Mike was working all weekend, and not about to loan Marty the Stanger, so he begged Marge for the use of her Toyota, even if it meant someone would have to pick her up from work. She could see the desperation on his face, and gave him permission if he agreed to fill the gas tank afterward. Marty thought, that’s a small price to pay for a reunion with the only girl who ever liked me as more than a friend! He eagerly prepared for the visit and the ensuing conversations, writing down some reminisces about their time together at summer camp. He cleaned the cab meticulously, and drove that little garbage truck all by himself through San Francisco and down Highway 280 to Hillsborough, where the mansions were big and boxy, with luxury cars in their driveways. The hit song Give a Little Bit by Supertramp was playing on the radio, with its apt lines:
“There’s so much that we need to share, so send a smile and show you care.”
[…]
“See the man with the lonely eyes, oh, take his hand, you’ll be surprised.”
Lisa’s house was huge and imposing. She had instructed Marty on the phone to unlatch the gate (“Never mind the dog, she’s an idiot”) and walk around to the back deck. The dog turned out to be a yapping Pomeranian, so Lisa’s description was accurate, after all. His old flame answered the door when he knocked, and took his breath away instantly. He was surprised to see she had gotten even thinner, if that were physically possible. He had a flash memory of embracing her at camp, and feeling her bony shoulders blades through her shirt. He started drifting forward with a reflexive urge to hug her, then snapped back to the present just in time to suppress it. She was avoiding eye contact, and appeared to be very uncomfortable.
“I’d show you around, but there’s nothing to see in here.” She waved dismissively at her luxurious surroundings. A huge modern art painting dominated one wall. It reminded Marty of a train wreck, and should have been a warning sign. “C’mon, let’s go out to the pool house,” she offered unexpectedly.
In the hedonistic suburban culture of the Seventies, pool houses were notorious teenage love shacks. Yes! Things were looking up! Poof! A little cartoon devil appeared on Marty’s left shoulder. “Oh boy, get ready for some make-out moves, Romeo!” He discreetly slipped a Tic-Tac into his mouth while eagerly following Lisa past a bubbling, landscaped swimming pool that belonged in a resort hotel.
The “pool house” turned out to be more like a bar, or lounge, with huge picture windows. She turned on the radio, moved a pile of towels from a couch, and perched nervously on the edge like a frightened bird, scratching her wrists fretfully. Marty instantly felt grungy and out of place. They made small talk about the pool, or her beautiful yard, or the posters on the wall – anything to dispel the need to say what had to be said. Marty’s heart was beating loudly in his ears, making it hard to follow the non-conversation. His mints were gone, and he needed to put his lips to good use while they were still fresh. At a vaguely romantic moment regarding a Coca-Cola poster, he made a move as if to kiss her. She got up suddenly, with a look of such acute repulsion on her face that he wondered if he had farted unknowingly.
“Um, we really can’t do that,” she frowned, and proceeded to tell him some fantastic story about the son of an Arab oil sheikh who was her fiancée, although she admitted she’d never met him. Apparently his parents were arranging the marriage with her parents, and there was nothing she could do about it.
“You’re going to be married?” Marty asked incredulously, “But you’re only fifteen!”
She shrugged her impossibly thin shoulders, as if the burdens of being a young woman were too much to bear. “In their country, girls get married a lot earlier than that,” she said hollowly, gazing at the big picture windows in a way that gave Marty the impression she was not looking through them, but could only see her bleak future reflected in the glass. Her distant eyes reminded Marty of a portrait by Van Gogh of a dance girl, with a sad, lost, helplessness about her. Then she turned her big doe eyes on him, and his heart melted for her predicament. “Please don’t be mad at me,” she sobbed dramatically, and buried her face in his shirt, wetting it with her tears.
Marty’s hands hovered about two inches over her shoulders, wondering: Should I hug her? Poof! Just then a little cartoon angel appeared on his right shoulder, advising him, “For God’s sake, embrace the poor child! Can’t you see she’s in torment?” His arms encircled her warmly; with great sympathy. He felt like a heel for adding to her misery when she clearly wasn’t happy with her life. Just before vanishing, the foolish angel whispered encouragement in his ear, that perhaps he might be able to “be there for her” and rescue her from her difficulty.
Poof! The devil was back on his left shoulder. “You idiot,” he sneered, “Can’t you see she’s playing you like a violin? Don’t you have any pride?”
“Go away,” Marty commanded out loud, tired of the conflicting voices in his head.
