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elizabeth-mitchells · 4 years ago

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the only touchstone of truth - chapter 6/7

Chapter: 6/7 Fandom: I Care A Lot (2020) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fran/Marla Grayson Characters: Marla Grayson, Fran (I Care A Lot) Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Origin Story, Canon Backstory, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Dates, Getting Together, Morally Ambiguous Character, Illegal Activities, Eventual Smut, Flirting, Partners in Crime, crime wives

It’s Sunday… probably. As if the events of the previous night weren’t incredible enough to erase most reasonable thoughts from her mind, there was a pair of wicked lips and misleadingly delicate hands currently doing some very distracting things to Fran’s body. She was lying on her side and Marla was pressing her body to hers from behind.

“Hm… no, it’s too early,” she distantly murmured, even if her body wasn’t exactly putting up a fight.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Marla whispered, amusement and deep hunger coating her tone, “I like to seize the day.” Then she became even more purposeful in her actions. Her lips went from kissing Fran’s neck to softly biting the tan skin. Her fingers that had been brushing the soft skin of her waist to get her to wake up, finally started moving south to their real destination.

Fran sighed. Her eyes were still closed but her legs were instinctively making room for Marla to work. The blonde barely had to tease her. It was as if no time at all had passed from their activities from the previous night, so Marla found the other woman ready and responsive to her touches.

In a matter of minutes Fran’s hips were twitching against Marla’s palm, she was unabashedly moaning, and blindly she reached out with a hand behind her to grasp Marla’s blonde messy hair and bring her closer. “Fuck, I love you body,” Marla whispered, and kept up a trail of compliments that grew increasingly suggestive until she had the woman in her arms whimpering her name as she reached her climax.

Fran tried to slow down her erratic breathing. There was a deep pleasurable warmth that she felt deep in her bones. Marla was tenderly kissing her temple. “Okay, now you can go back to sleep,” Marla said. That made Fran chuckle, but she wasn’t about to argue. She only turned around and wrapped an arm around Marla, until both of them drifted off to sleep once more.

“Don’t you ever rest?” Fran wondered, squinting her eyes to look up at the blonde sitting on the bed beside her.

“I’m unemployed, Fran,” Marla reminded her without looking away from her phone, and without stilling the fingers from her other hand that had been softly playing with the other woman’s hair, “Rest from what?”

The brunette chuckled and closed her eyes again, determined to get a few extra minutes of sleep. “You did burn a building last night,” she mumbled with amusement. Her reward was a proud laugh coming from Marla. “Make yourself at home,” Fran yawned, “just give me five more minutes.”

“Sure,” Marla put down her phone and then leaned down to leave a kiss on Fran’s lips, “I’ll go make coffee.”

The blonde slid off the bed and as she searched for something to wear, her mind wandered off. Staying for breakfast at a woman’s home wasn’t exactly part of her routine, but somehow it felt like the only obvious thing to do with Fran. Not only did she find herself wearing one of Fran’s t-shirts, but there was a strong and unfamiliar feeling that made her stop in the doorway of the bedroom and turn around to gaze at the sleeping woman in the bed. Red alarms went off in her mind for the way she already felt so attached to Fran, and perhaps even more alarming was how easily it was to ignore those warnings. Fran was a part of her life now, and she was determined to keep it that way.

Marla had one hand gripping the mess of white sheets of the bed, another hand lost in the mess of brown curls of Fran’s head, which was currently at work in between her thighs. A loud moan escaped her when her hips pushed forward to get closer to whatever magic tricks Fran was pulling out of her. She could practically feel her smirking against her. “Your coffee,” Marla sighed, impressed with how difficult Fran made it for her to even speak, “it’s going to get cold.”

This got Fran to pull her face away from Marla, who had to bite her bottom lip to keep herself from making any sounds that would betray how disappointed she truly was. Fran could see it in her face though. “Let it get cold,” she said in a husky voice. Then she smiled, still making eye contact with the woman she crazy for, and slowly lowered her face once more. A moment later, Marla was throwing her head back against the pillows, overcome with pleasure.

“This is good,” Marla said, taking another bite of pancakes, part of the breakfast they were enjoying while still in bed.

“You sound surprised,” Fran retorted, her lips slightly tilting in amusement. She let Marla put on a defensive face for a second, then she shrugged. “Fine, I’m not a great cook. I can make three meals at most, but they’re all fantastic, okay?”

The blonde hummed warmly. “I believe you. Now I just need to try those other two meals to judge for myself.” She picked up one of the strawberries and offered it to Fran, who made a good show out of eating it off her fingers.

During a lull of the conversation, with Marla looking perfectly at home sipping coffee while leaning on the pillows of Fran’s bed, the brunette mindlessly scrolled through her phone until something caught her eye.

“Do you want to hear the news about your little stunt last night?”

“Little stunt? I thought I was the best you ever had,” Marla replied.

After she was done laughing, Fran raised an eyebrow at her, “I didn’t say such a thing.” She wouldn’t say it either, not for a long time, when they would both realize each of them were the best part of each other’s lives, in more ways than one.

Marla thought about it for a moment. “Are they good news?”

“Yeah,” Fran looked at her phone, her eyebrows furrowing just slightly as she read. “And there aren’t any old colleagues knocking on my door so it looks like you’re in the clear for now.”

This made Marla nod. The feeling of success warmed her body like almost nothing else. It was a job well done and she knew that. The satisfaction was enough. “Then I’ll read them later. We’ll talk business later,” she decided, and the brunette sent an intrigued look her way. “For now, let’s finish this.”

Fran’s only response was a smile, a beautiful and bright smile. They continued their breakfast, talking, stealing kisses, and enjoying each other’s company. The success of her plan of revenge wasn’t even the number one thing in Marla’s mind. The one thing she couldn’t shake off her head was how incredibly beautiful was Fran’s genuine and carefree smile.

“Fran, don’t you dare.”

