The Year Before I Picked Up A Guitar

Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes

I am completely enthralled and a little worried. Rosemary Longo sits two rows to the right of me. She’s leaning over her desk, whispering in Lucille’s ear. Lucille’s twirled halfway around backward, listening open-mouthed. Lucille’s eyes widen, her mouth forms an “O”, she begins giggling. Rosemary giggles. They giggle in shifts, covering their mouths, clutching each other, trying not to draw the attention of Mrs. March. She’s at the blackboard, scratching out sentences with a piece of ancient chalk. She’s too absorbed to notice. It’s 1973 and we’re in E.W. Bower Elementary School. I’m eleven. It’s Easter-time. On Good Friday we come to class in our best clothes. We’re dressing up for Jesus (it’s the least we can do). Rosemary Longo wears shiny black patent shoes, white knee-hi stockings, a white blouse with lace collar and a long plaid skirt. The hem stops just atop her knees. Her long, straight blonde hair is held back with two white barrettes. I notice I feel odd around Rosemary. I become nervous, my face flushes red and I’m suddenly afraid of appearing foolish. Why? She was there last year, in fifth grade, and I felt nothing. She was not important–like, say, my G.I. Joe. Now HE was important. I played with him for hours, throwing him skyward as far as I could in simulation of a parachute-less jump from a plane. Something thrilled me about watching him fall helplessly through the sky, twisting over and around, plastic arms and legs flapping as gravity gripped them more firmly. Soon he’d crash violently into the ground as I’d simulate impact sounds–BOOOSH!! and BAM!–and the groans he’d utter–OOHH! and UHHH! I’d do this over and over again until the elastic cords holding Joe’s arms and legs and head together would SNAP! Then I’d add another quadriplegic Joe to my collection. Parts is parts. I destroyed every G.I. Joe Nana and Aunt Iz buy for me on frequent trips to Aesop’s toys on Montauk Highway. If not throwing Joe skyward repeatedly I’m stomping, tossing, crushing, twisting, pulling and smashing him until he gives. If elbow grease isn’t quick enough I apply explosives. Bury an M-80 in a shallow hole, put Joe and his buddy… uh, Joe… in their plastic Jeep and roll them both over my “land-mine”. The idea is to time the push just right so the M-80 explodes as the Jeep reaches the mine. Then I hoist the flaming jeep, scream “AAHHHH!” and run around our backyard, imagining I’m Joe, suddenly thrust into a world of fire.

“World of fire” does not begin to describe what Rosemary Longo thrusts me into. Just looking at her makes me warm all over. And feel like hiding behind something because I shop the “Husky” racks of the Sears Boy’s Clothing department. Mostly, Rosemary Longo makes me lightheaded. When Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes is on the radio, I’m enraptured. Eyes closed, I picture Rosemary in her skirt and stockings, telling Lucille some piece of gossip. Or raising her hand in class. Or hop-scotching on the playground. Or carrying her books close to her chest, on her way out the door.

Today, I make a rash decision and follow Rosemary home. I walk half a block behind her, all the way to the corner of Seventh and First, where I usually turn right and she continues straight. I stand, staring, as she continues to her house. She is–as ever–completely unaware of me. I imagine what it’d be like to catch up to her, speak with her, have her acknowledge me, invite me in for lemonade or a root beer, hold my hand, feel the same electric current I feel. Rooted at the corner, I envision a whole life for us as Rosemary crests the slight rise of Seventh and disappears. I stand, transfixed, in a partial swoon, trying to fight it off long enough to get home. Then I walk fast, muttering to myself, sure no one else is as big a coward.

Our house is empty. I unclip my special Easter tie, go straight to the refrigerator and, door open, slurp greedily from the orange juice carton. I’m trying to fend off the damn tingling. It doesn’t work. I go back to the room I share with my two older brothers, neither of whom seem to like me anymore, stretch out on my bed and unreel mind movies of Rosemary on the underside of my brother’s bunk. The snippets are painstakingly assembled from a thousand little moments: the coed gym; how she clasped her hands together, widening her eyes in expectation of an incoming volleyball; the time she cut her bare instep on glass while running across the newly-mown playing field; how, just after, she rolled her right knee-hi off to apply a bandage, revealing her thigh, calf and ankle. I run the snippets in an endless loop. All the time I want to touch the nexus of the tingling, discern if it can be felt. The tingling concerns me. I can pinpoint its location but not the source. What causing it? What does Rosemary have to do with it? Why her? Why not Lucille? Or Patricia? Or Susan? Or Barbara? Why don’t they cause the tingling? And just saying her name–Rosemary, Rosemary,  Rosemary–intsefies the tingling. It is growing, somehow. It’s definitely getting bigger. What the hell? What is going on? I grab it, try to push it back down. No use. My hand is on it and I’m still picturing Rosemary’s thigh and now my hand is her thigh and now her thigh brushes it and the tingling is ferocious now and her thigh rubs up and down faster and faster and now Rosemary is smiling and her hand is hooking strands of her blonde hair over her right ear and she bites her lower lip and for some reason she’s now stepping out of her dress and is in her underwear and her thigh becomes her mouth and it is very warm and I am very warm and the room is very warm and the world is very warm and now it’s hot and I am G.I. Joe rolling over the M-80 and the M-80 explodes and the flames lick me and Rosemary is there looking at me, angrily, trying to say something, starting to scold...

Then the movies fade. I open my eyes. What am I doing? What just happened? How did I make that happen? Where is my tie? I’ve lost my tie. I need my tie for Easter. Easter. Why did they kill Jesus? What did he do wrong? Why doesn’t everyone know about this tingling thing? Why didn’t they tell me about this sooner? Why don’t they teach it in school? Why do they say Jesus died for my sins? What did I do? Was that a sin, just now? No one ever told me about it. No one ever spoke to me about any of this. How was I supposed to know? Where is my tie? Will anyone know? Will they be able to look at me and see? What the hell is going on in this world, anyway? Where ís G.I. Joe? There you are, you little bastard. Come outside with me, we’ll play a little game...