This is a story about a boy, perceived by many to be a lost cause with no apparent talents and certainly no vocational direction. My opinion.
To my memory now, he is fast becoming but one of many phantoms that come and go without my calling and hauntingly illusory. Having no photographs to rely on, even his features are less recognizable as the years pass.
I found myself thinking of Steve when my sons at his age choose to stumble into mischief. And, I wondered often how my sons will appear in manhood after all means of practical and formal education, trials and tribulations, parental lectures (usually of the screaming kind), peer demonstration, school yard fights and so forth.
When does the edification of these real lessons in life, big and small, manifest? How can that moment be determined when a girl is a woman and a boy is a man? I’m puzzled at times of their foolish displays and I remember Steve and I know all will be well. I’ll have to let God and life sort it out.
This boy contributed immeasurably to the many lessons to come my way that would mold my character and lead me to demand more of my self than mediocrity, for mediocrity was the norm in my personal achievement and environment at the time.
Steve was unaware of the subliminal lessons he taught me and others and subconsciously he presented them to us as gifts, they illuminated life's hidden blessings.
Fact is, about the only bad habit he had to my knowledge is he smoked Kool Filter Kings. Yes, he was loud and laughed hard at the wrong time but traits such as these aren’t deficiencies. You couldn't convince anyone that he was anything less than a comical blowhard because of his conduct and an announced ego-ideal to match that of a used car or aluminum siding salesman.
My sporadic attempts to advocate his virtues, real and imagined went to no avail in our little group.
Steve was his own worst enemy. Even I knew bad reputations were easily earned so why promote it? Albeit, Steve was not leading the crowd and was by no means a virtuous crusader but he refused to just follow. Being satiated with self-esteem and God only knows why he possessed any at all, we were in many ways mesmerized by his recklessness and comedic rantings. I believe we all secretly wanted some of it to rub off on us a bit.
I wanted so much for Steve to be a part of our crowd, but I failed to be the catalyst for that to be -- not that I tried and failed -- I failed to even try.
ANN LANDERS TROGLODYTES AND PICCOLOS
In the fall of 1964 Steve and I were both in the ninth grade, the last of our tumultuous years at Audubon Junior High. That's when and where we met her, the new girl in school, Debbie.
All the boys had a crush on her and so did I. After all, Mary Lou Rusinko didn't know I was alive (because I was much too embarrassed to prove I was) so why not have a crush on Debbie, I rationalized. Besides, Debbie would never learn of my secret desires anyway. The magnitude of adolescent rational is astounding.
Of course, in the ninth grade, things like crushes do get around and my secret was no exception. The extent of our affair was passing a couple of notes and talking once or twice until midnight on the phone. I could not abandon my silent love for Mary Lou and besides, Kathy Kovach caught my roving eye as well.
One evening just after dinner, my mother received a phone call and from the expression on her face I knew that somehow that call was connected to something I had done, or said or wanted to do.
Eventually she handed me the phone informing me it was Debbie's Mom. Calmly at first, she insisted I confess to writing an unsigned letter to her daughter, which stated among other things that went unsaid, the unknown author was not good enough for her love, etc., etc. Admittedly, I only heard bits and pieces of her rant intermittently between glances to my mother and the hand piece of the phone. But I did hear her say something about my offering Debbie a five-dollar bill as a gift. What?
Assuring her the best I could, I said, "If I had five bucks Ma’am, with all due respect to your daughter, I wouldn't give it to anybody.” Yes, I liked Debbie as a friend very much, and yes, I did have a crush on her I admitted, but five dollars was just too hard to come by for me to give to just anybody -- and I still had no idea what the hell she was talking about.
Her relenting accusation over such an insanely trite event put me into a state of shock. It was over the top and indeed unrelenting. Was the dollar amount insulting? I just couIdn’t figure it out. I’m guessing there was more in the letter than she revealed to me.
Her rationale went in one ear and out the other, as my mother was fond of saying. I kept thinking some poor sap is going to write a letter to Ann Landers about her one day and will sign it, Mother-In-Law-Driving-Me-Crazy.
How could I convince this woman I wasn’t the culprit? I could hear her shrill voice through the receiver … "the person that wrote that letter is nothing less than a troglodyte!"
"Sounds like Vanni to me," I said. She dismissed the idea after a short reprieve of silence. I held my ground, handed the phone to my mother and said a final, "I didn't do it!" and then asked aloud, "Troglodyte, what in the hell is that?"
I saw Steve the next day and told him of the entire episode omitting the part where I mentioned his name and to my astonishment, he admitted sending the note and the money. He said he was in love with her but didn't know how to express it. I was stunned. Steve Vanni is in love?
"Steve, there are a lot of wild girls that you could go for, why Debbie?” I asked, assuming that he wouldn't be attracted to or fall in love with a "nice" girl.
"I love her" he said again… "I want to marry her someday."
Now I thought this was about the most ridiculous thing that had ever happened to me (so far this week). I'm getting blamed for a Vanni incident, it turns out my accusation was true, and to top it all off, a fourteen-year-old thinks he is in love. In love enough to know who he wants to marry. I think I should warn him, the next letter he will write will start, Dear Ann Landers.
