So, I have a date coming up in a few days. This wont’t be my first date since the divorce was official, but it will be the first date your author has had in more than a year.
And for some reason, this is making me think about the Inappropriate Crush Girl. Why? Who knows. But there *is* something about her that they don’t know.
Hi all. It's the middle of June in the middle of Our Year of the Lord 2024. I won't make excuses about however long it's been since your boy Jackson has posted. Nor will I mention here at this time any of the Traumatic Life Events™ that have occurred in said time. I will, I am sure, whine about them later.
Instead, I am following the anonymous advice of someone on the internet that if one wants to write, then one should write. Herewith, a rewritten snippet from the middle of a story that I abandoned about five years ago. Most of the story has been lost to the Computer Gods, but I found this section on a flash-drive while unpacking recently and revised revised revised. Enjoy.
Since the weather was relatively pleasant for a November day in Manhattan, I decided to walk from Levine’s office over to the Metropolitan Club, where I was meeting an old college teammate for a drink.
Ruth Levine – I don’t think about her all that often. But I couldn’t help but think about her after her sister reminded me that it was Ruth who guided me back to the land of the living after the elbow surgery that ended baseball for me.
Ah, Ruth. Hurricane Ruth, the Barnard literature major who came into my life like a storm hitting Key West – little to no warning before the sudden impact, with wind and waves roaring through the flimsy defenses of the unprepared.
It all started here in New York, at a massive party not too long after Lily dumped me. We had just gotten clobbered at Fordham and had a game the following day at Marist. I pitched, and what, you may ask, was Jack Callaghan’s line in the box score? He had a mere 2 1/3 innings pitched, gave up six earned runs from seven hits, and was the losing pitcher of record. What can I say? Even Boy Wonder apparently had off days. I was staring into my locker after the game finally ended when someone had the brilliant idea of breaking curfew and going into the city. I quickly agreed.
Four of us ended up deciding to go to Sodom on the Hudson. But to do what, exactly? Chris Dellasandro was from Long Island, and when he called a high school buddy who lived in the Village, he learned about a party downtown to celebrate someone’s record deal or book deal or something like that. Should be fun, he said. Lots of college girls, maybe some models, and almost certainly young divorcees. The promise of free booze and dope, and the implied promise of sex – or at least a reasonable shot at it – I mean, what more could a fellow ask for? The other two guys chose to go to a peep show in Times Square, but Chris didn’t have to try too hard to convince me to join him. We borrowed a car, dressed in our finest shiny disco shirts and platform shoes, and headed down Route 9.
I was trying to look like Catfish Hunter that year, and so my hair was longer than my father liked, and I had finally been able to grow a real mustache to complete the look. (My previous attempt as a junior in high school to grow one had resulted in a thin and wispy one that led my father to start calling me “Pancho.”) A few months earlier, a girl at a Siena party told Chris that he looked like Vinnie Barbarino in “Welcome Back, Kotter,” and he was milking that for all he was worth. The two of us were going to put the shitty Fordham game behind us by any means necessary -- if we couldn’t get laid, at least we could get stoned or drunk. Or maybe get into a fight. Ah, youth.
Following the directions from Chris’ buddy off the Henry Hudson, we soon found ourselves downtown in an old industrial neighborhood full of seemingly abandoned factories and warehouses. Chris parked the borrowed car on the street, gave a skinny kid sitting on a nearby stoop $5 to keep an eye on it (translation – to not steal or burn it), and we walked into one of the old buildings.
As soon as we opened the heavy doors, the sound and smell of the party hit us hard. It was an old warehouse full of people and smoke and music. Seconds after we walked in, a girl walked up to Chris, grabbed him by the hand, and led him away. As he left, he looked back at me over his shoulder and wagged his eyebrows like Groucho Marx as he disappeared into the crowd. All I could do was laugh.
It was a very mixed crowd – college students of all shapes, sizes, and colors; a group of dangerous-looking Puerto Ricans in gang regalia; teenaged hustlers of both sexes; and a bunch of well-dressed thirty-somethings. I looked around for a moment, trying to figure out where the booze was when one of the teenagers handed me a joint, lit it for me, and walked away.