There was just something captivating about the way Marla spoke. Mostly everything she said. But especially things like that little warning. Marla was dangerously good with words and even more powerful with their undertones. When she talked, she left you with no doubt there was some secret meaning to whatever she said. There just had to be something else, something that twisted your perception of whatever she meant in order to be beneficial to her and only her. And yet. It was different when she addressed Fran. There were tricks and hidden meanings, sure. But she just gave the feeling that Fran was in on her secrets or, at least, that she was invited to try and figure it out.

So, Fran didn’t hesitate when she walked behind Marla and wrapped her arms around her. The blonde was doing the dishes and she sighed happily when Fran started kissing her neck, so that must have been a sign that she didn’t misinterpret her words.

Still, “Do you want me to leave you alone?” Fran breathed next to her ear. She would respect Marla’s wishes, at this moment, and speaking about life in general too. She would leave, if that’s what Marla wanted.

“Don’t you dare.”

That was it. Repeating her own words, now Marla was being as sincere as she was capable of. There was a mutual feeling that this was about more than what was about to go down in Fran’s kitchen. But still, Marla leaned her head to one side, exposing more of her neck for Fran to work with, and encouraged her to go on with whatever she had planned.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Fran happily chuckled. Her hands started to work, caressing the top of Marla’s thighs, slowly inching upward and pushing up her old t-shirt, the only thing still on Marla’s body. “I’ve got you,” she whispered.

The day was progressing slowly and pleasurably. The last thing Marla wanted was to walk away from Fran. She didn't want to overstay her welcome, but luckily for her, every time she so much as reluctantly mentioned the time, Fran was eager to prove how much she wanted her there. The problem was, Marla was still keenly aware that her life and business had crumbled over completely. She had nothing. Nothing but this idyllic fantasy with Fran. She only needed to make sure this could become a reality for them. And then…

“What are you thinking of?”

The question startled Marla. She had been standing by the window, holding a new cup of coffee and this time wearing a button-up shirt from the brunette’s closet. Speaking of which, the owner of the shirt was laying on the bed, studying her with sweet, passionate, and frighteningly clever brown eyes.

“Too much shit,” Marla shrugged.

“Care to share?”

“It might be a turn off,” Marla raised an eyebrow. She was deflecting, they both knew it. But Fran looked equally amused and patient. “Are you sure,” Marla asked with a huff, “you don’t want me to leave already?”

“Marla,” Fran looked at her, her eyes were sincere, but she knew how to treat Marla like a lioness, with respect not to scare her away, but with affection to earn her trust. So her next words were carefully playful. “I’ll kick you out whenever I want. But, if you have nowhere else to be, I still have plans that involve getting you on this bed.”

The two of them exchange a smile. There was no need to say more at the moment. As long as the two of them wanted to be together, there was no need to pretend. It was an unexpected but pleasant feeling of belonging at someone else’s side without any sort of pressure to be someone they weren’t.

“I need a job,” Marla blurted out. Well, it was difficult for Marla Grayson to simply blurt out something. There weren't any accidents in her vocabulary. As she continued to speak, it was clear the words had been growing into a calculated speech over time. “I hate jobs though. That’s why I started my own business.”

During the pause, Fran tilted her head. “Are you broke?” she asked.

“I’ve always been,” she scoffed. “Poor, technically. It’s not my thing though. So, I fight back. Whatever it takes. I just need to find… something new. A new business. New plan.”

Fran nodded. “If it’s any help,” she added, “let me remind you I quit my job.”

There was a totally unexpected mixture of pride and guilt inside Marla upon hearing that. Fran had been counting on the money from their win at court, and that had failed. Still, she’d quit that awful job.

“What about the private investigator, bounty hunter gig?” Marla wondered.

“What? Are you worried I’ll track you down if you left any traces last night?”

Marla shook her head fondly. She left her coffee cup on the dresser and walked over to the bed. Then she leaned in and kissed Fran. her hand landing on her jaw and holding her close. However, after a few more seconds of it, it was Fran who pulled back.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly. She was able to tell the other woman was not into it as she’d been since the previous night.

“Yes, absolutely. Sorry,” Marla shook her head again and took a seat on the bed in front of Fran. “Just… ideas.”

Not problems. Ideas. That had to be one of the best things about Marla. Obstacles were opportunities to come out a winner. Problems were just ways to turn things around for her benefit. That was Marla Grayson. And, for Fran, that was something mesmerizing to watch first-hand. But, why not, also something she’d kill to be a part of.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Fran replied, leaning back and getting comfortable.

“What?” Marla frowned. It was an oddity to catch her off guard, and Fran already knew she should treasure the way the blonde looked when she was honestly confused.

“You said you had ideas, right? Let’s hear ‘em,” Fran said. She was confident, and even when she saw hesitation in Marla’s face she leaned closer and added. “Come on. I encouraged you to go big at court because I seriously believed you have what it takes. I saw you last night, Marla. You are brilliant and, well, a little awful, but I… I’m into it. I want to see more of that. You know I could help you. Don’t we make a great team?”

“That’s an understatement,” Marla smiled, and it was a surprisingly sweet smile. She reached out and grabbed Fran’s hand, ready to say what they’d both been holding back for so long. “But it’s got to be more than just work, isn’t it? I mean, it is for me, Fran.”

For Fran, who found herself similarly mesmerized by Marla’s impressively cunning character as well as her rare displays of vulnerability, this was a moment that changed something in her heart forever. Of course it was about so much more than work. “I’m all in,” Fran promised. Her other hand moved lovingly to Marla’s check. “You got me.”

Afterward, Marla seemed to breathe easier and speak more confidently, if possible. It was very significant to Fran that she apparently had as much of an effect on Marla as the blonde had on her.

“Well then,” Marla cleared her throat, “how comfortable are you with… toying with the law?”

Fran chuckled. “Marla, I was in the police. Which is… admittedly worse than even you and I are. But, one thing I learned during my time there, is how not to break the law… but how to bend it to your will. And you, baby, have the strongest will I’ve ever seen.”

“Okay,” Marla nodded, her piercing blue eyes darkening. “Next, I’ll need you to tell me how you locked your mom in a care home to steal this really nice place for yourself.”

