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Copyright ©2014 Richard Fulco

All rights reserved. Worldwide electronic edition published in the United States of America by Wampus Multimedia, Winchester, Virginia. Copyright ©2014 Wampus Multimedia.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Wampus Multimedia (www.wampus.com).

ISBN-13: 978-0-9797471-8-2

ISBN-10: 0-9797471-8-X

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014931621

Wampus Multimedia Catalog Number: WM-091

www.richardfulco.com

ISBN: 9780979747182

“You Haven’t Done Nothin’”

Words and Music by Stevie Wonder

©1974 (Renewed 2002) Jobete Music Co., Inc. and Black Bull Music

c/o EMI April Music Inc.

All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission.

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

“Papa Was A Rollin’ Stone”

Words and Music by Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong

©1972 (Renewed 2000) Stone Diamond Music Corp.

All Rights Controlled and Administered by EMI Blackwood Music Inc.

All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission.

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

“Nobody’s Fault But Mine”

Words and Music by Otis Redding

©1968 Irving Music, Inc.

Copyright Renewed

All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

“Rocket Man (I Think It’s Gonna Be A Long, Long Time)”

Words and Music by Elton John and Bernie Taupin

©1972 Universal/Dick James Music Ltd.

Copyright Renewed

All Rights in the United States and Canada Controlled and Administered by Universal – Songs of Polygram International, Inc.

All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

“Da Ya Think I’m Sexy”

Words and Music by Rod Stewart, Carmine Appice and Duane Hitchings

©1978 Music of UNICEF, WB Music Corp., EMI Full Keel Music and Nite Stalk Music

All Rights for Music of UNICEF Controlled and Administered by EMI April Music Inc.

All Rights for EMI Full Keel Music and Nite Stalk Music Controlled and Administered by WB Music Corp.

All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission.

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation and Alfred Publishing Company, Inc.

“Get Up (I Feel Like Being a Sex Machine)”

Words and Music by James Brown, Bobby Byrd, and Ronald R. Lenhoff

©1970 (Renewed) Dynatone Publishing Company

All Rights Administered by Unichappell Music Inc.

All Rights Reserved.

Reprinted by Permission of Alfred Publishing Company, Inc.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As much as I’d like to think that I wrote There Is No End to This Slope solely on my own, I had plenty of assistance in various stages of the writing process. I’m grateful to those who willingly gave their time to read my book in its nascent stage as I was floundering in my apprenticeship, particularly Richard Roundy, Eugene Lim, Maria Hernandez-Ojeda and Helene Golay. Thank you.

Once I figured out how to write the novel, I needed to become better acquainted with my cast of characters and discover the story I wanted to tell. I can’t thank Peter Melman and my editor Anne Horowitz enough for teaching me so many things about my book.

I’m forever indebted to Dr. Alden Brown who helped me deconstruct the novel at a time when it so desperately needed it. Thank you for your generosity, time and brutally honest critique.

In the seven years that it has taken me to complete There Is No End to This Slope, pieces of it have been written everywhere: bathrooms, subways, park benches, airplanes, concert venues, Hunter College High School and several coffee shops and the like, most notably the Tea Lounge, Southside Coffee, Brooklyn Commune, Le Petite Parisien, Montclair Library and the Cullman Center. Thanks for the tea, coffee and comfortable chairs.

So many people assisted me along the way. Many thanks to Mary Gannett and Henry Zook at BookCourt, Richard Nash, Elford Alley, Calvin Williams, Robin Cerwonka, Jack Perry, Linda East Brady, Roger Trott, Jeff Strickland, Lois Refkin, Desiree Jacobs, Jason Warburg and the Dougherty family.

Much love to my Mom and Dad for your undying faith in me.

A heap of thanks to Larry Papini and Jim Pace for your years of friendship and putting up with a heap of my shit.

I am grateful for Mark Doyon’s friendship, integrity and wisdom. Thanks for your pithy replies to my neurotic emails. When I discovered that you and I share an appreciation for many of the same bands and songwriters, I knew everything was going to be all right.

Most of all I’d like to thank my biggest advocate, my partner, my best friend, my wife, Colleen Dougherty. You had enough determination and fortitude for the both of us. Without you, I don’t think I could have persevered. You freely gave your time, support and love without any strings attached and that’s more than I could ever offer in return. I love you, C.

September, 2013

Brooklyn, New York

For Chloe and Connor

I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real … I have dreamed of you so much, have walked so much, talked so much, slept so much with your phantom that perhaps the only thing left for me is to become a phantom among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadow than the shadow that moves and goes on moving, brightly, over the sundial of your life.

—Robert Desnos

There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other.

—Ernest Hemingway

THINGS

I was sitting at a colossal oak table in the center of the English department at Cobble Hill High School, watching a mouse that was stuck in a glue trap cling desperately to life. It had been struggling ever since my arrival, and when I could no longer bear to watch it suffer, I took hold of a metal trash can and crushed the life out of the poor thing. When I was sure that it was dead, I kicked the corpse into the can, swept a pile of droppings that looked like chocolate sprinkles on top of the remains and returned the can to its rightful place underneath the chairperson’s desk by the windows.

