Neverland, Ohio

When he was a little boy, his family called him Curty, a nickname he suddenly hated one morning when his mother called out the front door after him, “Curty, don’t forgot to give Mrs. Bailey your field trip permission slip.”  Why would he forget?    What fourth grader didn’t want to turn in a permission slip?  Why did his mother have to scream out the door after him at all?  He didn’t respond, just shifted his backpack and from that point on insisted on being called Curt.  

Years before this pivotal moment in his tedious growth to manhood, though, he unknowingly learned everything there was to know about life when he asked his older brother Ryan about death.  Ryan was a sullen fifteen-year-old, slouched in a Lazy Boy, clearly unhappy to be stuck baby-sitting his five-year-old brother on a Saturday afternoon. Curty was wide-eyed and talkative and intensely interested in everything.  During the week, the boy shuffled from morning kindergarten to an all-afternoon daycare run by his mother’s sister Alice, and one of the other children, a little boy named Kevin Wilkie, who suddenly moved away when they were all in the third grade, announced to the group that he had gone to a funeral.

“What’s that?” asked a little girl named Anna Matthews.

“It’s for when old people go to heaven,” Kevin said, cheeks puffed with an air of authority.

“You mean when they die?” Anna asked.

Kevin nodded.  “Yes, but the people still here want to say goodbye before the old person goes to heaven, so they have a funeral.”

“What if the old person doesn’t have any friends?” piped in a tiny slip of a boy named Otto Smart.

“All old people have friends,” Kevin said, but he seemed unsure.

“Does an old person have to wait to die until after the funeral?” Curty asked.

Kevin seemed annoyed.  “No, stupid.  They’re already dead.”

“So when do they get to say goodbye?” Curty pressed.

Kevin shrugged.  “Beats me.”

Aunt Alice called them into the kitchen for a snack then, and the subject was dropped, but Curty still had a lot of questions.  So on that Saturday afternoon, he asked Ryan what it meant to be dead.

At first, Ryan’s eyes lit up with a hint of wickedness Curty had only ever seen directed at their mother.  But the look faded and he beckoned his little brother over closer to him.

“Dead means dead, retard,” Ryan whispered.  “Dead means gone.”

Curty rubbed at the spot near his ear where his brother’s hot breath still lingered.  “Mommy’s gone,” he said meekly.  “Daddy’s gone.  But they’re not dead.”  He was only partially sure he was right.

Ryan leaned back and laughed.  “Curty, you’re one dumbfuck kid, you know that?”  He sighed and stood up.  “You wanna know about dead?  Follow me.”

Curty watched his older brother bang out the back door, unsure if he should venture out after him or not.  Ryan could be playing another trick on him.  He was always playing tricks.  But Curty really wanted to know about death, and Ryan said he would tell him.  So Curty followed his brother out to the backyard.

Ryan was at the edge of their property, near the wide-slatted fence that butted against a thicket of trees, largely known in Ridgewood as The Stryker Woods.  Curty knew there was a nest of baby bunnies there.  Their father had discovered it the previous weekend while he was mowing the lawn and he had forbidden both sons from going near it.  “They have it hard enough with the raccoons and neighborhood cats,” their father said.  But there was Ryan now, a thick pair of their father’s work gloves on his hands.  He was crouched over the divot in the earth protecting the babies.  

Curty had permission from his dad to lay in the grass a little ways away and watch the mother rabbit, an unimpressively bland specimen, hop in and out of the special spot.  His dad let him borrow his heavy binoculars and Curty had enjoyed watching the mother bunny’s nose twitch, like his friend Dave Lowell’ sister’s pet bunny.  Her bunny was speckled black and white and named Hamlet.  “Because he looks like a Great Dane,” Mrs. Lowell would chuckle.  Curty didn’t know why it was funny, but he liked Hamlet.  He liked bunnies.

Now, in his backyard, he stood perfectly still with his hands at his sides and watched his brother.  Curty felt afraid, though he wasn’t sure why, and he was sure Ryan was doing something he shouldn’t be doing.

“But Ryan, Dad said...” Curty began.

“Shut up.  Dad’s not here.  And you said you wanted to know about being dead,” Ryan said.  Suddenly, he jerked around and faced his brother, a delighted grin on his usually dark face.  

Curty felt sick.  Dangling between Ryan’s gloved fingers was one of the bunnies, a dusty brown colored four-inch miniature rabbit.  “Ryan, Dad said...”

“Quit being such a baby and come here.” Ryan shifted the bunny into the palm of his hand.

Curty didn’t know why, but he obeyed.  When he was two feet away from his brother, Ryan said, “This is dead.”  In one forceful thrust, he slammed the baby bunny against the ground in front of him and without hesitation, he stomped his left Timberland boot on the stunned creature.  When he lifted the boot, Curty stared at the broken body of the bunny and felt tears fill up in his eyes.

“Why did you do that?” He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Ryan scraped the bottom of his boot off in the grass.  “I was just trying to teach you a lesson...”

“Dad said you shouldn’t go near the bunnies,” Curty said, his lips trembling.

Ryan’s eyes narrowed.  “I was just trying to teach you a lesson, Curty,” he repeated.  “You wanted to know about death.  There.  Death.  Right before your retarded eyes.”

Curty never could quite remember what happened at that moment, but he knows his brother left him in the backyard and he knows he wanted to throw up but he didn’t.  And even though Ryan grew up to be a middle school algebra teacher and marry a pretty girl named Amanda Parker and have a little boy named Jonathan and never become a serial killer or anything that fucked up teenagers like him normally become, Curty never forgave him for killing the bunny, not ever.  

Even so, he couldn’t help staring at death.  He still didn’t know how it worked.  The only thing he knew was being an old person in need of a good funeral wasn’t the reason anything died.

***

Dave Lowell and Curtis Stryker walked south on Aberleen Avenue to the old highway overpass.  The fall sky was overcast and dreary, but neither man minded.  They were back in their old stomping ground, their old territory, and there was comfort in the day’s familiar grayness.  Dave was glad that Curt agreed to come back to Ridgewood for the occasion, but he was even more glad that his best friend wasn’t insisting they talk about it.  Curt had been away for a long time, though, and Dave didn’t want to waste these moments, so he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and asked, “How’s Molly?”

Curt’s nostrils twitched at the sound of his ex-girlfriend’s name.  “She’s OK.”

“And Jenny?” Dave asked.

At this, Curt smiled.  “There’s nothing like having your own little girl, man,” he said. “She’s my world.”  He paused for a moment and spit sharply to his left.  “Too bad her mother’s an aggravating bitch.”

Dave chuckled, used to this sort of Molly-reference.  “I remember when you first hooked up with that aggravating bitch.  She used to be your world -- rocking it, shifting it, lifting it, twirling it...”

Curt shot his friend an annoyed look, but he was still smiling.  “Women,” was all he said.

The two men crossed the overpass and followed the sidewalk past Marshall Johnson Field and then two blocks up Mayfield Road to the old Cooley residence.  A seventeen-foot U-Haul was parked in the street and they could see a fuzzily-familiar man with remarkably tame red hair waving at them from the guts of the truck.  Dave and Curt walked up to the bumper and Sam Cooley stuck his hand out to greet them, saying, “Thanks for coming.”  No one said anything for Ben’s family, but Dave knew he wasn’t the only one thinking it.  