“My mom?” Fran scrunched up her face in confusion.

“I’ll explain. Just… later,” Marla sighed happily, leaning in once again to kiss Fran, this time even more earnestly than ever before.

#someone (me) is desperate for attention and writing fanfiction to cope with life #i care a lot #marla x fran #marla grayson #fran #ical #i care a lot fanfiction #my fic

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dokk-fukuro · 5 years ago

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Tea Party [Abbacchio x OC] Pt 1

A/N: mention drugs, rape mention, violence

Not much time has elapsed since the enrollment of Vittoria Marino in the Buccellati’s gang. Capo was very interested in the girl, especially in her inexhaustible sense of justice, which originated from a grim past that did not let her go even after six long years.

Her story isn’t much different from the story of hundreds of other people. In childhood, she encountered the problem of her father's drug addiction, he incurred large debts to Passione, and this was the reason for his elimination. Mother didn’t grieve for long and soon married a second time. It would seem that the family has an idyll: the husband loves his wife, gives her presents, takes her to the cafe on weekends, but he also “loves” his stepdaughter.

The stepfather, in fact, turned out to be that scumbag, allowing himself to touch the stepdaughter when Vittoria grew up. Mother didn’t know what was happening, and was firmly convinced that her second husband would never do that. And Senorita Marino became the one who sent her own daughter to prison, seeing how she was panting over her husband’s already cooling body. Toria had enough time to think about the injustice of the world, the impunity of people like her stepfather, and Marino decided: she would try to restore order in Naples on her own. This did not go without the attention Buccellati’s gang, because Vita was taken under the wing of Bruno.

Marino was not perceived by anyone as a feminine figure in a gang. She herself did not give anyone a reason to think about herself in a similar vein. Her way of life and her activities didn’t come into contact with all the “female gadgets”, so there were no people who wanted to spend the rest of their days with her. She is a mafioso, she is a killer, no tenderness and no “romantic snot”. Toria is prudent, intelligent, caring for her Squadra and always thinks critically. Perhaps she rushes from one extreme to another, but most often it plays into her hands. During her stay in Buccellati’s gang, she took leaps and bounds to get everyone... Except Leone. No matter how many conversations Bruno had with these two, how many times she tried to talk normally with Abbacchio, nothing came of it. Inside, everything literally began to boil; it can’t go on like this.

The girl more than once saw the strange looks that Leone threw at her, but preferred to pretend that there was nothing special in all of this. He is a strange man in his own right, rather somber, trying to show with all his appearance that he doesn’t care at all, except for the affairs that Buccellati entrusts him with, one look more, one less, this will not change anything.

Deep night put the headquarters in a dream. Couldn’t sleep only Toria, Abbacchio and Buccellati. The girl thought for a long time about how to improve the state of affairs between her and the white-haired man. Not only for herself, but for Bruno, she respected him, although she didn’t fully understand why she was to become their colleague. The time was late, Toria didn’t want to sleep at all, so she was decided to drink tea.

“Tea ... Idea! it should work,” a dim little light of hope lit up in cold gray eyes, Toria left her room and moved towards the kitchen, stopping in front of the door to Abbacchio’s office. A quiet knock on the door. Vittoria, despite her crazy idea in her head, didn’t fully understand why, for no reason, she decided to offer him a cup of tea with her. Given his attitude towards her, it was just right to ignore Leone, communicating with him only at the time of completing tasks. Communication with him didn’t go smoothly from the very first day, when the girl just passed the test, having received a Stand.

The silence of Abbacchio's office was cut by the subtle notes of mysterious songs coming from the headphones peacefully lying on the broad shoulders. Leone honestly tried to work. He honestly tried to think about how to kill a small gang of drug dealers beautifully and without unnecessary cries. It was a very responsible task, at least - due to the fact that such groups have a bad effect on the lives of civilians, at most - this task was entrusted to Bruno, to whom Leone had a strong sense of respect. But respect almost cracked when a new member appeared in the gang. A girl with a bitchy character (and not that Abbacchio did not consider his character as such).

A new member of the gang, a new comrade didn’t receive the confidence of the former policeman at all. Her arrogant disposition was not combined with Leone's bitch character at all, so nothing more than anger and discontent Vittoria Marino didn’t cause. However, there was something in her cold eyes that made it clear that she came here not to play the mafia, as Giovanna did, Toria came to act. At least Abbacchio wanted to think so. He wanted to think so in order to come up with a reason for Bucellati to take someone else under his cover.

Someone else who, by her very appearance, could put out the flames of malice inside Leone... or, conversely, add fuel to a fire and make his heart beat against his chest, when nothing more than discontent loomed on his face. He fell in love? Abbacchio rejected these pitiful feelings from himself when he just joined the gang. But there was something about lady Marino, and that made him frown.

“Open” he said at a sudden knock on the door. But the unexpected guest didn’t want to rush to the door.

“Shy little” thought Leone, eloquently rolling his blue eyes and rising from his workplace. Headphones remained at the table, and the man, rubbing his temples, opened the door wide. And what was his surprise to meet the reason for his unusual soaring in the clouds. Abbacchio raised his eyebrows significantly, twisted his lips painted in black lipstick in a subtle, but very nasty grin.

“Marino,” he says in a sign of reluctant greeting, “what brought you so late?”

Seeing him in front of her was quite unnerving, because Marino retreated half a step back so that the distance allowed her to feel comfortable. The girl folded her arms over her chest and tried to give her face the most relaxed expression. Vita looked at Abbacchio.

“I decided to invite you to drink a cup of tea with me,” she rapped out, her voice was even, without nervousness or sarcasm. Vittoria really felt that if all their interaction with each other will limited to “We have a task, so we work together, and after that you can send me to hell,” then nothing good will come of it. As a result of simple inferences, the only possible option was precisely when there would be no prying ears. “But, if you don't want to keep me company, then all right.”

