You’ve Got to Go

     I have my failings.  I remember one time in 1987 a friend and I were sitting on the floor, eating hot dogs, and watching football at his house.  This was a typical day for us.  We would go for a bike ride.  We would visit friends.  We would come back watch tv and eat hot dogs.

     This day his Dad came in after a hard afternoon working overtime, cracked a beer and sat down in his favorite chair behind us.  I wanted to share a little story my Dad told me about when he worked at a small company sweeping up before daybreak in the 60’s.

     He happened to work the night shift with a guy who used to play semipro football but got cut.  He would share stories with my Dad about the good times and the eventual bad.  He mentioned how he was cool with how things had worked out but my Dad could see that he was sad about not having gone fully pro.

     I tried to elaborate on this story and make it a funny anecdote.  “It’s so sad,” I started, “that some of these guys train and put in all their time to play pro ball on tv but are just one injury away from being some janitor.”  I was about to launch into my Dad’s story when I heard a deep sigh behind me.

     “Come on, man,” my friend said standing up.  “Follow me.”  I followed him up the stairs and to the kitchen where he held the door for me.

     “You’ve got to go.  That food you were eating, that tv you were watching, and the house you’re sitting in were paid for by some janitor.  Right now you aren’t worth the trash he picks up.”  I dropped my head in shame and quietly walked to my bike.  I have my failings.

     Sometimes I think I’m funny.  I remember sitting in Carmella’s place after a lazy Sunday in 1989.  The thought was have a quick dinner at the house then possibly catch a movie.  She was a beautiful Sicilian girl who was dating a friend of mine.  We were just catching up before she headed off to college.

     Her Grandfather, who had brought the family over from Sicily, and her Mom were both sitting in the room while we were finalizing plans for the evening.

     “So what are your plans for my granddaughter?” He asked with a thick Italian accent and a raised eyebrow.

     “Well she’s headed off to school in a few weeks so we figured we’d hang out one last time.  It’s not like we can go on a date or anything.  You guys are from Sicily.  That’s like a hard swim from Africa.  There’s a strong possibility we’re related.”  I felt the slick smile cut across my face.  Carmella hit me on the shoulder.

     He looked me dead in the eye for a solid 10 seconds.  He slowly stood up and walked around the corner to the home office.

     “Tania!”  He yelled.  Carmella’s Mom walked into the room and closed the door behind her.  She came out with a half smile on her face.

     “You’ve got to go,” she said rolling her eyes.

     “I figured as much,” I said laughing to myself.  “Give me a call before you leave, Ella.”  She hit me in the shoulder again.  Sometimes I think I’m funny.

     I am not the worst.  

     “Oh shit!” Rob said.  “I told her I’d pick her up by six.”  He was knee deep into setting up the sound system for a show that was supposed to go on later that night.

     “If you’re lucky,” I said looking over loose cables, the soundboard, and stacked up amps, “you’ll make the eight o’clock sound check.  There’s no way you can pick her up and get all this together before the show.”

     “Could you pick her up for me?  I’ll give her a call and let her know you’re on the way?”

     I had dropped him off at her house a few times and she lived across the street from a kid I used to jam with so I knew exactly how to get there.  I took her number just in case.  It was a thirty minute round trip.  Tops, I would be five minutes late getting to her house.  She would be pissed because he had broken another promise but she could see my beaming face.

     We found a pay phone in the lobby - it was 1991 - and I let her know I was on the way.  I gave the phone back to him and laughed as he tried to whisper I love you before he hung up.

      I pulled into the driveway and ran head down to the front door.  Her father answered.

     “Hello, sir,” I said with beaming gig energy.  “I’m here to pick up Dee.  Rob got wrapped up putting the sound system together so he asked me to pick her up.”

     “I’m afraid she’s not here.  Ahh, in the time since you called she got a ride.”

     “Oh cool!  I guess I’ll see her at the gig.”

     As I turned to walk away I could see Dee clear as day through the large plate glass window.  She was sitting on the couch with her head in her hands.  I felt a hot confusion roll over me.

     I drove across the street to my friends house to use the phone.

     “Hello, sir.” I said with a shaky voice.  “I was just there to pick up...”

     “She’s not here!”

     “But sir, I saw her sitting on the...”

     “I said she’s not here!!  And even if she were she wouldn’t be riding in a car with no fucking n*gg*r!  You’ve got to go.  Don’t bring your n*gg*r ass back on this property.”

     The words cut through my chest like hot steel.  I couldn’t breathe.  The rest of the night was a daze.  Later Dee and Rob apologized.  Apparently she forgot that her father was a card carrying racist.  There were so few ‘other’ people who live in the area that it just slipped her mind.

     Sometimes I think I’m funny.  I have my failings but I’m not the worst.

Plates

     I remember buying my first set of plates.  I had one little rinky-dink plate I always used for grilled chicken and steamed veggies.  I was working at a small department store in a former factory town.  Most people’s goal was to have their own apartment so they could do what they wanted and not be under the thumb of their parents.  I just wanted a nice plate set.

