She mispronounced it the way most people do:
“My grandfather’s name. It’s Polish. And pronounced
“My, that’s
“Technically.”
“Your name is Mickey Wadcheck? How did I not know this?”
“My dad played music under the name Anthony Wade. So I adopted Wade for my byline. You would, too, if you had a name like
Meghan smiled.
“You know I’m totally calling you Mr. Wadcheck from now on.”
“Please don’t.”
Bad enough I have “Mickey” for a handle. The name on my birth certificate is “Mick,” in honor of Messrs. Jagger and Ronson, two of my dad’s musician heroes. You can’t call a five-year-old “Mick,” of course, so it soon became “Mickey.” And my classmates right away thought of the mouse. My childhood was full of
“Oh my God—will you look at this.”
Meghan crawled over and handed me a photo of a man in a WWII-era military uniform. My grandpop.
“He looks just like you, Mr. Wadcheck!”
“Don’t call me that. And yeah, I’ve been told there’s a resemblance, but I don’t see it. Maybe if you saw him in person…”
“Bah. You’re a dead ringer.”
I twisted open another Yuengling as Meghan picked through another box, sitting on the floor, legs crossed, shoeless. I liked the way her blond hair dangled in front of her face and it didn’t seem to bother her in the least.
“Did you two used to spend a lot of time together?”
“Not really. Grandpop Henry’s always been a little weird. Kind of gruff, spare-the-rod-spoil-the-child kind of guy. Imagine Walter Matthau in
“I thought you two might be close, considering…”
She left that hanging midair, waiting for me to finish:
Late one night at McGillin’s Ale House, the oldest continuously operating bar in Philly, I’d told her about what had happened to my dad. She didn’t press, I didn’t elaborate. It had never come up again, until now.
I took another pull from my beer.
“Yeah, well, no. I see my grandmother a lot.”
“Define
“Holidays? I see her for at least one or two of the important ones.”
“Thought as much. So they’re divorced?”
“A long time ago. My dad was ten or eleven, I think.”
I regretted bringing my dad up, because whenever I thought about him with alcohol in my system, I started getting pissed off and morose. And I didn’t want to be pissed off or morose in front of Meghan.
I tried to lighten the mood.
“So to recap: I’m jobless. I live in a bad neighborhood. And I don’t have much in the way of male role models.”
Meghan smiled, leaning up and touching my face. I loved the feel of her fingertips. They were cool and warm at the same time.
“And yet, you’re such a gentleman, Mr. Wadcheck.”
“Please don’t call me Mr. Wadcheck.”
We sat there together, pretty much easygoing quiet, for another hour or so. I finished two more beers and wondered how long I’d be stuck in this dump. This time Meghan and I were enjoying together was unlikely to happen again. I wouldn’t ask her to drive to Frankford again. Not in a million years.
So if I wanted to hang out with her again I’d have to take the El back down to Rittenhouse Square. And until I found a job, I couldn’t see myself doing that. What was I going to do, buy her a dog and ask her to sit with me by the little bronze goat in the park?
A few minutes before midnight, just as I was really starting to dread the idea of walking Meghan down Frankford Avenue back to her car, she blindsided me.
“Hey, you mind if I crash here for the night?”
My stomach did a happy little flip. But I played it cool.
“Yeah, sure. I mean, no, I don’t mind. That would be great. Really great.”
I was so smooth it sometimes hurt.
There was no bed—just the scratchy houndstooth couch, which Meghan discovered was a pullout. I prayed for clean sheets; God, for once, heard my plea. Meghan wrestled a fitted sheet onto the wafer-thin mattress as I tugged some cases over pillows.
“Good night,” I told Meghan’s shape.
“Goot night, Meester Vahhhdcheck.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“Vyyy know.”
We settled in for sleep. Well, she did, anyway.
I sat up and watched her for a while. Her lips were parted slightly, long blond hair fanning the lumpy pillow —a perfect vision of peace. Then again, Meghan seems at ease in any given environment. Put her in a prix fixe Walnut Street restaurant or a South Street dive on PBR and Jack night. She belongs, either way.
And she can pretty much float in and out of any situation she wants. Once I asked her what she did for a living, and she told me she was “deferring life.” Meghan can do this because she is the youngest daughter of a powerful Center City lawyer.
I, on the other hand, am the son of a dead hippie musician, and I feel out of place pretty much everywhere. Even people in dives don’t seem too sure about me. I believe that was either my saving grace as a reporter, or my undoing. John Gregory Dunne once wrote that reporters were supposed to feel like outcasts, hands and noses pressed up against the glass, watching the party on the other side. Sounded about right to me.
Nothing has ever happened between me and Meghan, a state of affairs that seems likely to continue the rest of our natural lives. I belong on the other side of the glass. I am supposed to be content to know that a woman like Meghan exists.
But why had she insisted on giving me a ride? Was this a goodbye visit? Was she just bored? Or maybe…
Maybe it was nothing at all.
A few hours later my eyes popped open, my head pounding. Probably a combination of too many beers and no food. I tossed. I turned. The humidity in the apartment was thick as an afghan blanket. Once in a while I’d glance over at Meghan. She still looked perfect.
I rolled out of bed and padded my way to the bathroom mirror, where I was confronted by a sweaty, disheveled thirty-seven-year-old who looked like he needed a nap and a hug. I splashed water over his face, cupped some into his mouth and urged him to spit.
Grandpop Henry’s bathroom was strictly no frills—just a shower stall with an opaque glass door, sink and medicine cabinet. Black-and-white-checkered tile on the floor, framed photograph of a fishing boat above the toilet.