Marino grunted, averting her gray eyes, making it clear that she wasn’t calling Leone for anything, and giving him the right to choose whether to agree or not. The girl felt a certain guilt about Buccellati for the fact that he, inspired by her desire to help, is faced with such an unpleasant situation that two of his comrades create. She wanted to establish contact with a man, but did not know which side to approach him in order not to aggravate the situation.

Everyone was asleep, so Vita more than once mentally yanked herself, thinking about why she did not become like the others and now stands in front of Abbacchio, offering to keep him company. Toria doesn’t like his character at all, but something else was caught in all this disgusting behavior. Something that screamed: "He’s not such an asshole as he seems," but it all shattered into fragments about what the man showed in public.

Her convictions that the “civic” feelings that people experienced that are not connected with the mafia, were strong, but something inside her kindly and mockingly whispered: “Don't lie to yourself”. It was annoying, but outwardly Marino remained calm, even managed to give sharp jokes about this. She doesn’t feel love, she simply can’t, she doesn’t need it... Or is the girl lying to herself?

“Have tea?” Leone, almost without blinking, carefully looked into the girl’s gray eyes, looked for a catch or secret meaning of such a very unexpected proposal. He glanced briefly at the clock, lonely hanging on the wall. Late hour - at such a time, Leone would be glad to drink one or another glass of dry red wine (for clarity of mind and no more!) in splendid isolation, knowing full well that no one from the gang would bother him... But cruel fate today was definitely a different opinion.

It’s not that the former policeman desperately wanted to roughly shut the door in front of Toria’s nose and to retire with himself and his thoughts soaring like a bee swarm... No, that would be extremely impolite to someone, who, despite all disagreement, decided to make contact first, so as not to irritate Bucellati with eternal skirmishes.

"Commendable," the man thought, closing the door behind him, which meant a meager agreement to lady Marino's proposal.

“I just need a break,” Abbacchio, with a faint squint, glanced briefly at her, relentlessly repeating the question in his white-haired head: “What does she need?”. No, former policeman’s soul doesn’t trust (or, more correctly, doesn’t want to trust?) with such ideas. Where is the catch? Where is the evidence that Vittoria Marino came here for a reason, to drink tea, as with her best friend? After all, it can’t be that she came here, under the door of Leone’s office, in person after he, like a schoolboy in love during an important exam, try to chased her out of his head.

#JJBA #my writing #abbacchio #leone abbacchio #abbacchio x oc

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thebuckblogimo · 5 years ago

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The Faja Essays.

May 22, 2020

We have all met people along the way who have influenced our lives. If I were to do a “top ten” of those who influenced mine, Garry Faja, my high school buddy who died last summer, would be high on the list. The son of working class parents whose father emigrated from Poland and repaired machinery at the Rouge plant, Garry went on to become the President and CEO of St. Joseph Mercy Health System. Recently, I and four or five of Garry’s friends and former healthcare profession colleagues were asked to write essays for a book about him being compiled by a friend from his grad school days at U-M. It is intended to be a keepsake for Garry’s only child. I was honored to be asked to contribute stories about Garry’s early life. Because several people who follow this space knew him well, I’ve posted the portion I wrote below:

First Impressions.

I had heard of Garry when he was an eighth-grader during the 1960-61 school year at St. Barbara’s grade school, near Schaefer and Michigan in East Dearborn. I was also in the eighth grade, attending St. Alphonsus school, just a mile or two to the north. Garry and I both had neighborhood reputations as athletes at our respective schools.

St. Al’s, however, had a much more successful CYO sports program than St. Barbara’s. We won our divisional football championship in the fall, going undefeated; we won our divisional basketball championship in the winter, going undefeated again; and we were 6 and 0 in the league in baseball that spring when we played Garry’s St. Barbara team on a sunny May afternoon at Gear Field.

That’s when--BAM--it happened: “Down go the Arrows…down go the Arrows…to Dearborn St. Barbara’s.” An old news clip from The Michigan Catholic, a popular weekly newspaper in those days, included the following snippet about CYO baseball that spring: “Dearborn St. Barbara’s came through with the upset of the week by knocking off St. Alphonsus, 11-8. St. Alphonsus still holds first place in the Southwest Division with a 6-1 mark.”

Neither Garry nor I could ever recall how either one of us performed on the field that day. We did recall, however, that we both looked forward to joining forces and playing sports together in high school. St. Barbara did not have a high school; St. Alphonsus did. Garry had long planned to enroll for his freshman year (1961-62) at St. Al’s, where his brother had been a track star, one of the top high school hurdlers in the state.

When we began high school in the fall of ‘61, I recall standing in the middle of the playground with my close friend Anthony Adams, along with Sam Bitonti and Patrick Rogers. I remember looking over to Calhoun, the side-street on which the high school was located, and noticed a small procession of cars dropping off new students from St. Barbara’s: twins Jim and Mike Keller, Sue Hudzik, Margo Tellish (Garry’s grade school girlfriend) and the “big fella” himself.

At the urging of Garry’s mother, Jim, Mike and Garry wore white shirts to school that day. “The boys” and I, on the other hand, wore multi-colored shirts (mine was purple), skinny ties, tight pants and pointed shoes. Looking like “the Sharks” from West Side Story, we approached the new kids, welcomed them to St. Al’s and shook their hands.

I’ve long thought that the way we were each dressed that day—Garry in his white button-down, me in my bold attire—portended the essence of what we would ultimately take away from each other at the completion of high school: for me, a determination to go about things the right way; for him, a touch of edginess.

The Person. The Scholar. The Athlete.

I never knew anyone who didn’t like Garry Faja. Unless, that is, you count a hulking bruiser by the name of “Bucyk” from Ashtabula, who elbowed our buddy Tony Adams in the chest and tried to intimidate us on the street at Geneva-on-the-Lake, Ohio. (Thank God we talked our way out of that one.) Otherwise, all the guys, girls, parents, nuns and coaches of the St. Al’s community loved Garry. He commanded respect on every level—for his heart, his intelligence, his athletic prowess.

