It’s Now or Never

As I helped my father load our suitcases into the ‘57 Chevy Impala for our third annual post-fourth-of-July fortnight at Villa Italia in New York’s Catskill Mountains, I wasn’t looking forward to the dance parties as my mother was or to the casino nights as my father was or to the boating, the archery, the badminton as my brother was. I wasn’t even looking forward to the kidney-shaped pool or the barbecues or the sing-a-longs. I was looking forward to swimming in the pool, eating hot dogs, and following the bouncing ball—with Ricky.

 

As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, Ricky was there to carry our bags to our cabin. The son of the Villa’s owner, greeting guests was one of Ricky’s jobs. But he certainly didn’t hug every arrival as he did me. Somehow, in the four weeks we had spent together over the last two years, we had become best best friends writing weekly letters to each other as well as postcards with our latest moves in a never-ending chess game by mail.

 

As soon as my family was settled, Ricky and I wrapped our arms around each other’s shoulders and headed across the great lawn of the resort back to the parking lot where I assisted Ricky with his chores welcoming guests and hauling luggage. As we worked, we sang a selection of the songs we had sung over the previous two Julys: “Witch Doctor,” “At the Hop,” “April Love,” “Donna,” “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes,” “All I Have To Do Is Dream,” and the number we performed to much acclaim at a Saturday night dance party, “ I Only Have Eyes For You.” Two eleven-year old boys singing a love song to each other was considered in 1959 adorable, not appalling as it would be in some locales today. Ricky’s father had wanted us to do “Volare,” but although we could pronounce the nel blu dipinto diblu and all the ohs, the rest of the lyrics left us hysterically tongue-tied in rehearsal.

 

Our rehearsal hall was the lounge, usually deserted in the afternoons, with its magical Wurlitzer jukebox. Ricky had a supply of slugs that set the machine in motion, allowing us to play records over and over and over until we had memorized the words, the melodies, and the singer’s inflections of all our favorite tunes. And our new favorite that year was Elvis Presley’s “It’s Now or Never.”

 

“My father told me this song steals a famous Italian opera melody,” Ricky said. “He’ll go nuts if we sing it at next Saturday’s dance party.”

 

And so we got to work—not only learning “It’s Now or Never,” but choreographing dance steps and appropriate pantomime.

 

We figured the characters in the song were longing to kiss each other, but hadn’t yet, and so, with some relief, we decided just to pucker and smooch each other from afar although we did hold each other tight when the lyrics suggested it. We sang the chorus together, but divided the verses. The first verse was mine. When I looked in Ricky’s eyes and rhapsodized about seeing and being captured by his smile when we first met… I realized, maybe for the first time, that my soul had indeed surrendered to him, that I loved being near him, singing with him, holding him. Now or never. Dare I go further?

 

No, not then. I had a long way to go before I admitted, even to myself, that I was gay.

 

We received a standing ovation from the Villa Italia dance partiers who sang along with us after they demanded we deliver an encore of “It’s Now or Never.” Ricky and I bowed and hugged each other as we retired from the stage.

 

But no kisses. Never with Ricky. I do think I loved him. But love would wait.