Maria Denise Royer, 1972-2002
"Hey girl!"
The call was from England. It was Maria. We talked for about two hours, a fact that caused me to get into much trouble with my boss at Big Deal. Maria had just found out that, according to Jewish law, she was technically Jewish.
Maria was like that. A call out of the blue, never missing some shocking information that would catch you by complete surprise. I told her she's not supposed to eat bread during Passover, in a half-joking manner, of course, since Maria's current religious interest was agnosticism a la Ayn Rand.
Funny how you never realize when the last time is that you will ever talk to someone.
It's been over three months, and I still can't believe she's gone. I feel this incredible hole in my life. Maria was not replaceable. Maria was, well, she was Maria. She played some role in just about every major event in my life for the past 12 or so years. I considered her my adopted sister. She really was part of my family.
Over time, I will tell some of those stories in the space that follows. These are stories that will let you get to know the unforgettable Maria Royer. And somehow, I have a feeling that she is sitting at a computer terminal somewhere right now reading them, laughing boisterously and clapping her hands at the memory of them. So sit back, and get to know Maria.
- Barbie's Milk Truck
Have you ever had a coworker that liked to give you just a little bit too much information about their love life? Maria and I had one such coworker when we worked as temps at American Transtech, the kind of girl who can dish it out but can't take it. That coworker's first name was Barbara, which I wouldn't tell you, except that it's really important to the story.
Okay, technically, she didn't tell us the gruesome details; she told another friend of ours whose boyfriend was her boyfriend's roommate. Anyway, this mutual friend also thought it was too much information, and had to share the story with Maria, my sister, and me. She was, after all, traumatized. The information involved color photographs of Barbara's boyfriend in his "sexy" underwear (such a subjective word, I know) and a description of something involving a side effect to taking oral contraceptives.
Maria's unit went on break 15 minutes before mine. She returned from Taco Bell with a small carton of milk and a straw, and seated herself in an empty cubicle next to mine, and across from that of Barbara, who, although in another unit, sat in the same area that I did because ATI was trying to conserve space.
I knew she was up to something. "Interesting choice for a drink," I commented, "where did you get it?"
"Barbie's Milk Truck," Maria said without hesitation.
"Barbie has a milk truck now?" I asked.
"Yes, it's the newest thing to go with Barbie's Dream House."
"That would be because Ken likes milk?" I asked.
Barbara, who was eavesdropping on the conversation, let out an audible "hmmmph!"
Maria and I snickered.
"So Mattel is making little Barbie cows and Barbie milk trucks, now," I added.
"Hmmph! Ahem!"
More snickers.
"That's right, they have a whole new line out." Maria took another sip of the milk.
"And where does the milk for the truck come from?" I asked, expecting more sarcastic witticisms containing thinly veiled references to the Too Much Information.
"Barbie's breasts," Maria said, very matter-of-factly.
Another angry sigh from the other cubicle, and our little friend stormed away from the area. Maria and I could hold back our laughter no longer. Well, that was the last time Mlle. Barbara shared all the gory details of her love life around the office, so it solved the problem.
- The Accident
To be continued...
- Cruising Third Street
After the car accident, Maria had to take her white Tempo to the shop for repairs. What kind of car could be cooler for a nineteen-year-old than a maroon Plymouth four-door sedan? (Just about anything? Probably, but I digress.) The car looked like something a grandmother would drive -- not my grandmother, who listened to Dr. Hook and smelled like Nature Company beeswax and honey soap, but the kind of grandmother who smells like mothballs and serves her guests hard candy.
In 1991, on Jacksonville Beach (headquarters of the Nazi skinheads), the cool thing to do was to cruise up and down Third Street (A1A) in brightly painted low-rider pickup trucks. Dude! In fact, it was so cool, the Powers That Were banned it. Maria, Hannah, and I did not know this.
When Maria showed up with the loaner car, the air buzzed with our exciting plans for such an uncool vehicle. First, we tried driving around high-traffic areas, and shouting random names at people. This grew tiresome.
I do not remember exactly which idea was whose, but, after making the pool hall rounds, Maria, Hannah, and I got into the car, rolled down the windows, and turned the radio to Jones College Radio (all elevator music, all the time) at full volume. Off we went to Jacksonville Beach. Maria's recently sprained ankle was not bothering her too much.
Up Third Street we cruised toward Neptune Beach, then Maria turned the car around and headed south toward Ponte Vedra. Back and forth we went, waving our arms out the windows and singing along with the horrendous music. Then we saw the blue lights.
The policeman shined his flashlight into the car. "Miss," he asked Maria, "why were you driving like a maniac?"
"I don't know, sir," she responded, her voice dropping an octave or two.
The policeman asked her to step out of the car for a moment. She passed the nose touching with ease, but Hannah and I sat like soon-to-be-eaten mice watching a cat when the policeman told her to walk in a straight line. Her Ace bandage was dangling precariously off her ankle. Surprisingly, she passed the test. The cop told us to go home.
And so, with heavy (albeit relieved) hearts, we headed back to Baymeadows, sprawling land of mega-apartment complexes, low-budget golf courses, high-budget franchise retail stores, and the junior college made from a shopping mall.
Well, I'll let you get on with things, and I'm sure Maria has choir practice with Frank Sinatra she needs to run off to, so this is the end for now. Please come back soon for more stories and more memories.
SRE
A note about the background music: Maria was named after the character in West Side Story, because the song was her father's favorite. The song was always very special to Maria Royer, and it was played at her funeral. This author hopes the version chosen is tasteful and appropriate enough for the subject matter of this page.
