A Matter of Love in da Bronx (17 page)

Next? If I get to see him tomorrow night, then probably never again!

Next? What do I wear...?

Too much! Too much! A cigarette? Or do a Gilda?

STILLHUNTING THE stillhunter. Sam had the advantage in this stalk of keeping his date with Mary, he thought. The chessplayer planning, reviewing his opening gambit. The general plotting a sterile battle map. He took lunchtime to hustle to Eden Farms to collect an overview, to plot and counterplan. Strategy dryfieldtrial. The sensation of overpumping bloodvessels in his throat and chest caused an exaltation that made him feel he was walking on the tips of his shoes. At these times, he could barely swallow, his throat so constricted with emotion, afraid he'd reach outer burstlimit, constraining himself forcefully. The conception of meeting a woman so dishubris, so portentous an event in his life he reacted in all manners of strange, unrecognizable ways, most noticeably talking out loud to himself. Some of it gibberish, ending most of the time with the announcement of his disbelief, such as, JesusChristAlmightyI'llbeadirtyrotten-sonofabitch- ifIdon'thaveadateIdon'tbelieveit! Just can't b-e-l-i-e-v-e it! Holyshit repeated dozens of times. So unmindful was he of his behavior a passing total stranger asked him who was winning the argument. It fazed him not. His life was plucked out of a black hole! What care for insignificancies? All this based on rock-solid optimum optimism one moment; degrading despair the next. The whole idea behind casing out the locale of the rendezvous was a whole and wide harrowed field of hurt. It was one thing for one's anima to be caught with pants down; it was another to deliberately bare one's ass in public. The distinction was apparent to the streetwise, a synonym for sledgehammeredhard experience. Redundancy was of no value to Sam. He just wasn't going to take any chances of standing in the photographer's doorway looking every inch the part of someone who was grossly stoodup. --I can't believe you'd let yourself in to be such an asshole, I can't believe it! This said as one word. Nevertheless, he had to believe it because he recounted other experiences born of exuberance, buried in disaster, exhumed through ingenuousness. He didn't like appearing on anyone's menu as chicken fricassee. He'd be no victim of a foul plot, if he could help it, the main purpose of this dry run. Erringly, he walked to the photographer's shop. Casually, he inspected the photos: a wedding--snazzy, big do, mousy groom, balleating bride. Portraits on the other side, seductees praying hands' to chins; grey-haired Bronx Bogomile, glasses, book, pipe, potbelly; leering Yalie. Sam took a stand by the entranceway reconnoitering the sweep before him. He wanted to isolate a position that would guard the approach, and, at the same time, be a casual spot from which he could suddenly appear without raising suspicions of his ultra-precautious demeanor. From his vantage, he checked the environs minutely. He scanned again, this time noting possible posts. A third review cut his options to six. --General Scopia! For tonight's operation, we will select one primary and two alternate stations! --I just can't believe it's going to happen! It's not going to happen, you jerk. She won't show up! Make your plan, or you're going to look like an asshole waiting for someone who's not going to show up! On with the plan. He'd walk the perimeter of the field, try each location, then make his choices; go back to work, and wait. He decided his first choice would be just beyond the furthest bus stop, down to the right of the photographer's studio where he could watch her approach from any direction. Once Mary got to the entranceway, he'd make his move to meet her, and not before. He knew he was supposed to be there first, to wait for her, but he couldn't, he had a ten-gallon can of pain waiting to spring a leak at the next rejection. He was almost all set.

On the way back to the shop, he made a stop at a florist. --A blue rose? A black iris, yes! A blue rose, no. You want I should do a spray job? No, not for this lady, that's not what he had in mind.

What he had in mind for the remainder of the afternoon was a barrage of questions and likely answered hashed and rehashed. There was the matter of the Scopia-Dolorosso to-do. Could peace be made? With just about fifty words exchanged between them, how did he know whether or not she was completely wrong for him? Or him for her? And where would the wedding take place? Well, really, now, he had to admit, it was premature, no? But what if she put the arm on him to get married? He heard that was the prime objective of any single girl's relationship, even in the fog of women's independence. Silly ass to think like that, but...what the hell, dreams came cheap. Then came the "what if..." phase. What if she didn't want to see him any more? What if she said she'd meet him just to keep him out of harm's way at the christening? What if she was just a thrillseeker, obligated to a husband or someone, and thought it would be a lark to see Sam Scopia, just a fling? What the hell, if she was caught, she could always point to him, and say, “What? Him? Does he look like a television soap star?” She'd be declared innocent in a whit of a split spit. What if she was some chimera who doted on the imperfect: hydrocephalics, tri-and quadriplegics, engaudemented bodies, uneasthetic disublimities? How revolting. How nicer to think of appropriate activities immediately following the meeting. --How'd you like to do a couple strings a bowling? Shithead. How'd you like to get strung up by your thumbs for such a stupid idea? Now think! She's tired from work, what makes you think the idea of a marathon around Bronx Park will set her on fire? More like a movie! Oh! Dummy! A movie is when you don't have anything to say! Like a camp activity thing. But, Sam, you turn taciturn on me, and I'll set your hair afire! So, the day's seconds lumbered by.

