Once upon a time, there were two people who lived together in a very, very, very small apartment. They both liked movies, but one of them liked movies more than the other. One of them would sit through any movie at all no matter how bad it was. The other would walk out of a movie if it failed in any way to live up to expectations. Oddly enough, the one who really loved movies was the walker, and his name was Fred. The other one, who only sort of liked movies but was willing to sit through nearly any swill rather than embarrass herself by walking out was called, let's say, me. Anyway, I knew of Fred's proclivities and he was aware of my inertia and the spooky brew of our tendencies was about to come to a boil.
Richard Gere had been in another movie that was playing not too far from where we were living on the Upper East. I had never actually seen a Richard Gere movie (although I'd seen clips from "American Gigolo" and hadn't really liked what I'd seen) and it was a rip-off of a French film (and I had to look it up on imdb.com to recall the name, otherwise I'd be making a total arse of myself with possible titles such as: Blowing, This Blows, Barking, etc.) and renamed "Breathless."
Not long into this spleen-jerker, I started wondering how Fred felt about the film and if he was about to walk out. I had never walked out of a film, but I was now ready for a new experience. I didn't say anything and we sat through the whole, long, ghastly turd. Afterwards I mentioned to Fred that I would have walked out of that one if he wanted to and he said that he was staying put because he knew I didn't like to walk out. Then we both started laughing and went in search of a watering hole in which to sluice away the bad taste in our mouths.
We had passed a watering hole called Uncle Charlie's North. This was patently a gay bar, as its brother in the Village was. But we also patronized a gay bar up in our neighborhood called Brandy's, and didn't think anything of it.
The clincher on this deal was that Uncle Charlie was having a happy hour for the next 40 minutes or so, making it a wise financial choice. The counter bar was crowded, so we ambled off to a quiet corner to sip our beers and trash the waste of celluloid we'd just suffered through. The first round went fairly quickly, having also demolished a container of over-salted, over-priced popcorn at said "flick." After the second round, though, Fred claimed he was tired of braving the group at the bar and being ogled (which I never knew he ever had a problem with), and he told me to make the next trip.
Because we'd been sitting by ourselves and absorbed in our mutual grievances, I hadn't really looked around the bar, but standing in a short line at the counter for the last happy hour call, I realized that I was next to the only other woman in the place and all the monitors were showing male strippers (a waste of time, as far as I'm concerned). This may have shown on my face, for a denizen of the barstools leaned back and said, "Don't worry, Honey, we don't bite!" To which I retorted rather quickly, "Oooooo, I wish you would!"
This seemed to entertain my new friend, which he intended to be. He invited me to bring my escort to the bar (where, happy hour closing out, there was now room). Fred reluctantly joined us.
Perhaps I should describe Fred a bit, explain what he was doing in New York and our relationship. When we met in South Carolina, Fred was a hairdresser and we dated. Fred has a lot of gay friends. Fred moved to New York to work on Broadway, and he did; as a hair and make-up man he worked on "Cats" (very tiny perm rods), "Amadeus," and "Doonesbury: the Musical," to name a few. In New York, however, our relationship was different. Wisely, we were just roommates. Fred, however, should have been having no problem in this bar. It took several drinks to loosen him up.
Our new friend and benefactor (he was now buying) was absolutely delighted with the two of us. He pardoned himself at one point to go to the men's room. I had to check with Fred who was going from "I'm not all that happy here" to "Well, okay, if you're having a good time" when the bartender, using the same microphone he'd used to announce the last happy hour call, called out, "Phone call for Doctor Hertz! Paging Doctor Dick Hertz!" and our benefactor, just coming around the corner bleated, "That's meeee!"
To this day I only know this man as Dr. Dick Hertz. If he mentioned his name, I did not retain it.
Dr. Hertz convinced us to go to another bar in the Village and we all (as he had some other friends) piled into a taxi. The next thing I remember, I was on a dance floor dancing with someone I did not know. There were all men around me, mostly bald, bearded, pierced, black leather-clad. Notably, one of them was wearing some sort of studded black leather halter and black leather shorts, and probably a black leather, studded dog collar. This was a new experience for me, and I was grateful for it. However, it was a "school night." Our intention had been to see a movie and perhaps consume a beverage or two.
After the song, I located the bar and found Fred sitting there looking shell-shocked. "Where are we?" I yelled over the music. "We're in the Village," he told me, "at a bar called The Monster." "How did we get here?" "I don't know," he admitted, "but I remember something about a taxi ride and someone named Dr. Dick Hertz."
Right on cue, the good doctor came up to us shouting, "That's meee!" We thanked him and made our way out. Nothing looked familiar. We spent the next couple of hours wandering around the Village, trying to find a subway and our way home. At that hour, the subways were coming right seldom and we had to take three to get back home. After the subways we had to negotiate the eight blocks from Lexington and 86th Street (where Fred claimed to see prostitutes all the time and I never knew what he was talking about) back to our apartment.
I look back and shudder at the escapades I had in New York and am amazed that nothing ever happened to me. I am thankful, though, that I don't have stories to tell about bondage clubs or being mugged or other more lurid fare. I'll leave those tales to others. A couple of decades down the line when I'm appalling my great-niece and -nephews with stories, the contrast between my grey head and wrinkles and the mild excitement of these stories will be enough to make them goggle. Well, at least they will goggle the first few hundred times.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Been thinkin' about anger today. I've been blowing up over little things, but it's the big things that you have no control over that are the most painful - and they just fester away until someone does something stupid and Kaboom! So what am I so angry about?
Well, I suppose I'm still mad at my sister for dying. Of course, that means that I need to feel guilty about being mad at her for something she had no control over. She gave those cancer treatments her best shot. So I will instead have to be mad at her for all the little things she did to me over the years, although I doubted she could have helped herself there either. She could have completely ignored me all her life. She was nine years older and by default an only child.
Instead, she played with me. She played "camping" with me ... by setting a fire under my crib. She played "Ed Sullivan Show" by using me as one of those large balls acrobats spun and tossed with their feet. She played poker with me ... before I was able to read, so I had to run into the kitchen to ask my mother what my hand was. Yes, all the games seemed to have me on the losing side, but she was actually playing with me. Rare were the times that she tried to keep me out of her hair by, say, tying me to a rocking chair with my own summer camp lanyard braiding. I was very, very lucky.
My sister had a lot of power over me that I was unable to combat. If I refused to play along with one of her schemes and ran and locked myself in my room, she would stand outside and alternate between threatening me and acting pitiful ("Mom and Dad like you better ...") until I gave in.
Decades into our relationship, we met at our parents' house and I made some remark to the effect, "You're not as tall as I remember." She was always sensitive about her height, which she claimed to be no more than five foot twelve inches. "That's funny," she retorted immediately, "You're every bit as short as I remember."
I worried about our relationship when our mother (I almost wrote "my mother," and usually caught hell for that when I said it in front of her, but we were figuratively raised by different mothers) was gone. We had both gone down to help our parents make their final move and were clearing out the attic, finding boxes that hadn't been opened since the previous move. My sister found something she wanted for herself. I was living in an shared apartment, so I wasn't even thinking of keeping anything I ran across. Mother was always after us to to find things we wanted and tag them for the future. She put my name in an antique clock that I expressed an interest in. It would stay with her and our Father as long as they lived, but we could claim it afterwards if it had our name in or on it. So my sister asked me if she could have this item. I have absolutely no recollection of what it was, but she claimed it would mean a lot to her. I had no interest in it. "You can have the next thing," she said, seemingly sweetening the pot. I have no interest in it. She could have it. Minutes later she found an extremely ugly hand-painted (by some unknown relative, no doubt) plate. "You can have this!" she said. "I don't think so," I retorted. "I get to choose what it is and it's not that ugly thing!"
