Searching For Eldorado
By
E. P. Ned Burke
Searching For Eldorado
Copyright © 2010 E. P. Ned Burke
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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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ISBN 978-1-4524-0225-3
Published by E. P. Burke Publishing on Smashwords
CHAPTER 1
There is a certain time in your life when the intervention of fate or the choice of options dictates how your remaining days will ultimately play out.
For me, it was the year of 1959.
Since then, I have often tried to steer a different course. But the winds of destiny always blew me back to where they wanted me or, perhaps, where I’ve always been.
As I entered Pennsylvania from the south, driving northeast along Interstate 81, the events of that unforgettable year played over and over in my mind.
Forty-six years was a long time to cherish a memory.
Would her diary still be there?
The time capsule that held the final words of my first true love was buried beneath stone in the hills ahead. Until now, I didn’t have the courage to dig up the past. But I knew if I wanted to write a book about that year, I would need Cathy’s diary for inspiration.
The exit for Barryton appeared in my headlights.
It was too late to turn around and go back to Florida.
I had to go on. Fate had long ago predetermined this journey.
The miles ticked by, and slowly my mind returned to 1959.
I can still remember that May when I turned seventeen. I was a tall, lanky kid with too many freckles for someone entering manhood, and, being void of all self-esteem, I opted to impress my peers with wackiness in lieu of feats of intelligence, strength, or daring. I had discovered early on that girls liked guys with a sense of humor; so I used my one and only talent on the the opposite sex whenever I had the opportunity.
However, attending an all-boy preparatory school run by the Jesuits left me little chance to ply my chosen trade. The nearest females were the uniformed chaste girls of St. Martha’s, a Catholic school directly across the street from Barryton Preparatory. In desperation, on several occasions, I would scale the wire fence surrounding my eminent complex and make loud mating calls, hoping one of the giddy girls marching in somber procession from church to school would look my way. But the holy nuns had all the virgins in check, and when the pious “penguins” alerted Father “Tank” Clifford, the austere Prefect of Discipline, it was detention for me … once more.
“Killian!” Tank shouted. “Three days jug.”
That’s what it was called because the good Jesuits thought only a jughead would end up in detention. But I thought it was worth it if it gave my peers a laugh, and helped me to put another crack in the armor of the establishment. Back then I fancied myself as James Dean, a rebel without a cause; but, in reality, with my corduroy jacket and skinny tie and penny loafers, I was just another preppy nerd. But God, how I craved to go biking with Marlon Brando and his wild pals.
After I had served three years of solitary male confinement, I wanted out from that life of chastity and obedience. I craved freedom. And, more importantly, I needed someone to love. And for someone to love me.
That’s when this angel came into my life.
Her name was Cathy Thomas, a tall, lithe, long-legged lass with auburn hair and hazel eyes that seemed to say “Yes!” even when her puckered lips murmured “No, no way.” She was more coy than shy, and I reveled in the challenge to capture her heart, and, of course, her body. She went to Holy Mary High School on the west side of town, which was where I lived with my family; in fact, I attended Holy Mary’s grade school before being accepted at Barryton Prep, a prestigious institution situated smack-dab in the center of town. My older brother Edward graduated from Prep with high honors, four years before I started my freshman year. As for me, I gave up any hope of equaling his achievement by the end of my sophomore year when the grueling hours of study had ultimately turned my brain into mush.
Oh, I failed to mention that earlier that year, I also murdered my senile grandmother—a dastardly act that didn’t help my emotional state, I’m sure.
Well, the truth is, I didn’t put rat poison in her tea or push her down the steps; I merely wished her dead … and she died a week later.
Poor Grandma O’Connor. Mea culpa. Mea culpa.
In truth, Granny was a major embarrassment to me ever since I was twelve. I couldn’t invite any of my friends to stay at our house because I feared she would go into one of her screaming fits or, worse yet, take off her clothes and scream obscenities at the television set. She especially freaked out when Bishop Fulton Sheen appeared on the tube. She thought he was the Devil. In my imaginative young mind, however, I feared Granny was closer to Satan than the bishop.
The final humiliation came when two of my preppy classmates showed up unexpectedly one day, only to flee in horror when Granny appeared naked at the top of the stairway with fresh brown feces smeared down both legs and on her face—that’s when I prayed for her to die. And, for the first time, God granted me my wish. But Catholic guilt soon set in and I was never the same again.
Earlier, in my freshman year, I had studied hard and came close to honors a number of times, only to lose out because of a “personality conflict” I had with my gay English teacher, Father Rodney Francis.
Now, I might not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer as a kid but I did recognize someone who was a little light in the loafers. My first such encounter was with my Boy Scout troop’s foppish scoutmaster who liked to hang around the boys’ showers at camp and grin a lot. Then when I was eleven, we had a new family doctor who smelled of exotic colgne and always insisted on inspecting my genitals, even if I was there for a scalp wound.
Anyway, when Father Francis made ambiguous advances and I declined, he was quick to use his God-given power to bring me down to size with a mighty thrust of his erect grading pen.
Oh, yes, even then I was no stranger to the injustice in the world. All around me my undeserving pampered peers from prestigious families flaunted their wealth and blue-blood boorish breeding in my face.
Now, I admit we weren’t exactly poor. My father was a doctor, but he died in ‘56 of some rare disease. And my mother had a law degree, but she couldn’t work much since she had to take care of Granny. My brother was off to college and my little sister, Annie, was in grade school. My grandfather, who had died a year before my father, was the mayor of Barryton for a time and something of a legend in northeastern Pennsylvania. But, apparently, he wasn’t very rich because he didn’t leave us much except the big old house on Watson Street where we lived after my father became ill and Granny couldn’t take care of herself anymore.
