Amarillo

I would have trouble putting into words how scared I was. I wanted to turn and run; sometimes you don’t want to know the answer to the mysteries of the sands of time. Being with Jenny made me sit and wonder- far more than I was comfortable with- what would have happened if I had just stopped. Married her, and never moved on to the life that followed it.

It wasn’t an automatic binary choice. It wasn’t a choice to hurt Jenny or not hurt Jenny. I had a choice between hurting Jenny or walking away from Rachel. Walking away from Rachel would have been a terrible mistake. I spent 13 happy years with her, in our way. The fun we had and the joys of being together were incomparable. I had 13 years with a woman I loved so much, enjoyed the company of. We always had fun, we were always some degree of happy together.

I suspect few people living have spent 13 years of pure bliss loving the same woman. There were no children between us. No in-laws, no neighbors, no bills we were obligated to pay. Just make money, have shelter, and enjoy ourselves. Yes, true, we denied ourselves the benefits of more ordinary lives- joint friends, children, housing, among other things. We always worked hard, too. But god what a life we lived together.

I disliked looking back at some of the distinct forks in the road I took. Walking from Jenny was one, running from my meeting with Suzie was another, running from Rachel that last time was the worst, and the very decision to run away from home, of course. Each of those was a binary decision that permanently and drastically changed the course my life was taking.

Here I was, standing outside the door of the biggest fork of them all. We had a life planned for each other. It was a sensible life, one we could have made work. She had done what she had planned to do with it; she was a vet now. I would have quite possibly made myself into a journalist, maybe working for the Times or the Daily News. We could have maybe lived in this very building. This was going to be like looking at my potential future had I taken the other fork in the road.

That is terrifying. What would I think of her now? What would she think of me now? Would I long for the alternate choice? Would I long for what could have been? Become depressed as to the first major two choices I made in my life? Was I going to say to myself, this is what should have been?

The door opened. My heart skipped several beats. And then I was shocked.

If I squinted, I could see the girl. I could see Suzie as I remembered her. Her hair was still orangey-red, for example. She was a bit chubby; a tad above simply zaftig. Not unattractively so, but not particularly fit looking, either. She was on the short side, but she always had been. Her eyes were still green, a slightly duller shade of it, but hey, she was on the same side of 40 as me.

That wasn’t what shocked. She was wearing makeup; a lot of it. Her face was covered in foundation and mascara and eye shadow and lipstick. Not vulgarly so, not put on with a trowel or something, but it was distinctly present. She had never worn that as a kid.

Her hair was perfectly coifed, held in a tight bun. She was wearing a pants suit, possibly from Bergdorf’s. If not, someplace similar. Very fine materials. She was wearing heels- not absurd heels, but heels. She was wearing a gold Cartier Santos with diamonds. She had on several rings, all of them with quality stones in them. Earrings, also diamonds. Her other wrist was covered in bracelets.

Worse, she looked ... dour. Serious. Maybe it was the make up, maybe not. But she looked like ... my god, she looked like a sourpuss with her face in repose. And the perfume. Sandalwood, jasmine ... bergamot? Shalimar. She reeked of it.

To be fair to her, what she was looking at was not the kid she knew, either. I had changed into fresh clothes, but I was wearing overalls and a blue work shirt. My watch was, of course, a Seiko SKX007 on a rubber strap. I was wearing beat up and several-times-repaired work boots. My hands bore the size and shape of heavy work and more than a few fist fights. My face also bore the marks of injury from both work and fighting. My hair was bushy and shaggy. I had a full and shaggy beard that hid my neck. I was 6’3” tall, and about 320lbs.

“Dr. Susan Levine?” I said. It seemed appropriate.

“Yes...” she hesitated, “Johnny? Is that you?”

“Yes,” I said, “It’s me.”

She threw her arms around me and hugged me very tightly. It was weird. It was not particularly affectionate. It wasn’t longing. It was sad, and ... relieved. I guess she was happy I was alive.

The hug ended, and she looked at me kind of searchingly.

“I can’t believe you are alive,” she said, “After all this time.” It was polite. It was proper. It was formal.

“Sometimes,” I said, “I have trouble believing that myself, but here I am.”

“Come in,” she said.

