Hard Love (2 page)

“Right,” Brian said sarcastically. “
Your
life’s so full. You don’t even have a
dream
girl.”

I had to laugh, which probably wasn’t the response Brian was expecting. But I don’t mind him zinging me back. It’s the only reason we’re friends at all. We recognized each other the first day we met—two hollow souls trying to pass for normal. Together we still add up to zero, but at least our hopelessness has a twin. It works well enough. I don’t mind hanging around with a kindly fool, and Brian doesn’t mind hanging around with a witty misanthrope. And it appears to the world as if we each have at least
one
friend.

Of course, I hadn’t bothered to tell Brian that lately my life didn’t seem quite so yawningly empty as before. He wouldn’t understanding that reading things somebody wrote in a magazine could change you.

“Call me later, if you want to,” I said. It was the least I could do. “Let me know how it goes.”

“Screw you,” Brian said, and turned to go into the theater, his head drooping onto his chest, tail between his legs. At least he was still swearing at me. That was a good sign.

Interview with the Stepfather

I don’t know what it means really—it’s not how I’d ever talk to Mom’s dishwater-drab boyfriend Al—but I like the way it sounds. It’s true, even though it never happened. That’s what I love about writing. Once you get the words down on paper, in print, they start to make sense. It’s like you don’t know what you think until it dribbles from your brain down your arm and into your hand and out through your fingers and shows up on the computer screen, and you read it and realize: That’s really true; I believe that.

Typed up
Interview
filled three pages of my zine, which brought the total number of pages to twelve. Not as long as some of the zines I’d seen, but long enough for a first issue. Especially since I still had to get it copied and stapled by tomorrow night before Dad came to pick me up for the weekend.

I’m not much of an artist, so the cover looks a little cheap. Just the title,
Bananafish
, in fancy letters that took me hours to draw, and a photocopy of an old picture of me when I was three years old, sitting behind a birthday cake screaming my head off. The picture would be grainy when I copied it again, but that was okay. Zines were supposed to look like that, homemade and weird.

I thumbed through my copy of
Escape Velocity
one more time to see if there was anything I’d forgotten. This was the most incredible zine of all the ones I picked up the past few months at Tower Records. Although the cover was fancier than mine with the kind of clip art and newspaper headlines and crazy drawings that you usually see in zines, inside was mostly writing, wild, funny writing about all kinds of stuff.
The author, somebody named Marisol, has this electric brain that leaps from one subject to another, each one stranger than the last. She claims to be seventeen, but she sounds much too cool to still be in high school.

She wrote about walking in the cemetery and imagining old dead families still arguing, lying underground and berating each other over whose fault it was that Junior never made a go of the business, or why Eleanor, though a beauty, had been unlucky in love. She gave a list of Shakespearean insults and begged her readers to call each other “hasty-witted pontificating footlickers,” so as to put some “grit and romance” back into the English language.

There was an article called “Why My Mother Still Has a Dorothy Hamill Haircut,” which actually had me laughing out loud, which goes against my basic instincts. The gist of this one was that her mother wants to remind people that Dorothy Hamill (some Olympic ice-skater from the seventies) should still be their role model. “Mom is on a mission to convince girlkind that big thighs don’t count against you as long as you smile shyly up at folks through a swingy wave of clean hair. She would tell you (if she were here) that a good blunt cut draws the eye away from a low center of gravity.” It goes on like that for pages.

Then there was a page titled “Why My Father Still Watches Lawrence Welk Reruns on Cable.” That was at the top of the page, then halfway down, in the middle of all this white space, it says, “Sometimes the truth is unknowable.”

My favorite piece didn’t even have a title. It was on the first page and it just started right out:

My name is Marisol, which means “bitter sun.” But I am not bitter because that would be a waste of my time, and wasting time is one of the only sins worth worrying about. Marisol, so I’m told, is a very popular name in Puerto Rico, where I have never been. My birth parents were Puerto Rican, and because my adoptive mother, the white Yankee social worker, is particularly sensitive to these kinds of issues, she named me according to my heritage. My adoptive father was born in Cuba, but came to the U.S. when he was twelve. No one is more American than my Cuban college professor daddy. Adopting me was small potatoes after adopting a new country, a new language, new loyalties, new life. And so I became Marisol Guzman, Puerto Rican Cuban Yankee Cambridge, Massachusetts, rich spoiled lesbian private-school gifted-and-talented writer virgin looking for love.