Outside the vast, oval windows, across the East River, a stunning view of downtown Manhattan awaited my wandering eye. It was a year after the September 11 attacks, to the day, and the skyline was nothing short of impressive, even without the Twin Towers—although when I looked quickly at the spot where they had once dominated the horizon, I could swear that they were still there.

The summer had exhausted itself. There’s nothing more debilitating than the “dog days” of August in New York City. The humidity is sheer harassment. For some New Yorkers, September offers a chance at renewal, and for a moment I wondered if I was in store for a rebirth; then I closed the window shade and returned to my wobbly chair.

While I was opening the boxes of grammar textbooks I had set down next to the haphazard piles of The Great Gatsby, The Scarlet Letter, Of Mice and Men and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Emma Rue sauntered into the office, pulled a bunch of papers from her mailbox and, without even a glance, tossed them into the trash with the dead mouse. Her white off-the-shoulder summer dress offered a fairly good view of her tan, one that she had obviously been cultivating all summer long. The heels of her white leather shoes added at least four inches to her petite frame. The clacking was obtrusive; her sweet scent was distracting; her entire outfit, I thought, was fairly aggressive for a high school teacher. But I was really hot for her anyway. We’d met last spring, though I wasn’t sure if she remembered me.

She flashed me a friendly smile, then located her friend, Pamela Flaherty, sitting at a nondescript corner desk where the tenured staff were situated, examining the hefty textbook that I had just sold to the chairperson. It was my first sale of the school year, and I thought it might be a sign that good things were heading my way. Maybe I could even parlay my newfound optimism into a date with Ms. Rue, so I pretended to be leafing through a catalogue, jotting down figures, titles and ISBN numbers, while I eavesdropped on her conversation, hoping that she would say something about me.

—Studying up on the comma, Pam?

—The friggin’ queen wants us to teach a unit of grammar. Do you believe this shit?

—I don’t know a thing about grammar.

—It’s going to be drudgery trying to motivate these kids.

—The kids? Who’s going to motivate me?

—I could care less about transitive verbs.

—Well, I won’t waste my time with grammar. She’ll never know.

—You better be careful. The queen is hot on your trail.

—You forgot. I have tenure now.

—That’s right, Emma. Should I congratulate you?

—All I know is that the queen can’t touch me.

The English faculty secretly referred to Dr. Elizabeth Hicks, the chairperson for more than twenty-five years, as the queen. Last spring, I had seen her and Emma Rue spar over the English Regents. Dr. Hicks had insisted that all eleventh grade students take several practice tests while Ms. Rue had argued that by simply completing the required reading and writing assignments throughout the year, her students would be sufficiently prepared to take the exam in June. I concluded that Emma’s refusal to teach to a test had to do with the fact that she was more interested in exploring ideas and fostering critical thinking. When she referred to herself as “a teacher, and not an instructor” and told Dr. Hicks that “rules and regulations were meant to be broken; that’s when the real learning takes place,” I did everything in my power to refrain from shouting, “Atta girl, Emma!” I anticipated that my grammar textbooks would cause another clash between the two women.

I continued to eavesdrop, waiting to see if Emma would say anything about me, but she was busy amusing Pamela with stories of her summer vacation in Andalusia, Spain, where “the sparrows fly randomly around the Cathedral of Saint Mary in Toledo, Córdoba is heavenly white, Ronda’s paradoxical canyons are both frightening and stunning and the narrow streets of Sevilla’s Jewish Quarter are some of the most charming in the world.”

—You should be writing for a travel magazine, Emma.

—Pam, I swear this year I’m going to finish my essay on the Aran Islands.

—I don’t know how you pay for all of these excursions on a teacher’s salary.

—“For everything else, there’s MasterCard.”

—You better be careful or you’ll be like me: thirty-eight and still paying off school loans.

—I’ll keep that in mind, Mom.

—Hey, I’m just looking out for you, babe.

—I know. You care about me. You really care. So who’s the tall guy?

—He’s the bastard who sold us these bloody textbooks. You should have seen him before, making a big stink about a mouse in a glue trap.

—Ooh, I can’t stand those traps. They’re inhumane.

—He repeatedly slammed the rodent with a garbage can. It splattered all over the floor.

—He was only euthanizing the poor thing, Pam.

—You don’t understand. It wasn’t as if he was trying to put it out of its misery, it was like he was trying to erase it from ever having existed. It was kind of freaky.

—Oh, whatever, Pam. Sometimes a little overkill is necessary. He’s kind of cute.

—You think? Too thin for my taste.

—He has a great nose.

—What’s up with his hair?

With Pamela Flaherty’s rhetorical question, Emma Rue sauntered over toward me. I dropped my pen, turned away from the paperwork, and rubbed my fingers through my hair, which was longer than I usually kept it. I guess Pamela didn’t care for it. Whenever I’m approached by a beautiful woman I can’t help but whisper something like “Holy shit” or “Sweet Jesus” or “You’ve got to be kidding me.” With Emma heading straight for me, I think I mumbled all three and something like “This has got to be my lucky day” for good measure. She chuckled, so she must have been flattered. My eyes worked their way up, and when I settled on Emma’s face, I stared directly into her pale blue eyes, practically through her, my stare was so deep. My mouth was probably hanging wide open, another poor habit of mine.

—Hey there. Have you read any good books lately?

—Well, I, uh, sell a lot of good books. What are you interested in?

—That depends. What are you selling?

