they could look up to. I never achieved a greatness they could admire.”
“I guess it all depends on how you define greatness. My dad drove a taco truck and we all looked up to him. He took care of us. He kept us safe.”
Maybe it was as simple as that. Perhaps all the bullshit he had been fed about modeling success for one’s children was just that. Bullshit.
“Sounds like you’ve been pretty sad most of your life,” Maricela concludes.
“I have been,” Overman concurs. “I guess happiness just doesn’t agree with me.”
“I think you’re way too down on yourself.”
“My mantra is ‘Low Expectations.’”
Maricela lets out an irresistible belly laugh.
“I’m serious,” Overman insists. “That’s why I was so shocked when you came over and talked to me. I mean every guy in that place wants to—”
“No one in that dealership will ever come within striking distance, I guarantee you that.”
Overman is impressed. She’s smart and discriminating.
“I guess that’s not totally true,” she corrects herself.
“Cantalupo?” Overman blurts out, immediately regretting it.
“Fuck no. Are you kidding me?”
“Of course I was kidding,” his laugh transparently fake.
Maricela clarifies. “What I meant was that right now you’re next to me on this sofa which makes you technically within, you know, striking distance.”
She giggles, throwing her head back in that adorable way. Overman laughs really loudly now, thinking he must sound like one of those cartoon hyenas. Regardless, he has to let her know he gets the joke.
For a split second he wonders if maybe it isn’t a joke. Then Maricela grabs him with both hands and draws him into a ferocious kiss. Stunned by the unexpected outburst of passion, Overman breaks for a quick breath and a reality check.
“What about Rodrigo?”
“Fuck Rodrigo,” she cries out, starting to unbutton Overman’s shirt.
“What if he comes back?”
“He won’t.”
“How do we know that?”
“Your luck’s changing. Remember?”
The girl had a point. Overman feels his pants being unzipped.
He starts to kiss her perfectly sculpted neck, lingering on its smoothness as he gently lifts the tank top. Discovering she is bra-less, his manhood springs to attention, much as it did in the hopeful days of youth, long before the decades of rejection. He cups his hands over Maricela’s small, firm breasts, suddenly feeling something cold. He looks down to find himself staring at two gold nipple rings.
“Do they freak you out?” Maricela asks.
“No. I just don’t want to hurt you,” he responds, his first opportunity to say something gentlemanly in as long as he could remember. And never in his life did he imagine “gentlemanly” and “nipple rings” being part of the same thought process.
“The only thing you could do to hurt me is leave before you make love to me.”
Overman’s not going anywhere. He pulls down her jeans, revealing a lacy, pink thong that perfectly bisects the treasured orbs that the rest of the sales force has only dreamt about and blasted off to while having intercourse with their wives. And here was Overman, the treasure in front of his face. He begins by kissing the multi-colored butterfly tramp stamp, slowly moving his tongue down under the thong and all over her ass. He is so hard he feels like he is going to explode. Unable to wait another second, he pulls down the panty and dives in. As Overman furiously laps up her sweetness, he imagines himself a spectator, watching the event as it unfolds. Overman the spectator can’t help but wonder why the beautiful young Maricela is giving her body to Overman the sorry, middle-aged lump. One hears all the time about younger women with older men, but in most cases, the man is either wealthy or good looking, rarely wears Elevator shoes and at very least, possesses some redeeming qualities. Overman can’t think of anything in his character that that would entitle him to the joy of entering this gorgeous creature from behind. But that doesn’t take away from the joy. Not for one minute. Filling her with his hardness, he will never forget this moment, witnessing the deepest, most soulful moan he has ever heard.
It is the final thaw of spring, the common lawns of the Queens apartment buildings morphing into one immense playground. The pent-up youthful energy stored over the particularly cold winter of 1958 explodes onto 71st Crescent, the Fresh Meadows cul-de-sac that Ira Overman calls home. Here he is king of the world, an entity in its prime. It is only later in life that he comprehends the poignancy of reaching one’s prime at five years old. At this moment he is completely absorbed in the wonder of his universe: a place where friends appear instantly from across the hall, where trucks arrive each day delivering milk, selling ice cream, even hawking carnival rides. There was no greater pleasure for young Overman than the ride truck pulling in to the crescent. Most people had to go to fairs or amusement parks to get this kind of dizziness induced, but Overman got it brought to his doorstep. For a nickel, he could get a nauseating spin on the tilt-a-whirl and be up in his room five minutes later.
They lived in a small two-bedroom apartment but Overman had everything he needed. He got to spend quality time glued to the wood black and white console, spellbound by the venerated Mickey Mouse Club. For some reason there was no Mouseketeer named Ira, giving the boy his first inkling that he might be different from the Donnies, Bobbies and Richies of the world. But by and large, he felt a kinship with the happy, big-eared gentiles who sang and danced their way through each episode. At the end of every show came the highlight: the commercial for the Mecca to which he was determined to one day make his pilgrimage, the hallowed ground of Disneyland. Tomorrowland and Tinkerbell and spinning teacups. If such a place indeed existed then the world offered limitless possibilities. After turning off the TV set, Ira always felt whole, imbued with Mouseketeer spirit and a renewed sense of purpose. To his young mind, this was a life in full.
How did this pleasant, ordinary beginning take its plunge toward mediocrity? Overman perseverated on this question throughout his fifty-five years. Most likely, the fall had been set in motion by Irma’s second pregnancy, followed in quick succession by the announcement that Saul had put down a deposit on what was to be their own single-family home. Ira would never forget that morning. The excitement in the apartment was electric, both parents regaling him with images of the earthly paradise the family would soon inhabit. Irma and Saul described a mystical, utopian subdivision on the North Shore of Long Island, filled with parks and shopping centers, speaking of it in the celestial terms Ira reserved for Disneyland. Their enthusiasm was infectious, convincing Ira that Long Island would be a glorious way station between Queens and Anaheim, the homeland where he would ultimately settle amongst the Mouseketeers.
The incredible journey takes place on a crisp March Saturday morning. An exuberant Ira is about to dash outside and twist his body around the monkey bars when Saul and pregnant Irma inform him that they are going to pile in the Plymouth and drive out to see the new house. The boy’s
