Big Love

I write stories with real characters who have marked my life and who hold very dear places in my heart. Tony is one of those people. I am certain we love each other as much today as when we first met even if we are no longer in-touch. My love for him is unchangeable, something on a soul-level. If we were to meet again, we would be able to communicate in an un-barred, true vulnerable human state, no masks. This is how we met. When I was 14 years old, I was beginning to stretch my limits, take risks: break the law, play with drugs and alcohol, hurt my body, rebel against authority. Some of these adventures I have written about in other stories.

Tony was my second official boyfriend. My first one, Scooter, lasted 3 months and then he broke up with me. He had mentioned several times I was too self-deprecating and self-loathing and he could no longer bear it. I was constantly saying awful things about myself, but I had adopted this attitude in response to my unsolicited reputation as a snob. For whatever reason, boys were saying that I was stuck-up. This came as a shock to me. I had no interactions with boys, so why did they think this about me? I had not had any boys try to talk to me or ask me to “go out” with them. In fact, no one ever asked me to dance at the school dances. I felt left out. So, not wanting people to think I was a snob, I decided I would put myself down, tell people I thought I was ugly, and it seemed to reverse the public opinion from snob to girl with low self-esteem. It didn’t feel good doing this and it was wearing on my friends and family. They began to worry about me.

I felt social pressure to have a boyfriend. I had never kissed a boy before Scooter and frankly, I was not ready for an intimate relationship. I could have easily waited another year or two. For whatever reasons, people in my social circle felt I should get together with Scooter. The consensus was we would make a cute couple. He was popular even though he was eccentric. He was skinny, with curly blonde hair he had shaved into a Mohawk, hollow cheeks that were often flushed, and he wore ripped cloth around his wrists to hide how thin he was. He wore a black leather jacket that smelled strong and it made noise when he moved. I thought he looked ridiculous and unattractive. One day after school my friend Elise and I were hanging out at her home. She decided to call Scooter and tell him I liked him. He said he needed to hear it from me, so she put me on the phone.
Terrified I took the phone, “Hello?” I asked.
“Hey, so, you like me?” he asked with a voice deeper than I expected.
“Yeah,” I replied timidly.
“Well, I need to hear it from you,” he said. Wow, he had major balls to ask me to say this plus I didn’t really like him.
“It’s true”, I said, “I like you.” The idea of having a boyfriend was thrilling so it would be worth the lie.
“Okay, cool. Can I call you tonight?” he asked. I gave him my number and for several nights we spoke over the phone. We had a lot in common and he was very down-to-earth and in-touch with his feminine-side. He spoke highly of his mother and had a close relationship to her. Soon we became girlfriend and boyfriend. People considered us the “popular couple” and younger kids were eager to say hi to me as I walked down the hall which surprised me. It came as a shock to me when Scooter broke up with me. I literally wailed for days in my locked bedroom with music so loud it was banging through the walls.

No one in my family could console me. It was one of my first heartbreaks. I was determined to fill my loss quickly. I had started hanging out with bad girl Shauna (for our adventures, visit my post Jan 2010 "Welcome to Bad Ass School") and she said she had the perfect guy for me, Tony. She said he was Mexican. He was a year younger. Between classes, Shauna pointed him out to me. He wore a green football jersey, he was short and muscular and had bright blue eyes and looked happy and innocent. I liked how he looked and wrote him a letter saying he was cute. Letter writing was a big activity during junior high school and an important part of our development I believe. I was very good at writing sexy letters full of steamy promises and compliments. So, after several letters, I asked if we could chat over the phone.

Tony lived in well-fare housing and did not have a phone. He had a creepy step-dad who was from Peru. Tony’s mother had made him and his brother and sister use the step-dad’s name, Fernandez. They referred to their step-dad as “The Peruvian Porch Monkey.” Everyone thought Tony and his siblings were Mexican because of their last name, but they were not. This added to my excitement of dating him. I was perceived as rebellious. He lived in a building with mainly Mexicans and a couple refugee families from Laos. Tony had to sneak outside and head to the gas station to make phone calls. I liked knowing someone who had such a different life than mine. He seemed to need me and it made me feel important. One day, I asked him to meet me outside after lunch and we embraced each other instantly as if we had been waiting an eternity for this moment, kissing in front of everyone. How could I have had such intense feelings for someone at the age of 14? I loved him down to the roots of my soul.

