Back home I prayed nightly, “Please help Re-Re Winston like me and marry me,” I did this until I was fourteen when, for reasons to be explained, I changed the prayer to “Please help the girl from Goshen like me and marry me.”
The change came in the fall of my fourteenth year. It was on a Saturday evening and Donnie Baines and I were standing with big kids outside the Oakland Diner in Warwick, NY. We'd won the afternoon football game against Monroe and Donnie and I, both ninth graders, got in a little at the end. I sprained my wrist tackling someone and after the game Coach Morgan wrapped it with an Ace bandage. When he finished he smiled and said, “Keep this on all weekend.” I glanced up and brought a solemn look to my face. Being on the team was new. It was so important - hard to believe.
The group at the diner was mostly seniors, football players and older girls, beautiful like movie stars, in my opinion. The girls were headed for the movies. Some boys were pitching for a ride to Goshen, because they heard about a party at someone’s house. Donnie and I were just passing by when Matt Rickey shouted at us.
“Nice pass, Donnie. You too Bobby. Good game,” he said. Donnie threw a pass in the game and Matt, a senior lineman was being kind. He slapped us on the back and we pitched forward, awkwardly. Despite our unease, we lingered.
The boys were huddled around a parking meter beside Eddie Sadowski’s ’49 Mercury. A car pulled up at the curb and Nancy Langlitz, bounced out. “Did you hear Elvis’ new song?” she asked to a huddle of girlfriends. Seconds later I heard a girl’s voice, soft, clear as a pipe, “I’m in love – I’m all shook up - Mm mm oh, oh yeah, yeah!” Ash Morgan went into his Elvis pose, strumming an invisible guitar.
"Elvis Morgan,” Egghead Clark hooted. Ash swiveled, curled his lip.
“Guess Monroe was all shook up today,” said Will Patterson, a wiry six-footer, an end on the football team. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned back against Eddie’s Mercury. The boys grunted.
It was rare to be close to these boys, tall, and stylish, their collars turned up around white tee-shirts glowing at their necks. Plus the knockout girls, in bright plaid shirts and dungarees rolled up with wide cuffs around their calves. They swayed, humming a school song, “Warwick plays Monroe, all righty. Warwick beats Monroe, all righty.” Tremors shot through me.
Finally the girls started to drift toward the movies. Some boys stayed back, still touting the Goshen party. Donnie and I shifted our feet, dropped our shoulders and waited for the movie crowd to get ahead.
Suddenly Matty punched the air, “We’re going!” he yelled and five seniors piled into Eddie’s Mercury. They wrestled for window seats as the car quaked at the curb. Eddie turned the key and a throaty gurgle issued from the tailpipe. Donnie and I stared. The Mercury inched forward. A back window rolled down and Eggy Clarke stuck his face out. “Bobby, Donnie. Get in,” he shouted.
We shivered – paralyzed - then shot into the back seat. The smile on my face wouldn’t go away.
Eddie made a U-eee in Buttercup Givean’s Esso station. Buttercup was outside straddling a chair, sitting backwards, his arms draped over the back. “Way to go!” he yelled raising one hand. A reference to the game, I assumed. Eddie gave a long toot. We coasted down Main, pointing for Goshen, ten miles north on County Rt. 94. Donnie and I sank low in the seat, shoulders hunched to our ears. We knew we didn’t belong, but we were thrilled regardless.
The radio blared, Sonny James’ “Young Love,” on AM 560, WMCA. An elixir-like air filled the car, Wildroot and Vitalis, mixed with the sweet musty scent of the old cloth upholstery. We traveled slow, rolling quietly out of town, the muffler gurgling with each acceleration. The rear bumper scraped where the road dipped and someone said, “Better take out those lowering blocks.” Howls followed this. Donnie and I said nothing. The countryside receded out the side windows, black and invisible.
Eddie brought us right to the spot. “Fifty-four Scotchtown Avenue,” he announced, triumphant. I looked for the house number but saw none. I guessed he’d been here before.
We tumbled out, righted ourselves, ran our fingers through our hair, and strolled confidently – them, not I – across the lawn and in through the front door. We were uninvited; that was obvious.
