The Aloha is Long Gone

If serious meant not wanting to see anyone else and even thinking about marriage after I finished college, then I was serious. I kept it from my parents. They had come around to accepting Zach's presence in my life, greeting him, if not warmly, then at least civilly. They weren't crazy about a pre-Labor Day beach trip we had planned. Even so, they accepted that, too. "At nineteen, I guess you're old enough to make those kinds of decisions," mom said. "Just don't make me a grandmother."

Up to then, we had confined our sex life to the backseat of cars and on sofas—two virgins longing for a "suitable" venue to consummate their love. Zach suggested Atlantic City, his family's favorite vacation spot when he was a kid and some place I'd never been. Beach trips for my family meant Ocean City, Maryland, sometimes Cape May.

Atlantic City wowed me with its grand boardwalk and giant hotels, grandiose piles like the Dennis and Marlborough-Blenheim that would crumble like sand castles when the casinos came in. We stayed at The Aloha, a nondescript, typical motel built in the early years of the Kennedy administration. Zach chose it for sentimental reasons—it stood on the spot of the old Concourse, a beachfront Victorian era cottage at Montpelier Avenue and Boardwalk, his family's place of choice in the 1950s.

The Aloha appeared to be a mecca for college students. It could be a noisy place, with parties in progress at all hours. At night, following a day of sand and sun and boardwalk strolls, we made plenty of noise ourselves, ensconced in our room on our king-sized bed. By this time, we had become so adept at foreplay that we slipped into full intercourse as if it had been part of our sexual repertoire all along. Zach spared no expense when it came to condoms; he brought the extra sensitive lambskins on the advice of a friend. We made love every night, multiple times on the last night we were there, the night we saw The Temptations at the Steel Pier.

We were more than in love by the time we got back—we were smitten. By late fall sophomore year, we started looking at engagement rings. The trouble started when we broke the news to our parents. Pork-eating Jews or not, Zach's parents wanted to me to convert. Needless to say, my parents insisted on the same thing. Then Zach and I got into it. We were okay for keeping our own faiths but were adamant about what our children should be. Since I was more devout in my faith than Zach was in his, I felt our kids should be raised Christian.

"I can't see my kids praying to Jesus," he said.

"And I can't see my kids NOT praying to Jesus," I countered. "He's the son of God. He died for our sins. He's the way to salvation in the afterlife."

"The son of God? Died for our sins? Don't be ridiculous. He was a human being, a good Jew, perhaps even a profit. Divine he wasn't. And, for the record, I don't believe in an afterlife."

It went on like that every time we saw each other. What had festered on the back burner got pushed front and center. Zach was the only person I knew that compelled me to defend my faith, and it was an exhausting exercise—for both of us. Neither of us would budge on the issue. By Christmas, we both knew we wouldn't work long-term.

Our breakup sent me into an emotional tailspin. I still loved the guy, loved him as I had not loved anyone I'd ever met, loved him with the sort of burning intensity I never felt with anyone else. It took me a few years to regain enough emotional balance to where I could once again get seriously involved with another man.

****

Don and I have been married almost forty years. We have grown kids and school-age grandkids. This past summer, just the two of us went to Atlantic City to try our luck in the casinos. I hadn't been back there since the summer of '67. In the morning, on rented bikes, we rolled along the boardwalk down to Montpelier Avenue. A high-rise condo now stands where The Aloha once stood. Don wanted to know why I decided to stop in front of it. He knew about Zach, though just superficially. He didn't know about our trip to Atlantic City or how much our breakup upset me. I proceeded to tell him about the trip, sparing him the intimate details. However, Don noticed the wistful sadness of my demeanor. "You look like you left your heart at the Aloha," he said, his tone slightly guarded.

I shook my head, struggling not to break down. "The Aloha is long gone, and my heart belongs to you," I said. His wan smile told me he didn't fully buy it. Nevertheless, we got back on our bikes. Pedaling south toward Ventnor and Margate, I turned my head into the wind to dry my tears.