Rita Petry-Personal Narrative

Her name was Rita Petry. I met her at a family barbecue on a warm summer’s evening in 1945 Rhode Island. My new brother-in-law, Hank, introduced her to me.
“George! Meet my friend here. Rita,” Hank said as he approached me with a bottle of beer in his hand.
She was trailing behind, and at the first glance at her red dress and beaming blue eyes, I smiled like an idiot, and immediately fell in love with her.
“Hello there,” she said with the most warming tone of voice I have ever heard.
My mouth opened, but no words came out. I could not think of what to say to her. I started moving my hands hoping to make it less awkward, but I just ended up looking like one of those sign language gorillas that knows how to ask for grapes. Rita glanced at

Hank with confusion in her eyes. Fortunately, Hank broke the silence.
“Well don’t be rude, George. Get the lady a drink,” Hank said.
“Uh, oh yeah! Of course! Come with me, Miss,” I responded, snapping out of idiocy. I slid open the back door behind me and step back to let her in the house.
Soon, after a few drinks with her, my nerves began to settle down. Then we sat on the living room couch, and we started to click into numerous conversations about each other’s lives. I told her how I was a Navy quartermaster on leave from the Pacific theater and she told me how she was an art major from Queens. She was so fascinating. Her laugh, her smile, the way she sipped her drink, everything about her was perfect. At the end of the night, I asked if we could see each other again.
“Well I’m back in town in a couple weeks. I could give you a call once I arrive,” she suggested.
“That’ll be great,” I responded. Then we both smiled at each other and we called it a night.
After what seemed like an eternity, the day finally arrived.

It was August 14, 1945 and we were taking a train to Midtown to see a showing of “A Bell for Adano.” I was so nervous, I had my Navy uniform on that I had specially tailored back in Rhode Island to make me feel more confident, but it wasn’t working all that well.
I never had good luck on dates. Once in high school, when I was sixteen, I was at a dinner with a girl and I had a plate full of this European stuff that was delicious. I was gobbling it down, and right when I thought the date was going well, I felt a slight turning in my stomach. I was letting out revolting gas leaks from my behind. I tried to play it off as if it was the woman behind me, but I am a horrible liar.
I prayed for better luck on this one. We finally arrived at the Radio City Music Hall and took our seats. During the show, I couldn’t focus. I kept glancing over at her and repositioning myself in the seat. Everything I did, I felt like she noticed, and it made me even more nervous. I went for one more big reposition, trying to be inconspicuous. Then I felt a sharp twist in the back of my thigh and I immediately clenched the arm of my chair as hard as I could.
“Geeeahh,” I whimpered, silently to

myself.
“Are you alright, George?” Rita whispered.
“I’m f-fine.” The pain was unbearable, and I couldn’t stop it without standing. I kept making noises that sounded like a whining puppy. I thought, “This is it. This is how I die.”
Then, a short chrome-dome busted through the theater doors causing a huge ruckus. I shot up from my seat and felt a great relief and gratefulness for the short man. The lights came on and the show was stopped. He caught everyone’s attention and announced, “The war is over! The Japanese have surrendered!”
Everyone in the theater let out a resounding cheer and flooded out back doors.

Rita took my hand without saying anything, followed the joyous crowd, and rushed to Childs Bar just a few blocks away. My heart was racing with excitement; I couldn’t hold back a smile if I tried. The bartender lined up glasses down the bar and just kept on pouring. I popped one drink in after another, while Rita sat back and cheered.
Rita and I continued on to Times Square. I was stumbling on my feet, and as we crossed Seventh Avenue at 44th street, my confidence shot up. I thought to myself, “I’m gonna kiss her.”
I spun around to look at Rita, but she was not there. I turn back to look in front of me and I see her standing about ten feet away from me, wondering around, looking at all the people in celebration. She seemed to have somehow changed into a nurse’s uniform. I was a bit confused, but I didn’t care. I marched my way towards her, took her hand, spun her around to a dip, and landed my lips against hers. Time, at that moment, seemed to stand still. It was perfect. A camera man kneeled down near us and snapped a picture of us, which came with a quick pop sound and a white

flash.
I stopped kissing Rita and put her to her feet. Then, she looked at me and slapped me hard as hell across the face.
“You pig!” she yelled.
My face turned, I looked back at her and realized that the woman I kissed was not Rita. She was just a random woman dressed in a nurse’s outfit. She marched away with disgust on her face and I thought to myself, “Oh no.”
“George!” someone exclaimed from behind me.
My head turned towards the voice, it was Rita, standing there. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach.
“Rita, I-I don’t know what I—.” She pressed her index finger against my lips to shut me up.
“I don’t care. Just kiss me, ya goof.”
She wrapped her arms around the back of my neck and pulled me in for the kiss. The overwhelming sounds of laughter and cheers drowned out. It was just her and I. Unlike the one before that would define history, this kiss would define the rest of our lives together. Together as a couple, as best friends, and as mother and father.