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Flo Fitzpatrick, click here
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Memoir recalling a close friend. Published in "Four for Texas" (book of short stories) in 2015.
Jesse and I would sharpen our dancing skills at my house after school. Shoes off, records on, rugs rolled up, we’d hear opening chords and head for center floor. We’d attract an admiring crowd of two…my mom and Lady, the family dog.
We were very good.
Jesse stood four inches taller than my five feet four, perfect for spinning me in underarm turns. Latin heritage was evident in his wavy black hair, brown eyes, flat nose and enviably high cheekbones. I described myself as “early German/Irish peasant.” Fair skin, long strawberry-blonde hair, hazel eyes and a too-thin face. Both of us had been blessed with rhythm, grace, and far too much energy.
The dances after football games became our performing venues. Jesse would wait for me to change out of my majorette costume, and then we’d run together to accost the local band (usually The Morticians).
“Hi! Could y’all please play…?”
“‘Gloria’, right? Van Morrison? Yeh, we know, we know.”
“Gloria” was our favorite song to dance to. Every note, every beat and every cymbal crash was embedded in our muscle memory. Hearing the opening chords, we’d head straight for center floor. We always attracted a crowd.
We were very good.
Jesse signed my high school yearbook, “Friends Forever” and that’s what we remained. We didn’t date each other. We commiserated with each other. Jesse was madly in love with my best friend, Cynthia. I was madly in love with Grady. Florence to Jesse late-night phone calls were routine.
“Jesse? Word isn’t out yet but I wanted you to know that Leonard just broke up with Cynthia.”
“Oh my gosh. Is she okay?”
Pause.
“Jesse, you are too nice to be real. Cynthia is my best friend and I’ve spent hours letting her cry on my shoulders. You’re nuts about her and you’re supposed to have ulterior motives and ask if there’s any way she’ll fall for you now that Leo is out of the way.”
“I’m not stupid. She and I will never be more than good friends. I will forever cherish her in unrequited love.”
“”You’ve been reading trashy Gothic novels again, haven’t you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Forget this romantic suffering hero stuff. Ask her out!”
Or:
“Florence! Florence!
“What?”
“Remember this afternoon when you were sitting in the bleachers watching basketball practice and Steve came over the rail and started chasing you?”
I smiled wickedly since no one could see me. “Oh…uh…yes.”
“Well, Grady was watching the whole time. He threw a basketball into the corner and stalked off into the locker room.”
“Good. I hope he’s jealous. By the way, Steve and I are going out for pizza after Friday’s game.”
Regardless of our romantic misadventures, Jesse and I spent more time together than couples officially going steady. When we weren’t dancing at my house or involved in school activities, we’d drive around town together. We’d browse through record stores checking out the latest hits from England. We’d go shopping and look for the latest fashions from England. We’d grab a pizza at Giovanni’s and ask the guitarist to play the latest hits from England while we tried to figure out how we could afford to buy the latest hits or fashions from England.
One afternoon, while sharing a pepperoni and mushroom deep dish, one of our classmates dropped by to tell us that our friend, Bucky, was in the middle of a burger-stuffing challenge with Randy at What-a-Burger. It was about five blocks away from Giovanni’s so we headed over to cheer them on.
“Slam dunk, Miss Florence. Randy outweighs Bucky by 100 pounds.”
“Ah, but Bucky is smart. He’ll have a strategy. You just wait.”
Crammed into a booth meant for four people were six of our classmates. Jesse and I squeezed in next to them.
“Go, Randy!” Marty, Randy’s girlfriend, was yelling in full cheerleader mode.
“Buck-ee! Buck-EE! BUCK-EE!” came from three others. The chanting grew louder from Cynthia, Connie, and Steve.
I joined in with, “Bucky, Bucky, he’s our man…He’ll eat more than Randy can!”
Jesse stared at me. “”That was terrible.”
I shrugged. “You want good poetry, read Emily Dickinson or Lord Byron. This is a heated moment in sports history.
A heated moment that ended when a green-faced Randy lunged for the restroom while Bucky grinned and calmly and slowly finished his pile of burgers.
I never drove Jesse to his home. He wouldn’t allow it. He lived with his grandmother in a a predominately Mexican part of town known as No Man’s Land. None of the surrounding cities claimed the area, leaving its residents with dirt roads, no police or fire departments, and little to none sanitation. Jesse was silent on the subject of where or how he lived. I knew certain facts. I knew No Man’s Land wasn’t a safe place. I knew Jesse had family other than Grandmother…somewhere. I knew he’d received a scholarship, based on the low economic level of his circumstances, from members of Saint Francis parish so he could attend our high school.
I never pressed Jesse for more details. His privacy and feelings were more important. Besides, we had other vital, weighty topics to discuss.
“I want to develop this with a matte finish. It evokes a softer emotion.”
“Emotion, schmotion! I’m not looking for emotion, Jesse! I want a publicity photo for the dance recital. Professional headshots are always glossy 8 X 10s.”
“So, when you become a professional dancer, you’ll get glossy. Right now, you get matte.”
I got matte.
And:
“I went to the Peter, Paul & Mary concert. My brothers took me so Mom said I could stay out later. It was great. We got to talk to them after. They were so nice. Bob and I talked to Paul and Don was discussing guitars with Peter.”
“That’s too cool! Hey, did you know Grady stayed up all night to get tickets?”
I sniffed. “He told me. Mind you, he didn’t ask me to go with him. He went with some folks he knew who’re in college. I thought it was funny. If he’d gone with us, he could’ve stayed and met Peter and Paul. As it turned out, he had to leave because the cute little sorority girls had curfew. They had to be back in the dorms before eleven and the concert was still going on. That’ll teach him. Fink.”
