Chapter 9

IX

Love

As soon as I got home from Mike’s cabin, I called Maria. We talked for almost three hours. We had a lot of catching up to do since I was away all weekend. I told her about Mr. Dick, and the campfire. But of course I never mentioned Stephanie. Maria said that she was beginning to trust me a lot more quickly that she’d expected. She said that she thought about me all of the time. And the cutest part was that she’d spent the weekend while I was away doing laundry and cleaning her house. Apparently, neither of her parents ever did the laundry. Her moth was too busy working, and her father didn’t do shit. Maria said she’d been doing the family laundry since she was seven years old.

She said that she thought about me as she was doing the laundry. That was so damn cute. She had a way of being cute without even trying; it was truly genuine. She also had a way of being sexy without knowing it.

“How often do you wash your bras?” I asked. It was the first time I showed her my horny adolescent side. Rather than get offended or change the subject, she answered in her own special way, like she always did. “As often as they need to be,” she said. I loved that.

“Have you ever let a guy touch your breasts?” I asked.

Maria was a bit startled by my bluntness. “Well,” she said, “I’ve just never felt comfortable going that far.”

I continued to press the subject, partly because it was turning m on, but mostly because I would never touch a girl’s breasts without finding out how she felt about it first. She admitted that she’d thought about letting me get to “second base,” as she put it, when she was hanging her bras out to dry. We’d accomplished “first base” in Central Park on our last date. “Second base,” as every teenager knew, was feeling a chick up—or, if you were a chick, getting felt up. “Third base” meant putting you hands down a girl’s pants, or maybe even eating her out, or, if you were a guy, getting blowjob. And a “home run” was, well, a home run. I’d just turned seventeen and, coincidentally, Maria had just turned sixteen, so neither of us felt like Babe Ruth. But we both wanted to begin rounding the bases. At least, I did.

Like I said, Maria had a unique way of being cute about stuff like that. Gentlemanly, I told her that we’d go to second whenever she was ready. “I might be ready sooner than I thought,” she said. That was all I needed to hear. My plan was simple: I was going to head for second the next time I saw Maria.

And that next time was two days later. I parked my rusty green, 1982 Buick Skylark out in front of her school, The Mary Louis Academy, and waited, trying to look cool, as an occasional student popped out through the doors. I’d picked Maria up from school before, but never in my car. I always despised the bastards that already had their cars and waited out in front of Mary Louis for their girlfriends—radios blaring, engines racing—not giving a shit what anyone thought. So that day I turned up my radio, and leaned up against the side of the car with a pair of sunglasses on. Actually, they weren’t on; they were sitting atop my head, ready to be put on should the sun get too bright. I was so cool, and I had the confidence to approach any girl I wanted to and say, “Hey, baby, ya want a ride?”

But I didn’t do that. Occasionally, a hot girl would pass by and I’d smile in her direction, and she’d smile back. But I had to be discreet, because any one of those girls could have been a friend of Maria’s. Mostly I just stood there, sweating, smoking a cigarette. All the losers around me were smoking, too. I felt really different from them, though.

It’s amazing how quickly something you thought was so important just evaporates from your mind. And as I stood in front of Maria’s school the Tuesday following my trip to Mike’s cabin, I didn’t even remember Stephanie’s name. But as I waited, I began to look at other girls—some I knew, some I didn’t. I passed by Mike’s sister and Lynn as they walked toward the subway entrance; they didn’t even glance at me, never mind say anything. I was sure they weren’t speaking to Maria, either. Maria had lost a friend simply to be my girlfriend. She has a better friend now, I thought to myself. Lynn was a loser, anyway. She looked like a horse.

Finally, I saw Maria poke her head out of the door at the bottom of the hill where the school was. Quickly, I threw my cigarette down on the ground, kicked it under my car, and popped some gum in my mouth. But as quickly as I put it out, I wanted another one, because Maria was talking to some hood as she walked up the hill. They were laughing. I kept wondering who the hell the bastard was. I don’t think she saw me, or she would’ve stopped talking to him, I guess.

