I spoke to Megan a lot at school, in the library, and at lunch. But I’ve only seen her face twice off campus, once in Central Park today, and once last December, just before Christmas.
Each December Hunter College hosts the Deck the Halls Ball. We’d only known each other for a few months, but Megan was the kind of girl who was happy going to a dance with a male friend. “It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other,” she said. Until that dance, I hadn’t been outside the house much since last June. “Come on A.J.,” she pleaded. There’s an ’80s theme and you once told me you loved ’80s music.”
“I did?”
“Yes, the first day of school, the day we met.”
I smiled. “Okay, I’ll go.”
The Deck the Halls Ball was held at the Plaza Hotel at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Central Park South, right in the heart of midtown. In front of the Plaza was a golden statue of a man on a horse covered with pigeon crap. The pigeon crap, of course, wasn’t part of the statue. I had stood beneath that statue countless times, kissing Maria passionately, embracing her.
Across Fifth Avenue stood a skyscraper which housed, among other things, F. A. O. Schwartz, another place reminiscent of my past. Several blocks below stood St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Saks Fifth Avenue. Maria and I spent so much time in this part of the city—going into Saks to browse, hanging out in the park by the pond—that as soon as I exited the R train in midtown I was shell-shocked. I knew that would be the case; that’s why Megan had to twist my arm just to get me to go to the dance.
But, in addition to Megan’s pleading and the open bar, there was one other reason that I was willing to go that night: I wanted to see the inside of the Plaza. Whenever Maria and I went to the city, we always talked about going inside just to sneak a peak. I know it sounds dumb because it’s just a hotel, so why we were so nervous I have no idea. But we never did get to go inside.
The only way I could get through my first social experience after Maria was by drinking. Heavily. Thing is, I somehow had told Megan that I didn’t drink. I also smoked, but I told her I didn’t smoke, either. I guess I did it to give her the impression that I was a good and decent person, just like her. I knew that Megan had never smoked or even tasted more than a sip of beer in her lifetime; had she known about the real me, she surly wouldn’t have spoken to me, never mind ask me to a dance. The funny thing—now that I think about it—is that she never even asked me if I drank or smoked. I just somehow told her I didn’t.
So there I was, approaching the end of my first semester of college with this nice Irish girl from Rutherford—daughter of a deacon, for God’s sake—and I had to sneak off by myself and down a beer while she wasn’t looking. I still remember asking around for a piece of gum on my way back to meet Megan on the dance floor because I didn’t want her to smell my breath.
Eventually, I had more than a few beers—about five or six the last time I counted—and it started to show. Panting from the oppressive heat, my inebriated body practically slumped onto the dancers as I zigzagged my way back to Megan, beer in hand. My forehead was slick with sweat and my shirt was soaked. I was delirious. Somehow I got caught up on the dance floor in sort of a mosh pit, and I jumped around in a drunken stupor flailing my arms and screaming like a mother fucker with everybody there. Or nobody, depending on your perspective. The way I flagrantly disrespected my escort would’ve given even the saintliest woman a coronary. I feel so bad about it, now that I think about it.
By the time the dance let out, Megan was noticeably pissed. It was pretty obvious to her that I was drunk off my ass. But that wasn’t the biggest misfortune of the night. Once outside the Plaza, as we waited for a few of her friends to show, some asshole approached Megan and kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, carrot top,” he said, sweetly. And then he strolled away. Megan didn’t seem to mind his farewell. But I did. I was her fucking date! He stepped over some blurry line I’d drawn in my sloshed head—and I was pissed.
Jealously, I looked at Megan. Angrily, I turned my head toward the bastard as he walked away. I lunged after him through the crowd, pushing spectators aside as if I was in a field shoving ears of corn out of my way. All in one motion, I tapped him on the shoulder with my left hand and socked him in the gut with my right. Down he went. What happened after that I don’t recall. For all I know, he leaped up and beat me to a pulp in front of the most beautiful hotel in New York. From that point on, the scene is a blur; only the emotions I felt are crystal clear.
Horrified, Megan didn’t speak much after that. As I walked her to the Port Authority bus terminal, I still remember asking, “You’re not mad at me are you?” She smiled, politely, and forced out a “No, of course not.” But I knew that she was. And it kind of pissed me off that she didn’t show it. I dropped her off. She grimaced and turned her back and walked to the bus, silently. We both knew that whatever relationship we had was over.
We didn’t make eye contact for the next several months following that, never mind speak. Then, just a few days before St. Patrick’s Day this year, we wound up in the same place at the same time and struck up a conversation. She confessed that she really was mad at me the night of the Deck the Halls Dance. But, she said, it wasn’t that I had sneaked off and gotten wasted, and not even that I’d decked the hood. “You tried to make yourself out to be someone that that you weren’t. I’m not angry, I’m really just disappointed in you.” That day I learned a profound lesson: Whenever you make believe you’re something you’re not, don’t slack off on the impersonation. That’s when you run into trouble.
Soon enough, Megan and I started to become friendly again. Not friends, but friendly. The difference is difficult to explain. But I do know this: The number one thing that kept our relationship alive was my attraction to her. I have to admit, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to be friendly with her if she was ugly. But even with Megan’s good looks, I didn’t have the slightest desire to hang out with her outside of school. Mostly, I enjoyed being alone.
After school let out last month, she started calling me at home, asking me to hang out. She had forgiven me. At first I resisted. But she continued to bother me.
One night she called me and practically begged me to see her. I didn’t want to go, but she begged, and that was reason enough for me. It turned out that she was planning on going to law school, so I figured if we went out at least we’d have that to talk about. More importantly, I thought it would be a nice way to dovetail into more interesting conversation, on a more personal level. Even though I’d known Megan for a while, I’d never bothered to ask much about her life.
It turned out to be an eventful afternoon. I got more than I bargained for. So did Megan.
As I said, we were sitting there in Central Park during our “date” or “get-together” or whatever the hell it was—in what I think was Strawberry Fields—and I barely had the energy to continue speaking. I kept envisioning her stripping naked before me, just like I did when I was in class and she was sitting nearby. If she wasn’t going to get naked, I just wanted her to go back to New Jersey and let me go to sleep. What a mistake it was to see her! I thought. I would’ve loved to stay in my fucking room all day, nestled under the covers, air conditioner blowing hard. I was so bored that I knew it would be my last time out of the house for a long, long time.