Beyond Nostalgia (12 page)

When we exited the Garden after the game, it was just like everywhere else we went, legions of lusty male eyes feasted on, no, were taken hostage by, Theresa's stunning beauty. Wide eyes darted from every direction. Young guys, middle-aged, old, it didn't matter. Sometimes all this visual fondling really pissed me off. There had been instances, when my mood had been foul, that I'd called guys out for classless staring. Two or three times, at parties, my self-discipline shot to hell by beer, I'd actually slugged guys who had acute staring problems. But other times, in mellower moods, if the looks weren't overly conspicuous, I actually enjoyed the attention Theresa attracted. It bolstered my own self-image. After all, this rare beauty was mine. Hell, all those other idiots could do was gawk. Only I made love to her body. It was me that had intercourse with her mind also. We always seemed to be on the same wave length, agreeing almost to a T on most everything. Boy, were we compatible! We were both emotional also, over-emotional, although I tried to hide my end of it by acting like a hard-ass around strangers. I firmly believed in that old New York strategy - act like your bad and people won't screw with you.   

On the subway ride home from the Garden that Saturday, we were lucky enough to get seats. The IRT was packed with fans going back to Queens. Standing passengers loomed over us, clinging to the handrail, staring at, but not seeing, the advertisements over the windows. Others peered through sooty windows, watching daylight submit to the late autumn dusk. With the heat turned up high and all the humanity crowded into the car, it was pretty hot. I snapped open my jacket and Theresa opened the buttons of her pea coat. 

Since he'd come on the train at Queensborough Plaza, I'd been struggling with myself to not confront the man standing over us, some well-groomed dude in his mid-thirties. He'd been studying Theresa the whole time, and I knew he was getting to her also. For most of the trip she'd been staring into space, wearing her patented disinterested look, not saying much. I'd been stealing glances at him, purposely avoiding eye contact. I knew if we made that connection I'd go crazy on him. I noticed a band on his left ring finger. Dressed casual but neat, he carried an expensive-looking real leather attaché case. I had him pegged, a mid-level executive playing Saturday catch up at the office. But that wasn't all he was trying to play. A lot of perverts get their sick jollies in crowded subway cars, and I'd been watching this one inching his knees, slowly, closer and closer toward Theresa's crossed legs for ten minutes now. 

When she had opened her coat, the vee neck of her sweater revealed just the very beginning of her cleavage. Ever since he boarded the train, this clown hadn't even attempted to hide his curiosity. His eyes were buried in there. 

I was pissed! 

Then, as the train approached the platform at Junction Boulevard, it's brakes grinding and screeching, I caught this guy sliding his foot a bit closer, a phony stutter-step, as he swayed with the momentum of the slowing train. Directly over her now, staring straight down into Theresa's blouse, he leaned a knee on the outside of Theresa's thigh.

That's when I lost it! In one motion, I lifted off that blue plastic seat to my feet. As I straightened up, I realized I'd have to keep rising to the balls of my feet to get into his face. He was about four inches taller than me and probably fifty pounds heavier. But these lopsided stats didn't mean a thing. Had there been six more just like him, it wouldn't have stopped me. The red anger raging inside me negated any sense of caution. 

The angry voice of the streets erupted from my mouth, rapid-fire, hard words blasted away. "What are you starin' at, you goofy mutherfucka?" 

I didn't have to psyche myself up or fabricate any crazy rolls this time. I was there. Slamming his leg away with an open palm, I said, "Get yaw fuckin' leg outta dere or I'll shove it up yaw sorry ass for ya." 

Then I shoved the son of a bitch, hard, with the heels of both hands, and he bounced off the poor bastard standing next to him.  "You been starin' at her since you got on da fuckin' train … and don't give me no stunned fuckin' looks neither, lame, you know exactly what I'm talkin' about." 

I shoved him again. Of course all the passengers were rubber-necking by now, half of them on their toes, some peaking from behind somebody else, none of them wanting to become another target for this crazed, skinny kid's rage.

By now the jerk's eyes were so wide they looked like bulls-eyes to me. In the worst way, I wanted him to retaliate. 

I egged him on. A scowl on my face, the nastiest, meanest scowl I'm capable of, I continued the verbal portion of my assault, "What do ya say me an' you dance, right here? Come on, youuu-biiig-piece-a-shit." I had my fists up now, begging for it. "Come on … come on … let's lock asses, asshole." 

Right then, the train halted and the doors pulled opened. "Excuse me, excuse me, please … Getting off." Old Mister big-eyes was scurrying recklessly for the closest exit, threading his horny ass through the assemblage of packed bodies, probably rubbing up against a few along the way.                                    

I was HOT, but I felt both good and like shit at the same time. My actions were justified, both in my mind and according to New York street-law, but still, half of me felt like a bully. And that irked me. Why should I feel like a terrorizer after some dipshit twice my size had crossed a well-known forbidden line? Nevertheless, I somehow couldn't shake the guilt 

By the time Theresa and I climbed the subway steps beneath the clock on Main Street, darkness had taken its hold. We buttoned up our coats, locked arms and merged into the bustling tide of humanity rushing by on the sidewalk. With Christmas in the air, this shopping district was more abuzz than usual. People, weighed down with bags and packages, still had that holiday bounce to their steps as they gravitated to stores and shops up and down Main and Roosevelt. Under the clock, others waited to consummate meetings with friends, lovers, connections, whomever. A car stopped short, it's horn protesting  gratingly as a pack of daring teenagers, fearless and immortal, jay-ran across Roosevelt. Lights from storefronts and signs glowed on the cement sidewalks. 