He was practically touching her arm, like they were dating or something. I started thinking that maybe Maria cheated on me while I was away. I was about to cry, but I held back the tears and became enraged instead. I was in such a good mood that day, and she had to ruin it.

Maria didn’t know I was coming to pick her up, and that I’d planned on surprising her. She started running toward me as I began walking down the hill toward her. The guy she was with walked in another direction. As I met Maria, we embraced wordlessly and immediately as if we hadn’t seen each other in years.

“I missed you so much!” she exclaimed, panting hard from the race up the hill. And she really meant it, too. “Did you miss me?” she asked, beaming.

“Who the hell was that guy?” I replied, quickly changing what she thought was a blissful moment.

“What? Who do you mean? Oh, you mean Kelvin?”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said. “Who the fuck is that nigger?”

“Watch your language!” she said, looking around to see if anyone was within earshot. She coldly withdrew from the hug.

“Well, who is he?”

“He’s just a friend from school. What’s your problem?”

“How many nigger friends do you have? A lot?” I couldn’t stop asking about this guy. It’s not that I hated blacks, or anything. I just wanted to let Maria know that I was serious, and maybe convince her that I hated them. I don’t really know. All I know is that there are two types of people in this world—the good and the bad. There’s good and bad in every race, religion, creed, nationality, whatever. The Irish have their Mics; the Italians their guineas; Spanish their Spics; the Jews their Kikes; the Chinese their Chinks; the Koreans their Kinks; and the blacks their niggers.

I could tell that this Kelvin was a bad black guy, a nigger, just by looking at him. Why else would he try to touch my girlfriend like that?

“You’ve never gone out with him, have you?” I asked.

“No! We’re just friends! School is over for the summer and I was just saying goodbye to him. What the hell is wrong with you?” Suddnely, Maria was starting to sound like a guinea.

“Well, why were you laughing, then? Who laughs when they say goodbye?”

“I don’t know...” Maria just trailed off, about to weep from my inquisition. But I just wanted to know who the guy was. She should have been flattered that I was a little jealous.

I turned away from her and faced the passenger door of my car. The car was still turned on and trembling, spewing exhaust all around us. I placed the palms of my hands right up against the roof and twirled my neck around to loosen it up. Closing my eyes tightly, I witnessed a fireworks display beneath my eyelids and, for a moment, was about to throw up and pass out.

Finally, I came to my senses and apologized to Maria.

“I was just a little jealous, okay? I’m really sorry. I drove all the way over here to surprise you with my car, and the last thing I wanted to see you do was talk to another guy.” I really was sorry, and I vowed right then and there not to let my jealousy get the best of me again. There was so much fun to be had that it wasn’t worth getting jealous—not that jealous, at least—over some asshole from her school.

Before she had a chance to respond, I placed my hands on her shoulders and tugged her toward my body, wrapping my long arms around her little back like an octopus. “I forgive you,” she said. And I was at peace.

***

I didn’t want to ruin such a special day. Like I said, not only was it the first time I ever picked Maria up in my car, it was also the day I planned to go to second base with her for the first time. I was so excited about the thought. I’d seen plenty of tits in my day, but I’d never felt so strongly for any girl before, and I knew it would be special with Maria because she’d never let a guy do that to her.

We got in my car and headed straight back to her house. It was just after two, but she said her parents wouldn’t be home until five. I figured she told me that to indicate that we’d be alone. As we drove, I thought about what happened with that guy in the park—the guy who grabbed her ass—and I promised myself I’d be completely different: respectful, caring, and, most of all, patient.

I’d never been inside her house before. As she opened the door I heard a dog barking. Until that point, I didn’t know she had a dog. I asked to see it, but she said that it was kind of vicious and would probably bite me. “But he’s a sweetie,” though, Maria said. I shrugged my shoulders and sat on the couch.

