We moved to Bensonhurst, Brooklyn and I met Shannon.  The one had nothing to do with the other.  I moved to Bensonhurst in June of '75.  Just before the move, my grandfather died.  This all happened the week of my 18th birthday.  Laverne and Lorraine had planned to take me out, but my Aunt in New Hampshire called my mother and told her my grandfather had taken ill.  If my mother wanted to see her father alive again, she'd better come now.

 

   We were packed and on our way a couple of hours after my Aunts phone call, but my grandfather died before we reached him.  He was 97 years old.  He was our reason for going to Keene, twice a year.  He was old.  He was very old and my mother didn't know how much longer he was going to last.  So, twice a year we went to Keene, New Hampshire to visit my grandfather and I really don't remember too much about him.  The whole time we spent in New Hampshire, he was some old relative one of my cousins would go get everyday and bring to my Aunt's house for dinner.

 

    My Aunt had six kids and we were four.  I have a sister.  We'd all sit down at this huge dinner table and eat a feast fit for a king.  My Aunt loved cooking, which was good because my father loved eating and everybody loved talking which my grandfather must have found disgusting, because everybody did their talking with their mouths full.

 

    My grandfather never talked with his mouth full.  As a matter of fact, my grandfather never talked much at all.  When he did talk, he did his talking in Yiddish, so I never knew what he was saying, anyway.  After dinner, he would go into the den and turn on the T.V.  His favorite show in the world was 'Kung Fu.'  I think he must have thought it was a comedy because he laughed like a hyena over that show.  He also watched the 'F.B.I.'

 

    Just for the record, my grandfather watched a lot of T.V.  You can't carry on a conversation with somebody when they're watching T.V.  When somebody is watching T.V., they're listening to T.V. and when they're listening to T.V. they don't want any jabbering going on in the room.  My grandfather didn't want any jabbering, so we never really talked at all.

 

    I think that's what's wrong with America.  I mean, really.  Before the tube came along, people use to sit around and talk to one another, all the time.  If problems arose, people would sit down and discuss them.  They would talk things out and find solutions.  Since the television marched into everyone's living room, back in the fabulous fifties, everything has gone straight down the toilet.  

 

    By the sixties, every American household had at least two sets and look what happened.  The rate of divorce skyrocketed.  Groups of people united to protest a War that television dropped into everyone's household, splitting the country right down the middle.  Mrs. Robinson seduced a nation and people started changing partners as frequently as jeans.  Sex became the second most important thing to a nation that tuned in and turned on.  Televangelists cropped up everywhere.  Crime soared; (televisions are expensive).  Unemployment climbed; production dropped; education has become atrocious and everybody is walking around with a Sony Watchman.

 

    Television is what destroyed this nation.  Television brought on it's decline.  Too many people are watching too much T.V.  They're listening to too much T.V. and anybody listening to a T.V. isn't anybody in the mood to do any jabbering.  I don't expect anything will ever get solved again.

 

    Anyway, my grandfather died before we made it to New Hampshire.  My mother was a mess.  My Aunt was a mess.  The funeral was the next day, which is par for the course in the Jewish religion.  There seems to be this great sense of urgency to get a body into the ground.  We stayed for the whole period of "shiva;" a period of mourning, when members of the immediate family sit on card board boxes in a house full of covered mirrors while everybody outside the immediate family comes over to talk, laugh, eat and leave.  It's supposed to be comforting, but I didn't find anything at all comforting about it.

 

    Eight days later, we returned to Brooklyn and on the following day the moving men came by.  I ran across the street, to the orphanage.  I wanted to give Laverne and Lorraine my new address, but Laverne and Lorraine weren't there.  As a matter of fact, there was nobody there.  Actually, there was somebody there, but there wasn't anybody there I knew.  I guess the week I was in New Hampshire, Mr. Raguzza broke up the group home.  He scattered everybody into homes located in Queens, the Bronx and Manhattan.