Garry was a born leader. Despite being the “new guy,” he made such a good early impression in high school that he was elected president of the freshman class. He was a member of the student council all four years. And he was elected president of our senior class.

Garry was an excellent student, a member of the National Honor Society. He was neither class valedictorian--that was Lorraine Denby--nor the salutatorian--that was my girlfriend, Leslie Klein—but he had an extraordinary ability to “figure things out,” enabling him to excel at algebra, trigonometry, chemistry, the sciences. Moreover, he was highly disciplined. He had what our parents called “stick-to-it-tive-ness,” and it served him well at everything he did.

Garry was an organizer, a strategic thinker, who rallied for increased student attendance and crowd participation at high school games, involvement in a big-brother/big-sister-type mentoring program by seniors for freshmen, as well as causes he believed in. For example, it was Garry, with support from senior class leaders such as Larry Fitch, Vince Capizzo, Tony Adams and myself who compiled a list of “Ten Demands” that were presented to the school principal, Sister Marie Ruth, on behalf of the Class of ’65. It was, essentially, a protest against what we perceived to be unreasonable rules and disciplinary actions created by the priests and nuns of St. Alphonsus: single-file lines and “no talking” during change of class; locked school doors on sub-zero mornings during winter; mandatory daily Mass attendance, etc.

It was a daring, out-of-the box challenge to religious authority for a bunch of Catholic high school kids in those days. Predictably, our demands went nowhere and we were disciplined by having to stay inside the school for two weeks during recess, and, ironically, forbidden to attend daily Mass for two weeks. (The nuns showed us, I guess.)

Sometimes I wonder whether our youthful backlash, with Garry at the forefront, was an early tip-off to the kind of student thinking that morphed into the free-speech movement and anti-war protests that developed on college campuses across the country a year or two later.

As highly as Garry is remembered as a person and leader by St. Al’s Class of ’65, he is recalled by “old Arrows” for his basketball playing ability. He was a starter on the JV squad from day one of his freshman year. However, it took just a few weeks for the coaches to realize that he was talented enough to help the varsity. In Coach Dave Kline’s last year at St. Alphonsus, Garry was moved up to the varsity where he became “sixth man,” before being designated a starter at mid-season. That was big stuff, really big stuff, for a freshman at our school.

So what kind of player was Garry?

A mini-version of former U-M standout Terry Mills, in my estimation. He was a shade under 6’2” tall…thick-skinned…had a nice 15-foot jump shot…and an ability to use his derriere to “get position” under the basket. Any former St. Al’s player would tell you that Garry had game and a distinctive way of gliding up and down the court. For some reason, he also suffered severely sprained ankles more often than any other young athlete I have ever known.

Garry and I were starters together for three years under Coach Ron Mrozinski and were elected co-captains as seniors. Garry once said, “Lenny, we gotta be the team’s one-two punch.” I had speed and quickness, often stealing the ball at mid-court, and would dump it off to Garry who could be counted on to fill the lane. If he came up with the ball after the other team turned it over, I was to beat my man and streak toward the basket, expecting to receive the ball from Garry. We pulled that stuff off dozens of times each year. But we never realized our dream of winning the Catholic League’s A-West Division title and competing in the Catholic League tournament at the U-D Memorial Building (now called Calihan Hall).

However, Garry was named to the Dearborn Independent’s all-city basketball team after his senior season in 1965, a particularly special honor when you consider that St. Al’s had an enrollment of just 450 students, while most other first-teamers and “honorable mentions” on the all-city squad came from Class A schools with enrollments approaching 2,000 (Fordson, Dearborn High and Edsel Ford).

Happy Days at Camp Dearborn.

It was prime time for Dearborn during the early-to-mid ‘60s. The city had idyllic neighborhoods, spilling over with kids from the baby boom generation. The Ford Rouge plant was pumping out record numbers of vehicles, including an all-new “pony car” called the Mustang. And it owned Camp Dearborn (in Milford, 30-35 miles away), over 600 acres of rolling land with several man-made lakes, devoted to the recreational interests of Dearborn residents.

One of Camp Dearborn’s attractions was a narrow tract of land along the Huron River, designated for tent camping by teenagers. Dubbed “Hobo Village,” it was “chaperoned”—if you want to call it that--by a couple of disinterested college kids who worked day jobs, cleaning up the camp, and who lived in their own tent on the river. As 15-year-olds in the summer of ’62, Garry and I got our first taste of independence when we camped there together for a week.

We set up a large tent, with two cots inside, that my Dad had purchased at a garage sale. We hung a Washington Senators pennant to decorate its interior. And we subsisted on Spam and eggs that we cooked in a Sunbeam electric fry pan (we had access to electricity) that my Mom let us borrow.

Every evening we’d cross the camp on foot en route to the Canteen for the nightly dances. We’d get “pumped” every time we heard “Do You Love Me” by the Contours playing in the distance. Our goal, of course, was to meet “chicks,” and we attended the dances for seven straight nights. However, I don’t recall that we ever met a girl. Or even mustered the courage to ask one to dance.

But that all changed in the summer of ’63.

Camp Dearborn had another, larger camping area for families called “Tent Village,” featuring hundreds of tents built of canvas and wood, set on slabs of concrete, each equipped with a shed-like structure that housed a mini refrigerator, mini stove and shelves for storing staples. The mother of our classmate, Patty O’Reilly, agreed to chaperone a tent full of St. Al’s girls, next to the O’Reilly family tent, while Tony’s mother, Mrs. Adams, agreed to chaperone a tent full of boys, next to the Adams family tent.

Tony, Vince Capizzo, Larry Fitch, Dennis Belmont, Garry and I occupied one tent. Our girlfriends occupied the other. Much to my amazement, my parents allowed me to take their new, 1963 Pontiac Bonneville coupe to camp for the week. So we had everything we needed—hot chicks, a hot car, rock ‘n’ roll, the dances and secret “make out” spots in the camp (Garry’s girlfriend at the time was a cute blonde St. Al’s cheerleader, Donna Hutson). It all made for perhaps the happiest days of our teenage lives.