Yes, I was aware of the financial hardship my mother made in sending me to such an elitist institute of learning. And I knew I owed it to her to stick it out as long as I could. But by the final semester of junior year my failing grades and comical antics became nothing more than a futile cry for help.
Luckily, that’s when I met Cathy.
As I recall we first met on a double date set up by my old grade school chum, Stanley Kuchar. He was dating Cathy’s best friend at the time, Margaret Mary Goosen. She insisted on being called Margaret, never Marge or Peggy. She was a bit of a prude, and plain looking. Good enough for Stanley. Well, to be honest, anyone would be good enough for that doughboy. I was surprised he got anybody of the female persuasion to go out with him. Neighborhood kids called him “Pigface.” He was a nice enough lad and, I guess, I had a soft spot for the underdog even back then, so we hung around together. When I went off to Barryton Prep, he stayed at Holy Mary. So, after that, we got together only a few times during the summer, or on rare weekends during the school year when I was able to finish my homework and my preppy buddies were not around.
Well, like I said, Stanley asked me to go with him on a double date. I was reluctant. Sitting in the back seat with another Mother Margaret wasn’t my idea of a good time. But Stanley assured me Cathy was “hot” and that I’d be dumb to pass up such a chance. Now it was true I had no love life to honestly brag about to my preppy brethren, but, still, it never stopped me from fabricating a good erotic tale or two for the hormonal enjoyment of my nerd friends. Finally I agreed. Partly because when I was with Stanley I had a better self-image. I mean, I could have been born a pigface too. I was pretty sure Margaret went out with him out of pity. Then again, I never quite understood the female species. It was hard for a sexually challenged adolescent male to grasp the complexities of their minds. For them, physical appearance was not always a deciding factor. Go figure.
Anyway, it was Friday night and I told my mother I had finished my homework at school. Actually, by that time, I didn’t give a squirrel’s nut if I ever graduated. I just yearned to experience sex, or cop a feel, or, at least, taste a girl’s tongue in my mouth again. Yeah, that happened to me when I was thirteen. We played spin-the-bottle and post office at birthday parties. Most were chaperoned, but in the early fifties some lax parents often left us to our own devices. They thought we were too young to even think about sex, let alone engage in it. So, with the lights low, we would explore this new frontier.
It was Angela Marino, a well-developed and advanced fourteen-year-old, who first penetrated my oral cavity with her tongue. It was quite an uplifting experience for me, and rather embarrassing when the lights came back on. The little tramp, however, seemed to relish in my discomfort. But I got even with her later that night when I ravished her young body … in my erotic dreams, of course.
In truth, I was a skinny teenage Don Quixote living in a fantasy world of windmills and what-ifs. I never came close to going all the way. In fact, I barely understood which way was the right way to go, or how to get there. It bothered me that even my mutant friend, Stanley, was probably getting more than me. The thought of him giving tongue to Margaret was even more than my creative mind could comprehend. So when he pulled up in his father’s Olds and I slid into the front seat beside him, I just had to smile.
“What’s with you?” he asked, with a dribble on his lip.
“Ah, nothin’.” I wiped away the grin. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Well, Cathy will be at Margaret’s house. We pick them up and go to a movie. Maybe a pizza later at Marino’s; then stop at Lookout Point, okay?”
“Sure,” I said, “if she’s decent.”
“Oh, she’s decent all right.” He raised his eyebrows for emphasis. “In fact, she’s too good for you. So, be cool.” He smiled. “You got money?”
“Enough for a movie and slice of pizza. No more, okay?”
“Don’t worry. I got an extra five from my dad. Can you believe it?”
“I can’t believe he trusts you with his wheels. You can’t see for shit.”
“I said I’d be home by ten. Besides, since I told him I want to be a truck mechanic just like him, he’s been my bosom buddy.”
“Truck mechanic? Come on. I thought you told me you wanted to be a teacher. You said you were going to Penn State.”
“I changed my mind.”
A sad smile crossed his face as he looked into the side mirror and pulled over to the curb in front of Margaret’s house. He forced a laugh. “Besides, like you always tell me, ‘a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,’ right?” We both laughed at my John Wayne philosophy and opened the doors for our dates.
Margaret had on a simple drab dress, brown shoes, and no makeup—much as I had expected. But right behind her towered a statuesque vision of beauty in a felt poodle skirt, decorated with sequins and poodle patches. Her auburn hair was tied back in a ponytail and her lips and cheeks had a crimson glow. A youthful exuberance surrounded her as she floated down the steps toward me.
I was awestruck and found myself blurting out, “Hep chick!”
Stanley snorted, but Margaret didn’t appreciate my wisecrack “It’s okay,” he said. “That means he digs her … er, he likes her, that’s all.”
Cathy blushed and got in the back seat with me. Despite my rude greeting, I could see she was flattered. I ran a hand through my flattop and started over.
“Sorry,” I said, “I wasn’t expecting someone so … ah, nice.”
“That’s okay,” she said.
She smiled at me, and when she did I thought my heart would leap from my chest. What a great smile! I didn’t want to scare her off, so I played it straight. “I’m Jerry Killian.”
She smiled. “Cathy Thomas.”
I melted. My mind raced out of control.
Okay, I told myself, don’t do anything stupid. Be polite. And above all, don’t stare at her boobs! If I get excited and she sees that bulge in my pants, it’s all over. She’ll think I’m some damn weird pervert.
“Hey, why so quiet back there?” Stanley’s reflection in the rearview mirror appeared worried.
