Chapter 11

I was up early Saturday morning despite my lack of sleep. I had a busy day mapped out, starting with breakfast with my grandfather. I showered and was downstairs at seven. Right on time, Papa pulled up and honked for me. Papa had plans for later that morning that include Jethro, so the big goofus was sitting in the back seat with his head hung out the window. I climbed into the cab and suffered one of Jethro’s chin to forehead licks before we jetted towards Mama’s.

The restaurant was filled with tradesmen this early on a Saturday morning but, as always, a table was magically available for us. Papa headed for the little boy’s room as Tina glided over with coffee and menus for us. I kept having to revise my estimate of Tina’s age downward. Today she didn’t look a day over thirty-five. Tina stood across from me and placed the coffee and menus on the table. When she leaned across the table to put mine in place I had an unobstructed view down her shirt. You could park a semi in her cleavage! She looked at me as I tried manfully to tear my eyes away from her bosom. She looked down at her own breasts, smiled and gave me a wink.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, red faced.

“If I minded you looking, Johnny, I’d have worn a different shirt.”

I learned how to treat people watching my father and grandfather, but it always amazed me to see them in action. Most of the men in the restaurant came over to our table to say hello to Papa. He greeted each of them by name and introduced me. If they called him Mr. Pulaski he used their last name with the appropriate honorific, if they called him by his first name, he did the same. Papa treated the grubbiest drywaller exactly the same as he treated men in suits.

Papa had ordered a sausage and egg sandwich to go for Jethro. When we got to his truck he tossed the sandwich into the back seat still wrapped in wax paper. Jethro ate the sandwich, paper and all, in two large gulps. Papa drove me home so I could do my chores, then he and Jethro headed for Home Depot. My dad must have thought he was a comedian that day, because my chores were written out and taped to the refrigerator. At the top of the page he had written “honey-Do List.” I sighed and broke out the cleaning supplies. Last night I was a football hero and lady’s man. Today I was a janitor, cleaning commodes.

I picked up Rachael for our date at six. The first thing she did was thank me for taking care of her house. I didn’t mention that mostly all I had done was clean up after Caroline and me. Besides, she had Merry Maids in every two weeks to keep the place spiffy. I took her to this little Italian Restaurant for supper, with plans of a movie next. Rachael nixed the movie idea.

“Let’s go somewhere we can talk,” she said.

So fifteen minutes later we were sitting on the couch in her house, her at one end, and me at the other. Our conversation started off badly.

“You can’t imagine how much I missed you, Johnny,” she had the nerve to say.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” I replied coolly.

“I don’t blame you for being hurt and angry with me. But try to see it from my point of view. Us falling in love wouldn’t be good for either of us, and I saw that’s where we were headed. I thought you needed to have all the experiences that come with your age, and I needed to have the experiences I lost being married to Jesse. And I was mostly right, Johnny. I’ve dated some guys my age and older and even slept with a couple of them and I know you’ve been bringing girls over here.”

She had made some valid points, but regardless of her reasons, dropping me like she did was wrong, and it rankled.

“You might have been right in what you thought, and I certainly would never want to be the reason for you missing out on more of what life had to offer. Your way of telling me sucked though. And why are you telling me all this in person now? You could have told me all this on the phone like last time.”

I know, I know, I sounded like a petulant ten-year-old, but dammit, that’s the way I felt.

“Because, Johnny, my life is better with you in it. Plain and simple. And if you want, I’d like to continue to have you in my life.” she lowered her eyes and her voice. “It’s the sex, too. I thought that when we made love I had liberated myself sexually and that I would have even better experiences with older, more practiced men. But it wasn’t that way at all. I even had a three-month affair with one of my professors. He was technically proficient, and he could get me off, but he could never make me climax as intensely as you did the first time you ever tried it.”

Jesus this relationship stuff was so far over my head! I wanted to tell her to eat shit and die; I wanted to throw her down and ravish her; I wanted to make tender love to her all night.

So what did I do? I sat there like a bump on a log and just looked at her.

“Say something, Johnny.”

“I don’t know what to say, Rachael. But if you think that I’m gonna be your little fuck toy, forget it. I’m not wired that way, no matter how hot you are.”

“Listen to what I said, Johnny. I want you in my life again, not just in my bed. Can’t we have a relationship that isn’t all or nothing?”

We talked for a while longer still sitting on opposite ends of the couch. I think Rachael was hoping that we could make up for lost time that evening but I wasn’t about to just dive in the sack with her. Sure, my pride was a factor, but there were also practical considerations, mainly that she’d been sleeping with other guys. If we made love I’d be sleeping unprotected with all of them too. Rachael saw the reasonableness of my point and, although disappointed, she said she’d get tested for STDs and AIDS, Monday. Out of fairness, I agreed to do the same. We kissed and cuddled on the couch some to seal the deal. I made sure nothing got out of hand.

