Walter Sanville |
“Brown. She’s, you know, all brown.” That’s how Wesley described Gianna to Charles, his friend and fellow chess club member.
“Jeez, Wes, you think you have any chance with her?”
“She’s my queen and I’m her pawn. Just being near her . . .”
“You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Gianna sat one row up from Wesley in their senior year English class, taught by Father Byrne, a wrinkled Jesuit who still retained his thick brogue fifty years after emigrating from Galway. The priest droned on about Shakespeare and his love sonnets. What does that old geezer know about love? Wes thought. His eyes focused on Gianna, her soft brown hair cascading down her back, her light sienna skin, smooth legs, and major league headlights that not even a Catholic school uniform could hide.
Wes always waited until Gianna took her seat before entering the classroom. If he got lucky, when he passed her, she would look up and smile, showing off perfect teeth. Wes could barely manage a quick grimace before hurrying past, his heart pounding.
“So what are you going to do about it?” Charles asked and moved his knight into a check position. “You should ask her out.”
“You kidding me? She’s probably got a string of boyfriends.”
Charles scoffed. “No she doesn’t. She’s Mexican and hangs out with her Hispanic girlfriends.”
“So you’ve been watching her too?” Wes asked, grinning.
“Hey, I may be a dork but I still have genitals.”
“Yeah, a lot of good they’ll do you at this school. Jeez.”
Puberty had hit Wesley hard. During the 1950s and his pre-teen years he talked up a storm, yacking away with his two older sisters and the girls in elementary school. But then his voice changed, he grew hair down there, and a suffocating shyness closed in. It got worse in high school with beautiful girls sitting within arms’ reach and Wes focusing on the blackboard, trying to keep from daydreaming and committing various and sundry mortal sins in the process. But in English class, he couldn’t control his mind and created all sorts of romantic and mildly erotic scenarios with Gianna.
Wes never went to school dances because standing in the stag line at the edge of the gymnasium showed how desperate he and the other dorks looked. And even if he got up the nerve to ask a girl to dance, his seventh-grade modern dance lessons had shown him to be a total klutz, his six-foot body stomping down hard on dainty feet. He’d grown even taller but not any more agile.
But he liked going to sports events, sitting in the grandstands shoulder-to-shoulder cheering their team on while pressed against some bouncing beauty. He hoped that someday his shyness would wear off and he could actually talk with one of the girls. But he’d be graduating
in June, heading off to college out of state, and had yet to go on a date with anyone. Desperation set in.
That Friday night their short but fast basketball team played Carpinteria. With two games left in the season Joe Blanco had only a couple of chances at breaking the school record for the most points scored in a game. Joe was a quiet guy, not flashy at all. He let his playing speak for itself without any rhetoric – Wesley’s kind of person.
Wes left home right after supper and cruised State Street, Santa Barbara’s main drag, in his black ’59 Renault Dauphine. While his classmates drove big American land-yachts with rumbling V-8s under their hoods, Wes’s ride had a toy four-banger rear engine pumping out 32 horsepower. He’d bought it for two hundred bucks, only two years old. It got great gas mileage at a time when nobody cared, at a time when the size of a guy’s dick was considered proportional to the power of his car’s engine.
He arrived at the gym early and sat in the bleachers, four rows up from the floor in the home team’s section. The Carp players were warming up, practicing lay-ups and outside jump shots. They looked smooth, capable. Their six-foot-five center could move as fast as the rest of them; their guards had quick hands and could work the ball.
Slowly, the bleachers filled. The noise level in the gym increased to a dull roar, accented by high-pitched laughter and giggling from the girls. Then Gianna and her girlfriends entered and time seemed to slow. She scanned the bleachers, stared directly at Wes and grinned. He felt the back of his neck go cold and a shiver rattled his body. The gaggle of girls hustled up the stairs and filed into his row, Gianna dropping into the space next to him, dressed in a sleeveless blouse, her bare brown arm touching his.
“Wes, right?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“You sit in back of me in English.”
He nodded.
“I see you playing chess with your friend in the quad. You don’t look the type that would like sports.”
“What . . . what type is that?”
“You know what I mean . . . the jocks . . . the troglodytes that hang out at the coke machines and stare at girl’s boobs and legs.”
Wes could feel his face grow hot at the mention of boobs. “Yeah, those guys,” he murmured and laughed, feeling guilty.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Came to see Joe, see him break the school record. Why . . . why are you here?”
She turned sideways and looked directly into his eyes. Her smile vanished. “Me and my friends came to watch a bunch of hunky guys run around in shorts.”
Wes stared at her open-mouthed.
After a count of three, Gianna grinned and bumped his shoulder. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Joe’s my cousin. I decided to come out and see what all the fuss is about.”
“I . . . I think he’ll do it. Their guards are quick but Joe can really . . . ”
Gianna continued staring into his eyes. Her grin faded to a quiet smile. She turned away and talked excitedly with her girlfriends.