I don't know if I was more surprised at his being in love or his admitting it to another guy. Those things were usually unspoken, weren't they? Or did Steve know something I did not? All we guys talked about were the wishful lies regaling our sexual exploits with girls from another neighborhood.
"You guys don't know her," we would assure each other, lying through our teeth. Saying things like I'm in Love was not just said to anyone. But Steve said it and apparently, he was not ashamed of being in love or admitting it.
The boy was indeed different. This time I liked it and I was aroused and compelled to examine my own feelings regarding love and commitment -- commitment to anything.
"Well, what are you so quiet about?" I had to ask.
"I don't know what to do now," he said.
"Her Mom really hates the guy that sent that note and she should because I said some really dumb shit and all I know is I'm in love with her." Solemnly he added, "and I know something else, you're going to tell everyone about this whole mess, aren't you? Just like you told Mr. Goldman that I was the one that had stolen the piccolo."
How in the world did he know that, and how long had he known that? I challenged him. "Did you steal the piccolo, Steve?"
"Yes!" he proclaimed.
Yes, I thought to myself, I was right. "But why steal a piccolo?" I had to ask, obviously confused over his selection of instruments.
"Because, they said I couldn't play it or take it home because I would damage it. They said I wasn’t responsible so they wouldn't let me use it at all. They said that to my face -- they didn't even care if my feelings were hurt. All I wanted to do was learn to play it." His face red, he said, "I just wanted to learn to play it."
Neither one of us could look at each other, he was glassy eyed, and I was wide-eyed. So I apologized for ratting him out and he accepted.
"You are the only one I really have to talk to," he confided.
I did not realize then that that was hardly a compliment. I had always thought of myself as being intellectually superior to Steve, as well as better-looking and better-liked, so when I took the time to talk to him it was an act of charity, to humble myself because the poor guy didn't have any friends or siblings that I was aware of. He lived with his mother and I knew nothing of the whereabouts of his father.
Steve did not have anyone to talk to because he chose not to, although he allowed me into his confidence from time to time. He must have been terribly lonely. I was the only friend he had and he knew I was no friend.
Death was in the air.
Steve and I talked more over the backyard fence I believe than all other times combined. Not to be compared with Damon and Pythias but, we were becoming closer friends allowing examination of each other’s feelings and shared secrets that remain secret still.
Just five houses east down the block, a turbulent commotion was occurring. It was summer and early in the morning. Police sirens, ambulances, fire trucks and hordes of people were converging on the Gagliardo household.
Mrs. Gagliardo was a quiet, secretive single parent that lived with her three teenage daughters. Betty was the oldest at about seventeen and I would guess the twins were about fifteen. All that could be learned in the street was a dread fact, someone was dead.
I determined just moments before anyone else, whatever was going on was going on in the unattached garage in the back yard. Unmistakable horror could be felt in the air. The senses triggered palpitations I've never known and nobody seemed to mind or even notice the frightening unusual chill in the air.
All of the mothers, now off their porches and in the street, took head counts of their children and silently communicated with other parents that all seemed to be present and accounted for, except the Gagliardo girls.
Children squirmed to get a closer look as badged authorities huddled in the driveway, their faces revealed the truth.
I attempted to get a better look myself from the Morris's back yard but was chased away by a large uniformed policeman and was headed off again before arriving in the Nelson's back yard, both of which were contiguous to all the action.
I rushed to my house climbing the stairs to the second floor as fast as I could sprint. I plunged into the attic and to the window that faced our backyard. Popping my head out I saw Steve, directly across from me, he was also straining to see over the trees from his attic window.
We motioned to each other with our hands and a shaking of the head that we didn't know what was going on. Then, from the garage we saw what appeared to be a sheet-clad body on a stretcher. To our shock, one of the policemen stopped the paramedics briefly to conceal the small arm protruding out from beneath the sheet.
The arm seemed to be pointing skyward. The policeman grabbed the hand and pushed it down as if he were priming a pump. It was a ghastly sight.
Steve and I stared at each other for an eternity fearing what was yet to come. Before we could speak a second stretcher appeared with another body. It also disappeared into the throngs of reporters and officials making its way slowly to the ambulance.
We expected a third, another sister, but was relieved when I spotted one of them, Betty, whom was wrapped in her mother’s embrace while weeping and shaking uncontrollably. I could feel their grief and anguish and shared their sorrow. Horror was unfolding. For a moment I knew how sad and lonely the future would be without one of my brothers or sisters.
I didn't need to speak to Steve to know he felt the same pain. I could see the unmistakable expression of sorrow on his face even from the distance of our yards.
Surely this nightmare was over. As I began my retreat to the confines and solitude of the attic another stretcher appeared. And then, another.
"My God -- four of them?"
I looked through the swaying branches of the birch tree that partially obscured Steve. With his face in his hands, he was in a stunned shock. I knew he had a childhood friendship with the twins. The memory of this day would be engraved in our hearts forever. The reality of death could not be denied nor was our own mortality.
Later I learned, the two girls double dated, arrived home late and entered the garage for warmth and privacy with their dates. The four simply fell asleep and was asphyxiated in the tiny detached one car garage.