We each had a soda and watched TV for a while. Maria’s house was nice. There were paintings of different types of flowers all over the walls across from the sofa, except for a giant crucifix, which hung right in the middle. Across from us hung about ten slender mirrors, ceiling to the floor. They were remarkably similar to the ones in my house. Sitting on the sofa, while quietly embracing Maria, I had to keep myself from nodding off. It’s not that I was bored—far from it. I was completely relaxed,

“You like those mirrors?” Maria asked. “You keep looking behind you, staring at them.” I was surprised that she’d noticed. I wasn’t sure if I should tell her the story about the mirrors in my house. “Looks like you have something on your mind.” She held my hand and gazed into my eyes. “Tell me,” she said, calmly.

“Honestly, it’s really nothing,” I said. “I just remember when my mom made my dad install the same mirrors in my house. It was a few years ago, and he worked like hell to keep them against the wall, in just the right place, so that he could screw them in, perfectly juxtaposed.

“Once my dad was finished, my mother came in the living room and, as usual, second-guessed his work. The man was sitting there in a pool of sweat, on his hands and knees, panting like a dog because it was so hard to get those goddamn mirrors on the wall perfectly. And my mother did what she always does—she told him to do them over; she said that the mirrors weren’t high enough up. I was so pissed off at her. She was sitting there smoking a cigarette as he installed them, so why didn’t she say anything? As usual, my father didn’t say a word in response to her criticism. He simply reinstalled the mirrors. I would’ve killed her if I were him.” I felt so relieved, letting my demons out and telling Maria the truth.

Maria didn’t say a word. She looked concerned, but receptive. I remember feeling so relieved. I suppose, in retrospect, that I should have opened up to her more that day, and more often in general. Maybe had I done that, Maria and I would’ve stayed together. Maybe, Mom, you and I would’ve become friends...

…maybe I wouldn’t be writing this letter.

“Who installed those mirrors?” I asked, angry at my stupid mother.

“Me and my mother did, just last month.”

“Holy cow,” I said, “I didn’t think a girl could do that.” I didn’t mean to offend her, but I think it came out that way. “I mean—”

She cut me off. “Well, me and my mom fix everything that breaks around here, and we install all the stuff. Like that table over there,” she said, pointing to a handsome oak dining room set. “Me and my mother put that together. Mostly me, actually.”

I was impressed. What a louse her father was. I decided right then and there to show her what a real man was—gentle and strong, hard-working and industrious. Just like my father. Maria is a tough little girl, I thought. Stronger than me.

We continued to watch TV, occasionally chatting. As usual, the conversation was great. Maria was unlike most girls because she actually paid attention to what I said, and then responded intelligently, continuing the conversation. A good conversation can last a lifetime.

A recruitment commercial for the U. S. Air Force came on TV. It showed a quintet of F-14’s dashing through the sky. “That’s amazing,” Maria said. “How do those things fly?”

I wasn’t sure if she was asking rhetorically, and was too nervous to ask. “It’s very simple, really, it all has to do with Newton’s third law of motion: Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Man had never flown until December 17, 1903, when the Wright brothers took off from Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. But modern flight didn’t begin until Goddard helped perfect the rocket, which had been worked on for centuries beforehand unsuccessfully. Most people don’t know that the first rocket-propelled ‘jet’ took off from Germany in 1928, twenty-five years after the Wright brothers’ first flight.

“That said, the way a jet rocket works is simple: the engine creates a high velocity blast of air and blows it out the tail end of the plane in an appropriately sized nozzle. This is what thrusts the plane and the rocket forward.”

As I explained all of this to her, she seemed truly interested. That’s what I loved about her.

“You’re so freakin’ smart!” she exclaimed. And then the funniest thing happened: we both started to giggle uncontrollably.

Five minutes later, calming down, panting and smiling, we embraced. Maria started sliding down me, as if she wanted to lie down. But I encouraged her to stay up, because I was planning to kiss her soon. It had been a while since I’d last kissed her. I gazed at her lovable face and sweet lips and could almost taste her flesh in my mouth. She wore a snug white scoop-neck top with small oval collars. It was the same shirt every other Mary Louis girl was wearing, but only Maria looked like an angel in it.