God! When you read something like that you can’t help but believe it. I mean, it’s not just some smartass trying to impress you with some baloney. I really have to admire the way Marisol just lays her life out for people to see, like she loves the weird way she is, and if you had any sense, you would too. Every time I read that over, I feel like I’m looking down through layer after layer of her, until I’m looking more deeply inside this person I don’t even know than I’ve ever looked inside myself. I want to write like that too. Maybe I even want to
be
like that. And I sure as hell want to meet her.

The only thing I still needed to do was put my name on the cover and I’d be finished with my zine. But who was I? Marisol might not be her real name. Maybe she just liked that stuff about the “bitter sun.” Like I said, you can be “true” without always telling the truth. People use made-up names for their zines all the time, names like Ratty and Tanker and Whizzer. No way was I going to put “by John F. Galardi Jr.” John Galardi sounded like some dull stiff, some nerd extraordinaire who couldn’t get out of his own way. And that Jr. thing I never used. What’s that about, anyway? It’s like telling your kid, “You’re just a smaller version of me, Son. You’re not really
worth
a name of your own.”

So, I was thinking I might use “Giovanni.” Why not? One name, foreign, unusual, memorable, but still, almost my real name—if only I’d been born in Italy instead of Darlington, Mass. I inked it in carefully at the bottom of the cover, all the letters slanted backward like these cool dudes walking.

“Mom, I need the car for a little while, okay?” God, she
was sitting in the dark again. I thought that was over with now that she had Al to replace Dad. She’d spent the better part of five years, evenings anyway, sitting on that scratchy old couch in the dark. “Resting” is what she called it, but it seemed to me more like burying herself alive. But then, this past winter the lights went on again, which had been a relief mostly, except that now there was usually this bald guy sitting on the couch next to her, pretty damn close too, grinning like a skinhead Mr. Rogers.

“It’s awfully late to go out, Johnny,” she said. She’d say it was awfully late to go out if it was noon.

“It’s only eight thirty. I have to get something copied for school tomorrow. Where’s Al?”

“He’s not coming over tonight. I’m … thinking about things.”

“You didn’t …? He’s not …?” God, if that creep dumped her …

“No. It’s not that.” She reached out and switched on a lamp, which made us both blink. “The thing is, Al asked me to marry him.” A twitchy smile kept coming and going while she talked.

“Oh.” No surprise—I figured it was coming. And what the hell were you supposed to say when your mother made an announcement like that? “I knew he would. I mean, he seems like the type who’d want to get married. He was married before.”

She kept on twitching. “Yup, we’re both used goods.”

“Oh, Mom.” I started booting the wall with my sneaker. Damn! I hated it when she said stuff like that,
feeling so sorry for herself. People got divorced all the time. Practically everybody I knew had divorced parents. Lots of them anyway. It was a fact of life. Why couldn’t she get used to it? I had.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “He’s been wonderful to me. I thought my life was over, but Al brought me back.”

More yuck. I also couldn’t stand it when she got confidential with me; I really didn’t want to know more than I had to about her relationship with old Al. “Well, I guess you’d better marry the guy then,” I said.

She laughed. “Easy for you to say. Ever heard the saying, ‘Once burned, twice shy’?”

“No.” How much of this conversation should I have to endure just to drive the car half a mile?

She picked a piece of hard candy from the dish on the coffee table and twisted the cellophane tighter around the sour ball. “If I marry him, I’m leaving myself wide open again. What’s to stop him from doing the same thing your father did?”

I banged the manila envelope against my leg. “Mom, the store’s gonna close. Could we discuss this another time?”

She stared at me, but I had the feeling she was seeing somebody else, maybe somebody standing right behind me. It creeped me out a little bit. “We used to be close when you were younger. Before things got bad with your father. Do you remember?”