The summer between, p.8
The Summer Between, page 8
“Love you, Andy Pollock!”
By Sunday morning, all alone, I was utterly depressed. Taking my third shower in twenty-four hours, I scoured my skin until it was raw. I looked at my body in the mirror. My body. A pasty roll of baby fat hung at my midsection while hair sprouted across my chest, forearms, and legs. My body. The body I proudly tended. Height and weight—in proportion. Broad shoulders by way of a million laps in the town pool. My dick, respectable. Sizable thighs supporting runner’s calves.
My body, wronged by a stranger.
My mind recalled the evening when Fucking-fuck violated my body. I suddenly belched up undigested pizza into the toilet bowl. The air stank. I picked up a can of Glade and spritzed the bathroom. The stench prompted another round of barfing.
I stomped up the stairwell to put on a pair of shorts. I tripped over the top step and my waist towel flew, causing my left knee to scrape across the coarse carpet. A bright circle of red dots rose to the surface.
As I reached for the white towel, my body spasmed in fury.
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. FUCK YOU. You fucking asshole. FUCK YOU. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. FUCK YOU.
I grabbed an Encyclopedia Britannica and hurled it against the drywall. I belly-flopped onto the bed, motionless, and watched another gout of blood trickle along my calf.
FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKK YOUUUUUU.
Tugging on a pair of gym shorts commando, I applied a wad of Kleenex to the wound and bounded downstairs for a Band-Aid. Rummaging past Lia’s basket of brushes and creams, I found a jar of flesh-colored blush. Cover-up. I slathered two fingers of the wet powder onto the underside of my wrists to hide the rope burns.
Restless, needing to prove something to myself, I tossed on a lightweight flannel and drove into town to pick up the New York Times Sunday edition.
Hours later, I drove six blocks to Gram’s for lunch. The moment I reached the Dutch door to the kitchen, the aroma of meatballs simmering in tomato sauce erased all that had gone wrong. Gram and I hugged. I poured seltzer into squat glasses on the table she set with flowers from the side garden. The meatballs were paired with rigatoni and a romaine salad showered with shaved carrot and oregano.
“Andy! Tell me, how’s your job at PGE? It’s good money,” she said, grating a mountain of Parmesan onto the rigatoni.
“The money is great, Gram, but I’m glad it’s not forever.”
“People would kill for that job. You could move up in the company after college.”
“Ummmm—”
“Your mother will be home Tuesday?” she added, changing the subject. “Why is she protesting? I never know if she’s telling me the whole story.”
“She’s not protesting. It’s a planning meeting, and Monday she’s working at the Fairfax headquarters. Tuesday she and Ruth drive home.”
“Ruth, I don’t know about her. She’s a bit horsey,” Gram croaked. “How is your mother going to get along once you go to college? You’ll come home on weekends, won’t you?” She pouted.
“Whenever I can. But I will have tons of homework.”
“Guess who called? Crazy June.”
“Why do you call her Crazy June, Gram?”
“Crazy because she’s a kook. A lonely kook. You wouldn’t remember this, but her left eyeball rolls to one side. You never can tell if she’s looking right at you. Like that comedian with the bulging eyes—Marty something.”
“Marty Feldman. From Young Frankenstein.”
“Anyway, all she talks about are her damn cats. She never married.”
“Never married? Is she a lesbian?” I said, testing the word on Gram.
“Lesbian? No, I don’t think. She’s very religious. Oh, and those damn stuffed animals and dolls everywhere. Who could live with that?”
“Did she say anything about her family?” I asked.
“About your father? No, Andy. Not really.”
I could feel my eyes start to mist up.
“Okay, don’t tell Lia—she’ll get upset I said anything—but I do know Andrew still lives in Norway with your grandmother. He was dating a Norwegian girl, but it didn’t work out.”
The mention of my invisible father’s name was a punch to the gut.
We ended the meal with strong black coffee and fresh-baked sweet cream puffs. Gram arranged the remaining pastries on a chipped antique plate, covering them with aluminum foil.
“Andy, want to come back tonight? We can watch TV and eat leftovers. Or order a pizza from Lou’s Tavern, your favorite? I’m here all alone.” She paused expertly to let the guilt sink in.