Although we were barely touching, I could smell her body; I could smell her hormones aching for mine. She was so beautiful—and I was so in love—that I could have broken down right then and there. About to keel over from the intensity of my desires, I finally gave in and leaned over and kissed her. It was the most passionate kiss we’d had, the most enthusiastic I’d ever experienced. I drank her saliva as our tongues wrestle; I clutched her face on either side. She was getting wet, I knew it.

Slowly, I moved my fingertips down her neck and past her shoulder. Grasping her skirt’s waistband, I inserted my fingers and pulled the front tail of her blouse out. For the first time ever, I felt her tummy. And I can’t call it a stomach, because that’s too harsh. It was a tummy. And a sexy one at that. Covering her belly-button with my thumb, I fanned my fingers across her tummy, slowly moving upward. She didn’t seem to mind; I was thrilled that she didn’t balk.

I couldn’t say she was chubby, but she wasn’t a stick. Whatever it was, I loved it. And what I loved more was less than an inch away. That inch disappeared, and soon I was poking my index finger underneath the hard wire that supported her large bosom. All at once my right hand was cupped over her left breast, engulfing her large, soft nipples. I couldn’t have been holding her breasts for more than five seconds when, suddenly, she grabbed my wrist and yanked it out from under her blouse.

“I’m not ready yet,” she said, shaking her head apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

“Not ready? But what about what you said last night on the phone?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t feel comfortable.”

“Oh, come on, what a tease you are—saying one thing and then doing another!”

“Listen, Joel, I’m just not ready!” She started to cry. A perfect day ruined right before my eyes! I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, her dog started to bark. For a second I thought Maria was going to sic it on me.

“Let me go and check on Max,” she said.

She practically ran away from the sofa; I heard her sniffling and then blowing her nose in the kitchen. Max stopped yelping as Maria cooed at it and called it ‘baby.’ I was so angry and—yes, jealous. She treats the dog better than she treats me, I thought.

To this day, I’ve never experienced a more uneasy feeling than I did that afternoon. I was angry, but also sad that Maria had become so upset. I couldn’t help but imagine losing her over this whole disagreement. I’m just the kind of guy that likes his friends to keep their word. I hate liars. I really do. And I despise two-faced girls, especially.

I started thinking of what my friend Kyle would do in the same situation. When I’d told him about Lynn and what happened in the mall, and then about how I broke up with her, he didn’t react as I’d hoped. I really thought that, of all people, Kyle was the one who’d slap me five and say, “Way to go, Gahdfaddah.”

But when I told him about what happened with Lynn, he just looked at me grimly and responded: “Hey, boss—better judgment.” He’d never said that to me before, but it wouldn’t be the last time. It would’ve been a slap in the face had he said that in front of Paul or Mike. But, as usual, Kyle was a cool consigliere, and he advised discreetly. I didn’t really know what the hell he meant when he said it. But I guess what he was trying to say was that using Lynn and then dumping her was wrong.

Well, wanted to use good judgment with Maria. As a matter of fact, I wanted to end the spat as swiftly as possible. When she returned from the kitchen, and sat on the other side of the sofa from me, I reached over and rubbed her thigh gently.

“Is it okay to rub your thigh?” I asked.

“Don’t be a fucking dick,” she said, angrily. I don’t know why, but it was always sexy to hear her use profanity.

“Oh, come on, Maria. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you weren’t ready. But you shouldn’t go around telling me that you’re prepared to do something you’re not.”

“Are you saying it’s my fault?” I didn’t say a word. “Because I thought I could trust you enough to tell you what I was thinking. And just because I was thinking about something, that doesn’t mean I’ll do it.”

“I really thought you meant you wanted to do it. Maybe I misunderstood—or you didn’t explain it well enough.”

“Most of the guys I’ve known are too dumb to understand the difference between thinking and doing. I thought you were different.” She hit me right where it hurt with that comment; I loathed being compared to the loser guys she’d dated.