“Ah, just thinking.” I looked into the mirror and smiled. “So what movie are we going to see?”
Cathy glanced at me and said, “I don’t care. Whatever they decide is okay with me.” Her voice was as sweet as a butterscotch sundae.
“How about that Jack Lemmon movie with Tony Curtis and Marilyn Monroe? That should be funny.” The words barely left my lips when my mind sent me an urgent message: Stupid! What am I thinking? My first date, and I take her to see Marilyn Monroe—the one, true love of my life, a woman who ignites my loins with a simple celluloid smile. Have I forgotten the excitement she aroused in me after seeing her in Niagara and The Seven Year Itch? “On second thought,” I quickly added, “maybe that Hitchcock film with Cary Grant would be better?”
“No,” Margaret said. “His movies are always too scary. I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. Besides, I really like Jack Lemmon. I think he’s sooo cute. Don’t you, Cathy?”
“I guess. I mean he was really funny in Mr. Roberts.”
“Okay,” Stanley said. “It’s settled. We’ll go see Some Like It Hot.”
Ah, crap! Why did Stanley have to announce the title? I know what it is, but I didn’t say it out loud. I don’t want Cathy to think that’s what I have on my mind.
Ah, hell, who am I kidding? That’s what I always have on my mind. I like it hot, lukewarm, cold … whatever. I don’t give a goddamn how I get it, just as long as I get it. Shit! I’m such a damn pervert.
“Do you like movies?”
I looked at her and smiled weakly. “Yes, it’s sort of a hobby of mine. I’m a big movie buff.”
She looked deep into my eyes. “No kidding. Me, too.” Then she tossed her ponytail to the side, blushed, and turned away. It was an awkward moment, but I felt triumphant.
She likes me! She really likes me!
CHAPTER 2
All in all, that first night went fairly well. I didn’t make a complete ass of myself, and I got her phone number. But it took me three days to get up the nerve to call her. At the first sign of rejection, I was prepared to abort the mission. But Cathy was gracious. She even sounded happy that I had called. I asked if she wanted to go to the Barryton Museum on Saturday. I said I needed to do some research for a class assignment. Of course it was a lie, but it sounded legitimate. Besides, if she declined, it wasn’t as if I was asking her out for a date, or anything like that. But to my surprise she accepted the invitation with girlish glee. She gave me her address and I said I’d be there around noon.
When the time came and I approached her house in my mother’s ‘52 Dodge, I began to panic. Driving an old Dodge to pick up a chick wasn’t cool. My antiperspirant was working overtime, but it was too late to chicken out.
Then I saw her—penny loafers, jeans rolled up, print blouse opened wide at the neck, and that ponytail bouncing as she hopped down the steps to greet me. All fear and trepidation left my body. She came closer and her smile warmed me. I basked in its glow. I swear I felt a burning sting behind my eyelids. I could have cried at that moment—the vision of her was that beautiful.
When she sat beside me on our way to the museum, I noticed she had a fresh scent. It wasn’t like my aunt Vera’s strong perfume. It was a wholesome odor, feminine, yet intoxicating. I wanted to get closer to her, to hold her, to smell her, to kiss her, to feel those soft lips on mine. The car radio was blaring the sounds of Dave “Baby” Cortez and his pulsating tune, The Happy Organ. I told myself that the last thing I needed was a reminder of how happy my own organ felt at that moment. Excitement started to build in my pants. I lowered the volume on the radio and turned my thoughts to other things.
“So,” I said, “I guess you’ll be finishing your junior year in a few weeks.” I wasn’t certain about my own prospects, however. Unless I aced my finals I was sure to spend an extra four weeks in summer school. Of course I didn’t tell Cathy that. Being crazy and funny was okay, but being dumb was … well, dumb.
“Un-huh,” she said softly. She looked uncomfortable.
We drove in silence for a few more blocks until I summoned the courage to ask if anything was wrong. But I didn’t really want to hear her answer. In my paranoid mind I knew what was wrong.
She probably saw my excitement and it disgusted her. Well, she shouldn’t have been looking at my crotch in the first place. I thought she was a nice girl, a virgin, a saint. Oh, hell, it’s all my fault. Why can’t I—
“I hope you won’t laugh at me.” Her words brought me back to my senses. “But Margaret … ” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. “Well, she said I should ask you. Of course you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’ll understand. But Margaret insisted, and I told her that I would … but you don’t have to, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, as if I knew what the hell she was talking about.
Then she gave me a pitiful smile and said, “Well, if you’re not doing anything next week, maybe you’d like to take … ah … go with me to my junior prom.”
“Sure,” I said without hesitation, trying desperately to control my relief and ecstatic joy. “I’d like that very much.”
Cathy smiled.
“I’d like it, too” she said.
I was in heaven! I reached for her hand on the car seat beside me and covered her soft, cool fingers with my damp palm.
I grinned and held on tight, but not too tight.
And we drove that way, hand-in-hand, all the way to the museum.
I kissed her for the first time behind the arachnid exhibit. Like a playful spider, I spun my web and ensnared her that fateful afternoon with only an aged museum guard witnessing the act. He smiled and turned away like the old lamplighter in the song who remembered what it was like to be young and in love.
Yes, I was in love. I couldn’t believe it myself; it happened so fast. But when our lips met there in that marbled room behind the display case, I knew it was the real thing. This was no longer a flirtatious fantasy to conquer the girl of my dreams and have sex with her. No, this was not lust; I truly loved her. I made up my mind to cherish her, to protect her, to place her high up on a pedestal for all to adore. What a wondrous and noble feeling! I was overjoyed that I was no longer the sneering pervert with sinful dreams that caused me to go to Confession on a daily basis in the hope of being exorcised of my sinful thoughts.
