Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Joey, the Hash King

Bridgeport, Connecticut, 1969

Sailboats floating on the blue water of the Long Island Sound filled the cover of the University of Bridgeport brochure. False advertising and a full academic scholarship offer had lured me to the mediocre Connecticut school against the advice of Mr. Cosco, my guidance counselor. He’d argued I should go to Wellesley or Johns Hopkins, two excellent academic colleges where I’d been accepted. But the schools hadn’t offered me near the amount of grant money as Bridgeport. Mr. Cosco was used to working with all the rich kids who attended West Meadow High and seemed clueless that the daughter of a
NYC
fireman could not afford private school tuition.

A pre-college visit to Bridgeport would have told the real story: trashed beaches, a dismal gray sky, and the stench of factory smokestacks. But I didn’t really care.
Playboy Magazine
rated Bridgeport as one of the top ten party schools. My folks hadn’t let me go to Woodstock last summer. Now was my chance to have fun.

Accompanied by my parents, I arrived at Bodine Hall, a red brick building on the corner of University Boulevard and Main Street. The dormitory bordered a tough Puerto Rican neighborhood where a gang of bikers loitered in front of a diner. My mother, a tall woman with bouffant hair, pointed at them and clutched her hand to her chest. “What type of school is this?”

Pop ran his fingers through his wavy salt-and-pepper hair and then shifted his eyes. “This is nothing like I expected.”

Inside the Bodine lobby, girls dressed in Levis and U.B. sweatshirts smiled at me as they lugged suitcases down the hall. Right then I knew the pleated skirts and loafers in my bags would never see the light of day. Thank goodness I’d brought along a pair of old Wranglers.

We rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and ambled down the hall with my overstuffed suitcase and duffle bag.
LAILA LEVIN
and
DENISE MANELO
were posted in bold lettering on the door of room 423.

My mother pursed her lips as she read my roommate’s name out loud. “Good lord, sounds like she’s Italian.”

I looked up and down the hall, thankful that no one was within earshot. “Who cares, Ma?”

My mother spent the next hour unpacking the suitcases. She insisted on organizing all my clothes. “Underwear and socks in the first drawer, hang up your sweaters—”

“Ma,” I began, and then gave it the kibosh. They were leaving soon enough. I decided to set up my new Panasonic all-in-one stereo instead.

Pop checked his watch. “We better get going, Ethel. We don’t want to get caught in rush hour on the
L.I.E
.”

My mother dabbed her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex. “You’ve always been a good girl, Laila. Remember, we trust you.”

I hugged her. They hadn’t let my older sister Rachel go away to college because of what Ma called her “wild ways” in high school.

Pop drew me into a bear hug. Then he pushed me away like he recognized the new phase beginning in my life. A tear slid down his cheek, which he quickly wiped off with his thumb. “Now, don’t forget your old dad.”

I’d never seen Pop teary-eyed before. “Of course, not.” I felt so mixed up. While I loved them a lot, it was time to leave the nest. I walked them to their Chevy Impala, hugged each parent again, and waved when they drove off.

Pop tooted the horn as he pulled out of the parking lot into the street traffic. For some reason that honking made me cry. Our final goodbye. I took a couple of deep breaths, wiped away the tears, and squinted at the sun peeking through the smog and clouds.

The new Laila Levin marched down the street in search of student orientation. I spent the next two hours listening to b-o-r-i-n-g speeches given by the college administrators, professors, and a couple of alumni.

Exhausted, I headed back to Bodine where I skipped the crowd at the elevator and marched up the four flights of stairs. When I reached my room, the door was open and it smelled like cinnamon incense. A small girl with granny glasses and this totally cool auburn hair that flowed to her waist stood thumbing through
my
record albums.

I lingered in the doorway unnoticed as she read the artists’ names out loud. “Laura Nyro, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, James Taylor, Joan Baez, Traffic, The Band, Van Morrison.” She pulled out my new Grateful Dead album and placed it on the turntable. Who was this girl rummaging through my stuff? Ef-in nervy of her.

I cleared my throat.

My new roommate peered at me over thick glasses. “You’re okay, Laila.”

“Huh?”

“Your taste in music is right on. I’m Denise, by the way.”

I decided against my first inclination to tell her to stay away from my things. “Thanks.”

“Music is fucking everything. I saw the Dead at the Fillmore last year.”

