Facing up to reality was never my strong suit. I made it through most of 1971 in exactly the kind of blur you could expect from an alcohol- and drug-impaired seventeen-year-old who still lived with his mother and hated every minute of it. Sex? Not even on the table. There were some advantages though. I could fool myself for a while longer and the rent was free. And if you think that a seventeen-year-old should be able to figure out what turns him on, you’d be wrong. There was just no roadmap. A few things came into focus, but it took a while. My friendship with Frank was one.

Frank Ruffino’s voice was soft; he didn’t like to make a fuss, but there was a lot in him just waiting to come out. That July night we’d gone to Babe’s to see the dancing, he had changed out of his hospital scrubs and was wearing jeans and black boots that laced all the way to his knees when he came to pick me up. “You have to take those off,” I said at the door. “My mom will have a fit if you get the rugs dirty. Not now but later, when I get home.” I pointed to the little gold-painted chair with green fringe. Frank just clenched his jaw and sat down.

Frank worked in the locked children’s ward at the Pilgrim State Mental Hospital in Brentwood. I visited there once and almost pissed my pants. As soon as I walked into the day room, this one kid, who must have been about five or six, grabbed my leg and wouldn’t let go. I yelled for Frank and wound up dragging the kid halfway across the room with me. “Sammy, leave Steven alone,” Frank said in a calm, reassuring voice.

“He’s my friend.” Sammy just smiled, repeated my name, emphasizing the second syllable—SteVEN, and released my leg. It was as easy as that. Another boy was sitting on the warped linoleum floor chewing on a rubber doll with no head. My own mental state back then was none too good what with the depression, the pot, the valium, and the alcohol, so it wasn’t hard to imagine attaching myself to some stranger’s leg for no good reason. Maybe, I thought, the day room at Pilgrim State is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

And the boots. I only mention them because Frank was angry at having to go through all the trouble of taking them off only to put them back on again ten minutes later. He was angry but he kept it corked up. I knew the signs because I was half in love with Frank but didn’t know it. In fact, I didn’t know much of anything.

When I dropped Frank into the conversation with my mom her reaction was typical—always ready to pounce. “He sounds kind of old, not like your other friends,” mom said at dinner, while passing me the mashed potatoes. “What is he, twenty-five, twenty-six?”

“What other friends Mom? There are no other friends.”

“Well, of course, you have lots of nice friends your own age. What about Jackie and George and that little what’s his name? Larry, Larry Timony—the one with the curly brown hair—who used to come over all the time?”

“That’s right, ‘used to.’ Like back in junior high. I haven’t seen any of those guys in years.”

“And if he’s married, why isn’t he at home with his wife instead of running around with you?” she continued.

“He just likes to get out on his own once in a while,” I responded. “You know, hang out with the guys, let off some steam.”

“What steam? Is there something wrong with him? Does he have some sort of a mental condition? Is that why he’s in that group of yours?”

She didn’t know Frank but already she didn’t like him, and she would never change her mind. That was mom all over.

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” I said, stabbing at the chicken with my fork, as though it were an intended murder victim, and looking at the clock. I had a strategy for those rapid-fire multiple questions. Answer the easiest one, then change the subject. It worked nine times out of ten.

And there was nothing wrong with Frank. As far as I was concerned he was perfect in just about every way. His first night in Maria’s group he was wearing a plain white t-shirt. Tight across his chest and arms. The curve of his biceps stretched the cotton whenever he moved, and his veins stood out in a way that made my teeth ache. Not like I had a cavity or anything but something indescribable. Sweet. But the funny thing was, I didn’t even know what it meant to feel that. It was all buried. I had been hit by an avalanche with no clue how to claw my way out. The pot helped, so did the beer and the pills but I wasn’t so dumb that I couldn’t recognize a quick fix that would lead nowhere except to the bottom of the barrel. Nobody I knew had ever been to a shrink, but I figured what the hell. I’ll never forget that first night walking from my car to the clinic. It was only a block but it felt like crossing the Sahara. And then, all of sudden, there was a whole room full of people yapping and moaning about their messed-up lives. I kept it a secret, especially from mom, but she wormed it out of me eventually and tried her best to get me to quit. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she pronounced. Case closed.