After that, I really worried about what would happen when it came to divvying up the junk my, I mean, our mother collected over the years. As usual, and as Mother always said, I was worrying about the wrong thing. Now all I have to worry about is whether my nieces will want any of that junk! But at the time I worried that it would be just one incident like that after another. There would be bartering going on of byzantine convolutions. We'd probably have to get someone to come in and value every last teacup.
Later, in the year before she was diagnosed with cancer, we were playing cards at her house during the Christmas holiday. I hardly ever play cards anymore, mostly because no one I know plays. She was losing. I had won about three games in a row and I could see the consternation growing on her face. I was quite giddy. I never win games when I play them with her. In fact, I thought for years that I was rubbish at games because she always beat me. I reluctantly joined into a Monopoly game when I was in college because I was so bad at playing, but I walked all over those people. They started glaring at me (I'd gotten the utility monopoly) as they paid out, grumbling, "You sure you don't play well?"
So there I was, winning! This was my time to get up and do the end-zone dance. I didn't though. First of all, I had to check her face to make sure she wasn't letting me win, just to pounce later. Instead, she looked so unhappy that I kept playing so that I could intentionally lose (without being detected, which was a big worry) and she would cheer up. Not being quite as competitive as she was, winning wasn't such a big deal. (When you lose all the time you don't develop a competitive spirit. In fact, you can become quite opposed to competition and stressed out by it.) I didn't need to display my hubris by crowing over her losses. I held them tightly and secretly to my chest and hugged them, feeling I was an adult at last (at what, age forty?) having finally beaten a life-long adversary.
Within a year she was having radiation treatments for cervical cancer and then I wondered about my winning streak. She had been hemorrhaging so badly that she was passing out when she finally called the doctor. She may have been ill for ages and not known it. I may not have been so clever after all.
Her legacy in me is that streak of anti-competitiveness, which doesn't necessarily translate into teamwork, but I will try to undermine competition with the suggestion of all-working-together. In graduate school I was horrified when someone I very much liked in the first week, suddenly went all competitive on me when the opportunity arose. We didn't get along again until the end, and now he's one of the few friends I have left from that phase of my life. He was called Pete, and I referred to him as "ComPete" in disgust. After we noticed that people were hoarding books from the library on quarter-loan, I suggested we pick ones we would all need, check them out for the quarter, and keep them in our graduate-assistants' office (a pokey hole on the modern language floor). I even added one of my personal books to the collection.
During the written exams, they put all the foreign languages in one room and left us otherwise unproctored. They figured the presence of other departments would keep us honest. Fortunately, the competition broke down enough so that we were able to help each other when we were at a loss for a word. The only one who complained was the one German Masters Candidate, but we said we'd do our best to help her if she needed it. If someone got lost, everyone stopped what they were doing until a solution was found.
I never got my master's degree, but I did get farther in my education than my sister. It came to my attention when I was in graduate school that as soon as she moved out of the house, my grades in school got better. I'm not sure what was affecting them, the continual assertion that I was stupid (or uncoordinated, or knock-kneed), or taking up my time playing with me. But she did play with me. I have always looked for friends who were like her, not in the superior way she had, but in having lots of ideas of things to get into. I don't have many such ideas, moi.
My sister made several attempts at college, but never managed to pass Freshman English, which only became more difficult each time. Mother said she got her Mrs. degree, which is what counted. I think after that Mom decided her job was over and she could relax. My sister's marriage lasted until her premature death, which is more than many can say, and she raised two children who have their own families. I can give her no better accolade than she would have used herself: Not Half Bad!
Well, I suppose I'm still mad at my sister for dying. Of course, that means that I need to feel guilty about being mad at her for something she had no control over. She gave those cancer treatments her best shot. So I will instead have to be mad at her for all the little things she did to me over the years, although I doubted she could have helped herself there either. She could have completely ignored me all her life. She was nine years older and by default an only child.
Instead, she played with me. She played "camping" with me ... by setting a fire under my crib. She played "Ed Sullivan Show" by using me as one of those large balls acrobats spun and tossed with their feet. She played poker with me ... before I was able to read, so I had to run into the kitchen to ask my mother what my hand was. Yes, all the games seemed to have me on the losing side, but she was actually playing with me. Rare were the times that she tried to keep me out of her hair by, say, tying me to a rocking chair with my own summer camp lanyard braiding. I was very, very lucky.
My sister had a lot of power over me that I was unable to combat. If I refused to play along with one of her schemes and ran and locked myself in my room, she would stand outside and alternate between threatening me and acting pitiful ("Mom and Dad like you better ...") until I gave in.
Decades into our relationship, we met at our parents' house and I made some remark to the effect, "You're not as tall as I remember." She was always sensitive about her height, which she claimed to be no more than five foot twelve inches. "That's funny," she retorted immediately, "You're every bit as short as I remember."
I worried about our relationship when our mother (I almost wrote "my mother," and usually caught hell for that when I said it in front of her, but we were figuratively raised by different mothers) was gone. We had both gone down to help our parents make their final move and were clearing out the attic, finding boxes that hadn't been opened since the previous move. My sister found something she wanted for herself. I was living in an shared apartment, so I wasn't even thinking of keeping anything I ran across. Mother was always after us to to find things we wanted and tag them for the future. She put my name in an antique clock that I expressed an interest in. It would stay with her and our Father as long as they lived, but we could claim it afterwards if it had our name in or on it. So my sister asked me if she could have this item. I have absolutely no recollection of what it was, but she claimed it would mean a lot to her. I had no interest in it. "You can have the next thing," she said, seemingly sweetening the pot. I have no interest in it. She could have it. Minutes later she found an extremely ugly hand-painted (by some unknown relative, no doubt) plate. "You can have this!" she said. "I don't think so," I retorted. "I get to choose what it is and it's not that ugly thing!"
After that, I really worried about what would happen when it came to divvying up the junk my, I mean, our mother collected over the years. As usual, and as Mother always said, I was worrying about the wrong thing. Now all I have to worry about is whether my nieces will want any of that junk! But at the time I worried that it would be just one incident like that after another. There would be bartering going on of byzantine convolutions. We'd probably have to get someone to come in and value every last teacup.
Later, in the year before she was diagnosed with cancer, we were playing cards at her house during the Christmas holiday. I hardly ever play cards anymore, mostly because no one I know plays. She was losing. I had won about three games in a row and I could see the consternation growing on her face. I was quite giddy. I never win games when I play them with her. In fact, I thought for years that I was rubbish at games because she always beat me. I reluctantly joined into a Monopoly game when I was in college because I was so bad at playing, but I walked all over those people. They started glaring at me (I'd gotten the utility monopoly) as they paid out, grumbling, "You sure you don't play well?"
So there I was, winning! This was my time to get up and do the end-zone dance. I didn't though. First of all, I had to check her face to make sure she wasn't letting me win, just to pounce later. Instead, she looked so unhappy that I kept playing so that I could intentionally lose (without being detected, which was a big worry) and she would cheer up. Not being quite as competitive as she was, winning wasn't such a big deal. (When you lose all the time you don't develop a competitive spirit. In fact, you can become quite opposed to competition and stressed out by it.) I didn't need to display my hubris by crowing over her losses. I held them tightly and secretly to my chest and hugged them, feeling I was an adult at last (at what, age forty?) having finally beaten a life-long adversary.
Within a year she was having radiation treatments for cervical cancer and then I wondered about my winning streak. She had been hemorrhaging so badly that she was passing out when she finally called the doctor. She may have been ill for ages and not known it. I may not have been so clever after all.
Her legacy in me is that streak of anti-competitiveness, which doesn't necessarily translate into teamwork, but I will try to undermine competition with the suggestion of all-working-together. In graduate school I was horrified when someone I very much liked in the first week, suddenly went all competitive on me when the opportunity arose. We didn't get along again until the end, and now he's one of the few friends I have left from that phase of my life. He was called Pete, and I referred to him as "ComPete" in disgust. After we noticed that people were hoarding books from the library on quarter-loan, I suggested we pick ones we would all need, check them out for the quarter, and keep them in our graduate-assistants' office (a pokey hole on the modern language floor). I even added one of my personal books to the collection.