—I have whatever it is you’re looking for.

—I’ll take anything you have, a tragedy or a melodrama, just don’t offer me a grammar textbook.

—Too late. Dr. Hicks just ordered ninety copies of Grammar the Easy Way. Hi, I’m John Lenza.

—Emma Rue. How come I’ve never seen you around here before, John Lenza?

—You have, actually. Dr. Hicks introduced us last spring.

—I’m sorry. I was so out of my mind last year. I’ve blocked everything out.

—I admired the way you stood up to her.

—We’ve had our fair share of bouts.

—You must be a dancer.

—Yes … well … uh … I dance. Well, I used to before I started teaching.

—It’s your posture.

—It’s your nose.

—What?

—It’s epic. It turns to the left.

—I suppose it does.

—It’s Roman.

Roman is really just a euphemism for enormous.

—It represents strength.

—Would you like to get a cup of coffee later?

—I’d like that. I know this wonderful little place on Smith Street.

—Which do you prefer, cappuccino or espresso?

—Cappuccino. Espresso is too overwhelming.

—Whipped cream or cinnamon?

—Neither.

—Funny, I thought you’d be a whipped cream kind of a girl.

—Ooh, you’re very naughty, Mr. Lenza. I like that.

I had Emma pinned against the elevator wall and wrapped her bronzed thigh around my waist. Her dress slid back onto her hip. The car shook. We lost our balance and fell into the fire alarm button. Bells rang while my hand groped her ass. Her arm was also around my waist; her fingers roamed the interior of my waistband. Bells continued to ring, but we didn’t care. Eight flights of ecstasy. When the elevator door opened, we stepped off, still embracing, without missing a thrust of the tongue, and inched our way toward Emma’s apartment door. In the hallway, a few inquisitive neighbors got a satisfying glimpse of our uninhibited lust. With the poise of ballroom dancers doing the tango, we drifted past the gawking spectators, twirled into the apartment, glided through the sparsely furnished living room and into the cramped and stuffy bedroom. We left the front door open. A lecherous old man lingered.

Emma pulled off my tie and shirt. After I kicked off my shoes, she unbuckled my belt and tugged my pants and boxers down to my ankles. I stood there in my white undershirt and black socks that were pulled up just below my knees, sporting a full-blown erection, looking completely unsexy, I’m sure. Before I could unzip the back of her dress, she pulled away, preventing me from further exploration. Emma, in a furtive manner, without the assistance of her hands, wriggled out of her white dress, keeping her heels on. She pulled me down on top of her and drew the shade with a perfunctory yank of the chain as if she had been through this routine a million times before. The bedroom was completely covered in darkness, so I couldn’t see her breasts, her hips, her thighs, anything. I was really turned on by the unexpectedness of it all, but a little disappointed that I couldn’t see her body. Lucky for me I had an active imagination to keep me going. I’m something of a voyeur. In fact, the previous spring when Dr. Hicks had introduced us, I had observed Emma’s perky breasts underneath her tight, black, low-cut sweater. And there I was, five months later, resting comfortably between her legs with her perky breasts tucked inside my sweaty palms.

We stayed in bed for a while, under a silk sheet that was cool to my skin. While I was pretty content with the silence between us, Emma was determined that we make some kind of connection.

—I am so fond of you, John.

—Well, that doesn’t sound half bad.

—You’re adorable. You really are.

—You think I’m adorable? I like to think of myself as debonair.

—You’re something. You know that?

—You’re something too.

—I am really fond of you.

—Now fond is a word you don’t hear every day. It’s very nineteenth century, don’t you think?

—What’s wrong with the word fond?

—Oh, I don’t know. I was hoping that you’d say you’re addicted to me. Something like that.

—How’s I’m crazy about you?

—That’s slightly better.

—John, I have a confession to make.

—Only one? I have several, but you go first.

—What just happened—you know—between us—

—Something happened between us?

—Stop kidding around. You know—the intimacy.

—It was great.

—It was. It was also the first time I’ve ever made love.

—Wait. What?

—I’m not a virgin or anything, but I’ve never made love before.

—You mean, to a man?

—I’ve had sex plenty of times, but this was the first time it actually felt like love.

Was she trying to say that she was in love with me? She couldn’t be. Could she? I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t say anything.

—I was with my ex, Josh, for a long time, but it never felt like that.

—I was that good?

—We were both that good. Together. Don’t you think so?

—No, no, no, we were great together. It’s just that I don’t have much to compare it to.

—Do you mean you’ve never had sex?

—Hell, no, I’ve had plenty of sex. I just haven’t been in love. Well, what I mean to say is that I was in love with a girl—still am—who is no longer—

I had been in love with only one person, my best friend, my childhood friend and next-door neighbor, Stephanie. She died just before our high school graduation, never having sex with a stranger—at least, I don’t think she did—never experiencing the ambivalence of such an escapade, the rush of possibility, which I myself had just experienced for the first time. I’d had a handful of meaningless relationships since Stephanie died, but there was something about Emma that made me think that this time around things might be a little different.

—Don’t tell me you’re married.

—No, no, no, I’m not. I’ve never been. Have you?

—I lived with Josh for seven years, but we never tied the knot.

—And you guys broke up.

—Last week.

—Just last week?

—Things just didn’t work out. I can’t say I didn’t try.