 

    I spent the next six months in Bensonhurst, wondering about the phone.  I'd pick it up, dial my old number and listen to a recording dictate the new number and wonder why Laverne, or Lorraine, didn't do the same.  It didn't seem right, there not calling.  We were supposed to be friends.  I guess friendship doesn't really mean anything, anymore.

 

    Anyway, I grew tired of Bensonhurst.  I wasn't making any new friends.  The families that lived in Bensonhurst had been living there since the beginning of time.  An outsider never became an insider in Bensonhurst and thus remained an outsider for all time.  I'm not saying there aren't any nice people in Bensonhurst.  There are a lot of nice people in Bensonhurst, but they knew a lot of other nice people and there just wasn't time enough for all the new nice people that came along.

 

    I left Bensonhurst after seven months.  I packed up my typewriter and went back to Keene.  I had this strange desire to write a book.  I'd written some poetry that was published and I had some short pieces in local neighborhood newspapers and there were all these characters racing around in my head that wouldn't leave me alone.  I saw them in my dreams.  I saw them on my streets.  I saw them on the bus ride all the way up to Keene.  They had this story to tell and must have decided I was the one to tell it.  So, we all seemed to get it together, in Keene.

 

    Then I met Shannon.

            *        *        *        *

    Shannon was my first love.  Shannon was the first girl I fell in love with.  If I had ever fallen in love with anyone before Shannon, then I didn't know it was love.  I was nineteen years old and I'd never fallen for anyone before.  I enjoyed others.  I cared for others, but I never felt like it was love.

 

    Shannon was gorgeous.  She had a full head of wild red hair and the biggest chestnut brown eyes I had ever seen.  She had beautiful eyes; seductive eyes; eyes that were deep.  There wasn't an ounce of fat on her body and she laughed at all my jokes.

 

    There was just one little ole problem.

 

    Shannon was fifteen.

 

    You never would have thought she was fifteen, to look at her, but Shannon was fifteen.  She kept it hidden from me for the first couple of days.  She told me she was a senior in high school and had been left back a year.  I thought she was a year younger than me, but Shannon was fifteen.  Fifteen was illegal.  Fifteen was immoral.   Fifteen was nothing but trouble.

 

    I was hooked.  We went out twice and I was hooked.  I swallowed the worm.  I took the bait and Shannon reeled me in.  If her folks hadn't insisted on meeting me, God only knows what might have happened.  Her mother thought I was some big city pimp.  Her father kept showing me his shot gun rack.  He told me big game hunting stories.  He insisted he was a crack shot.

 

    I didn't stay very much longer.  I went back to Brooklyn and worked on my book.  I left Shannon my address and told her she could write me.  She did.  I wrote her back.  We became friends.  On her 17th birthday, she came to visit me.  I had just finished Mrs. Justin's English Course.  Shannon spent ten days and we spent everyday touring the City of New York.  The last day, we did lower Manhattan.  We walked through the World Trade Center for the 'RR' train.  We bought tokens, made our way through the turnstiles and walked down the stairs.

 

    At the foot of the stairs, there sat a very drunk girl.  I think she was trying to get up, but she couldn't because she had a bottle of Bacardi in one hand and an open bottle of Bacardi in the other.  The open bottle of Bacardi was practically empty and I couldn't figure out why she wouldn't put it down, but she wouldn't put it down.  She just kept trying to get up off the bottom step and falling back down, over and over again.  I grabbed Shannon by the elbow because, while I found this rather funny, there was something about the girl that made Shannon uneasy.

 

    The drunk heard us coming down the stairs and turned around to look at us.

 

    I looked at the girl and froze.

 

    "Ben?"  She said.  "Is that really you?"

 

    Shannon stopped beside me.

 

    My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

 

    The drunk put the empty bottle down on the bottom step.  She grabbed the railing and pulled herself up to her feet.

 

    "This must be your girl friend," she said passing me the full bottle of Bacardi.  "Take this home, open this up and-  Well, you know what to do.  I don't have to tell you guys what to do, but, it would be nice if you would intro- intro- oh you know what I mean.”

 

    "Koa," I said.  "This is Shannon.  Shannon, meet Koa."

 

    Koa stretched out her hand and Shannon seemed afraid to take it.