During the written exams, they put all the foreign languages in one room and left us otherwise unproctored. They figured the presence of other departments would keep us honest. Fortunately, the competition broke down enough so that we were able to help each other when we were at a loss for a word. The only one who complained was the one German Masters Candidate, but we said we'd do our best to help her if she needed it. If someone got lost, everyone stopped what they were doing until a solution was found.
I never got my master's degree, but I did get farther in my education than my sister. It came to my attention when I was in graduate school that as soon as she moved out of the house, my grades in school got better. I'm not sure what was affecting them, the continual assertion that I was stupid (or uncoordinated, or knock-kneed), or taking up my time playing with me. But she did play with me. I have always looked for friends who were like her, not in the superior way she had, but in having lots of ideas of things to get into. I don't have many such ideas, moi.
My sister made several attempts at college, but never managed to pass Freshman English, which only became more difficult each time. Mother said she got her Mrs. degree, which is what counted. I think after that Mom decided her job was over and she could relax. My sister's marriage lasted until her premature death, which is more than many can say, and she raised two children who have their own families. I can give her no better accolade than she would have used herself: Not Half Bad!
Friday, December 15, 2006
Oh, here's another
I hope this one can be read. This is the transcription of an actual event. I was appearing the "The Mousetrap" with a group of experienced repertory people. My character was stuck in a scene where I had nothing to do or say for what seemed like twenty minutes. At that point I had a one-word line to justify my presence on stage. I spent most of that time going over that one word to make sure I didn't screw it up, which I have been known to do, only to hear that one word delivered by someone else (who was supposed to say something along the line of "But that's crazy!"). What to do?! What to do?! Years later one of the other performers was doing a crossword puzzle and came across a clue for a six-letter word for "nonsense" that had a "p" and an "f" in it. Up until then, she thought I'd made the word up.
Hey, I'm not that good!
Friday, November 24, 2006
The Eyes of Yoko Are Upon Us
I had not been in New York very long. I had already been ejected from two living spaces (or ejected from one and on the way out from another) in less than two weeks. It was lunacy to have come up here. Perhaps I was under the impression that being born in Poughkeepsie made me a native of some kind; something other than an Upstate Hick. Our family had lived all up and down the eastern U.S. and the last place we had settled was South Carolina. I had left a small town where I knew everyone’s face (names will always escape me), and taken the train to Manhattan.
A friend was waiting for me there, and I spent some time in her hotel for Middle Class Women. Hmmm. They had a funny idea of what constituted “middle class.” I was appalled by the conditions and the rent. Renee told me I could only stay so long and then I would have to find another place. I had no idea how to go about it. Renee even had to tell me how to use public transportation.
“Take these quarters and put them in your glove,” she said. It was February and quite cold. The New Yorker in me rejoiced at the “briskness” of the air. The South Carolinian was freezing. “Put them in the change slot and ask the driver for a transfer.” Renee was talking to me as if I were a kindergartner. “He will tear off a transfer and hand it to you. Keep that with you to give to the driver of the next bus.” Looking back at this now, I am amazed by how naïve I was. Naïve enough to not know how to use a bus. Naïve enough to think I could just take the train to New York City and find a place to stay and work. Naïve enough to try to go to auditions. You would have thought I was eighteen. In fact, I was twenty-eight. I was a late bloomer.
I moved into the YWCA on Lexington Avenue, which I was later convinced to be run by Nazis. I only had so much money on me and the manager wanted me to cough it all up to hold the room for another two weeks. The room was tiny and infested with roaches. They weren’t the giant, glossy palmetto bugs of coastal South Carolina, but tiny German cockroaches that ignored you because they knew they would be around long after humankind died out. They crawled all over the tiny sink in the room.
I have a problem making decisions. Once the decision is made, I can follow it through, but I will walk up and down the street until I am utterly exhausted before I will be able to choose a place to eat. I was there with limited money. I had $8,000 in the bank, had budgeted $2,000 to set myself up in New York in 1982, but was only carrying a few hundred. There was no use telling the manager of the Y that if I gave her the money she wanted, I would have nothing to eat on for the remaining two weeks. That was my lookout. I told her anyway. There were plenty of women clamoring to pay $20 a day to stay in that miserable cockroach spa, she told me. Pay up ahead or leave.
I opted to leave … at the end of the week. Then I went searching for something to eat. Up and down Lexington Avenue I went, marveling at the Citicorp building, looking like a modern mucilage bottle. I looked in the face of everyone in the street because knowing each and every one of them was a stranger was liberating. I had moved from a place where all faces were familiar. It never kept me from doing stupid things, but it was stultifying. All new faces were so refreshing! They were inspiration! Well, they were at first. Then I got hungry. Up and down I walked, looking for something affordable and reasonably nutritious. This let out all cozily standardized fast food outlets. I could get a Whopper for ninety-nine cents, but I’d also get heartburn.
If I tell you that in the end I bought a container of unsalted freshly-ground peanut butter at a health food store and some Stoned Wheat Thins, you would not appreciate the chasm of indecision I inhabited for some hours. Up and down, across and around, “No, not there, or there, or there, but what about, no – no – no.” Back and through, pacing, pacing, then plodding, and then staggering. Up, down, back, plod, stagger, stagger. It reminded me of all the dates I spent with men waiting for me to make up my mind about where we should have dinner. One of them drove around a traffic circle waiting for me to decide. “I’m going to drive around this traffic circle until you decide,” he said. Then he got mad at me when that ploy didn’t help me come to a conclusion. It did not and still really does not matter to me where I eat. If he’s paying for it, he should eat where he would find something he’d enjoy. Round and round and round … and in the end the place I chose gave me food poisoning. Back and forth, counting my cash in my head. What makes the most sense? Down and up, and you get the point, but I’m still not making up my mind. I wondered if I would starve to death first.
And in the end, I should have gotten the salted.
New York City had only started on me. I walked back to the Y one evening, and had begun another unpleasant conversation with the Kommandant when another woman threw herself through the door breathlessly. “I’ve been mugged!” she cried. “When? Where?” we asked her. “Just now, just down the street!” She had been following me when a man stepped out from the shadows and demanded her purse. I had not heard anything. I had not been mugged. I decided not to report this to my parents. I did, however, call my friend Temple in Cambridge, Massachusetts and tell him.
Temple had been very encouraging. He had accidentally ended up at Harvard Law School when a film director apprenticeship had gone sour on him. He had taken some test to get into this program. He had wanted to practice for it, but his parents refused to pay for that. They would, however, pay for him to take the LSATs. He considered that the LSATs would be good practice for the film director test. He returned to Kentucky complaining that people in Hollywood never answered their phones. “They just sit in the Jacuzzi and drink martinis,” he said bitterly. His parents, he said, would pay for him to go to law school. “I think Harvard,” he said. “All the great theatre people have moved from Yale to Harvard. I can keep up with theatre there.” “What makes you think you’ll get into Harvard Law School?” I scoffed. “Oh, when I took the LSATs, I checked the boxes for Harvard and Yale and some others to have the scores sent to,” he said blithely. I still didn’t believe he would go to Harvard. “Ask me what my percentile ranking was on the LSATs,” he continued in the same blasé voice. “What was your percentile ranking?” I sneered. “Are you sitting down?” he asked. Yes, I was sitting down, silly ass. “Ninety-eight point six,” he enunciated. I blanched. “Sounds normal to me,” I sniffed finally.
Okay, it may have been another number, but it was in the high nineties. I’m not very good with numbers. Case in point: Just before I left for New York, I received a letter from Temple. There was a check in it. It was yellow, I remember that much. I was touched almost to tears. I read the letter through the moisture in my eyes. He knew that New York would be expensive and he’d enclosed a little something to help. I glanced at the check, verklempt. I looked at it again. Now, Temple and I have a dispute going on this. He claims it was only for four hundred million dollars. I say it was for six hundred million. Whichever it was, it made me laugh. I showed it to my mother. She shook her head … and then she laughed.