—So then you can’t really be in love with me. I’m just a rebound.

—Who said anything about being in love? I’m just saying that it felt more like love than sex. Wait a minute. You were confessing something to me. It’s your turn.

—Right. I was saying—I can’t believe I’m going to say this—I’m in love with someone who passed away.

—Recently? And the wounds are still fresh. That sort of thing?

—No, a long time ago, actually, and I can’t get over her. I know it’s crazy but she’s all that I know, all I’ve ever known, about love. I’m afraid to let her go.

—When did she die?

—1985.

—Wow! That’s a long time to hold on to someone.

—You’re telling me, but what can I do? I’ve tried to get over her but I can’t seem to—

—I could no longer deal with Mr. Get-In-and-Get-Out—that’s what I called Josh because he only cared about his sexual needs—so I asked him to leave. Haven’t heard from him since.

—It’s only been a week. He might come back, you know.

—Maybe whereas your ex never left. She’s still here.

—That’s kind of true, but we were never really together.

—Oh, an unrequited kind of thing.

—Yeah, something like that.

—Sounds to me like there might be some lingering guilt.

—That’s kind of true too. Are you sure you’re not a psychologist masquerading as an English teacher?

—Nope, just somebody who has read a lot of novels.

—Stephanie loved to read.

—Okay, enough about the Ghost of Christmas Past. What do you say we give this thing a shot?

—What thing?

—You and me.

—You don’t think I’m a deranged lunatic for being in love with a dead girl?

—No, I think you’re a deranged lunatic for killing that mouse.

—You don’t understand. It was dying. I just helped it along.

—Forget about that. I think it’s kind of sweet.

—Kind of sweet that I killed a mouse?

—No, that you’re still in love with your dead friend … What’s her name?

—Stephanie.

—Right, Stephanie. It’s a little deranged, I’ll admit, but maybe I can help you get over her.

We stayed in bed all night. I stroked Emma’s long brown hair and stared into the darkness while she burrowed into my underarm, sleeping off the unpredictability of the afternoon, probably sick of hearing me ramble on about my obsession with a girl who died in 1985. Who could blame her? It had been a promising day, and I didn’t feel like sleeping. If I went to sleep, the day would end. With all that talk of Stephanie, I started thinking about her, something I was wont to do whenever I was feeling content.

Stephanie spent countless hours in the public library, clasping a book in both hands, inches from her dark brown eyes that you couldn’t clearly detect underneath her long, jet-black bangs. She was the only person I knew who actually read all of the books that were assigned to us in high school, including the three books we had to read every summer. Stephanie absolutely hated Madame Bovary—it wasn’t so much Flaubert’s writing but the novel’s superficial protagonist, Emma Bovary, who caused Stephanie so much grief. While our twelfth grade class discussed the esteemed nineteenth-century novel, it was clearly apparent to all of us, including our teacher, Mrs. Simmons, how much Stephanie despised everything about the tragic heroine who is disillusioned by the realities of life, ambivalent about her own desires, and eventually retreats into a fantasy world. Whenever Stephanie started to snicker, we knew we were in for one of her tirades.

—What’s on your mind, Steph?

—What’s wrong with this chick, Mrs. Simmons?

—What do you think is wrong with her?

—She’s not content with anything. Nothing. Absolutely nothing satisfies this infuriating woman.

—I guess that’s what makes her a tragic figure.

—I get that, Mrs. Simmons, but she’s so pathetic.

—We must look at Emma Bovary through an appropriate cultural lens. The time period she lived in—

—She didn’t have many options. Am I right, Mrs. Simmons? That’s why she married Charles Bovary in the first place.

—That’s right, John. A woman’s options were limited.

—Yeah, but she wasn’t happy with Léon Dupuis either. Or the other guy. Nobody made her happy. Nothing made her happy.

—Perhaps, Stephanie, that’s because Emma doesn’t appreciate the little things life has to offer.

—That’s because she’s a self-loathing, entitled little bitch.

—Mind your language, Stephanie, but you’ve got a point. Perhaps you can write about Emma’s sense of entitlement in your next paper.

—She doesn’t know what she wants. How could she not have the faintest idea? I don’t get it. I want to be a painter. It wasn’t hard for me to figure that out. That’s what I do. That’s what I love to do. Emma just loves to pity herself.

—I think you’re being too hard on Emma Bovary.

—I’m sorry, Mrs. Simmons, but I don’t have sympathy for a shallow woman with a sense of superiority who takes her own life because she doesn’t know what she wants.

—Wow, you should talk, Steph. You talk about suicide all the time.

—John, that’s enough.

—That might be so, John, but it’s a curiosity of mine. That’s all. I’m not half as serious about it as you are.

—Okay, enough, you two. Stephanie, you have certainly displayed more passion for Mrs. Bovary than she ever did for herself.

Stephanie’s insights and intense rants kept us all awake during first period. She was the smartest kid in the class, if not the entire school, and the only teenager I knew who really cared about literature and art. I admired the fearless way she offered her opinions.

In contrast, Emma had an obscure way of communicating, as I was to learn later on. She often said one thing but meant something else entirely. Saying she was “fond” of me was probably her roundabout way of conveying that she could really fall for me if she only allowed herself to. Calling me “adorable” most likely meant that I was average looking, not debonair. And my nose wasn’t Roman; it was just big.