I finally spotted a keg off to the side and was heading over to it when an older man in a navy-blue three-piece suit tapped me on my shoulder. “Hey, there’s an actual bar down that hall. With real liquor.” When I hesitated, he frowned at me. “Unless you want to celebrate Ozzie’s good news with cheap draft beer.” It sounded like he was pretty pissed about that for some reason, so I mumbled my thanks, handed him what was left of my joint, and started heading the way he pointed.
He was right – someone had installed a full-length bar against the wall in this area of the warehouse. The bar looked like it had come from an old saloon, down to the battered mahogany top and the polished brass rail. I made my way to an open spot and waited to catch the attention of the bartender.
“Excuse me,” a female voice said from behind me. I turned, catching an intoxicating whiff of perfume (later revealed to be Chanel No. 5), and found myself face to face with the most beautiful girl not named Lily Van Dimmel that I had ever seen. Shoulder length wavy black hair, soft brown eyes, very fair skin, and very red lips. “Would you mind ordering me a drink? The bartender used to date my sister, and she just slapped him a few minutes ago. It must have caused some strange sort of blindness, because now he apparently can’t see either of the Levine girls.” She smiled at me. “And I am getting very thirsty.”
“Of course,” I said, feeling like not stammering was a major victory for me. “What would you like?”
“Vodka martini. Rocks. Twist,” she replied. My eyes hadn’t left hers, and I noticed that hers hadn’t left mine. She continued to smile at me, this beautiful non-Lily. She was so very non-Lily -- brunette instead of blonde; brown eyes instead of blue; short with hourglass curves instead of tall and willowy. Ava Gardner instead of Grace Kelly, I thought. Yes, I told myself, maybe it’s about time to forget about Grace Kelly for a while.
I reluctantly turned away, and after a moment caught the attention of the bartender. “Two vodka martinis on the rocks with a twist, please.” He nodded and started making the drinks. I turned back to Ava Gardner.
“Ruth,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Jack” I answered, taking her hand and feeling an electric jolt.
“Jack?” she frowned slightly. “Is that your actual name? I mean, does it say ‘Jack’ on your drivers’ license?”
“No, it says ‘John’ on my license. But my aunt started calling me Jack when I was a baby, and I guess it stuck.”
“Here you go, pal,” the bartender interrupted, sliding the two drinks towards me. “And a word to the wise – stay away from the other one.” He gestured with a nod of his head at a group of people across the room. I looked over, but I couldn’t tell who he was pointing at, so I shrugged, slid some money to him, and grabbed the drinks.
“That’s Bobby,” Ruth said to me as I handed one of the drinks to her. She raised her glass to me and then took a sip. “He’s entirely too sensitive. She didn’t slap him that hard – I mean, you can barely see the marks. But it was very gentlemanly of you to tip him at an open bar.”
I shrugged, trying to hide my pleasure at the compliment. “The drinks may be free, and Bobby may be too sensitive, but he still gets most of his pay from tips. I tended bar for a bit.” I took a cautious sip of my drink. It was my first experience with anything other than beer or Boone’s Farm or whiskey. I decided that it wasn’t awful, the vodka. I took another, a less cautious, sip of it. Nope. Not bad at all.
“Hey, Namath,” a new voice interrupted. “Hand over the martini, and no one gets hurt.” I looked and saw a slightly taller version of Ruth, with curlier hair and wire-rimmed glasses. This was obviously Ruth’s slap-happy sister. She grabbed my drink from me, took a swallow, and made a face. “Jesus, Ruth,” she said turning toward her sister. “Vodka?”
“You know I despise gin,” Ruth replied. “I prefer vodka.”
“Bobby!” the sister called to the bartender, gesturing at me. “Mister Namath here wants a gin martini when you have a moment.” Bobby just looked at her and didn’t move. “Since it’s not for me, dumbass,” the sister said. “You have to make it.” He shook his head and sighed, apparently in agreement with her logic. He grabbed a bottle of gin and started making the drink. She looked back at me. “So, what’s your story, Joe Willy?”
“His name is John,” Ruth said. “Why are you calling him Joe?”
The sister smiled at me. “Ruth’s not much of a sports fan,” she said. “But I bet you are, John, right? Sure, you are.” She continued looking at me in silence for a moment. “John,” she repeated. “Let me guess – John Cohen? Maybe be John Goldberg?”