Talking about Peter, Paul & Mary inevitably led to us singing folk and protest songs. We knew the words to Bob Dylan’s “Subterrean Homesick Blues “and could harmonize Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Sounds of Silence”. We were even able to sing the anti-war counterpoint Canticle in their verison of “Scarborough Fair.”
We were very good.
Jesse and I loved to sing. We put our gifts to use in the Glee Club. Jesse was a gifted singer with a pure, perfectly pitched voice, and an incredible range. He rightfully had his share of solos. He could sing tenor, baritone or bass.
I had a good range, great pitch and volume, and could read music. I moved from soprano to alto sections, as needed. Jesse and I held the Glee Club together. The director, Sister Clara Francis, doubtless thought differently but was too polite to say so.
As mobile vocalists, Jesse and I would often end up side by side during practices…a potentially lethal placement We loved to sing. We also loved to talk. We did both.
“Psst. Florence.”
“What?”
“They’re putting up some of my artwork at the Fair.’
“Jesse, that’s sooo cool!”
“They might even put prices on some of the paintings.”
“Wow!”
“Florence Ann! BE QUIET!”
“Sorry, Sister, but Jesse was just….”
“Don’t ‘But Jesse was just’ me! I saw YOU talking. We have too much work to do, and as usual, you’re disrupting the group.”
“Sorry, Sister.”
Hand raise. “Uh, Sister?”
“Yes, Jesse?”
“It’s my fault. I was telling Florence about my artwork getting put up at the Fair this weekend.” A pronouncement followed by one of Jesse’s delightfully infectious giggles.
Further followed by Sister exclaiming, “Oh! Jesse! That’s wonderful! Choir, everyone needs to go to the Fair and see Jesse’s work.”
I’d sigh and shake my head.
Jesse’s giggle could equally charm singing nuns or delight screaming children. He and I taught catechism classes in a tiny, Hispanic, farming community where Jesse became the kids’ hero. In Spanish, he’d tell stories not necessarily authorized by The Vatican. Gleeful shrieks would be erupting from his young audience down the hall from where I tried, without success, to keep my own class focused.
“Jesse, what are you teaching them?”
“Oh…just the parable of the Prodigal Son.”
“I don’t remember that parable as being a real side splitter. Are you adding anything?”
My query would be acknowledged with a sweet smile. Jesse had the sweetest smile of any creature on God’s earth. I knew behind the smile lurked some delightfully sassy thoughts.
I imagine that if questioned today, those pupils would not recall specific church dogma. But they’d remember the laughter and the smile.
Jesse could laugh at himself as easily as he could make others laugh. About a week before graduation, he and I decided to visit the local zoo. Jesse used up a roll of film that day, posing me saluting with bald eagles, preening with peacocks, and balancing with ostriches.
Mid-afternoon I pulled a Doctor Doolitte. A llama, standing in an enclosed small pasture, was staring at us.
“Here, llama, llama, llama. Come model for us. Come here, girl, come on baby, there’s a good llama.”
Trotting over to join us, the llama stuck its nose through the fence into my hand and whinnied.
I patted its head. “Nice llama. Can you smile for Jesse’s camera?”
Teeth bared, it snorted fiercely at Jesse.
He stood his ground but shrieked. “It’s going to bite me! I can tell she hates me! For that matter how do YOU know it’s a she?”
“She’s wearing a pink collar. And she doesn’t hate you. You’re just being a wimp. Besides, she’s on the other side of the fence. Come pat her and take her picture.”
“Look at those teeth! I’m going to be ripped to shreds. I’m staying as far away as I can.”
He took the shot - fast - then took off running. Fasster.
I found him sitting by the monkey cage. We stared at each other. Then the laughter exploded, bringing with it streaming tears and aching sides.
We had much the same reaction when we saw the photos.
For some reason the llama and I are flashing the exact same grin.
After high school, Jesse and I gradually saw less of each other. We’d go to an occasional rock or folk concert together. And of course, we’d call late at night.
“I’m madly in love with Sid.”
“Weren’t you madly in love with Rick last week?”
“That was last week. Jeez, Jesse, keep up with the calendar.”
“I’m trying, but I think your love life is getting too confusing.” Pause. “Hey, did you see Cynthia this week?”
“Yeah, I did. Guess what? She’s using her real name now. Did you know it’s Hyacinth? She decided it had more flower power. Are you still nuts about her?”
“Well” (long pause) “I still like to hear what she’s up to. But, um…I met a girl at church a couple of weeks ago. She’s really nice and really pretty. Her name is Elicia.”
“Well, Hallelujah and Praise the Lord! Have you asked her out yet?”
“Give me time.”
“Jess, I adore you but you are a mess.”
Together, we attended Elicia’s wedding (to Rafael) a couple of years later.
One Christmas during college, Jesse and I sang for a candlelight peace rally. Our voices were in harmony: our sentiments were in unison. It was our last singing performance together.
At our twentieth high school reunion dance, Jesse and I met again. He was working and apologized because he couldn’t stay more than a minute or two to say “Hi”. But then we heard the opening chords. We headed straight for center floor. We still atracted a crowd.
We were still very good.
Mom sent me the obituary notice.
Name. Age.
Died this day….
Funeral Mass and burial to be held…
Survived by a son, a brother, nieces, and nephews.
Sang in the choir at St. Francis.
Jesse had a son. I never knew.
Died this day.
I stil sharpen my dancing skills at home. Shoes off, CD on the player, rugs rolled back, I hear opening chords and head straight for center floor.
Jesse’s there. We attract a crowd.
We’re very good.
In loving memory of Jesse Castanon…”friends forever.”
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Flo Fitzpatrick
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