I
Monte Dollar. He blew into my life like a tornado, and went out the same way.
What happened in between is history -- but maybe it's worth repeating, just
so others can know how it feels to lose yourself, over and over, drowning in
love. And all it comes down to at the end is loss, loss of yourself and the man
you love.
(1.) The year was 1982. I, Marie Cheney, was at my senior prom. Paper
streamers, strobe lights, laughter and a loud, lousy band; kids dancing,
spiked punch and a too-stuffy gym full of celebration.
I saw Monte Dollar that night for the first time. My date, Paul Watson, was
joking with Karen my best friend, but I sat silently at our table, staring at
the tall, thin boy who slouched in the doorway, looking oddly out of place.
And yet. And yet he also looked vulnerable, almost like a little boy lost. His
faded jeans and black shirt were skin tight, molding his body, a perfect
physique. Nothing was missed by me -- the longish raven hair, surly lips in a
half sneer with a dangling cigarette. He stared back, hypnotizing me.
Paul saw my mesmerized eyes, and commented, "I wonder what Monte Dollar
is doing here? He flunked out last year, and I heard he was fast becoming a
cheap drunk."
"Yeah, he's a creep all right," Tommy affirmed, grabbing Karen's hand and
pulling her out to the dance floor.
I had only been at Eleventon High School for my senior year, and had never
set eyes on Monte Dollar. My folks were both career Army material, and I
was lucky to be anywhere an entire year.
Monte Dollar flipped his cigarette down, casually crushed it under his heel,
and then looked directly at me.
Paul asked, "Wanna dance?"
"Uh, not now. How about more punch?" My eyes were locked into Monte's.
Paul left and I got to my feet. It was crazy (a word that popped up often in
relation to me and Monte) but I felt magnetically drawn to Monte Dollar.
He smoothed a black curl from his forehead as I approached, then moved
from the doorway into the dark night outside.
I followed, almost trancelike.
He didn't speak, only slumped against the building.
I was nervous but managed to say, "Hi. I'm Marie Cheney and I..."
"What? Thought I might want to dance?" He snickered derisively, but his
voice was pure velvet.
"Uh..." I stammered, going silent.
He swung around, his height dwarfing my petite frame, and put a firm grip on
my shoulders. "Hey little girl, don't you know I'm bad news?"
Now I could see his face in the gym lights. I felt weak, looking into those
denim-blue eyes -- like I was melting butter. The dark curl was back on his
forehead, and he swiped it away distractedly.
"Don't," I said impulsively, reaching to touch the boyish curl of hair.
He caught my hand and for just a brief second, held it to his face. Then he
pivoted away from me and said, "Go back to the prom, little girl."
I watched him leave, stalking across the wide empty yard. But when I
rejoined the group, I still felt his touch, saw his surly grin, and heard that
velvet voice.
Later, Paul told me Monte Dollar was a lost cause; the son of drunks...brutal,
abusive parents, both of whom had perished in a car wreck. A bad egg, Paul
confirmed.
And I knew he was probably right -- but the lostness in Monte's denim-blue
eyes haunted me in my dreams.
(2.) Of course, I saw Monte again -- only it was several months later. I'd
taken a secretarial position after high school, and gotten my own apartment.
My folks were on the move again, and as an only child, I'd decided to put
down roots in Eleventon, Georgia.
I was driving home one afternoon in late October, enjoying the brilliant
colored fall leaves, when I saw a male hitchhiker. At first, I ignored him --
but then as I came closer, my heart leaped crazily. It was Monte Dollar; no
one could mistake his tall, lean build and cocky walk, his cool, nonchalant
demeanor.
I pulled my VW off the road, and motioned to him. For one terrible moment,
he hesitated; but then, he opened the car door and slid inside. He grinned
and said, "I just need a ride to the next gas station."
I nodded, holding my breath. He didn't remember me.
I drove off, disappointed but wondering why.
The ride was short, and I pulled into a small Texaco station. "Here you are,"
I mumbled.
"Thanks," he said, opening the door.
I felt my heart pound with expectation as he walked around to my side,
leaned in the window and grinned. His eyes searched mine as though he saw
something even I was unaware of. "I do remember you, little girl. Remember
you, dreamed of you...hell, you been with me since that prom night."
I was stunned, unable to speak.
He continued, "And damn if you don't come along, fall right into my life
again."
His voice was deep, smooth with a velvet quality that reminded me of Elvis
Presley. I gulped and said, "Uh, I...I remember you too." My shyness was
legendary, and now it held me captive.
He stood, stretched his arms overhead and squinted at the dusty Texaco
building. "Better get to a phone and call a wrecker."
"Car trouble?" I asked.
"Yeah, you could say that. I lost it in a curve last night, didn't even know
where I was when I woke up in the floorboard this afternoon."
I could see he was hung-over, a bristly beard shadowing his face, his eyes
bleak and bloodshot.
I blurted out, "I could probably drive you home."
He leaned against my car. "Are you sure you want a no-good like me hanging
around?"
I looked at him then, and all I saw was the little boy lost. I thought he
needed someone to care, a sheltering warmth, love, kindness. Suddenly my
heart ached deeply, the pain swelling painfully inside me. I said softly, "Get
in, I want you in my life."
(3.) And so it began.
