The Boyfriend

My high school, in the rural beach town of Cape May, New Jersey, was small and rumors could fly fast.  So if you liked a boy or a girl and glanced in their direction just about everyone knew you had a crush .

I was slow to have a serious boyfriend. I liked a few boys in my neighborhood of North Cape May , a sort of Levittown cluster of cottages, sandwiched between the Cape May Canal and the Delaware Bay.  I liked boys who could make me laugh. I liked boys who could dance. Friendships developed because we were all sort of stuck there. Unless, of course, you had older friends and they had a car. And lucky me, I knew the McKenna brothers.

Ah, The McKenna Brothers. Very tall. Very handsome. Very funny. Very everything as far as I was concerned. Three brothers and two or three sisters. I didn’t know the sisters. The boys were bad. Not in a rough or ugly way . More prankster than gangster. We used to have an expression in South Jersey - they were boss.

Willy , the oldest, owned a car that was a rolling make out hot spot. He kept his rubbers hidden from his father in the gas cap. Danny, who was in my class, was my friend. If he walked behind me in the halls of our high school he would sing, under his breath, You Made Me Love You. During Sunday Mass - yes, I went - just to see the McKennas walk down the aisle. As they walked they hummed, I Love a Parade. If their father heard them he smacked them and when they reached the alter to receive communion the priest gave them a crack, too. If you went to Mass at St Raymond’s, in the Villas, you know this form of guidance was accepted by the entire community.

They called their father Bill.  Bill was one tough guy. He was a bridge builder, a welder. I think of him every time I cross the Delaware Memorial bridge. One night Danny wanted to go to a CYO dance. He asked Bill for a dollar, which would buy him entry and a coke. Bill said, “ A dollar? Christ, you can go in your room and dance all night for free.” He shoved Dan down the hall into his room and closed the door. Ah, The McKenna Brothers.

I could hitch a ride here and there and always be sure to get a ride home with the McKenna’s. So one evening I was hanging out at a local hoagie shop, The 4 G’s, and spotted the McKenna mobile pulling into the back parking lot. It was a cold night, I couldn’t eat one more french fry and was sick of all the tunes on the juke box - so I put on my coat and asked Willy, for a ride. “ Sure, jail bait.”

I circled the black and white ‘56 Chevy to the passenger side because I liked to sit in the middle front so I could fiddle with the radio dial . I yanked on the door handle and pulled the door open. A crumpled body fell out. It seems that the boys were busy entertaining themselves at a Wildwood Catholic dance , where a fight broke out. Clearly, this guy lost.

I climbed over him and we propped him up on my shoulder. He looked familiar. He had beautiful hair. A nice toggle coat. He smelled good. His lips were so full. Hmmm. Who is this guy?

Well, the McKenna boys dropped me off at my house. The small cottage was dubbed, by the boys, as Pearl Harbor, because my father and mother decorated the outside of the house and lawn with canons, whelks, horse shoe crab shells, chains and anchor, canon balls and - the final touch - crossed rifle butts on the shutters. I went inside, closed my door, sat on the bed and thought about that lovely boy on my shoulder.

The next night, a few friends and I went to our local hoagie shop, Grassi’s. It was a small place and easy to walk to -- a little dangerous because parents could drive by and see what you were up to.  We rushed in.  There he was. My heart really did jump into my throat. He stood behind the counter. A white apron on and his hand resting on the counter , the other in his pocket. Casual yet cocky. He’s here. He spoke to me. He’s speaking to me. Oh, yes, I’d like to place an order…

I’ll have a - He interrupted, “buffalo ?” Oh no! He’s teasing me! He’s talking to me. I am a mess. I’m laughing. He is smiling. I’m his. Signed , sealed and de! We agree to go out the following weekend.

Word spreads from my high school, Lower Cape May Regional, to his, Wildwood Catholic. In a matter of hours everyone seems to know we have a date. A local hoodlum, who likes me, threatens to beat him up if I go out with that clown. “Does that make sense?” I say. That guy did not make me laugh. Lousy dancer, too.

My friend Roxy and I meet some W.C. girls in the smoke filled bathroom at a movie house , where we are supposed to be watching, as an all Cape May County cultural event, Richard Burton in Hamlet. They warn me about messing around with boys from their high school. But they end up liking me and let me borrow an album. Or maybe the combination of Roxy and Madonna was just too much for them!

Those were the days, huh? Before Bic lighters girls carried a small Ronson or Zippo. A leather case held your cigs. And I guess you walked around with an album or two.

Anyway, the evening arrives. He comes to my house and meets my dad. Oh no! Our fathers know one another from the Coast Guard. Later on he tells me that his father said, ‘What! You’re going out with Hitch’s daughter! Don’t lay a hand on her. I’ve seen her dad clear out the Chief’s Club.” Yes, my dad was a brawler. But it didn’t seem to phase my date. I had a wonderful time. He made me so happy.

So that was the beginning. We were sweethearts for a long time. Through high school. During his hitch in Viet Nam. He always made me laugh. He was smart. He told great stories. He was popular. He transferred to my school -- okay, he was asked to leave Wildwood Catholic. His eyes were shocking Irish blue. We danced well together. Certain songs take you places, we all know that. But for me some songs take me to the lovely swaying of those years dancing together. I really do remember his steps.

And the laughing. Oh my. He made me laugh until I cried.