And we did it all over again in the summer of ’64.

During both years we were involved in shenanigans galore: We threw grape “Fizzies” into the camp’s swimming pool…we switched out a hamburger from Vince’s hamburger bun and replaced it with a Gainsburger (dog food)…and one afternoon we took my Dad’s Bonneville out to a lonely, two-lane country road, just outside of General Motors’ proving grounds in Milford, where we floored the accelerator and topped out somewhere north of 100 mph. It scared the shit out of us when we hit a bird in mid-flight that splattered all over the windshield. Thank God for laminated safety glass. Thank God we lived to tell the tale.

Which brings me to the “edgy” side of the teenage Garry Faja.

Stupid Stuff We Did.

When Garry came to St. Al’s, my circle of friends became his circle of friends. And an eclectic group it was. Some were college bound kids. Some were mischievous pranksters. A few were borderline juvenile delinquents. None of us, including Garry, were immune to peer pressure. Consequently, we did some pretty stupid things. Here are a few examples:

The Toledo Caper--On a snowy Friday night after a basketball game during our sophomore year in high school, Garry, Jim “Bo” Bozynski and I trudged down Warren Avenue in our letter jackets, headed for Bo’s house, with the intention of ordering a pizza.

It was, perhaps, ten o’clock at night as we crossed the field in front of Bo’s home on Manor in five-inch-deep snow. As we looked ahead, Bo surmised that because the house looked dark, his parents were already in bed and likely asleep. That’s when he hatched a plan:

Bo proposed to enter the back door of his house, go to the kitchen and retrieve the keys to the Bozynski’s ’58 Mercury sedan. Then, he, Garry and I would quietly open the garage door, push the Merc down the snow-covered driveway and out to the street, where we would start the car…and head for Toledo.

Neither Garry nor I objected to the idea. Ultimately, the plan worked to perfection.

However, we were just 15 years old and had not yet obtained our driver’s licenses. Plus, Bo grabbed a bottle of Bali Hai wine that he had stashed in the garage. And, the snow kept falling…then turned to rain. We drove through slop and glop on Telegraph Road, made it to I-75 and took turns at the wheel between gulps of cheap wine as the windshield wipers labored to clear the mounting sleet piling up on the windshield.

I was sitting in the back seat, the bottle of Bali at my side, when the car slid out of control in the middle of the southbound freeway, somewhere in the downriver area. I don’t recall whether it was Bo or Garry who was driving at the time. But I do recall that the car made a 360, sliding across two lanes of freeway, before coming to an abrupt stop in a snow bank on the side of the road.

We got out of the car. No one had hit us. Miraculously, we had not hit anyone or anything. There was no damage to the Bozynski’s family car. That’s when three stupid teenagers got back into the vehicle, reversed course, headed for Dearborn, killed the engine as we turned into the Bozynski’s driveway, silently pushed the Merc back into the garage, and turned in for the night at Bo’s.

No one was ever the wiser.

The Speeding Ticket—Both Garry’s parents and mine were strict disciplinarians when it came to girls and dating, but they rarely said no whenever we asked to borrow the car. We had already turned 16 when on a beautiful June day we took a bus downtown, filled out some paperwork (or maybe took a test) and obtained our drivers’ licenses. My Dad used his old ’58 Chrysler to get to work that day and let me have the Bonneville for our use when I got home. So, Garry, Larry and I jumped in the car and headed to Rouge Park for some joy riding. As usual, we disconnected the speedometer and took the “breather” off the carb so that the exhaust would make a throatier sound when we put the pedal to the medal. When we got to the park, I turned the wheel over to Garry. It was not as though he ordinarily had a heavy foot, but he did that day. I doubt that Garry was at the wheel for more than a few minutes when he spotted the red flasher of a Detroit cop car in the rear-view mirror. We pulled over. The policeman was all business…and gave Garry a ticket for speeding. Garry’s parents were furious that afternoon when he got home and explained what had happened. Garry went to court and lost his license for 30 days.

The Stolen Cadillac--It was a beautiful summer evening and we were playing our usual game of pick-up basketball in the alley between Tony’s house and Schaefer Lanes. As I recall, four of us were just shooting around—Garry, Tony, Butch Forystek and me. Someone looked up and noticed that a 1963 Cadillac Coupe de Ville had turned off the side-street, Morross, and was slowly making its way up the alley. It stopped in front of us. Our pals, Joe McCracken and Gary “the Bear” Pearson, jumped out of the car. Turns out that the Caddy had been parked in front of a store, with the keys in the ignition. Joe and Bear got in, fired up the Caddy, and drove it to Tony’s. Then we all got in, took turns driving the car, and went to M&H gas station to buy Coke and chips. For reasons unknown, Joe and Bear unlocked the trunk of the car. Underneath the rear deck lid were piles of pressed clothes on hangers in plastic bags, apparently for delivery by someone who owned a dry-cleaning establishment. Also, there was a narrow envelope atop the pile of clothes. Someone opened it. Much to our amazement it contained over $200 in cash. We all got back into the car and headed for a cruise down Woodward Avenue. We stopped along the way at a sporting goods store to buy a new basketball. On northbound Woodward, as it passes over Eight Mile Road in Detroit, Butch grabbed a handful of cash and threw it out the window. (It seemed hilarious at the time.) Garry and I each took a five-dollar bill, reasoning that keeping such a paltry sum would not be considered a “mortal sin.” After taking turns doing “neutral slams” at red lights, we turned the car around, headed back to Tony’s, and continued playing basketball while Joe and the Bear ditched the car.

Again, no one was ever the wiser.