“I almost saw the Beatles at the Paramount, but they ran out of tickets and we ended up seeing the Dave Clark Five instead,” I said.

Denise sat down on the bed and tucked one leg under her other. “Who the hell are they?”

“Sort of Beatle copycats but more clean-cut. They, like, disappeared.”

“You’re from Long Island, aren’t you, Laila?”

“What of it?” I didn’t want to be stereotyped as a girl who came from
there
.

“Nothing. Seems like there’s a lot of you rich girls around.”

I laughed. “I may be from the island but I’m not part of that crowd. My father’s a fireman.”

“No shit. Mine was a cop.”

“Bummer. I was hoping my roommate would have expensive clothes I could borrow,” I said.

She grinned. “Hell, I was hoping for the same thing.”

We both laughed.

“You said your father
was
a cop. What does he do now?”

She gazed out the window. “He’s dead.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s okay. I mean it’s not
okay
, but it was a few years ago. He was killed at a crime scene. The
NYPD
has been good to our family. They gave me a full ride to Bridgeport. And helped my brother Danny, who’s been in and out of facilities.”

“Facilities?”

“Jail, loony bins, drug rehab, you name it.” She slapped her hands together. “How ’bout we take a walk down by Seaside Beach? I’ve heard we can cop a lid there. You do get high?”

My one experience at Camp Alamar probably didn’t count for much, but at least I’d tried it. “Who doesn’t?”

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON
as we strolled along the beach littered with Pabst Blue Ribbon beer cans (apparently a local favorite), Coca Cola bottles, toilet paper (yick), A&P grocery bags, a peanut butter jar, and other trash.

Denise pointed at something that looked like a synthetic jellyfish. “Ugh, look at that.”

“What is it?”

She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve never seen a condom before?”

I looked away. “Guess not.”

“My boyfriend Marco carried one in his pocket all the time. He used to say, ‘Just in case I get lucky.’”

I murmured, “Did he get lucky?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

The wind blew sand in our faces. The smell of salt water mingled with smog and miscellaneous trash until another pungent aroma attracted our attention.

Denise pointed at several sand dunes about ten yards away. “Look over there.”

Three longhaired guys and a hip girl in a halter-top and maxi skirt sat huddled on a wool blanket passing a metal pipe around. The guys appeared enamored with the wavy-haired brunette. One lit the pipe for her, while another held her hand on his lap. The third just looked desirously in her direction.

The scene reminded me of Scarlett O’Hara surrounded by all the southern gentlemen in
Gone With The Wind.

Denise gave me the high-five. Then she stopped to pat her hair and yank her V-neck sweater down to reveal more cleavage. When we reached the sand dunes, she produced a big smile. “Mind if we join you?”

They all looked up at us with bloodshot eyes. “Shit yeah!” said one, a burly guy with wild kinky hair. He pointed at Denise. “You, sit next
ta
me.”

“I’m Katie,” said the girl. “Which dorm do you chicks live in?”

It turned out that Katie not only had a room in Bodine, but she lived just down the hall. She told us she’d grown up in Westchester.

Denise sat next to the husky guy and he passed her the pipe packed with black rock. “I’m Joey, by the way. Joey Costello. Everyone knows me as the Hash King.”

Denise took a hit and passed Katie the pipe. “Good shit.”

Joey put his arm around Denise’s shoulders. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

“Denise Manelo.”

One of the guys doubled up with laughter. “Manelo and Costello, you two are meant to be.”

Joey watched Denise’s every move and handed her a chunk of hash to take back to the dorm. I pulled out a ten-dollar bill but he waved his hands. “Don’t insult me, honey. Just give me her phone numba.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon gossiping, giggling, and gagging on the hash pipe with Katie and the guys. They all lived at North Hall, the boys’ dorm across the street from Bodine. Two of them, Jack and Hal, were freshmen, while Joey was a sophomore.

At one point we saw a couple of guys in leather jackets walking in the distance along the shoreline. Their hair was long and slicked back in ponytails, and they looked somewhat tougher than the guys I knew. More like hoods than hippies.

Joey stood and formed his hands into a foghorn. “Hey, Ben, Chris. Over here.”

“You know those townies?” Hal said.

“Where ya think I score my dope?”

The townie dudes apparently hadn’t heard Joey as they continued to walk along the beach.

Katie stood and said she needed to head back to get ready for a dinner date with a senior she’d met at orientation.

