"now our
luck may have died and
our love may be cold
but
with you forever I’ll stay
we’re goin’ out where the sands
turn into gold
put on your stockings baby
‘cause the night’s getting’ cold..."
Bruce Springsteen, "Atlantic City", Nebraska
It’s the middle of October and the world’s turned upside down; outside, here in upstate New York, there’s thunder and lightning and humidity and pouring rain. Inside there’s three sleeping children and a sleeping wife, a sleeping wife who, a week from today, will undergo surgery to remove a tumor from her brain.
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Fourteen years, ten months and maybe a coupla hundred yards from where I sit tonight, goddamn it but I can feel that day in my gut like it had just passed on by. Saturday, December 19, 1992. Out in the street in front of my parents’ house, yeah I lived with folks back then, even as a twenty-something year old grad student, so sue me I used to say when a friend or acquaintance gave me shit about it; they kept the room and board charges ridiculously low, leaving me with enough time and money to chase whatever impulses my young and somewhat foolish grad student mind, filled to the brim with dreams and hope and faith, could conjure: trips down to The City to see bands like Jesus and Mary Chain at places like the Bowery Ballroom, nights filled with booze and music and drugs, but anyway, on the particular afternoon in question I had nothing but frustration on my hands. Out in the street and struggling with a dead headlight that I just could not remove from the body of my car. I had to get it changed, then and there, I’d gotten a ticket for it the night before and I didn’t want to risk another trip into town with that light out, with one ticket already on my ledger, and besides, my dad was riding my ass hard about it, "I don’t give a shit how old ya are, you’re not driving around with that light out tonight..."
The day’s light faded faster than I needed it to and my desperation levels rose. I had plans for the night; I had serious motivation and, at the risk of sounding immodest, serious levels of physical strength at that age, but still, I couldn’t get the freaking light out of the bezel. I tried every wrench in the house and then I went down to the auto parts store to buy some sort of magic grease that my brother in law swore would loosen the thing, but all afternoon, I twisted those wrenches with all my might to absolutely no avail.
I had plans for the night; a favorite professor had invited me and a guest of my choice to an end-of-semester party at his house, and I had decided, just that morning, that the guest of my choice would be a "friend"; yeah, a friend, alright, but, without even knowing it, I harbored a secret love for that so-called friend, and yes, I think such things are possible: you can be madly in love without consciously knowing it.
I HAD to make it down to town to pick her up, I HAD to make it down there to get us to this party; I didn’t even recognize the source of my desperation, but somewhere deep inside I knew all too well that all we had left was one Saturday night to make it happen; on the following Tuesday morning she’d board a flight back to her home in England, back home forever, time running out, I HAD to make it down there.
Just when I’d given up on that light, just when I had started figuring that I’d lie to my dad that I’d gotten the thing changed, I’d decided, fuck it, I’m going, headlight or not, angry dad or not, trouble with the law or not, I’m going: just then, I swear, I gave some wrench one last desperate twist with my chapped, cold, stiff hands, and, by the grace of god, I felt that nut loosen, praise jesus, I got it!
Within five minutes I had the bad light out and a new one in. Maybe Lady Luck rode with me.
%%%%
I took the long way down to town, for some reason. I was a ball of nerves but I couldn’t quite figure out why. She’s just a friend after all, and I even tried to delude myself with the canard that the reason I wanted her to come with me so bad was because her presence next to me would make me more attractive to the other women at the party, yeah, yeah, I know, shame on me.
I stopped at a gaseteria for a fill-up and a soda and some smokes. Those were the days; gas at less than a buck a gallon and smogs at about two a pack, hell, they let ya pump a tank’s full without making you pay first, because they had no fear of drive-offs.
Walked into the store, got my soda, A&W Cream Soda my choice back then. Headed up front and spied the condom rack. Mostly LifeStyles, or, as me and my friends, and I kid you not, all of us burned at least once by that brand, we took to calling them, BreakStyles; saw some other brands there and for some reason I looked at the display for awhile and deliberated, maybe just a three-pack, who knows, maybe I’ll meet someone at the party...
But I didn’t wanna jinx it, ya know; I know, piss-poor thinking on my part, if I thought there was even a chance of getting some I shoulda gone the extra protective mile, but my ever-lovin’ superstitious guinea heart didn’t wanna jinx it...so I just paid for the gas and the soda and the cigs and got back into the car.
%%%%
We got to the party a bit late, we had to stop at some other party and eat cheesecake and drink champagne first, yes, I confess to many different sins tonight, and I’ll confess right here for a couple different instances of drunk driving that night. And I don’t make light of that, drunk driving appalls me for the most part, but still, I did it that night, and OK, maybe on a few others, but truly, not that often.
