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 as two teenagers 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, 1992, 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, A.J. 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 journaclass="underline"
“I love Maria. Need I say more?”
I’m glad I was alone, because I was speechless. I never felt so speechless again until today when I was in Central Park with Megan.
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. And now once again 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.
But for a brief time after I met Maria, I could be pretetty witty and gregarious. 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. With Maria, instead of talking about what I was into, I tried to discuss what I think she was interested in. But I was never interested in the same things that others were. 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 off 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 videotaping 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 cursed and yelled. 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” to no one in particular, 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 69th Street, 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, a few blocks away. It didn’t pay much, but the hours were good—four to eight each weekday afternoon except Fridays, and all day ever other weekend. It was nice to have Fridayss off, because the beach wouldn’t be too crowded. I couldn’t wait to get back to Rockaway.
So the first Friday I had off I went to the beach and brought Maria with me. We piled into my car on a scorching July day. I’ll never forget the date: July 31, 1992. 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 on the bridge over Jamaica Bay with a beautiful girl at your side.