Real Love Never Has a Happy Ending
Real Love Never Has A Happy Ending
Remember me, Harry? I was the skinny, painfully shy kid with freakish physical strength who beat your giant sized nephew, Bobby, and just about everyone else around, in arm-wrestling. And now at age 53, I’m still going strong, am no longer bashful; I still read like there’s no tomorrow, and Beethoven is still my favorite composer and…well, you get the point.
And now you’re dead. I learned of your passing by pure chance while surfing the internet. And the news inspired in me some nostalgic feelings of yesteryear. So if you’re not too busy, how about an amusing little story about boy-meets-girl…circa 1973?
Now most people don’t write to dead men, but I believe that you, like those before you, have discovered something only the deceased can know: not all of you died, just your body. Your soul lives on because that’s the only part of our being which is not tangible. We don’t lease our soul, we own it. In other words, one must consider: If this were not so, what would be the point of dying…or living, for that matter? The beautiful thing about mortality is immortality. Yet my body is still alive, so how would I know all this? Am I some genius or clairvoyant?
Of course not. It’s just that due to unusual childhood circumstances, truths could not be revealed to me by traditional means, such as through parental guidance, so I had to turn inward to seek life’s truths. Hence my early penchant for classical music, international film dramas, and constant reading of encyclopedias and classic literature, rather than the standard forms of entertainment other kids my age preferred. All in search of the truth. So by virtue of happenstance, you could say I drew the inside post on premature knowledge, for what it’s worth.
Anyway, I recall the very day you hired me. I was fifteen and my life was one big jittery rent-a-wreck. You were a decent boss–affable, funny, good-natured, and generous too. And I was a hard worker. Your endless supplies of jokes and wisecracks were a great source of amusement for me. Yet in hindsight, another agenda may have governed my work ethic somewhat–a nearby girl, perhaps. Undoubtedly, you’ve heard some falsehoods long ago from your inner circle regarding that particular girl and I. Now, the time has come for you to finally know the real truth straight from the protagonist himself. And rest assured, a man with nothing to hide punches these keys.
This, then, is the accurate, sequential story about the long seasons of 1973 and beyond…
Warm and hazy it was, that June morning when I first laid eyes on your daughter. At first glance, she imparted no real impression on me one way or the other. She was pretty enough; her dark wavy hair and large brown eyes projected a light-hearted demeanor that came with an easy smile. But the girl was nearly three-years my senior. And she also worked at your shop. So I shrugged her off. Well, that strategy didn’t work. To my amazement, the girl soon developed a fondness for me. She made this very clear by displaying obvious romantic overtones. At the time, I really didn’t need the distraction of personal human interaction, let alone romance. Intuition told me to stay put; to keep one foot on land. After all, the scorecard on my overall self-esteem read zero.
I was ashamed of my roots because, well, I had none. Back then, I was unaware of from where I came; essentially, my roots began and ended with a few still pictures in my head. Even my name wasn’t real. Only decades later would my true identity and family history finally be revealed to me. And sure enough, it wasn’t a pretty picture. For instance, it turns out my real father was a hood and a killer; a mid-level guy in la cosa nostra, and it was my own mentally ill mother who bumped him off when I was three. Then came the foster homes and the orphanage. And that was just the prelude! Anyway…
Curiously, your daughter’s overt fondness for me escalated. I sensed that such a fiery attraction (by any girl) aimed toward me with flames that high couldn’t possibly be sincere. So I heeded my intuition…by playing stupid while trying not to appear rude. That didn’t work either; the girl would not stop hovering around me. And over the following several months she ceaselessly pursued, gradually wearing down my resolve. So ignoring better judgment, I finally gave in and recklessly allowed the cards to fall where they may. I was only partially aware of the risks…extreme risks that normal people rarely have to endure.
For the time being things were good…maybe a little too good, and the days and months rolled on. The girl and I talked daily and for hours on end. We went on long bike rides. She confided very personal information to me, and I to her, (even my night terrors and whatnot). We trusted each other, and I was the perfect candidate to trust.
My Italian code of omerta was never broken. To this day,