For Mary, it was just the opposite. She wasn't concerned with so detailed a pre-meeting plan. Four-dozen words from a stranger didn't fill a Hopetree, empty a Dreamcard, deprive a Brainbank, nor stop up a Wishwell. The scenario would be seen when she saw it. Not that she didn't dwell on the man and the meeting to make the day go. There was something different...unique, about this fellow, but he could turn out to be no better, no worse than any of the other, making him worthy of some further thought. Yet, it was his persistence. From all the information gleaned from Louisa, some secondhanded from Lou, there was an abiding sincerity in his pursuit, unlike most of the others, equal apportionment, mutual benevolence. There had to be an attraction, deduced by Mary to be instinctual. No chance he envisioned her as Miss Mature America wearing an evening gown of her own creation followed by a walk on the gangway in a swimsuit. Do you mind if we don't discuss a weight loss program? Maybe the appeal is what I've got, not what I think I might like to be. Whatever, she wouldn't abandon the moat in her mind that guarded against hasty throat-baring, or the usual just plain undressing. It simply meant keeping her distance, letting him prove himself first. She wasn't about to commit any act of faith, a foolstrap. She was snagged once before when a blind date asked her to wait for him on a streetcorner only to realize when he never showed up that he had in fact been there, saw her, checked her out, and decided he didn't want to keep the date. She found it callous, shallow of him, sorry to have been so duped, but smart enough to realize it was kinder on his part, and gracesaving for hers. Still, he could've pretended he was someone else delivering a message that his friend couldn't make it, and not leave her waiting stupidly so long for nothing. That incident, though, was the basis for making one decision concerning the meeting with Sam: She wasn't going to appear outside the photographer's studio like some dummy standing in the middle of the Sahara desert waiting for a raft to come by to pick her up for the short trip to Paradise. He would have to be there waiting for her. She pictured herself walking up to him. She tried to subdue her excitement with no success because what she thought of saying to him came out like so much blather:--You really showed up! Immediately she reprimanded herself. She wouldn't say any such thing! Besides, she wasn't going to think any such thing any longer! It was so much nicer to have the waves of exultation splash through her body, even if the sensations came from so small an expectation as meeting a guy... Hey! Wait! She'd met other fellows for dates before, but they got nothing going like this for her! It meant she felt differently about this occasion. Was there any chance she'd understand the reason before she reached 174th Street? The likelihood was unlikely. Oh! She knew she could come up with a strong variety of good reasons, one of them perhaps even the real reason, but down deep, the woman in her, reminded her of how fascinating it was to forecountenance mystery. The nude never more intriguing than the veiled. The result never more fascinating than the anticipation. There was more to suspect, and consider, and wonder, and pokeabout, and scrutinize in Sam Scopia than any other man in, around, and about in her life. The mystery extended to the idea that the whole ratamatum was a oneshot deal! --Well, you see, Lady, it's like this: I really flipped over you because you reminded me of my ex-wife, but now I see you don't have a moustache. Or something equally as stupid. Another mystery was why did they happen to meet just now? Why not five years before? Five years later? Ai-yai-yai! Could someone go crazy with that! Good thing they were at the stop. Good thing, too, because the old folks always said it wasn't wise to unravel every mystery. And some that weren't unraveled could kill you. One she could settle was where he worked. Following Louisa's directions, she backtracked to the upholstery shop, now closed and empty, read the signs on the doorwindow, looked in at all the plastic protected reupholstered pieces of furniture, and with appointment time approaching, walked full bore toward Eden Farms. It was a familiar trek--rather a familiar stalk, because she never walked directly to the photographer's studio to meet Louisa, who was to meet her here again tonight in two hours. Rather, she tried to move inconspicuously toward her goal. She was always concerned someone would recognize her, reporting her appearance in Eden Farms to her parents, and then! There'd be hell to pay. Now she moved around the square counterclockwise toward her waiting/watching place some distance from the photo shop. She approached from the left.

