Tom Mendicino - Probation

It appears she’s keeping those goddamn Dawn Powell books.

And, at last, in the heaviest boxes at the bottom of the stacks, I find hundreds of LPs in their faded and frayed jackets. Damn, it’s the mother lode! These things are worth hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars now that the warmth and beauty of the crackling imperfections of vinyl, once rejected in favor of unbreakable, unscratchable technology, has been rediscovered, championed by record store geeks, indie pop front men, and contrarians.

Not bad, I think as I shuffle the records, impressed by the range and depth of my musical knowledge and tastes. The collection spans generations and genres, from the most glittering, shimmering pop to chord-crunching R &B, from plaintive folksongs to soul-crushing blues.

And The Greatest Hits of George Jones and Tammy Wynette.

Twelve three-minute masterpieces, each one a classic.

“Golden Ring.”

“Two Story House.”

“Near You.”

Perfect harmonies, pierced by searing aches and throbs, transcending camp and kitsch to soar to that point in heaven where pain and desperation intersect with hope and optimism. Jesus, what chance was there for me and Alice to succeed where the two most glorious voices in Nashville had failed?

“We’re Gonna Hold On.”

And so we did, until it was time to give up the ghost and move on.

I debate for a minute, telling myself that, some day, I’m going to regret not exerting the small amount of energy I’d need to load the car with these boxes, the only evidence left of the union, imperfect as it was, between my wife and the man who loved her as best he could.

And so I compromise, taking Absalom, Absalom! and Wuthering Heights and The Greatest Hits of George Jones and Tammy Wynette, lock the door, and drive away.

I knew from the outset it was a mistake. The timing wasn’t right. I wasn’t ready. I was too inexperienced. Yes. Inexperienced. Not because I’d simply been away from the playing field for years and, with a little practice, could bring my skills back to championship form. The sorry truth was I’d never played the game at all. Alice hadn’t merely rescued me from virginity. The wry little smart-ass with a studied, worldly demeanor eating alone in the Davidson College dining hall had never even been on a date. The closest I’d ever got to the prom was a fifth-aisle seat at Carrie. I had reached the brink of middle age without being issued the playbook on dating. I was totally ignorant of how to call a pass pattern, oblivious to the rushing offense, clueless about defensive positioning, incapable of running a punt return, stone deaf to the two-minute warning. All in all, it was the perfect scenario for a fumble.

I saw him in the shadows, standing near the dance floor. There were silver highlights in his close-cropped hair and he looked to be completely gray at the temples. But when he stepped into brighter light, I saw he had a baby’s face, pink and healthy, without a crease, not a day over twenty-five. I walked away, seeking a beer and a quiet room. And then I looked up and he was standing directly in front of me. He caught my eye and smiled, pretending to be engaged in conversation with the friend next to him. Interested, obviously, expectant, but too shy, too inexperienced to speak first. A big boy. An overgrown cherub. Soft. Warm. The fine blond down on his cheeks was damp from either exertion or nerves. Probably nerves, since I hadn’t seen him shaking his booty on the dance floor.

His name was Steve and he was a medical resident. Great, I assumed, he’s older than I thought. Then he told me he’d done a five-year program, meaning he went straight from high school to anatomy and pharmacology without wasting four years on the Great Books and music appreciation. He was a first-year resident now, an intern, with a long haul until he’s certified by the American Board of Emergency Medicine.

He said he lived close to the bar. Alone. In one room with a sleeper sofa. Don’t expect too much, he told me, not wanting me to be disappointed. We opened the bed together, backs to opposite walls of the tiny room. The sheets didn’t match and there was only one pillow. The blanket was rough as sandpaper. The first few moments were awkward and the night seemed destined to end in frustration and failure as he resisted the only plays I knew how to execute-quick rough jabs, poking his asshole with my fingers, grinding, pushing, racing to a quick, fierce conclusion.

“Slow down, we have all night.” He laughed.

All night…with no eye cocked to the bedside clock or wristwatch, no ear pricked for the sound of a creaking door announcing the arrival of an intruder looking to empty a full bladder, no mind distracted by the need to compose an excuse for being late, again, or a reason for being called out of town on short notice, again.

“I really like your body,” he said. “I want to get to know it.”

How long had it been since I’d last heard a few simple words of affection? My restless, frantic assignations were always accompanied by a soundtrack of guttural grunts punctuated with harsh commands, suck it, fuck me, yes, god, yes. I flipped him on his back and pinned his wrists above his head, a clear message that he was my prisoner now and that it was useless to try to escape. He smiled and opened his mouth, his wagging tongue inviting, no, begging, me to kiss him. I slapped my hand over his lips when he tried to speak, expecting dreaded words like daddy, sir. But he shook my fingers away easily, insisting I hear what he wanted to tell me.

“You have a really nice face. Your eyes are incredible.”

I’d never felt so completely possessed by another person before, never clung to anyone so greedily. Even the briefest bathroom break seemed like an eternity. There were no barriers, nothing I wasn’t willing to do, even allowing him to go where no one had been since the long red snake many years ago.

In the morning he asked me to wait so we could leave together. He wore his scrubs proudly, certain that they gave him an air of authority, but, to me, he looked like a happy toddler in a comfy playsuit. We exchanged phone numbers. He gave me his home number, but told me to try the cell first. He’s a busy guy, he said, on the move. He was young and having a romance with the commitments of grown-up life. The phone was his sweetheart. He wouldn’t have believed me if I had told him the day would come when he would be exhausted by its demands.

I waited a respectable three days, calling his home number from a different time zone, in midday, when I knew I’d reach his machine and avoid any possibility of awkward pauses, flimsy excuses, maybe even hostility. I couldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t remember anything about my face except the lines in my forehead and the bags under around my eyes.

Hi. It’s Andy. Just wanted to let you know I had a great time the other night. Hope you’re doing well. Stay in touch.

That’s it, I thought, I’ll never hear from him again. C’est la vie. He was a nice kid. I really liked him. I felt a kick to the stomach. My cell phone rang two hours later. I was finishing a sales call and let it roll into voice mail.

Hi. It’s Steve. Nice to hear your voice. Where are you? Texas? Right? When do you get back? Call me. I’ll be home tonight doing some reading. Bye.

He answered on the second ring. I told him about my late flight; he told me about the broken bone he’d set on a little boy. The dreaded awkward pauses never came. He asked when I would be home. We made a date for hamburgers and beer later in the week.

I was a few minutes early; he was right on time. He was still wearing his scrubs. His forehead was peppered with beads of perspiration. He’d rushed, afraid of being late. I extended my right palm for a handshake. He leaned forward and kissed me, not on the cheek, but smack on the lips. The hostess was too startled to ask smoking or nonsmoking.