Let’s get back to those “impure thoughts.” Or, better yet, some “impure actions.”
When I was in sixth grade, I got invited to an elementary-school make-out party. This freaked me out—the Church was all-seeing, and so were my parents. But there was no way I was going to say no. Hell, I’d never been kissed by a girl before.
The party of a lifetime was happening after school at the house of one of the girls from my class at St. Patrick’s. Her parents both worked. There was no chance they would come home early. We were on our own until three that afternoon. Until three, anything was possible. But what did that even mean, anything was possible?
There were six girls and six boys. A lot of staring down at our sneaks or saddle shoes. Nervous smiles. Giggling. Offers of soda pop. And beer.
We got paired off in no particular order, at least none that I was told about or could figure out.
I slowly walked to a bedroom with a pretty girl named Veronica Tabasco. What a great name for a first-kiss girl, right? Veronica was one of the smart kids in our class. She stuck to her ideas no matter what the nuns said, which I loved about her.
She pulled down the shades in the bedroom. We both laughed. (I think I laughed.) We didn’t know what we were doing but our make-out session was kind of sweet. She was a good kisser. She said I was too. I thanked Veronica and she thanked me. What can I say—we were polite St. Patrick’s Catholic School students, after all.
The story doesn’t end there. Years later, when I was in my early thirties, I went to visit my grandfather’s grave at the Calvary Cemetery on the outskirts of Newburgh. (This was my grandfather on my mother’s side, “Pop.”)
I wasn’t that big on visits to cemeteries, and I couldn’t remember exactly where the gravesite was, but I finally found it. I stood there, hat in hand, a stiff Hudson River wind chilling me to the bone, and I had a few good memories of Pop. I said a half-remembered prayer or two.
Then I turned back in the direction of my car and—Jesus—I read the name on the gravestone right next to my grandfather’s.
It was Veronica Tabasco. My first-kiss girl. My sixth-grade crush. According to the stone tablet, Veronica had died in her mid-twenties. I’d had no idea until that moment. It kind of broke my heart.