As New York worked its alienation magic on me, I grew closer to despair. I was eating a meal every day that I could barely swallow. I needed milk badly. I needed a real place to stay and a job. I needed a plan.
Instead, I wandered around the area aimlessly. I wandered into Bloomingdale’s. All around me people, mostly women, bustled around. It was worse than the sidewalks outside. Inside Bloomingdale’s you had to dodge the perfume testers as well. I had no idea where I was going. I was stuck in the cosmetic section and I had no interest in cosmetics. Overly made-up women and supercilious men waylaid customers as they tried to pass, hawking expensive and pointless (in my eyes) wares. I had no words for my feelings. Empty? Alone? Ummmmm, nope, no words, no thesaurus. Suddenly I noticed that there was no longer anyone in the aisle where I was. I looked around a bit. There was not a soul in any part of the cosmetic area. What had happened?
Slowly I turned around. Coming up behind me was an enormous man, thick and centered like a wrestler. I almost did not notice the tiny woman slightly ahead of him and to the right. I stared. Her form finally took shape and separated her from the bulk of her companion. I looked straight into the sunglass-clad eyes of John Lennon’s widow of only a little more than a year. Behind Yoko’s shades, I saw the feelings for which I had no words reflected in the dark of her eyes. I turned and fled.
That night (well, maybe it was; that would make this story much tidier), I had arranged with Temple to move into his dormitory room at Harvard. I took the train the next morning.
And thereby hangs another tale.
A friend was waiting for me there, and I spent some time in her hotel for Middle Class Women. Hmmm. They had a funny idea of what constituted “middle class.” I was appalled by the conditions and the rent. Renee told me I could only stay so long and then I would have to find another place. I had no idea how to go about it. Renee even had to tell me how to use public transportation.
“Take these quarters and put them in your glove,” she said. It was February and quite cold. The New Yorker in me rejoiced at the “briskness” of the air. The South Carolinian was freezing. “Put them in the change slot and ask the driver for a transfer.” Renee was talking to me as if I were a kindergartner. “He will tear off a transfer and hand it to you. Keep that with you to give to the driver of the next bus.” Looking back at this now, I am amazed by how naïve I was. Naïve enough to not know how to use a bus. Naïve enough to think I could just take the train to New York City and find a place to stay and work. Naïve enough to try to go to auditions. You would have thought I was eighteen. In fact, I was twenty-eight. I was a late bloomer.
I moved into the YWCA on Lexington Avenue, which I was later convinced to be run by Nazis. I only had so much money on me and the manager wanted me to cough it all up to hold the room for another two weeks. The room was tiny and infested with roaches. They weren’t the giant, glossy palmetto bugs of coastal South Carolina, but tiny German cockroaches that ignored you because they knew they would be around long after humankind died out. They crawled all over the tiny sink in the room.
I have a problem making decisions. Once the decision is made, I can follow it through, but I will walk up and down the street until I am utterly exhausted before I will be able to choose a place to eat. I was there with limited money. I had $8,000 in the bank, had budgeted $2,000 to set myself up in New York in 1982, but was only carrying a few hundred. There was no use telling the manager of the Y that if I gave her the money she wanted, I would have nothing to eat on for the remaining two weeks. That was my lookout. I told her anyway. There were plenty of women clamoring to pay $20 a day to stay in that miserable cockroach spa, she told me. Pay up ahead or leave.
I opted to leave … at the end of the week. Then I went searching for something to eat. Up and down Lexington Avenue I went, marveling at the Citicorp building, looking like a modern mucilage bottle. I looked in the face of everyone in the street because knowing each and every one of them was a stranger was liberating. I had moved from a place where all faces were familiar. It never kept me from doing stupid things, but it was stultifying. All new faces were so refreshing! They were inspiration! Well, they were at first. Then I got hungry. Up and down I walked, looking for something affordable and reasonably nutritious. This let out all cozily standardized fast food outlets. I could get a Whopper for ninety-nine cents, but I’d also get heartburn.
If I tell you that in the end I bought a container of unsalted freshly-ground peanut butter at a health food store and some Stoned Wheat Thins, you would not appreciate the chasm of indecision I inhabited for some hours. Up and down, across and around, “No, not there, or there, or there, but what about, no – no – no.” Back and through, pacing, pacing, then plodding, and then staggering. Up, down, back, plod, stagger, stagger. It reminded me of all the dates I spent with men waiting for me to make up my mind about where we should have dinner. One of them drove around a traffic circle waiting for me to decide. “I’m going to drive around this traffic circle until you decide,” he said. Then he got mad at me when that ploy didn’t help me come to a conclusion. It did not and still really does not matter to me where I eat. If he’s paying for it, he should eat where he would find something he’d enjoy. Round and round and round … and in the end the place I chose gave me food poisoning. Back and forth, counting my cash in my head. What makes the most sense? Down and up, and you get the point, but I’m still not making up my mind. I wondered if I would starve to death first.
And in the end, I should have gotten the salted.
New York City had only started on me. I walked back to the Y one evening, and had begun another unpleasant conversation with the Kommandant when another woman threw herself through the door breathlessly. “I’ve been mugged!” she cried. “When? Where?” we asked her. “Just now, just down the street!” She had been following me when a man stepped out from the shadows and demanded her purse. I had not heard anything. I had not been mugged. I decided not to report this to my parents. I did, however, call my friend Temple in Cambridge, Massachusetts and tell him.
Temple had been very encouraging. He had accidentally ended up at Harvard Law School when a film director apprenticeship had gone sour on him. He had taken some test to get into this program. He had wanted to practice for it, but his parents refused to pay for that. They would, however, pay for him to take the LSATs. He considered that the LSATs would be good practice for the film director test. He returned to Kentucky complaining that people in Hollywood never answered their phones. “They just sit in the Jacuzzi and drink martinis,” he said bitterly. His parents, he said, would pay for him to go to law school. “I think Harvard,” he said. “All the great theatre people have moved from Yale to Harvard. I can keep up with theatre there.” “What makes you think you’ll get into Harvard Law School?” I scoffed. “Oh, when I took the LSATs, I checked the boxes for Harvard and Yale and some others to have the scores sent to,” he said blithely. I still didn’t believe he would go to Harvard. “Ask me what my percentile ranking was on the LSATs,” he continued in the same blasé voice. “What was your percentile ranking?” I sneered. “Are you sitting down?” he asked. Yes, I was sitting down, silly ass. “Ninety-eight point six,” he enunciated. I blanched. “Sounds normal to me,” I sniffed finally.
Okay, it may have been another number, but it was in the high nineties. I’m not very good with numbers. Case in point: Just before I left for New York, I received a letter from Temple. There was a check in it. It was yellow, I remember that much. I was touched almost to tears. I read the letter through the moisture in my eyes. He knew that New York would be expensive and he’d enclosed a little something to help. I glanced at the check, verklempt. I looked at it again. Now, Temple and I have a dispute going on this. He claims it was only for four hundred million dollars. I say it was for six hundred million. Whichever it was, it made me laugh. I showed it to my mother. She shook her head … and then she laughed.
As New York worked its alienation magic on me, I grew closer to despair. I was eating a meal every day that I could barely swallow. I needed milk badly. I needed a real place to stay and a job. I needed a plan.
Instead, I wandered around the area aimlessly. I wandered into Bloomingdale’s. All around me people, mostly women, bustled around. It was worse than the sidewalks outside. Inside Bloomingdale’s you had to dodge the perfume testers as well. I had no idea where I was going. I was stuck in the cosmetic section and I had no interest in cosmetics. Overly made-up women and supercilious men waylaid customers as they tried to pass, hawking expensive and pointless (in my eyes) wares. I had no words for my feelings. Empty? Alone? Ummmmm, nope, no words, no thesaurus. Suddenly I noticed that there was no longer anyone in the aisle where I was. I looked around a bit. There was not a soul in any part of the cosmetic area. What had happened?
