Читать книгу Full Circle - Michael Thomas Ford - Страница 13

It is a dreadful thing to feel responsible for someone else’s well-being, and worse when that person seemingly feels no reciprocal obligation. Not that Jack didn’t care about me. He did. But as we got older, his idea of caring came to consist primarily of making sure I wasn’t ostracized socially, and this he did mostly because he needed to be sure of his own position in teenage society.

If I sound bitter, perhaps I am. Whether this is justified or not I cannot say. I only know that I spent a great deal of my time during the next few years keeping a watchful eye on Jack. I was always on the lookout for danger, always suspicious that disaster waited behind every corner. I developed a wariness that manifested itself in almost pathological shyness and a tendency to walk around with my shoulders pulled up. A stiffness settled in my neck and refused to go away.

I realize that I’m making Jack sound like a first-class egomaniac. He wasn’t. He was a teenage boy, with all the usual faults of teenage boys. If others existed for his convenience, it was only partially his fault. As I’ve said, people tended to orbit around Jack, anxious to either earn his notice or take care of him. Boys liked him. Girls swooned over him. Through the changing parade of friends and hangers-on, I was the one constant, always there, always waiting.

During this time I learned to more or less ignore the feelings I had for Jack, or at least to convince myself that what I felt was friendship on a level slightly more focused than usual. This I attributed to the fact that we’d been thrust together at birth. It was only natural, I rationalized, that I would be closer to him than I would be to other boys. If I happened to sometimes think about him while I touched myself (after repeated failure, I’d given up hope of ever remaining chaste), that was only because we were so often together that he came naturally to mind. And if I thought about other boys as well, and never about girls, well, that was something I didn’t allow myself to examine too closely.

Besides, I had gotten good at feigning interest in girls. Largely this was accidental, as I still didn’t quite realize that I had any real reason to pretend. My imaginings during masturbatory sessions were not overtly sexual, tending to focus more on vague daydreams about intense friendships. When I did allow myself to think about sex, it was in an offhand way, based mostly on glimpses of other boys in the locker room and wondering what it would be like to kiss or touch them. Even then, I hadn’t the faintest idea what two boys might do together, and my fantasies almost always stopped above the waist.

And anyway, I liked girls. I found them interesting, at least when they weren’t giggling and whispering together in corners, as they seemed often to be doing. I found that, with some effort, I could even engage with the other boys in conversations about which girls were the most kissable, personable, or likely to put out if asked (not that I really knew what this meant). If I never quite got to the point of actually asking one of them to a school dance, or to a movie, that was attributed to my retiring nature.

Girls were no problem for Jack. The charm he’d evidenced since birth only grew brighter as he reached his mid-teens. Where most of us spent a year or two battling acne, awkward bodies, and the ravages of hormones, Jack went through all of it seemingly overnight, going to bed a boy and waking up the next just a moustache away from manhood. His hair, once flaxen, was now a deep gold, which perfectly suited his blue eyes. Tall and lean, he’d discarded his baby fat long ago, leaving only muscle behind. It never occurred to him to feel inadequate because he was always the one against whom other people measured themselves.

It was no surprise that girls wanted to be with him, and beginning in the spring of 1964, he was frequently booked for Friday and Saturday nights. Often I was dragged along, usually as the partner of Jack’s date’s less-attractive friend. As it didn’t matter to me what a girl looked like, this would have been the perfect arrangement, at least if the girls I was paired up with didn’t inevitably fall in love with me. Several times I found myself doggedly pursued by a girl in whom I’d shown only polite interest. This would usually involve a few weeks of telephone calls and invitations to future events, all of which I accepted out of fear of hurting the girl’s feelings. But eventually whatever charm I initially possessed seemed to wear off, and after two or three get-togethers, the girls usually moved on. I was puzzled by this interest in me for some time, until on the night of September 2, 1964, I received an explanation.

In February of that year America was introduced to the music of the Beatles. Like just about everyone else under the age of 25, Jack and I embraced this new sound enthusiastically. We purchased Meet the Beatles, which we played over and over until our parents begged us to stop. Thankfully, the Fab Four released three more albums before the summer was over, giving us a regular supply of new material with which to irritate the adults in our lives, who eyed our growing hair with suspicion and longed for the days of Marty Robbins and Patti Page.