“I’m different!” I insisted. No response. “Really, I am. And I’m sorry. From now on I’ll listen to you more intently. And I won’t assume anything. Because you know what happens when you assume—you make as ass out of you and me.” Finally, she laughed.

“I’ve never heard that before,” she said. I didn’t tell her that it was Sister Domenica from St. Ann’s who told me that to my face when I announced sarcastically that I assumed I could shout in the school library.

I took Maria’s hand in mine. “Listen, let’s just forget this altogether, okay? You tell me when you’re ready to go further than kissing. The ball’s in your court.”

Smiling, Maria looked up at me, scooted down the couch, and leaned her head against my shoulder. I could tell that she was still somewhat skeptical. She didn’t know if she should remain angry with me or not. And, to be honest, neither did I. Finally, it was just as the disagreement hadn’t even happened. The hostility simply dissipated.

We were huddled together on the couch, much closer than we usually were on the blanket in Central Park. I heard birds chirping outside, and the cool early summer breeze whirled through her window.

Maria closed her eyes for a moment and didn’t notice as I crooked my neck and pressed my head against the inch of painted wall between the two mirrors directly behind me. The left half of my face was divided from my right. It’s weird when you do that, because you can see how different one side of your face is from the other. Actually, it looked sort of scary, so I quickly pulled back and returned to staring at Maria, smelling her sweet black, syrupy hair.

At last, she reopened her dark little eyes and looked up at me. “Thank you,” she said with a sigh. “For a minute there I thought you were like that guy in the park, or all the other guys I’ve met.”

“I’m not,” I said. “I promise, baby.”

Kyle would’ve been proud.

***

Several days later, when I saw Maria again, I gave her the following poem that I’d written about her:

It’s so easy to hurt the one that you love—you don’t even have to try.

Without second thoughts or serious doubts, you’ll place a tear in her eye.

Testing her love must be done, though you know what’s not the right way.

But when it happens you simply must hope she’ll love you again the next day.

I wrote the poem because, more and more, I was falling in love with Maria, and I knew that she felt the same way. The problem I had was getting her to say it first. I don’t know why I wanted it that way; I just did.

She read the poem and nearly cried. I knew that by the end of our conversation, she’d say I love you to me, and I’d say it back. But the conversation was tough. It was difficult to get it out of her. She implied that she wanted to say it, though. In fact, I remember her saying, “Joel, there’s something I want to tell you,” at least two or three times. I asked her if it was a good thing, and she said that it was. I couldn’t wait to hear her say it.

“Has anyone ever told you that she loved you?” she asked.

“No,” I responded. “Nobody has ever said that before.”

“Have you ever told anyone that you loved them?”

I hesitated. “No.”

I lied. I’d told Rachel that I loved her about a year before. But I was only fifteen back then, and now I was seventeen, and I really did love Maria. I didn’t want to break her heart by telling her the truth.

“Has anyone ever said they loved you, or vice-versa?” I asked.

“Nobody,” she said. “I wouldn’t let them, and I wouldn’t let myself. It’s immature to say it unless you mean it.”

Again, I hesitated. “Were you surprised that I used the word ‘love’ in my poem?”

“I was, but I was happy that you used that word. Did you mean it?”

I was going to respond, but she interrupted before I had the chance.

“Joel, there’s something I have to tell you.” All at once, I was nervous and excited. Just hearing those words—I love you—from a girl like Maria was all I could ever ask for. She was so beautiful. And she’d never had a boyfriend before. I knew she’d had a hard life. It must be so difficult for her to trust anyone, to express love, I thought.

“You know,” she said, “my mom always tells me that I don’t hug people enough—that I never hug anyone.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I continued to listen.

“But it’s not that I don’t want to hug her or my father or my friends, it’s just that I don’t want to get that close to anyone. You know what I mean?”

“Sure,” I said. I should’ve stopped there, but I didn’t.

“But what’s the big deal about hugging someone?” I asked. I was so immature.