“Where can we start?” Dave asked.

Sam hopped out of the truck and beckoned them to follow him into his mother’s house.  “Everything’s packed.  We just have to do the loading.”

Dave and Curt stared for a long moment at Ben’s old house before following Sam inside.

***

Curt never understood how the kid got away with it.  Here they were, in Tom Baxter’s basement, having a typical baseball team bonding session, and the only one to pass the blunt without taking a turn was Sam Cooley.  Even Otto Smart, the class valedictorian, took his like a man, turning slightly pink with every embarrassing inhalation.  But Sam simply passed it to the next guy without a second thought.  Even though Sam was only a freshman at Ridgewood High, he was the best player on the team, so no one gave him a hard time about his choice to settle for a contact high.  It didn’t hurt any that he was Ben Cooley’s little brother and he was rumored to be dating Anna Matthews, the hottest piece of Ridgewood property on the market.  The rest of the guys on the team seemed content to let him slide by, but Curt didn’t think the kid should get off so easily.

“Sammy, what’s Anna up to tonight?” he asked, interrupting Frankie King’s stream-of-consciousness babbling about uses for Cheez Whiz.

The guys turned their attention to the rookie with a sudden alertness.  Curt knew Anna was an effective stimulant for this crowd.

Sam reached casually into a bowl of Nacho Cheese Doritos.  “Dunno, probably studying for a chem test or something.”

“Huh, I’m surprised you don’t know exactly what she’s doing.”

Sam crunched slowly as a blush rose on his cheeks.  “Why would I?”

Curt shrugged nonchalantly, but his eyes remained slit and cruel.  “Well, since you reside right up her ass, I just find it surprising that you don’t know what she’s doing.”

The guys laughed and the ones closest to Sam slapped congratulatory hands on his back.  “Lucky bastard,” Aaron Brody said.

“Well, what difference does it make to you what she’s doing?” Sam asked.

Curt took a hit and paused a moment to enjoy the burn.  “Thought we could all gang bang her or something if she was free.”

The room fell silent as the guys looked back and forth between their two teammates with a mixture of curiosity and fear.  Curt knew Sam should defend Anna, should defend her reputation and thus defend his own, but Sam was frozen, complete deer-in-the-headlights.  So Curt laughed, an unintentionally stoned giggle, that proved to be infectious and soon the entire basement was full of baked laughter.  It roared from their spiced lungs until Sam stood up.

“Sure, Curt.  I’ll give her a call and see if she wants to come over,” Sam said, his face blank as reached for the phone over the Baxter’s washing machine.

***

Dave had seen Elizabeth Cooley at her husband Peter’s funeral a few days before and that’s when Sam had asked if he would mind helping him move his mother’s stuff out of the house.  They were standing near Ben’s grave, next to where they buried his father, and Dave’s eyes wandered away from the younger Cooley brother to the stone:  BENJAMIN COOLEY 1980-1998.  Was it really that long ago?  Glancing back at Sam, Dave knew it was that long ago.  The kid was all grown up.  He hadn’t seen Sam for ten years, not since he’d left for school on the East Coast, never to return to Ridgewood, but it didn’t occur to Dave to find any request from his buddy’s brother odd or to turn him down.  

“Sure will be strange to see someone else move into your house, Sammy,” Dave had said after agreeing to help.

Sam had nodded and looked away.  “After my dad’s heart attack, Mom said she didn’t want to stay in Ridgewood by herself, but I know this is hard for her.  This was my great uncle’s house, you know.”

“Sure, kid.  Ben told me once, or your dad did.”  Dave had paused and stared somewhere above Sam’s head.  “Ha, yeah, your dad used to welcome us to Neverland every time we came through the door.  He’d say, ‘Grow up since you have to, but not too fast.  And stay out of trouble, if you can.  But if you can’t, Peter Pan can be your lawyer.’”  Dave had shook his head.  “Your dad was a funny one.”

Sam had swallowed hard and said, “Yeah, Dave, he sure was.”

But now, standing in the Cooley’s living room, staring at boxes and furniture, Dave just felt lost.  He had spent a good chunk of his childhood in this living room, in this house, he had personally banged up a few walls, broken a few door hinges, built a bird house for Mrs. Cooley.  So had Curt, standing ruefully beside him.  So had all of their friends growing up.  Dave looked around the room and felt the frightening joy of youth rising in his stomach.  He wanted to be careless and reckless again.  He wanted to play touch football in the kitchen and have ultimate frisbee tournaments in the back yard.  But he didn’t say any of that out loud.  Instead, he clamped his hand on Sam’s shoulder and said, “Where to begin, little man?”

Sam pointed to a stack of boxes in the corner.  “Those first.  Then we’ll take out some furniture.  My mom’s getting rid of a lot of stuff, but she’s keeping a few of her favorite things.”

Dave’s eyes lingered on the leather couch he’d only ever seen a few times before.  “What about this thing?  It’s not all bubble wrapped.” 

Sam shook his head once.  “Want it?  I could ask my mom if she’d give it to you.”

Dave shifted uncomfortably.  “Sure.”

“C’mon, Dave, what do you want that thing for?” Curt said.

Dave suddenly felt embarrassed, but he didn’t know why.  “Why not?  It’s a nice couch.”

Curt laughed, almost meanly.  “It’s the couch Sammy here lost his virginity on.”

Dave’s mouth opened in astonishment.  “Dude, what the...  How do you...”

But Sam was rolling his eyes.  “Don’t listen to that asshole, Dave,” he said.  “I’m sure you could take the couch.  Let me go ask my mom.”

The minute Sam walked out of the room, Dave slugged Curt in the arm.  “What the fuck?” 

Curt shrugged, his eyes narrowing in the way Dave forgot they could.  “It’s the Ben-replacement.  This couch.  Remember?  Old Pete Cooley always wanted this damn leather couch but no one else wanted it, not Pretty Lizzie Cooley, not Sammy, and especially not Ben.  You know, Ben always thought leather furniture was tacky, crazy kid.  But after Ben died, Peter Pan went bonkers and bought the couch.  Pissed Sam off like nobody’s business.”

Dave remained skeptical.  “What’s your source, Magnum P.I.?”

Curt hefted one of the larger boxes up.  “Anna Matthews.”

***

Curt never had an answer when people asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.  He knew what he didn’t want to be -- a policeman like his dad or a baker like his mom or a teacher like his brother.  And he knew what he’d like to be but would never be -- a major league second basemen, a mad scientist, an ice cream tester.  It always bothered him that he had to lie, say something ridiculous like a fisherman or a marine or a stock broker, something that he picked randomly from the air, like a slow-moving fly.

Mr. Cooley, though, had invited Curt, as well as Dave and their friend Andy, along with Ben on a career day visit that had taken the boys into the Ridgewood Court House where Mr. Cooley argued a case.  A real judge and jury deal.  Curt was fourteen years old and fascinated by this aspect of the law.  His father had actually arrested Mr. Cooley’s client, an older man known by most of the people in Ridgewood as George Guff, even though his name was George Guthers, for public drunkenness.  The charges were fairly minor and the tone in the courtroom was barely even one decibel above hum drum, but Curt had gripped the edge of his seat, literally, as the DA and Mr. Cooley bantered back and forth about the case.  And when the arguments were done for the day and Mr. Cooley piled the boys into his Saab, Andy was the only one talking, and a mile a minute at that, about the bailiff and how cool his job must be and could Mr. Cooley get him in to shadow that guy for a day?  Dave seemed bored by the entire thing but was laughing at Andy now; Ben, though, turned around from his front seat position and grinned at Curt.  