Tony had an older brother Max, who was extremely smart, quiet and sarcastic. He had brown shiny hair and long bangs that hid part of his face. He walked with a cool stride that appeared innate rather than the strange bouncy one adolescent boys usually are trying on for size. He was dark and mysterious. School was a joke to him. I had made fun of him before I was with Tony, so he never warmed up to me. Even worse, he ignored me. Tony was often with him. He looked up to Max tremendously; it was his only real parental figure. Max had issues too though he expressed his differently than Tony. Diane and I once witnessed Max throwing a three month old kitten into the wall repeatedly. Each time the kitten would get up, dizzy, eyes crossed, he would pick the kitten up and slam him into the wall again with a hollow laugh. This incident still haunts me. Diane and I were screaming for him to stop. He sat slouched over on his bed, laughing without making eye contact with anyone. Tony had an older sister Corinne who was painfully withdrawn and who took refuge in her boyfriend. She walked with pigeon toes and was not very present.

Tony had a lot of anger inside him and expressed it by fighting. He would literally go out at night with a pack of dudes looking to pick a fight. Then, he would call me from the pay phone pumped with adrenaline, huffing and puffing as he tried to explain that he had been in a fight and put some guys in the hospital and was running from the police. I wouldn’t hear from him for days. Several times he was sent away to boys’ homes where he was overseen by a psychologist. He was respectful to the people running these places and participated in group activities. He wanted to be a good person. He wanted to work on his anger and abandonment issues. He had such a good heart. He just wanted to be loved. Sometimes his friends’ families would let him stay with them for extended periods of time. Parents were always saying how sorry they felt for his situation. At one point, his mother divorced the Peruvian Porch Monkey and left the three of them while she traveled in her van with her latest boyfriend across the country. I do not know how the three kids managed to feed themselves. Their mom used to leave for months at a time. Sometimes Tony would stay in a place called “Tough Love” where other kids his age and with similar situations were. I don’t know how he ended up there. Maybe he had a parole officer that put him there. Perhaps social services placed him there as he was so young and living without any parents. The situation was always confusing to me. I don’t recall his brother or sister ever being placed anywhere. Once Diane and I went over to Tony’s and all we could find to eat was a frozen block of cheese in the freezer.

Tony would sneak out of his house at midnight to meet me. Sometimes I would fill my bike bottle with hard liquor from my parent’s liquor cabinet, mainly rum and vodka, slip through my bedroom window, and bolt as fast as I could through my dark neighborhood to meet him somewhere far away from my home. We’d get drunk on someone’s lawn, laughing and kissing and rolling around in total bliss of each other’s company or just sit quietly smoking cigarettes. Sometimes I would sneak out and he wouldn’t show up. I would wait, drunk, for hours until I realized he must not have been able to leave. I remember putting bags of pennies together just to have enough money to get him into a dance club on the week-end. But, after several months together, I began to feel I had outgrown Tony. It felt like a dead end. I began to feel more like a mother than a girlfriend. I could take care of him and help him and love him. I wanted someone older than me, smarter, different. I broke up with him over the phone. He was shocked just like I had been when Scooter had broken up with me. I don’t know what he did after we got off the phone. Maybe he beat a poor soul into a mushy pulp but he was still nice to me when he saw me.

He dated other girls, I dated other boys, and very often if we saw each other at some bonfire party in the middle of nowhere, we would drunkenly kiss under some trees feeling that our random affairs trumped any other relationship we were in. I would tell Diane about these escapades and tell her I wasn’t cheating. It was Tony. It didn’t count. This happened often over the years and one night in high school after not having seen each other for ages, we went back to his empty apartment and into his bedroom, kissing and confessing our love, how we were soulmates. This felt like an epiphany. We had finally figured us out. When I left for college, I lost contact with him. I left our town and he stayed behind. I’m not sure if he graduated high school and if he did, I think it took him several extra years to get it done.