MORE THINGS

I was five years old when my father moved my mother, sister and me from Bay Ridge to Staten Island, but I moved back to Brooklyn, much to my family’s dismay, when I enrolled at Brooklyn College right after high school, and I stayed there when I dropped out after one disastrous semester. “We left Brooklyn to give you a better life. Why would you wanna go back to that shithole?” I’d lived in New York my entire life. It was what I knew, and that familiarity had a way of making me both comfortable and restless.

My family was only fourteen miles away, just south of the Verrazano Bridge, but they may as well have been in South America. They never hopped in the Cadillac to visit me, which was okay because it sort of exonerated me from having to join them for Sunday afternoon dinners, at which I would be obligated to stuff myself on antipasto, lasagna, meatballs and braciole.

When I moved into Emma’s one-bedroom apartment in the East Village after just two weeks of dating, I thought my mother was going to throw herself off the Verrazano. My father told me that I was making a “colossal mistake,” and looking back he was probably right, but at the time it was exciting to be with someone like Emma and kind of good to be out of Brooklyn. We were moving quickly, but that was the way Emma operated: swiftly, impulsively and often recklessly. Aside from breaking up with her boyfriend of seven years, giving up dancing to teach high school English, and her distaste for Sunday evenings because of her dread of the workweek, I really didn’t know much about Emma Rue. What did that say about me? Was I also impulsive and reckless?

During our first three months together, our lives were set on autopilot. From Monday to Friday, we woke up at seven, showered, made coffee, and rode the F train to work. The book distributor I worked for, EverCover, was near Cobble Hill High School, so occasionally we met up after work and rode back home together. We’d take a walk along the FDR Drive and eat around eight. After dinner, we drank red wine while I caught up on some paperwork and she graded papers. We watched a little television and eventually fell asleep by eleven. We got up around nine on Saturdays; had breakfast at our favorite diner on First Avenue; walked through the East Village; stopped in a few trendy boutiques, used bookstores and record shops; sat in Tompkins Square Park with a turkey sandwich and iced coffee; went to a movie or play; had dinner at ten; drank red wine, made love and fell asleep around one. We stayed in bed until noon on Sundays; Emma read The New York Times while I read a novel or play. Around one, while Emma stayed in bed, I went to the bagel shop for onion bagels, lox and a couple of cappuccinos. Later, I watched some kind of sporting event on television while she wrote in her journal. We ate dinner at seven, drank red wine, watched a movie (no action films or chick flicks, as agreed), complained about our jobs and fell asleep around eleven. Everything. Together. Press play and watch us go through the motions. The routine provided us with structure, which we perceived to be happiness, when all we really were was distracted.

I was determined to make some kind of connection with the woman I was living with, so one Sunday night, after we drank a couple of bottles of Merlot as we complained about our jobs, just before Emma fell asleep, I asked her a bunch of questions.

—John, it’s not a big deal. I don’t like jazz. So what? You don’t like dance music.

—Please tell me you’re joking, Emma. Dance music?

—I love Madonna, especially her earlier stuff. Kill me.

—I have a couple of questions I need to ask you.

—John, please don’t make a big thing out of this. These are healthy differences. We’ll teach each other new things and learn from each other.

—Elvis or the Beatles?

—I don’t want to take your silly quiz.

—Just answer the question, Emma. Indulge me.

—I don’t want to contribute to your neuroses.

—Please, it’s important to me. Elvis or the Beatles?

—Mariah Carey.

—What? What? What? Okay, I’ll try to keep an open mind. Iggy or David?

—Never heard of them.

—Oh, man. Indian or Chinese food?

—I thought we were talking about music.

—Just answer the question, please. Indian or Chinese?

—Neither.

—New York or Paris?

—Madrid.

—Faulkner or Hemingway?

—Woolf.

—Boots or sneakers?

—Stupid question. Heels, of course.

—Jeans or skirts?

—Skirts. Short and tight. I am from Long Island.

—Theater or film?

—Dance.

—This could be colossal, Emma.

—Don’t make a big deal about such trivial things, John.

—In the long run, our differences could make a difference. That’s all I’m saying.

—You’re putting too much credence in this ridiculous quiz of yours.

—I consider it a game.

—Whatever it is.

—I hope you’re right, Emma.

—I know I am.

The next morning, Emma was quick to point out that I had been arrogant. Sure, I could be somewhat pretentious at times, but I was entitled to my opinions, wasn’t I? I just failed to understand how an intelligent woman could have such shitty taste in music. Dance music? Really?

I should have taken her love for Madonna as a sign; there were countless blood-red flashing signals and titanic billboards, but I was pretty adept at being completely blind to them.

When I was a boy, I wrote and performed my plays in my backyard. They were more like skits, Abbott and Costello routines that contained more than a fair share of Chaplinesque pratfalls. Stephanie helped me produce them: she decorated the sets, coordinated the costumes and organized the props. She also designed the flyers that we posted on telephone poles and tucked inside the newspapers I delivered after school. We stood in front of the corner deli, handing out flyers to the neighborhood kids. Admission was a quarter. My mother sat in the back with her friends, smoking and chatting about the meat they were defrosting for dinner. Meanwhile Stephanie’s mother, whose husband recently shacked up with his secretary, sat by herself. The younger kids, licking snow cones and fudge pops, fidgeted in the front row. Stephanie sat among them, feeding me the lines I forgot, cheering me on and laughing at every joke. She had a kind of gruff snort (for a girl) that infected the other children. No matter the size of the audience, Stephanie’s laugh made me feel like I was performing on a Broadway stage.

