It Was Like This

For the first time in a while I didn’t spot anything fresh in the news, so I’ll go with a piece of non-fiction I’ve written, part of a mini literary renaissance that includes two other shorts. Mark Twain opened at least one of his works with the phrase “It was like this,” which I loved. One day I got to wondering if it was commentary on truth-telling, even though he was writing fiction. He lampooned the idea in the second line of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn: “…That book (Tom Sawyer) was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth…” The following account is like how things actually happened. The fog of time may have reduced the accuracy to 95%, but the essence is absolute. Those who have bad memories about parental brawls may want to pass. There is none of Twain’s wonderful humor here.

The tentative title is Out of the Past:
I’m not sure I’d reached my teens at the time, but there was a period when I slept until eleven AM on summer mornings, circa 1962. It wasn’t because I stayed up late. Looking back, I wonder if it was due to the onset of puberty. That doesn’t seem right, as none of my peers were sleeping so late. It cost me a place on P.S.101’s summer softball team, which was really dumb on my part, as I may have been its best player. My sleep pattern was frustrating to my friends, who would shout at the window to wake me. They often went fishing without me. Our family had moved from the four rooms in the back to the three in front to accommodate my sister’s growing brood.
One morning there was a male-female chorus outside the window: “Vic-ta!” I don’t recall if it got me out of bed.
Another morning I found my father above me, kissing me, saying goodbye. Although it seemed odd, I went back to sleep. At the time my parents were going through a very rough patch. Again looking back, my long hours in the sack may have been a subliminal desire to shorten the day, to lessen it’s grief. Then again, I’m sure other couples on our block went through hard times, and none of their kids responded by sleeping late. Maybe they were made of sterner stuff.
One night stands out above all the others. Things got physical. My mom and dad had their hands around each other’s throats with what seemed intent to kill. It looked as if my mother’s right eye was about to pop out of its socket. Terrified, I banged on the door of my sister’s apartment, pleading for help. She and her husband stood at the doorstep as if it were a line not to be crossed. They had their share of physical altercations too, but they were quick, at least the ones I’d seen.
The rest of that night is lost. I have no idea if my parents slept beside each other in bed, although it seems impossible after what had occurred.
A day or two after my father had kissed me goodbye, my mother took me aside and said he’d left us. She howled with a suppressed grief that sent chills through me, and said we had to rectify the shame — vergogna. We took the bus to Sheepshead Bay and arrived about the time my father would be steering his little boat to the dock, the two wine barrels at the rear filled with porgies, or “porgeese,” as he pronounced it in his thick accent.
After business was taken care of with old Randazzo, we followed my father to his new home in Brighton Beach, my mom telling me repeatedly to ask him to come home. She used me, knowing she would not have been able to persuade him herself. I didn’t want my dad to do anything he didn’t want to do. My mom stood fast, a look on her face that seemed demonic in its triumph. She knew he was weakening. When we reached the house my father made a last gasp effort to shut her out of his life, closing the gate on her, wedging her between it and the post. She was not deterred. I was mortified, as there were children on a porch nearby. My perspective was narrow. I did not understand that other families experienced such troubles. It remained narrow even in my late 20’s. After confiding in a woman I was crazy about, who would occupy many pages in one form or another throughout my literary canon, she said: “You think your family is the only one that fights.” I was stunned into silence. I didn’t even occur to me to ask if there were something she wanted to divulge.
The room my father occupied was small, the bed a cot. As we entered my mom sniffed and said, ironically: “Nice.” The landlady appeared, a heavy-set middle-aged blonde, and my father gave her two or three dollars. I was surprised it was so inexpensive.
“I do for you,” my father said to me, a zing at my mom.
I was troubled that he was going against his will on my behalf. I would rather he had done what he wanted. He was in his early 60’s, my mom nine years younger. She did not want him to fish anymore, thinking it too dangerous, pericolo. Perhaps this pinpoints him at age 65, eligible for Social Security. Or maybe she thought he should have been satisfied with what he earned in construction, despite the frequent layoffs. She did not understand that fishing was her husband’s lifeblood, his bliss. He loved westerns. Years later it occurred to me that he may have subconsciously likened a cowboy’s ride on an open range to his standing at the helm of his little boat.
So do the rocky relationships I witnessed explain why I have lived alone? Perhaps in part. After all, millions had a home life infinitely worse than mine. Three of my four nieces married. Two divorced, the fourth had a long-term relationship with a leech until her untimely death at 57. I’ve come to believe that being single is in my DNA. I’ll grant that environment had some effect, but I believe it was marginal. When I first heard of Asperger’s, it seemed that was the answer to my isolation. But I have reached out on occasion, no doubt clumsily and perhaps to women I knew would reject me. The psyche is a murky realm that defies definitive analysis. I’ve spent my life trying to understand my own through writing, believing, as Socrates said: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” I don’t think that applies to everyone. There’s no all in life outside math.
This is only the second time I’ve mentioned the incident publicly. The first came during a discussion at work about domestic violence, no doubt spawned by an accusation against a celebrity or athlete. Someone said: “Never hit a woman.” Never and all do not apply to real life. No one should ever hit anyone. It’s a standard to which everyone should aspire, but history has shown billions of times it is not what occurs. I blurted out the image of my parents’ stranglehold on each other and said: “Shit happens.” I don’t recall the reaction. I assume it was momentary. I cherish those people, even those I didn’t like. How could I not? They have been a part of my existence, part of the only thing I will ever know. I don’t believe there’s anything after this. I am privileged to have been here, to have experienced what my life has rendered.

The floating book shop was rained out. My new rain jacket enabled me to take my morning walk despite the deluge. It didn’t help with the puddles, though.

My Amazon Author page: https://www.amazon.com/Vic-Fortezza/e/B002M4NLJE

FB: https://www.facebook.com/Vic-Fortezza-Author-118397641564801/?fref=ts

Read Vic’s Stories, free: http://fictionaut.com/users/vic-fortezza