Theresa and I headed to my house to watch TV and, hopefully, if the opportunity presented itself, to fool around a little on the couch. Prospects seemed good. Dad would be helping out at a church function, and Ma, after her exhausting days filled with worry, prayer and depression, usually went to bed by eight. Although neither of us brought it up, Theresa and I both anticipated getting it on, as long as Ma went to bed on schedule.  

The light outside the subway turned green and, along with a herd of other pedestrians, we darted across the avenue. Climbing onto the curb on the other side, in front of Woolworth's, I asked, "What do ya say we take some pictures, Theresa?" I was pointing to the booth inside the 5 & 10's plate glass windows. "I've been wanting to do this for a long time but kept forgetting about it."

I plopped onto the seat first then Theresa climbed onto my lap and sat cross-legged. Both of us giddy and giggling by now, she closed out the store's cosmetic section with the booth's green curtain, took a brush from her purse, stroked her hair a few times, then pivoted toward me, setting me off just a little, and ran the brush through the windblown locks on my forehead. Then she patted my hair, kissed the tip of my nose and cuddled her cold cheek to mine.

"All set, now. Put the money in," she said.

Still smiling wide after I dropped two quarters in the slot, as if on cue, we both trained our eyes on the red glowering light. Like all kids do, we changed poses and expressions with each intermittent flash. In one shot I made a goofy face and Theresa playfully slapped me. In another shot, we kissed. Eyes closed, lips locked, we made a hell of a profile, a literal picture of youth. But the one I liked best was the first one, the one of us cheek to cheek, both of us enjoying vivacious, unencumbered, heartfelt smiles. It was a picture of happiness in its purest form, a happiness that can only be felt in the morning of our lives, a happiness that can never be recaptured or duplicated afterwards. Our eyes were radiant with this youthful brightness, and naive hope.  

A few minutes later, a wet strip of tiny black and whites slid magically into the holder outside the booth. Theresa's head leaning against my shoulder, we studied the pictures in earnest. "This first one is like poetry," I said. "You can have all the others, Theresa, if you want, but I'd love to keep this one in my wallet."

"Ahhhhh! Aren't we the romantic ones, Dean Cassidy, talking about poetry and such things. Never would have known it twenty minutes ago when you wanted to beat up that man on the train."

"Awright, awright, stoooppp. It's just that I think it's a great picture."

"I'm just kidding," she said. "Sure! You can have it … my favorite is on my dresser mirror at home. The one Regina took of us at the Copacabana."

We left Woolie's and headed for Gertz Department Store where the Q-12 bus stopped. It was only about a half block down but, before we got there, we passed the Hurdy Gurdy, a new old-fashioned hot dog and hamburger joint. I noticed four dopers standing just inside a plate glass window. They were looking out at the passers-by expectantly, their noses so close to the cold glass they each produced their own little fog spot. Their nervous eyes clicked side to side, checking out everybody out on the wide sidewalk. I could see they were getting testy, jumpy for their next fix, wondering where it would come from, looking for Mister Tambourine Man.

A minute or so later, we got on the bus line, and I fished a single from my wallet. That old cowhide wallet still felt alien in my hands, lighter and thinner, even though months had passed since I cleared out all the pictures of other girls. That same night, also to prove my allegiance to Theresa, I made the supreme sacrifice by dumping my 'little black book'. It was a hard-to-find tiny job, so small that it actually fit inside a compartment in the wallet. It had been chock full of numbers and addresses too, so many that, to help my recall, I had to jot where I met each girl next to her name. There was also a rating system consisting of one to four check marks, but, I won't go into that right now. 

While waiting on the bus stop, I slipped the now dry new picture of Theresa and me inside a plastic holder. It was cracked but you could still see us pretty good. Then I realigned an existing snapshot of myself. "I'm sure not crazy about this picture,” I mused aloud. 

"Which one?" Theresa asked, resting her head on my shoulder while looking into the wallet. 

"This one," I said, pulling the tattered billfold closer to her. It was a wallet size of my senior picture, the one they took for the school yearbook. I had on my only sport jacket. The green and white madras Sylvester had handed down to me along with his Jade East when he was getting ready to report to basic training. 

"I got a haircut at the 75-cent joint down in the subway the day before it was taken," I said, "and the bargain-basement barber butchered me up real good." 

"Is that supposed to be a tongue twister, Dean?"

"Whaaat?"

"The bargain-basement barber butchered me up real good. It's almost like the blue bug ... "

"How'd you like a punch in the nose, young lady?"

"What picture? Lemme see," Theresa said, leaning closer, pressing a breast to my elbow, holding my wrist now. "Ohhh…you look so cute." 

"Yeah, sure. It was raining like hell that day, and I had to walk six blocks from school to the photographer's studio in that shit. It was the worst bad-hair day imaginable. Not only was it cut too short to begin with, but it looked even shorter when it crinkled up in the rain."

"It looks fine … handsome," Theresa said, clinging to my arm with two hands now, looking up at me with exaggerated goo-goo eyes.  “And, anyway, it's a lot longer now," she said, flipping it in back where it laid a few inches over the collar of my varsity jacket. "You're starting to look like a certified hippy."

And, it was true. My hair now obscured my ears, which was just fine by me since I'd always thought they were a bit too big and too high up on the side of my head. I liked the way I looked. And there was that statement my appearance made. My hair told the world
I'm a nonconformist, anti-establishment-against the Viet Nam War, excuse me, the Viet Nam conflict. Against any rules or laws enacted to stymie one’s individual rights and all forms of public manipulation by the profiticians.