I have two memories of Artie, my childhood friend—one involves the night he tried to push me from a third floor Rosedale window, long after our friendship was over.
The second is a haunting vision, a blurry dream of Eva, his lovely sister.
Artie’s frizzy hair and oversized eyes scared me from the day he began following me, wanting to be my friend.
Afterwards, I learned the skinny kid in leather shorts befriended me because I was good in English.
His father was a suave gangster from a film noir and his wraith of a mother seemed perpetually shuttling between buses on her way to market.
But I befriended Artie for one thing—to be close to Eva, his enchanting sister.
Eva had blonde hair and a dark smile that froze and melted the dreams inside me.
I burned candles in the darkness of Saint James Church, begging Christ on the altar to pity me and let me have her.
I was conflicted, adults would say—passionate, dark and brooding, yet, between sleep and waking, my heart cried out in longing, wanting to possess her.
I was shy—intimidated by adults I presumed gods and terrified of girls I knew were angels.
Being sensitive made me awkward and I envied boys with skin so thick they never blushed.
That summer between grades seven and eight I spent daily at Artie’s house.
Sometimes, I’d pedal my bike to a nearby store to buy soft drinks for the three of us. Eva drank Orange Crush, and I confess, I’d uncap her bottle and steal a sip hoping her lips would shiver at the cold dark kiss.
She’d give a knowing smile as if she knew—and I hoped she did, but was terrified as well. She wore navy shorts and a white blouse, her long legs tanned and bronzed from being outdoors.
When I came into the cool house from the heat outside, she was a ray of moonlight and my heart ached, gazing at her beauty.
I can’t recall we ever said much—not that I could converse with her, if ever the occasion presented itself.
The other boys at school went out on dates. Even Ricky Rutledge, the dentist’s son. He pulled me aside one day in the hall and with gleaming smile asked, “How are the bras in your class?”
I was definitely arrested, unable to reply, and he smirked the knowing smile of a confirmed roué, already worldly—and only twelve.
That was a horrible year, and more terrible the longer it went on.
Artie sympathized with my angst, and while not exactly dating himself, he attended a club at St. Elizabeth of Hungary Church.
The club’s purpose was to inculcate culture, but Artie saw it as an opportunity to dance with girls.
“C’mon, John—you’ll love it. I meet girls all the time, and sometimes go over to their houses.”
My eyes widened. This side of Artie I hadn’t seen.
I was afraid to send girls Valentines, but Artie went and visited them at their houses.
I was definitely delayed in my development.
As I look back now, I can’t believe I agreed to go to the dance, but go I did.
