Track No. 11 Why Do Fools Fall In Love
FRANKIE LYMON, THE TEENAGERS
// ANDREW - THE HARDINGS - UNION CITY, NJ //
Cue Sundays at the Hardings—
Gravy simmerin’ on the stove, whole house smellin’ like garlic and onion, and the record player spinnin’ some doo-wop shit—“Earth Angel” and “Come Go with Me.” Moms danced through the living room, feet bare, hair tied up in bandanas.
And there was Andrew at the dining table, seven years old, school uniform still buttoned up like he worked the dinner shift, crayons scattered everywhere as he scribbled up menus, misspellin’ the whole damn thing.
He’d say, ‘Welcome to Where My Moms Eat’ as they sat down, water in wine glasses, napkins folded fancy.
He’d speak the specials with a grown-up voice and a hand on his heart.
‘Tonight’s meatballs come with a side’a class,’ he’d say.
They laughed, clapped, and kissed his forehead.
After dinner service, he’d pull out this busted little guitar Uncle John scored for ten bucks at some pawnshop off Kennedy. The strings buzzed, half the frets fucked, but it sang anyway, and so did he.
His go-to was “Why Do Fools Fall in Love” ‘cause a thirteen-year-old wrote it. He never understood how some kid already knew heartbreak, but people were still singin’ it seventy years later.
Maybe the kid knew more than most men ever would. That’s when he learned: Kids love to give, and grown-ups love to get.
Then later, when his moms crashed early, he didn’t stop. He’d roll cream cheese into salami slices, lay ‘em out on paper plates with crackers, and knock on their door. ‘Room service, ma’ams,’ like he was workin’ at the fuckin’ Waldorf.
And they’d sit in bed laughin’, mouthin’ ‘this fuckin’ kid,’ eatin’ up every bite, every word, sayin’ he was the cutest ma?tre d’ in the tri-state.
That was the happy part.
He didn’t know what the opposite of happy was yet.
He only knew his moms smiled when he served ‘em dinner, when he sang, when he pretended to be someone else, so he kept doin’ it.
They’d bought the house on Catalano that year. Their first one.
Half the outlets were shot and the roof leaked, but it had a stoop. And if he leaned out the bathroom window just right, he could see the city skyline.
He didn’t know they were broke. All he knew was that if the heater gave out, he built caves out of the couch cushions and burrito-wrapped in a blanket.
If the lights went out, he’d deal poker in the dark with flashlights.
If the stove died, he called it picnic night and made Nutella and ricotta on Italian bread, dusted with powdered sugar or a drizzle of honey, then passed them out wrapped in napkins.
He didn’t know he was turnin’ broke into magic, make-do into make-believe.
He was the center of it even then, makin’ ‘em smile. But it was the times they didn’t smile that stuck with him.
His ninth birthday—July ninth, hot as balls—they asked what he wanted, and he told ‘em, Jordan 4 White Cements.
He spotted ‘em once in the window of Urban Wear.
All white leather, speckled grey like street gravel.
He even sketched ‘em on notebook paper and wrote the name across the top so they didn’t get the wrong ones.
They weren’t just sneakers. In Jersey, Jordans were royalty, status, a sense of belonging.
You didn’t matter unless you had a gold chain around your neck and Js on your feet.
The older boys wore both like armor. They shined their chains, laced their shoes.
Js on their soles, swagger in their bones, walkin’ with chins high, a boss stride, ownin’ the fuckin’ block.
Meanwhile, Andrew got roasted daily.
He was the soft Catholic kid with gay moms. Italian, Union City, never quite right in any room.
The church side-eyed him during communion, the priest skipped him for altar duty, and his grandpa wouldn’t even say Ma’s name. He called her that woman and looked at Andrew as the mistake wearin’ his last name.
He knew he’d never get the chain—ain’t got a pop to pass it down.
But those retro kicks could silence the jokes and slurs faster than fists.
The back-of-the-bus crowd knew what shoes you wore, and he told everyone he was gettin’ ‘em. Even told his boy he’d have ‘em before school started—Jordan 4s White Cements, the real deal.
Then on his birthday, his moms took him downtown to Payless and pointed out some knockoffs, sayin’, “Andrew, these are the one’s they’re all wearin’. Looks just like the Uptowns. Just don’t got the check or say Nike on the back.”
After they left Payless, she even held ‘em up in front of the Urban Wear window on the way to the car to show him hers were better. He didn’t argue or throw a fit.
But a light went out in him as he stood there starin’ at his reflection in the storefront window.
He wasn’t mad at her. He was mad at himself, feelin’ real stupid for gettin’ his hopes up, and for tellin’ people.