Hal’s face looked glum.

She bent down and kissed him passionately on the lips. “Call me later, okay?”

Hal looked puzzled. “Ah, sure.”

Jack poked Hal in the side as Katie sprinted away. “Nice way to get dumped.”

“She said to call her. That’s not getting dumped,” Hal insisted.

“He’s a senior. You’re just a dumb freshman, idiot.”

Joey grabbed Denise’s hand and led her away from us.

I remained on the beach with the two freshmen. They finally quit arguing and relit the hash pipe. “I’m done,” I said, when the pipe came to me. This was only my second time. I was already quite buzzed.

The three of us sat talking about how orientation sucked and what classes we each were registered for. The conversation turned to the war in Vietnam and the guys said how relieved they were they’d scored high numbers in the draft lottery. Denise and Joey returned an hour later holding hands. Joey had a hickey the size of a half-dollar on his neck.

We all stared at the inky water and the star-filled sky. I felt a sense of euphoria as the sun set over the Long Island Sound. The night sky sizzled with purple and red color. Shades of pink-orange and bits of yellow reflected in the water. I was part of something big, the group, the beach, the sky. Of course, I was totally shit-faced.

Then suddenly the euphoria ended. A police siren wailed and someone yelled, “
RUN!
”

CHAPTER THREE

The Feast

Bridgeport, Connecticut, 1969

We scattered down the beach and hid behind the sand dunes as two cops rushed out with a bullhorn yelling, “Stay where you are.”

I was panting like a Saint Bernard as I huddled with Denise, Jack, and Hal. But Joey, the Hash King, was nowhere in sight.

Then the cops shouted, “You. Stop right there!”

The four of us crouched together out of sight as they read Joey his Miranda rights. Tears streamed down Denise’s face. Jack started to get up, but Hal pulled him down and whispered, “It won’t do him any good.”

We didn’t see Joey again for weeks. Cute boys flirted with Denise all the time, but she remained faithful to Joey. He had gained a sort of cult status around campus as the cool “Hash King” dude who’d been busted the first night of school.

Denise didn’t care much about her grades and dropped two of her classes. I, on the other hand, didn’t have the luxury to screw up. In order to keep my scholarship I needed a 3.5 cumulative average. That meant all A’s and B’s or back to Long Island. The thought of going home to my parents kept me hightailing it to the library.

Everyone talked about the war in Vietnam. Peaceful anti-war protests became a weekly event on campus. Radical groups like Students for a Democratic Society gained popularity. In November, a half-million people participated in an anti-war demonstration in Washington, DC.

Our dorm room became a major hangout. We’d get stoned and talk about how we felt the world was out of control. A girl on the next floor got pregnant. We all helped raise money to send her to Puerto Rico for an abortion. Most of the girls went to the U.B. clinic and got on the pill.

Denise became friends with Katie Birnbaum, the rich girl from Westchester we’d met the first night of school. Katie drove a fancy new Saab, wore the grooviest outfits, and had the largest record collection at Bodine. She received more phone calls from boys than the rest of us put together.

ONE NIGHT I LEFT DENISE
with a group of girls in our room to go get a six-pack of Cokes we’d bought from the refrigerator in the hall. I was headed back to the room with the sodas in my hand when someone grabbed my shoulder.

At first I didn’t recognize the dude standing behind me in an oversized tie-dyed T-shirt, jeans, and shades with purple-mirrored lenses.

“Do you remember me?”

He’d lost a lot of weight. “Joey?”

“I’m back in action, baby. Is your foxy roommate still available? Tell me she doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

I took Joey back to our dorm room. Denise screamed and raced into his outstretched arms. They’d only known each other that one night, but something special had taken place.

The next night Joey invited Denise to his dorm. She insisted I tag along, but I told her I needed to study for a biology test.

She grabbed my peacoat and handed it to me. “Can’t you fucking study later?”

I threw my coat on the bed. “What’s your problem? You know how much pressure I have to keep up my grades.”

“Okay, I admit it. I’m afraid to be alone with him.”

“Really. Why is that?”

She adjusted her granny glasses. “Have you actually… you know, done the deed?”

Should I lie? I so wanted to shed that prude reputation from high school. But could I bullshit my best friend? “No, well, almost, with Tommy Abrams at Camp Alamar. But I got scared at the last minute, bolted from the counselor cabin, and ran down the hill.”