     At this point college and I decided it was best to see other people.  It would see students who would show up and do the work and I would go out in the real world and try to do the work that allowed me to live the life I wanted to lead.  Since the factory closed down I took on the only two jobs that would hire me locally - grocery store clerk and stock boy at the department store.

     These were transition jobs.  Most of the kids were either home for the summer or making the jump from college to the real world.  Since the factory had shut down small department stores, grocery stores, movie theaters, and restaurants were the only things keeping transition kids around.

     The real money jobs were an hour away in either Stamford or Hartford.  Hartford was all about insurance.  Stamford was the gateway to the financial corridor that led from Fairfield County to Manhattan.  The actors and musicians were headed to New York or Los Angeles to make their dreams come true.  Other people made the decision to go to Boston where you not only had a combination of insurance and finance, theater and music, you also had a strangely constant view of the Prudential building.  Everyone was struggling to get on their own two feet.  

     I just wanted plates.  In the summer of 1992 I found them.

     It took an entire summer to afford the set I had my eye on.  I knew from the moment I saw them that they were what I wanted.  They were non microwave, hand wash only, bone white with a silver ring fine china.  There were 4 dinner plates, 4 soup bowls,  4 bread plates, 4 coffee cups and four saucers for the coffee cups.

     In my mind having a set of plates also meant you had a place to put them.  You had friends over to break bread, share dinner, and serve coffee.

     After a long work week in Stamford or Hartford you would pull out the good plates and have a party.  When people came back to visit from New York, LA, or Boston you would laugh, cry, and lament over the experiences they shared while using the good plates.  Having plates meant you had a place for them.  Having a place for them meant that there was a place for you.

     The box they came in was so heavy with possibility.  I remember the first time I opened it to make sure no plates were broken.  I remember putting it in a safe place so when I finally moved into my own space this would be the first box I grabbed.

     For the next 22 years the box moved from one side of the pantry to the other.  The jobs got better but they weren’t quite good enough to let me lead the life I thought I was supposed to lead. Three times the box was almost given away as a either a wedding gift or a housewarming present.  Twice it was almost donated to charity and once it was almost thrown into a dumpster.

     The next time the box was opened was when I finally bought my first house.  I had settled on a quiet little area that was midway between Hartford and Stamford, and just a little bit closer to New York than Boston.  I remember loading the non microwave, hand wash only, bone white with a silver ring fine china into my cabinets.

     That night I celebrated by eating grilled chicken and steamed veggies on a rinky-dink plate.

The Sad Story of Marcus Rivers

     “I saw Walinda Rivers at town hall the other day,” my Mom said as I loaded groceries into her refrigerator.

     “Oh wow!” I replied, completely surprised.  After the incident with Marcus, the family couldn’t get out of town fast enough.

     “How she doing?”

     “She’s good,” Mom said exhaling deeply.  “She asked about you.  Wanted to know how you’re doing.”

     “What brings her to town?”

     “She said she was looking for old property records.”

     “How’s Marc?”  I asked wanting to get to the main question right away.

     “According to her he’s all right.  He’s living a quiet, simple life.  He has a good job.  Keeps to himself.”

     “Understandable,” I sighed. 

     Twenty years ago Marcus went on a date that would change his life forever.  When they had a “chance” meeting at the coffee shop on a Wednesday at 2:30 while he finished his usual coffee nothing seemed out of place.  Unbeknownst to him she had stalked him for about a month.  It was found during a subsequent investigation that she was involved in an abusive long term relationship fueled by infidelity and cocaine.  She would lash out at her long term partner by sleeping with other men she knew he found unacceptable and harbor that little secret.

     Their first and only date was a short hook up that ended in a gross miscalculation.  Her significant other came home sick from his night shift factory job to find that the focus of his abuse was out.

     When she returned home he attacked her again.  This time her boyfriend’s misogynistic, coke fueled rage was brought to an almost homicidal level when he realized she had slept with the man right next door.

     Her injuries were so severe that the next day she was taken to the hospital.  While her man stood over her with his hand intimidatingly on her shoulder they told the doctor that this wasn’t a domestic incident it was, according to him, the results of a nasty encounter with a neighbor.  

     Due to the nature of the assault the state police were called.  I, unfortunately, was there when the officer interviewed Marcus three days after the hook up.  The accusation of assault by a white woman was the manifestation of every black families fear. 

     Marcus had a few things working in his favor.  The first thing was a diligent investigator.  Rather than a jaded officer who just wanted to clear a file from his desk, the trooper wanted to get to the actual truth of the matter and look into both sides of the incident.

     The second thing was the history.  As the officer looked into both parties he followed the nuanced truth rather than the easy path.  His investigation found the aforementioned history of drug use and physical abuse.                   

     The couple’s history spanned five years and eight states.  They had lost two children to the department of children and family services.  There were a list of misdemeanor arrests for shoplifting and breach of peace.   

     Marcus had a history of promiscuity and ghosting on girlfriends.  The officer found that even though he had been a shitty boyfriend there was no history of violence or assault in his previous encounters.  Even some of the girls he had ghosted didn’t have anything horrible to say about him.

     The third thing was that the doctor, who had experience with domestic violence counseling, had the impression that the couple’s story was suspicious.  She listed off each of the signs she recognized that pointed to this as a domestic incident.

