Little Did I Know: A Novel
Read Little Did I Know: A Novel Online
Authors: Mitchell Maxwell
DID I KNOW
LITTLE
DID I
KNOW
Mitchell Maxwell
Copyright © 2011 Mitchell Maxwell
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any fashion, print, facsimile, or electronic, or by any method yet to be developed, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by
Prospecta Press
An imprint of Easton Studio Press
P.O. Box 3131
Westport, CT 06880
(203) 454-4454
Book and cover design by Barbara Aronica-Buck
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1935212-57-7
E-book ISBN: 978-1-935212-56-0
First edition
First printing: September 2011
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FOR MY FATHER
MAXWELL HERBERT SHMORAK
1921 – 2006
I would like to thank my wife, Carol, for inspiring me to write this book and revisit my youth. I thank her for her love and belief in me. And, perhaps most important, for letting me wake her each night at 4 a.m. and allowing me to read her the “new pages” and actually listening.
Thanks to Lou Aronica for his ideas, focus, and goodwill.
Thanks to my brother, Rick, sister, Victoria, and friends Richard Bernstein and Chris Fitzgerald for reading the book as it evolved and encouraging me to continue.
Thanks to Arturo Conde for his tireless work on my early draft of the manuscript.
Thanks to everyone who worked at PBT; my story is theirs.
Thanks to my mom for . . . well, being my mom.
Thanks to Michael Maidy and Marty Pichinson, businessmen of vision and dear friends.
Thanks to Jeff Calhoun for reminding me kindness never gets old.
Thanks to David Wilk for all he has taught me and for a future together.
Thanks to Meryl Moss for knowing that acorns grow into maple trees, and to my lifelong friend Peter Cromarty for always being wise and truthful, even when the truth is difficult to hear.
Thanks to my children: Zach, a fine artist in his own right, and my daughter, Tia, who proves there is a God. And to my stepchildren, Jacquelyn and Bryan, who get up each day with the goal of making the world a better place.
Oh, and one more thanks to Carol, a beautiful soul dressed in the look of a starlet. If I listed all the reasons I love you, I'd never find time to write another book, produce another play, or, God forbid, never watch another ballgame.
I
looked upon the faces of my friends and saw much passion. There was pride, fear, joy, and a great deal of angst. A palpable “what now, what next?” danced in the air. Etched on the faces of many of my peers it was clear that their next steps had yet to be choreographed. Everyone squinted under a blazing, perfect mid-May New England sun. Eyes half-closed were a metaphor for the day: there was something special down the road, though none of us could see it clearly and more importantly, none of us knew how to get there.
It was all a sea of black square caps topped with silly tassels that hid the eyes of many classmates. If offered an unencumbered view of the mirror to the soul you’d see their thoughts racing like sand flowing through an hourglass. The joyous past four years of collegiate life were ending. It was our last chance, ripe and luscious, available for the taking. The clock was ticking all too quickly. In a moment, the music would play, and those silly caps would be thrown high into the cobalt sky. When they landed, the next chapter of our lives would begin. Yesterday I was kid. A breath from now . . . well, I guess I would be a grown-up.
The black caps peppered the blue sky like thousands of little antiaircraft guns looking to take down a bomber from above. Everything slowed enough to be captured on a camera. Amid the slow motion, I looked around at the faces of my friends. Each one promised a story I wanted to know. Some tales would be filled with triumph and others with despair. Some poked a toe into unknown waters, others prepared for a headfirst dive. Yet even the bravest looked rattled by the uncertainty of everything. Their caps hit the ground without a voice, offering a mere dull thud, if that. It made me both sad and angry.
We had grown up together and changed through myriad hairstyles and heartbreaks. We loved together, we lived together, and we shared more loony nights than days. Our experiences were infused with the urgency of having to live an entire lifetime within four college years. “Don’t miss out” was our mantra, and we honored it completely.
Two months before this morning’s graduation, we had the cast party for the final musical we performed together. That night we had stayed up talking way past late. We had worked on numerous projects, all of which had become precious. They were equal to or, in my case, more important than our studies. We lounged on worn, faded furniture that carried the scent of old lust, stale beer, and lingering ganja that had made generations of students high, mixing into a concoction of frenzied promises. The student center was littered with empty Wild Turkey bourbon bottles and long-forgotten kegs that had been drained of their suds.
Melissa Morgan, a red-headed farm beauty from Ohio with a perfect array of freckles on her nose, drew my eyes to the denim cutoffs that hung provocatively on her perfect butt. She was bleary eyed and happy like the rest of us. She leaned over to me and planted a long, lingering kiss on my lips. I had always wondered what it would be like to kiss her. Although I had been successful with women, I never thought I had a chance with Melissa. We had admired each other from a distance, and on this particular night the wait proved to be well worth it.
She looked into my surprised eyes and said, “I’ll never forget these shows, Sam. They were the most fun I ever had.” Then she said good night to the group and walked slowly onto the dance floor, floating effortlessly away. It was the perfect exit for a woman who kept men awake at night with unfulfilled desire.
JB, one of my closest friends and in many ways my theatrical muse, sat across from me watching the evening fade into daylight. She had the look of a lost little girl searching for something to break away from the melancholy of the night’s last curtain call, or somehow find a way to never let it go.
JB was an ugly duckling on the verge of discovering that she truly was a swan. She had made these shows happen. Tirelessly and unselfishly, she had urged us all to take up the challenge and sing out. She allowed me to find my voice—not one that sang actual notes but one that gave me the courage to lead. One I didn’t know I owned. Then one day I woke up embracing what I wanted my life to be about. JB was a great and supportive friend, believing in me as I gained the confidence and desire to frolic in a playground that might lead to a career in the arts. She sat still and quiet for several minutes, her eyes practically glazed over. She took a long drag on a Lucky Strike, stared as if through me, and suddenly asked with a giggle, “How many girls did you kiss tonight?”