“He’ll be here any minute, Ma, I gotta go change,” I said, bolting up from the table. “Change? You walk around in the same jeans for a week! Now all of a sudden you have to change? Come back here, you haven’t finished your dinner. And I want to know more about this Frank. He has kids, yeah?” “Two,” I replied on my way out of the kitchen, “a boy and girl.” With mom the only chance of escape was to keep moving. The next thing I knew the doorbell rang and Frank was standing in my mother’s kitchen in his stocking feet.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” Frank said, refusing a glass of ginger ale offered with Mom’s thin-lipped hospitality.

“Stephen tells me you have two little babies. How wonderful! You must be very proud.”

“Yes, ma’am, very proud,” he mumbled, looking down at his white socks.

“It must be hard to tear yourself away,” mom continued as she wiped her hands on a dish towel and replaced the ginger ale in the fridge.

“You have no idea,” Frank replied, shooting my mother a look that would have unsettled most people.

“I guess they’re with your wife, I mean their mother tonight?”

“No,” Frank said. “What gives you that idea?”

“Well, I just assumed, since you’re here and…”

“Their mother is working tonight, and the kids are at the babysitters,” Frank cut in, his jaw starting to clench again.

Once, when Maria suggested that Frank let his wife know how he really felt about the dancing, his jaw clenched exactly the same way, only stiffer and tighter, like you could bounce a golf ball off it with no problem. Like maybe he’d crack a back tooth if he wasn’t careful. I noticed these things.

Maria ran the group therapy sessions at the township mental health clinic. She told me once that I was very perceptive, but I just looked away embarrassed and whispered, “I don’t feel very perceptive.” Maria was no fool, she knew I was fishing for compliments. Her only response was “Well, I think you are.” Then she moved on, searching for one more opportunity to shine a bleak light on someone’s depression, or marital disaster or alcoholic insanity. As far as I knew that’s what shrinks did. Made you squirm in front of other people and realize what a mess your life had become.

Heal me sister, heal me, was the first thing I thought every time I walked into Maria’s office with the fake wood paneling and the watercolor of peonies whose petals had already begun to drop. I even said it to her face once when Maria asked me what I wanted from the group, raising my hands over my head like I was at some kind of hillbilly revival meeting and laughing a little too loud and a little too long at my own joke. I think it made the rest of the group uncomfortable, or maybe it was just annoying. Either way, we were all content to slouch in every Monday night at 6:00 p.m. and slouch out again at 8:00 p.m. I guess there were worse ways of spending my time.

But that night it was all about Frank. Frank and, of course, his wife Lauretta. And Babe’s. Babe’s Inferno was a roadhouse on Route 110. That’s what you would call it in polite company. In reality it was a titty bar that served watered down drinks and catered to a sad sack clientele. Sandwiched between an all-night diner that featured free bowls of pickles on every table, and a weathered real estate office, you pulled into the gravel parking lot out front to be greeted by an illuminated sign in the shape of a very curvaceous woman with long, wavy black hair tossed casually over one shoulder. Red lights—blinking on and off—stood in for her nipples. They served as twin beacons for the losers and early-stage alcoholics who got a big thrill every time the music was cued up and the shimmering mylar curtain parted. That blinking pair drew them in from all over Suffolk County. As far as these guys were concerned, a stool at Babe’s was better than orchestra seats to a hit Broadway show. Way better.

“Seems like a pretty cool place,” I said to Frank as we pulled up. “You must come here a lot.”

“This is my first time,” Frank said. “Lauretta told me I had to show up here at least once or she would be really mad at me, so here I am.”

“You mean, you never…”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Frank replied, his jaw tightening. “I never. And after tonight, I never will again.”