It was a fancy apartment. It looked like a one bedroom, one and a half bath “entertaining” apartment. It had a large living room, a formal dining room, and what I assumed was a kitchen, although that was hidden from view. I couldn’t believe she had no kids. She had talked about them so much. She indicated for me to sit on an armchair, and she sat on a couch across a coffee table from me.

The apartment was finished in a very modern vibe. They had all neutral shades, abstract carpeting, all of it looked quite expensive. There was an electric fire place on next to the sitting area with an enormous flat screen television on the wall. Between her and her husband, they must have made a pretty nice income. But I didn’t like it. If you were to take a picture of Kelly’s living room, this would be the suggestion for “polar opposite”. It looked expensive, but not much personality. Or homey feel.

“When my father told me you were alive,” she smiled politely, “I was completely shocked. You promised me you would return, and I assumed you were dead.”

“I also asked you to come alone,” I pointed out, “And you brought Bryon Thatcher and your father.”

“How the hell do you know that?” her facade cracking a little bit.

“I was in the top of the old oak tree, not 200 feet from where the three of you were standing, Suzie,” I said, “I was there. I couldn’t figure out why you’d bring your father and the school jock-stud.”

“You sound angry,” she whispered.

“I’m not,” I said, “I have lived a life of adventure and fun. A little heart break thrown in, but my god, kid, its been a fun ride.”

“I’m glad you have been happy,” she said, the polite smile back on her face. I was getting sick of the cordial politeness.

“I know you thought I was dead,” I said, “and I know our romantic relationship was over 25 years ago basically, but we were best friends for ten years, Suzie.”

“Well, yes, that is true.”

“Can we drop all this formal politeness malarkey?” I said, “I’ve been washing dishes, chopping down trees, cooking food, deep sea fishing, bouncing, and riding freight trains for the past 25 years, among a bunch of other hard labor. I’m not good with all this stuff.”

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” she said, offended and a little scared, “I’m afraid of offending you.”

“You can’t really offend me,” I said, “I could tell you about nasty people that would make you toss your cookies just hearing about them, you aren’t going to even raise my heckles a little. I mean, you say you don’t know me, and I assure you that you are correct. But I don’t know you either, don’t you see that?”

“I haven’t changed much in the past-”

I burst out laughing.

“Suzie, honey, you have changed every way I can think of.”

“How?”

“You were a tomboy, remember? You’re nothing like that,” I said, “You used to be a direct and blunt person; you were the more fearless of the two of us, always. You’re treating a very old friend like he’s a lion outside of his cage. You talked about wanting a big family with me; you appear to have no kids at all.”

“There’s nothing wrong with-”

“Damn skippy,” I said, “There is nothing wrong with what you are like. You fit into society quite well, I think. But that’s not what you were like when you were a kid.”

“I’m not going to run away with you,” she said, firming her resolve.

My mouth dropped open. As I’ve said, your mouth drops open when you have about ten things to say and you can’t figure out which one to say first. I collected myself.

“Dear girl,” I said, “I’m sure you can see from what’s before you, I have changed, too. I don’t want you to run away with me. You seem like a nice girl and all, you are not my type in the least. If you think that’s what this meeting was about, you got another think coming.”

“You have no children either,” she whispered.

“I have six blood children,” I said, “and six adopted children.”

The look on her face was weird, and then I suddenly realized something. She was projecting. She was hoping I was coming to take her to a different life. Except for kids, she was living the very life we had been planning to live as kids. Except she had to change to conform with the society she lived in, as part of achieving that life. She would have told someone she was happy; just as I was telling her I was happy with my life.

She didn’t realize- it didn’t even occur to her- that when I said that I was happy I was telling the truth. I had three years waiting for her, 13 years with Rachel, a year of darkness, and then eight years with Kelly. Everyone in her world was sitting and pretending they were happy. Lying to each other. I didn’t know her husband, didn’t know what her life at home was like.

I didn’t know if she was spoiled rotten, or her life wasn’t all that great. But she was miserable here.

“Suzie, I’m so sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

“I’m sorry you are so unhappy,” I said, “I didn’t realize it.”

“I’m very happy!” she averred with such force, it confirmed what I was saying.

“Suzie,” I said softly.

