Little Ditties

Reflections; some much needed lightness.

In honor of my son turning 23, here are a few reflections from when I was his age in 1990. Also, I’ve been absorbed in the memoirs of Abigail Thomas. When I was reading her book, Safekeeping, a series of short connected reflections, I impulsively scribbled down memories of my own. These doodles are only meant to provide a smile or two. I won’t apologize for them but I realize there are much bigger things going on.

A Lie of the Mind

My senior year in college I was the star of the theater department and, not to be a big shot or anything, I got all the leads. My favorite role was Jake in Sam Shepard’s A Lie of the Mind. My step-father and I were in college together and he and his girlfriend at the time, a graduate student much younger than him but a few years older than me, came to see the play. When I saw them afterwards, she gushed about my performance, nothing too out of the ordinary, just said all the typical nice things. The next day, my step-father told me she wanted to meet me. She told him my performance struck a nerve and needed to talk to me in person about it. I agreed to meet her in some park in the adjacent town where she lived. She proceeded to tell me the way I embodied my character was like nothing she had ever experienced before, that it felt like I was speaking directly to her from the stage. I didn’t really know how to respond to that. Then she told me that while we were talking my eyes kept changing colors. I started to get a sense of where this was going. At that moment it began to rain pretty hard so we rushed over to a gazebo in the center of the park. A little out of breath and sopping wet, she kissed me. After the initial shock, I pulled away and told her that not only was I with someone I was also super uncomfortable that she was sleeping with my step-father. None of that seemed to matter because she told me we were meant to be together. I said, no I didn’t think we were and told her I had to go. I drove over to my step-father’s house and told him everything. He got very angry with me and suddenly, the woman showed up. They went upstairs and had audible sex while I sat on the couch with my siblings. The three of us looked at each other like what the fuck is going on. Then, completely bewildered and confused, I left. It wasn’t long until they broke up but he and I never discussed it again.

Andiamo!

I was seeing this girl who used to take me to her favorite restaurant on Avenue A. It was on the west side of the street across from Tompkins Square Park and we’d walk down a half flight of steps to the entrance. Our favorite thing was the pesto garlic bread. I’ve attempted to recreate it several times, unsuccessfully. One time we were sitting at a table next to Sean Lennon and three or four skinny models. They all looked like rock stars wearing furs and scarves and silky clothes. That was the closest I ever got to a Beatle even though it was only the offspring of a Beatle. My girlfriend, if you could even call her that, was using me to make her on again off again boyfriend jealous but I didn’t mind. For a while we spent almost every night together at her east village apartment. She told me she had fibroids so we couldn’t have sex. I think that was probably a lie. She wouldn’t let me go down on her either so we just got naked and kissed. Even so, I held out hope that things might change. One night the phone rang, it was her guy. They talked for a while and then she handed me the phone. He was crying and told me he wanted me to leave. I told him no, I wanted to stay and handed the phone back. It didn’t really bother me, it actually was kind of a thrill at the time because I felt like I had won a pissing contest. I’ve actually loved telling this story over the years because the guy is now a famous actor. But soon after the phone call the whole arrangement fizzled out and she went back to being his girlfriend again. The name of the restaurant was Andiamo! which is Italian for let’s go. Unfortunately it no longer exists because I really loved that pesto bread.

Houston

We were driving through Houston on a stretch of highway with endless traffic lights and sprawling lanes, heading across Texas in my metallic blue Toyota Tercel wagon, the dashboard messy with our collectibles; feathers and rocks mostly. You reached over and grabbed my hand while we were navigating through strip malls and motels with western sounding names. All at once I felt it thrust down your shorts and you confidently directed the appropriate digits toward a much desired fingering. You didn’t seem to care that the adjacent drivers noticed your moaning and rising orgasm. As I focused on avoiding a collision you came with mucho gusto. After my hand was no longer needed and dispensed with, you went back to fiddling with the cassette deck. Workingman’s Dead or Fisherman’s Blues, I forget which.