Frank was complicated and aggressive in a quiet, barely held-in-check kind of way. That and his dark coffee-bean eyes sucked me right in. And being an early-stage alcoholic and loser-in-training myself, just waiting around for something, anything, to happen, all I could think of to say was, “Wow!”

“Oh yeah. She makes all her own costumes, too. What there is of them. Did I tell you that?” Frank continued, pulling out his Marlboros and shoving the pack at me. “She sends the kids to a babysitter on Tuesdays and Thursdays now so she can work on her routines and sew costumes. ‘I’m an artiste,’ she says to me. ‘I need time to create.’ Lauretta is dead serious about this and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Then suddenly, Frank smiled and steadied my hand with his as he lit my cigarette. It made me feel funny inside when he touched me like that. And I felt honored that he was telling me all this. I never heard him talk so much before.

“You should talk to her, Frank,” I said, coughing a little on the Marlboro and fanning myself in the dank, mid-summer heat. “Tell her how you feel.”

Frank just looked at me with those dark dagger eyes. “I get enough of that shit from Maria,” he said, placing his hand in the small of my back, “let’s go, we don’t want to miss Lauretta’s first number.”

I dropped back and let Frank take the lead because I liked watching him walk. He moved so easily, so gracefully, yet tough, contained. Even the way he took off his jacket, once we were inside, was his own masculine version of ballet. It turned out that Babe’s was pretty substantial looking for a dump. The long, dark wood bar was backed by a huge gold-framed mirror that reflected the action on the stage. That night the place was a sea of moist, flabby bodies and glistening combovers sprayed resolutely into place. Rolled up sleeves revealed forearms that were furry and gray. Unresolved lust shone on nearly every face, but it was a weak kind of lust that would probably be satisfied later on by a quick, self-inflicted hand job. Don’t ask me how I knew these things, I did that’s all. Maybe Maria was right about me, other people I could figure out, I just couldn’t get a handle on myself.

“How about a nice cold one, buddy?” Frank said as we pulled up our stools. “I’m buying tonight.” I liked that Frank called me buddy and I blushed a little at the pleasure of it. Fortunately, it was too dark for him to see. I just nodded my assent and soon two creamy mugs appeared before us, foam sliding down the sides in small fizzy pools.

“Did I ever show you this?” Frank said pulling out a shiny leather wallet from his back pocket. “It’s a picture of Lauretta and the kids from last summer at Jones Beach.”

“Jones Beach is so great,” I gushed. “I love that place, especially the hot dogs and the...”

“Yeah whatever,” Frank interrupted. “It’s just a lot of sand and water.”

I took the photo from him and held it up to my face for a closer look in the dim, smoky light. The kids were pretty much what you would expect: adorable, playing with beach toys and scrunching up their faces for the camera, but it was Lauretta that shimmered. Auburn hair cascaded around her perfect come-hither face and a red two-piece bathing suit covered a tiny, yet voluptuous frame. She was a compact version of Rita Hayworth with a smile that was movie star perfect except for a petite scar at the corner of her mouth. From that picture I could see that Lauretta had set her sights far beyond some shabby public beach. The south of France maybe. A sheltered bit of sand in front of the Copacabana Palace in Rio, also possible. And no doubt there were fans, hungry for more of her, just out of camera range, that watched Lauretta’s every move.

Frank waited impatiently for my reaction. “The kids…the kids are real cute, Frank,” I stumbled. “Looks like they’re having a great time.”

Then I looked at the photo again as if I had missed something. “And Lauretta is a real knockout,” I said in a whisper that barely registered against the gruff, deep-voiced chatter and canned music that signaled the start of the show.

Snorting, Frank snatched the photo from my hand. “Yeah, you’re a real knockout, aren’t you Lauretta?” he said looking intently at the picture of his wife. Running his finger down the length of it he placed it carefully on the bar and waited for the show to begin.