 

    "What are you doing here?"  I asked noting the scar running down the right side of her face.  It looked as if someone had slashed her from ear to chin.

 

    "I work down here," she said.  She was wobbly.  She was having trouble standing up straight.  "I work for a cleaning service.  I clean offices.  There's a bar outside the station.  Up those stairs.  I'm there on Friday's.  Come and see me on Friday.  You'll come and see me Friday?"

 

    "Yeah," I said.  "Yeah."

 

    "Good.  Now you and your girlfriend get going.  I don't want you to miss your train.  I'll see you Friday."

 

    The train was pulling into the station and Koa was pushing us towards the train.

 

    "Enjoy the bottle," she said pushing us through the doors.

 

    The train pulled away.  The next morning, I took Shannon to the Port Authority Bus terminal and Shannon went home.  We never opened the bottle.  When we got home, I just put the bottle away.

 

    The following Friday, I went to the bar.  I don't know why I went to the bar.  Koa never made an effort to reach me.  Our meeting was purely by chance.  It was just a case of: "God?  Why are you sticking this person in front of my face?"  I wasn't all that sure that Koa would even be there, but she was.

 

    She was sitting alone at a table with a glass of scotch and she waved to me when I walked in.  I sat down with her.  I was a bit nervous.  I didn't know who she knew in the bar.  I didn't know who she was, anymore.

 

    We sat together for a while and had a few drinks.  Koa had just received her pay.  She insisted on buying.  I caught a buzz on beer and decided to quit drinking.  I suggested eating and she agreed.  We went up to the Village and had dinner in some Lobster house and then we went to Washington Square Park to talk.

 

    "New Mexico sucked," she said.  She took a bag of weed out of her purse and some rolling paper.  "My mother was pretty sick.  She had em-fa-  Em-fa-"

 

    "Emphysema?"

 

     "Yeah.  That's it.  She had that.  It was strange seeing her again.  She wasn't anything like I remember."
 

   "What do you mean?"
 

   "She had two room mates.  A guy and a girl.  She was sleeping with both of them and all three of them; I think they were into some kind of devil worship.  They had all kinds of candles burning through out the house.  They cut heads off of chickens and did weird things with the blood.  It was **** up.
 

   "I was so happy to see her when I got off that bus.  You know Ben, I rode all the way to Albuquerque without a thing to eat.  Three days without food.  You guys forgot to give me money for food.  Anyway, I got off the bus and ran right into her arms.  I was so happy.  I cut my hair.  I wore dresses.  I did everything a good girl should.  I had no idea of what I walked into and I guess I just closed my eyes to it all, once I got there."
 

   Koa stuck the joint in her mouth and lit it.  She took a couple of long hits, coughed and passed it to me.  We smoked the joint between us and Koa went on.
 

   "She died."
 

   I didn't know what to say.
 

   "Her boyfriend gave me money to come home and I moved in with Laverne.  Laverne got married, you know."
 

   "She did?"
 

   "Yeah.  She's even got a kid."
 

   I smiled.  "Is it a boy or a girl?"
 

   "It's a little boy.  He's almost two, now and I'm a Titi."
 

   "What the hell is that?"
 

   "An Aunt."
 

   "Phew!  At least it's not catchy," I said and we both laughed.
 

   I found the news both neat and sad.  I thought it was neat that she was doing so well and felt kind of sad because she found Mr. Right and I was still waiting for Ms. Right to come along.  Hell, I was still virgin material.  I can't say opportunity hadn't come to call.  I just wasn't into the dance.  You know; wine 'em, dine 'em and tell them it's love.  It just wasn't a game I wanted to play.  I figured if it was the most spectacular thing in the world, then I wasn't going to share it with just anyone.
 

   "How long did you stay with Laverne?"
 

   "Not long.  Her husband lost his job and things got bad.  I had to go, but that was okay.  I met this guy and got this job.  His apartment is in Jersey."
 

   "Really?"
 

   "Yeah.  I take the Path train."
 

   "What's he do?"
 