The Shotgun Incident—It was a crisp fall afternoon. Garry and I were hanging out with Tony in his parents’ basement, while Mr. and Mrs. Adams were away, attending some sort of event. Tony knew where Mr. Adams, a bird hunter, stored his shotgun, and proceeded to take it out to show us. There were also a few boxes of shells next to the gun. Tony informed us that his Dad owned a large piece of vacant property in an area that was known as Canton Township at the time. Knowing that his folks would not be home for several hours, we took the shotgun, a box of shells and placed it in the trunk of Mrs. Adams’ Ford Falcon. Off we went to the property in Canton. To hunt sparrows. Tony had seen his father load the gun. Otherwise, none of us had ever had any training in the proper handling of firearms. We knew enough to stand behind the guy with the shotgun in his hands. We took turns shooting into the trees. And bagged a couple of small birds. We eventually returned to Tony’s and put the shotgun away.

Yet again, no one was ever the wiser.

How The 53-Game Streak Started.

Most people know that Garry and I attended 53 straight Michigan-Michigan State football games together—whether in Ann Arbor or East Lansing—from 1965 to 2017. In fact, when the streak ended, we had been in-stadium for 48 percent of the Michigan-Michigan State games ever played.

Prior to the 2018 game, however, Garry determined that he would not be able to negotiate the steep ramps to the second deck of Spartan Stadium due to his failing knees. So, for the first time in our lives—since the days of black and white TV--we watched the game together on the tube. Here is the seemingly unremarkable way a renowned tradition began…plus a closing thought:

As I remember it, Tony Adams, Garry and I were sitting in my bedroom on a hot, steamy, mid-August afternoon, making future plans as we counted down the days to the beginning of our respective college careers. Tony would be going off to Western Michigan University as a business major. Garry would be attending U-M, majoring in engineering. While I planned to attend MSU to study journalism.

We had been athletes. Competitors to the core. Garry and I knew that our respective schools would rarely, if ever, be playing Western, but we certainly understood that he and I would be butting heads in the future, pulling for opposing teams in the Big Ten Conference every year. So, in a spirit of friendship, we mutually decided to get together every fall to attend the Michigan-Michigan State football game until one of us died.

It was as simple as that.

But when I think back to that muggy August afternoon when we made our pact, it seems a metaphor for all the goals, hopes and dreams we so often talked about between the games, joy rides, dances, pranks, parties and school projects we collaborated on at St. Al’s from 1961 to 1965. I often think, for example, about how Garry and I worked alternate days at my uncle’s store, from the spring of our junior year until the fall of our senior year, and shared tips and insights into how we each did our jobs—long before anyone ever used the term “best practices”--so that we could be the best damn stock boys my uncle ever had. As I hinted earlier, I will always be grateful to Garry for making a lasting contribution to my determination to do things the right way in life. And I’d like to think that Garry thought well of my tendency to “push the envelope” on the things I attempted, and that maybe I made a contribution to the release of his creative potential.

Miss you, Big Guy.

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diaboliique · 6 years ago

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Here they were once again, only under very different circumstances. This was the wedding they were supposed to have, with family and friends surrounding them, with no worries about going into labor or feeling uncomfortable in a wedding gown, lavish and so very much them. Of course, life always had a funny way of making things happen not quite the way you want it to, and now here they were, almost 5 months into their marriage, finally having the formal ceremony and reception. The legals were done in Indianapolis City Hall with only Lux for a witness, but Coryn and Max knew that they’d never hear the end of it if they didn’t have a ‘formal religious’ ceremony, especially from his mother. It took a month or two of hurried planning and some, frankly, overpriced invoices from florists and caterers, but they’d managed to pull off something that spoke to who they both were, while making the extended families happy… or at least Coryn hoped.

She’d managed to learn a little bit about Jewish wedding ceremonies in her time reading up on the faith during the early stages of her pregnancy; having chosen to raise Chloé in the faith opened her eyes to so many things she hadn’t ever considered, but she did find a few bits of tradition that spoke to her, and she’d be ok with letting them happen, but made it abundantly clear to her very-liberal yet very-Catholic grandmother that, no, it’s not just a Jewish wedding. There’d be a brief mention of some vaguely Pagan traditions (she’d given up protesting a while ago that she didn’t identify as Pagan, no one really listened to her anyhow, and there was no way she was having a Catholic wedding since the only non-lapsed Catholic in the family was her Nina.) It was a good mix of their lives, their stories, and the household they now had.

What made it all easier was the ceremony being held at their home in Long Island. The massive chunk of land they lived on, conveniently near the shore, was an idyllic setting for a party the night of the summer solstice, and Coryn had basically begged people to come stay before because of all it tended to get rather echoing and lonely when Max would be away. Now, it echoed less with loneliness and instead, the rather boisterous chatter of family, friends, and coworkers as they made their way to their seats, the ceremony almost ready to begin.

For the second time, Max wasn’t nervous. He was more amused than anything, watching his cousins, friends, colleagues completely shocked with how well he was taking everything. Jokes about how this was his second marriage floated around and he laughed along before giving them a pointed look when they joked about there possibly being a third. No, this was it. She was it. Nothing could pull him away from her.

His closest...friend, more of a father than anything, Ethan was just as calm as him. Although Max was the first to get married, Ethan was the first to go through this entire actual wedding day. And every so often Max found himself looking to the older man for some indication that he was doing things right. It was more of a calming reassurance than anything.

Even though they were in the same building, he knew his mother and the rest of Coryn’s party would throw a riot if he tried to make his way over to where she was to see Chloé. He settled on agreeing to a Facetime call, pulling away from the rest of his group to talk to his daughter. Although he knew that Coryn was the one for him before Chlo came along, she was the force that pulled them together sooner. He didn’t keep her long, just enough to get in a few words that she only made noises in response to. After the call, he was more than ready to meet his wife at the altar.

Coryn and Max’s mothers made a scene of getting Coryn out of the way, while Chloé babbled away at the phone screen that was displaying Max’s face, despite her protesting that ‘obviously he’s seen me, we’re already married!!’ It was of no use though, and after being hurried away, a few final details (a family heirloom pearl necklace, some last few flowers braided into her hair, small little tokens of protection tucked into her bouquet) were completed before it was time. Finally, everyone had gotten themselves seated, and the ceremony could begin.