I am not a troglodyte, Wes thought and focused on the basketball court, watching each of the players move confidently, take extraordinary practice shots from outside, and finally retire to the bench for the pep talk and final instructions from coach. All the while, he felt Gianna’s arm
pressed against him, felt her warmth through his Madras shirt. He thought about chess to calm himself. It didn’t work. If anything, being so close to the queen curled his toes.
Meanwhile, holy mayhem happened on the court: fast-paced breaks, shooting from outside, full court presses, rim-bending dunks by Carp’s center, steals, and a half-court basket as the halftime buzzer sounded. Throughout the game the crowd bolted to its feet every time Joe scored, mostly jump shots from beyond the key. Wes kept track of Joe’s points as their total slowly mounted.
The game’s second half repeated the first, except that the coaches substituted players to give the starters a rest – all except for Joe who kept racking up points. The teams traded baskets, neither side gaining more than a two-point advantage. In the closing minutes, the fouls mounted. Carp started double-teaming Joe. But he was quick enough to drive around them to the basket, or somehow sink a jump shot over four extended arms. He hit 30 points within seconds of the final buzzer, the home team ahead by three. And that’s how it ended.
The crowd swarmed the floor, lifting an exhausted Joe Blanco up and carrying him around the court. Wes found himself next to Gianna. She jumped up and down, laughing, her girlfriends in hysterics. Finally she turned, grinning, and threw her arms around Wes and gripped him in a bear hug, the smell of her sweat overpowering her perfume. Wes didn’t care and clutched the warm shaking body to him. The crowd sound faded and it felt like just the two of them, celebrating their own personal triumph.
Finally Gianna tapped him on the shoulder and he released her. She backed up, open-mouthed, staring. Wes dropped his hands in front of his crotch just in case he had gotten too excited. The girlfriends laughed. He couldn’t tell if it was at him, Gianna, or both of them. Gianna’s body shuddered once then calmed.
“So . . . so Wes, you gonna go to Dino’s on the Mesa?”
He stared at her blankly.
“That’s where everyone goes after the game for, you know, pizza and sodas.”
“Oh . . . yeah . . . sure . . . I’ll be there.”
She turned abruptly and hustled out of the gym, her girlfriends hurrying to catch up. Wes stood and watched the last of the crowd leave. Hoots of joy came from the locker rooms along with the team chanting “Joe, Joe, Joe.” Carp’s team stayed quiet. Outside, cars still packed the school’s parking lot; students standing by open doors took nips from pocket flasks and talked excitedly. Wes made his way to the Renault, cranked it up, and streaked down State Street to Las Positas, then south to Cliff Drive, weaving between slower cars and laughing.
As he turned left and uphill onto the wide boulevard, a beat-up Nash station wagon pulled next to him in the fast lane, its windows rolled down. Inside, Stan Edwards from his class yelled, screamed and pounded the dashboard with a fist, a shit-eating grin on his face. Wes crammed the Renault into second gear and stomped on the gas. The tiny car surged forward. But the Nash was slightly less gutless than his car and caught up. Blasting along side-by-side, they yelled at each other over the scream of the engines, the blood pounding in Wes’s temples.
Stan pulled slightly ahead. Wes looked forward. The rusted bumper of an old Buick rushed toward him. In that split second, he cranked the steering wheel to the left and lifted his foot off the gas. The Renault hit the Buick a little to the right of center. The impact flung him forward, his body straining against the lap belt that his father had insisted he install. A spray of glass. Everything went black, and stayed black. In the quiet, Wes raised his head and saw nothing but black metal just above his head. The Renault’s hood that opened toward the windshield had popped up and smashed into the car’s interior, right over his head. The right side of the car was gone, gaping holes where the doors had been. He unfastened the lap belt and climbed through the opening.
Several cars had stopped and somebody laid a row of lit flares on the asphalt, blocking off the right lane.
Stan came running up. “Jesus, Wes, you . . . you okay . . . holy shit, your car’s destroyed, man.”
Wes nodded, his brain fogged.
Stan pointed, “You’ve got a bump on your forehead.”
Wes reached up and felt the raised skin. A goose egg was already forming. “I must have hit my head on the steering wheel.”
“Yeah, you better let the ambulance guys check you out. I’m gonna go. Don’t want to catch hell from the police.”
Others came forward and led Wes to the edge of the road to sit on the curb. An ambulance pulled up and two attendants took his vitals, shined a light in his eyes, and checked him out, finding nothing broken or bleeding. They decided that he didn’t have a concussion. The police arrived along with a car with a KEYT Channel 3 logo painted on its side. A guy lugging a heavy camera with lights climbed out along with a woman neatly dressed in a business suit and heels. Wes recognized her from the late TV news that his folks watched.
