Out In The 1970s Be-Bop Night- The Girl With The Pale Blue Eyes-Take  Four   

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

He was getting ready to leave her again, leave her like he had so many times before, and like he would probably do again. Who knows what it was this time maybe he got mad that she did not take his newly found passion for saving the world now that it was going to hell in a hand-basket seriously and was in desperate need of fixing or maybe it was he could not for  the life of  him understand why she wanted to stay cooped up in the little white house with picket fence and dog that they had shared in Old Lyme for the past several years and let the world drift by while she, they, pursued their respective careers. She, a very, very competent lawyer and he a better than middling free-lance editor   for well-known local publishing houses, although he had done everything from washing dishes to teaching school once he decided, or she decided him, to settle down a bit after he got the trauma of Vietnam under some kind of control .

He had a half-ironic vision that in forty or fifty years if he was still alive he would still be leaving her, or still be working his way back to her. That forty or fifty year thought didn’t faze him, didn’t cause him pain, and didn’t make him tremble. Didn’t make him tremble that maybe there would not be a forty or fifty years, that she would cut it off, or he would before then. That was outside the box of their relationship and always had been in the now numberless times they had danced this dance. That was just the way their love worked, or didn’t work. Yes, they both agreed, sometimes with a laugh, sometimes in maniacal rage, that was just the way it was between them and had been from about the first time they met a decade or so back in the mid-1970s.

As he packed his belongings to head out for wherever he was heading this time he had a moment’s confusion.  Like the other times, that numberless times, it was not clear where he would go, west to California, east on some tramp steamer to Morocco and some Kasbah hash den, north on the hitchhike trail before the snows set in and then south to the Baja, he didn’t know until he went out the door and walked some distance, maybe picked up a ride and that would decide it. All he knew was he was, she was, in a place neither of them wanted to be and so he would cast his fates to the wind. And he thought too, as he had thought so many times before when this damn interlude came upon them, about how he had met, or almost didn’t meet, his girl with the pale blue eyes.           

Soldier Johnson  had to laugh about that last fact, about how they had almost not met, or rather how he had almost not connected with his Jewel, Jewel Samson, the woman he was now about to leave again. Back then Soldier had thought that he had blown the dust of old North Adamsville off  his shoes after he finished his military service and so his return, his painful return, back to his growing up hometown after  he had busted out for the umpteenth time on the West Coast was quite a letdown.  So he had drifted back east, had not picked up much of anything coming back, and had thus wound up, hat in hand, at his parent ‘s front door one night, defeated for the moment in life’s battles. The cost of that defeat, the immediate cost was a constant harping by his mother, taking up her vigil established since childhood, about his, uh, short-comings, short-comings against her expectation, and against the myriad neighbor children who had “made good.”  After one such painful exchange with his distraught mother who continued to make it her personal responsibility to remind him constantly that at thirty- two he needed to get on with his life, needed to get a job, get married, get to whatever he had to do and in response to that also numberless tirade he had fled out the door and headed to Adamsville Beach to cool out a bit.                  

[Soldier (real name  Lawrence) Johnson had gotten that name, that moniker,   while in basic training down at Fort Dix in New Jersey from the other raw recruits who kidded him about his non-existent soldierly deportment. He had done more drill sergeant-inspired push-ups for unmade bunks, footloose foot lockers, misshapen uniforms than anyone thought possible. More extra- duty KP (kitchen patrol for the civilians), more confined to quarters, more night guard duty, well, more of everything that most common grunts (enlisted men) would  go well out of their way to avoid.  And more screw-ups at the firing range or out at maneuvers than anyone thought possible either.

But the name stuck, stuck through hell-hole Vietnam where he was not the worst soldier, not at all, taking a little shrapnel to save a buddy, taking point out in that bloody Mekong Delta, swampy, fly-infested night and, mainly against all odds surviving the experience. Physically surviving it and when he got home his old corner boys from in front of Salducci’s Pizza Parlor kept the name on him and kept it on even more so him after they had heard his exploits for about the ten thousandth time. And it also stuck through his post -soldier internal war that he waged within himself and that he hid from his parents, his corner boys, and his hastily-married first wife. His post-Vietnam trauma as it was described at the time before the condition got a more scientific name, including a stint at the VA hospital out in Frisco and another vagabond stint under the lost soul bridges of Southern California.]

Soldier walked the two miles to the beach from the family house so by the time that he got to the his favored boyhood spot near the North  Adamsville Yacht Club and sat on the seawall to catch  a cool breeze it was getting a little late. He had no sooner settled in for a serious think than Jewel came walking by with her girlfriend, Laura. Came walking by like something out of the mist of time, like maybe a 1940s pin-up model all the guys overseas would cherish inside their lockers or on the inner lid of their trunks in some forlorn barracks in some forlorn outpost of civilization, maybe some rock of land surrounded by infinite Pacific seas or Normandy fogs. Or maybe a 1940s movie star, maybe Lana Turner, all in white when she sizzled up the screen and sizzled up poor clueless John Garfield in The Postman Always Rings Twice.  Twisted up dear John so bad he went to the big step off with a smile, or half-smile on his face, just for thought having been with her, having smelled that gardenia perfume she threw off.  Jewel came all dressed in white, white blouse, white shorts, short showing long well-thought out legs and well-turned ankles, white socks hugging white tennis shoes, and even from a distance of ten feet he could see, set off by her well- developed summer tan, those pale blue eyes that would haunt his dreams forever after.