Brushing at the sleeves of her gown, she waited for the cue from one of the event planners she’d hired before making her way down the aisle. It felt like something from a movie, the sight of family and friends crowded together, an aisle covered with fabric and flower petals, and at the end, an ornately decorated chuppah covered in boldly colored flowers… with her husband standing beneath it. No nerves were in her body, instead it felt like the butterflies on her dress were in her stomach, fluttering about, making her want nothing more than to laugh at it all.

They’d chosen the Summer Solstice ‘because it seems witchy,’ as Max had put it, and here now, at nightfall, with the sun setting over the waves, the twinkling of fairy lights in the distance of the trees in their yard, it really did seem magical. It landing on a Friday night, a day not only deemed a day of love in most witchcraft traditions, but also the start of the Shabbos in Judaism… it just all worked out. That was how their life had always seemed to be… just falling into place, everything at the right time, even when it seemed like it was almost impossible circumstances.

Coryn was broken from her thoughts at the happy gurgling of Chloé from where her mother sat with her, and as she stood at the altar, handing her bouquet to Dinah, she waved at her daughter, who was much more preoccupied trying to gnaw off one of the nubs on her teething toy.

She was some sort of dream demon. That had to be it. There was no other way Max could explain the magic that she seemed to put on him whenever he laid eyes on her. But especially not in that moment. Everything, from the flowers on her dress to the matching ones in her hair, made him smile. Of course, it was perfect for her. A perfect compliment to her timeless beauty.

So there he stood, smiling like a big dumb idiot as she walked towards him. For the rest of his life he would deny it, but it was obvious that he brought the back of his hand up to wipe at his eyes in a flash. (Ethan definitely got it on camera.)

There was no need to put on a front at that time. No need to hold back the emotions, the love in his eyes, as he stood across from her, his hand reaching forward to brush against hers before lacing their fingers together.

The justice of the peace nodded at them both, before starting off the ceremony.

“We’re gathered here today to celebrate the love and union of Coryn and Maxwell. Although already legally bound in marriage, we are here to celebrate before family and friends, ancestors, spirits, and the Divine, to bind them together in a union that surpasses the laws of man.

“In the culture of the Jewish people, wine… or in this case, grape juice, is the symbol of happiness. Although you are two distinct persons, both respecting the dignity of the other, you have chosen to unite your lives and to seek your happiness together. Your individual joy will be all the greater because it is shared. Your individual fulfillment will be all the stronger because it rests in the fulfillment of the other. Take this goblet and drink as an affirmation of your hope for the future, a future that welcomes your dreams and makes them real.

“Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha-Olam, boreh p’ri ha-gafen. Blessed are You, Eternal One our God, Ruler of the Universe, Creator of the fruit of the vine. Ashray hehatan v’hakalla sheyimtzoo ahava b’nee-soo-een. Happy are the groom and bride who find love in marriage.”

The few chuckles at the correction from wine to grape juice made even Coryn break, knowing that her not drinking was something she was worried about while looking into a traditional wedding ceremony, but after being handed the tiny silver goblet, she took a small sip, the sweetness of it seemingly waking her from the odd trance she’d already found herself in from the ritual of it all.

At first Max had worried that Coryn would feel overwhelmed by the traditions his faith brought, but he was happy to see she took it all in stride. When a droplet of grape juice escaped the corner of her mouth, he brought his hand up to wipe it away with his thumb and momentarily cradle her face in his hand. Then it was his turn and downed the rest of liquid, not wanting to waste a single drop of symbolic happiness.

Next, a multicolored braided cord was held in the justice’s hands, as she continued on.

“Next, in lieu of a ring ceremony, the couple have opted to do a handfasting ceremony. This cord will be tied around their clasped hands, to symbolize their unity.

“Like the element of earth, may you support one another, provide stability when the other finds themselves faltering, and help nurture each other to grow. Like the element of air, may you lift each others spirits, and act with wisdom in all the choices you make. Like the element of fire, may you love passionately, and become a beacon of light when the other finds themselves in the dark. Like the element of water, may your feelings flow freely and deeply, so you are never left wondering. By the earth below, and the stars above, let all that you do be done in perfect trust and perfect love.”

With a gentle squeeze at Max’s hands, Coryn watched as the cords were loosely wrapped around their clasped hands, before being knotted three times. She gave a quick glance over to her cousins who responded with thumbs up, clearly appreciating the nod to their shared love for all things witchy.

Max couldn’t help but throw in a little wink when fire and passion was mentioned, alluding to their instant chemistry. And he had to bite his tongue back when the word “deeply” was thrown out, knowing he would never hear the end of it from anyone if he chose that moment to make a lewd comment. He was lucky she was already in love with him, he thought to himself. Otherwise she had a long road ahead of her.

“And finally… the part everyone knows. The breaking of the glass. There are multiple interpretations of this tradition. Some say it is to recall the destruction of the temple at Jerusalem, a reminder that even in our most joyous occasions, we must remember the painful history of our ancestors that led us to this moment. Some say that it is to act as a reminder that relationships are fragile, that one wrong move can shatter it to pieces, and while it may be recovered, it can never be put back together again the way it was before. Go now into your marriage with this knowledge, and these blessings.”

Someone had been foolish enough to let Max pick what to break and for a good moment he had debated framing a picture of Coryn’s ex or father and going to town on the glass. But someone wise reminded him that the day was about their love, not about any petty arguments. So he opted instead for a glass bottle, filled halfway with black glitter. Biodegradable of course, because he’d never hear the end of it from Coryn or his sisters about polluting the Earth, all for a reference to Cor’s love of all things spooky and beautiful.

At the sound of the glass popping beneath Max’s foot, his entire side of the guests, and even some of Cor’s, shouted Mazel Tov! The justice of the peace could barely get the words out before Cor felt Max grab her, bringing her in for a deep kiss, her body feeling warm, full of magic, and happiness, and love.

( @betterthanyoulosers )

#friedmanweddingcoc #long post #( writing. )#// we gdoc'd it so y'all can just jump into partying #// thank you to dave for letting us move ethan #// and to alia for letting me use dinah for a second <3

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