So we walk into the party and it’s in full swing, groups of people in the living room, the dining room, the family room, and then, finally, my favorite room, the kitchen, and that’s where we end up. People drift in and out, and at some point there’s a jolt of discomforting recognition of the fact that even with all these attractive fellow students around, I haven’t managed to tear myself away from my "friend" for anything more than a trip to the bathroom.
People drift in and out and I realize they’re all talking to US; not me, not her, but US. I notice it but dismiss it. Wha? Me and her? She’s just a friend, ya know, sorry, yeah...
Hours drift by in a wine-induced haze, and people begin to leave. But I don’t feel like going anywhere. I’m pinned down in the kitchen, with my "friend" beside me, and entertaining passersby like I owned the place.
An older guy and his partner step in; a guy I admire, a terrific writer, and a gentle soul, he’d had to step out of class for a few weeks because he had to tend to his dad, who’d died of cancer on the night Bill Clinton was elected President of the United States. We talked about that a bit, we talked about how maybe his dad finally let go that night, for he’d been aware enough to follow things fairly deep into that Election Day, 1992; we talked a bit about how maybe his dad saw the writing on the wall, saw that the Bush Regime had finally come to an end (oh, if only we knew then what we know now! But then, I’m glad we didn’t, for we got to hope for a bit longer), and then decided it was safe to go and leave things behind for the younger folks to figure out.
After awhile, the conversation wound down, more people had left, it’d gone past midnight, and he and his partner decided to head home. He turned to me and shook my hand and smiled and looked at us both and said,
"I hope to see you guys around. You make a tremendous couple."
Sheet, oh now, what’s she gonna think, panic, panic, whaddaIsay, oh fuck,
"Well, actually we’re not a couple..."
I say,
And I immediately realize I’d said the wrong thing; my comment just sucked the joy and the life out of our little four-person speak-easy-among-friends. Shit, fucked up again, why can’t I learn to keep the goddamn mouth shut.
%%%%
We got into my car, somewhat silently. I figured after I’d let all the air out of the proverbial balloon I’d just take her home and she’d get out of the car and head back to her room and I’d drive home, and we’d promise each other that we’d write (hey kids!!! They didn’t have email back then, swear ta Gawd!!!), and then she’d go home and I’d go back to my mommy and daddy’s house and never our twain would meet.
We got into my car, and, incidentally, we got into my car right after someone at the party had warned us that the road out to the Northway crawled with cops looking for drunk drivers, and we got into my car and I’m thinking, well, so much for that, and she turns to me and says,
"I’m hungry, can we stop at the store and get a pastry or something, and ya know, it’s only just past midnight and I’m wide awake and no one’s ever taken me up to see Saratoga..."
So we stop at the local supermarket and she picks up a pastry (cherry turnover, for those scoring at home) and I pick up, you guessed it, another cream soda, hold the LifeStyles, thanks.
We ride up and all the way up I’m thinking, shit, I’m tanked, I hate driving tanked, I never drive tanked, and it’s pouring rain and I shouldn’t be doing this, and I light up a cig, not knowing at the time that she has asthma, and she’s too polite to mention it.
We hit a bar, one I hit a lot during the summers, E O’Dwyers, packed to the gills but we find a spot over by the dartboard. There’s a jukebox playing, a song finishes as we take our places and then a new song, "Summer Wind", Sinatra. I know the song and I like it, not what anyone who knew me woulda expected, but I knew it and started singing it to her.
Little did I know that fifteen years later I’d find myself sitting on a bench near the jockey’s room at Saratoga Race Course, watching my son chase down jockeys for free goggles on closing day of the meet; little did I know that fifteen years later, we’d be married, and that would be our eight year old son out there, and I’d sit on a bench and watch him while the sun set on Labor Day, after the final race of the season, and that they’d blare "Summer Wind" over the PA system and hearing that song, whilst watching our son and digesting the recently discovered fact that my wife had a tumor in her brain, I’d be left to fight back the tears.
%%%%
Fifteen years later, and my world’s turned upside down. A week from tonight I’ll sit in an ICU ward and watch that "friend" suffer the horrific aftereffects of brain surgery. I wish I could bear that cross for her, I wish I could walk in her shoes, I wish I could take that suffering and make it mine, but I can’t.
It’s late now, and there’s nothing I can do; the die’s been cast, she has this tumor, and she has decided to have it taken out. It’s out of my hands, out of our hands. There’s things we can control in this world, and things we can’t, and this, we can’t control. As hard as it is to do, we must admit we are helpless.
But still, we try, we hope, and tonight, alone, I string words together, I try to write down something that tells someone how it was, I try, and fail, to find the right words to tell you about how I fell in love, truly, madly, deeply, for the last time.