A girl no older than eighteen roller-bladed by us with shorts so sheer that her underwear line was visible. Her top was even worse: it was more of a black bra than a shirt. She might as well have been naked.
Ah-ha! I thought. Now there’s something to talk about with Megan: nudity. But how could I broach it? I couldn’t just say, ‘Hey, Megan, what do you think of that girl’s tits?’ It had to sound more intelligent than that. Funny, provocative, and intelligent.
I thought for a while, gulped the remainder of my Snapple, and asked, “What do you think about public nudity?” Like a baby that had just passed gas, she squinted her eyes and smiled a bemused smile. She didn’t seem disgusted, but intrigued.
“What do I what?” she asked.
“What I mean is, do you think that a woman should be allowed to walk around topless? Look at that woman over there.” I pointed to the chick on roller-blades. “Do you think that woman should be arrested for wearing that kind of top?”
She thought about it for a second. I sensed that, handled properly, this topic could lead into an even better discussion about sex.
“Well,” Megan responded, timidly, “I don’t know, really.” Okay, so she was confused. That only meant I should help her along.
“I mean, really,” I said, “what’s the difference between walking around topless and walking around with a flimsy tight shirt? I don’t think there is a difference. Public nudity is completely acceptable in some parts of Europe.” Where in Europe, I had no idea.
She paused for a few moments. “I guess there’s nothing wrong with it,” she finally admitted.
Bingo! This nice Irish Catholic prima donna prude from Jersey with a pussy as tight as mouse trap was suddenly a lot more interesting. Jubilated, I rocked from side to side on the bench, anticipating the intriguing conversation about to ensue.
But I couldn’t think of anything else to say to her. Desperately trying to figure out how to extend our conversation, I studied the roller-chick, who had stopped at the water fountain across the pathway for a drink. I stared at her ass for what seemed like light years, wondering why I was stuck with boring Megan when I could be hitting on her.
After at least another five minutes or so, I thought, that’s it, I have officially run out of things to say to Megan. I just wanted to get up and walk away. That’s it. Bye-bye, Megan. See ya.
But I knew I couldn’t do that. I knew I had to keep sitting and talking for a while. Then I had to walk her to the goddamn Port Authority bus terminal and see her off. Shit. I just wanted to go the fuck home, lay on my bed, and watch TV.
As Megan stared straight ahead—blissfully ignorant of the uncomfortable silence consuming us—I stared at her face. Not bad at all, I thought. She had some bronze freckles scattered across her forehead. Her chalky skin looked soft and virginal. And those pudgy Irish cheeks! She had two wide milky white cheeks, each with a half a dozen freckles or so, a small nose, and a small mouth, with an upper lip like an rosy eagle fully extending its wings. And wonderful ears—I always thought ears were very important—lay flat against the sides of her head. I would’ve nibbled on those ears today if I’d had the balls to do it. Pasty white thighs protruded from her lavender shorts. A bit flabby, yes. But how I wanted to see the tiny, fiery red flame between them. Heaven, I thought. Heaven.
But that wasn’t going to happen. As much as I desired to be physically close to Megan, I couldn’t bear becoming emotionally or mentally close to her first. I don’t know why—I mean, now that I think of it, I really liked her—but I just couldn’t take that first step.
But since I didn’t want to take the time to get close to her, and since she wouldn’t give it up unless someone at least feigned interest, she was useless to me. Thinking this today, I longed for her to simply glance at her watch and say it was time to split. Oh, Megan, we are done! I thought. Finito!
Christ, what could I say? A beautiful day in Central Park; robins chirping in their woody homes above; the sun piercing the tree limbs like pins poking through a green trampoline—and a pretty redhead boring the shit out of me.
“Public nudity,” I chuckled, half-heartedly. “It’s a funny thing.”
Okay, now I was desperate. Four hours of nonstop talk and God-knows-how-long of pure silence was all I could tolerate. I looked around, desperate for an escape route. People continued to stroll by. Shielded from the bustling traffic by a thicket of bushes and shrubs, I could hear the dim tick of my watch. You know you’re bored when you here your fucking watch ticking.
Yet the more I think about Megan, the more I miss her. It’s not that Megan wasn’t all right to hang out with. She was pretty and bright. I knew she was on some sort of scholarship at college. I had thought it was a full scholarship, but before today I never asked much about it.
She’d sit around lazily sometimes at school, like everyone else, so much so that you’d think she was a slacker. I actually felt sort of a bond with her when we first met, because I thought we were both slackers.
But one night before a big test, she invited me to study in the library. I found her listening to Mozart on her CD player, sipping Chai tea, alone. She seemed to know a peace that eluded me.
We sat around and talked and laughed about how there was this big test the next day and neither of us was studying for it. But I knew that she was prepared and I really wasn’t. And she was so calm… and I was nervous as hell.
Startled by Megan’s tranquility and confidence, tensing up, breathing deep, I cracked a few sexual jokes in front of her. Not so much jokes, really, but references. Innuendoes. I was hoping that if I implied something subtly, she’d get the hint, and just magically take off her clothes. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to make out; I just wanted to see her naked without having to charm her or prove I was better than her friends.
It was especially titillating to think that about Megan. I was sure she had never let a guy feel her up, let alone see her naked. I wish I could have just snapped my fingers and made her clothes come off. Just like that. And after seeing her that night in the library, I resented her for not responding to my thoughts: “As you wish, A.J.”
I never allowed us to get close because I felt like she presented her friendship to me as a gift—a gift I didn’t deserve. So I also resented her for acting like I did. Resentment’s a funny thing. Even at this moment, I can’t figure out whether I liked her for resenting me or resented her for liking me.
But I liked her just the same. In fact, I just liked her as much as I could have possibly liked another person, given my life so far. I felt this way especially because I was an exception to her usual crowd of friends. She hung out with people mostly like her, who mostly did the same sort of boring stuff that she did. Her father was a deacon and a lawyer. Real educated. Very religious. But not very wealthy. She once told me he defended the poorest people he could find and received little pay for his services. I remember her telling me this the first day I met her. I don’t think she ever described what her mother did, but I’m sure it was a housewife or something like that. So her friends were different than me, and her family, I knew, was a lot different than mine. It’s not like you guys are evil people. You’re not. But Dad, let’s face it, you’re no deacon, and Mom, you’re no ordinary housewife.
Megan and her family are from just over the bridge in Rutherford. But even though she grew up pretty close to where I did—probably in a neighborhood that looked a lot like Flushing, too—she would’ve been shocked if she knew what sort of person I was, and what sort of things I’d done. It almost makes me laugh to think about it. I won’t bother describing why just yet. For now, I’ll just say that despite some similarities, Megan and I were two completely different people. That’s why I always felt strange around her. I couldn’t get it out of my head that if she knew my whole story, she’d never speak to me again, or that she’d somehow figured me out, but was too polite to ditch me.