Aside from writing and performing my plays, I loved baseball. After splitting the box office with Stephanie, I spent every cent from my shows and paper route on baseball cards. I had always been a diehard Mets fan, supporting them through some very lean years. The Yankees bought their teams while the Mets (I liked to think) represented the blue-collar ethos of my Italian American heritage. Pack after pack, searching for my favorite Mets: Bud Harrelson, John Stearns, Ed Kranepool, Dave Kingman and my favorite player, Lee Mazzilli. Mazzilli, or simply Maz, as New Yorkers affectionately called him, was from a working-class Sheepshead Bay neighborhood. He wasn’t extraordinary by any means. He was no Joe DiMaggio, never hit more than sixteen home runs or had more than seventy-nine runs batted in, but he played hard and gave it all he had. Mediocre ball players like Lee Mazzilli influenced me more than anyone else when I was a kid.

Despite having written plays as a boy, it wasn’t until senior year of high school, when Stephanie turned me on to Samuel Beckett and Harold Pinter that I first fell under the spell of a playwright. My family didn’t understand my desire to write and perform. They understood things like defrosting meat and baseball. Fortunately, I was fast and could play the field, so they forgave my peculiar obsession with theater. Baseball and theater. Both need an audience. And people desire drama. Having always been a frustrated performer, I too desired drama, and that’s why I was drawn to Emma Rue. As long as she sat in the front row during my show, fed me lines, cheered me on and laughed at all my jokes, I would go along for the wild ride, no matter how treacherous the road ahead was going to be.

One frigid Sunday evening in January, I tried again to connect with Emma. The day began routinely enough. We slept late, read in bed for a while and enjoyed onion bagels, lox and cappuccinos under a thick comforter that made me sweat like a pig. Later, I took in a football game while she wrote in her journal. We ate dinner around seven, drank red wine, watched a movie, and while we were complaining about our jobs, I told Emma to put down her glass, so I could make another confession.

—My real name is Gianni.

—Yeah sure, John, Johnny.

—Not Johnny. Gianni. G-i-a-n-n-i.

—So, you’ve got Italian roots.

—Yeah, but nobody calls me Gianni, except my mother. Stephanie did too. It’s John. Always John.

—Do you think you’re the only person in the world who has issues with his roots? Join the club.

—It’s a big thing. Don’t you think?

—It’s only as big as you enable it to be, Gianni.

—Don’t call me that, Emma. I told you I don’t like it.

—This is pussy shit, Gianni. Get over it.

—I’d really like to.

—You’ve got bigger issues, like holding on to that dead girl. It was a long time ago. You had nothing to do with her death.

—Actually, that’s the thing.

—Don’t tell me. You killed her?

—This is not a joke, Emma.

—Okay, what happened, John? Tell me. Maybe I can help you.

—We used to play a dangerous game. I made it up. And one day it got out of hand … You know, I don’t think I’m ready to tell you just yet.

—Have you been bottling this up all this time?

—I tried to tell a priest once.

—A priest? What the fuck do priests know? Tell me, John. Go ahead. I’m listening.

—Some other time, Emma. I appreciate it. I’m just not ready to go there.

—Okay, I understand. When you’re ready, I’m here. Can I at least call you Gianni? I really like it.

—I prefer that you don’t.

—Wow. I don’t know what to say.

—You’re pissed.

—Hurt. I’m hurt, John. That’s all.

Later that night, I was sitting on the bedroom floor, dreading my Monday morning commute to EverCover Books. Emma was wrapped in the thick comforter on an unmade bed, sleeping off her drunkenness, something that I had discovered she was prone to do on Sunday evenings. I had placed a trash can just below her head for fear that she might suffocate on her own vomit. Too much self-pity. Too much life. Too much Merlot. Too many “things.” I feared that I had gotten on the Cyclone at Coney Island and I couldn’t get off. I tried to commemorate the moment with a poem, but my emotions overwhelmed my pen. “Watching Emma Break” never moved beyond the title. An idea that failed to give rise to expression. That was nothing new for me. I hadn’t written a thing since the plays I’d performed in my backyard. I tore up the sentimental drivel and threw it in the trash can underneath Emma’s head.

While Emma slept, grinding her teeth, I stopped struggling with the poem, opened a bottle of Pinot Noir that I had been saving for a special occasion, and played my favorite Beatles album, Revolver. I listened to Jazz whenever I was feeling pensive; classical indicated that I was feeling creative; Motown conveyed my happiness. The Beatles were usually in heavy rotation whenever I was feeling hollow. Only the lads from Liverpool—John and Paul’s catchy melodies, their competent harmonies, George’s tasteful guitar solos and Ringo’s reliable drumbeats—could haul me out of the doldrums. They failed miserably that night.