No one seemed happy to see us. We were barely acknowledged. A group of boys was in the kitchen, another in the living room. Girls were collected around the record player, trying to play a 45 record, “Silhouettes,” so that it didn’t skip.
“Silhouettes aye oh!, aye oh!, aye oh!” It kept repeating.
Someone said, “Warwick boys,” and every now and then a head turned. I feared a fight might start and prayed I’d be excluded – given my injured wrist, still wrapped.
The evening moved along and the big kids got more at ease. Their cordial manner surprised me. They talked mostly to other guys; the Goshen girls seemed to ignore them. Donnie and I remained in the living room, fixed like floor lamps, watching everything.
About an hour into this, I noticed a smallish figure moving toward us. I pressed my shoulder blades to the wall, darted my eyes and blinked. Standing directly in front of me, was a girl, about our age.
“What did you do to your hand?” she said.
A child-like noise escaped from my throat. In a weak breath, I said, “I bent it back in the game.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “Too bad.” Her voice was firm, melodic. There was a penetrating smile in her eyes. She raised her eyebrows and her mouth turned down, sweetly sympathetic. I had never seen anyone so lovely. I tried to smile back, to look without looking. After some seconds, she stepped back and walked to the other room.
“Who was that?” Donnie said.
“I don’t know,” I squeaked. I caught only glimpses of her the rest of the evening, but I knew that this was real love. I felt entirely justified. Donnie was my witness. I kept thinking of my words. “Bent it back in the game?” So dumb, why did I say that?.
It was past eleven when we got home. I walked up the stairs to my room, the center of my chest still tingling with heat.
The girl turned out to be Barbara Kamarowski, a name I discovered months later. When I learned the name, I changed my prayer to “Please help the girl from Goshen like me and marry me.” The prayer was my secret.
Not sure how long I kept saying the prayer, but it eventually gave way because I developed a high school life, and a girlfriend, in my own town. I still saw Barbara at times, albeit anonymously, and thought maybe after I got to college I’d call her for a date, but I never did. I discovered she went to college in Pennsylvania, Bucknell, and whenever I met someone from Bucknell, I asked if they knew Barbara Kamarowski. I can’t remember if anyone knew her, but a response never came back.
Life moved along. I graduated from college and got a job in New York, commuting from my apartment in New Jersey by train.
One Friday, after work, I was on a cross town bus, gazing at the people on 42nd Street, in front of the Plymouth Shop. The light from the store window seemed to beam a spotlight on one woman. It was a beautiful picture, I thought, her glowing, highlighted among the shadows. It made me fantasize about a new career as a photographer. As the bus slowed by I kept staring, then suddenly it hit me - it was Barbara Kamarowski.
The next Friday at 5 PM, I was on 42nd Street marching toward the Plymouth Shop. My plan was to spot Barbara, approach casually and say, “Hey,” like I recognized her but couldn’t remember the name. It didn’t occur to me that my scheme was a bit of a stretch.
But, I was young. The gods were with me. What else was I doing?
I choose a camera store, two doors removed, as a stakeout spot. I strolled into the entryway acting the part of a legitimate shopper, then, breaking character, turned back toward the sidewalk, I stuck my neck out, peering down the street toward the Plymouth Shop. No one there yet.
To pass time I drew back and scanned the merchandise. I knew nothing of cameras, but managed to pass some minutes before I popped out for another look. The walk was crowded and I had trouble seeing. Plus I was shivering. I’d worn only a sport coat – trying for a hardy, collegiate look.
I started to feel discouraged and stupid, doubting the whole idea. Seriously, what was I doing here? I set a deadline of 6 o’clock. Leave then, I vowed. I stuck my neck out again. Still nothing. I stepped further out onto the sidewalk, leaned both ways. I was craning my neck, thinking of walking up toward the Plymouth Shop, when I heard my name called from behind.
“Bobby Caskey?
I turned. “What are you doing here?” the voice said.
It was her.
“Hey …” I said, avoiding her name. Heat rose into my ears. “I’m waiting for someone,” I said, “a friend. I’m meeting him here.” I looked up at the store name. “Yeah, right here, at the camera store. God, this is funny, meeting you. Kamarowski, right?” Like I didn’t know.