Just then the mylar curtain rustled and a man walked out on stage —short, round with deep set blue eyes that rightly belonged on a movie star, not on some schlub in a dirty t-shirt. He grabbed the microphone and looked out at the crowd. “Gentleman,” and I use that term loosely, I’m Babe.” He waited for the laugh and got a half-hearted one from the regulars in the room. “Welcome to Babe’s Inferno. It is my tremendous pleasure to introduce our first performer of the evening. The lovely, and I do mean gorgeous, Miss L!”

At the mention of her name, Frank swiveled slowly around on his stool to face the mirror behind the bar. He took a sip of his beer as the tape began to play. It was Don McLean’s American Pie, the song that had peaked on the charts months before. Frank told me that she had been rehearsing to it for weeks.

Lauretta slithered through the mylar as the first line of the song ended. The crowd got quiet and for some reason I panicked. Maybe it was the breasts—Frank’s wife’s breasts—even though small, they filled the room. Following Frank’s lead, I swiveled around and faced the mirror, my eyes glued on Lauretta’s reflection. Her costume was red, white, and blue. Sequins mostly. And high white go-go boots. She surveyed the audience and threw a half-hearted wave in the direction of the bar. Then she settled into her routine. She jiggled a little, smiled a little, twirled a little, and moved stiffly. Like a thirty-year old mother of two who had spent more time bending over a washing machine than a ballet barre. Even I—whose knowledge of these things was limited—could tell that Lauretta wasn’t much of a dancer. But the audience liked her just fine. The quiet had faded, replaced by clapping, whistling, and a buzzy hum of conversation.

Frank never took his eyes off the mirror.

“Great show, huh, Frank?” I said.

But Frank didn’t say a word.

The problem with American Pie is that it goes on forever. Eight minutes and thirty-three seconds to be exact. If it had only been half as long, Lauretta might have gotten away with it. But everybody from Buddy Holly to the Beatles had to have their turn. It was the entire history of pop music squeezed into one song. Long enough to drink a beer and get more than a little bored if the dancing isn’t that great.

Finally, some guy in front yelled out, “pick it up Lauretta. I want to see them titties really jiggle.”

This was followed by a roar of approval from the audience and from Frank a noise deep down in his throat that came out as a stifled moan.

I looked over at him, then back at the mirror, nervously fumbling with my beer.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, sweeping the photograph to the floor, where it landed in a puddle of spilled beer, and grabbing my arm. He pulled me through the crowd toward the door and I felt the heat of his hand on me. Up onstage Lauretta’s eyes followed us, mourning our departure. Her insistent bobbing up and down reminded me of a wind-up toy. The crowd had turned on Lauretta and she seemed to be counting out the seconds until the music died.

 

********

 

Back in the parking lot Frank calmed down a little. He even laughed once. “My wife Lauretta,” he said. “Can you believe that?” Since this didn’t seem like a question that needed answering, I pulled a joint out of my windbreaker and fired it up; passing it to Frank once the tip was hot and glowing. He took a long, deep hit and let the smoke dribble slowly from his mouth, while trying to suppress a cough. Then he grabbed the front of my jacket and looked me in the eye. It was all I could do to hold his gaze without turning away. I almost reached out to touch his face but something held me back.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” Frank said.

“I, I just…I don’t know.”

“Well quit it, will you? I’ve got enough on my mind without worrying about what you’re up to.”

Just then Babe’s front door opened, releasing a trio of patrons into the muggy night. They were bathed in splinters of bright light that caught us in their glare. Frank dropped his hands from my collar and jumped back. “Let’s go,” he said a voice now ragged around the edges. In the car, Frank’s car—that smelled of Old Spice and cigarettes—we sat side-by-side and finished the joint, listening drowsily to the radio.
When it was down to a roach, Frank exhaled so hard that his body trembled. He dropped his head gently on my shoulder and I could feel the tension in his jaw relax. Outside, the electric nipples blinked, casting a reddish glow over our faces as I sat completely still, hardly daring to breathe.