Despite the millions of blood-red flags that had been waving before me, I asked Emma to marry me—or maybe she asked me, I don’t remember. Either way, Emma thought it would be “great fun.” She was sick of calling me her boyfriend. A gentleman my age required something more sophisticated: husband. I hoped that our marriage would prove to my family that I had finally become a grown-up, capable of holding down a full-time job and fending not only for myself but for my wife, too. My plan, unfortunately, backfired: the Lenza family was convinced that I was behaving like a child and spiting them by marrying the wrong girl. Emma wasn’t Italian; she didn’t cook or clean; her parents were divorced; her father was a drunk; she didn’t want children; she spent money like a drunken sailor; hell, she was a drunken sailor. In the end, if I were to disregard my family’s wishes and marry her, they demanded at least to have their fifteen minutes of fame at some gaudy affair in a cheesy catering hall.

My older sister, Gina, as matron of honor, aspired to walk down the aisle alone, propose a toast to the bride and groom, maybe even catch the bouquet and hand it off to an unwed girl.

My mother desired to shine in her vital role as mother of the groom: the grandiose sequined gown, the glittery, overpriced shoes, the expensive haircut, makeup painted on so thick she’d be the envy of every tacky lady behind every Clinique counter in the world. There would be the critical slow dance with her son to some third-rate song, maybe Bette Midler’s “Wind Beneath My Wings,” while hundreds of guests looked on, uncomfortable in their formal attire, the men in cheap suits and hideous ties, the women in ostentatious dresses and cumbersome heels, an amalgam of offensive cologne and sweet perfume, pinky rings and gold necklaces, hair gel and lipstick. The bridesmaids wearing chintzy, frilly gowns they’d never wear again, the incessant toasts, the ornate cocktail hour, the hackneyed wedding band, the smoke machines, the cutting the cake, tossing the bouquet, clinking of wineglasses, the ridiculous line dances, the entire tasteless extravaganza.

My old man was more concerned with matters of restitution. He believed that his attendance at countless weddings over the years—nearly all obligatory business affairs with brides and bridegrooms he didn’t know—had entitled his children to a gift of their own, preferably a handsome check.

I would have liked a simple ceremony and modest reception with just our immediate family and friends, but Emma thought that it would be more romantic if we eloped. I knew that our elopement would further devastate my family, but I didn’t want to disappoint Emma, so I went along with her demands, which included writing our own vows and tying the knot at city hall.

Even in the dead of winter, Emma tanned herself at the salon and wore the white off-the-shoulder summer dress she had been wearing the day we met. Her four-inch heels restricted her from taking normal strides in the snow and ice, so we were compelled to take baby steps all the way to the courthouse. I was thoroughly wrinkled in the black pinstripe suit I kept in the back of the closet. My narrow red tie fell just above my abdomen. Emma pleaded with me to cut my hair and shave my beard off. I compromised with her, trimming them both for the occasion. Emma pinned a slightly wilted white carnation to my lapel, and I presented her with an average bouquet of red and pink carnations.

The sterility of the New York City courts, the complete antithesis of elegance, failed to spark anything remotely passionate in either of us, so Emma suggested that we scrap the vows and get the proceedings over with as quickly as possible. I had slaved over those vows! It was the first piece of writing I had completed since my childhood plays, and I pleaded with her to let me recite them. Eventually, we struck another compromise: they’d be read later that evening at the bed-and-breakfast in Cold Spring where we’d reserved a room for the night.

The frail judge threw on a wrinkled powder-blue gown that must have been hanging in her chamber since 1972, ran a brush through her frizzy gray hair, stepped onto a wobbly podium and went through the motions. “By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” When it was over, we shuffled off to Grand Central Station and hopped on the Metro-North. As the train made its way around a sharp bend, I viewed the frozen Hudson River through a grimy window, thinking about the mistake we had just made. When I turned to Emma for reassurance, she was busy writing in her journal and, without looking up, told me to take a nap.

After an overpriced, mediocre seafood dinner that left us hungry later on, we nearly froze on our walk back to the bed-and-breakfast. Emma drank too much Merlot and fell asleep early, while I, basking in the glow of the fake fireplace, took off my wedding ring, which was too big, put aside the want ads—I was under the illusion that I was going to quit EverCover Books—and wrote a letter to Stephanie. Since I’d met Emma, I had been thinking about Stephanie more than ever, but I’d never actually sat down and written her a letter. It just seemed kind of natural to me.

February 5, 2003

Dear Stephanie,

I got married today. It wasn’t anything spectacular. We went to City Hall and five minutes later we were man and wife—that’s not politically correct nowadays, is it? When we played house, way back when, we were “man and wife.” You would have been proud of me. I wrote my vows. Emma—that’s my wife—promised that we’d read them when we got to the bed and breakfast, but she drank too much and fell asleep. She doesn’t love me the way you love me. I have to go now. It’s getting late and we’re leaving early tomorrow morning.

Love,

Gianni

She doesn’t love me the way you love me. I thought about that sentence or a long time that night. Actually, I’ve never stopped thinking about it. I tore the letter into a million pieces and tossed it in the trash can underneath the desk. No need to cause Emma any unnecessary pain. She already knew how deranged my attachment to Stephanie was.

