido, the guy that Maria had kissed in the very same water in which we were standing. I knew what he looked like, with his big, black mane of hair, his gold chains, driving his goddamn Mustang GT. I envisioned Maria laughing in the back seat of that goddamn car, before she ever even knew I existed. Before she ever thought she’d say “I love you” to anyone.
And as the sunshine slapped my face, as I clutched Maria within my arms and hands, tears rolled down my cheeks—tears even saltier than the water. And I didn’t know then—and I still don’t know now—whether or not those were tears of love or fear. But they were tears just the same.
Chapter 10
Maria’s WEFT
Sometimes the future can erase the past.
Or at least that’s what I thought back in high school. And the key to erasing my own past was Maria. I wanted to forget all about the crap that had taken place in my life. I thought: Maybe all of my tomorrows could replace all of my yesterdays. A silly thought, I guess. But I really didn’t like my life all that much. No, that’s not true. It wasn’t like I was always depressed or anything. I wasn’t. I suppose I just didn’t like a lot of what had taken place in my life. Maybe I was looking for redemption. Somehow, I thought, I could redeem myself by changing my ways.
That’s why I started the L’Enfant Reformation in August, while I was Upstate the second time with Mike and Kyle. That weekend, around the campfire late the first night, I dared Kyle to walk around the woods near the trailer with a bucket on his head. And he did it. It doesn’t seem like much of a dare; but it was pretty bold considering the fact that he could have walked into the fire or gotten lost in the dark.
After he went, it was my turn. Kyle had a devilish look on his face as he thought and thought about the best way to win our competition. Rick encouraged him to dare me to kiss the fat girl we saw in the Rec Center who’d thought I was cute. Kyle knew, however, that I would do that easily just to win the dare, so he didn’t bother with it. Then Mike’s father came out and offered us some coffee. We declined, because most of us didn’t like coffee, but Kyle figured it would be a good idea to dare me to eat a spoonful of coffee grinds. I did it, too. And that’s why I was sick the rest of the weekend, with stomach pains and diarrhea. Still, though, it was a fun weekend.
But it’s memories like that weekend that I sort of wanted to forget. I don’t know, it’s almost like I felt guilty about having fun, like it was the wrong kind of fun. I felt bad about enjoying life. I even felt that way all the way up until being with Megan in Central Park. Even at that moment I felt like there was a dire need for me to compensate for what was lost, whatever it was. It was strange, really. It’s frightening to live in fear of the past, because your past is all you have. You are your past.
And that’s why I wanted to forget my past, and make up for it with the future. That’s why I thought it was crucial for Maria and I to stay together forever. She was the key to setting my past free. She would extinguish all the fires I had set.
Likewise, it was my job to help Maria erase her past. She never explicitly stated that she wanted me to do it, but I sensed it. I knew that she feared trusting people because her father and friends had let her down so often. She needed someone to get that shit out of her mind, and I wanted to help her do it. That was the genesis of the L’Enfant Reformation. I did it for Maria.
Just think about how perfect it could have been: both Maria and I were unhappy with our past lives and relationships, and each could help the other smother the rage the other felt. With my plan, I thought that nothing could stop us from being together forever, each always supporting the other when the past reared its ugly head. It was a flawless plan. It was a plan for true love.
***
On our last date of the summer of ’92, Maria and I began our date by making out. This was unusual, because we usually talked for hours before making any physical contact. Her parents were upstairs preparing a barbecue. Lucky for us, they seldom bothered to come down to Maria’s room in the basement and check on us. Her father was usually too drunk to care; her mother simply trusted her.
As we started to kiss, I mentioned that I really wished I could see her naked. Although it wasn’t my decision to make, I sincerely felt that the right time had come. Before she had a chance to say yes or no, I asked her if anyone else had ever seen them—like her girlfriend or something. She said that only one person had seen her naked, and that was her old friend, Rosie. It happened at the beach when she was changing in the bathroom at Rockaway Beach. Apparently, Rosie was her best friend until she got to high school, when she met Lynn. She was a real scumbag,
too. That wasn’t just my opinion of her. “Scumbag” is Maria’s word, not my own.
Maria had mentioned Rosie a few times. But until that day I didn’t realize that Rosie was the same girl who had made fun of her reading in middle school. Maria always chose her own time to say what she wanted to say. She was cautious, never hasty, when revealing her feelings, and discussing her past. She didn’t want people to connect the dots of her life, I guess, because that would lead to understanding and, with that, potential disappointment. I loved her for it, because she always had better control over herself than I did over myself. As a matter of fact, had I asked her to elaborate about Rosie prior to that day in August, she probably wouldn’t have given me a straight answer. Well, actually, it would’ve been straight. It would’ve probably been something like: “I don’t want to talk about Rosie yet.” Case closed.
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