“Yes,” she said, smirking. She looked more gorgeous than ever, so smart in a black coat, her blonde hair in a French twist. I wanted to stare at her - for hours. I offered a handshake, grownup like. “How are you? You work here? In New York?”
“I work on 47th Street. I’m going home for the weekend. I’m meeting my ride here.”
My ride – not, my boyfriend. If she had a boyfriend, then should not my boyfriend be meeting her?
“You’re meeting him here? At this store?” I hoped she’d correct me, and say meeting her.
“No at the corner. I better get down there.” She squinted down the street.
“Yeah,” I said, hoping otherwise. “Hey funny bumping into you.” I shot my gaze in the other direction. “Wonder where my friend is,” I muttered.
“Oh, there’s my ride,” she said. “Nice seeing you.” She hurried off but her smile had registered enough that I thought I could – no, I would - definitely call her sometime. A red Chevrolet was waiting at the curb and I glimpsed a shadowy figure inside lean over and open the door. Was there a big smile, a kiss? The car pulled away. I wasn’t sure about the kiss.
I stayed another half hour outside the camera store. Not sure why actually. Perhaps to pretend that I was really waiting for someone. Regardless, I finally gave in. I walked to the PATH train and caught the 7:36 Erie Lackawanna from Hoboken to Madison.
I never called Barbara in New York. I was afraid I’d hear, “I’d love to, but I have a boyfriend.”
Six months later, I was in Warwick, visiting my parents when, after dinner, I ventured downtown and saw Main Street was set up for a block dance. The town held street dances every summer Wednesday and I remembered Barbara occasionally showed up in the years after high school. It seemed long ago. I felt old for the first time in my life. I was twenty-four.
I stood on the sidelines talking with friends. An hour passed.
Suddenly, as if dropped from the sky, directly across the dance floor, there was Barbara Kamarowski, with two girlfriends.
I felt my chest thump. I kept Barbara in sight as my mind raced rehearsing greeting scenarios. I decided to venture over. I forced myself. It was a long, uneasy walk. My shoes slapped the pavement like a drumbeat.
“Hey, how you doing?” I said.
“Hi,” she said. Her tone was less than I had hoped for. The girlfriends tittered. I got right to the point. “You want to dance?” As the last word left my throat, I wanted to pull it back.
“Maybe later,” she said with a closed lip smile. The next five seconds seemed like a hundred - minutes. The girlfriends grew solemn.
Was I wrong to be hopeful? I was, after all, a college grad. I had a job in New York (Manhattan, I called it). Furthermore I was an athlete, I played on the college football team. Did she even know that? Plus we’d met in New York, and now Barbara was here. It was fate, or so I’d thought - so much.
“Maybe later.” It crushed me.
“That’s the old, maybe later trick,” I said, with a contrived smile, mimicking a friend from work who always used that expression. The friend lived in the Bronx, which was another thing - I had friends from the Bronx. If Barbara didn’t catch my cleverness, so be it. Regardless, nobody laughed.
I hurried off, fighting the lump in my chest.
I returned to my former spot, humiliated and despondent. I struggled through a couple of dances with Annette, a high school classmate. I avoided looking over at Barbara.
The band played a polka and Annette and I pulled each other around the floor. I wasn’t sure if I could really polka. My technique was to just skip, like a kid on the sidewalk. The floor was packed. I spied Barbara dancing with her girl friend. Girls did that, danced together for polkas. I concentrated on my skipping. When the music ended I walked off and noticed Barbara walking nearby. I slowed down to match her pace. A Ferlin Husky sound-alike began, “Since you’ve gone … “
I looked over and caught her eye, “Want to dance?” I said.
She extended her arm and I took her hand.
I didn’t get my hopes up. Instead I prepared my goodbye words, something like, “Nice to see you, maybe I’ll see you in New York.”
Instead, I said, “So, you work in New York today?”
“I don’t work there anymore.”
“No?”
“I’m working home, in Goshen. I’m going back sometime, but my mother got sick. I had to stay with her.”
“Oh,” I said. I didn’t know what to say. Seconds passed.
Finally I offered, “It was funny when I ran into you in New York.” Did she even remember?