She started crying. Body racking sobs. Tears started flowing down her face, ruining her carefully done makeup. I got up and sat down next to her, patting her back in a slightly distant but comforting manner.

“You ... You are ... happy...” she sobbed.

“Yes, I am very happy. Life hasn’t been perfect, but it has been good. I made mistakes. I’m trying to clean some of the big ones up. But yes, Suzie, truly, I am very happy.”

She suddenly hugged me, crying even harder. The scent of that sickening perfume was making me a little uncomfortable. So was the fact that I was being hugged this way by a married woman, and in her own home.

“Twelve kids?” she moaned.

“That I know of.”

“Why didn’t you take me with you, damnit?”

I disentangled myself from her and looked into her blotchy eyes. She looked truly awful. Makeup does terrible things to the skin. Rachel’s skin wasn’t this bad, and she had looked 25 years older than Suzie did in most other ways. I realized she had been living some kind of farce. Perhaps most people do.

“You were 15, Suzie, how could I have?”

“You got all the things we wanted!”

“Are you joking?”

“What do you mean?” she looked at me, very confused.

“You wanted to become a vet, live nicely, in a nice house,” I said, “You wanted to marry, and be respected. You wanted to have money. You wanted to have kids. You got all of that besides the kids. I have a hard time understanding why you aren’t happy; I just can tell that you aren’t.”

“I still love you,” she sniffled

The door burst open and a tall but very skinny angry looking balding guy came flying into the room.

“You stupid bitch,” he roared at her, “I knew you were cheating on me. You sleeping with my wife, asshole?”

“I haven’t slept with your wife in 25 years, mister.” I don’t know why I put it like that.

He came at me with fisticuffs. Fisticuffs? Really?

He threw a right roundhouse at me that would have hurt had he not sent me a telegraph. I don’t get people like this. I had 150 lbs on him and 2” of height. I knew how, and I was a strong guy. He had none of the above. If I fought back I would have hurt him pretty bad.

I let the roundhouse take him off balance and then gently moved his off balanced right foot further off the balance with my left foot until he fell on- and broke- the coffee table.

“You ok?” I asked him.

He got up and then lunged at me with both hands extended. I leaned into his onslaught and grabbed both his extended hands, stopping his momentum. I then bent back both of his hands until he sank to the floor. I didn’t want to fight with this guy. I almost accidentally killed someone in a fight like this, where the opponent was not even close as a match.

He sat there on his knees, screaming silently in a tone barely audible.

“First off,” I said, “I have never had sex with your wife. Secondly, I haven’t laid eyes on your wife in 22 years; she hasn’t laid eyes on me in 25. I don’t want to hurt you, but believe me, you are a featherweight less than amateur and I am a heavyweight seasoned street fighter. If you understand all of this and intend to stop trying to attack me, nod your head.”

He nodded, and I released his hands.

“Who the fuck are you?” he finally asked.

“Johnathan Harris,” I said.

“You’re Johnny?” he gasped.

“Yes,” I said, extending my hand, “Pleasure to meet you.”

He shook it woodenly.

“I didn’t know you were so big,” he said.

“I didn’t use to be,” I replied, “Do you usually act like such a jackass?”

“I-”

“It was a rhetorical question, man.”

Suzie now looked steamed. I think she was embarrassed.

“Can we go somewhere?” she asked me.

He lunged at me again. I grabbed his left hand with my left hand, and let his momentum carry his body past me and force the arm around his back and into a bent-arm come along. I took out my knife with my right hand and put it across the front of his throat.

“I need you to understand something,” I said to him, “I am not trying to hurt you; I am, in fact, trying not to hurt you. Do you know how much it would affect me to slit your throat with this knife?”

He shook his head very slightly.

“Not at all,” I said, “So do yourself a favor. This is the last time I am going to make an effort to not injure you. Stop fucking attacking me!”

He looked totally defeated.

“I want to get out of here,” she said.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked her.

“Out of this fucking city,” she said.

We left the apartment, and went to the elevator.

“Do you have a car?” I asked her.

“No,” she replied, “You don’t really need one in the city. I hope you have one.”

“I do,” I replied, “Unfortunately, its my mom’s old car.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“It’s the same car she had when we were kids, hon.”

“That thing?” she said as we walked up to it.