When it was announced that the Beatles would be playing a concert at Philadelphia’s Convention Hall in September, we knew we had to be there. But with tickets to the show sold out in a matter of minutes, we had little hope of going. That is until Lorelei Pinkerton asked Jack if he wanted to go with her. Short, plump, and years behind her peers in the development department, Lorelei had the classic plain girl’s advantage of cleverness. Sensing early on that John, Paul, George, and Ringo were something special, she had quickly volunteered to start the local chapter of their fan club. As president, she wielded enormous power, particularly when it came to tickets for the upcoming show. She had four of them, and because of this she was in much demand. She had already been asked by half a dozen boys and begged by five times that many girls, all of whom promised to love her unconditionally if she would allow them to accompany her.

She had turned down all of them for Jack. She sat near him in several classes at school, and although he’d never so much as said hello to her, she had fallen under his spell. Now she presented him with an invitation which, despite her lack of beauty, he could hardly decline. He did, however, demand a compromise. He would go with her as long as I was allowed to come as well. Lorelei countered with a demand of her own—I would have to be the date of her cousin Betty-Anne, who was coming into town from Baltimore for the event. Negotiating on my behalf, Jack agreed, and with the deal struck, we looked forward to the date.

That Wednesday night we walked to the Pinkertons’ house to meet the girls and be driven by Lorelei’s father to the show. When we arrived, we were met on the porch by a thin, pretty girl with blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She smiled, cocked her head, and introduced herself as Betty-Anne. She beamed broadly at Jack, giving me the most cursory of glances. When she went inside to inform Lorelei of our arrival, Jack turned to me.

“Here’s the plan,” he said. “You’re going to be nice to Lorelei, and I’m going to have a little fun with Betty-Anne. Got it?”

By then accustomed to doing whatever Jack said, I nodded without arguing. It was a stupid idea, I knew, but I also knew that once he’d settled upon a plan, Jack was determined to see it through regardless of the consequences it brought him or, more likely, me. Besides, Lorelei seemed like a nice enough girl, where Betty-Anne and her ponytail scared me. I didn’t know what to say to a girl like that.

When the girls came back out, we saw that Betty-Anne had attempted a makeover on her cousin, with dubious results. Lorelei’s hair, normally flat, had been curled into ridiculous ringlets. Her face had been powdered to hide the pimples on her chin, and makeup had been applied with abandon to her lips and eyes. The overall effect was startling, as if she’d had an accident of some kind.

“You look nice,” I told her, knowing instinctively that she was aware of her predicament and needed reassuring.

“Thanks,” said Lorelei. She looked to Jack for his appraisal, but he was already deep in conversation with Betty-Anne. I could tell by Lorelei’s expression that she knew she’d lost already, and was trying to decide how much of a fight to put up.

“It was really great of you to invite us,” I said quickly, attempting to distract her from her humiliation. “This is going to be cool.”

Lorelei looked at me as if for the first time. She smiled, and for a moment she did look pretty, even under the gaudy makeup. She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “It will.”

I wonder sometimes if Lorelei ever thinks about that night and, if so, how she remembers it. I remember a long drive into the city, where we were dropped outside Convention Hall by Mr. Pinkerton, who told us to be back in that exact spot at eight-thirty sharp to meet him. I remember pushing through what felt like the biggest, noisiest crowd in the world. Talking was an impossibility, as the air was filled with the screams of girls, all of whom wanted desperately to marry a Beatle.

And, of course, I remember the music. Although the constant screaming made it difficult to hear the band, there was no mistaking the sounds of “Can’t Buy Me Love,” “A Hard Day’s Night,” and the other songs that had been staples on radio stations all summer long. We sang along, danced as much as we could while pressed together by a sea of bodies, and reveled in the joy of being young. When John Lennon launched into “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” I looked over to see Jack and Betty-Anne doing exactly that. In a burst of expansiveness, I reached for Lorelei’s hand and took it in mine. She wrapped her fingers around mine and kept them there for the remainder of the show and during our exit from the hall. Only when we approached her father’s waiting Wagonaire did she reluctantly withdraw, leaving me to wipe my sweaty palm on the leg of my pants.