“Cooley-cool,” Ben said.

“Cooley-cool,” Curt agreed.

When they’d pulled up to Ben’s house, Mr. Cooley dropped the boys off and returned to his office.  Inside, the boys crashed onto the couches and the floor in the living room and turned on the TV.  Mrs. Cooley wasn’t home; she worked part-time at a flower shop.  

“Where’s Sammy?” Dave asked as they queued up Legend of Zelda on the Nintendo.

Ben grabbed the second controller.  “Why, you wanna kick his ass in Zelda?”

Dave shrugged.  “Maybe.  Where is he?”

“Sammy!” Ben yelled.  “Sammy, come here, we wanna kick your video game playing lame ass self!”

They heard Sam’s feet pounding across the upstairs hallway and down the stairs.  “In your dreams,” he said, reaching for the controller in his brother’s hand.

“Forget it.  Next game, kid,” Ben said.

Sam rolled his eyes.  “So what’d you call me down here for?”

Andy lay sprawled on the floor beside Ben with a bag of chips propped up on his stomach.  “We’re gonna have a tournament,” he said.  “We just needed someone else to even it out.”

Ben grinned.  “We already had an even number, Andy -- me, you, Curt, Dave.”

Andy appeared confused.  “Oh.  Well, I don’t know why we called you down here, Sammy.”

“Ah, Sammy, the proverbial odd man out,” Curt said, stretching out on the long, tan couch.  

Sam frowned and sat down on his father’s recliner.  “Gee, thanks, Curt.”

“Sure thing, little man,” he said.

The boys played the game for awhile without any further discussion unrelated to Zelda until Andy got bored and started talking about the bailiff again.

“Seriously, that’s the coolest job,” he was saying for the ninth or tenth time.

Finally, Curt interrupted Andy’s rambling to say he thought Mr. Cooley’s job was much cooler than the bailiff’s.  “What he says isn’t in a script, you know?  He’s arguing merits,” he said, proud of his blatant use of lawyer terminology.

“My dad definitely has a kickass job.  He lets me come to his trials all the time,” Ben said, his eyes glued to the screen.

“You too, Sammy?” Dave asked.

Sam blushed.  “Not really.  I mean, he’s invited me, but I always have baseball practice or something.”

Curt noticed an edge in his voice that indicated there was more to it than that.  “Well, you should make it a point to see your old man in action, kid,” he said loudly.  “Don’t let Benny-boy be the favorite.”

Ben jerked around suddenly and shot Curt a warning look.  “I’m not my dad’s favorite,” he said.

“Dude, you just got killed off.  Let Sammy play,” Dave said.

Ben threw the controller on the ground and stalked out of the room.  “Sure,” he said.

But he was only gone for a few minutes, and when he returned, everything was fine.  They were back to juggling apple cores and chugging cans of Coke in no time flat.  Curt knew he’d done the wrong thing, though, pointing out Mr. Cooley’s favoritism.  But he wasn’t sorry that he’d done it.  He was, however, sorry that Anna didn’t stop by the Cooley’s that day, like she normally did.

“Dentist,” Sam explained as he advanced to the next level.

***

The three men had moved half of the boxes out of the house, but Dave still couldn’t stop thinking about Anna.  Curt hadn’t said another word about the matter since his hypothesizing about the couch concluded.  Dave hadn’t thought about her for years, not since they were all in high school together and all the guys in their class had a hard time getting her out of their collective perverted minds.  If the guys in their class were the Lost Boys, then Anna was their Wendy, their mother, their provider, their woman.  

In all truth, Dave didn’t know her very well, none of them really did.  She was a serial dater, bulldozing her way through the halls of Ridgewood High, always rumored to be hooking up with this jock or that nerd, no man was safe, or for that matter unsafe, when it came to Anna Matthews.  But the most rampant rumors always linked her with Sam, especially when they were seniors and Sam was a freshman.  Sam always swore up and down they were just friends, but could any of the Lost Boys just pal around with Wendy?  Didn’t everything having to do with her go way beyond a crush for them all?

Sure, Dave had his Anna-crush.  So did Curt.  So did Andy.  But if Ben ever had a crush on his neighbor-girl, he never said so, and this was always all the proof Dave needed to know that there was something going on with Sam and Anna.  Otherwise, Ben would have wanted to suck the poisoned apple with the rest of them.

So it had surprised them all when Ben asked Anna to the prom and they showed up together, arm in arm, even though Ben spent the entire night with his eye on Marianne Cameron, the girl everyone thought he’d ask to the big dance.  Dave had been just as shocked as the rest of the school, but, like other males in their class, he was secretly jealous that Ben had scored such a hot date.  

It wasn’t until a few days before the accident, though, that Ben had confessed to Dave that he hadn’t wanted to go with Anna at all.  

“But I had to,” he said.

Dave didn’t understand what he meant then and he didn’t understand it now.  All he knew was he’d never seen Anna Matthews look so happy and pure as she did at their senior prom.  He couldn’t help wondering what had happened to her, a strong student, third in their class, something most people conveniently forgot.

“She’s living in San Diego working in a clinic,” Curt muttered behind him.

Dave hadn’t realized he’d been thinking out loud.  “Oh?” he said.

Curt brushed past him, up the stairs.  “She’s divorced.  But she’s successful.”

Dave watched his friend make the sharp turn into Ben’s old room and wondered if maybe he shouldn’t keep better track of what’s up with Curt.

***

Once, Curt asked Anna if she remembered Kevin Wilkie’s tutorial on funerals.  It was while he was lying on top of her in the back of his father’s Honda Passport.  They were sophomores and still virgins.  

“Kevin Wilkie,” Anna murmured.

“Yeah, remember how he said that funerals were so old people’s friends could say goodbye to them after they died?” Curt asked, face flushed.

Anna wriggled out from underneath him and half sat up.  “Sure, that day at Aunt Alice’s.  Jesus, Curt, that was, like, a million years ago.”

Curt sat up next to her and pulled her close to him.  “Yeah, I know.”

With her head on his shoulder, Anna sighed.  “So, what about it?”

Curt shrugged.  “I just wondered if you remembered it, that’s all.”

Anna pulled away from him and looked him square in the eye.  “You were thinking about funerals while we fooled around?”

Curt wanted to say that he was thinking about how much he thought he loved her and how much he wanted to say that none of the rumors about her mattered to him at all and that he didn’t care that she got better grades in geometry than he did and that he wanted her to be with him all the time and that he wanted to tell her everything, everything about his entire life strictly so she would, then, be a part of all that he is through the re-telling.  He wanted to tell her about what a sadistic prick his brother was and how that afternoon so long ago, so million years ago, had made him fundamentally mean and cruel, he wanted to tell her the story.

And then he wanted to fuck her brains out.