She chuckled. “He must have been pissed.”

“Hell, yeah. Didn’t take but a day before he found some fast little number. It broke my heart.”

“This may shock the socks off of you, but, well, I haven’t done it either.”

I was confused. “But what about Marco? You said he used the condom, remember?”

“Yeah, after he dumped me, he used it all right. The bastard.”

Holy shit. Denise shared my virgin status. “I never would have guessed.”

She smiled. “Have you ever thought of the irony that our mothers had to keep it a secret if, God forbid, they got deflowered.”

“Or no one would marry them is what my mother always said. She told my sister Rachel that when she discovered her in bed with her high school boyfriend,” I said.

“And here we are, the first generation in women’s history, embarrassed by our virgin state.”

I felt more connected to Denise now that she had shared her secret. We hung out together in the lounge listening to the Bodine girls brag about their sexual escapades and winked at each other. Rarely did we join in the conversations other than to nod. I mean, what could we add? How do you follow stuff like, “Oh, my boyfriend gives the best, you know, shit with his tongue?” Or, “Jimmy’s got the biggest cojones I’ve ever seen.”

A few days before Christmas break, Denise went to visit Joey alone. She didn’t come back all night. The next morning, I knew what had happened the second she walked through the door. “You did it!”

She cocked her head to the side. “I think the whole sex thing is overrated.”

“Really?”


“Shit, yeah, no big deal. He kisses you a while and his hands wander down your bra. Then he rubs your boob with one hand, slips the other in your pants. Next thing you know, he’s got his thing inside you and he’s jerking up and down. Bada-bing, he’s done, and lights a cigarette.”

“Did it hurt when you got your… you know, hymenijiggie broken?”

“A little.”

“Do you love Joey?”

“I-I don’t know. Just glad to have gotten the damn thing over with.”

I thought Denise’s reaction was really strange. It shattered the childhood fantasy I had from watching romantic movies like
West Side Story
or
Gone With the Wind.
Denise made it sound about as exciting as getting your teeth cleaned.

WHEN I RETURNED HOME
to Long Island for winter break, I felt alienated from everyone there. My parents were on my case for staying up late, talking long-distance on the phone to Denise, and refusing to go to synagogue with them on Friday night.

One night, my mother barged in my room and caught a glimpse of me in my bra and panties. She clucked her tongue and said, “Looks like you’ve gained a few, honey.”

“Well, maybe I have,” I said. Cafeteria food choices were limited. I’d been eating more than I should have of comfort foods like macaroni and cheese and pizza. Ma had kept my sisters and me on portion-controlled diets all our lives.

“It’s important to watch our figures, honey.” She reminded me that I’d never find a husband if I got too fat. Especially a Jewish doctor or lawyer. “They can afford to be choosy.”

I was five-foot-seven and weighed about one hundred twenty-five pounds. “I’m not Twiggy,” I said, but she made me feel self-conscious even though everyone else said I looked slender. Besides, I wasn’t so sure I was interested in a ‘nice Jewish doctor.’ But I didn’t dare share that information with my mother.

My sister Rachel had married a pompous lawyer who bragged about all the money he made. She was only three years older than I but living in a world of china patterns, bridal chests, and maternity clothes. My old high school friends had changed, too. One of them asked me if hippies ever took baths. Had I ever really fit in with these girls? Maybe it was I who had changed.

While I was home, we received news that a neighborhood boy, Billy Klafter, had been killed in an offensive on Saigon. He was a gangly kid with red hair and freckles and a discolored front tooth. As children, we had played tag and chased fireflies on balmy summer nights. In high school, Billy and I hung out together at the bus stop playing dumb games like Twenty Questions. It pained me to think I’d never see his freckled-face again.

In deference to Billy, I peeled off the American flag sticker my father proudly displayed on his Buick. At dinner that night Pop brought up what had happened to his sticker. “Who would do such a thing?” he wanted to know. “So disrespectful to our country.”

He clearly didn’t suspect Amby or me as possible culprits while he lectured us about all the crazy anti-war protestors in the news.

Ma added that she’d read in
Life
 magazine about these kids smoking LSD and losing their minds.

Finally, I couldn’t stand the hypocrisy of it all and confessed that it had been
I
who tore the damn sticker off from his car.

