Chapter 20

XX

My Last Cigarette

As you know, I never did get into the Air Force Academy.

To this day, I don’t know whether or not Maria’s father canceled his letter of recommendation for me. Perhaps, upon seeing the tears on his daughter’s face, Mr. Della Verita called up Colorado Springs and told them what scum I was. Perhaps not. I’ll never know.

The summer after senior year, instead of packing for the Academy, I got back my old deli job at Key Food and enrolled in Hunter College in Manhattan. But I never did find myself. And I didn’t bother to reapply to the Academy, either. Instead, traveling on the subway each and every goddamn day into the city, disgusted by the yuppie scum and winos surrounding me, I imagined myself shooting through the skies in a B-1 Bomber. Cornering the subway tunnels, screeching to a halt at each stop, more often than not my eyes swelled with tears with the thought that my flying career was over—and yet it had never begun. I took the same train that Maria and I took when we went to Central Park, the R train. Often, I search for her on the train, but I never find her.

I didn’t make many friends in college. I strolled around the hallways with my head down, never bothering to talk to anybody, continuously replaying the events of that single year Maria and I had spent together.

One person I did meet was Mary. Like I said before, most of the time we didn’t hang out together, but we studied with each other on occasion.

Mary impressed me. Not so much her looks but her personality. She was a sweet kid, kind of nerdy. When I passed by her, with my face anchored to the pavement, she’d tap me on the shoulder and greet me with a cute, angelic smile on her face. She didn’t seem to mind that other people thought she was weird for speaking to me. I know that they thought that, too. Mary used to say, jokingly, that I was the Invisible Man, but she had a special ability to see me. I always insisted that the was delusional, but she only laughed.

For one reason or another, Mary was extra friendly toward me. In the library, when I went off to make a photocopy or check-out a book, Mary would leave cute little notes in my bag that said “hi J” or “how are you? J” It was weird behavior, if you ask me. But I suppose it was nice to be noticed.

We had our ups and downs, Mary and I, like I’ve already described. After the Deck the Halls Ball we didn’t speak for months. Still, I always felt that eventually she would call me. Even though I was wasted and out of control, I was sure she thought being defended in front of The Plaza was romantic. By the time summer rolled around—the summer right after my freshman year and her sophomore year—we’d become reacquainted. She called me a few times in Queens, begging me to go see a movie or get some pizza. I always said no. I usually said no and ended the conversation quickly, because I always preferred to stay in my room and watch the game. I’d sit in there and smoke cigarettes one after the other like a fiend. Alone, laying on my bed, in my smoky room, I’d think all about Maria. Either that or I’d watch TV or listen to the radio, trying to get her out of my mind. Trying like hell to think of her, trying like hell not to think of her—that was my life, day-in, day-out. A spectator would’ve thought I was a lonely guy, but I wasn’t. I actually enjoyed hibernating in there, with nothing but cigarettes as my friends, and my TV as my confidant.

On one such murky, hazy late night, as Frank Sinatra was just beginning to sing at the end of the Yankee game, Mary called me up and said she had a great idea. And then one day she called and asked, “Why don’t we go to Central Park tomorrow?” Central Park? I thought. I’m there. Immediately I knew fate wanted me back at the place Maria and I fell in love. It was my destiny. “Lemme check the chedule,” I said. The Yankees weren’t playing until seven the next day so I’d be home in time for the game.

“Don’t say no Joel! You’re coming out with me!”

“Okay, babe. I don’t mind traveling into the city even though school’s out. It’ll be fun.” I sighed.

I still can’t believe I said yes.

***

…So there we were, Mary and I, amidst the lush Strawberry Fields of New York’s Central Park. We were exhausted after having walked all over Manhattan, chatting incessantly. Don’t ask me why, but despite my previous reticence I’d decided to talk to Mary a lot, at least at first. I guess what all of that talking confirmed for me was that Mary was not Maria. And it’s funny, because I didn’t even contemplate her being The One until I decided that she wasn’t. Nevertheless, it was a disappointing discovery.

But by late afternoon, I was so bored. I really did feel like strangling myself. About to bolt, Mary broached a topic that I loathed to consider: our plans for the future.

Mary had recently decided to apply to law school. She was really excited about it. And she must have thought that I cared about it, too, because she became enthusiastic about it and delved into the topic in great depth.