Except he would say it in such a way that she might go along with it, like I want to make love to you or I want you to be the first, though he wasn’t sure he would be her first.  Rumors, rumors.

He wanted to say he wasn’t thinking about funerals while he leaned over to kiss her in the front seat of his dad’s Passport and he’d been pleasantly surprised by the taste of her strawberry lip gloss and that death hadn’t occurred to him as they’d heated things up enough in the front seat to warrant climbing into the back.  He wanted to say that his brother’s boot smashing a baby bunny to death hadn’t been on his mind while he slid his hand up her shirt and he certainly wanted to say that his hard on didn’t make him want to cry.

But he was thinking about funerals and death and childhood trauma.  And he could feel the tears held at bay.  

“Curt, we were just fooling around, you know,” Anna said and Curt realized he must have been silent a long time.

“Sure, Anna, I know.  I guess I was thinking about how long we’ve known each other, that’s all,” Curt said.

Anna bit her lip and straightened her shirt.  “Maybe you should take me home,” she said.

Eventually, Anna would lose her virginity to a boy named Ronnie McNulty and Curt would lose his to a girl named Sandra Leonard, but Curt always thought of that night, the only night he ever spent with Anna Matthews, as the night of his love-ruin.  And when they saw each other in school the next Monday, Anna treated him the same as she always had -- with indifference.  

***

Dave didn’t know about Curt’s night was Anna.  No one did.  But if Dave had known about it, he might have understood his best friend better.  As it was, he didn’t understand Curt at all.   Standing on the Cooley’s front porch, cold beer in hand, he watched Curt and Sam struggle to lift the final piece of furniture into the U-Haul.  Soon they’d pull down the hatch on the back with an accomplished swish-click and they’d be done.

They’d all be done.  Finally.  

There were still a lot of boxes in the house, boxes that were to be loaded into Dave’s truck later in the week and hauled off to Goodwill.  “Take whatever you want,” Mrs. Cooley had said, patting him absently on the arm.  Dave had offered her a weak smile and felt oddly afraid of her.  

When they were kids, Elizabeth Cooley had been the Mom of Moms.  She wasn’t the best baker or the most lenient on rules, but she was always the most dependable, the one that every one of Ben’s friends had genuinely enjoyed talking to.  Even after Ben died, Dave used to wander over to the Cooley’s and sit on the front stoop until Mrs. Cooley would come outside, Coke in hand, and they’d chit chat about how Dave liked Ohio State or how the Reds were doing or what was a better movie -- Godfather Part 1 or Part 2.  As time went on, Dave made this less and less of a habit, especially after Sam left for school in Boston and especially after Peter Cooley had his first in what proved to be a series of heart attacks.  Ridgewood was a small town, but Dave learned he could still hide out there, live in his small house with his three labradors, Vinny, Steel, and Hilary, show up at his contractor job, inherited from his now-retired father, and think about asking his girlfriend of three years to marry him without running into ghosts.

The Cooley family was nothing but a ghost.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Curt asked, joining Dave on the porch.  “Glad you had some refreshments.”

Dave shook his head.  “Fuck you, I did my share.”

Curt’s grimace relaxed.  “Sure, kid.”

Dave eyed Sam, leaning up against the truck bumper.  “What’s up over there?”

Curt shrugged.  “Sam hates it here, but he doesn’t want to leave.”

Dave knew Curt was right, but he still had to ask why.  “Ridgewood’s home,” he said.

“No.  Ridgewood’s dead,” Curt said.  “I’m getting a beer.”

***

He and Dave were getting stoned when they found out Ben was dead.  The friends had been sitting on lawn chairs in the Stryker Woods rolling joints for almost forty-five minutes when Marianne Cameron finally found them.  She’d stumbled into their hiding spot, her long brown hair back lit by tree-filtered sun light, Curt thought she was an angel, an angel who knew their names.

“Dave, Curt,” she said, her voice strained.  “Dave, Curt.”

Curt stared at her with his mouth slightly open while Dave took a hit.  

“Want some, Marianne?” he’d asked and then Curt realized who she was.

Marianne closed her eyes.  “You guys, listen.  I have some really bad news.”

“Bad news?” Dave repeated, squinting his eyes.

“Oh god, I wish you assholes we’re smoking right now...”

“Don’t get all high and mighty on us, lady,” Curt said and Dave giggled.

Marianne stepped closer to them and folded her arms solemnly across her chest, not angry, really, but defeated.  “Ben’s dead,” she said.

Dave and Curt stared at her without saying anything.  So she repeated it, “Ben’s dead.”

Curt’s head dropped into his lap, but Dave continued to stare at Marianne.  “What do you mean?” he asked.

Marianne crouched between them and placed a hand on each of their knees.  “I mean Ben Cooley died this morning.  He died in a hit and run accident.  Someone hit him with their car and left him bleeding in the street.  He’s gone,” she said, her voice calm and even.

         

Curt lifted his head and saw Marianne nodding, she wasn’t lying.  “Who told you that?  Who told you Ben died?”

           

“Anna Matthews called me.  Sammy called her right after the accident.”

        

  “Oh, shit,” Dave said.

        

 Curt leaned over and threw up.

***

Dave didn’t want to leave.  The three men sat on the front stoop drinking beer for almost two hours without saying much of anything.  Mrs. Cooley had been picked up by Sam’s pretty wife and driven to the old Marble Lane Inn -- commonly referred to as the Ridgewood Radisson -- where the Cooleys were spending their last night in town.  Before she’d left, she’d thanked the men for their help, though she called them boys, and handed the house keys over to her son.

        

Dave had enjoyed this day with Ben’s baby brother, his tagalong, his shadow self.  Of course, he’d always liked Sam as a kid, too.  They all had.  But it was strange to think of Sam as married with children.  It was strange to think of this mess of a boy as having his life together.

       

“You know something, kid?” Dave began, clamping his hand down on Sam’s shoulder.  “Ben’s probably really proud of you.”

           

Sam smiled weakly, but Curt all of the sudden jumped to his feet.  “What a stupid thing to say,” he spat.

         

Dave blinked back his surprise.  “Is it?”

          

Curt headed off the porch, half-finished beer in hand.  “We almost got through the whole day without bringing that asshole up,” he said as he walked away.  “Almost got through the whole day.  Goddamn.”

         

Dave and Sam watched Curt walk away without saying a word.  Only after Curt rounded the corner to head back across the highway overpass did Dave bother to apologize for his friend’s attitude.

       

 “It’s OK,” Sam said.  “I know he misses Ben.  We all do.”

        

“I guess we all miss a lot of things, kid,” Dave said.  “Maybe we had it too good growing up.  Maybe we had it too normal.”

        

Sam flashed one of his all-too-famous grins.  “Poor us.”

        

The two men sat on the stoop until long after it was dark and even then they barely considered saying goodbye.  There didn’t seem to be a reason, not yet.  

        

“Maybe I won’t sell the house,” Sam said finally.

        

Dave grunted.  “That’d be stupid.”

        

Sam nodded.  “Yup.”

        

Eventually, Sam handed a set of the house keys over to Dave and thanked him again for coming to clear out the rest of the boxes.  No problem, Dave assured him.  Anything he could do.  Anything for Ben’s kid brother.