I spoke with Shelia Cavanaugh outside Saint Gregory’s after Mass on Sunday. She pouted and asked me why I hadn’t called her yet. Go figure. Shelia looked awfully good in a coral pink dress and matching heels, but I gotta tell you that her Mom looked almost as good in baby blue. Shelia introduced me to her Mom, we shook hands, and a jolt ran up my arm. Her Mom and I dropped the handshake as if we had grabbed a hot pan. Shelia also introduced me to her father, Thomas Cavanaugh, and her twin sisters, Elaine and Ellen. I told Mr. Cavanaugh with complete honesty how lucky he was to get to spend all his time with four of the prettiest women I had ever seen. He laughed and clapped me on the back.

“You speak your mind, just like your old man,” he said.

I rustled up the nerve to call Shelia that night. I know this is going to sound prejudiced, but I was surprised at how easy she was to talk to. In all honesty, I was expecting to either be talking to a stuck up rich bitch or an empty headed stereotypical cheerleader. Instead we ended up talking for an hour about all kinds of stuff. Shelia said her Mom had given her the third degree about me and that her father had raved about my dad. We made an early evening date for next Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. It would be a short evening because our first playoff game was on Saturday at one in the afternoon. Ours would be one of three playoff games that day at the Citrus Bowl in Orlando.

The short week before Thanksgiving was a breeze at school. Our little group at lunch grew as Cin and a couple of her Goth friends started sitting with us. I had never had much interaction with the Goth crowd. Normally they eschewed the company of us ‘regular’ folk. I don’t know why I was surprised at the normalcy of their conversations. I should have known better by then, but just hearing them go on about the mundane topics of everyday teenage life surprised me. I guess my visions of them sitting around biting the heads off of chickens and waiting for alien spaceships was perhaps a little off the mark after all. I liked the hell out of Cin. She was down to earth, sharp as a tack and sweet as she could be. I think she might have been pretty too, somewhere under all that garish make up.

Dad and I had Thanksgiving with the Hernandez family. Mom was locked into something, and wouldn’t be home until Saturday. It was a treat to eat with them. Maria whipped up a feast that included a decidedly Mexican slant to traditional turkey and stuffing. You’d think with seven kids, it would have been a raucous affair but Juan and Maria’s kids were all well mannered and respectful. I fell in love with Maria’s sweet cornbread with jalapenos and so did Dad. Maria proudly told us Caroline had made it. Caroline’s sister Carla weaseled her way into sitting next to me. So I talked to her quite a bit. I like the way the Hernandez’s worked to fit into American society, but still keep their culture alive at home.

Friday night I drove up to the Cavanaugh’s, nervous as that guy who won Survivor at a tax audit. The Cavanaughs lived in a huge three story colonial mansion on a private road, ten miles west of town. They even had a gate with a call box next to it. I identified myself to the tinny voice echoing out of the speaker and drove through the gate when it swung open. I rang the doorbell when I arrived at the house, halfway expecting ‘Jeeves’ the butler to open the door. Instead, Mr. Cavanaugh did the honors. He greeted me warmly and told me Shelia was still getting ready. He steered me into a big family room where Mrs. Cavanaugh was sitting reading a magazine. I sat down where indicated and answered the usual questions I guessed parents asked on a first date. The grilling wasn’t bad and I wasn’t offended by the no drinking lecture.

Shelia saved me after five minutes. Man, I thought Shelia looked good in school, but in a denim min-skirt she was a wet dream. She kissed both her parents and I shook hands with them. Even expecting it, the surge from Mrs. Cavanaugh rocked me. I could tell it did the same to her. She eyed me speculatively as we dropped our hands, and the look wasn’t all that friendly. I opened the door of my pickup and handed Shelia up into the seat. I was betting the truck was a new experience for her. I had her figured for a Beamer and Benz kind of gal.

So of course to show just what kind of immature asshole I was, Shelia said, “I love your truck, Johnny, it’s way cool.”

We hit the road and I hit CD three on my changer. Bon Jovi’s Wanted Dead or Alive blasted out of the speakers. I was a serious classic rock guy, no new aging, hip hopping, rapping, or techno popping for me. I put on the CD without even asking Shelia what kind of music she liked. It was as if I was determined to ruin the date from Jump Street.

So naturally she exclaimed, “Oh, Johnny! How did you know I love Bon Jovi?”

Turns out she liked AC/DC and about everything else I liked too. I was having trouble not liking this girl. When we pulled up to Olga’s to redeem my gift certificate we had to sit in the truck until Judas Priest finished wailing on their version of Johnny B. Goode. It was one song Shelia had never heard before. When it ended and I shut off my truck she asked me if that was my theme song. Her voice was all innocence, but she had this devilish gleam in her big blue peepers.

“It is, now,” I said.

Aunt Olie was manning the hostess podium when we arrived. I got my usual big old mushy hug and kiss, and when I introduced Shelia, she got the same.

“She is so pretty, Johnny, and you are so handsome. I think a special table is in order.”

Olie fixed us up with this primo table for two by the window over-looking a fountain with colored lights that spewed heavenward out of a small retention pond. I took the liberty of ordering for us both, asking if we could have a sampler plate of Polish delicacies. Shelia was honest about what she liked and disliked. Her stock went up another notch.