Pop raised his hand and, for a second, I thought he was going to slap me across the face, something he’d never done in my whole life. But he put his hand down and locked eyes with me. “I fought for this country for four years, and I won’t tolerate a daughter of mine defacing a flag. Is this what they’re teaching you at school?”

“We don’t belong in Vietnam.” I shrieked. “It’s not like World War II. And now Billy’s dead.”

“If you don’t like the war, speak your voice in the voting booth,” he said. “You’re turning eighteen in April. That’s how we do things in a civilized society.”

“You just don’t understand,” I said and raced up the stairs to my bedroom. I grabbed my knapsack and began throwing my clothes inside, feeling desperate to leave Long Island before I suffocated. But where could I go?

Just then the phone rang. My mother yelled from the kitchen that Denise was on the line. I picked up the phone grateful to talk to someone who would understand how I felt about the things going on with my folks.

“Hell, I can’t wait to get outta my house, either,” she said. “I’ll get Joey to pick you up tomorrow. You can accompany me to dinner at his parents’ house in Far Rockaway.”

“Joey’s not gonna want me to tag along when he introduces you to his folks.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “He’ll be thrilled for you to join us. Joey’s always saying what a good influence you are on me.”

“Really.” I’d never have guessed that. “Okay, I’ll go.”

I heard her inhale and wondered if it was a cigarette. “And then we’ll all drive back to Bridgeport in time for the demonstration Saturday night.”

JOEY AND DENISE ARRIVED
Friday afternoon in Joey’s Ford Falcon station wagon. Denise was dressed in torn Levis and a green Army-Navy jacket. She peered at my mother through her John Lennon glasses perched low on her nose.

As I made introductions, my mother narrowed her eyes like she was inspecting a rotten apple. Pop shook Joey’s hand, then asked him if people mistook him for a girl with his long curly hair.

“All the time,” Joey said with an impish smile. “Sometimes they think I’m a homo.”

My father’s eye twitched a few times. Then he excused himself from the room.

I was freaked out by my parents’ behavior and couldn’t leave fast enough.

On our way to Joey’s house, we made a pit stop to pick up Denise’s mother in Flushing. A short bosomy woman with classic Italian features, she couldn’t have looked more different from the willowy copper-haired Denise. We sat together in the back of Joey’s station wagon. She patted my hand and told me she was thrilled to finally get to meet Denise’s roommate.

We were greeted at the door of the Costello’s red brick duplex with big hugs. When Joey introduced his mother to Denise, she squeezed her cheeks then turned to Mrs. Manelo. “I prayed for Joey to meet a nice Italian girl. Jesus has listened to me and brought Denise to us.”

I smiled, thinking how Ma might say something like that, (omitting the part about Jesus), if I ever brought home a nice Jewish boy. Chances of that were slim.

Denise’s mother helped Mrs. Costello deliver endless platters of food from the kitchen. First they brought out olives and cheese, green salad, and fresh Italian bread. Then came the lasagna, veal cutlets, and rigatoni. Last, but not least, were an array of desserts, including chocolate cream puffs, biscotti, and cannoli stuffed with ricotta cheese.

I took a small portion of rigatoni and salad.

Mrs. Costello piled on a big slice of lasagna and three huge meatballs on my plate. “Eat, eat, honey,” she said. “You could use a few pounds.”

“No, I need to go on a diet.”

“What? You a beautiful girl. If I had another son, I’d fix you up with him.”

I grinned. “But Mrs. Costello, I’m not Italian.”

“Okay, if I had another son and you was Italian, I’d fix you up.”

Everyone laughed and I stuffed my face with the delicious food, unconcerned about the calorie count. It was by far the most memorable meal of my lifetime.

As we prepared to leave, Mrs. Costello gave each of us a bag of leftovers wrapped in tinfoil. She hugged Joey, then clung to him like he was headed off to war.

He tried to pull away but she held him fast. “Mama, what’s the matta?”

Tears filled her eyes. “I love-a you so much.”

Joey’s ears reddened in embarrassment as he tried to extricate himself. “I’ll be home for spring break, I promise.”

She reluctantly loosened her grip. “You’re my favorite boy.”

Joey smiled. “I’m your only boy, Mama. Your only child.”

She kissed him on each cheek. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”

She hugged Denise and turned to me. “Italian or no Italian, you’re a nice girl.”

The Costellos made me feel right at home. What a contrast they were to Ma and Pop who had offered nothing but awkward stares and snide remarks to my new friends.