Angel of the Ave

(Originally published in the Press & Sun-Bulletin, Binghamton, NY - Aug. 18, 2007)

Saturdays were always the same. We would sleep in until 11, shower, squeeze into our tightest pegged jeans, and meet up at George’s house (because his mother and father were the most lenient of all our parents). From there, we’d make the three or four mile hike to Washington Avenue in Endicott. We were Endwell kids, students at Endwell Junior High School. Downtown Endicott, adjacent to U-E High School, was like a foreign country to a group of 13 and 14-year-olds who were still at least a couple of birthdays removed from owning a driver’s license. Here, walking among strangers, we could leave our past humiliations behind us. No one remembered the pop flies we’d dropped, the challenges we’d run away from, the girls who’d laughed at our awkward advances. We acted and dressed tough in a vain attempt to conceal our ever-present fears—of rejection, of defeat, of further humiliations.

Our first stop was always Woody’s Record Shop, where row after row of 45 RPM records hung from the front wall on long, narrow pegs. We’d check out the newest singles or thumb through the stacks of LPs, always under the wary eye of a tall, balding man in a gray suit, white shirt, and narrow dark tie. If this was the “Woody” whose name appeared in block letters on the sign that hung above the front door, he never said so. He never said much of anything. When we would sense that his patience was about to expire, we’d each grab a copy of the WENE Radio Top 40 Hit List (because it was free) and move on to a place that was more suited to our plans for the day—just hanging out and waiting for something special to happen.

The Avenue Restaurant—or The Ave, as we had affectionately nicknamed our favorite hangout—was the place where the coolest kids could be found every weekend, slumped in the rigid bench seats and sipping on cherry Cokes. The owner, Helen, was always there behind the counter, a grease-stained apron wrapped around her waist, her sand-colored hair wound into a tightly fastened bun. She had little tolerance for wise guys or freeloaders, so we always behaved ourselves in her place, and we always carried enough cash for a drink and a plate of her incredibly crispy, incredibly tasty French fries. We’d come in the door, put in our order, and head to the back room. Hot oil sizzled and spat at us as we passed. The jukebox would be telling the story of our young lives to music with songs by the Shirelles, Dion and the Belmonts, and the Four Seasons.

One Saturday at The Ave, I saw her for the first time and my life changed forever. She was sitting at the large table in back with a group of friends. Someone dropped a dime in the slot and Wayne Newton began singing, “Heart (I Hear You Beating).” A smile rose from her lips and struck a spark in her eyes. Something inside of me turned soft and began to melt. I remained frozen in place, stunned as the realization finally hit me:
She was looking directly at me.

Hi, Gary.

I knew that the name she had spoken was mine, but I still could not comprehend that this Angel of the Avenue was talking to me. Despite all of the evidence to the contrary, I was certain that she must have been speaking to someone else that I had not seen. Perhaps I was actually at home in my bed, still in the role of the confident chick-magnet I often played in my dreams. But I was not asleep and she was not looking away. Though I stood there with all of the wit and grace of a tree stump, I rapidly came to one critical conclusion: Soon I would have to respond or lose all credibility with my two best friends, Dave and George, who were standing at my side.

That’s all I remember from the day that I met the most beautiful girl I have ever known. I must have found my tongue eventually. I can’t imagine what I could have said to win her over, but we did begin meeting at every opportunity over the next few months to cuddle, to hold hands, and occasionally, if we found a moment of privacy, to kiss. Ours was not a relationship of convenience. She was from Vestal, a long walk from my house. We’d meet on Saturdays at The Ave, the midway point between our homes. Sometimes we’d go to the movie theater across the street for a matinee. George and Dave would often tag along. This amazing girl and I would sit in the balcony, my arm around her and pulling her in close to me. My pals would be a few rows behind us, throwing popcorn at the back of our heads. Eventually, in an act of self-defense, she was able to hook Dave up with one of her friends. George, no doubt, was a tougher sell.

I bought her a mohair sweater. Though it was out of my price range, it turned out to be a very good investment because I loved the way it felt against my arm as we sat huddled under the flicker on the movie screen.

Geography eventually took its toll on our romance. I would have gone on walking to meet her on Saturdays of seeing her whenever we could get together, but she lost interest. There were other boys, probably much more popular and self-assured than I, who she passed every day in the halls of her own school. And they certainly would have noticed her. As I had suspected since our first meeting, she was too valuable a prize for a guy like me to hold onto.

I never did forget the feel of that mohair sweater, or the intoxicating scent of her hair, or the sweet taste of her gloss-covered lips. I never forgot that final telephone conversation, her words ripping everything away except the devastation. I can’t see you anymore, she says, or something like that, as I lay curled up on my bed with my ear pressed so hard to the receiver that it’s about to crack. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

The years passed and I eventually moved on to other triumphs and heartbreaks. I was married, had two children and got divorced, all within just a few years. Restless and unfulfilled, I wandered aimlessly through the next decade. I was working as a bartender, moving from tavern to tavern, town to town, state to state. I’d winter in Florida, then head north for the summer, lighting in places such as Martha’s Vineyard or small, tourist friendly towns in New York state.

In my mid-thirties, I moved back to my hometown in Upstate New York. One night, after finishing my shift at the newest hotspot (a restaurant built in a former railroad caboose), I stood at the bar with a drink in my hand. I was going to do my best to make it through another night of emptiness, my senses dulled by 80 proof anesthetic. From behind me I heard a familiar voice.

Hi, Gary.

I turned and slipped through a crack in time, landing with a thud in 1963. There she was again, the Angel of The Ave. Her blond hair was shorter, but otherwise very little about her had changed. To me, she was still the teenaged cheerleader who had knocked me out once before and was about to do it again. This time, I was not about to let her get away.

Last March we celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary. Many of the places and things we loved in our youth—Woody’s Record Shop, The Lyric Theater, The Avenue Restaurant, that mohair sweater—are long gone. But when I look into my wife’s lovely face, every time she rewards me with that amazing smile, I’m back there, reliving those magical days of hanging out at The Ave.


- Gary Ingraham