Slowly I turned around. Coming up behind me was an enormous man, thick and centered like a wrestler. I almost did not notice the tiny woman slightly ahead of him and to the right. I stared. Her form finally took shape and separated her from the bulk of her companion. I looked straight into the sunglass-clad eyes of John Lennon’s widow of only a little more than a year. Behind Yoko’s shades, I saw the feelings for which I had no words reflected in the dark of her eyes. I turned and fled.
That night (well, maybe it was; that would make this story much tidier), I had arranged with Temple to move into his dormitory room at Harvard. I took the train the next morning.
And thereby hangs another tale.
I Have a Sock Full of Cash ... On My Arm Pt. 2
I made myself a nest and prepared to continue reading for three hours. Fortunately, I had more than one book. The magazine stand seemed to carry commuter comestibles, such as coffee and donuts. It was actually nice and quiet. There was none of the bustle and noise of Penn Station. Okay, it was creepy, but I became absorbed in my reading and time, in consideration of the surroundings, crept by.
When he first came in, I had noticed him. You can’t help but notice when one person is added to a building with only two others in it. This likewise made him aware of me. He was dressed in a grey sweatshirt and pants, with a stocking cap of navy blue to keep off the Boston February chill. He bought a coffee and donut from the magazine stand and chatted with the proprietor. Casting about for a place to sit and enjoy his snack, he picked my bench. I observed his approach from the corner of my eye, trying to look totally involved in my paperback. I wished vainly that he would find somewhere else, but he stopped very close and asked, oh so predictably, “Is this seat taken?”
My memory is not good enough to reproduce the entire conversation. There was a time when I could claim to quote it verbatim, but I am long past that, fortunately for you, my gentle reader. The gist of it was that he was in the Navy and out for his run. He had not behaved well when he was younger, hadn’t paid attention in school, but now he was pulling himself together and planning to go to college on the G.I. Bill. He was handsome and earnest. And he owed it all to Jesus.
I had thought to have escaped that when I left South Carolina. I politely expressed my admiration for his resolve. He thought perhaps that his example might provide inspiration for me. Well, now, that’s curious. I realize that I bumbled my graduate work, and am not the best of students. I was and still am lazy intellectually. Okay, and physically. School was only a lark for me and here was someone who wanted to better himself and was putting himself through the rigors of the military in order to get the wherewithal to go to college. My background, while middle-class, was privileged, probably, compared to his. I was embarrassed. It was with a certain amount of reluctance that I admitted to having been to college and two years of graduate school. I was between jobs at the moment and just traveling to visit friends. I became conscious of the money in the sock on my arm and in my bank account. In our family, talking about money was worse than talking about sex. It was an intensely private thing. Discussing your money was boasting. Out here in the metropolis, it might be dangerous. That’s why I had my money in a sock up my arm.
Somehow I had to convince this young man that I was fine, without letting him know I was sitting on a pile of cash (although there was just a few hundred up my arm, I could call my broker at any time and have him wire me more) and was just waiting to be picked up by a friend without giving away how long I was going to have to wait. Just because he (literally) had Navy written all over him didn’t mean he couldn’t lurk somewhere and bop me on the bean to get whatever it was he wanted. Anyone could get a buzz cut and buy a sweatsuit with “Navy” on it. If he really was in the Navy, maybe he had been on ship for months and wanted ... wanted – aaaaagh! It didn’t bear thinking about!
I was not convincing. Apparently. He couldn’t believe that a.) someone with a college degree would be out of work and surrounded by bags sitting in a railway station; b.) that if I had any money I would be just sitting there; and c.) that an intelligent person would come up with such lame assurances as “I’m okay, I have some crackers and peanut butter with me.” He did eventually get up and leave. I watched him throw away his cup and papers (maybe even the Boston Strangler was tidy – whoa! The Boston Strangler?!) and walk out. I relaxed too soon. He came purposefully back, pulled a dollar out of his pocket and tried to give it to me. He told me I could buy a donut with it. He was so kind and I was such a coward. The realization hit that he actually thought I was homeless. I made a mental note to wash my hair first thing. I refused the dollar as politely as I could. I was not homeless. Were I to give up on New York, I could return to a house on Hilton Head Island, find another job there, or just sponge off my parents.
He finally gave in and left. I was rescued a bit earlier than expected by Temple and Tommy. I told them my story, still a bit shaken, but trying to make it funny. I stayed a bit with Temple at the law school. By the time I was ready to go back to New York, I had a place to stay. In very little time I was working and going to auditions. I didn't have a job all the time, I shared an illegal sublet with Fred who was also in and out of work. In the back of my mind, though, there was the knowledge that I would be able to successfully panhandle. Well, people might give me money, but apparently I had trouble accepting it.
When he first came in, I had noticed him. You can’t help but notice when one person is added to a building with only two others in it. This likewise made him aware of me. He was dressed in a grey sweatshirt and pants, with a stocking cap of navy blue to keep off the Boston February chill. He bought a coffee and donut from the magazine stand and chatted with the proprietor. Casting about for a place to sit and enjoy his snack, he picked my bench. I observed his approach from the corner of my eye, trying to look totally involved in my paperback. I wished vainly that he would find somewhere else, but he stopped very close and asked, oh so predictably, “Is this seat taken?”
My memory is not good enough to reproduce the entire conversation. There was a time when I could claim to quote it verbatim, but I am long past that, fortunately for you, my gentle reader. The gist of it was that he was in the Navy and out for his run. He had not behaved well when he was younger, hadn’t paid attention in school, but now he was pulling himself together and planning to go to college on the G.I. Bill. He was handsome and earnest. And he owed it all to Jesus.
I had thought to have escaped that when I left South Carolina. I politely expressed my admiration for his resolve. He thought perhaps that his example might provide inspiration for me. Well, now, that’s curious. I realize that I bumbled my graduate work, and am not the best of students. I was and still am lazy intellectually. Okay, and physically. School was only a lark for me and here was someone who wanted to better himself and was putting himself through the rigors of the military in order to get the wherewithal to go to college. My background, while middle-class, was privileged, probably, compared to his. I was embarrassed. It was with a certain amount of reluctance that I admitted to having been to college and two years of graduate school. I was between jobs at the moment and just traveling to visit friends. I became conscious of the money in the sock on my arm and in my bank account. In our family, talking about money was worse than talking about sex. It was an intensely private thing. Discussing your money was boasting. Out here in the metropolis, it might be dangerous. That’s why I had my money in a sock up my arm.
Somehow I had to convince this young man that I was fine, without letting him know I was sitting on a pile of cash (although there was just a few hundred up my arm, I could call my broker at any time and have him wire me more) and was just waiting to be picked up by a friend without giving away how long I was going to have to wait. Just because he (literally) had Navy written all over him didn’t mean he couldn’t lurk somewhere and bop me on the bean to get whatever it was he wanted. Anyone could get a buzz cut and buy a sweatsuit with “Navy” on it. If he really was in the Navy, maybe he had been on ship for months and wanted ... wanted – aaaaagh! It didn’t bear thinking about!
I was not convincing. Apparently. He couldn’t believe that a.) someone with a college degree would be out of work and surrounded by bags sitting in a railway station; b.) that if I had any money I would be just sitting there; and c.) that an intelligent person would come up with such lame assurances as “I’m okay, I have some crackers and peanut butter with me.” He did eventually get up and leave. I watched him throw away his cup and papers (maybe even the Boston Strangler was tidy – whoa! The Boston Strangler?!) and walk out. I relaxed too soon. He came purposefully back, pulled a dollar out of his pocket and tried to give it to me. He told me I could buy a donut with it. He was so kind and I was such a coward. The realization hit that he actually thought I was homeless. I made a mental note to wash my hair first thing. I refused the dollar as politely as I could. I was not homeless. Were I to give up on New York, I could return to a house on Hilton Head Island, find another job there, or just sponge off my parents.