     The inquiry lasted just under a month.  Marcus was not charged but by the time his name was cleared in the incident he had changed.  The outgoing, friendly, well dressed person who was easy to laugh was replaced by a withdrawn, disheveled recluse.  

     We tried to stay in touch but it was a lost cause.  Walinda would always warn my brothers and I that this could happen to us.  She would tell us that we couldn’t get too comfortable in this area no matter how big the smiles or how firm the handshakes.  We had to stick together.  The rest of the borough was a different story.

     Any trust he and the family had in the town were shattered as “friends” stopped calling and a whisper campaign tried to undermine the vindication provided by the police probe.

     This continued until the couples pattern repeated itself five years later on a much larger scale.  The local newspaper did an exposition on the couples exploits of the past ten years.

     “People are trash,” Marcus would say on the rare occasions when you would see him out.  He had taken to hibernating away from the world.  His trust of people had been shattered.  He no longer trusted his judge of character.

     “Maybe I deserved this,” he would then say.  “Maybe I should have treated some of my exes better than I...” he would trail off, lost in reflection.

     And so was born the hibernation.  He would disappear for three to four months to rest and reset.  He would spend time purging his frustrations through exercise and meditation.  By the time spring started he would reappear, guarded but refreshed.

     “Did she say where they were living,” I asked already knowing the answer.

     “No.  She said it was good to see me but she couldn’t really talk.  She wanted to get in and out.”

     I finished loading the perishables and close the refrigerator.  “I’d love to hang out, Mom, but I think I’m headed out.”

     “Understandable,” she said as I gave her a kiss on the cheek.

      After being reminded about the incident with Marcus I just couldn’t get out of town fast enough.

Hurt

It would take all the fun out of it if it didn’t hurt
It wouldn’t make sense if it didn’t hurt
It wouldn’t be love if it didn’t hurt

Epilogue

     “What the hell happened to Connie?”  Linda asked.  We were digging through my dismal romantic history.

     “I told you.  She was in Argentina with her family.  I haven’t spoken to her in almost twenty years.  I heard she’s married with a couple of kids now.”

     The Yard had been closed for just over a decade.  It had gone through various owners and incarnations.  Now it was an abandoned store front just off the highway.

     Linda was back to visit her parents and check on her nieces.  Her bartending years were far behind her.  She had built a nice little life in one of the boroughs just a couple of stops off the island.  She and her current live-in love were taking a breather before making the next move.  

     She always calls when she’s in the state and I always answer.     

     “That’s it?”  

     “That’s all I know.  I wish I could give you the movie ending where I flew to Argentina, swept her off her feet, and everything was all right.  It just didn’t happen.

     “She said she wanted that night, her twenty-first birthday, to be perfect.  Who am I to ruin someone else’s dream?” 

     “Did you ever think she wanted you to fight for her?”

     “I gave her everything I was capable of a the time.  She had so much going on between work, school, her family, and her boyfriend that my lackadaisical attitude - though fun in the short term - would have bred resentment.”

     “Maybe it was the balance she needed,” she said stirring her tea.

     “I mean, in the beginning, there was balance but then the scale started to tip and life got in the way.” 

     “Life always gets in the way if you let it.”

     “We can say that now.  Do you remember being twenty-one, twenty-two?  Life flipped us around like rag dolls.  The only people I knew who seemed to have it together were Tony and Karen.”

     “Oh I heard about the divorce.”

     “Yeah, hindsight can be a bitch.  I mean, I overthink things all the time but strangely, I’m ok with how this ended.  We can’t go back anyway.”

     “But don’t you ever wonder?”

     “Every once in a while I’ll type her name into twit/face/insta/space but I try not to go down the rabbit hole.  Past hurts can be a bastard.  I wish her the best and I hope life is treating her well.

    “Blah, blah, blah.  Enough about me.  What’s going on in your world?”  I asked preparing to hear about her next move.

     The memory of Connie had been closed for just over a decade.  It had gone through various incarnations.  Now it was like an abandoned store front just off the highway.

True Story

     "Whatever happened with that girl that got your nose wide open? The one that you changed your life for?" He asked twirling what was left of his beer.

     "That's a good question," I said taking a deep breath.  "I was too late. The man I am right now, the man who owns a house, the man who showed he could hold a job for 10 years, the man who takes care of his mother, that man was too late. The man I am now is the man she needed 16 years ago. The problem is she's 16 years older. She has different needs."

     I made a motion to the bartender to let her know I was ready for my check.  

     "It hit me about a year ago that no matter how hard I tried I would not meet her needs.  She’s doing ok.  I mean, we talk every once in a while.  We exchange e-mails.  Her life has it’s challenges but it seems good."

     "Sorry about that, man," he said motioning for his check.

     "Nothing to be sorry about."  I crossed my arms and looked in the mirror behind the bar.  "I own a house.  I have a new job.  I take care of adult responsibilities.  Sometimes wanting and preparing for things is better than having them."

     "It's a shame you never got a chance to find out."

     "True story," I said twirling what was left of my beer.  "True story."