Red Light, Green Eyes, True Blue

Chapter 1-2

In a suit I’d paid fifty bucks for on Kmart.com to wear twice, I had just made a toast to the happy couple. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m best man Sal McKensie. My dad is Irish, my mom Italian. Since McKensie was a given, Mom wanted her roots represented—hence Salvatore Giovani.” I’d said it with the accent and appropriate hand gesture, which had garnered me a laugh. Since my very first sentence, the crowd had been putty in my hands. “To Major—and only Major—I’m Sally. To Abby, the beautiful bride, I’m Mick. To me, they’re adorable. Together or separate, I love them with all my heart.”

Follow humor with schmaltz. I knew how to give a speech.

“Tomorrow, at the wedding reception, I can go on for an entire forty-five minutes if I want. Tonight, I’ll try to keep it to twenty or less.”

The groans I’d gotten then had filled me with pride.

“Abby and Major…what can I say? From the moment I first spotted you in sixth grade Algebra, sitting there…so young…so adorable…so eager…so nerdy…both of you wearing glasses, your calculators and pencils at the ready, I said to myself, now there are two people I can cheat off of. I took the seat between you that your shyness had encouraged you to leave. I did it in the many classes we shared all through middle school, high school, and college. And cheat I did—on every exam, on every assignment. No wonder I’m so dumb.”

I pulled Major’s chair out of line right there at the main table—with him in it—causing a horrible sound as it dragged against the already marred hardwood floor. I squeezed mine in between my betrothed ginger besties and plopped down for old time’s sake.

“The three of us became HRH almost right away,” I’d continued. “We’d announce ourselves like the dorks we were as we entered class, the cafeteria, or the SUNY Albany student union, constantly joined at the hip for eleven years. Eleven years! ‘HRH in the house!’”

“HRH in the house!” Abby and Major had joined me then, rattling the dishes, glasses, silverware, and centerpiece as we’d smacked the table once for each letter.

I should have noticed right then how Major was a bit less enthusiastic than usual.

“We were no longer Sal, Major, and Abby,” my toast went on. “We’d quickly become Harry, Ron, and Hermione. We loved the books and surely looked the part. Maybe we still do.” I’d straightened my glasses then for effect. “Noticing right away how Abby’s cocoa eyes danced, how her face lit up whenever you entered the hall, Major, man, I decided to play Cupid. It wasn’t long before those hazels of yours looked right past me most days as they were captured by her beauty, her laugh, her spirit, her bouncing strawberry waves, her everything.

“I’d set up study dates for the three of us in college,” I had revealed to the assemblage, “but—oh, so clever me—I’d always show up an hour late, in order to give these two knuckleheads time alone. ‘Meet me at the edge of the woods at six, at the bench there, the perfect place to crack a book,’ I’d say. The perfect place for a romantic interlude these two geeks were too bashful to plan for themselves, more like it.

“One night, I left a picnic basket ahead of time with a note, like in ‘Alice in Wonderland’: Eat me. I can only imagine the debate that took place before they would dare to dive into the apples and hard orange soda. There, under the most gorgeous of sunsets, ‘Do you think it’s safe?’ Major had likely asked. ‘Maybe it’s from Sal.’

“‘Sal? Only if it’s stolen. Mick never has any money.’

“This scenario was confirmed when I arrived and the goodies were still untouched. My Harry magic didn’t always work. In hindsight, I probably should have signed the piece of college-ruled loose-leaf notebook paper.”

Public speaking had never really bothered me. I’d had the rehearsal dinner crowd in the palm of my hand. Still, at ten minutes and counting, I’d decided to reel myself in.

“After so many years of hearing ‘we’re just friends,’ I offered a gentle nudge. ‘Fall in love already, will you, damn it!’”

That had earned me a laugh from Abby and Major’s friends and family.

“They did. And I treasure them both, too. To you, Hermione and Ron…Abby and Major…Here’s to a hundred happy years as man and wife.”

Sadly, they never made it to the altar.