“Yes, Father, it’s been only three hours since my last Confession, and I’m still as horny as ever. Please help me, Father. Please!”
But now Cathy was my salvation. I told God I would treat her body like a temple, just as it says in the Bible. I promised Him I’d put away my evil desires and rise to a higher plateau.
Prom night, a week later, I fell from that high, pure plateau to the dirty gutter below. (Well, for a teenage pervert, seven days was a long time to remain chaste.)
Cathy wasn’t much help in my pious attempt. That night she looked more ravishing than ever in her low-cut evening gown. I couldn’t help staring at her chest. And when we danced a slow dance my body melted into hers like butter on a hot English muffin.
Needless to say, by the time the prom dance ended I was on fire. I couldn’t wait to get to Lookout Point, so I commenced our love session in Holy Mary’s school parking lot, just a few feet away from the convent where the good nuns were inside praying for lost souls just like me.
Luckily (or unluckily), we didn’t go all the way. It may not have been a religious experience, but I had to admit it felt heavenly, and I had a strong passionate urge to do it again … and as soon and as often as possible.
Being raised Catholic, however, meant I had to suffer for my evil thoughts and endure unbearable feelings of guilt. This is what the good nuns and pious priests had pounded into me. If it were not for guilt, the good church would have had a heck of a time keeping sinners like me in line. Yes, if it were not for guilt, I might have ended up a well-adjusted adult, with no paranoid need for salvation.
Sorry to say, blasphemous thoughts like this entered my mind often during that time in my life. In fact, earlier that year, I had debated Father Edgar, a young Jesuit teacher, about our so-called “free will.” I asked the pious one if it were true that we all had free will. He said we did. Then I asked him if God was all knowing, if He knew all things, past, present, and future, as the church says.
Father Edgar assured me God knew everything—that’s why He was God.
“So then how can we have free will?” I said. “I mean if He knows everything—past, present, and future—then He knows how I’m going to turn out from the very minute I’m born. So where’s my free will if He’s holding my strings? I can turn this way or that way, but in the end He knows darn well I’m going to hell, no matter what I do. Free will? I may believe I’m making choices, but my final destiny already has been chiseled in stone eons ago. On the other hand, maybe He doesn’t know all things. Maybe He does give us free rein here on earth just to see who is naughty and who is nice, sort of like a celestial, all-powerful Santa. When our final Christmas night comes, He checks his list and sends all the good little boys and girls to heaven to fetch their presents; the rest are kicked into the fiery depths of hell with a jolly ho-ho-ho. And God bless us, everyone.”
I told Father Edgar that we couldn’t have it both ways. If The Almighty was truly all knowing, then we didn’t have free will. If we did have free will, then He didn’t know everything. From there I went into the Bible. I argued that anyone who took this book literally had to have his headlights on dim. We’re told, in the beginning, there was Adam. Then Eve. A little later, they get kicked out of Paradise after listening to a satanic snake that gives them bad advice about apples. Surrounded by animals, they become modest and cover up, only to rip off their loincloths later and “beget” (a nice Bible word for scoring in the back seat) and out comes Cain, and then Abel. So we have four people on earth now, three males and one female. And because God likes Abel more, Cain gets pissed off at his brother and crushes his skull. That’s when God asks Cain, “Where is your brother Abel?” (So much for all knowing.) Cain shrugs and says, “I dunno. Am I my brudder’s keeper?” God flips out and kicks his butt to Nod, East of Eden (a great James Dean flick by the way) where, according to the Holy Book, Cain “knew his wife.”
So the question I asked Father Edgar was simple. “Where the heck did she come from?” It was questions like this that drove the Jesuits nuts. And I loved it!
Anyway, Cathy and I repented and vowed to remain pure after that necking episode. We began doing all the wholesome things good teens did in those days. We went to church together. We participated in friendly group activities. We went to chaperoned dances. We talked only about non-sexual matters, such as Latin and geometry. We stayed away from biology and other physical subjects. Yes, it was boring, but we both felt saintly during that short period of lustful abstinence.
However by the third week of that abnormal behavior, my loins were ready to explode. Thankfully, my junior prom was coming up the following week, so I took it for granted that would be the time to shed the guilt and get real.
My nightly dreams started imagining all sorts of erotic scenarios.
We would listen to Santo and Johnny doing Sleep Walk and she’d drift off into a dreamy hypnotic state. That’s when I would kiss her lips, and touch her smooth body, and undress her, and … and I was shaken awake at the deflating response she gave me when I finally did ask her to my prom.
CHAPTER 3
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered into the phone. “My grandfather died. I have to go to the funeral in Florida with my family. You understand, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I said, but not really understanding why she’d give up a great make out session with me to see an old dead fart so far away. And, immediately, I felt guilty about that. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll get to show you off to my preppy friends some other time.” That’s what hurt the most. I wanted to prove to those geeks that I had a great-looking chick. I’d planned to lead her in on my arm with a big smirk on my kisser. Later, all my horny classmates would drool and ask if I was gettin’ any. I would simply smile and raise my eyebrows. That would be enough to cement my manly reputation in their sick minds. But that moment was not to be. I was devastated. “I didn’t want to go to that dumb dance anyway,” I lied, and hurried to end the conversation. “I’ll call you when you get back, okay?”
