J. Beaman - The Magazine

Last night it was time to meet the friends. “The girls and I are going to get some drinks at the 500 club. You should come and meet them.” Easy enough. I’m smart enough and funny enough and charming enough; it should be just fine.

I arrive at the bar and it’s obvious what it once was–a low bottom alcoholic dump. But, as is the case with bars and restaurants and neighborhoods all over the country, it is filled with beautiful people. And because I like alcoholic dumps and beautiful people equally (and the bar was warm and laid out well and not too crowded) I felt comfortable right away.

L. and her college friend N. are at the bar and I sit with them. It’s awkward but gets easier as the minutes pass. “Cran and soda.” I order and like the bartender immediately. Maria arrives a moment later; she’s pretty and smiley and flips her hair around nervously. They all laugh easily and I like being with them.

Maria says to me, “You look like…” and I think she’s going to say something like, “like the guy who killed my parents” or something equally awful. But she says, “You look like a guy I went to high school with.”

I make a face.

“No, he was a really nice guy.” She actually emphasized really nice. “His name was J.J. Hoffine.”

My sister calls me J.J. sometimes and when the bill collectors call they ask for Jerry Hoffine but I think it’s been ten years since anyone called me J.J. Hoffine.

I didn’t know who she was at first. She said her name, “Maria _________.” It is one of those names that feels nice to say. Say the first name and say the last name. Always say them together. (She asked me not to put her last name in here.) But as we talked I began to remember. “I wore a black trenchcoat all the time.” Oh yes. I remember. She wore all black all the time and her hair hung in her face and she had trouble looking you in the eye, glancing to the ground and looking up again. Almost like she was checking to see if you were still there. I always liked her.

Maria looks good. She tilts her head back a little when she laughs and moves her hands around gently when she talks and she was wearing a colorful top (I actually wear more black than her now) and clearly loves her friends and seems to enjoy her life (as much as any of us do). I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. It was weird.

There’s no dark past in Calaveras County for me. No dead best friends or suicide attempts. None of the things that make up great Newbury Medal winning children’s novels. But it was a sad place and my grandparents are sad and my cousins are sad and my aunts and uncles are sad and Maria was sad. She is like redemption for Calaveras County. Whatever that means. Redemption. L. and N. want to go there and visit but I think that Maria doesn’t really want them to. And they may have theories about why. But it’s not because it’s small or because it’s provincial or embarrassing but because it holds too many sad memories. L. and N. would go there and laugh and be silly and sweet and it would all just seem inappropriate. Like they were laughing and being silly at a funeral. Maybe I’m wrong about Maria but I think she’s redeemed; she’s saved; born again. I won’t ask her to go back there.