* * * *

“The wedding’s off, Sal.”

“Come on, Maj. It’s just pre-wedding jitters. We’ll go back to my place, smoke a little shisha…”

“No. It’s none of that. Abby…she agrees. We’re just not…” Pacing in a small circle, he tugged at his hair. It would soon be shorter than mine, and the restaurant floor would be littered with mounds of reddish chestnut. “Getting married was a dumb idea from the start.”

“Why are you leaving, though? Abby’s parents aren’t running you out of town, are they?”

“No.”

“Then don’t go. Don’t leave me, too, Major.”

* * * *

One of the first things I’d asked, before I’d first called Major Ron, was about his real name. “Let me guess…your parents are in the military?”

“Naw. Music teachers,” he’d told me with a brace face smile. “I’m Major Chord Gannon.”

Knowing nothing about music, I hadn’t really gotten it at the time. When I’d first heard him tell the story to our study group in college, that was when it clicked.

“Family lore claims my parents walked together down to the nursery the night I was born. It had been a banner few days for newborns. The room was packed. A nurse went in, my mom tells, and when she opened the door, this harmonious chorus of baby cries rang out, loud enough to nearly knock them over. ‘The notes weren’t dissonant, son,’ my dad says. ‘The tone wasn’t…minor.’ Dad always smiles at that part.” Major’s had grown wider as well. “‘I looked to your mother.’” He deepened his voice when imitating his dad. “And we said it in unison…Major…’ And that’s what they decided to call me.”

Major had played in the marching band and he’d sung in the choir in high school and college. I’d seen him on stage eight years in a row, in musicals I couldn’t name if someone paid me, since theater wasn’t really my thing. Oklahoma—that was one I remembered because Major made me watch Hugh Jackman on PBS playing the same part he was. I’d watch Hugh Jackman in anything. No way would I ever get up on a stage, but Major never missed a production, in fall or spring, not until the last one.

I’d stood by his side as he’d sung at his parents’ funeral a couple of weeks into our senior year at SUNY Albany. Major had dropped out the show that semester. I’d really been looking forward to listening to him perform something cheesy and romantic—a happier tune—months later at his wedding. I honestly couldn’t recall hearing him sing at all in between, not even to the radio.

* * * *

“I love Abby,” Major said again. “And she loves me. This isn’t a unilateral decision. We’ve been thinking about it a long time. It was probably kind of cowardly to let things go as far as they did, especially on…on my part.” He took a breath. “I have to go.”

“Where? For how long?” I grabbed a hold of him. “You haven’t said.”

“I don’t know. That’s part of it.”

“Part of what?” I asked.

“I’ve never been out of this state. How can I settle down for the rest of my life with Abby when I haven’t even lived with myself yet?”

“I get it.” I really didn’t.

“I have some money. I have my education. I…I don’t even know where I’m going to eventually end up.”

“Wait. This is temporary, right? You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. Probably. We’ll keep in touch, Sal. Social media and all that.” Major put a hand on each of my shoulders. Music was still playing in the background—Barry Manilow—just the melody, though, a piano recording of “Mandy,” another throwback. “I’ll miss you as much as Abby.”

“Then don’t go.” For a moment, I thought I might throw myself on the floor, grab him by the ankles, and blubber all over his shiny dress shoes. I’d never been averse to making a scene if I had to. A testimonial flashback, funny at the time, bittersweet now, came to me then.

* * * *

“Mr. McKensie, your eyes should be on your own exam.” Our tenth grade Geometry teacher had always fancied himself as stuffy and no-nonsense as that guy from The Paper Chase.

“I’m…I’m sorry sir,” I’d stuttered. “The doctor says it’s lazy eye. I can’t control it.” I took off my glasses and made like one of this cat clocks where the tail and eyes move back and forth as each second ticks. “I could bring in a note, if you want.”

“It’s your education, young lad.” He’d scowled, whether he believed me or not. “If you wish to squander it, then that is your prerogative.”