That night I fell into a deep depression and went to bed early and tossed and turned for hours. Finally sleep came, and with it a dream. Of course it was an erotic dream; however it wasn’t about my beloved Cathy. This time I dreamt of Angela, a girl I hadn’t talked to since she tongued me when I was thirteen. But, in 1959, she was about to graduate and worked occasionally at her father’s restaurant. I had seen her once or twice there waiting on tables, wearing a small apron around her narrow waist. Angela had a habit of bending over tables provocatively so the guys could get a good look at her knockers. And there was this look about her that said, “I don’t have to do this shit if I don’t want to.” Such an attitude mesmerized me.
Angela was this mature eighteen-year-old woman; I was a seventeen-year-old nerd. The difference between a female her age and a male my age was light years apart in sexual awareness.
I knew I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell in getting her to go with me to my preppy junior prom. I mean she’d surely laugh in my face.
But the thought of it was so devilish, so outlandish, so purely erotic that I couldn’t get the idea out of my mind—the sinful older woman, and me. My pals would die with envy. The Jesuits would go into shock. It was such a fiendish plan, such an immoral idea, such a wickedly bad joke to play on all those bluenose prudes that I felt I just had to do it.
Friday night found me on the floor in Boomer’s basement draining my second Rolling Rock. For one reason or another, Boomer’s parents never seemed to be home on the weekends. So it was the perfect place to party. I liked Boomer because he never put on airs like the other prepsters at school and he never worried about anything, especially about getting caught in the basement boozing and smoking. The guy just didn’t give a shit. His real name was Richard Bowden. His father, George Bowden, had bought The Barryton Independent newspaper in 1957 from Eugene Casey, an old friend of my late grandfather.
Boomer enjoyed nothing better than a good prank that he called a “S.O.” Short for “shitting on” someone. And being rich, he had an endless supply of beer and cigarettes that garnered him many freeloading friends.
He hung around with a very rich wimp named Winny, whose real name was Wesley Winthrop III. Winny’s father, Wesley Winthrop II, owned the Hotel Penn and a lot of other real estate in downtown Barryton. Winny was a short, nearsighted nerd who loved to play Chess, act in school plays, and perform as a member of the all-male basketball cheerleading squad. The little guy had only one redeeming quality: he was hooked on Rolling Rock beer. So he was also there that night, and as usual he was sipping his beer through a plastic straw.
Boomer let out a loud burp and asked me, “So are you bringing that hot dish of yours to the prom?” I didn’t answer right away, so he followed up with, “Ah, I think you’re full of shit, Killjoy.” He liked calling me Killjoy not because I spoiled his fun (though I did on occasion) but because in his eyes I was a lady killer.
“Well,” I said, “it’s like this: my sweet Cathy has to go to Florida to see her grandfather.”
“What a crock! I betcha he’s not even alive.”
“How did you know?” I said. “He just died last week.”
Laughter exploded from Boomer and Winny choked and coughed until beer came out of his nose and I started laughing myself.
For some reason, we all found the old guy’s demise quite amusing and rolled around on the concrete floor until our sides hurt. Boomer and I got an even bigger laugh when we saw that Winny had taken off his glasses and was wiping the beer and snot from his face with one of his monogrammed handkerchiefs.
“Winny, you’re a friggin’ mess,” Boomer said. “Don’t you know you shouldn’t snort Rolling Rock up your nose?” Then he extracted another bottle and opened it with the church key he had on a chain around his neck. He always wore his good luck bottle opener whenever we started on one of our drinking bouts. He had a ritual before he opened the first bottle. He would kiss the rounded head of the church key and say, “May ye open a thousand happy memories and quench the thirst of one.” Sometimes Boomer had a way with words. He was three inches shorter than my gaunt six-foot-two height. So, unlike me, he appeared normal. And with his crew cut and solid build, he looked more like a jock than a prepster.
The only small dent in his carefree, confident armor was his inability to talk to girls. They scared the hell out of him. I on the other hand, despite my nagging doubts about my masculinity, had no trouble talking to girls. They fascinated me. I could listen to them talk for hours. So I think Boomer enjoyed having me around to break the ice for him, or to listen to my “amazing adventures” with the female species. He’d often say, “You’re full of shit, Killjoy,” but still he never tired of listening to my latest female fantasy conquest.
He wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand and said to me, “So what the hell are you going to do, Killjoy?”
If I weren’t under the influence of my third Rolling Rock, I wouldn’t have said anything about Angela. But I was. And I did. So before I knew it I had told them about my erotic dream and about my sinister plan to invite her to the prom.
“What a great friggin’ S.O. that would be!” Boomer said. “I can just see Keys’s jaw drop. He’ll come in his pants.” He paused and drained the remains of his third bottle. “So call her right now, Killjoy.”
I tried to put him off, but he was adamant. He dragged me upstairs and thrust a phone into my hand. He read me the phone number of Marino’s Restaurant and when I didn’t dial right away, he dialed the number and asked for Angela.
“Here,” he said, “they went to get her.”
I kept repeating, “a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do” and finally I got the courage to say, “Angela? This is Jerry Killian.” Much to my surprise, she remembered me from our spin-the-bottle days. She didn’t mention giving me tongue, so I didn’t bring it up. I jabbered on until I felt clearheaded enough to ask her in an offhanded way if she might want to go to the junior prom with me.
“Sure, why not,” she said. She didn’t say she would have to first check with her parents for permission like most girls had to do back then.
Hell, Angela Marino didn’t need to get anybody’s stinkin’ permission. She was a real woman for christsake. She did whatever the hell she wanted to do.
“So you wanna use my car?” She cracked a wad of gum into the mouthpiece. ”We can use my new Ford Fairlane convertible. I got it for my birthday.”
