“A.J.,” she said, “I have something to tell you.” I didn’t say a word. I had predicted this moment long ago; I had no desire to interrupt fate as it unraveled itself before my eyes.
“A.J., I got drunk while I was Upstate with my cousin. Not the baby, but with my older cousin. I got drunk with him because I was depressed. My parents have been discussing divorce lately, and I made a stupid mistake. I thought that drinking would solve the problem, but it was still there the next morning, when I woke with a hangover. I’ll never drink again. I’m really, truly sorry.” As she said the word sorry, she started to cry.
Squinting my eyes, I saw beneath my lids every loser and scumbag that walked the halls of my school, every hood that danced the night away in the gym, every girl I’d ever dated, and, to top it all off, you, Mom, drinking like you used to, oblivious to the pain it caused others. Each lie ever told to me—each lie I ever told—became personified in one person: Maria. Even the word lie had a face, and two arms, and two dark little eyes. No, not arms. Tentacles. And as I extinguished my cigarette in a mug of water beside my bed, not just my body, but my entire soul, was engulfed by the lie. I didn’t know whether to cry or to throw up. Instead, I responded:
“You fucking bitch. You mother fucking bitch. Goddamn you, Maria. I’m never fucking going out with you again. I despise you. I despise everything you just said. You are a piece of shit.” And then I hung up on her, and vowed never to call her again.
I called her back immediately. And before she had a chance to say another word, I began the string of invectives once again. Unlike the first round of anger, I yelled. I didn’t even yell; I hollered. Cunt. Bitch. Asshole. Fuck. Slut. All of these words were part of my colorful repertoire. And she deserved each and every one. She’s just like everybody else, I thought. I knew it. She was going to destroy me.
My mouth contorted itself into a frightening upside-down U; it felt weighted down, and there would never be anything else I could do to change it. My heart stomped. I nearly choked on my tongue. Finally, after I completed my mantra of profanity, Maria spoke up for the first time in at least ten minutes or so.
“Please don’t break up with me!” she pleaded. “Please…” She broke down, wailing, like a mother at her little boy’s funeral.
“Fuck you, cunt,” I said, icily. I slammed the phone in its cradle.
I called her back.
“Why didn’t you call me back? Aren’t you sorry? What the fuck is wrong with you?” I didn’t let her answer. “How much did you drink? Did you enjoy it? Did your cousin drink, too? What’s his name, anyway? Did you get drunk? I mean, really drunk? Did you enjoy it? Are you happy with what you did? You fucked up this entire relationship—you know that, right? Why did you do it? Did you drink beer? What? Whaaaaaat!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? Answer my fucking questions, goddamn iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!” I was out of control.
“I drank rum—rum and Coke. And a few beers.”
“How much fucking beer and rum did you have, Maria?” Mah-ree-ah. I dragged her name out, as if it were the foulest curse in the English language. It was insulting just to recite it. That name, Maria, had meant so much to me just a few moments before she called. It had meant perfection. All I had. All I believed. I’d found my religion that summer—I believed in Maria. But, like a parishioner who discovers his priest is a child molester, I felt betrayed. My religion was a sham, my creed a hoax. Just as I was about to hang up on Maria for the third time, she interrupted her crying and, between sobs, said:
“A.J., you said that you would forgive me for anything, as long as I was honest!”
“I lied. Fuck you.” And I hung up on her again.
And just as I slammed the receiver down, and heard that familiar echo of a bell sing through my room, I realized again that Maria had failed to call me back after I hung up on her previously. How sorry could she be? I dialed her number again.
“Why the fuck didn’t you call me back? You fucking bitch!”
“Please, A.J.”—she was really losing it now—please, I was only kidding. I didn’t get drunk, I swear! I didn’t drink at all. I swear!” I could barely understand her, she was crying so much. “I swear on my father’s life!” The words life-life—echoed faintly in my mind. I grew silent. For a moment, I thought that it was all a bad dream. I was confused. I was disillusioned, weary, suspicious.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I demanded.
“I—I was making it all up. I just wanted to see how you’d react. I—I—I’m sorry, A.J. I was thinking about us a lot this week, and I’ve decided that I really do—trust you—I…” she just trailed off.
I fired at her like a machine gun: “What the hell is your problem? Are you telling me the truth? Is this a fucking joke?”
“No—I mean, yes—I’m… I didn’t drink.” She gulped her phlegm and panted briefly. “I just wanted to know what you thought about it.”
At that point, I was shaking. Each word heaved from my gut. “Do you—do you swear on our relationship that you didn’t drink Upstate? Do you?”
Silence.
“I swear, A.J.” She sniffled.
At that moment all of my hope returned. I wasn’t religious person, but I felt like my Jesus had resurrected.
Chapter 12
Mortal Sin
At the end of October, New York was still in the throws of an Indian Summer. The air was heavy, choking. Cicadas still sang one Saturday morning as I walked up the block to the deli.
I didn’t work very hard that fall, only one Saturday day a week. Some of it was cool, though. I could take anything I wanted and eat it right there. I loved that deli food. I loved finding a few minutes when the customer traffic slowed down, so I could sneak a hero sandwich in the stock room and engulf it. I’d pile provolone, salami, ham, bologna, turkey, roast beef, pickles, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, pickles, vinegar, olive oil—just about everything in the deli—on top of a big-ass hunk of fresh Semolina bread slathered with mayonnaise and mustard, sprinkled with salt and pepper and oregano. I must have eaten one of those things every Saturday during my senior year. And the moment I swallowed that last piece of hoagie each day, as I licked the vinegar and mayo off my fingertips, I walked out the back door smoke a butt. There’s nothing like a cigarette after a good meal.
One day during a cigarette break, Rick came by and asked me to hang out at his house some night the next week. He was going to have a party, he said, and his parents wouldn’t be home. Not only that, but there would be tons of beer and liquor and pizza and stuff. I begged him to ban all alcohol from his party, but he wouldn’t listen.
“You gotta do it,” I said, waving a leaf of romaine lettuce at him, “you gotta stop everyone from drinking. Drinking causes problems, dude.”
“I used to think that, too, L’Enfant, but trust me. I was with these guys this summer, and trust me, it so fucking fun.”
“I don’t know.”
“Trust me, L’Enfant.” I should’ve asked him why he was suddenly calling me ‘L’Enfant’; he never did before. It was almost like he was mocking me.