Many years later while I was living with my soon-to-be-husband, Tony called me. It came as a shock to hear his voice. He told me he was living in the same town and helping Max install carpets. He told me he still loved me. He said he would always love me. He told me if I wanted him to come visit, he would leave tomorrow. He said he would do anything for me, all I had to do was say the word.

I told him I would always love him too. When I got off the phone, I knew that it would be unfair to keep in touch with him. I loved him, but not the way he wanted to be loved by me. His life would not fit with mine. It hurt terribly to know that the best thing I could do for him was to lose contact with him, anything else would be leading him on. It made me sad, but I knew him so well and knew this was the best thing for him.

About a year later, it was the day of my wedding. I was alone in my hotel room getting ready and my phone rang.
“Hello?”, I answered.
“Hi”, said my dad in a weird voice, “It’s Tony”…
I just laughed and said “Dad!”
He laughed too and we hung up.
There was no need to say more.

Many years after that, I got an email from Tony asking how I was. He told me he was single, has not managed to find the right person, he lives near Max and works with him. Max has a little girl, therefore Tony is now proud “Uncle Tony”. He said he likes to spend most of his time alone. On his free time he goes fly fishing or into the mountains. He told me, “If you drop me off in the mountains alone and with nothing more than I knife, I will come out alive a week later.” After reading his email, I realized he had expressed himself like a true survivor, someone who had defended his own life for as long as he could remember, someone who could only rely on himself to get the job done. Tony rightly cannot trust another person enough to love or to be loved. I find myself sending him love often from the depths of my heart out into the ether. And I know he gets them. And I daringly say with confidence that if I needed him one day, he would come.

Ginny

I remember the first time I met Ginny. It was during the summer at Trojan Ranch Camp in The Rockies. I was about 13 years old. Ginny lived in Venezuela and was arriving a day or two after the rest of us. “Ginny is coming today,” several campers said one morning. “Ginny is so cool!” Everyone was talking about her arrival. She had obviously come to our camp before. Who was this Ginny? I wanted to know. Later that evening, I finally met her. She was staying in the same cabin as my sister, Diane. So, after dinner, I headed over to my sister’s cabin. Diane was standing outside talking to a group of people. I walked over.

“This is Ginny,” said Diane. Ginny was standing next to Diane and a bunch of girls. She had thick brown wavy hair and tons of freckles. She wore a big warm grin. She looked friendly. Her brown eyes were almond-shaped like an Asian.

“Hi” I wanted her to be my friend. I felt special that I was introduced to her. She was the talk of the evening. “You’re from Venezuela?”

“Yeah, my Dad’s an ambassador. My brother and I come here every summer,” she pointed to her brother who was seated alone on a bench several feet behind her. “Felix”, she called out. He looked up, twinkly brown eyes. He had the same freckles and eyes as Ginny. His thick brown hair was cut short around his head. He had big ears.

“He totally looks like you” said Diane. I wondered if Ginny would be offended by my sister’s comment.

“Yeah,” Ginny laughed, “I know. He’s basically me with short hair” she laughed again.

The next day during free time, Ginny showed up to gymnastics, my favorite activity. I was happy to see her. “Cool, you do gymnastics too?”

“Yeah” she beamed. We took turns showing each other our best round-off-back-handsprings and walked around on our hands. There were hardly any other people during gymnastics. Most girls chose horseback riding or arts and crafts. Because it was often just the two of us and the gymnastics teacher, we had special privileges. We could do whatever we wanted as far as gymnastics was concerned. Our teacher was also one of the counselors who lived in the upstairs part of our bunk. One day after gymnastics she asked if we’d like to join her upstairs. No one had ever been upstairs. “Sure” Ginny and I answered right away.

We walked up the rickety wooden stairs to the second floor. Proper beds, not bunk beds like we had, were lined up and the room had big windows. Our counselor took a seat on her bed, a big Howard Jones poster on the wall stared at us. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked while removing a pack of cigarettes from her bedside drawers.

“No problem” Ginny replied with a comfortable grin. Our counselor lit her cigarette with a pink lighter and took a drag as if she had just taken her first breath of air. “You can’t tell anyone about this. We’re not supposed to smoke,” she said while tilting her head back and exhaling.