I knew her father—“Big Tony”— could afford anything because he was mixed up with the Mafia. (Well, that’s what my mother and my aunts had told me about practically anybody who was Italian.)
I gave Boomer and Winny a big wink.
“Okay,” I said. “And you don’t need to wear a silly prom dress; you can wear anything you want. Something real sexy is okay with me.”
My pals collapsed onto the floor, holding their crotches and moaning. I started to laugh and told Angela I had to go, and quickly hung up. Boomer shook my hand and said I was “the king” of the S.O. artists. Then he and Winny escorted me back to the basement where we finished off the remaining beer with me sitting royally on an upside-down garbage can holding a mop in one hand and wearing an empty bucket over my head as my two loyal subjects bowed and praised the almighty S.O. god they had just created.
Unfortunately, the next morning this particular god felt like the devil. My head throbbed and my tongue tasted as if it needed a shave. Thankfully it was Saturday and I could sleep in. I was right in the middle of a nightmare in which Cathy caught me in bed with Angela and hurled a basket of tarantulas onto my naked body when I heard my mother’s voice calling from the next room.
“Jerry, what’s the matter?”
I threw off the covers and was relieved to discover no spiders, only my usual morning excitement. “Just a nightmare, Mom.”
“Well, get out of bed. I want you to go pick up Pat.”
“Oh, man.” I pulled the covers over my head. The thought of having to listen to the condescending tone of my aunt Pat, the new Mother Superior at Holy Mary’s, was too much for a young hangover rebel to endure.
“Rise and shine,” came my mother’s call again. “And don’t forget to wish your aunt Pat a happy birthday when you see her.”
My mother was a morning person, getting up at the crack of dawn and reading her law books until it was time to do her daily chores. I never understood why she kept studying after she had passed her bar exam. I guessed she wanted to be something other than a common lawyer. Yes, Rita Marie Killian had ambition all right—something I had lost somewhere in my sophomore year.
After more prodding, I dragged myself out of bed, took a cold shower, dressed, drank a half glass of milk, and drove to Holy Mary’s convent.
The inside of that sanctimonious abode gave me the creeps—dark wood, dim lighting, and the smell of scented candles everywhere. It literally turned my stomach. I sat on a hard bench facing a large crucifix. The eyes of the figure on the cross bored into my soul. I swear He shook his head as if He was saying to me, “What a hopeless sinner you are, my son. Repent, before it is too late.”
I held my throbbing head in my hands and vowed to live a better life. But when Aunt Pat spoke to me, the pious thoughts dissolved.
“Waiting long, Jerome?”
She knew I hated that name. What a dorky appellation to give a kid anyway. Why couldn’t my parents have given my brother that name? Hell, it was obvious they liked him better from the start.
I picked up her little black bag and walked her to Mom’s Dodge. “No, not long,” I mumbled back. I never did know what a nun carried in one of those things. Extra rosary beads and crucifixes, no doubt. We drove away and I thanked God she didn’t talk much during the ride. She didn’t have to; I knew what she was thinking. She was there the day I pleaded with God to strike her senile mother dead. She knew my evil body was possessed by Satan. Nuns were good at that sort of thing.
In my presence, she always fidgeted with the cross she had around her neck. I wondered what would happen if I bared my upper teeth and gave her an evil grin and then leaped toward her.
Most likely, she would brand that cross into my forehead and then my body would explode into dust. So I fought the urge to show her my dark side and just smiled sweetly and said, “Happy birthday, Aunt Pat.”
“Well, thank you, Jerome.”
My satanic mind clicked. Hmm, there’s that Jerome again. Well, don’t push your luck, Auntie … unless you want to make this your LAST birthday! I chuckled inside my satanic head with dastardly thoughts until I reached Watson Street where my saintly mother rescued her sister from my evil powers.
“Come on in, Pat,” Mom said to her. “I’ve baked a birthday cake for you.”
CHAPTER 4
We sat around the dining room table and sang Happy Birthday and ate cake and ice cream like the corny TV Cleaver family on Leave It To Beaver. Mom sat at one end of the table, Aunt Pat at the other, and the sides were filled with Aunt Vera and Uncle Don, Aunt Eileen, my little sister, Annie, and me.
Mr. Casey dropped by later for drinks and everyone talked about the old days and, mostly, about my grandfather, Dada. That was the only interesting part of the day. I never tired of those stories. He died when I was thirteen, and I hated to admit it but I missed him more than my own father who died the following year. I guess it was because I spent more time with Dada. We would just hang out, never doing much or saying much, just enjoying each other’s company.
He showed me how to build a birdhouse, how to catch night crawlers, and how to hook them securely on a fishing hook—you know, real important stuff like that. He never made me feel worthless if I didn’t do something right the first time. He told me failure builds character.
I figured he must have failed a lot because he had tons of character.
“Your grandfather was quite a guy.” Mr. Casey had had a few drinks and was feeling melancholy. At sixty-seven, he was ancient to me. He had his arm on my shoulder as I walked him to his car. “Dada was the best damn mayor this town ever had. He had integrity.” He turned and looked at the old house. “See that craftsmanship?” He pointed to the gingerbread trim along the roof of the house. “That’s something you don’t see today. Yep, your grandfather had pride in his work.” He slumped behind the wheel of his Buick and pointed a shaky finger in my face. “Now don’t you ever forget him.”