Trying to feign interest, trying not to fall asleep, I looked up at the trees above. They were beautiful. “Hello,” I said to the trees, silently. “Remember me? I used to visit you with another woman, a beautiful woman named Maria.” I started humming “Maria” from West Side Story. The canvas of leaves and branches did not respond.

Muh-reee-uh! The canopy was so tight and motionless that the little light piercing through appeared more like twinkling stars than sun rays. Muh-reee-uh! The dinning and humming of the traffic and people created a bustling wall of silence that separated Mary and me from everything beyond the tress.

Hoods and yuppies and hoods walked by us, rushing in one direction or another. They seemed happy, so I peered at them in disgust. As Mary chatted away, I thought: None of them know what I’m feeling, None of them could possibly understand my condition. I studied each passer-by intently, searching for reasons to hate them. I heard the rumble of a Concorde in the sky above, glanced at it in disgust, and returned my gaze to the pathway before me.

That’s when I saw Maria.

She hurried by Mary and I; she made eye contact with neither of us. I wanted to run up to her and ask what she was doing there in Central Park that day. Did she travel into the city in hopes of finding our initials in that great pine tree? Did she recognize me on the subway ride that morning, hoping to confront me one last time, and spit in my face?—or shoot me?—or hug me? Yes, that’s it! Maybe she saw me on the R train and wanted to declare that she’d finally read my poem and desired to be my present love once again? Sweating, I contemplated these and other questions for a few moments. I never unearthed the answers, though, because, upon my second look, Maria had vanished.

I tensed-up. My flesh turned cold and hard. My body hair stood on end. The homeless man reappeared, the one that was singing A Hard Day’s Night just a few moments before. I could have sworn I heard him change his tune, and begin singing—yelling, actually—the words to The Long and Winding Road.

How does he know? I wondered. How does he know?

Did Maria spitefully give him a buck and request that song after noticing me on the bench with Mary? I hated her for doing that. And I felt as if all of Central Park’s visitors were covering their mouths, smothering their giggles, not because they were happy, but because they were laughing at me. As I sat on that goddamn bench, with a goddamn girl I didn’t want to be with. The sounds of the park became a drum playing a slow roll, taunting me, mocking me.

Most distinctive in my left ear was that bum singing that goddamn song; most distinctive in my right was the little, stupid conclusion to what was until that moment Mary’s soliloquy.

“So, that’s it,” she said, “I really want to be a corporate attorney. My dad’s not just a Deacon. He’s an attorney, too, but he works mostly on cases involving very poor people. It’s not like we’re rich or anything. He said I should shoot for something better, for a job where I can not only have my own office and make good money, but also defend high class people. The money’s not that important to me, though. I won’t owe much after college, because I’m in the Air Force ROTC program at Hunter, and it pays most of my tuition.”

My ears perked. I felt as if I’d been given a B-12 injection.

“I never mentioned that I was in the ROTC, did I? I guess that sometimes I’m sort of embarrassed about it, you know, because I couldn’t afford to go to school without it. And I never had much of an interest in the Air Force. To be honest, I really just do it for the financial aid. It’s not bad, though; I get to fly planes at Camden Air Force Base in Jersey. It’s pretty cool. And when I graduate from college in a few years, I have to serve in the Air Force for a while. But that’s okay. I heard that it’s good to take a few years off after college before you go to graduate or law school. It should be a good experience. Hey, didn’t you mention once that you were really into planes and stuff? Joel? Joel—are you all right?”

The blaring drum roll engulfed my trembling body. It was anticipating something or another, though I didn’t know just what.

Mary sounded so—what’s the word I’m looking for?—sure. Sure about herself and about her plans for a bright future. She was confident, but not cocky, happy, but not idealistic. There was nothing about her that I could have possibly hated that moment, and that’s precisely why I loathed her so. That’s why I didn’t respond for a few moments, hoping she’d think that I wasn’t listening, that I didn’t give a shit about her goddamn plans. She was a tease, I thought. But what she was teasing with exactly, I had no idea.

She was as confident and hopeful as my old friends from high school seemed to be. And it killed me. I thought of all of them at that moment. Kyle and Paul and Rick and Mike—they’re all doing well. Kyle, currently the youngest DJ in the history of Long Island’s WNHR, is destined to be a famous comedian, I’m sure. He always utilized his crass nature to make people laugh without harming them. Paul’s doing an internship with Chase Manhattan Bank this summer. I guess those extra math classes finally paid off. Mike’s the editor of New York University’s daily newspaper—a first for a freshman—and he reviews two movies per week. His dream is to review movies for the Daily News, and I have no doubt he’ll realize it soon. Rick’s at the New York Restaurant School, majoring in restaurant management. He co-manages a bar in Greenwich Village part-time between classes.