I took Monte to my apartment and felt as though I'd died and gone to
heaven.
Monte Dollar needed me.
He was innocently needy, never pushy. From the first, I was the one who
insisted he stay in my spare bedroom after he confessed to being homeless.
I cooked special meals, and he ate ravenously. I bought him decent clothes,
and his rough-edged, haggard look mellowed out, made him appear healthy.
I nurtured, and he accepted.
Weeks passed, and I had lost all interest in Paul who was away at college
anyway and only a letter-boyfriend.
At night, sometimes I'd tiptoe into his bedroom and secretly look at Monte.
He'd be lying on his back, long arms thrown off the narrow bed, the curly
lock of hair on his forehead. l'd stand there, almost afraid to breathe for
fear I'd awaken and it would all be a dream.
Best of all, Monte had been stone-cold sober since the day he came to my
apartment.
One day I bumped into Karen and Tommy; they were engaged, and planning to
marry at Christmas. Karen insisted I have lunch with them, and since no
excuse came to mind, I agreed.
They were deeply in love, happily planning a secure financial future with all
the conservative conventions. We ate a quick pizza, and afterward, Tommy
returned to work at his dad's insurance office.
Being Saturday, Karen and I shopped all afternoon. When we were ready to
part, she instead suggested dropping by my apartment for a beer -- to
unwind and share as friends.
I could hardly refuse, but tensed up at thoughts of her seeing Monte.
Strangely though, he wasn't there -- but Karen was no dummy. She spied the
razor and shaving cream in my bathroom, then Monte's dirty clothing in the
hamper.
"What gives?" She bluntly questioned, staring daggers at me.
I felt a hot blush of discomfort and tried halfheartedly to lie, but finally
blurted out all the details.
Karen was aghast; she asked shrilly, "Have you lost your mind? I knew Monte
all through school, and he's a hopeless case, just like his parents!"
"You don't know that!" I screamed, wildly defensive. After all, I was
protective of Monte! "He hasn't had a drop of liquor since he's been here!"
"Are you two sleeping together?"
The words cut me deeply; tears stabbed my eyes and I blinked them away
furiously. "No!
"Well, thank God! At least you aren't in love with him," Karen concluded.
She then proceeded to lecture me thoroughly about how impossible Monte
was -- how totally, irrevocably he was locked into a downhill, destitute
existence.
While I wanted to argue, I didn't. What was the use? She didn't understand
Monte like I did; Karen didn't know what he needed, but I did.
When she finally left, I was exhausted and upset about our friendship. Karen
would never accept what I was now slowly realizing: I was falling in love with
Monte Dollar!
Monte didn't come back for a week, and I thought I'd go out of my mind
with worry. I couldn't eat, slept only a few hours before dawn, and my job
was taking a backseat to it all. Fortunately, the boss was compassionate and
told me to go home Thursday night, and take a long weekend.
Monte staggered in before daylight Friday, looking like a tramp. His clothing
was soiled and sour, like his breath, and those denim-blue eyes were
bloodshot and bleary.
Without a word, he looked at me sadly, solemnly and then big tears leaked
from his eyes. I was furious, but those eyes! Oh God, I ran to him and for
the first time, I hugged him, kissing his face, softly wiping away his tears.
Monte finally put his arms around me, and his velvet voice choked in his
throat as he said, "I saw you and Karen that day, coming up the sidewalk. I
knew she hated me, and I couldn't let her see me here. It would have hurt
you!"
My heart bled for him and I pulled him down onto the old, faded sofa. We
sat there, and I said, "Don't you realize you are more, much more important
to me than Karen ever will be?"
He remained silent, eyes downcast.
"Oh, Monte..." my voice broke and I felt helpless to express the depth of my
love in that moment.
He kept staring, disbelief written in his furrowed brow. The curl was wiped
away from his forehead, and I caught his hand; he pressed a soft gentle kiss
on my fingers.
We looked into each other's eyes; love speaks its own language.
He went to shower, and then slept all day. That night Monte took me to a
nice, but inexpensive restaurant. He had money, not much, but enough for
the modest meal of "hamburger steak."
With candlelight and wine, the food was of no concern. We saw only one
another. Later we strolled leisurely down the street, walking back to my
apartment. And I knew, I just knew this was the beginning.
Monte, his velvet voice crooning, told me of his hard life, his brutal, abusive
parents, and what he thought of as his doomed future -- until he met me.
"Honey, oh honey Marie...with your beauty, those tender brown eyes, that
long, long chestnut hair...you made me love you," he whispered into my ear.
I was aching with love I never knew existed, my heart, my soul; I was swept
away on a current of joyous glory.
Monte asked hesitantly, "Marie, could you ever love me?"
I had never been aggressive, but I said firmly, "Yes, and I want to now."
He stood and gently lifted me in his arms, carrying me to the bed. And oh, he
was so tender, so ardent but hesitant, so eager but afraid -- and his
patience in pleasing me, as a virgin, was a sweet, endearing but searing
sensual experience.
We showered together, and made love over and over all night, as though
we'd never, ever get enough of this paradise.
Dawn lit the bedroom, a pale, pale pink promise washing over us. Monte
asked, "Will you marry me?"
"Yes," I sighed, convinced I was the luckiest, happiest girl alive.