“No problem,” both of us agreed. We felt special sharing this moment with a camp counselor. She proffered the cigarette to Ginny. “Want a drag?” Without blinking, Ginny took it. She smoked it with confidence and then turned to me as if to say it was my turn.

I stared at the cigarette. I was curious what it would taste like but scared it would hurt. I hesitated not sure if I had the courage. “No, that’s okay,” I replied, quite certain I had just missed a fabulous opportunity to be bad.

The dinner bell rang. Our counselor looked up surprised, stubbed out her cigarette and then sprayed perfume all over her shirt. On our way to the mess hall I said to Ginny, “I can’t believe you smoked! Did it hurt? What did it taste like?”

Ginny seemed totally at ease, “It doesn’t hurt.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve smoked before.”

Our short summer ended. The following summer at Trojan Ranch, I was lucky enough to have Ginny in my bunk. We were in the teen cabin where each morning began with showers and taking turns using hair dryers. A permanent mist of Aqua Net permeated the air. We both had braces and short hair. Madonna was at her apex and I wore a pink lace bow in my hair. Ginny and I shared a room with two other girls: Julie from Texas and Christine who looked like a handsome tan surfer. Julie was pale and a little chubby. She bore no resemblance to a teenager. She wore fancy haute couture clothing and got up in the wee hours of the morning to get ready. She had her own set of hair curlers. She would plug them in before the sun came up. Then she would proceed to roll her hair into neat rows while seated in front of a lighted mirror. She would make her bed and tidy up while her curlers set for at least 30 minutes. Ginny, Christine and I would exchange disapproving glances during her ritual.

One morning, after having supported Julie’s ridiculous routine for over a week, Ginny said, “Hey! Julie! Look over here!” She held her camera just inches away from Julie’s face and wore a provocative smile. “Say ‘Cheeeeese’”

“Oh, my god. No! Don’t take a photo.” Julie was mortified and held her hand in front of her face. Ginny’s camera clicked several times. “You better destroy that photo after it’s developed!” Julie pointed a threatening finger at Ginny and then stomped out of the room in tears.

“Well, it’s funny” Ginny tried to justify, “she looks like a frickin’ grandma!”

One evening, a storm descended upon us. Loud booms of thunder shook our room. Ginny whipped out her flashlight and held it under her chin. “Ahhhhhhh” she screamed, her brown eyes wide and wild.

Christine and I burst out laughing. It was pitch dark except for Ginny’s flash light. Julie abruptly answered, “Cut it out!”

“Why? Are you scared,” I asked.

Christine sang into the dark, “Carol Annnnnnn, Carol Annnnnnn, run to the light!”

Julie cried out, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

Lightening hit close to our cabin shaking the window pane. I observed Julie in the shadows, curled up in her bed. “Are you scared?” I asked again.

Ginny looked at me and seemed particularly amused. “Hey Jude” she bellowed out, “Don’t be afraid…take a sad song...and make it be-tuhhhh…” she sang off-key. Her voice gradually got louder and reached an unbearable volume by the end “HeyJude-HeyJude-HeyJudeh-Judeh-JudEH…Wow!”

Just then a big cracking strike of lightening hit outside our window. All of us shrieked and Ginny yelled out “Shit Fire!”

“Shit…fire? Is…that… what… you said?” I managed to squeeze out through my laughter.

“Yes,“ she started laughing, “Shit Fire!”

“Where’d you learn that? Who says that?” I asked.

“My mom!” And then all of us folded over laughing hysterically.

“Your mom?”

“Shiiiit fiiiiiiiire”, belted out Christine with her best opera voice. “Shiiiiiiit fiiiiiire!”

“Stop it you guys!” shouted Julie, “You are so immature.”

It is almost a written law that when you are acting immature and someone says so, it encourages more immature behavior. That night we were relentless with poor Julie. She threatened to change rooms.

Several summers past and we grew out of the whole summer camp deal. So, Ginny invited me to visit her for a week. I was so excited. We were about 15 years old. Her parents had divorced and she and Felix lived in Delaware with their mother. Ginny lived in a very nice town house that shared a common open yard with the other town houses. She knew all the teenagers in her neighborhood and frequented the homes of wealthy kids who dressed like little men. I had never seen such sophistication. Her mother worked and we were often home alone with her brother Felix.