Mary remained silent, wondering what the hell had just shaken me. I ignored her as every second of the plan Maria and I never shared together exploded before my eyes—every detail that I’ve just described, every memory that should have been. It’s been a long time since Maria and I met at that dance, over a year since we laughed and played and talked near the pond in Central Park. One year condensed right before my eyes, like a movie on a giant screen, with Dolby surround sound. I was all alone watching that movie, as sure as I was alone in the blackness of my room each night watching the baseball game.

I longed to show Mary the movie, to grab her back of her head, and force her eyes toward the colorful screen before me. Only then would she understand. Only then would she shut the hell up and hold my hand not as a stupid friend, but as dear a confidant as Maria might have been.

But I knew that that was too much to ask for. She refused to watch the pictures flying toward my eyes in vivid color and fascinating sound. Her smile, she felt, was an honest defense of her ignorance and innocence. But she’s a phony, like everyone else, pretending to be blissfully uninformed as sure as Maria was conveniently unaware of my presence when she scurried past the bench just a few feet away.

Any parent knows that the worst thing a child can do is lie to them straight in the face. “I didn’t spill the milk.” It sounds so sinless; however, it’s deadly poison when you know it’s a flat-out lie. And I was being choked with such poison by Mary’s calm and friendly composure. Every muscle in my body screamed for a solution to my plight. It was time to issue Mary her Last Rites. It was time to punctuate this relationship with an exclamation point, so I’d never have to think about it again.

Mary turned toward me, and asked, “Is anything wrong?” But all I heard was: “I didn’t spill the milk.”

I rose, cocked my fist, and smashed my knuckles into her face.

For a moment, she didn’t scream. In that moment, I admired her beauty. The warm, red blood flowing from her nose and the acrid tears streaming from her eyes seemed to blend nicely with her strawberry-red hair. Right then and there in Central Park, Mary was transformed into the only genuine confidant I’ve ever had in my life. She was not only watching the movie; she was viewing it in 3-D.

As she whimpered, her was frozen in a look of surprise even though she was frowning. “Why?” she asked, over and over again. “Why?” She looked confused. As Mary tried to wipe away the blood, she bellowed like a beached whale exhaling its last breath and started to cry.

Had someone done that to me, I would’ve punched back. Or, at the very least, run away. But Mary didn’t attempt to retaliate or flee. She knew as well as I that she needed that punch to learn the secrets she never even knew had existed before. Mary had no right to plan her future in a neat little package, not until she knew I was out there. Not until she saw what I had been through. Not until she became aware that life was not the perfect bundle of joy she thought it was.

I spun around and ran away.

***

That was yesterday. And as I take the last drag of my last cigarette and mash it out in the gorged crystal ashtray beside me, as I gulp the final mouthful of tepid beer in my favorite mug, I can barely think of another word to write.

I've been sitting in this uncompromising oak desk chair for the last eight hours or so, writing in the very journal that until today had remained untouched since I inscribed: “I love Maria. Need I say more?”

I’m scheduled to begin classes in a few months. I’m due at the deli later today. A new guy is working there tonight. I hope it’s not too busy, for his sake.

I don’t think I’ll go to work today, or back to school. It’s not that I fear facing Mary once again, it’s not horror of possibly going to jail. Christ, at this point, I’d consider that a blessing. Being locked in a cell with only my thoughts to keep me company would only expedite a process destined to take place in my den each and every night, anyway.

And that’s just what my room is these days—a den. Even a bear, however, eventually awakens from his hibernation, and emerges to feed and forage in the forest once again. I choose not to leave my den. No—I can’t leave. It’s simply not imaginable for me.

I endure each day wishing the past had never passed, that the future had never arrived. Every monument of my childhood and adolescence has crumbled. Angelo and Al’s Pizzeria, as it was called just a year ago, has changed ownership. Now it’s called Sarino and Sons. Fuck Sarino. And fuck his sons, too. The F-train runs on the old R line, the R on the old F line. On Steinway Street, the old mom and pop stationary store and shoe repair shop have been displaced by a lousy Starbucks. Perhaps fate will find a substitute for me, a more clear-headed young man in a future not so far away.