Mr. Casey was an old friend of the family and I usually enjoyed listening to his stories, but that day I didn’t need to hear someone else telling me what I should do. Besides I couldn’t forget Grandfather O’Connor, even if I wanted to. He was a legend in my time. People still talked about “The Hero of Barryton,” the man who saved the lives of four miners by his sheer physical strength. It was in all the papers how he held back a ton of coal with his powerful arms until the men escaped, and how he got buried alive and ended up in a wheelchair. But he was a tough old bird and soon he was back on his feet and in 1934 he ran for mayor and won. All it meant to me in 1959 was that in addition to having to equal my brother’s academic brilliance I also had to live up to the reputation of my noble grandfather, the hero of the entire friggin’ town.
All that day I was a textbook manic-depressive, going from high excitement to the lowest despair. The excitement was due to Angela, and the despair was because of my deep guilt over Cathy. All of a sudden I had two women in my life, where before I had only wishes and dreams. On the one hand there was my sweet Cathy who I loved and adored; on the other hand there was Angela—the older woman with red hair and a magnificent chest. She was every young boy’s wet dream come true. She personified lust and sex; Cathy was everything pure and good, not that she wouldn’t have been good in bed too. I was certain she’d be more than adequate. It would just take a little longer to find out than with Angela.
I had to be patient.
Unfortunately, patience was not one of my strong points.
Nevertheless, I made up my mind to do the right thing, to stay chaste for my beloved Cathy. I’d tell Angela I was drunk; I didn’t know what I was saying when I asked her to the prom. She would understand. But would Big Tony understand? He was Italian, and he didn’t like anybody who made his daughter angry.
My mind imagined Big Tony saying, “I’ll stick dis knife in ya and let ya bleed like a friggin’ stuffed pig, you filthy swine!”
Well, maybe her father wouldn’t use a knife on me. He’d just stick my head in the pizza oven and cook it at 800 degrees for twenty minutes, or maybe he’d size me up with a pair of cement booties and drop me in the Susquehanna River.
My Irish aunts said Italians did that all the time. Needless to say when I arrived at Marino’s I was an emotional wreck.
“So you’re the one.” That’s how Big Tony greeted me when I went in and asked for Angela. He shoved me into a booth and sat in the red vinyl seat across from me. “Relax. She should be back soon. Went to buy a new dress.” One of his meaty hands grabbed the ketchup bottle sitting on the table. He turned his thick neck and yelled, “Hey, Maria! How many times I gotta tell ya to keep these bottles filled, huh?”
A stringy-haired waitress lumbered by and snatched the bottle from his hand.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “You don’t have to holler.”
“Dumb broad,” Big Tony mumbled. He looked back at me. “So you’re takin’ my Angela to the prom, huh?” Before I could answer, he added, “That’s nice.” He eyed me up and down as if I were a racehorse he was about to purchase. I was sure he was going to reach over and check the condition of my teeth any minute.
“You go to that fancy prep school, right?” His big head went up and down. “Good school. Heard good tings aboudit.”
Another awkward eternity clicked by. I flipped through the record selections on the jukebox, played with the salt and pepper shakers, tapped my fingers on the chrome table top, then turned and looked longingly at the front door, praying to God that Angela would arrive soon.
“Hey, ya wanna pizza? It’s on me. Whadda ya say?”
I shook my head. “Ah … no thanks, Mister Marino.”
He smiled, tweaked my cheek, and lightly slapped the side of my face. “Ya got manners. I like dat.” He leaned back. “But call me Tony. Hell, you’re practically family now.” He coughed up a laugh that came from his thick chest.
The side of my face twitched. I forced a smile. Aunt Pat’s birthday cake was moving up my esophagus. I swallowed it back down. Then, mercifully, the door opened and Angela appeared.
She had on tight jeans that formed a perfect “V” at her crotch. The jeans were rolled up just above her pink socks and penny loafers.
“Hey, Angela, over here!” Big Tony was yelling again. It seemed he was always yelling. He slid out of the booth and Angela took his place opposite me.
“Okay, you two talk nice.” He barely got the words out when he turned and glared at Maria sitting on a stool by the counter. “Hey! Whadda you? A customer now? Get in the friggin’ kitchen and help Louie with the lasagna.” He followed her through the swinging door, shaking his head. “Dumb broad.”
Angela was studying me. “You don’t look the same. What the hell, didja shoot up six inches?”
“About five since eighth grade.”
A little smile crossed her face. “Yeah, I gained some inches too.” She leaned over pretending to flick away a crumb so I could get a good look at her cleavage. She was wearing one of those tight, fuzzy V-neck sweaters. “Notice?”
My eyes strained to look away from the two milky mounds of flesh, but it was like her tits had hypnotized my eyeballs. “Yeah,” I said, tasting my lips with my tongue.
She leaned back in her seat. “You know,” she said, “you’re sorta cute … in an Ichabod Crane kinda way.”
“Thanks for that decapitation.”
She laughed. “I get it. The headless horseman.” She took a Marlboro from her purse and pushed a pack of matches at me. “Light me,” she said.
My hand shook as I struck the match three times before it lit. I placed the flame to the tip of her cigarette. Her hand rested gently on mine.
What a woman! Smoking in public, and with her father only a few feet away. I still didn’t have the balls to smoke in front of my mom. I even had to hide my pack of cigs in an old sock and put it way back in my dresser drawer.
“So what are ya doin’ here?” she said.
Okay, this is the moment. I’ll just say I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying when I asked her to the prom. “Ah, it’s like this …” My mind went completely blank. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her tits.
“Well?”
“Okay, okay. Ah, the other night I had a few beers and—”
“Hey, Angie baby! How’s my girl today?” A leather-jacketed wiseguy, perhaps nineteen, interrupted my speech and squeezed into the booth beside Angela. He tossed his arm around his “Angie baby” and pulled her against him.