When Emma and I returned home, everyone greeted us with downright contempt, as I had expected. Emma’s parents reluctantly acquiesced to our marriage—“At least she finally settled down”—whereas my entire family took it as a personal affront. I didn’t think they would ever speak to me again. My father was deeply insulted that Emma hadn’t taken my surname or at least a hyphenated form—Rue-Lenza: “What kind of a girl doesn’t take her husband’s name? It’s what you’re supposed to do.” Meanwhile, my mother suffered post-traumatic stress disorder: “Italian girls make the best wives. Your grandfather married an Italian girl. Your father married one. You’re supposed to marry your own kind. It makes life easier. There is an understanding. Even your sister, who dated Colin all those years, eventually came to her senses, dumped the drunken Irishman and married one of her own before it was too late. You’ll come to your senses one day.”

Emma’s brother, Thomas Rue, held his thirtieth birthday party at a fashionable restaurant in Union Square. The entire Rue clan was in attendance, including Emma’s parents, who put aside their differences for one evening and drove in from Valley Stream together. It was the first time Emma and I had stepped out as a married couple. Emma had been drinking her new favorite cocktail, a cosmopolitan. After one cocktail, her inhibitions faded and she was the most charming person on the planet. Four cocktails later, she could become volatile and unpredictable. I had nothing better to do, so I kept count. One before cocktail hour. Two during cocktail hour. One during her indiscreet family story, just prior to dinner. Thomas might have been the guest of honor, but Emma seized the spotlight from her younger brother early in the evening. She had her hand on the chest of a tall, tan man in a beige double-breasted suit who had his arm around her waist when she launched into her toast.

—My little brother, the little darling, is all grown up now. Thirty years old. You’re a man, darling, but I’ll always remember you as that geeky little kid who played with his microscope all day long. He was always looking at things: worms, moths, leaves, hair. It was a tragic day for him when his microscope broke. For all of us. Dad, who had one too many, was yelling at me for some insane reason. I think I was at Tony’s house after curfew or something like that. He was so pissed off that he came looking for me. He dragged me home and went through his typical misogynistic bullshit, telling me that a seventeen-year-old girl should not be out late at night. That a girl should be home with her family, where she belongs. He slapped me, called me a slut and flung me into my room. Tommy, the little darling, came to my defense. He took a swing at him. Can you imagine? Dad just laughed and told him that he was lucky he had missed. But that didn’t stop little Tommy from taking another swing at Dad. This time Dad retaliated. He didn’t lay a hand on the darling boy on account of Tommy’s epilepsy. Instead, he grabbed Tommy’s microscope, brought it to his workbench, took hold of a hammer and smashed it into a million pieces. Do you remember that day, Tommy? And now my little brother is thirty years old. He’s still throwing punches, though. Aren’t you, Thomas? My father? Well, let’s just say he hasn’t changed very much. No hard feelings, Dad. Happy birthday, Tommy.

Her monologue, however alienating, was most impressive from a performance standpoint. It was a cross between Mercutio and Richard Pryor, a kind of Shakespearean stand-up comedy routine. Her forced chuckle—which was insufferable and my second clue that she was smashed—failed to settle the stunned crowd. A few of the older women escaped to the buffet table. Emma grabbed the hand of the tall, tan man in the beige double-breasted suit and draped his arm over her shoulder. Just looking at them together like that, I bet people thought they were married, that he was John Lenza.

When Emma broke into tears, the tall, tan man gave her a tender hug. At that point, those folks who had been lingering finally dispersed. I watched Emma cry on the tall, tan man’s shoulder. My third clue that she was drunk. He put both of his arms around her waist and kissed her head. She took a long cigarette from his gold case, and he lit it for her. And that was my fourth clue.

We hadn’t eaten yet and she was already out of control. I feared the worst was yet to come. I had to do something before she embarrassed herself (and me) any further, so I put on my compassionate, concerned husband face, picked up a couple of plates from the buffet table and made my way across the dance floor to where Emma was still hanging on the arm of the tall, tan man, chuckling, slurring her words and calling everyone darling.

—Hi, Emma. The food is out. What do you say we hit the buffet table?

—I’m not hungry. But thanks anyway, darling.

Before the tall, tan man could fully extend his hand to greet me, Emma had stepped between us and planted a big, wet kiss on my cheek. I tried to pull back, but I was too slow. I hated sloppy, wet kisses, and she liked giving them, especially when she was sloppy drunk. She gave the tall, tan man a sloppy kiss on his forehead, and he wiped it off with the back of his hand.

—You’d better eat now before all the good stuff is gone.

—I just said that I wasn’t hungry, John.

—I think you should have something to eat … you’ve already had four drinks. I don’t want you getting sick—

—Have you been counting my cocktails again?

—You know how you get when you’ve had too much to drink.

—I already have a father, John. I don’t need another one, that’s for sure.

Without a wave, a wink or a nod, the tall, tan man made a quick getaway. Maybe he knew what was coming. Emma called out to him, but he didn’t turn around, strolling into the crowd and disappearing from view. When Emma turned to spar with me some more, she spilled her cocktail all over my wrinkled black pinstripe suit.

—Who was that?

—What is your problem, John? This is a party. I’m trying to have a good time.

—Is he an old boyfriend?

—What is your problem?

—You know how you get when you’ve been drinking, Emma.

—No, I don’t know how I get. How do I get? Tell me, Gianni.

—Don’t call me that. You know I hate it.

—Oh, right. That name is reserved for your dead girlfriend. You’ve got bigger issues to deal with than my drinking, John. Believe me.