“It was. What were you doing there?” she said.
“I work there, on 53rd and Park. I was waiting for someone, but we got our signals crossed. He was waiting at a bar up on the east side.” East side, 53rd and Park - that was Manhattan talk. I could have said “she,” instead of “he,” as long as I was making everything up.
“Wow,” she said, “so you missed him?”
“Yeah. He said he drank beer and listened to old men talking about their jobs; one guy was a photographer.” Why’d I say that?
“Ha.”
I was conscious of everything, our feet sliding on the pavement, her hand in mine, and how I held my arm. I barely noticed my little lies. They seemed effortless.
“Anyway,” I said.
“How long did you wait there?” she said.
“Oh, another hour maybe. Then I went to a bar up on First Avenue. Matejoy’s. Ever been there?”
FYI: I knew a lot of bars in New York.
Barbara shook her head.
“My friend and I go there sometimes on Fridays. But he wasn’t there either.”
“Was he mad at you?” she said.
“No, it was his mistake.”
Finally I shut up. Enough with the lies. I concentrated on dancing. When the song ended I asked, “You like working in New York?”
“I loved it. I lived with two girls; we knew the grocer, the super, the newsstand man. We had a community. That’s what counts, and you can have it in New York. It surprised me. I always thought anyone living in New York was either crazy or a millionaire. But it’s not true.”
I liked her long answer. “It’s not,” I added, “I thought like that once too.” Actually I never thought about it.
The next song began, a deep bass: “Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone.” The chords cut through me.
I held out my arm. We started dancing again. “Anyway,” I said, “that’s what I’d like to do someday, live for a year or two in New York. Right in Manhattan. Not now, but with a family, you know? Go to shows, museums, see everything New York has to offer. Take the kids to Central Park. For a year or two”
“That’d be nice,” she said.
“ …and you can tell that man there with you, he’ll have to go.”
Maybe I should not have said the thing about "the kids."
I wanted to hold Barbara tighter, thought about pressing our cheeks together, but I resisted. I reminded myself not to get overly sentimental. “Yeah, I was like you,” I said, “I thought anyone living in New York was nuts. I liked visiting, that’s all. But I’ve changed.”
“Do people ever change?” she asked.
I took this to mean that Barbara had, or once had, a boyfriend whom she wanted to change.
“Some do,” I said, “and some don’t.” Read: Your boyfriend – he won’t.
“Hmmm.”
I tried again, “I don’t know. I had a college friend, Andy, a big tough guy. He played on the football team with us (football – with us - finally got that in). He was a great guy, my best college friend actually, but never showed any warmth or feelings. I’d drop him off and he’d jump out of the car. Didn’t once say goodbye. I always said ‘see ya,’ or something but him, nothing. Just closed the door and left. I thought it was strange. Anyway, he did this for three years, same thing. Last year he sent me a book of poems for my birthday, with a note – ‘to my good friend.’ He changed. We visit each other all the time. He lives in Pennsylvania.”
Barbara said nothing. The music ended. She looked at me and I felt liquid building beneath my eyelids, thinking about my friend. Everything felt still, quiet. Finally I had said something true. This was a perfect way to end it, I thought. Now just say, ‘Nice seeing you. If I get to Warwick again …’ We walked off the floor, had taken but a few steps when she slowed and turned toward me.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
The phrase, “Please help Barbara Kamarowski like me and marry me,” flew into my brain and a pinpoint torch blew through my chest. Barbara walked ahead. She looked over her shoulder and said, “Be right back.”
I stood still, frozen in the middle of the street - a statue.
My friend, Kenny, approached. “What’s going on,” he said.
“There’s trouble in paradise,” I said.
Dumb, I knew, but it just came out, faint and squeaky-like. Inside I was bursting with glee. Kenny looked at me, bewildered.
“Let’s get out of here.” Those words had to be from a movie or something.
Barbara was walking toward me. Suddenly my glee turned to angst. All I could think was, “Please don’t let this go wrong.”
“Do you have your car?” I said.
"No, Gail drove.”
“Want to go to the Landmark?”
“OK,” Barbara said.