“What’s the big deal? Joel, hugging a person is an act of love, of caring. You‘re placing your entire body within another’s arms, and theirs within yours. You’re saying, ‘I trust you.’ You’re saying to that person, ‘If I fall, please catch me, because I trust you enough to place not only my body, but my heart and mind under your care.’”

“That’s very eloquent,” I said. And it was. Maria didn’t usually speak that way. She lived in Ridgewood, along Fresh Pond Road, a working class neighborhood where kids still played stickball in the streets, and hung out on in front of bodegas all hours of the night. Often, she spoke like a girl who spent a lot of her time hanging out on those corners for most of her young life. So, naturally, she began to speak like the people she hung out with. Instead of saying “these,” she sometimes said “dese”; she often replaced “talk” with “tawk”; she referred to her dog as a “dawg.” I guess I did it a little too, ‘cause I’m also from New York, but Maria took it to another level. For me, Brooklynese was exotic. It sort of turned me on.

But Maria had a way of wiping away that accent when she needed to—especially when she spoke with me. I don’t know whether it was conscious or not. It might’ve been totally offhand. Either way, when she dropped her Brooklyn accent, her voice was like a mature woman’s, even though she was only sixteen. And her words were, too. But most importantly, her feelings were mature. There was no doubt in my mind that night that when she said “I love you,” she meant it. No matter the accent, Maria would never say anything that she didn’t mean.

“Joel,” she said, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Why don’t you say it, then?” I think that came out a little harsh, and I didn’t intend it to sound that way. But Maria knew what I meant.

“Joel, I love you.”

Pause. Dead silence. I didn’t say a word for what seemed like five minutes. Then I responded:

“Maria, that was a very tough thing for you to say, I’m sure. After all that you’ve told me about yourself—and I’m sure I don’t even know half of everything there is to know—I’m, well, impressed that you had the guts to say what you just said. And flattered. It’s difficult to tell someone you love them when you’re unsure about how they feel about you. And it seems to me that we are each in search of someone special, someone to confide in. I think that both of us have been screwed a lot in the past. I think that, finally, we’ve each found in the other someone that we think we can trust.” I grinned in delight. Maria grinned back. “Most importantly, we’ve each found someone to hug, because we both know that the other will be there in case the other falls.”

No response. I think I was a little long-winded, but I wanted to get a lot of stuff through to her before I expressed my love.

“Thank you for saying that, Maria. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to hear you express such a powerful emotion. I can’t thank you enough. But I guess a good start might be saying ‘I love you,’ as well, because I really do love you, Maria.”

For a split second, Maria and I shared a silent but mature bliss. It was as mystical a moment that a sixteen- and seventeen- year old could have.

We continued to talk for a little while longer. It was almost as if what was just said hadn’t even been said—but in a good way.

Before I left that day, I said that we should celebrate that day, June 14, 1996, forever and ever, because that was the day that we expressed feelings we’d had for each other for so long.

“Happy June fourteenth,” she said. “Have a good night, Joel. I love you, hopeful.”

“I love you, too,” I said. I flew home in the Skylark, happy as could be. When I got home, I wrote the following line in my journal:

“I love Maria. Need I say more?”

I’m glad I was alone, because I was speechless. Perhaps for the last time ever in my life.

***

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. Even now 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.

After I met Maria, I discovered that I could be witty at times. 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. So instead of talking about what I’m into, I try to discuss what I think others are interested in. But I’m never interested in the same things that others are. 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 on 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 video taping 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 yelled, “you fucking assholes!” 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,” 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 Utopia Parkway, 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, three blocks away. It didn’t pay much, but the hours were good—four to eight each weekday afternoon, and all day ever other Sunday. It was nice to have Saturdays off, because I intended to go to the beach every Saturday I had the chance.

So the first day I had off that’s exactly what I did, and I brought Maria with me. We piled into my car on a scorching July day. I’ll never forget the date: July 31, 1996. 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 across 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 threw 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. 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?”

“Joel!” 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 full-well 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’s condensed frame 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 joy or shame. But they were tears just the same.