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Holding Hands on Eighth Street

Illustration by Ryan Miller.

FICTION, BASED ON FACT

Most young men know how embarrassing it is to walk hand in hand in public with a young woman. You might be seen by people you know, and you could be sure the teasing would never stop. But get used to it, because girls of all ages love to hold hands. If a hand is offered you should take it, especially if the girl is considered special. Men are doomed to hold hands, but they soon realize what a pleasure it really is.

When he was three years old in 1941 he often held hands with his mother as they walked. It seemed she would have it no other way, and he decided it was OK. After all, she had many things to tell him about life and growing up. She often leaned close to him, and spoke in a low voice which was almost a whisper. Surely this information was confidential, and he paid close attention. Information to be known only by his mother and him. Her name was Marie. She had dark hair and was pretty, and as they walked she held his hand tightly, as though she did not want him to get away. They talked about many things.

But now it was 1962 and he was twenty-four years old, living in Los Angeles. From time to time he had dates, but they were usually one and done. He was shy, so after hello he didn’t say a whole lot other than goodbye. But once in a while he would get a second date from a girl who had nothing better to do. That gave him brief hope, especially if the girl was nice. But the second dates were shown on his personal score card as nice tries. It was a good thing he had a TV. It was reliable, and could be seen every night.

But now he was walking down Eighth Street on a nice June day, and the twenty-four-year-old girl walking beside him was there for the third time. ‘How amazing,’ he thought, what good luck, and the fact that she seemed normal was an added bonus.

As they walked he noticed out of the corner of his eye that her hand was reaching toward his. ‘Oh no,’ he thought, as he started to panic, now what would he do? How could he explain to her that he just didn’t hold hands? He would have to be diplomatic and gentle for one thing, and not upset her in anyway. After all, this girl had come to him out of the blue, completely unexpected, the type of girl he thought he would never have a chance with. A girl who could get any man she wanted. She was so easy to talk to and be with, he felt there were real possibilities. At least he hoped.

Her hand caught his and he turned to warn her off, but instead he looked into her eyes as a little voice inside him whispered, ‘No. This is good, this is good.’ This girl was special, so the man said nothing. The girl smiled. She had achieved a great victory. He doubted she realized how easily she had won, or the extent of her victory, but he had surrendered unconditionally. He would be her prisoner, forever.

She was independent and smart, things the young man liked. She had dark hair and was pretty, and as they walked she held his hand tightly, as though she did not want him to get away. They talked about many things.

After that he held her hand whenever he could. In the darkness of the Coconut Grove, as Tony Bennett told them where he had lost his heart, and later on when a very young Liza Minnelli proved to all why she was her mother’s daughter. Then in a posh restaurant, with a violinist strolling among the tables. The truth is it didn’t make much difference where they went, the only thing that mattered to him was the pleasure of her company.

That was how it had gone in the summer of ‘62. An old boyfriend vanquished? Perhaps. But it had seemed like clear sailing, and he could feel the girl coming closer to him. But then it was November. By then he felt an important question had to be asked, you know the one, would she or wouldn’t she? But then he felt there was a problem. The man had a good job, but like everyone else he had started at the bottom, and it would take a few years to work his way up. He thought that would be too long for her to wait if the answer had been yes, so instead of asking her he answered the question for her, without consultation. The answer was no. So rather than waste her time, the girl was gone. Forever.

Now it is 2014, and they are both old. But from time to time an email shows up in his inbox. A message from California which is cherished. The message makes it a good day for the man, perhaps an entire week. But it reminds him of what might have been, the possibilities. But still it makes him happy to know that she is still there, wherever there is.

Her name was Carol, and she had dark hair and was pretty, and he held her hand tightly, as though he did not want her to get away. They talked about many things, while walking down Eighth Street, in 1962.

I was born on Plum Island when people were still being born there. I was raised on Washington Island until age sixteen, then eventually moved to California where I lived the great majority of my life, except for five years in Saudi Arabia in the ‘70s and ‘80s. I came back to the Island in 2005. I wrote about 80 stories for our local paper, which were terrible, but people seemed to like them anyway.