“Um, no. It’s Ja …, uh, John Callaghan,” I said, looking to Ruth for help. She just rolled her eyes and frowned at her sister.
“I’m John Callaghan,” her sister mimicked me, deepening her voice. She looked at me again, in what seemed to be a distinctly unfriendly way. “Callaghan – that’s nice Jewish name, right?”
“Well …” I was more than a little confused by her. And the whole situation. Was it the joint? Could it have had some hash mixed in? Angel dust?
“Thank you, Bobby,” she looked away from me and took her drink from the bartender. She took a swallow, glared at Bobby as if to dare him to point out that he had, in fact, made her a drink, and turned to look at Ruth. “Dad will just love him,” she said. Ruth rolled her eyes again. The sister turned back to me again. “So, John, let me give you a little insight into my sister. A little information about her, so that you are fully informed.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Ruth said.
The sister ignored her, continuing to look at me. “Ruth here is drinking vodka instead of gin and flirting with an Irish Catholic football player …”
“Baseball,” I interjected. “I’m an Irish Catholic baseball player.”
The sister shook her head. “Football, baseball – whatever. Fine, John Calaghan – you’re a baseball – not football - player, as if that’s at all a meaningful distinction for purposes of my point.” She took a swallow of her drink. “If I may continue, John, my sister the Barnard literature major is flirting with an Irish Catholic BASEBALL player because she’s been reading Sylvia Plath and thinks that she needs to prove to herself that she doesn’t suffer from an Electra complex.” She noticed my look of confusion. “Like Oedipus, only for girls and their fathers.”
“Um, Electra who killed her mother because her mother killed her father when he came back from Troy?” Ruth and the sister looked at me as if I had grown a third eye in my forehead. I laughed when I saw their looks of surprise, knowing what they were thinking – the jock has a brain, maybe? “Hey,” I said, “I go to the occasional class in between keg parties and baseball games.”
“Her brother Orestes actually did the killing, but yes,” the sister smiled a little at me, and this time there didn’t seem to be mockery or hostility in it. “Anyway,” she turned back to Ruth, “I am leaving. Are you coming with me?”
“No. I want to stay and talk to Johnny about the ancient Greeks,” Ruth smiled and kissed her sister on the cheek. Her words made my heart leap. Hurricane Ruth wanted to stay with Johnny! Could I get used to that – being Johnny and not Jack? Could I? For Ruth, I could -- without a doubt.
“Fine,” her sister sighed, turning to look at me again. She shook her head. “He seems relatively harmless for a baseball player, I suppose. Don’t be too late,” she said, hugging her sister. “Goodbye, Johnny,” she said to me, mimicking Ruth’s tone as she turned and walked away.
“Goodbye,” I said. Goodbye who? I didn’t know her name. Wait, I knew her last name, so I said “Goodbye, Levine.” Damn! I meant to say “Miss Levine.”
She stopped and laughed as if I had made a brilliant joke and turned around still smiling. “It’s Janice, but I like the sound of just ‘Levine.’ You’re all right for an Irish jock, Joe Willy. I feel sorry for you, but you are all right.” She waved, turned, and then walked away. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
Ruth and I looked at each other for a moment, and then she leaned in, put her arms around my neck, and kissed me. A soft kiss, a kiss full of promise. A kiss full of anticipation; a kiss with hints of what was yet to happen. A kiss that hooked me and hooks me still, if I’m being honest with myself. “Johnny?” Ruth whispered into my ear after the kiss. “I still don’t understand why she keeps calling you Joe Willy.”
Hi everyone. At least I made it (barely) less than a year between posts this time, amirite?
Ahem.
So, one of the joys of my life is how often I am tugged in multiple directions. The client contact at Acme Manufacturing wants to know why it’s taking so long to get the deposition of the corporate representative of Coyote Consulting scheduled. Why? Well, Bob, it’s because I was in trial last week on the Spacely Sprockets case (which I won) (really!), and so I was kind of BUSY. And the lawyer for Mrs. O’Leary wants to know why he hasn’t received a call back on his settlement demand. Same reason, dude.
Time is limited. Sometimes the demands are not.