The woman shoved a microphone at him as the camera lights blazed. “I’m talking with Wesley who was just in one heck of a collision. Are you all right, Wesley?”
“Yeah, I guess. I just bumped my head. But I feel fine.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
“I’m not sure. I ran into the back of that Buick. I didn’t see it parked there. It was dark.”
The cameraman abruptly left to take film clips of the destroyed Dauphine and the barely-damaged Buick. The police took Wes to a patrol car where they hammered him with questions and scribbled their reports in their notebooks. Wes left Stan out of his story. The police called a tow truck and had what remained of the Renault hauled to the salvage yard.
“I can have dispatch contact your parents and have them come here to pick you up,” one of the police offered.
“Could . . . could you just drop me at Dino’s and I’ll call them from there?”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine. I just need a little time to . . .”
“To get your story straight?” The cop grinned.
“Yes, something like that.”
The patrol car pulled up in front of Dino’s and Wesley climbed out. Some of his classmates were outside in the breezeway, chatting with their friends and surreptitiously passing a bottle to spike their cokes. They stopped talking and turned toward the police and Wesley.
“What the hell, Wes?” someone called.
He stared at the smiling crowd. They looked different, older, like spectators of a comedy that he’d somehow become a part of. The excitement, the flow of adrenalin, the anticipation, and then the crash – I could have been killed before I’d taken even the smallest taste of love.
He ducked inside the low building. A wave of heat and noise hit him hard and he leaned against a wall to get his bearings.
“Your friends are in the back,” the bartender called and he pushed through the crowded dining area to a rear room full of high schoolers gobbling pizza, guys hanging on their girlfriends. A TV muttered in one corner near the ceiling. Joe Blanco sat at the head of a table taking it all in, grinning.
When Joe saw Wesley he rose from his throne and called, “Hey Wes, glad you could make it.”
The crowd laughed. Someone touched his arm; it was Gianna.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You’re not hurt are you?”
“I’m mostly fine. How did you know?”
“Everybody knows. You were on the TV news.”
“Christ, my folks watch Channel 3. I’ve got to call them; get a ride home.”
“Come on, follow me.”
Gianna took his arm and guided him outside into the parking lot and a Chevy Nomad wagon.
“I’ll give you a ride. You look beat. Lots of excitement tonight. So where do you live?”
“On Calle Poniente, just over the hill from here.”
“All right, get in.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Just get in.”
Wes slid onto the front bench seat and reached for the seatbelts. There weren’t any.
Gianna looked across at him and shook her head. “You really scared me, you know. I was looking forward to seeing you at Dino’s and then your face appears on the TV. I almost screamed.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry. I was . . . so excited after the game . . . excited for Joe . . . but mostly excited to get here to . . . to see you. I didn’t pay attention and ran into that damn Buick.”
“So you wanted to see me?” Gianna said, a coy smile curling her full lips.
“Yes, to see you.”
“That’s sweet.”
Her smile slowly faded. In silence she drove Wesley home, pulled up outside his house and turned off the engine and lights.
Turning toward Wes, she pounced. “Why the hell didn’t you ever talk with me? I’m sitting right there in front of you in English class and you never even said hi.”
Wes bowed his head. “I didn’t think you wanted me to. You’re sort of . . . out of my league.”
“That’s dumb. Leagues are dumb.”
“Yes, but I’m . . . I’m too shy to talk about it.”
“Jeez, how often do I have to smile at you for you to get the message?”
“Evidently more than a few times.” Wes managed a weak grin.
“Yeah, shy guys. Why do I fall for shy . . . ”
“So can . . . we talk some time and maybe . . . you know . . . go out?”
“You mean on a date?”
“Yes, on a date. It’ll be our second, this being our first.”
Gianna groaned. She slid across the bench seat, took his face in her warm hands and kissed him, lingered, withdrew, then kissed him again. “You’re too late, Wes. Too damn late.”
Wes frowned. “What do you mean, too late?”
“Look, in two months school will be over. You’ll be going away to some out-of-state University and I’ll be going downtown to secretarial school. I’ll learn how to type, take dictation, organize files, answer phones, and learn to keep secret blouses that show just the right amount of cleavage. If I’m lucky I’ll meet some young attorney, fall in love, fill a house with kids and live happily ever after. It’s . . . it’s just too late for me to start anything with you. Too many plans already made.”
Wes sat stunned. “I . . . I had no idea. You’ve thought about this. If only we had talked.”
“Yeah, if only.”
She leaned in and kissed him one last time. “See you in English class,” she said then slid back behind the wheel.
Wesley got out of the car and waved as she motored down Calle Poniente. He stood there staring after Gianna, smiling to himself. I’ve had one date in high school, have kissed and been kissed by a girl, and felt the pain of her leaving. But at least I’ve had my taste. Sure hope it gets easier.
Wes turned and climbed the front porch stairs of his house, almost ready to face his parents.