She grabbed his arm and flung it back in his face. “Arty, I toldja a million times that I’m not your girl.”
Another leathery lad, slightly taller with a severe acne condition, rested his black boot on my seat. “Hey, Angela, who’s the square?” The one with the crater face made the outline of a square with his hands and pointed a dirty thumb at me.
“If ya must know, Killer,” Angela told him, “this is Jerry Killian, and he’s taking me to his junior prom … at Barryton Prep, no less.”
“Oh, yeah?” Arty glared at me and his thin eyebrows came together.
“Yeah!” Angela pushed him out of the booth. “Now if ya don’t mind, we want a little privacy here.”
Big Tony stuck his head out from behind the swinging door. “Hey!” he said. “You punks causin’ trouble?” He took a step. “They botherin’ you, Angela?”
Arty and Killer turned. “No trouble,” Arty said. “Just gonna play some pinball.” He shot me a threatening look. “I’ll see you later, preppy boy.” He grabbed Killer by the collar and they stumbled to the back of the restaurant where two pinball machines sat next to the men’s room door.
My mind raced frantically. I needed to escape. “Ah, listen,” I said to Angela, “maybe we shouldn’t go to the prom together. I mean … if you and Arty … I mean I wouldn’t want to break anything up.”
“Me and Arty?” Angela laughed. “In his dreams maybe.” She took a drag from her Marlboro and blew smoke in my face. “Hey, I just bought a new dress for this shindig of yours. So you better not be tryin’ to weasel out on me.”
I assured her I had no intention of doing that, even though “weaseling out” was the only thought I did have at the time.
“Hey, Angela!” Arty called out. “How about some change here? We’re outta nickels.”
“Hey!” Angela yelled back, “Does it look like I’m on duty? Go ask Maria, and stop botherin’ us.” She grabbed my arm and then turned and smiled devilishly at Arty.
Arty bit his lip and slammed his hand down hard on the glass top of the pinball machine. “Sonuvabitch!”
Big Tony roared out from behind the swinging door, looked the situation over, and figured it out quickly. “Okay, dat’s it! You two punks—get the hell outta here. And I mean now!”
Black leather was no match for an angry Italian with a knife, so Arty and Killer headed for the door.
However, before he left, Arty whispered to me, “You take my Angela to that prom and you’re a dead man, preppy boy.” His breath was rotten and caused my stomach to turn over.
Big Tony slammed the door behind them. “Angela,” he barked, “how many times I tell ya to stay away from creeps like dat, huh? Find someone nice … like the kid dere.” He showed me his stained teeth. “Now you two go to dat dance and have a good time.” He ran the big knife across the front of his dirty apron and then waved the point of the blade in my face. “Ya hear?”
That’s when Aunt Pat’s birthday cake bubbled to the surface.
CHAPTER 5
Later that night I was three sheets to the wind sprawled on the floor in Boomer’s basement. This time, in addition to Boomer, Winny and me, other preppies—namely Mooch, Froggy, and Ace—were also in attendance.
“Where did your parents go this time, Boomer?” Mooch asked.
“Some damn newspaper conference in Binghamton. They won’t be back until late. So partake of the bubbly and the butts and enjoy, my friends.” Boomer raised his chained church key to another Rolling Rock and tossed the top into a nearby trash can. He looked around, half blind from the thick smoke in the basement, and cursed, “Okay, who’s the dickhead who stole my cigs?”
“Ace has them,” I said.
“You got my Winstons?” he asked Ace.
“Friggin’ A!” Ace was big and strong like an oak tree, but not quite as articulate. If you asked him if he ever got laid, he’d say, “Friggin’ A.” If you asked him if he was a moron, he’d say without hesitation, “Friggin’ A.” And, even if you asked him if his name was really Alfonso Ashbrunner, he’d still say, “Friggin’ A.”
Froggy, on the other hand, had a vast array of words at his disposal. The problem was he said them so fast that at times they would pile up on one another.
“The smoke inhereiskillin’me, you guys.” He got his name because of his bulgy eyes and the thick glasses he wore. We didn’t think he took it as an insult. He had mirrors in his home; so he must have known he looked like an amphibian. Besides, if he wanted, he could change his name back to Francis Malcolm Burkowski after high school. It was his choice. But we all felt he’d be smart to stick with Froggy.
Well, Boomer couldn’t wait to tell the guys about Angela. “Guess who Killjoy is taking to the prom?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “None other than Angela Marino.”
“You mean the big titty waitress at that pizza place?” Mooch asked.
“That’s correct,” I said.
“Friggin’ A.” Ace was definitely impressed.
Mooch, always the derisive one, asked me, “Why on earth does she want to go with you?”
I rolled the bottle of beer between my hands waiting for the oohs to die down before unleashing my comebacker at him.
“Size, my friend. She obviously heard I was hung like Godzilla.”
The laughter soon turned into a beer fizz fight as bottles were shaken and beer foam was sprayed all over me. Man! That was one glorious, one-upmanship moment, spoiled only by Winny’s quiet demeanor. He was sitting in the corner sucking on his straw and looking glum. I said, “Hey, Winny, what’s with you?”
He pulled his short legs up to his chin. “Ah, nothin’.”
Boomer reached down and messed up his greasy hair. “Come on, you little nimrod, out with it.”
“Stop that!” He looked like he was going to cry. Too much beer did that to Winny sometimes. He played with his shoelaces for awhile and finally said, “I’m not goin’ to the stinkin’ prom.”
“Why not?” I said.
“Because I can’t find anybody to go with me, okay? Now are you all happy?” He put his head between his legs and sobbed.