From Olga’s, we hit the Cinemaplex. I snagged us tickets to Oliver Stone’s ‘Alexander’, a movie staring Colin Firth that had just come out. Now I’m no movie critic – I thought ‘Austin Powers’ was Oscar material – but if you haven’t see this dog, save your money and forget about renting the DVD. Compared to ‘Alexander’, the turkey Maria Hernandez served yesterday was a barnyard pimp. But when Shelia took my hand shortly after the lights dimmed, I could have sat through a double screening of ‘Gigli’, smiling like Homer Simpson with a bagful of doughnuts.

I had Shelia at her doorstep at ten-thirty. She told me she had had a wonderful time and asked me if we could go out again. I said most certainly and that I looked forward to seeing her at the game tomorrow. I was tired of standing there awkwardly so I just pulled her to me and laid one on her. She kissed me back with a gusto that weakened my knees. Then she slipped out of my arms with a giggle and darted into the house.

I was smitten.

I was on autopilot driving home from my date with Shelia. I couldn’t stop thinking about her or reliving our evening. I was elated and scared witless, both at the same time. The reason I was scared was because Shelia was the first girl I had ever dated without the advantage of the connection thing. As the evening had progressed with Shelia I started to get a sense of how she felt but it wasn’t the clear signal I was used to getting. I was also scared because Shelia soared with the socially elite eagles while I scratched with the more fun chickens.

I liked Shelia a whole lot, but I wasn’t prepared to sacrifice my friendships over her. Nor was I comfortable taking her out of her element, as it might cause her problems with her friends and family. Her mother was already looking at me as if she’d found my picture on the sexual predator website. Oh yeah and throw a healthy dose of fear of failure in there too. I was beginning to think that a second date wasn’t such a hot idea after all. Better to cut my losses before I got into this any deeper, I decided.

The next morning we departed the high school at nine-thirty bound for the Citrus Bowl. I was pretty stoked at the chance of playing in a major football stadium. I purposely avoided the bus that Shelia and her teammates got on, and took my usual seat among the lineman and defensive backs. So there I sat feeling wretchedly noble as we convoyed to Orlando.

Once we were in the locker room at the stadium I was able to forget about Shelia and start concentrating on football. Our opponent for the game was Apopka High. Apopka was a perennial contender, and they’d been state champions two of the last five years. We matched up well with Apopka, Both of us had strong defenses and solid, if uninspiring offenses. Apopka did have one halfback with speed and good moves, but we felt we could contain him by keeping him from running outside.

Our advantage was our kicking game. We had a place kicker that had future NFL player stamped on his forehead. His name was Jose Luna, but everyone called him Joe Moon. He was a soccer player Coach Boyette recruited early in the season and patiently trained. Joe Moon was only five-seven, and weighed about a buck-forty, but he could kick a football a mile. Joe was a little quirky and superstitious but he was a hell of a kicker.

I knew Joe from church. We actually took our confirmation classes together. Joe was mega-religious. He wore a crucifix large enough to hang in a church. He knelt on the sidelines and prayed before every kick then kissed the crucifix. Joe also had a schlong about the size of one of his arms. I swear it hung below his towel when he came out of the shower. Joe had to coil that monster like a rope to get it in a jockstrap. I figured Joe would need a two-quart transfusion to get enough blood to get fully hard.

So anyway, back to the game. We lost the toss and kicked off, then for thirty minutes we seesawed up and down the field. We got down to their twenty and Joe kicked a 37-yard field goal. They scored on a fumble recovery and runback late in the half. We went into the locker room trailing seven to three. The second half was more of the same, Joe kicked a field goal in the third quarter and we kept Apopka off the scoreboard. At the two-minute warning we had the ball on our forty-five yard line trailing seven to six. Coach put me in as the second tight end. We ran the ball up the middle seven times, once on fourth down, to eke out thirty yards.

Coach called a time out and sent in our field goal unit to try the forty-two yard field goal, with five seconds remaining in the game. When Joe got down on one knee to pray, Coach Boyette dropped down and joined him. Apopka was a suburb of Orlando so their supporters at the game out numbered ours by thousands. Every one of those supporters was on their feet screaming at Joe to miss. When he kicked the ball it flew towards the goal as straight as an arrow but didn’t look as if it had enough leg to make it. Everyone in the stadium held their breath as the ball fell from the sky. The ball hit the crossbar and bounced way high, before falling behind the end zone. The referees threw up their hands signaling good and we dogpiled Joe Moon.

When we passed the cheerleaders as we headed to the locker room, Shelia yelled, “Great game, Johnny.” I gave her a casual wave and kept running.

Joe Moon was suddenly a celebrity. The Sunday edition of the Palmdale Standard proclaimed, “Moon shines, Panthers win.” Father Donavan even made reference to the game in his homily. Of course he cited Joe’s devoutness as a reason for our success. I dodged Shelia after Mass and spent the day with my family.