Bruce couldn't figure out what it was about those Jersey girls, but he kept falling for them despite himself. He was a
Pennsylvania boy, and those razor-edged girls from the state of work and murder and concrete were so different from the
acquiescent hill girls he'd grown up with. Maybe, when it came down to it, he wanted a woman to tell him what to do.
The summer of their twentieth year, on vacation between their sophomore and junior years of college, Bruce and his best friend,
Noah, took a trip to the Jersey shore. They threw a bunch of shit in the trunk of Bruce's battered silver Pontiac – some bottles of
booze, a carton of Winstons, t-shirts and jeans and swim trunks – and they took off on an afternoon lousy with sunshine and the
kind of storybook clouds small children dream of. They rolled the windows down – which was a mistake, because once you rolled
them down it took a good half hour to get them to go up again – and blasted mix tapes of the Dead Milkmen and They Might be
Giants. Bruce with shaggy dirtbrown hair hanging across his eyes, and bracelets made of guitar strings; Noah with
bleachblonde spikes cavorting along the top of his head, and a two-tone checkered armband tattoo on his right arm – they
chainsmoked; spilled greasy gas station coffee all over the floor of the Pontiac; pounded their hands on the dashboard and sang
along: "Gonna find my baby, gonna find her now. She looks like Patti Smith – SURFIN' COW!!!"
Their motel room was tiny and damp.
"It's like the walls are sweating, duder," Noah said.
Bruce nearly broke a toe when he leapt across the bathroom and ricocheted against the tub, while trying to avoid a scurrying
cockroach.
They had good – well, good if you didn't inspect them too closely – fake IDs they'd bought from an upperclassman at college. So,
that first night on the beach, they had no problem getting into a dingy, cluttered bar called the Pirate's Cove Tavern & Eatin'
Shack.
Bruce felt ridiculous and brave, like he could make an ass out of himself and it wouldn't matter because it was summertime and
he was in New Jersey and he'd never see any of these people again. It was karaoke night at Pirate's Cove, and he got up in front of
the throng of richkid tourists and guys with bad tattoos and girls with big hair. He did his best Bon Scott impression, and belted
out "If You Want Blood." He tried to convince Noah to sing "A Message to You, Rudy," but Noah claimed he wasn't anywhere near
drunk enough for karaoke.
They set up camp at a table in a dimly-lit back corner of the bar, and chilled out for a couple hours, groaning at the bad pop songs
people sang and drinking can after can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Somewhere around midnight, the bartender – a stringy man with
a large gold crucifix around his neck – walked over to them, carrying two rum-and-Cokes.
"S'from those two ladies down there," he said, jerking his head to the left, and winking sordidly.
Bruce and Noah turned their gazes to a table across the room, and found their glances reflected by two girls – a short one, with
blueblack hair, and a taller one, with copper-colored braids.
"Uh, what the hell," Noah muttered. "This would never happen in Pennsylvania," Bruce said. "The girls there are way too
uptight to do something like buy a couple random dudes a drink."
"I'm Lina," said the shorter girl. As Bruce shook her hand, he noticed she had wonderfully curvy hips and beautiful tits (and he
felt like a pig for noticing), and a large gap between her front teeth, which he thought was utterly charming. "It was so fuckin'
rad you sang AC/DC. It was a refreshing change from the fucks that come in here an' sing Billy Joel an' shit. I had to talk to you."
Noah was obviously giddy with lust for Josie, which was fine with Bruce. Josie was pretty, but Lina was hot. Josie was too tall
for Bruce, too skinny. She was more subdued than Lina; too much like the girls from his hometown.
Lina and Josie were twenty-two. ("Holy shit, duder, older women!" Noah exclaimed as they stumbled back to the motel.) They
were best friends from Newark, and they were on summer vacation, too.
The next night, Noah and Bruce met up with Josie and Lina in front of Pirate's Cove. Lina was glorious in a tight red dress that
hugged her curves and showed off the black vine tattoos that crawled up her legs, and the tattoo of a grotesque, horned creature
that graced her left forearm.
"It's the Jersey Devil," she told Bruce.
She had a bondage collar around her neck, and high-heeled black boots.
Josie had bedraggled lilies-of-the-valley woven into her copper braids, and stars painted on her jeans. Noah kissed her hello, and
Bruce was surprised – he'd never seen his friend so full of courage where a girl was concerned.
"This scene is so lame," Lina said. "Fuck goin' to the bar. Let's go walk around."
The four of them passed the sultry night wandering up and down the boardwalk. The rotting wood creaked under their feet, and
Bruce could taste the salt spray of the Atlantic Ocean. They ate saltwater taffy and ice cream sundaes and huge clouds of cotton
candy; ate sugary foods until their teeth hurt and they couldn't stop giggling.
They wasted money at an arcade, where Lina kicked everyone's asses at Ski-Ball. They crammed into the photobooth, all four of
them a blur of arms and faces and goofy expressions.
Bruce put a quarter into an ancient fortune-telling machine. The turbaned mannequin head inside the glass case clicked its jaw
open and gasped out the mechanical words it had said thousands of times before: "Please make a wish."
Bruce whispered, so none of the others would hear: "I want to fall in love."
A few moments went by, and a piece of paper slipped out the slot at the front of the machine, just like in a movie Bruce saw when
he was a kid.
"Your wish is granted."
"Shit, it's one a.m.," Lina said when they re-emerged into the hazy brine of the boardwalk night. "All the liquor stores are closed.
Ya got any booze?"
"Actually. . ."
They went back to the motel and retrieved a bottle of spiced rum.
"Josie and I are gonna stay here and watch some television or somethin'," Noah said. "You and Lina go on without us."