And those eyes would cause him more hell and anguish than he ever imaged. Funny you see because it didn’t have to have happened that way, didn’t have to have happened at all.  Soldier still caught up in his mother-inflamed big think about the contours of his future had let her pass by, let her go in his thoughts without comment. But as she moved a little distance away he switched from thoughts of getting a job, or whatever else of the twenty-one demands his mother insisted he pursue to thoughts of how this young passing woman, or rather one with her look, her sultry virginal look had always eluded him, had always  been outside his grasp. Yah, he knew that sultry virginal thing was a contradiction but it was all tied up with his Catholic upbringing and those Sunday morning novena –driven girls he watched from behind out from the neighborhood. And by his teenage boy thoughts, corner boy-driven thought, of hot women inflamed by magazines, television, the movies and later when he knew the score with such girls, knew they were inflamed too, so make of it what you will.

In high school, maybe starting in freshman year, he and his friends, his corner boys now from Salducci’s Pizza Parlor having moved up a step from Harry’s in the normal progression of corner boy-hood, would hit Adamsville Beach right where he was sitting at that moment and watch, no, more than watch, leer, as the girls went by, the girls who would be dressed very much like Jewel, would sway in the sun very much like Jewel, would fill the very air with their presence, with that subtle fragrance that emitted from them as they passed by.   While other guys, particularly guys like Frankie Riley and Timmy Kelly, would have those swaying girls all in white by the dozens he had no such luck as much as they inflamed his schoolboy heart.

At night, summer nights, when the girls turned from white shorts to white dresses he also struck out. He seemed to get either the black-etched arty types who wanted to save the world or save him, or just be friends, or something like that, or the bookworms, especially the bookworms of indeterminate dress, say plaid and stripes or some such combination who endlessly wanted to speak of books, and not much else. He was okay with the books part, although the not much else drove him to distraction. And his dream white- dressed girls, wearing shorts or dresses, were not bookworms, were not even concerned about books for all he knew. Later, before ‘Nam, while he was in college he settled for the bookish types and left it at that. After ‘Nam he took whatever came his way, mainly fast and loose women, women like that wife that he married in far too much haste, who would not dream of wearing white, or be accused of dreaming about much of anything. But he never in the back of his mind really ever stopped thinking that someday he might snatch one, snatch that girl in white of his fevered boyhood dreams. And he never missed an opportunity to stare at them, younger or older, when they passed by ignoring him.                 

That summer day he could see that she, Jewel, was younger, maybe too much younger than he was (they would laugh, cry, make fun about that difference, that twelve year difference as it turned out since she was only twenty, a sophomore in college, at the time), and so he let the thing go by as just another fantasy and that was that. Then, as fate would have it, the pair of young women walked back up past the yacht club again near the place where he was sitting and from out of nowhere, or maybe out of that boyhood angst, he called out to them, called out to the girl with the pale blue eyes that her eyes were pretty. That he eyes reminded him of the sun-drenched seas behind them (or some such thing for he was so nervous to get it out that he was not sure he remembered his exact words correctly but close enough). 

Jewel looked at him, startled, like nobody had ever made that comment to her before. Being, as he found out later, a gentile young woman, she came over and asked him if he was speaking to her and when he responded that he was she said “thank you” with a slightly blushed face and in a hushed voice that spoke to him of adventures, and desire. That was all the opening he needed, well, almost the only opening, once he asked her name and what she did. It turned out that she was a student at Boston University a place where he had gone to school a couple of years before he busted out about a decade before and wound up getting drafted into the damn army. Something in her manner gave him the impression she was looking for something, or maybe it was something in his kindly manner that stopped her (that kindly thing, along with what she called his wisdom of the ages prophet long hair and beard, as she mentioned later, was what kept her talking to him as he sat on that seawall).

Laura had to go, or had made some other excuse to leave them, but Jewel decided to sit on the seawall with him. They sat for hours talking, talking about this and that, about the travails of school life, about how he wanted to go back to school since he could do it on the G.I Bill and maybe teach, something like that, about busted dreams, hers too, since she had wanted, desperately wanted to be a scientist, wanted to be like Madame Curie who she had read about as a child, but was then knee- deep in a pre-law school program that he parents had pushed on her, kicking and screaming.   

He spoke about Vietnam and his lost decade, about a time back in Greenwich, Connecticut where she grew up, that she had no real recollection of except of protests that would drive her conservative parents crazy, and fearful childhood television snippets (he avoided speaking of his internal wars, his sometimes tough nights just then although that subject would emerge with a vengeance over time). They kid boy and girl-like spoke about musical likes (many shared, like The Doors, the Stones, Bob Dylan), movies (they both loved film noir, especially Bogie and Bacall), lots of things almost making stuff up in order not to leave that wall. He spoke vaguely of his busted married and she of a couple of guys who it didn’t work out with, not for her not trying she said.  

As Jewel and Soldier talked into the dusk they both were getting just slightly flirty along the way, feeling things out, feeling whether this had any future (as they both mentioned to each other later in recapping that first meeting). All they knew was that they almost simultaneously asked for each other’s  telephone numbers, and laughed. There was a lot more of that, that flirty then hesitation feeling, before they became a couple. And while whether they might be star-crossed lovers or have an eternal love still was being played out that day strangely enough started it, started their rocky road. Started out with those pale blue eyes.