clarity. I was not aware I lacked clarity or that the events described here were unclear, but that is what I have been told by people who are supposed to know about such things.
I have also been informed that this is a very difficult time in one’s life and it’s not uncommon for folks my age to find themselves in similar situations. This brings me no comfort, and I feel it is important for me to state that for the record. Even if the record is a shitty little ninety-nine-cent notebook.
With this in mind, I would like to start at the most logical beginning. Although to be technical, dear sirs or madams, my birth would be the most formal or official beginning, and even further we could trace things back to my parents—how they met, their courtship and marriage, my conception . . . But I will spare you all those gory details and jump to the year when shit started to happen and people died and life as I knew it altered itself beyond recognition.
My parents split up a few days after the new year began so my dad hit the road in his shit-brown ’72 Chrysler Newport. He had three garbage bags of clothes in the trunk and not much else.
I would never see him again.
In June, the day after I finished my sophomore year of high school, we found out he was dead. Legend has it that he checked out in an LA freeway pile-up that may or may not have been his fault. The facts of the terrible accident were never completely explained to me but in my gut I know it was him.
He was a reckless man who always let his emotions get the best of him and denied himself nothing. Driving at speeds over 110 miles an hour chasing down someone who dared to cut him off. Fucking half the women in Jackson Heights. Blowing eight thousand dollars of the family fortune on a lock at Belmont. I vowed I would never be an unfaithful husband, infidelity being something that I find unforgivable and repulsive. I also swore that when I eventually drove a car I would be patient and calm behind the wheel. I have yet to learn to drive nor have I ever placed a bet.
There was no funeral but my mother insisted I go to church with her one Friday to say a prayer in his honor. I went with her but I refused to say the prayer. Not after all the shit he put my mother through. Not after the disgrace and indignity she suffered on his watch. She deserved much better.
From what I could gather through eavesdropping, my mother would not accept possession of his ashes, despite her still being his legal wife. My dad had cut off all ties with his sister years ago, and she was his only living immediate family besides me and Mom. But Aunt Yol, short for Yolanda, was a fall-down drunk and a professional whore who lived out of a car in Seattle or Portland or some Pacific Northwest territory and nobody was able to track her down.
I have no idea where his remains wound up nor do I care in the least.
two
I spent the first few weeks of that summer in my friend Willie’s attic watching him smoke pot while listening to Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. Please do not read anything into that title; it was my album but I assure you I did not wish my dad was here or anywhere. I was fine with wherever he was.
Willie was my best friend at the time. He was also a big fat fuck. Like really very fat. Slob fat.
To maintain his level of obesity, every night around nine or nine thirty we’d walk over to Christy’s on Northern Boulevard and eat cheeseburgers. Willie would sometimes eat two, but usually he would eat three. With double cheese, bacon, and fries. And one or two vanilla milkshakes. His record was four burgers, four orders of fries, and four milkshakes. This triumphant milestone of human achievement was reached on the fourth of July that same summer. Willie considered it an act of high patriotism.
Each time we went to Christy’s, I would hope that we would luck into the-waitress-with-the-long-red-hair’s station. I had a huge crush on her. One night, after we ordered our food I tried to strike up a conversation with her. I asked if she was just beginning her shift or if she was finishing up for the night. She didn’t really answer me, she just smiled and said, “Cute,” kind of under her breath.
I got hot and my face must have flushed red. I had given myself away; cards on the table. She knew how I felt now and I was glad.
This was a much bigger moment than it seems because it was so out of character for me. I was very, very shy around girls my age and downright petrified of older girls, even if they were only juniors or seniors at school. This was a whole other league: the-waitress-with-the-long-red-hair was in her mid-to-late twenties. She was a woman.
I don’t know where the courage came from. Maybe all the stuff with my dad had given birth to a fuck it kind of attitude in me. I’m not really sure.
When she walked away from the table Willie was staring at me with his fat mouth big and dumb and open. It looked like a baby’s mouth that had grown to premature adulthood through some sick, unholy scientific experiment. His tongue was wet and swollen. I assumed he was hungry and wondered if that’s how his tongue always looked on an empty stomach.
I had never told Willie that I liked her or thought she was hot. She had never come up in conversation and the times she waited on us in the past I stayed cool and composed. Willie stared at me and I noticed that even his eyelids were fat. He looked at me, gargantuan mouth all slack, then craned his neck to look at her. She was behind the counter calling out our order to the little cook with the big mustache. Willie turned the column of flesh beneath his head back at me.
A high-pitched “Ha” came out of his hippo mouth, only it wasn’t really a “Ha,” it was more like an “Ah.” Whatever it was, it was a laugh, specifically the kind of laugh you make when you want somebody to feel like an idiot.
“Don’t tell me you like her.”
I didn’t say anything in return.
“She’s hideous.” This from an acne-picking sixteen-year-old, wide as he was tall. He looked at her again, then at me, and repeated: “She’s hideous.”
It was those two words that made me hate Willie forever. It was also those same two words that made me realize what a moron I had been hanging out with and that I owed it to myself to seek out some friends who had a brain that at the very least functioned with a standard level of human intelligence.
The-waitress-with-the-long-red-hair was beautiful. There’s no doubt in my mind that she could have been in magazines or on television instead of filling the troughs of adolescent swine like Willie. She was a knockout; her appearance unique and unconventional. Tall with bold features, like the Greeks and Romans. A classical beauty. Special.
“Look at her eyes . . . she’s fucking bug-eyed. I think it’s a birth defect. Maybe even a thalidomide case . . . I’d check her for flippers.”
He finally closed his mouth. He looked like a cheap comedian waiting for the audience to laugh. I wanted to punch the shit-eating smile right off his face. Willie was so fucking stupid. She had incredible eyes. They were big and blue and round. And when she looked at you they grabbed you and held you and said so much. Even if it was just for a second.
I was quiet for a long time. I just sat there poking the ice in my Coke.
“She’s also like forty years old, Matt. She can change your diapers.” He shook his head and let out another high pitched “Ha” or “Ah” or whatever the fuck it was.
My ears felt very warm. They must have been bright red. I just kept peering down at my Coke, playing with the straw, pushing the ice around my glass.
“To