Walkin’ around in knockoff Js? No one survives that embarrassment. So Andrew felt guilty for not even wantin’ to wear ‘em, makin’ up some excuses about it: he didn’t wanna dirty ‘em up, he didn’t want his boy gettin’ jealous, they weren’t school-wearin’ shoes, they were weekend shoes.
The house went weird for a whole week after that.
Momma snapped at him in the kitchen. “A shoe, Andrew? You gettin’ sad over a shoe? Look at you, makin’ Ma all upset with that dark-ass cloud hangin’ over you through the house. Shit you want costs money.”
Aight. Lesson learned.
Sadness wasn’t only his anymore. It hurt the people he loved, too.
And every time he wanted somethin’, someone else had to lose somethin’.
So that was the first and last time he ever asked for anything.
By twelve, Andrew became the peacekeeper, the buffer, the middleman.
When his moms got into it, they stopped talkin’ to each other and talked through him instead—same room, three feet apart, usin’ him like a walkie-talkie. He hated that shit. A couple times, he called a family meeting and made ‘em sit on the couch.
It never went how he wanted. One would snap at him. The other would snap for snappin’ at him. Then they were back at it, louder than before, not even noticin’ he’d left the room.
By thirteen, Andrew understood what kind of drunk each of his moms were. Momma Paola drank to kill the stress and outrun the week. Ma drank to kill the silence and forget how alone she was at night.
Momma worked doubles, then hit the bar to talk shit with strangers.
Ma stayed in—wine-stained teeth, empty eyes, cryin’ into laundry piles while listenin’ to old Motown records. When it was only the two of ‘em, and Momma was at work, it always turned into: “Amore mio… I don’t feel so good. You make me eggs?”
“Tesoro… you love me, sì? Then don’t make me do it myself.”
“Take care of your ma. You’re the man of the house.”
“Amore, you love me? Be useful and go fold the laundry.”
No matter what he did, it never felt like enough.
He was used to comin’ home from school to the smell of sambuca and the sound of nothin’. But nothin’ was better than the late night soundtrack of doors slammin’, cheatin’ fights, and Ma sobbin’ through the walls.
And when the house fell asleep, he’d do his rounds. Sometimes he’d tiptoe into their room, lay a blanket over ‘em, leave water and migraine pills on the nightstand, and says, “Room service, ma’am.”
Sometimes he’d rub their backs. Sometimes he shook ‘em.
Sometimes he was afraid to wake ‘em up.
Sometimes he was afraid they wouldn’t wake at all.
On those nights, he’d sleep on the floor next to their bed to make sure they were still breathin’, and sometimes he’d whisper, “You love me, Ma? Stop drinkin’.”
Once, the neighbor knocked, claimin’ she was worried. She hadn’t seen the lights on in a week. Then DYFS showed up on their doorstep, checked the fridge, checked the heat. Ma lied, “Non c’è problema. He’s fine. He was with zia and zio in Staten. Of course pantry’s low. He just come back.”
Andrew didn’t snitch. He nodded, wishin’ it was all true.
That night, he was at the kitchen table in the dark, tryin’ to finish homework by candlelight, in the same chair he used to color menus and host five-star dinners.
Moms were passed out. The math equation made no sense.
He tried not to get frustrated. Tried not to watch the clock.
Tried not to think about how tired he was.
Then a single tear hit the paper, right in the middle of the division sign, splittin’ the problem apart. He didn’t even know he was cryin’. He scanned the dark house, makin’ sure no one was standin’ there watchin’, and wiped it away fast, erased the whole problem, started over again.
By fourteen, he didn’t have a permit, but he still drove to the bars anyway, pickin’ up Momma after last call. She’d fight him sometimes, didn’t wanna leave. He’d have to drag her out and hold her up while she cursed out the curb, then hold her hair back when her puke splashed across it.
He understood by then:
Kids learned to give love, and adults learned how to live without it.
By sixteen, Momma landed two months in county for her third DWI.
She lied to him, sayin’ she’d be at Grandpa’s for a bit, in Staten, like it was a vacation. Told him not to burn the gravy, then she kissed his cheek the way she did when he was seven, when he was still dumb enough to believe it.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t say goodbye.
He didn’t really talk much at all after that.
So when Roger texted—“Come through for me? C’mon, bro. I only turn eighteen once.”
Andrew grabbed his jacket, didn’t think twice. Roger wasn’t school or Union City. He was ball, the league. Montclair wasn’t home and felt far enough away.
He needed to get the fuck outta Union for a night.
When he arrived in Montclair, the house looked too perfect to walk up to.
Driveway bleached white. Landscaping laid like carpet.
Hedges shaped by somebody who got paid six figures to babysit ‘em. Andrew slowed as he walked up, hands buried in his jacket, eyes grazin’ past Roger’s blacked-out Jeep sittin’ smug in the driveway.