        

“Neverland’s for sale,” Sam said, staring at the U-Haul.  “Already for sale and my dad’s barely even dead.”

***

It rained during Ben’s funeral.  The whole group, all of his friends, stood in a stunned mass by his grave in the cemetery.  But while everyone stared down at the pit where Ben was lowered, Curt stared straight ahead -- at Peter Cooley, stone-faced and steady.  He didn’t speak to Ben’s father that day, none of them did.  None of them even spoke to Sam.  None of them needed to.  Peter Cooley shed no tear and ushered his family to the car as soon as the casket was out of sight; Sam Cooley lingered behind, lingered with Anna Matthews at his side.

      

They all grew up at that moment, even though none of them really knew it.  All of them, that is, except for Curt who had grown up long ago, never under the Neverland spell they’d all played with for so long.  Standing in the rain at the edge of Ben’s grave in early August, Curt watched everyone around him change into people he didn’t know and didn’t want to know. 

        

“So this is death,” he whispered.  “So this is.”

From the novel-in-stories Neverland, Ohio by Sarah Wolf

Published by Wolfstar Press (2011)

Buy the collection in paperback or Kindle.

Guided Hypnosis #26

"He will say something like, well, you lose some, you lose some.  

You are supposed to laugh.  Exhale.  Blow your nose.  Flick off the lights.  

Have a sense of humor, he will whisper into the black.  Have a heart."

~ Lorrie Moore, "How"

You are lost in your thoughts.  Nothing but the hum of electronics powered down in the room with you.  Where do you go?  Deeper and deeper into the closets of memories, days and times you haven't tried on in years -- isn't it time to make a donation to GoodWill and be done with it?  You are lying down on the floor, staring at the ceiling.  Your bed is right there -- all you need to do is climb in, tuck under, let go.  All you need to do is get up and walk out, feel the late night rain on your skin.  All you need to do is pinch that spot behind your ear that stings you to life.  But all you actually do is lay there and think...and think...and think.  You feel your heart beat steadily in your chest.  You put your hand over it.  You will suddenly hear that voice in your head once more, that laugh.  You will hold your breath in an attempt to drown it out.  Was I happy then? you will wonder and you will still not know the answer to this question you've asked a hundred times.  It's been so many years, anyway, so what's the difference?  Happy or not, you've continued to be, your cells continuing to grow, your body a factory of blood and saliva and fat and muscle and bone -- you are used to standing in front of the mirror and practicing your smile for when you must see the world.  But is it really practice?  And is it really a smile?  Is what you're practicing to be human?  You think so.  You tell yourself as much.  You leave your hand on your heart while your other hand explores your face, feeling all the contours and imperfections and you feel suddenly in awe of all that makes you an animal that has evolved in just this way.  Does a house cat care about how others see it?  Does a raccoon reflect on his choices?  Does a mosquito wonder why it's here?  

You close your eyes.

What's the best use of a moment, anyway?  What's the best use of a life?  What's the best use of a love?  What's the best use of memories?  No one seems to know, least of all you.  That thought makes you laugh, just a little, a rumble of noise to break up the electronic quiet.  You sit straight up and open your eyes.  

You lose some, you lose some.

It's become a motto for you since that night, the last you spent with that particular love, here in this very room, curled in this very bed.  It had been doomed from the start, anyway.  But for you, all love is.  What made this one different was the certainty of that phrase -- You lose some, you lose some.  There's nothing to win, anyway.  Not before that night and not after.  Your cells continue to cycle through, your brain continues to think and think.  Your body gets you up in the morning and pushes you through your day and reminds you to sleep every night.  You feel what you feel but what's the difference?  You still have to pay your rent and drink plenty of water.  You still have to participate.  Your broken heart will still pump blood.

You get up and slide under the covers.  You close your eyes once more.  You ask your brain to quiet down.  What it does, though, is start to play a quiet song you used to dance to.  You smile.  You warm.  You know there's plenty to be gained.  Especially now when it's time to go to sleep.

Included in Say You'll Love Me and Other One Acts by Sarah Wolf

Published by Wolfstar Press in 2020, collection available in paperback and for Kindle

Boo

Throughout the course of my life, I have fortunately had many great, sage role models, folks wise beyond reason, who’ve served as teachers, mentors, friends, and family. When I think back over all of the people who’ve taught me the most, though, there is one that stands out. Her name was Boo and she was a dark tabby cat who lived with my family for nineteen years.

Boo was right out of kittenhood when she came to stay with us. I was probably around five-years-old and I was so excited for her arrival. Our first family pet, Muffin, also a dark tabby cat, had passed away suddenly after running head first into our grandfather clock — you can’t make this stuff up. And while we missed Muffin, my mother, a music teacher, had a former student who needed someone to take care of her cat while she went to work on a cruise line for two weeks. I’m sure my mom thought, sure, easy gig, it’ll make the kids happy to have a pet for a bit.

And so Boo came to stay.

Boo was the name she came with, also — her real name was actually “Booshwa,” slang for bourgeois, though my mom’s student said she thought Booshwa “might be a bad word,” and so she changed it for our delicate sensibilities, youngins that my brothers and I were. Boo turned out to be far more appropriate since what this cat actually did was scare the shit out of us on a daily basis. Even my father, a six-foot-three man, was afraid of her. She still had her claws and she had an awfully terrifying growl that was frequently followed by a spitting hiss. She liked to hide at the bottom of the stairs and come flying out from nowhere to attack anyone who dared come down. She especially hated men since, we later learned, my mother’s student lived with her boyfriend who used to shut Boo in the closet when he was left alone with her.

This cat was a nightmare pet for a home with three small children — my older brother Casey being probably 7 and my younger brother Joshua being 3. But my father, especially, was bound and determined to win this beast over. So he spent time hanging out near her, inching ever closer to the point where she allowed him to pet her, and before you knew it, my dad and Boo were the best of friends.

I’m not entirely sure how long this process took since the original plan for us to have Boo for two weeks stretched into a third week and then a fourth and then a few more months as her owner kept returning to the cruise line for more gigs until finally there was no more discussion about when this ornery cat might leave our home. I’m not sure her original owner officially gave her up, but she certainly became ours — and that cat was in charge.

She chilled out on the sneak attacks but would still, on occasion, express her displeasure at our youthful exuberance. She liked to sit on top of the refrigerator and swipe her paw at unsuspecting passers-by. She found a crawl space in the basement that allowed her to peer down on anyone doing laundry so you’d get that creepy sensation that someone was watching and get a real jolt if you turned around and caught a glimpse of those shiny cat eyes reflecting at you. And, man oh man, don’t leave chicken on your plate or she will eat it. She’d jump right onto the table and snatch whatever she wanted and which one of us was going to tell her she couldn’t? Boo was a tough old broad who didn’t take any shit.

And, oh my, did we love her.

She learned to love us all, too, but none more so than my father. Just like Muffin, the cat who came before her, she liked to sleep in his briefcase and whenever he was home, she was never too far out of reach. She followed him everywhere and they became the best of friends, which was also a miracle as far as my father was concerned since he’d grown up on a farm where cats were outdoor animals who lived in the barn. He’d agreed to have a cat in the house because his tiny blonde daughter (hey, that’s me!) wanted one so, but he had not been jazzed about Muffin or Boo coming to live with us. But seeing the loving bond he formed with this cat who’d gotten her start by terrorizing us was a beautiful thing.