He finally gave in and left. I was rescued a bit earlier than expected by Temple and Tommy. I told them my story, still a bit shaken, but trying to make it funny. I stayed a bit with Temple at the law school. By the time I was ready to go back to New York, I had a place to stay. In very little time I was working and going to auditions. I didn't have a job all the time, I shared an illegal sublet with Fred who was also in and out of work. In the back of my mind, though, there was the knowledge that I would be able to successfully panhandle. Well, people might give me money, but apparently I had trouble accepting it.
I Have a Sock Full of Cash ... On My Arm Pt. 1
I had been through Pennsylvania Station before when I first arrived in New York. It was bustling and full of places to sit. I had purchased a ticket to Boston to stay with my friend, Temple, when New York finally proved too unwieldy for the likes of me. Although I was leaving, I still planned to go back. A plan, that’s what I needed. My current plan was to stay with Temple at his graduate student dormitory at Harvard University. They had a spare room on his floor for the occasional visitor. I could stay there for a couple of days, but then another visitor was coming and I would have to move out … and into his room.
I had slept in Temple’s room many times before, notably when he won me for a week in the famous “Win A Marf” contest. He had submitted several pages of activities (most of which involved massages) and reasons why he would want me to visit, three letters of recommendation, and an 8x10 inch glossy. At that time he had been fired from Actor’s Theatre of Louisville, probably just by being himself. He talked his way back into his apprenticeship long enough to tell off Jon Jory and quit. One of the reasons I should visit had been that as he had been fired, he had lots of spare time on his hands with which to entertain me. Being the sympathetic sort that I am, I had a glass mug engraved with the motto: “I’ve Been Sacked by ATL.” So, I was slightly disappointed to learn that he had been rehired and then quit. Would this lessen the impact of my gift? And “I Quit ATL” would have saved me some money, if I’d known.
All this is just to show that Temple and I were as close as two non-sexually intimate people could be. I had always been torn about Temple. I would easily slip from adoring him to fearing him, a trait I can now put down to immaturity – mine, too. It’s hard to describe the ease with which Temple lept into emotions. I move very slowly from one feeling to another. Temple could be cracking jokes one minute and in someone’s face and threatening them in another. He never threatened me, but his reactions to another driver cutting him off in a parking lot (jumping out of the car and yelling and waving his fists), scared the bejesus out of me. He’d leap back into the car afterwards, start to back up, and then look over at my horrorstruck face and say, “What?” as if he’d all ready forgotten the whole incident.
Temple was a refuge for me at this time. I’d been spooked out by the empty void in the glasses of Yoko Ono and ran to his side. Okay, I called him and he invited me to stay. He had classes all day, though, and wouldn’t be able to pick me up until after 7 pm. In his first year at Harvard Law School, he did not have a car, so he had to rely on his friend, Tommy McKinley, to drive him to the station. Had I been confident in my public transportation, I could have taken the T on my own. Today I would do that. Back then I would wait mouselike in some hole waiting to be picked up.
I had to be out of my room at the YWCA on Lexington Avenue by a certain time, and although there were plenty of trains going to Boston all day, I thought I would wait at Penn Station until the departure of the one that would drop me off in Boston closest to my pick-up time. There was plenty going on in the station: places to eat, to buy magazines and books, people watching to do. I had bought a book and planted myself on a chair in the waiting area with my luggage around me. My money, rather less than the $500 I’d started out with, real life being an expensive arrangement, was in a kneesock that I kept up my sleeve on my forearm. I had priced money-belts and other security devices before venturing to New York (especially on a train where one slept in a chair – I’d read Emil und die Detective!), but had shown myself to be the apple that didn’t fall far from the tight-wad tree. Instead, I took a favorite tan kneesock that had developed holes, and converted it into an armband that could hold money or my lightweight, nylon wallet. I thought myself very clever. It is a family tradition to believe that anyone could pay for something, but the Smart Person does it himself. Our house was full of things my dad had built or repaired in the most Byzantine method imaginable, such as a ceiling storage area in the garage he [operant word:] tried to chin himself on for the benefit of some prospective home buyers as well as rendering the untrained outsider unable to turn on our television or start his car. This has led me to pointless and time-consuming activities such as making my own coconut milk, graham crackers, puff pastry, etc.
I felt secure in my decision and the plan at hand: read until lunchtime, eat, and read some more until my chosen train departure. Temple and I would have dinner (at his expense, of course, because that’s what he was like: generous to a fault with his parents’ money) after I arrived. I had some of the salt-free, barely-edible, formerly fresh-ground peanut butter and crackers if I got hungry in the meantime. It was all under control.
Unfortunately, I didn’t take New York into account. While Amtrak was not currently killing passengers and gangs of thugs were not roving train stations, I still managed to attract the disruptive element. I was in my chair, reading happily, when a figure stopped in front of me. I looked up to see a seemingly nice little old man standing before me. “Your train!” he said. They hadn’t called my train. My train wasn’t for three hours yet. They had just called a Boston train, but not mine. I tried to deflect him. “No, it’s not –,” I started. “You take this train,” he commanded. He wasn’t official, just an thin, old man, dressed nicely with suit, tie, and a hat. Thinking he might know something I didn’t (although I had no idea how he would know I was on my way to Boston), I got up and took the train. I took one last look to see if he’d wanted my seat, but it was still empty and there were plenty more around.
I can wait just as easily at the Boston station as here, I thought. Boston’s another big city, their station is probably comparable. Ahem. That was before the renovation of South Station. When I arrived that day at South Station, I found a derelict station with one magazine stand and some dingy and vacated retail spaces. The seating was just wooden benches that had no one else on them. Not even bums bothered with South Station. I found a payphone and called Tommy to leave the message that I had arrived early. Tommy, whom I had not met, offered to come and get me, but I decided to take my chances with an “empty” building so that Tommy would not feel obliged to entertain me. It should be an indication of my continued naivety that I preferred a decrepit public space to the comforts of an actual apartment with a Harvard student in it.
I had slept in Temple’s room many times before, notably when he won me for a week in the famous “Win A Marf” contest. He had submitted several pages of activities (most of which involved massages) and reasons why he would want me to visit, three letters of recommendation, and an 8x10 inch glossy. At that time he had been fired from Actor’s Theatre of Louisville, probably just by being himself. He talked his way back into his apprenticeship long enough to tell off Jon Jory and quit. One of the reasons I should visit had been that as he had been fired, he had lots of spare time on his hands with which to entertain me. Being the sympathetic sort that I am, I had a glass mug engraved with the motto: “I’ve Been Sacked by ATL.” So, I was slightly disappointed to learn that he had been rehired and then quit. Would this lessen the impact of my gift? And “I Quit ATL” would have saved me some money, if I’d known.
All this is just to show that Temple and I were as close as two non-sexually intimate people could be. I had always been torn about Temple. I would easily slip from adoring him to fearing him, a trait I can now put down to immaturity – mine, too. It’s hard to describe the ease with which Temple lept into emotions. I move very slowly from one feeling to another. Temple could be cracking jokes one minute and in someone’s face and threatening them in another. He never threatened me, but his reactions to another driver cutting him off in a parking lot (jumping out of the car and yelling and waving his fists), scared the bejesus out of me. He’d leap back into the car afterwards, start to back up, and then look over at my horrorstruck face and say, “What?” as if he’d all ready forgotten the whole incident.
Temple was a refuge for me at this time. I’d been spooked out by the empty void in the glasses of Yoko Ono and ran to his side. Okay, I called him and he invited me to stay. He had classes all day, though, and wouldn’t be able to pick me up until after 7 pm. In his first year at Harvard Law School, he did not have a car, so he had to rely on his friend, Tommy McKinley, to drive him to the station. Had I been confident in my public transportation, I could have taken the T on my own. Today I would do that. Back then I would wait mouselike in some hole waiting to be picked up.