I used to think I was so cool. But the more I reflect on my mistakes, the more obvious it becomes that I was a putz. I think a lot about the time that Mike and Rick dumped water on my head, how Kyle reacted so coolly, and I screamed in anger. Only now do I realize that they weren’t laughing at us. They were laughing at me.

I regret that reaction as much as I regret every decision I made during my year with Maria. These days, regret is all I feel, as time crawls by me like a crippled turtle. I can’t see a future for myself in the distance, only what I am, what I caused, and what I should have done. I crouch behind my memories, pushing them ahead of me again and again each day. They’re bundled up into a boulder, one that grows perpetually and moves continuously in one direction. Without it in front of me, I would see the sun and the trees and the people. And I don’t want to see those things anymore. I refuse to notice them without a girl named Maria in my life.

I had such a plan for us. But it spun out of control.

Maybe now that I’m out of her life, she’ll pursue her dreams as my friends did theirs. Maybe she’ll finally write her Great American Novel. And, who knows, maybe she'll even write about me. I’d always dreamed of that, of Maria sitting there in the bedroom in her little basement, next to her little feaux-window, typing away a love story about the two of us.

What is your novel going to be about, Maria? I whisper aloud in my room tonight, as the words drift out the window with the breeze, to be heard by no one. It’s something she should have heard from me over and over again. If only I had the chance to do it all over again.

Why not write a love story, Maria? Write it like Shakespeare would have., I know you can do it, baby. I love you. I love you. I have confidence in you.

What will you call your novel, Maria? Perhaps Enola Gay…

***

I miss the feeling of knowing someone loves me and cares for me, and having someone to grow old with. I can’t live without that security, without that power over my own life. I hate myself for losing control over my destiny. Maria was my personal flight navigator. Had I listened to her, to the decoded messages she sent me long before our breakup, we would still be together this very day. That I’m sure of. But I ignored her instructions; I decided to go at it alone. Doing that was the second greatest mistake of my life. My worst mistake was remaining alive for even one day after Maria and I parted.

In addition to the ceaseless sadness of knowing that I decapitated a beautiful relationship, I live with the anger of having allowed myself to fall into a quicksand like no other. The quicksand I’m submerged in doesn’t pull its victims completely under. It allows only their eyes to hover above its surface, compelling them to watch the rest of the world pass by as they are locked within its grip.

What I’m about to do makes me want to cry. But I won’t.

Never mind. The tears have just begun to swell under my eyelids and roll down my cheeks. They are splashing splash down into my crystal ashtray, and onto this very journal. This journal should have contained dozens of happy memories. But now, it reflects in words all of the events, both great and small, that I brood over each and every day. Within it you have finally discovered the mysterious nature of my life.

Mommy, now you know how much I hated you. Yet I am proud of you for conquering your demons, something I was not brave enough to do. I love you—I hate you—I never trusted you—I…I don’t know. I love you.

Daddy, I’m a man now. I’m finally a man. When we visited the Academy together, when I was so scared and didn’t tell you, I remember wondering when and how this day would ever come.

I know I am tearing your hearts out. But I promise you will happier lives without me seething in my den above your heads each night.

I’ve always enjoyed the security of knowing, at the very least, that the events of the past year were vaulted within my mind. That nobody, save Maria and, I suppose, Mary, could even catch a glimpse of my life. It doesn’t matter now, though, because even with each and every minor aspect of the past year on paper before the world, nobody will know much more than they do already. No person could possibly know, unless he’s taken each step that I’ve taken, and dealt each blow that I’ve dealt.

All my plans have been shattered. There’s only one thing left that I have complete control over, only one swift action which will give me a pride I haven’t felt in eons. It has, I know, been a certain conclusion to my struggle for quite some time. But I’m weak. And only now have I collected the strength to do it. I have only one plan left. And this plan shall yield positive results soon.

I’m not doing this because I didn’t do what I should have done, but because, given the chance to do it all over again, I’m not sure if I’d have the courage do it right.

I can’t guide my life toward anything save an inevitable monotony of sorrow. However, at the very least, I can control precisely how it ends, as well as the words that describe it. I’ve considered many endings for this letter—“Sincerely, J.J,” “From, Joel”—and most recently I contemplated ending this letter with “Love, J.J.” But none of those phrases describes the situation honestly.

It’s time to pen a final journal entry which shall capture this moment like no other can. Although nobody has understood me throughout the past year, or throughout my entire life, this one sentence is as self-explanatory as the blood that spouted from Mary’s nose:

“I’m dead.”

Love, Joel…L’Enfant