After we’d had Boo in our home for awhile, the decision was made that it was time for us to get a kitten. We’d never had a kitten before, since both Muffin and Boo were adult cats by the time we got them, so my now six-year-old brain was totally wow’d. She was a dark tortoiseshell kitten who purred from the word go and was my constant companion. I named her Bubbles and she was one of the early loves of my life.

While it was an easy fit for Bubbles and me, we all worried how Boo might respond to this…intruder. But an interesting thing happened: Boo adopted Bubbles as if she were her own kitten, grooming her and cuddling with her and showing her the ropes. Maybe it was a sign that Boo was learning to love and trust, something none of us were sure she’d be able to do when she first came to live with us.

When my father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in March 1986, everything changed as he spent more and more time in the hospital. My mother’s parents came to stay with us so she could spend time with her husband as they battled this aggressive disease that my brothers and I were too young to understand. Boo become even more devoted to Bubbles during this time, so it only became that much more heartbreaking when we discovered that Bubbles, my beloved kitten, had a tumor growing in her throat and we had to make the difficult decision to put her to sleep.

And a week after we buried her in the backyard next to Muffin, my father died, too.

After those heartbreaking back to back losses, all of our lives changed, even Boo’s. The two friends she cherished most on the planet were gone in the blink of an eye and I don’t think she ever got over it. We had many other cats come to live with us over the course of her life (and you better believe she outlived them all), but she never bonded with any of them like she did with Bubbles. She did love my mother and my brothers and me — especially my older brother Casey — but it wasn’t the same as her devotion to my father. It was like she knew to give just enough not to get hurt — that she’d learned her lesson the hard way. But she was a survivor, so she continued on, stronger than ever, a real matriarch in our household.

And as my childhood rolled on, Boo became more and more in charge of, well, everything. When we had parties, she’d sit in the middle of the kitchen table and survey those coming and going. Better not try and pet her — she will stare you down. And don’t leave cake out, because she’ll definitely eat it. Even if she has to knock it off the table or chew through the box. One time, she even managed to open a cupboard, climb onto a shelf and gnaw through a box of Twinkies because her sweet tooth was not to be stopped. We had to hide stuff like that in high shelves or in the oven or the microwave and I can only imagine how the wheels in her brain would spin as she tried to figure out a way around these cruel obstacles to her frosting addiction. Outside of that undeniable sweet tooth, she was tough as nails, strict as hell, but totally in love with our family. She took care of us more than we took care of her and I still feel her influence on my life to this day.

When she was maybe thirteen, we discovered a large mass growing on her back, so we took her to our vet. He told us that lumps on a dog were usually nothing — but lumps on a cat were often trouble — and he gave us the sad news that Boo had a malignant tumor that he could remove but her prognosis was still pretty dire. My mother agreed to have the surgery done, anyway, and a miraculous thing happened: when we brought Boo home, what she did was spend all day laying in sunny spots, listening to classical music. She loved classical music. So if we put a radio with classical music in a sunny spot, she’d lay with her head next to the speaker, purring audibly as she worked to heal herself post-surgery. It was truly unreal. And the vet was shocked at her next check up to see that Boo was doing even better than she had been doing before the tumor was discovered.

That tumor returned two more times over the next few years, each time with my mother opting for the surgery, each time with Boo recovering in record time. Sunshine and classical music were her cure-alls. Those images of her basking in the warmth will never be erased from my brain.

As she got older, Boo developed another odd habit — she’d sometimes wander through the dark house at night making the most mournful, yelping, unnatural sounds. I always wondered if she was being visited by my father or by Bubbles or by other forces from the Great Beyond. There was something so pungent about hearing her cry like that and if I could, I’d go to her and cuddle with her until she calmed down. It was a sadness that sticks with me just as much as her ability to go to the sun to heal.

I realized when I sat down to write about her today that I don’t have a single photo of her. But I can see her, clear as day, in my mind’s eye and it warms my heart to think of this complex beast of a cat. She taught me so much about life and survival and love and fear and growth and adaptation. She was a true friend, a guardian, a protective force. I’ve known many cats in my life but there will never be one like Boo. She came into our lives for a very concrete reason: to be an example of how to overcome. I loved her very much and was always sad I didn’t get to say a final goodbye to her before my mother made the necessary choice to put her to sleep, ailing as she was in her ancient years. But like all great loves, I carry her with me in my heart, in my mind, in my soul, and always will, still learning from her example, still relishing in telling the story of her life.

Boo was one of the greats. She was an epic tale trapped in a body with a twitching, gray and black stripped tail. I am thankful for the many years she was part of our family and still think of her as a role model. I certainly go to the sunny spot whenever I need to heal and never turn down a piece of cake. All in loving memory of the cat that would have been Booshwa if the fates had allowed it.

_____________________________

From the Inspired in 2017 blog project.

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

The Transformation of Maria

When I was a child, I used to get strep throat a lot.  As soon as the strep cleared, I basically contracted it right over again, and so the procedure of fever, doctor, diagnosis, crash on the couch for a few days became normal.  I wasn't one of those kids who was psyched to miss school -- I loved school and had to be convinced to stay home on these contagious days.  My mother sated me by renting a movie of my choice to watch while she went to work and my brothers went to school.  The movie I asked for over and over and over was West Side Story.  I'd been raised on the cannon of musicals -- Fiddler on the Roof, The Music Man, Oklahoma!, Phantom of the Opera, Gypsy, Annie, The Sound of Music, and more -- and I loved them all.  But West Side Story spoke to my soul -- it was far and away my favorite.  It's a long movie -- two and a half hours -- but I watched it over and over, especially once my mother caved and bought a copy so she wouldn't have to keep renting it.  I knew every line of dialogue, every lyric of every song, and could mimic most of the dance moves.  I had a white nightgown with a fanciful red sash that I would wear, even though Maria wasn't the character I wanted to emulate.  It was fiery, passionate, witty, strong Anita that incurred all my love.  I wanted to be Anita, even though I wasn't drawn to Bernardo, preferring the Jets' leader Riff for a leading man.  For all my deep love of the movie, I wanted to mix everything up:  the Jets were clearly the better gang to be in because, well, Riff, and also when you're a Jet you're a Jet all the way -- there was brotherhood, togetherness, support.  Maybe the Sharks were like that offscreen, but they didn't have any songs telling me so.  Meanwhile, the women who dated these Sharks were clearly superior to the passive arm candy women who hung around with the Jets.  Jets boys, Sharks girls.  That's the way I favored it.

And I loved the story, I loved the way the music forced me to get up and dance.  Even those days when I was home sick, I'm certain I couldn't lay there passively during "America."  I loved the flirtatious way Anita showed her power, proved her independence, sealed her love for Bernardo (something I could appreciate even though Nardo wasn't my favorite).  I loved her sheer strength -- her protective-without-smothering mother hen nature in regards to Maria, her ability to be open minded in the face of tragedy.  The scene where Anita discovers Maria is planning to run away with Tony, who just killed Bernardo, Maria's brother, in a knife fight, shows her human capacity to see beyond her own mind, her own pain, and straight into the heart of Maria, no matter how much she may disagree.  Anita is the woman I wanted to be, even as a very small child.  