Mr. Pinkerton had spent the two hours of the concert at a local watering hole, and was in a grand mood. He even allowed us to open the Wagonaire’s peculiar rear hatch, designed so that tall objects could be transported easily. The fresh air cooled the heat generated by our excitement and the tight confines of the show, and gave Jack an excuse to put his arm around Betty-Anne. Mr. Pinkerton, his vigilance against hanky-panky dulled by half a dozen beers, pretended not to notice.

Lorelei scooted over on the seat and pressed her side meaningfully against mine. Having made the first move by holding her hand, I felt obligated to go on, and so dutifully placed my arm across her shoulders. She leaned her head to one side, so that her hair pressed against my cheek and tickled my nose. For the remainder of the ride, I tried to gently blow it away from my nostrils, all the while fearing that Lorelei would mistake my puffing for further attempts at lovemaking.

It was on the front porch that I had my revelation. While Jack and Betty-Anne snuck a few kisses away from the glare of the porch light, Lorelei sat on the steps beside me, her hands folded neatly on her lap.

“Thanks for coming with me,” she said. “I had a good time.”

“Me, too,” I told her. “Thanks for asking me. I mean for asking Jack.”

I hesitated, afraid I’d said the one thing that would ruin the evening. I hadn’t meant to remind Lorelei that I hadn’t been her intended date, and that the boy she had asked was now busily kissing her traitorous cousin not six feet away from where we sat.

“I’m sorry,” I said, fumbling for words. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay,” Lorelei said. “Really. I had a better time with you anyway.”

“You did?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

She nodded. “Jack is, well, Jack,” she said cryptically. “You’re different. You’re nice.”

“Nice,” I repeated.

“Nice is good,” said Lorelei, sensing that I might be disappointed by her choice of descriptive. “You make me feel like a real person, not some airhead like Betty-Anne.”

“You think she’s an airhead?” I asked her.

Lorelei snorted. “Have you seen my hair?” she said. “Whose idea do you think this was?”

I laughed. “It’s not so bad,” I said. “And you’re pretty nice, too.”

Lorelei paused, then said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I replied.

“Why are you friends with him?”

“Jack?” I said. “We’ve always been friends. Why?”

“You’re just so different is all,” said Lorelei.

“Maybe that’s why we’re friends,” I suggested.

“Maybe,” Lorelei said, not sounding convinced. “Anyway, I hope you and I can be friends.”

“You mean go out again?” I said hesitantly, having been down this road before.

“No,” she said. “Just friends. No offense, but I think you make a better friend than a boyfriend.”

“Oh,” I said, both surprised and relieved.

Lorelei, apparently taking my response for dejection, put her hand on mine. “Not that it wasn’t fun holding hands and all that,” she said.

“No, it’s okay,” I told her. “Friends is fine. I’d like that.”

She kissed me on the cheek. “I couldn’t go out with you anyway,” she said as she stood up. “I’m saving myself for George.”

“George?” I said. “What about Paul? He’s a lot better looking.”

“I’ll see you in school next week,” said Lorelei as she entered the house, letting the door bang loudly to alert Betty-Anne, who pulled herself away from Jack and reluctantly followed her cousin inside.

“She’s some girl,” Jack said as we walked home. “What a kisser! How’d you do with Lorelei?”

“I had fun,” I said. “I like her.”

Jack continued to talk about Betty-Anne and her assets. I tuned him out, thinking about what Lorelei had said about me making a better friend than a boyfriend. I didn’t fully comprehend what she meant, but it made some things a lot clearer for me. Maybe the girls who fell for me did so not for any definable reason, but because they felt comfortable around me. Where Jack had looks and personality, perhaps I had something less tangible but equally powerful.

Maybe, I thought, that’s why Jack, too, continued to befriend me. Was it really possible that with all the attention heaped upon him by so many people, what he really sought was someone who saw beyond his looks and charm to the person underneath? It was an intoxicating thought, and thinking that it might be true filled me with more joy than holding the hand of Lorelei, or any other girl, ever could.