One evening, Felix made himself a Scotch on the rocks and then asked if we wanted to take a ride with him to the gas station. Felix was younger than both of us, but we got in the back of the car with him as our driver. We went a couple blocks down the road and he parked the car at a gas station. He got out while holding his glass of booze. He preceded to yuck it up with the gas station attendant who must have been at least 40 years old.

“What he is he doing?” I asked Ginny. The two of us peered out of the back window.

“I don’t know,” she laughed, “he looks ridiculous.”

“Look, Ginny! He took his Scotch with him.”

“Oh my god”, she laughed again, “what is he doing?”

“He must think that’s what men do.” I answered.

The two of us watched him as he spoke to the gasoline guy, one hand on his hip, the other holding his glass of Scotch as if this is what a normal guy does on a daily basis. Felix got back in the car and Ginny and I teased him during the entire two minute ride home.

Soon after, Ginny received a phone call inviting us to hang out with one of her friends, Scott. Felix drove and then came in with us. He sat on the couch, glass in hand, watching the TV in the living room. Scott came over to us in starched white shorts and a clean red shirt. He was tall with brown curls. “Hey Ginny!” he said warmly. I was introduced and he asked if we wanted to go sit outside. His front yard was made up of rolling green hills of perfectly cut grass. Huge ornamental rocks lined the driveway.

“Have you got any of those Whippits?” asked Ginny.

“I think so” he said while getting up and heading to his blue BMW parked in the driveway. He popped the trunk and rummaged around for a couple seconds. “Right here,” he pulled out a red tank that looked like a small fire extinguisher and dangled it above his head.

“Sweet!” beamed Ginny.

“What are Whippits?” I asked.

Scott and Ginny looked at each other. “You don’t know what Whippits are?”

I was growing more curious by the minute.

“You gotta try them, they are so much fun!” He continued rummaging in his trunk and took out a silver brief case. He walked over and sat down in the grass next to us.

“I hope I have some left” he said while unlocking his little case. He popped open the lid and inside
were a dozen little silver canisters.

“What are those?” I asked.

“You are gonna like these!” he said holding one up. He screwed it into the top of the small red tank. Ginny and I watched quietly. He inserted some kind of plastic piece into his mouth and pressed down. The sound of air whooshed out, the same noise a can of whipped cream makes. He put the can down. A slow grin crept over his entire face and he lied back in the grass, his smile gradually growing bigger.

“What’s it feel like?” I asked in amazement. Scott did not answer. He lied on his back in a trance. Then, five seconds later, he popped up and said, “Man, that was sweet!” He passed the tank to Ginny. “Your turn” he said.

“It only lasts a couple seconds? Is it bad for you?” I was perplexed. “What is it?”

“It’s a gas”, he explained.

“Where do you get it?”

“At a special store”, he replied. “I get a friend to buy them. You have to be 21 years old.”

I was stunned that it was legal to sell such a thing. It seemed like something that should be illegal.

Ginny put the piece in her mouth and pressed down. Whoosh! Then she too got that silly crescendo grin until she lied back in the soft lawn just like Scott had done. Scott took the tank and shook it. It made a rattling sound. He unscrewed the canister. It was empty. He popped in a fresh one and handed it over to me.

“Okay, here it goes,” I put it in my mouth, pressed down and inhaled. I felt cool air entering my lungs then a very light feeling in my head. It felt amazing. I smiled and lied back just as the others had done. I felt so heavy and so light at the same time, so comfortable, so happy. The feeling lasted less than thirty seconds.

We did several rounds and soon all the canisters were empty. We went back inside and watched a James Bond movie that was on TV for a while and then Scott announced that his buddies were throwing a party. Did we want to sneak out and meet them? Sneak out? Party? We were very excited. Ginny made some phone calls and one of her friends volunteered to pick us up at 11p.m. That evening we feigned exhaustion and retreated to her upstairs bedroom only to sneak out an hour afterwards. A big black pick-up truck was waiting for us on the other side of the street.

“Come on” she ran across the street and jumped into the flatbed. I followed suit and sat next to her. The truck pulled out, summer breeze on our skin as we were carried to our next destination…to my next adventure with Ginny.