“I’d love to, but I have things to do tonight. I’ll take a few meatballs home if you have enough?”
She sighed and shrugged, spooning six on top of pasta inside a Tupperware container. “You know how to heat this, right? In a small pot with a little water, burner on low, so it doesn’t scorch.”
“Gram, your meatballs are the most delicious I’ve ever had.”
I lunged for a tender hug as she kissed my nape, her garlicky breath comforting. I suddenly realized she was embracing the same body that had been violated only a day earlier and felt ashamed.
I went home and refrigerated the leftovers and then changed into a swimsuit. I headed to the patio to wilt under the afternoon sun. Splayed on my back across a lounge chair, the light played tricks with my eyes. Patterns, twirling red spirals, and flecks of monochromatic sparkle danced erratically. Suddenly, I cracked. Not delicate tears—chest-rolling swells. A sour mix of saline and tanning oil ran down my cheeks, seeping into my mouth. Out of nowhere sprang a guttural wail. Concerned I’d scare the neighbors, I fled to the kitchen. Catching my breath at the sink, I vowed to the chintzy curtains that I would never go out alone again and get wasted.
I heard a noise at the screen door and yelped in panic.
“Unlock the door, you loser,” Elena snapped, waving a paper bag.
Throwing on the oversized flannel, I scolded, “You freak! It’s unlocked.”
“Andy, are you okay? You look like shit. Were you crying?”
“I was laying out in the sun. Lotion got into my eyes,” I said, dramatically rubbing both sockets.
“Yeah, okay,” she said skeptically. “I thought someone died. Look at these beauties,” she said, shaking out a pair of identical black Stones T-shirts, emblazoned with the bright red tongue. “We’re wearing these tomorrow night. We’re going to look so hot, my man. Speaking of which—aren’t you a little sweaty in that flannel?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess—”
“Andy, the dance party last night was bananas. Can’t wait for you to meet Maya and Rocco!”
Elena was no fool; she knew something was off. Grabbing me, she offered a merciful hug, adding, “Gotta run, it’s goulash night.”
Chapter 10
Like the first frame in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, when Leatherface dominates the screen, blurry flashes of Fucking-fuck whizzed before my eyes between hours of restless sleep. As I tossed and turned, the memory haunted me until the alarm buzzed at 6:45 a.m.
“Sick as a dog,” I informed my supervisor. “No way I’ll make it in today.”
I brewed a pot of Maxwell House to break out of my stupor. Setting a mug on the counter, I noticed that the color of my wrists was fading but my skin was still bruised.
After a day of lying in bed watching TV, it was soon time to pick up Elena. I decided my old Timex with a double-wide leather strap, despite it being out of fashion, would hide the bruise. I layered the black Stones tee Elena gave me over a long-sleeved one, and covered the layers with a green plaid shirt, unbuttoned and loose. Before leaving, I gave myself a quick pat-down: tickets, car keys, wallet, license. Check.
As I pulled the Blue Whale in front of Elena’s house, she jumped up from the stoop, feverishly. Mick’s graphic tongue bounced about her chest.
“Whaaa, no headscarf?” I called.
“Smart-ass! Baba didn’t seem appropriate for the occasion,” Elena barked.
Wearing a bright yellow apron, Luba appeared in the screen door waving both hands as we hustled to catch the train.
Forty-five minutes later, we arrived at West Fourteenth Street, six trashy avenues west of the theater.
“Andy, all this garbage and graffiti! You sure you can handle living in the city? The Village is sleazy, but at least it’s—quaint. This area is disgusting.”
“The city is a pit. That’s part of the charm,” I said, trying to sound like a regular. “The dorm is a few blocks that way, so it’s a little bit safer,” I said, pointing to Union Square. “The trick when walking in fishy areas is to never look anyone in the eye.”
“Well, you better be careful, mister. Don’t go walking alone at night. I’m not sure I could live here.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “You love the city as much as I do.”
We arrived at the Palladium way too early. The doors were bolted with thick chains, the marquee coyly announcing, CONCERT June 19.
A sporadic breeze carried the pungent smell of rotting waste down Fourteenth Street. As a dozen or so Stones zealots hovered near the entrance, Elena asked one whether the concert was for real.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he responded. “Peter Tosh is opening.”