"Okay. Just. . .hang a pair of underwear on the doorknob if. . .y'know. I don't wanna walk in on anything."
Bruce and Lina walked out on the beach, to the edge of the water. They took their shoes off and got their feet wet, and let the
damp sand worm between their toes. They took swigs from the bottle of rum until they were stumbling along the dark beach.
Lina held on to Bruce's arm as she staggered around, nearly dragging him down several times. The haze parted, and the moon
shown down, almost full, the tarnished silver color of a quarter. They plopped down on the sand. Lina pushed Bruce flat on his
back, climbed on top of him, and planted sloppy, violent kisses on his neck and lips.
"Aw, shit," Bruce groaned.
Lina lifted her dress above her thighs to reveal she was not wearing underwear. Then, she undid Bruce's belt and began to unzip
his jeans.
"Lina. I. . .I don't have any condoms."
"Don't worry about it. I'm on the pill. What, ya think I'm fuckin' stupid?"
Noah and Bruce only planned on staying at the shore for four days; a long weekend of drinking and spending money on useless
things. The Newark girls convinced them to stay for a week.
"We can't really afford the motel room for more than four days," Bruce said.
"It's not a problem. Me and Josie are staying at my cousin Tanya's place. She's out of town and we've got the house to ourselves.
You guys can totally stay there with us."
Bruce and Noah checked out of the seedy motel, and took their stuff over to Tanya's.
The house was inland, away from the tourist areas nearer the beach. Still, if he breathed deep, Bruce smelled the brackish
mixture of oil and seaweed and saltwater. The house was a big, wood-shingled thing; painted periwinkle but faded from years of
beatings by ocean wind. The front porch stretched the entire width of the house, and was covered with moldy chairs and a
broken couch, seashell windchimes, and trumpet vines that crawled up the railings.
Just like that, the two couples – Noah and Josie, Bruce and Lina – shacked up together for five days and played house. They piled
dishes in the sink – Bruce made elaborate breakfasts of eggs and sausage and potatoes; Lina cooked heaping pots of ravioli for
dinner. During the day, all four of them threw the windows of the house wide open and lit strawberry-scented incense. They sat
on beanbag chairs in the living room, and watched Tanya's extensive Mob movie collection.
Nights, Josie and Noah usually wanted to stay in. They most often played video games, or went to bed early.
Lina and Bruce went out. They walked around on the boardwalk, or danced at clubs. Lina dragged Bruce to every karaoke bar
up and down the beach. She plied him with coconut-flavored drinks and begged him to sing AC/DC or Guns'N'Roses. They'd end
up back at the house, and sit on the porch for a couple hours. They sat close to each other on the saggy brown couch, and took sips
from bottles of whiskey or rum. They talked – about their families, their schools, music and tattoos. What struck Bruce, later,
when he thought back on it, was how they'd managed to talk so much without actually saying anything at all. Anytime Bruce
made Lina laugh, she socked him in the arm so hard that by the end of the week, it was covered in bruises; various shades of
greenish yellow and purple-y red. Sometimes, they sat in silence, curled around each other; Bruce stroked Lina's chin-length
hair and they listened to the distant swish of waves or the squeal of motorcycle tires or the low bellow of the foghorn. Then, they
helped each other stumble up the stairs to the bedroom they were staying in, and they fucked until the sun came up, whitehot
and violently bright.
They made promises.
"I'll come visit you at school," Lina said.
"Or we can take a trip to New York together," said Bruce.
"I'll never forget you," Lina said.
"I love you," said Bruce.
On the drive back to Pennsylvania, Noah put a Tom Waits tape in the stereo. Bruce grimaced and clutched the steering wheel,
white-knuckled. He turned the music off when the song "Jersey Girl" came on.
"What's wrong with you, duder?" Noah asked. "You spent a week getting drunk and getting laid, and you're all pissy."
Bruce couldn't explain what was wrong. He'd lived out the summer vacation fantasy. He'd gotten his wish, the one he made that
night in the arcade. But when he thought about Lina's body and her lusty laugh and the food she cooked; when he thought about
the future; all he felt was a sick emptiness in his gut.
Lina called him two weeks later.
"I'm pregnant."
"Is. . .it. . .mine?"
"Yeah."
"But. You said you were on the pill."
"I lied. So, when are you comin' to Newark to marry me?"
"Lina. We can't have a baby. I'm in college. I'm unemployed. I'm only twenty."
"I thought you were twenty-one."
"I lied."
There was an abrupt click, and then the piercing monotone of the dial tone.
Bruce threw up in his trashcan and lay down on his bed. He stared at the shadows that floated lazily across the ceiling.
Three weeks after that, Bruce received a letter with a Newark postmark.
Dear Bruce –
You don't have to worry about being a dad. I had an abortion. You were right; we're too young to be parents. I guess I just thought
you'd stay with me. I thought I meant something to you.
Love, Lina
He wanted to write back, he really did, but all his words were hollow and useless. What could he say?
Oh, Lina. You do mean something to me. Only, not what you'd hoped you meant. Oh, Lina. I love you, but I don't know you at all.
He did not respond. He tried to forget about her, or to remember her simply as a fling he had one summer when he was young
and stupid. But there were little things that haunted him every time he fell for another Jersey girl. If they had tattoos or wore a
red dress, he got flashes of memory – Lina's laugh, her smooth hair the color of a smoggy night sky, the way her eyes wrinkled up
at the corners when she smiled.
No, Lina wasn't the last Jersey girl he ever fell for, but none of the other flames burned with quite the same intensity as the one
he'd had for her. She would always be the one he thought of when he heard the words: "Sha la la la la la – I'm in love with a
Jersey girl."