Just writing that sentence now tells me that it's arguable that Anita is exactly who I grew up to be.

But before I could shape into an adult, I first wanted to emulate this character, I wanted to play her on stage.  I have always loved music and performance and it was my very specific dream to play Anita in West Side Story.  I carried this dream in the pulsing beats of my heart.  I carried it, that is, until I was in second grade and some classmate of mine's dad came to talk to us about his career as a dentist.  I can still remember him sitting at the front of our classroom in this strange elementary school I attended until the end of third grade where there were shelves separating the classrooms instead of walls.  I remember my classmates and me sitting around on the floor, staring up at this man, who, at the end of his talk, asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up.  Hands shot up.  "Teacher!"  "Doctor!"  "Nurse!" my classmates yelled.  "Actress!" I yelled.  The man's eyes flashed when I said that -- and he laughed, a full belly laugh.  Now that I'm an adult, I know that his laughter could have come from many different sources, but as a small child, I heard that laughter as what a fool.  It was the first time in my life someone had ever suggested I couldn't be something -- that a dream I had was silly or unrealistic or unattainable.  It's a moment that stuck with me as one of the most vivid of my childhood.  I try to keep that in mind when I'm hanging out with children -- that what adults say to them matter.  That how you respond to them matters.  In all fairness, that man didn't entirely crush my dreams.  I did go on to do some theatre and other performance -- and still do today -- but my pursuit of that dream, that dream that I'd become an actress, died that day.  I picked something else (hey, writer sounds good!), but it was a pivotal moment during the fragile development of my sense of self.  I was no Tobias Fünke, oblivious to how ridiculous my dream might be.  I was wholly aware that I'd said the "wrong" thing. It's funny -- I don't remember finding out that Santa isn't real, but the day I found out my dream was shit, that I remember in great detail. 

But maybe I'm doing one better than that dream, since Anita became a role model for me beyond the context of West Side Story.  She represents many pieces of me that are in play today.  

I had the exceptional opportunity to watch this favorite movie of mine at the Somerville Theatre in Davis Square just last night and the experience was just beyond all expectations.  My friend Shira came with me, which is always a delight, but as the movie began -- as the overture played -- I suddenly felt very emotional, like my childhood was about to be projected onto the big screen.  That my dream of the past was going to play out in my present and shine a light into my future.  The opening shot, panning over New York City while a call and response of whistles echoes over the vastness of the place, shook me up.  I laid my head on Shira's shoulder and I said, "I'm so glad you're here."  Shira, who just gets me, smiled.  "I'm glad I'm here, too," she said.

My insides bubbled.  I had to remind my body to relax.  My lips moved along with much of the dialogue and most of the songs.  I'd discovered this portal to another time and the joy that discovery brought me can't be described with words.

Of course, as I watched this classic film, whose story is famously based on Romeo and Juliet, it also became painfully clear how little has changed in the world -- how turf wars and unscrupulous cops and closed minds and miscommunication pave the way for conflict.  How even the people who want to change things or want to help or who try to talk sense into others are mostly powerless to stop the violence or the struggle.  As I watched it last night, my mind was busy at work, understanding why this movie had resonated with me so much as a child, long before any of these bigger, more adult truths were something I could understand.  As the movie moved into the much darker second act, I thought about how it made sense for me to feel so connected to a story about star-crossed lovers, characters who suffer lost life, be it their own or someone they hold dear, and it swished through my stomach how much more I could relate to these elements now as an adult. 

And as the movie hurdled into its final, incredibly powerful scene, that's when the emotional wheels came right off the wagon:

"You all killed [him]...  not with bullets and guns, but with hate.  Well, now I can kill, too.  Because now I have hate.  How many can I kill, Chino, before I have one bullet left for me?"

Here is Maria, in her coming of age moment.  You may recall that the first scene she's in, she's begging Anita to do something provocative with the white dress she's to wear to the dance.  Couldn't Anita lower the neckline or at least dye it red?  And here we are, in the final scene, with Maria finally in that red dress she longed for at the start.  It's an incredibly powerful scene.  Incredibly powerful.  I was afraid to turn my head or blink or move in any way for fear I might crumble straight away.  Maria, whose name means bitter.  Maria in the red dress, mourning and in pain, surrounded by stunned and heavy silence.  As the screen flashed "THE END," the packed house at the Somerville Theatre let out a breath it had been collectively holding.  But otherwise, no one moved.  No one.  Not until "Music by Leonard Bernstein and Lyrics by Stephen Sondheim" flashed on the screen.  Then everyone applauded and I began to breath normally again.  I looked over at Shira who was looking back at me.  God, I was relieved to be sitting next to a person that I love in that moment.

But that final scene also reminded me of the last time I watched West Side Story in the company of people I loved.  It was May 2006 and there are lots of reasons why I know that.  The main one is that I wrote a poem about the experience and I always date my poems.  But I also know where I was in my own personal evolution -- it was an internal changing of the guard.  I was just getting over true love, right as I was becoming close friends with a boy named Tom who played in a cover band my friend Whitney and I liked to go see.  Whitney had a crush on Tom and that's sort of why we got into the habit of emailing with him during the week and it's how I got the idea to ask him to help me with a computer problem and it's what made him suggest we make a night out of it, including Whitney, and the two of them came to my first Somerville apartment on Sanborne Avenue in Union Square where Tom fixed my computer, introducing himself to my two roommates as "Tommy," which made Whitney and me giggle since we knew him as Tom and always had (later I would learn it was more common -- if not standard practice -- for him to introduce himself in the diminutive form of his name), and once my computer was fixed, we got some food and a bottle of Southern Comfort and we sat down to talk.  There was a picture of me with my recently lost love on display and Tom asked some questions and when I lamented the end of that road, Tom said, "Any man who has even had the chance to touch you is the luckiest man," something I found very sweet, though it raised the eyebrows on, well, everyone I told after the fact, especially since Whitney, who very publicly was into Tom, was sitting right next to him on the couch.  I just thought he was being kind.  A lot of other people thought he was falling in love.  I mean, it was over ten years ago -- who knows?  But that night, Tom was definitely trying to duck and dodge Whitney's crush (a confusing thing since he'd very recently participated in a photo school project of hers that lead to them taking -- very tasteful and frankly pretty awesome -- pictures in the shower together, which made Whitney wonder if theirs was a path leading somewhere), and, at the same time, reaffirm the many similarities he and I shared, including some of our favorite movies.  "You've never seen Mallrats?" Tom scoffed at Whitney as he pulled the DVD off my shelf and we put it right in the player.  And when that film ended a little after midnight, we returned to an earlier discussion we'd had about both Tom and my favorite musical West Side Story, another movie Whitney had never seen, and despite the late hour, Tom and I rushed to put it on.  Whitney loved the Leonardo DiCaprio Romeo and Juliet, so she simply had to see this classic update of that Shakespearean play.  As the overture played, Tom warned us:  "I always cry at the end," he said.  Sure, sure, I remember thinking.  But two hours and thirty minutes later, hand on a Bible, Tom was streaming tears down his face during Maria's final speech.  It was hard not to think of this endearing and beautiful memory I have of Tom while watching West Side Story last night.  It was hard not to have Maria's declaration of "Now I have hate, too," turn up the volume in my capacity to feel.