“Thank God!” Elena screamed, hopping in a circle like a kangaroo. “Andy, it’s happening. We’re gonna see Mick in the flesh!”
Elena continued gabbing with other equally rabid groupies. It was an hour before the doors opened. Flashing the stolen tickets, I asked a humpbacked doorman if “Special Access” permitted us to enter first. He scanned the tickets, unimpressed.
“Special Access doesn’t mean zilch. You’ve got box seats. When you get inside, make a left up the stairs.”
By now a crowd had gathered, and we shuffled like sheep among the crush. I suddenly panicked, thinking the cops would know these were stolen tickets. Maybe the asshole called ahead and they were looking for me?
I solicited the gods: Please, please, don’t let us get caught. Afraid I’d black out, I grabbed Elena’s shoulders. A stubby Slavic woman placed the tickets under a black light to make sure they weren’t counterfeit and then barked instructions for finding our seats upstairs.
We were in. I could breathe again.
The theater, far smaller than Madison Square Garden, was swathed in passé decor. We climbed the curved stairs to the balcony, spotting our section. The box contained two petite rows of six seats. With the spot hovering over stage-right, Elena began to cry, overwhelmed. She’d soon have an unobstructed view, no more than ten feet away, of Jagger.
Just then another wave of panic arose. What if Fucking-fuck suddenly appeared? I might not recognize him before he saw me. He might vault into the box and shout out, “Him! That’s the thief, arrest him.”
A group of four college-aged kids filed toward the seats to my left. I scrutinized their faces. Not one looked like they’d associate with a molester. The fellow to my left pitched a cooler-than-thou chin-nod as he settled in beside me. On the aisle was a chubby Hispanic guy with a toothy smile. Next to him sat a possibly albino lad with a flap of white hair over his left eye. Alongside him was a posh chick in a bleached bob, clad in a black jumper, black leotards, and black Doc Martens boots.
Soon the air was stewed in the sweet smell of weed. As the lights flicked off, a round of cheers erupted. I squeezed Elena’s hand to temper her nerves. Then a rally of boos as the lights went on again.
Hunching over, the guy with denim knees leaned into me.
“Hey, I’m Ben,” he said in a polished monotone. “How’s it going? You’re not who I thought you’d be. Are you pumped for the concert?”
Not who he thought I’d be? I felt ill again. But I pushed through it, saying, “Hey, Ben. Andy. This is Elena. She’s a Jagger junky.”
His greenish-grey eyes were angelic. His cheeks were bright and rosy. A curl of coffee-colored hair waved about his forehead as he shifted.
“Andy. Elena. Got it. Excellent seats, right?”
“Unbelievable. I’m stoked.”
Ben introduced us to his friends, Lula, Mikel, and Roberto.
“Andy, your matching T-shirts are rad. You gotta be the coolest boyfriend in the world for taking your girl to see the Stones.”
“Thanks,” I said, laughing. “Elena’s not my girlfriend. Anymore. We’re best friends.”
“Apologies. You got a job for the summer?”
“A summer construction gig at Public General Electric.”
“Not sure what that is, but excellent,” Ben shrugged. “Construction is hard, man. Do you guys live in the city?”
“I start school here in September.”
“Where you going?”
“NYU.”
“No fucking way! That’s where I finished up. You must be stoked.”
“You have no idea! Of course, my neighbors think the city is a joke,” I exaggerated.
“I went to NYU for communications. Advertising mainly.”
“I’m going into fine arts.”
“The burbs … so, Bronx? the Island?”
“Jersey,” I said, making a thumbs-down signal, knowing New Yorkers looked down on the Garden State. “So, Ben, you’re out of college? I figured you were a student.”
“No, I graduated two years ago. Jersey’s cool—I mean, you live there, so it must be, right?”
The theater blacked out, and Peter Tosh and his band appeared.
“He’s awesome, wait until he plays ‘Get Up, Stand Up,’” Ben whispered close enough that I could smell the weed on his breath. On her feet, Elena danced, hands waving in choreographed circles.
Ben explained that Tosh was a member of Bob Marley and the Wailers. We sat in idle silence through his brief set. Tosh got booed as he exited. The four ducklings to my left scurried to the lobby, leaving us to prattle with an intoxicated woman in the row behind us. Every few minutes, the spotlights flashed but never went out. Elena was losing patience. Soon, the lights went out for good, and the crowd erupted.