“Yep,” I said.

“That thing’s too old to drive on the road,” Suzie said.

“I got here from Hornell in it,” I replied.

We got into the car, and I went through its convoluted starting procedure.

We drove until we hit FDR drive, and then turned left. The car was still noisy as all hell, and I piloted it up Harlem River Drive, until we got to I-95, which we took over the George Washington Bridge. We followed that to I-80, and I planned on taking us to Delaware Water Gap National Park.

The ride was in companionable silence, and for some reason another woman popped into my head: Maria “Missy” Ficcotelli.

Actually, I know why she popped into my head, and it said a lot about my subconscious thought process. She was a bit of a comeuppance for me. You see, this woman met me, used me for her own pleasure, and then dumped me at her convenience- and my considerable inconvenience, I might add.

Suzie wasn’t happy. I don’t know what that little performance with her husband was. If he was that stupid and insecure, I could imagine why she would be less than happy about him. I don’t know why she wanted to go on a long drive with a person she didn’t know at all to get away from him for now. She lives in Manhattan. She could get away from him without any help.

I was, frankly, feeling a bit used. Back then it was a useful lesson in humility. It was educational to know how some of the women I’d used over the years had felt about it. Now I had already learned that lesson, and I felt I was being taken up and attempted to be square pegged into the round hole of a middle-aged wive’s fairy tale.

I was in the process of slowly meandering my way to an Amtrak station; I don’t remember where I had come from, but I was at a Flying J just outside of Amarillo. I was at least 200 miles from the nearest Amtrak station with service to Chicago, which was a soft goal. It was way too warm for me in the south and wanted to wend my way to Chicago and then go see either Rachel or Cheryl.

I was at the restaurant. Anyway I was at the food counter. I had been dropped off by a trucker who was no longer traveling in a direction consistent with my plans. There weren’t hard feelings or anything. A truck stop was as good a place as any to pick up a ride. Truckers back then were usually happy to carry a passenger; it provided them company and they weren’t worried about taking care of themselves.

Anyway a woman sat down on the stool next to me. She was wolf-whistle hot. She had classic Sicilian looks. She looked just like Simonetta Stefanelli. Oh, you don’t know who Simonetta Stefanelli is? She was an Italian actress best known for playing Apollonia Vitelli-Corleone in The Godfather. Yes, she was truly that hot. As to why she’d be sitting down next to me, your guess is as good as mine.

She was wearing a tight blue t-shirt that emphasized her figure somewhat and an equally tight pair of jeans, which left little of the figure to the imagination. Her hair was pulled back into a tight pony tail. Just what she was doing in a truck stop was something of a mystery.

“Hey, I’m Missy,” she said to me.

“I’m Johnny,” I replied, “Where you from?”

“I’m originally from Joisey Citay,” she said, “Where yous from?”

“Upstate New York,” I said, “You wouldn’t know the town, but I’m from all over nowadays.”

“Yous drive 18 wheel?”

“No,” I laughed, “I’m just a hobo looking for a ride.”

“Where yous goin’?”

“Out of a Flying J,” I said.

“So anywheres, or what?”

“Well, I want to eventually get to Chicago,” I said, “And I’m looking for somebody to drop me someplace where I can catch a train there, but I’m not on a schedule.”

“Yous can’t be on a schedule if yous are hitchhiking,” she laughed.

“Nope,” I replied. My bacon and eggs arrived and I started eating it. I wasn’t expecting a ride from her; she probably drove with somebody, and a girl like that is usually scared of running with a guy like me. Her being a truck driver was a loss to the modeling industry, frankly, although I guess we prefer them a bit taller here.

“Anyways,” she continued, “I’s gots a seat open, if yous is interested.”

“Sure thing.”

We had a bit of pleasant meal conversation, she paid my bill over my objections and led me out to her truck. It was a nice truck; it was a close to new White/GMC Aero WIA with the big sleeper. It had standing room between the berth and the seats. It was loaded with a variety of options, including velour seats in the same red and grey. The side of the truck said “Goomba Trucking, M. Ficcotelli, Jersey City, NJ”. Perhaps she had a sense of humor; it had a picture of a Nintendo Mario Brother’s Goomba mushroom character as a logo.