   "Ah, he's in jail, now.  He's gotta really nasty temper.  He get's out soon, though."
 

   Koa opened her purse, again.  She started rummaging around for something.
 

   "I found this in my mother's house.  You know what it means?"
 

   Koa hands me two folded pieces of paper.  I open them and stare in awe at a birth certificate and transport papers, all in German.  All I could really tell for sure was, Koa Rivera Rodriguez' mother was born in 1920 and her name was Beth Meyerwitz.  Her grandmother's name was Sarah Meyerwitz and her grandfather was Abraham Meyerwitz.
 

   I read the names three times and started to laugh.
 

   "What?"  Koa asked.
 

   I thought of all those Jewish neighbors from the old neighborhood and how they all wanted to know why I was spending so much of my time with a bunch of Puerto Ricans.  'Spics' was a word some of them used.  There were so many nice Jewish girls in other parts of the neighborhood.
 

   "Come on, Ben.  What's so funny?"
 

   "You're Jewish," I said.
 

   "Get outta here."
 

   I got up to leave, which is something I always do when someone tells me to get out of here, but Koa grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back down to the bench.
 

   "What do you mean, I'm Jewish?  I'm not Jewish, Ben.  I'm Puerto Rican."
 

   "You're mother was white.  You never told me your mother was white."
 

   "So?  That doesn't mean I'm Jewish."
 

   "Her name was Beth?"
 

   "Lot's of women are named Beth.  My first grade teacher was named Beth and she was black."
 

   "This is her birth certificate."
 

   There was a picture of a young girl on the front of the transport paper.  Beth Meyerwitz was printed underneath the picture.
 

   "You're Jewish," I said.
 

   "Get outta here," she yelled and snatched the papers away from me.
 

   "I'm too dark.  I got a 'fro.  I was raised in Catholic Charities.  The house mother took us to Church every Sunday.  I ain't no Jew!"
 

   "According to the Jewish religion," I explained.  "You are what your mother is.  With a name like Beth Meyerwitz, your mother was Jewish."
 

   Koa opened the documents and looked at them.
 

   "She never told us nothing."
 

   And I was suddenly struck by why.
 

   "Did your mother have money?"
 

   "I don't know," Koa said.  "She had a brother.  He always came over with food and clothes.  My father hated him.  Why?  What's money got to do with anything.?"
 

   "If I remember my history, I think the Nazi's came to power in the 30's.  Your grandparents might have had money.  They might have had the wisdom to foresee what was coming.  These transport papers are dated in the year of '31.  Your family, on your mother's side, was Jewish and they fled Nazi Germany."
 

   Koa looked stunned.
 

   "Yeah, Ben?  You think that's true?"
 

   "Yeah, Koa.  I think it's true.  I think the next ten years would have scared anyone out of Judaism.  I'm sure your mother left every bit of it back in Germany.  God only knows what that girl saw before they got out."
 

   Koa lit a cigarette and seemed to give this some serious thought.
 

   "So, I'm really a Jew?"
 

   "Yeah," I said and couldn't keep the grin off my face.  You're a Jewa Rican.  Half Jew and half Puerto Rican.  I just haven't decided which half is which, yet."
 

   Koa smacked me and we both laughed.
 

   It was late and time to go.  We walked from the Village straight down Broadway, all the way back to the World Trade Center where Koa could catch the Path train.  We paused at the turnstiles and stared at each other.  For a moment, I wanted to give Koa a hug.
 

   She pushed her bag in front of me.
 

   "Give me your number," she said pulling open her bag.  She took out a paper and a pen.  I wrote down my name and number.  As I did this, she stepped through the turnstiles.
 

   I handed her the paper.  She seemed nervous.
 

   "A Jewa Rican," she said with laughter.
 

   We looked at each other.  Koa turned and started down the stairs.
 

   "Call me," I yelled.
 

   Koa began to run.  She seemed to be racing down those stairs.  She threw up her arm and waved the piece of paper with my number on it.
 

   "I will," she yelled back.  "I will, Ben!"
 

   I went home.
 

   After a couple of weeks I knew Koa never would.