“Excuse me?” she said, breaking away and looking stunned.
He backpedaled desperately. “No, I mean… um, you could go away… somewhere… where his family can’t find you!” (“Nice save,” the devil cackled, and vanished.) Marty wanted to add “with me” to the end of that proposition, but realized that would be an impossible fantasy. He didn’t even have a car of his own!
“No, I’m sorry. I just can’t see you anymore.” She stood there hugging herself intensely, as if trying to fold up into a sad little origami and disappear. She wiped away a tear and moved to the door. “Could you please give me a ride to Cathy’s house? I’m staying with her while my parents are away.” This was going to be a problem, he worried, because he’d parked down the street a ways so she wouldn’t see how beat up the old Toyota was. Even the gardeners’ pickups in this neighborhood were better than Marge’s old Rusty Bucket garbage truck!
What could he say? No, you’ll have to walk? Whatever spark they had at summer camp – that was truly extinguished. They were just two immature kids then, playing roles that seemed right at the time. Summer camp was a place for fantasy; not for any kind of lasting reality. Marty’s hopeful heart, which had been soaring up, up in the air like a beautiful balloon on the drive down, sank into the depths of her sparkling suburban pool, and drowned. He waited, staring at the bubbling surface while she locked up the house. Mentally, he fell deep into the blue water and searched in vain for his lost love until he thought his lungs would burst.
When Lisa saw the truck, she pretended it was cute, in an effort to change the subject. Fortunately, they approached from upwind. Then Marty remembered his camera. “Can I get a picture of you for remembrance?” She agreed but didn’t smile for it. The photo he got back from the developer showed a black and white image of the saddest girl in the world, looking not into the camera, but hugging herself and staring off into the distance… away from him. The smell of Marge’s cigarettes was still strong in the cab, and Lisa rolled down the window. It got stuck, and she tried to roll it up, but it wouldn’t budge. “Just leave it, I’ll take care of it,” Marty sighed, feeling like such a hick in his beater truck, chauffeuring a rich socialite who was going to be married to a sheikh. He dropped her off at Cathy’s house, which was even bigger than Lisa’s, and she managed a wan smile.
“Good luck, Marty. You’re a nice guy. You deserve better than me.” She got out quickly, and ran up to where Cathy was waiting. Apparently she knew Lisa would be coming, and Marty was sure they’d have much to talk about. He waved stiffly with a lump in his throat, and drove home with the radio tuned to nothing at all. There was only static.
On the long drive back, an old Cat Stevens song, Sad Lisa, came to him, unbidden. He felt a tingling in his spine as he recalled the lyrics, which described his lost love and her situation perfectly, beginning with “She hangs her head and cries in my shirt; she must be hurt very badly…” The song was written at least 7 years earlier, but it could have been written for Marty in that very moment. Every line cut deeply into his consciousness like the lashes from a whip. He cried when he thought of the closing, “I’ll do what I can to show her the way, and maybe one day I will free her… though I know no one can see her… Lisa, Lisa, sad Lisa, Lisa…”
Everyone at the Rusty Bucket Bar & Grill was waiting for Marty’s return, knowing why he used Marge’s truck all day. They could tell from the look on his face that it hadn’t gone well, and they wisely decided not to ask any questions. The White family never talked about problems. When someone had a bad day, the others behaved as if they had the flu and stayed away. Marty left them to finish their party du jour, and went straight to bed and slept all night in his clothes. He was supposed to go to school the next day, but stayed home sick, listening to Tea for the Tillerman and writing sad poems. His heart felt completely poured out like water, and it laid there, muddied and drying up on the hard ground.
Sad Lisa
She hangs her head and cries in my shirt,
She must be hurt very badly.
Tell me, what’s making you sadly?
Open your door, don’t hide in the dark.
You’re lost in the dark, you can trust me.
‘Cause you know, that’s how it must be.
Lisa, Lisa, sad Lisa, Lisa.
Her eyes like windows, trickling rain.
Upon her pain, getting deeper.
Though my love wants to relieve her,
She walks alone from wall to wall.
Lost in a hall, she can’t hear me.
But I know she likes to be near me.
Lisa, Lisa, sad Lisa, Lisa.
She waits in a corner by the door.
There must be more I can tell her.
If she really wants me to help her,
I’ll do what I can to show her the way,
And maybe one day I will free her.
For I know, no one can see her.
Lisa, Lisa, sad Lisa, Lisa.
— Cat Stevens