We saw microphone stands and exposed instruments sitting naked under a trio of rotating spots. Soon, strokes of white light eddied around Keith Richards as he came out and screamed, “Crank it up, motherfuckers.”
Ben and his pals returned as the hi-hat and kick drum reverberated. Then, like an acrobat, Mick leaped into the glow, making mincemeat of Chuck Berry’s “Let It Rock.” As Keith strummed the first chords of “Honky Tonk Women,” the theater burst like thunder. Elena pulled me up to dance beside her. The row behind us jumped up and down so heavily that I feared our decrepit box would collapse. By the end of “When the Whip Comes Down,” Jagger was a sweaty mess. Swooning like a drugged hobo, he then warbled the lyrics of “Miss You.”
“My favorite,” I yelled out loud to no one.
“Me too,” Ben screamed in my ear. I smelled the weed mixed with his sweat. I inhaled again, a little deeper. This straight guy was sexy.
Mouthing the lyrics, Elena screamed as a drenched Mick mock-collapsed center stage, and the last chords of “Beast of Burden” led into intermission.
“Beer! Tequila! Shots!” crowed Lula with British girly cheer.
“Andy, Elena—want anything?” Ben’s boyish grin was as wide as Wyoming. “Are you guys legal? It doesn’t matter, but are you?”
“Yes,” I yelled, “over eighteen.”
“Come with Lula and me—both of you.”
The six of us sliced a path through the chaos to the lounge. Ben pulled a fat joint from his shirt pocket.
“You guys in?”
“Totally, where can we smoke?” I said, speaking for Elena.
Ben led us to a column that was supposed to provide concealment from ushers who didn’t really seem to care.
“Let’s smoke this, then grab beers and shots,” Ben pressed. He fired the joint with his orange BIC before passing it to Elena.
I finally got a chance to assess Ben for the first time. He was a dude, like countless other straight, college-aged guys. My hunch was he was from the Midwest. Someplace with dairy farms. His skin was as creamy as a baby’s butt. Whatever they fed him as a child had worked. Peeking from under a plaid button-down was the Ha of a Hall and Oates black tee sloppily tucked beneath a thick leather belt. His Wrangler jeans, neither tight nor loose, reached a pair of worn chukka boots I instantly wanted.
Ben’s girlfriend, Lula, was the type of girl you wanted to be seen with.
She sparkled. If Ben was a milk-fed Butch Cassidy, Lula was a combo of Twiggy and Goldie Hawn. Under heavy makeup, her face was beautiful. I wanted Elena and me to grow up to be Ben and Lula.
“Mick’s bladdered. Positively off his game,” Lula bellowed in a Manhattan-edged Cockney. “I read he was unwell in Philly, but he seems bloody fucked-up if you ask me.”
“He’s Mick Jagger,” said Elena. “Who cares? He’s gorgeous, a beast. We expect him to be fucked up!”
“Ladies, let’s grab shots,” Ben interrupted.
The house lights flashed as he ordered four tequilas and four beers, springing for the tab.
“I’ll get next round,” I insisted.
“Yay to our new friends,” Lula toasted. “And to Mick, fucked-up or whateva.”
“Where are Roberto and Mikel from?” I asked Ben.
“Mikel’s from Holland, Roberto lives in the Bronx. Da Bronx,” Ben mocked. “We all work in the same department at MSP, an advertising firm, except for Lula. She and I met at a typography class at NYU.”
“Andy, do you work in the city?” Lula asked, pronouncing my name On-day, blowing the smoke from a clove cigarette away from our faces.
“No, no. I’m a hardhat at a utility plant in Jersey. It’s just for the summer. NYU in September, fine arts.”
“Hard hat. That all sounds very blue-collar. Whatever it takes, I suppose,” Lula said.
We got back to our seats and downed our beers.
Leaning in, Ben asked, “Andy, how did you score your tickets? The VP of my firm generously gave us six. Your seats were given to Damon. Damon Piccard, you must know him? He’s a freelance art director at the firm.”
I stopped breathing. Fucking-fuck has a name. And this dude knows my seats were pinched.