I had to be out of my room at the YWCA on Lexington Avenue by a certain time, and although there were plenty of trains going to Boston all day, I thought I would wait at Penn Station until the departure of the one that would drop me off in Boston closest to my pick-up time. There was plenty going on in the station: places to eat, to buy magazines and books, people watching to do. I had bought a book and planted myself on a chair in the waiting area with my luggage around me. My money, rather less than the $500 I’d started out with, real life being an expensive arrangement, was in a kneesock that I kept up my sleeve on my forearm. I had priced money-belts and other security devices before venturing to New York (especially on a train where one slept in a chair – I’d read Emil und die Detective!), but had shown myself to be the apple that didn’t fall far from the tight-wad tree. Instead, I took a favorite tan kneesock that had developed holes, and converted it into an armband that could hold money or my lightweight, nylon wallet. I thought myself very clever. It is a family tradition to believe that anyone could pay for something, but the Smart Person does it himself. Our house was full of things my dad had built or repaired in the most Byzantine method imaginable, such as a ceiling storage area in the garage he [operant word:] tried to chin himself on for the benefit of some prospective home buyers as well as rendering the untrained outsider unable to turn on our television or start his car. This has led me to pointless and time-consuming activities such as making my own coconut milk, graham crackers, puff pastry, etc.
I felt secure in my decision and the plan at hand: read until lunchtime, eat, and read some more until my chosen train departure. Temple and I would have dinner (at his expense, of course, because that’s what he was like: generous to a fault with his parents’ money) after I arrived. I had some of the salt-free, barely-edible, formerly fresh-ground peanut butter and crackers if I got hungry in the meantime. It was all under control.
Unfortunately, I didn’t take New York into account. While Amtrak was not currently killing passengers and gangs of thugs were not roving train stations, I still managed to attract the disruptive element. I was in my chair, reading happily, when a figure stopped in front of me. I looked up to see a seemingly nice little old man standing before me. “Your train!” he said. They hadn’t called my train. My train wasn’t for three hours yet. They had just called a Boston train, but not mine. I tried to deflect him. “No, it’s not –,” I started. “You take this train,” he commanded. He wasn’t official, just an thin, old man, dressed nicely with suit, tie, and a hat. Thinking he might know something I didn’t (although I had no idea how he would know I was on my way to Boston), I got up and took the train. I took one last look to see if he’d wanted my seat, but it was still empty and there were plenty more around.
I can wait just as easily at the Boston station as here, I thought. Boston’s another big city, their station is probably comparable. Ahem. That was before the renovation of South Station. When I arrived that day at South Station, I found a derelict station with one magazine stand and some dingy and vacated retail spaces. The seating was just wooden benches that had no one else on them. Not even bums bothered with South Station. I found a payphone and called Tommy to leave the message that I had arrived early. Tommy, whom I had not met, offered to come and get me, but I decided to take my chances with an “empty” building so that Tommy would not feel obliged to entertain me. It should be an indication of my continued naivety that I preferred a decrepit public space to the comforts of an actual apartment with a Harvard student in it.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Preston et le Tour de Manhattan
My late friend Pres visited me in New York when I was on the Upper East Side. He wanted to go on a walking tour of the island, so we set off toward Midtown one morning. Now, Pres had already come from where he was staying on the Upper West Side, so he had already traversed Central Park. Having no proper job (and I probably didn’t either at the time), he had very little money so we lunched on day-old bagels. We visited Leonard Bernstein’s office (where I saw my first Gold Record, as well as my second and a host of others), and walked and talked all the way down to the Village. We walked along Christopher Street and stopped in at a shop called “The Leatherman.” I’m not a leather person myself and I didn’t recall ever seeing Pres in anything not preppy. Pres seemed to be getting quieter. Finally he relaxed a bit. “I just figured out what’s wrong,” he told me. “I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t being cruised. It’s because I’m with you.” Ah, the other men weren’t checking him out and that had been worrying him. We weren’t holding hands or anything. My presence was enough to render him off-limits. I suppose that also explains why he went into the leather shop, to make himself a bit more visible. Then again, a man interested in black leather is not automatically gay.
We continued down to the Battery where Pres considered taking the Staten Island Ferry to look at Miss Liberty, because he was too cheap to actually ride on the one to Liberty Island.
Instead, we started home. We were probably heading straight up First Avenue to go to my apartment, because we made desultory plans to take a bus if it just happened to come by when we were near a stop. That never happened. We walked all the way back. The sun was starting to go down. This may not seem as much of an adventure to you, but look at a map of Manhattan and figure out how far we went. We were gone from ten in the morning until dusk with nothing to eat but lightly stale bagels.
Pres dropped me off at my apartment and then said he would walk back through Central Park to the West Side. “But it’s getting dark!” And I insisted he take a bus. I knew I was worn out. That was probably the beginning of my varicose veins. And Central Park is dangerous in the dark. He insisted he’d be fine. And it took another decade and AIDS to finally get Pres.
Pres had been a good friend. I had met him the summer he debated telling his parents he was gay. (He told me later his dad responded to the news with, "You know, I sort of suspected something, but I didn't want to say anything.") His parents had a place on Hilton Head and Pres had come up from Florida to stay with them a while. We met at an island disco, since that was all the rage at the time. He asked me if I thought he should tell his parents and I'm always for telling the truth. I had met his parents at that point (and worried that they were giving me the eye) and thought they were nice enough folk and could handle it.
He called me one day to tell me the cat was now officially out of the bag. Then he invited me over to their place for cocktails and dinner. It was my turn to feel awkward. I felt as if I had been party to some sort of deceit in being a cover for Pres's homosexuality. No, no, no, he told me, they liked me and would want to see me again. So I went.
Pres introduced me to many of my firsts: first time on a tandem bicycle, first time the handlebars of a bicycle, first time on some sort of cycle holding a glass with bourbon on the rocks and worrying that we would fall, the glass would break, and a large shard would go straight into my heart, first time in a Rolls Royce, first time in a car that may or may not have been Taken Without Consent (Pres was a doorman at the time at a posh downtown Boston hotel).
He told me that he was HIV positive the day he came to visit me after my accident. He said that if he developed AIDS he wanted to go back to Florida where it was warm. As it turned out, his mother cared for him and his partner until they died ... in Maine.
We continued down to the Battery where Pres considered taking the Staten Island Ferry to look at Miss Liberty, because he was too cheap to actually ride on the one to Liberty Island.
Instead, we started home. We were probably heading straight up First Avenue to go to my apartment, because we made desultory plans to take a bus if it just happened to come by when we were near a stop. That never happened. We walked all the way back. The sun was starting to go down. This may not seem as much of an adventure to you, but look at a map of Manhattan and figure out how far we went. We were gone from ten in the morning until dusk with nothing to eat but lightly stale bagels.
Pres dropped me off at my apartment and then said he would walk back through Central Park to the West Side. “But it’s getting dark!” And I insisted he take a bus. I knew I was worn out. That was probably the beginning of my varicose veins. And Central Park is dangerous in the dark. He insisted he’d be fine. And it took another decade and AIDS to finally get Pres.
Pres had been a good friend. I had met him the summer he debated telling his parents he was gay. (He told me later his dad responded to the news with, "You know, I sort of suspected something, but I didn't want to say anything.") His parents had a place on Hilton Head and Pres had come up from Florida to stay with them a while. We met at an island disco, since that was all the rage at the time. He asked me if I thought he should tell his parents and I'm always for telling the truth. I had met his parents at that point (and worried that they were giving me the eye) and thought they were nice enough folk and could handle it.
He called me one day to tell me the cat was now officially out of the bag. Then he invited me over to their place for cocktails and dinner. It was my turn to feel awkward. I felt as if I had been party to some sort of deceit in being a cover for Pres's homosexuality. No, no, no, he told me, they liked me and would want to see me again. So I went.
