Tom sat down on a stool in the dimly lit, sour-sweet–smelling Kaffman’s bar, drinking a locally brewed Ballantine beer. As usual, the first one was on the house. Rudy Kaffman’s generosity was in memory of his father, Thomas Haley, who had regularly spent a good chunk of his house painter’s salary in this neighborhood bar—one of many dotting Staten Island’s North Shore. The hazy old saloon was jammed with customers celebrating the upcoming Christmas holiday, which was scarcely a month away. Journeymen alcoholics use any excuse to imbibe, and Christmas was as good as any.
Tom was anticipating the arrival of his girlfriend, Martha, to Kaffman’s. On Friday nights, they met for a few drinks at Kaffman’s or K. C.’s before doing some bowling in Port Richmond. The place was a shabby bowling alley, called Gooley’s, on Richmond Terrace, a few doors from the seedy cockroach-infested Empire Theater, which regularly showed X-rated foreign films. Unable to convince Martha to see these movies, Tom occasionally saw these avant-garde films himself on a weekday night, clad in a soiled old raincoat.
The skinny young science teacher mused over the ups and downs of his teaching week at Curtis High School. There had been no fights or flare-ups, and his lessons on household chemicals, electricity, and energy went over reasonably well for this time of the year—the lead-up to the Christmas break. Tom put a lot of effort into his planning, especially the initial classroom experiment, as well as the following material. He had learned through bitter experience to fill up every moment of the lesson with information, concepts, and principles.
His students may not have appreciated it, but they regularly left his class with something concrete to take away—the vital material required for everyday life. It could be said that, as a teacher, Tom was a putter-inner and not a taker-outer. However, these post–Aquarian Age kids were tough customers. They had little intrinsic interest in learning for its own sake. Their focus appeared to reside in the realm of money and material things.
Fortunately the torturous American–North Vietnamese negotiations, orchestrated by Henry Kissinger, were bringing the seventeen-year-long Vietnam War to an end. For many young men of Tom’s generation, it was a light at the end of a long winding tunnel. Even ex–Cold War warrior Richard Nixon was ready to accept a stalemate after his brutal bombing campaign against North Vietnam and the Ho Chi Minh trail—running though Laos and Cambodia—had not driven the Viet Cong into submission. Reportedly, Nixon had admitted to Mr. Kissinger that his bombing had accomplished “zilch.”
Unlike many of his peers who went into teaching only to avoid the draft, Tom opted to continue teaching science for the foreseeable future. He was basically a creature of habit. Resisting his mom’s prodding, Tom decided to forsake the business world, with its promise of big bucks and golden parachutes. A young man of modest needs and dogged endurance, Tom accepted the bumps and bruises, the mediocre salary, and the lack of future advancement, for the elusive joys of the classroom. Of course, teaching had its consolations—Christmas and Easter breaks, plus the cherished ten-week summer vacation.
Tom’s rambling thoughts were interrupted by the breezy entrance of his girlfriend, Martha, into the dingy bar. Tall, big-boned, bouncy, and upbeat, Martha had a way of stirring things up wherever she went in life. Tom ordered his girlfriend some white wine and himself another Ballantine beer.
“Don’t look so glum, Tom. It’s Friday, thank God!” she exclaimed, plopping her voluminous but shapely derriere on the stool and grabbing Tom in a tight bear hug with kisses that left him breathless. Years ago his mother, aka Little Mommy, would grasp him and his sister, Cara, in a similar vice-like hug that rendered the two of them dizzy and out of breath.
Kissing the tall, pretty brunette on the forehead, nose, and lips, Tom said, “I just realized I’m a veteran teacher with two and a half years’ experience under my belt. You could say that I’m locked into teaching for life. I’ll be doing this for the next fifty years!”
“God willing. And what’s so terrible about teaching? At least you earn a decent salary. Try working for the Staten Island Diocese,” she responded.
“No, thanks. I’m not into vows of poverty and chastity. As St. Augustine said, Lord give me chastity but not yet,” he remarked.
“You’re just a spoiled naughty boy who needs a good spanking,” she exclaimed.
“I’ll settle for that—as long as I can reciprocate,” he replied, smirking.
She shoved the skinny science teacher playfully, and Tom would have lost his balance had Martha not grabbed him with her strong arms. Dating Martha—a veritable Amazon who often whipped him at bowling, ping-pong, and basketball—was physically demanding. Upon consummating their union, she would denote her satisfaction by slapping him smartly in the face.
“But my favorite saint was Saint Teresa, who used to beat herself with a wooden stick so she could have visions of Jesus Christ,” he said.
“For someone who never enters a church, you know a lot about the saints. That’s what you need—a good beating with a stick,” she asserted angrily, downing her wine in a few gulps.
“With regard to chastity, Tom, a girl like me does not relinquish that particular vow lightly. And the time is fast approaching when you will be obliged to make me an honorable woman. Beneath all that 1960s idealism, you’re a selfish, immature boy,” she retorted angrily.
“Stop fretting. You do remind me of Saint Teresa, who said, ‘Let me suffer or let me die.’ I am not selfish. I’m generous with my affection,” he said, turning to Rudy, and ordered another round of drinks.
There ensued an awkward silence between the two lovers as each stared bleakly into their respective glasses, allowing the din of the crowded bar to mask their isolation. Looking up momentarily, Tom did a double take as he saw a familiar face approaching. It was a face from the past—Jake Gardello, his old girlfriend’s cousin.
“Tom, can I talk to you for a few seconds?” Jake inquired in an undertone.
Turning red, the skinny science teacher nodded, got up, and followed the husky young man out of Kaffman’s bar onto the chilly sidewalk.
“Joanie’s back on Staten Island. She’s in St. Vincent’s Hospital. There’s a tumor in her brain, and it’s affecting her sight,” Jake stated hurriedly.
“What? A brain tumor? Oh my God!” Tom replied breathlessly.
“I need to tell you she’s married now. But she wants to see you, Tom. So don’t say anything stupid, and don’t upset her!”
“Of course not. I’ll respect the sensibilities of everyone,” Tom replied quietly.
“Good. You were always a classy guy. Visiting hours are from 4:00 to 8:00 p.m. Here’s the room number,” Jake said, handing the young teacher a small piece of paper, which Tom folded carefully and put in his wallet.
Returning to his stool at Kaffman’s, Tom could see that Martha was furious.
“I know who that guy is. He’s Joanie’s cousin. If you start seeing her, we’re finished,” she asserted, getting up from her stool.
“Martha, the girl has a brain tumor. Have a heart!” he replied, near tears.