Within two years Steve would die the same way.
1966
Steve insisted on being acknowledged wherever he would go and no matter whom he was with. He always had. He would call our attention endlessly to the failings of our ways especially when we mistakenly pointed out his faults.
When with Steve you were obligated to acknowledge him and compelled to engage and contend. You couldn't help be fascinated with his personality even when defending yourself from a barrage of endless personal invasion. He insisted on being the underdog's hero. Being in his company not only validated his existence but yours as well. We saw very little of him this year. His life was consumed with Debbie.
Somehow, he managed to win her affection and apparently that of her parents as well. At the time, we thought this occurrence would be the unsolved mystery of the century, but on reflection I know now she saw in Steve then, what we are only just beginning to see -- of course she would be attracted to him.
I heard once that nothing can make a young girl's heart flutter like a "bad ass" and perhaps it's true but this one had a kind heart as well. I can only imagine the gifts of life she shared with him; her close family ties, functional social skills (no slam intended) and acceptance of him and his past. She added importance and dignity to his life.
Like the early morning light overcoming darkness, gradual but full, the change that took place in Steve was visible and apparent to all. I learned by Steve's examples that the more you contribute to "life" the fuller the benefits, no matter how small your contribution.
Every time we met, Steve always smiled broadly and greeted me with a hand shake like a grown-up. "How's it going?" He would say. Adding, "Debbie said to tell you hello."
I enjoyed his servility to her and envied them a bit. He shone as he recounted the things he discovered, as though art and museums were a new invention. She would take him to concerts and recitals and he would take her to car shows and wrestling matches. They enjoyed each other. I was somewhat envious of that as well.
He talked only of her and what she had done for him. He asked once, after all this time, if I was still hanging around upper Easton Park and asked me to give his regards to everyone there. The inquiry was somewhat humorous. I did a certain amount of growing up also since we first met and I too was in love and understood his feelings completely.
But Steve didn't notice my metamorphosis. He didn't notice because he had entered a new world of his own. Once he only dreamed of this place (society, adulthood, call it what you like), now he was a resident, a full and accepted participant. His social status had not changed, only his young, full-of-life state of mind.
The newspaper report said he had parked in front of his girlfriend's house early that morning. A faulty tail pipe pumped deadly carbon monoxide gas into his old car. Steve fell asleep and was found dead a short time later. On his lap a list was found detailing all the things he wanted to do that week with his sweetheart. He had written her name several times around the edges of the paper.
Young men were being killed in Viet Nam, soldiers as well as protesters made the headlines and Steve's existence was finally proclaimed one last time.
His death didn't go unnoticed, at least by his friends, all belatedly proud to claim him as such; the Deli owners, the little old ladies he loved to scare from trees as did the fat man in the bus stop that cursed him for tagging it incessantly, a few among many admirers.
I wondered how many people will remember him? How many people knew he existed?
Shortly after the funeral I visited a diner favored by teenagers as a hangout. Through the window, I couldn't help but stare at the bus stop shelter across the street. The spray-painted autograph on its interior wall proclaimed VANNI WAS HERE! The great many bus stop shelters in our little corner of Cleveland, Ohio, were all at one time or another tagged with the familiar phrase. This one, this shelter seemed different. I realized the word "WAS" had been underlined. Someone added that underline after his death and I didn't like it. Seeing that took me to a different place, an angry place. I was in another world, mesmerized by the sight of it despite listening to Tom Jones on the juke box singing “It’s Not Unusual” for the third time.
Memories were abundant. I visualized Steve sitting there on the bench, laughing, pointing at me as though he had pulled another joke on me, on us, and was mocking all who knew him. He would actually stand on the bench rather than sit on it and dance in a physical Kevin Bacon kind of way listening to rock music only he could hear. That was Steve.
My stare was broken by the sight of a city owned truck that pulled up near the bus stop and parked. A lone worker strolled towards the shelter holding a can of paint and a brush. My eyes widened in realizing the forgetting was about to begin, knowing what he has set out to do. How many times he must have painted over those words in that shelter. He must have painted dozens of them all over town. The ubiquitous VANNI WAS HERE! will be no more.
There were so many coats of paint on top of those letters you could feel the inscription and they were about to be painted over one last time. I knew immediately what I had to do and wished I had the courage to restore his proclamation.
Hurriedly I pulled change from my pocket to pay the waitress. I watched the man paint briskly over the newly added underline. He seemed to enjoy it.
I called to him while dodging traffic to cross the street, "Wait!"
Keeping a watch full eye on his progress, finally I arrived. By the time I stepped up to him he had stopped painting and was wiping his brush clean and smiling with a smirk.
He lifted his hand to show me his palm in a way to stop me from saying or doing something I’d be embarrassed about, and said, "I no sooner painted the damn thing in the morning, I’d see on my way home from work he had painted it again!"
He added, "What started out to be just an extra duty at work nearly became my full-time job. Ever since I heard the kid had died, I just can't do it now. I’ll let it stay for a while."
I listened intently. Steve had an effect on people he didn't know.
"Was he a friend of yours, boy?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, "a very dear friend."