Sam, down to the right, had consumed three cigars--two chewed to bits, which bits were scattered like so many mousedroppings in a semicircle around his shoes; and the third lit, relit and lit again nearly inhaling the tiny stub on one such occasion.

According to plan, he was there a half-hour early, just in case she planned to get there ahead, too, to do an inspection of her own. One thing the wait did for him, it gave him a chance to build up his pan threshhold, he had more time to keep telling himself that she wouldn't show up.

At one minute past the hour, that was a foregone conclusion in his mind.

At quarter past, he was certain all the world's clocks had gone crazy, and were jerking him around.

At half-past the hour he recomposed himself, regained the initiative with his thinking, and rationalized himself into an easy half-hour wait knowing--just knowing--that he had misunderstood the signals with the crucial time to be SEVEN by the clock, not six! You dummy! If it was six, she would've been here a half-hour ago! He was overcome with a grandeloquent period of relaxation. There was nothing he could do about it, she would appear in a half-hour and not a moment sooner so you might as well take in the moveable scenery, looking occasionally--but not too often or you'll jinx the whole operation!--toward the entranceway to the photo shop just in case she materialized there ahead of time unable to hide her anxiety to see you again. Oh! Wouldn't that be marvelous? I mean, really! To have a woman! A woman! After all these years! Shifting from one foot to the other, waiting, just waiting! For you to walk up--you, Sam Scopia--to walk up and say, --Well, Hi! Babe! You wanna get laid? Oh! Grunge-oh Shit-Oh! What are you thinking? Look. I'm going to tell you something. She may not be waiting for the words of the Bard to melt out of your mouth, but that Gorgonzolaspitoon breath is not going to be the recipient of her Academy Award except for best Horror Blast! Okay! Lifesaver! Lifesaver! Don't have any! Try chewing gum! Nope. Nope. If I go to the store, I might miss her approach, and that's going to be the best part of this. What else? How about some Breath-O-Mints? Don't have any! Okay, drain some radiator anti-freeze from a car and use it for a mouthwash! Now, Jesus Christ! Where could she be? It's quarter past! Sam? Sam! Who's your best friend in the whole wide world? I am, right? Right. I wouldn't steer you wrong. You know what the story is here. I don't even have to tell you. You can feel it. You can feel it because it feels like your eyeballs are coming out of your asshole! That's how fucking stupid this world is! How goddamn dumb this world is! And what an idiot you are! Did you really believe this...this...Mary Dolorosso was going to meet with you? With the families the way they've been? Don't you think she's got more brains than that to get involved with you, as if you were someone to get involved with! Well, Fuck You, Sam! Fuck you! I'm tired of getting fucked up with you! How do you think I feel? Oh! Jesus Christ do I feel rotten! Do I feel terrible! Here it is, almost eight o'clock. I'm so tired. I'm so weary! I'm so heartsick from this shit. Like someone's pulling my guts right out of me through my skin. What am I trying to do with my life? What did I think? That the world was going to suddenly turn, and treat me like a normal human being? That I was going to have satisfied all the usual and ordinary wishes a person has for their lifetime? All I really know is that this hurts! It pains so bad I could scream! All I wanted was a simple, easy thing; you'd think it was simple and easy. I just wanted to meet this girl, and talk to her a bit, and tell her what a fancy I took to her, and that it didn't have to mean anything more than that, and I could do that and nothing more if we were both stark naked on a deserted moon-lit beach.

--Don't you see, Jacky, all I really needed to do was a really and truly heartfelt thing! Don't be angry at me because I wasn't able! I mean, I could've done it, if I was there! But because I was so far away, I had to catch it on the machine. I watched it over and over and over again. Each time I pushed the jerk away that was running right behind the left rear tire, and I soared up in the air and caught it in my left wing, through my heart, stopped by my right elbow. The action from then on was fierce! The driver was alert, and we sped off. You turned to me, my head cradled by the roll of leather, took his breast handkerchief, and patted my cheeks and eyes. What transported me, you have to know! wasn't what I did, or why I did it; all that too obvious; it was the look you reserved just for me that said there are times for simple souls to achieve Olympian moments, that I had been a fortunate chosen one; and, that you acknowledged my free gift dedicating that proud moment to the vindication of the privilege and honor of this humble warrior...But it didn't happen. He got it instead. I'd swap places with him, just to have you acknowledge me, and say, Thanks, Sam Scopia...