I was dying to know her thoughts. Did she like me? Let's get out of here. Who says that?
The Landmark was a quaint country inn, a mile out of town. There was a bar with
tables and another room with a jukebox and dance floor.
“Here?” I said, reaching toward the bar.
Barbara nodded.
Three young men were seated at the bar. I knew them all. Two Johnny Kniffen and Steve Kazmeyer had their backs to us. The third, Joe Sullivan, sat sideways on the stool, facing us, holding a drink. His one leg was propped on a foot rung and the other hung loose. I didn’t know him well enough to start a conversation but I acknowledged him as we passed. He had sad eyes, hard to look at.
As we walked by I heard his low voice, “Some guys have all the luck.”
I turned my head, then quickly turned it back. Barbara’s eyes were locked straight ahead. She’d heard it all before, I thought.
When we sat down I asked, “Did you hear what that guy at the bar said?”
“No, what?” she said.
“He said, ‘Some guys have all the luck.’”
“He did?”
“Yeah. I think he was lonely. Or envious.” I paused, looked at Barbara. “Because you’re so pretty,” I said.
Barbara looked up. She said nothing. I thought that Joe Sullivan’s words might have made her feel good just like “Lets get out of here,” made me feel good, but I wasn’t sure. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it, especially the remark, “because you’re so pretty.”
We played the jukebox. I picked “Smoke gets in your eyes.” She choose “You made me love you,” by Nat King Cole.
“Wanna dance?” I said.
She stood up and we walked into the other room, past Joe Sullivan. I wasn’t an accomplished dancer. I still did what I learned in seventh grade, the “box” it was called back then. Her perfume smelled wonderful. I wanted to tell her but thought it was too personal. From the side of the room I could see into the bar. Joe Sullivan was still on the corner stool. I maneuvered away from his view. I couldn’t get the two things out of my mind: “Lets get out of here,” and “Some guys have all the luck.” Her eyes - and his.
The next song began, “You made me love you.” Why did she play that? We danced without talking. When we walked back to our table I fretted about passing Joe Sullivan. Should I look up? Say hello?
But his stool was empty. He was gone.
We sat at our table, both quiet. Finally I said, “So ...”
“What?” Barbara said.
“What’s your perfume?”
“Sortilege,.” She said.
“It’s nice,” I said.
An hour later we were back in the car, headed for Goshen. I thought about that identical ride, a decade previous, in Eddie Sadowski’s Mercury, the night I first saw Barbara. This was the same Orange County road, Route 94, to Goshen. I tried to recall the smells and the sounds of that night long ago. I swore I could hear the rumble of Eddie’s muffler and the big kids chortling in the front seat. It made me smile, but I kept the story to myself.
“Where do you live?” I said.
“Fifty-four Scotchtown Avenue,” she said and my heart jumped. The address had been stamped in my memory since high school. Was that her house, that night? She was just a youngster; it couldn’t have been her party.
“You have brothers or sisters,” I said as we rolled into her driveway.
“An older brother,” she said, “he’s in dental school.” OK, that explained it.
I turned off the car, straightened my arms. I put both hands on the top of the steering wheel and stretched my fingers, settling in, thinking we might stay a moment and talk. But, what could I say?
Suddenly I heard the door open. I looked over and saw Barbara getting out. In a second she was walking in front of the car, toward her door.
I grabbed for the window handle and rolled it down. “You know I’ve been to this house before,” I said, half shouting.
She stopped, turned my way.
“It was at a party. I was a little kid, a freshman in high school,” I said.
She walked back toward the car and leaned down at my window. I looked up, wincing.
“How’s your hand?” she said.
“Huh?” I said. I felt sadness fall across my face. Was she mad at me for stretching my hands in the car? For not saying anything?
I looked up, straight at her. Her eyes glared back. “The one you bent back in the game,” she said.
It took a minute to sink in. “Goodnight,” she said with a thin smile, slowly backpedaling toward the house.
“I’ll give you a call,” I offered weakly as she reached the door.
She went in and I slumped against the steering wheel. I did not want to move or
start the car, or drive home. I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and
think about everything, everything that happened tonight and everything from
ten years ago – and just wait – stay - right here - in the driveway ... all night.