I don't hate Tom, I never could.  But the pain resonating in Maria's outburst -- that I understood better than I ever have before.

West Side Story is personal for me -- it's part of me.  Its existence in my life contributes to all that defines me as a human.  I love it with my whole heart, my whole mind, my whole being.  I'm still tingling from what I experienced last night and I will likely have more thoughts on the subject later.  But I couldn't wait to share with you what I had so far.

I'll leave you with the poem I wrote on May 2, 2006 about another mile-marker moment in my life facilitated by the magic of my favorite movie:

Menage a tois (a Boston poem)

I. We polished off sixteen ounces of So-Co

on a Tuesday night, savoring the last

few swallows around four a.m. We were watching

West Side Story and Tom cried

when Tony fell dead, when Maria stood up

for nonviolence. Whitney said she didn’t

like the movie. As always, I was somewhere

in the middle, content to hum and sing

about love and rumbles and all things passionate.

II. Tom colored the nails on his right hand

black with Whitney’s good Sharpie

and drew symbols of anarchy on his wrist.

While she was in the bathroom, he asked me

what else he should draw. I said a heart.

He put an arrow through it.

III. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said

to me -- “You know, honestly, I have to say, any man

who has even had the chance to touch you

is the luckiest man...” Oh, that Tom,

who told me again that I should call

the lead singer in his band. I balked. Whitney sat

beside the bassist with her arms folded across her chest.

Originally written for the ABC's of 2016 on September 23, 2016 under the title "F is for Fragile."

Wasted Time

She wasn’t much of a clean freak, that was for sure.  Sitting on her tapestry-draped couch with her thin legs crossed high at the thighs, she leaned heavily on her elbows as she stared methodically at her perfectly manicured nails.  She ignored the dust circling through the air and landing unceremoniously on her celebrity-magazine covered coffee table as well as the beeping of the coffeemaker in the kitchen alerting her that her brew was ready and had actually been ready for quite some time.  She wasn’t sure she’d be drinking it, not alone at least.

If her eyes had not fixed themselves so obsessively on her maroon colored nails, they might have traveled to the closed door that separated her from the rest of the world.  Someone was to have knocked on that door some time ago but she’d all but resigned herself to fixating on the next worldly problem – when would the first chip occur in her polish and how long after that until there were more and how long after that until she’d have to give in on this round and remove what was left so she could start all over again.

There was no knock, after all.  What else should she be thinking about on this warm afternoon in the thick of a New England fall?  The changing of the leaves or the adding of layers of clothes with each progressing day?  Should she allow her mind to skip ahead to winter when she’d walk with her face turned down towards the ground to avoid the glare of the harsh sun against the relentless white of snow?  No, it made more sense to stay grounded here, on her couch, with her legs pressed tightly together, her straight blonde hair hanging at attention just past her shoulders.

Sooner or later, though, the light outside wouldn’t be enough to sustain her and she’d have to move and when she would, her eyes would drift anywhere but towards that unanswerable door.  To the box in the open hall closet that was intended to be a gracious means of transportation for his belongings to wherever he’d like those belongings to reside now that it wasn’t with her.  If she let herself, she would imagine exactly what could fit in that box, maybe even things he hadn’t left behind, but things that were important to them – backstage passes to The Black Keys won on a radio show, a trophy from their kickball team, faded photos of them pressed together at places like beaches or reunions or ski slopes.  If that empty box was packed just so, it would contain everything he would need to remember what he was losing and she’d be rid of it without regret.

Theirs was a breakup of her design.  You’ll have to leave now, she’d said softly with clear eye contact.  It had been weeks since the whole thing happened right here in this room, sitting side-by-side, dulled and silent.  His eyes had widened for a moment before he swallowed hard and said, But I can help you.  She had stood up and walked to the door.  Opening it, she had said, I can help myself.  After he had disappeared through this portal to the outside world, she’d felt her entire being light up like a golden flame and that is how she knew she had done the right thing.

They met when he stopped her in the middle of a park in the suburb of Boston where she’d grown up and asked her where she’d found the blue flower stuck behind her ear.  She’d smiled at him and something zipped close inside her, something snug and comforting and warm.  This was a good man who would love her – she knew it right away and he figured it out soon enough. 

If only he was free to love her -- that was the only setback.

And technically, he was.  His wife knew she wasn't the only one and so he never apologized for nights they spent apart.  His capacity to love was greater than average -- and wife or not, she felt fulfilled of the promise he'd made that first night together -- I will be here for you, anything you need, any time at all.  And it was all she needed for a long time.  Their time together was precious, not wasted.  Not wasted, that is, until a holiday rolled around or his birthday -- then she realized their time was borrowed, shared, not their own.  Her friends avoided direct eye contact with her when she'd talk about him, good things and bad.  They wanted more for her and she could feel that want in her gut more and more each withering day.

Then one morning and she woke up and realized she couldn’t get out of bed.  The sheer weight of life pressed down upon her as he zipped up his jeans and threw on a t-shirt to go on with his day without her.  He said he'd be back and he would but her eyes unfocused and she lost track of time.  She half-slept with her mouth open and stared at the dust circling through the air.

For days she barely moved, barely spoke, refused all contact with the outside world -- even when he used his key to come in and spoon beside her in bed and talk about his day and try to coax her to have a story of her own. She could feel his concern but she could feel him being too late.  And when she finally was able to sit up straight and stare at her long-since neglected nails, she knew what had to be done.  First, she needed to stand on her own two feet.  Second, she needed to move her two feet out of this sad room.  And third, she needed to take care of her nails.  She felt a certain thrill leaving the apartment and heading towards the nail salon two blocks over.  She felt a certain thrill knowing that he’d come to see her and find her gone.  Her mind raced with the conclusions he might draw.  He’d never guess she’d gone out get her nails done.  And the whole time she was at the salon, she thought and thought and thought about what had kept her trapped in bed for so long, what had prevented her from listening to his attempts to rally her, what had locked her down and by the time her nails were completely dried, her eyes widened for a moment before she closed them.

She needed her life back.  There.  That was it.  She got up and left the salon and walked triumphantly through the door to find their shared space empty.  Her shoulders sagged as her intended effect was lost when he showed up behind her moments later and she’d flinched when he’d touched her on the arm.  We need to talk, she said.

After he was gone, she’d swept her arms around life and let it seep into her with abandon.  Men came home with her whenever she asked them to and she imagined the one she’d sent away standing in the corner, watching her as she sprawled with these new suitors on the couch or curled intimately with them in her feather bed.  She could almost still feel his arms around her in the shower and she could nearly feel his breath kiss her face as the mornings dawned.  She’d watch these new men drink from his favorite coffee cups and stare at paintings he’d selected and it caused a thrilling flash through her to see these men-who-weren’t-him take these things in without knowing a thing about their history.  They didn’t realize they were in a haunted house and she was in no hurry to tell them, either.

She was never in a hurry about anything, it seemed.  She felt warm and content sitting on her couch as the dust swirled around her and the polish on her nails remained intact.  Maybe that knock on the door would never come.  No matter.  It was all just wasted time.

This short story was written in 2013

Based on the Anomopoly song "Wasted Time"