Pres introduced me to many of my firsts: first time on a tandem bicycle, first time the handlebars of a bicycle, first time on some sort of cycle holding a glass with bourbon on the rocks and worrying that we would fall, the glass would break, and a large shard would go straight into my heart, first time in a Rolls Royce, first time in a car that may or may not have been Taken Without Consent (Pres was a doorman at the time at a posh downtown Boston hotel).
He told me that he was HIV positive the day he came to visit me after my accident. He said that if he developed AIDS he wanted to go back to Florida where it was warm. As it turned out, his mother cared for him and his partner until they died ... in Maine.
Oh, what a silly bunt.
I have a friend, a dear, dear friend, who has a great story. Even though I'd dearly love to be, I can’t be the one to tell it. She's actually working it up for probable publication. My husband wondered if her version and mine would match and I said they would have to be pretty close because she doesn’t actually remember the incident and has to rely on my memory of it anyway. She can flesh it out, though. I will say that it involves a reasonably formal dinner party of mostly Harvard Law School Students, my friend and her Mormon boyfriend, using the Lord’s name in vain, and a crude, colloquial term for a particular area of a human female’s anatomy. And it wasn’t really funny at the time.
Monday, November 13, 2006
The Man Who Came to Dinner
I met many people at Harvard Law School during my Boston hiatus. One of them was a tall, lean, and muscular Austrian (accent on the lean) named Heinrich Willke. After graduating from Harvard, Heinrich was unwilling to go into the workaday world, so he started another advanced law degree at NYU. This put him in the part of town with the best falafel shop in the world. For 75 cents (in 1980s money) you got a great sandwich. Heinrich looked me up in New York and introduced me to The Best Falafel Sandwich. At that time a ride on the subway was 75 cents and then went up to 90. (Later I was worried that the Falafel sandwich price would go up with it, but it didn’t. )To repay Heinrich for treating me to The Best Falafel Sandwich (quite a stretch for him being a student and always short of cash), I invited him to dinner on a particular date about a week in the future.
Living in New York is exhausting. I used to say that one could not manage more than three errands in one day. Bit by bit I was accumulating all the things needed for dinner with Heinrich. I dragged home to the studio apartment one evening after work the chicken, which was going to be the centerpiece of the dinner. Sodas would be too heavy to carry along with the other groceries and I was leaving them for the last night. It was just too much to walk mixers back from 86th Street and Lexington with the groceries.
Fred was home for a change. He was having one of his simple dinners of popcorn and Coke. I had made the pie for dessert and was still running elaborate plans for the chicken through my head as I relaxed.
The buzzer went off.
Now, those of you who don’t live in New York City probably don’t realize that people do not just drop in on each other. Fred and I looked at each other. Then I got up and pressed the intercom. “Who is it?” I asked, tremulously. “Iph eye ncck.” Fred looked up at me. “Who is it?” “It sounds like … like Heinrich!” I whimpered. The intercoms are notorious for garbling just about anyone’s words, but I’d caught enough of it. “I thought he was coming tomorrow.” “Yeeeessss!” Fred didn’t bother to get up, but he held his next mouthful of popcorn poised in his hand.
This is one of those slo-mo-moments where time drags out, like that Einstein guy said. I hope it didn’t seem like the eternity it was to me to Heinrich. I buzzed him in.
“What are you going to do?” Fred asked.
“Have dinner,” I said.
Fred put his popcorn up and rushed around trying to find things that would go together (all we had for beverages was Fred’s open bottle of Coke, vodka, and a bottle of Château Neuf du Pape, which probably didn’t go with chicken, but would have to do) while I just fired up the oven and threw the chicken in a pan.
Heinrich came in and we served him lukewarm lashings of vodka and Coke, red wine, and plain baked chicken topped off with some sort of fruit pie probably.
To this day, as far as I know, Heinrich has no idea that he was not, in fact, a fashionable hour late, but 23 hours early. He may think that I am a terrible cook and an indifferent or disorganized hostess and he is free to think that rather than think he committed any sort of social gaff.
Living in New York is exhausting. I used to say that one could not manage more than three errands in one day. Bit by bit I was accumulating all the things needed for dinner with Heinrich. I dragged home to the studio apartment one evening after work the chicken, which was going to be the centerpiece of the dinner. Sodas would be too heavy to carry along with the other groceries and I was leaving them for the last night. It was just too much to walk mixers back from 86th Street and Lexington with the groceries.
Fred was home for a change. He was having one of his simple dinners of popcorn and Coke. I had made the pie for dessert and was still running elaborate plans for the chicken through my head as I relaxed.
The buzzer went off.
Now, those of you who don’t live in New York City probably don’t realize that people do not just drop in on each other. Fred and I looked at each other. Then I got up and pressed the intercom. “Who is it?” I asked, tremulously. “Iph eye ncck.” Fred looked up at me. “Who is it?” “It sounds like … like Heinrich!” I whimpered. The intercoms are notorious for garbling just about anyone’s words, but I’d caught enough of it. “I thought he was coming tomorrow.” “Yeeeessss!” Fred didn’t bother to get up, but he held his next mouthful of popcorn poised in his hand.
This is one of those slo-mo-moments where time drags out, like that Einstein guy said. I hope it didn’t seem like the eternity it was to me to Heinrich. I buzzed him in.
“What are you going to do?” Fred asked.
“Have dinner,” I said.
Fred put his popcorn up and rushed around trying to find things that would go together (all we had for beverages was Fred’s open bottle of Coke, vodka, and a bottle of Château Neuf du Pape, which probably didn’t go with chicken, but would have to do) while I just fired up the oven and threw the chicken in a pan.
Heinrich came in and we served him lukewarm lashings of vodka and Coke, red wine, and plain baked chicken topped off with some sort of fruit pie probably.
To this day, as far as I know, Heinrich has no idea that he was not, in fact, a fashionable hour late, but 23 hours early. He may think that I am a terrible cook and an indifferent or disorganized hostess and he is free to think that rather than think he committed any sort of social gaff.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
The Best Part
I can't believe I left this out. It didn't occur to me until the drive home from Greenville tonight.
One of the reasons I was extremely sorry I couldn't attend the bar mitzvah was the venue.
"You must come!" the mother told me. "It's at the Horn and Hardart."
"The Horn and Hardart?!" I exclaimed. "The bar mitzvah is at the automat?!"
They all nodded. "It's very nice," she told me, "they cater."
Oh, good. Somehow I was picturing putting quarters in slots.
One of the reasons I was extremely sorry I couldn't attend the bar mitzvah was the venue.
"You must come!" the mother told me. "It's at the Horn and Hardart."
"The Horn and Hardart?!" I exclaimed. "The bar mitzvah is at the automat?!"
They all nodded. "It's very nice," she told me, "they cater."
Oh, good. Somehow I was picturing putting quarters in slots.
Are You Jewish?
Temple and I decided that, like Jonathan Miller, we are only Jewish among anti-semites. The difference, of course, is that Miller is Jewish, although a famed rationalist/atheist. My answer, when I am asked, is "Does it matter?" If they say no, then I say I don't have to tell them because it doesn't matter. If they say it does matter, then I tell them I won't tell them because it shouldn't matter. This tortured the Wicked Step-Ex-Boyfriend for a while because he was considering the possibility of becoming the Wicked Step-Ex-Fiance. I gave in eventually only because I can't lie, although the look on his face because he couldn't quite be sure was priceless. I also gave in to the wife of a Presbyterian minister because she was looking for a Jewish person to explain things. Like what? Ritual cleansing? What's Kosher so you can have someone over for dinner? Why we killed your god? Key-rist!
Do I go around asking people what their affiliations are? I hope not.
You find out soon enough.
Do I go around asking people what their affiliations are? I hope not.
You find out soon enough.
The Shayner Yid
After New York I moved to Boston. After doing more theatre there than in New York, I applied for a job at a law firm. My dear, old friend from college, Temple Dickinson (who is not Jewish despite the name ... not that a sensible person would think so, but not all people are sensible and he used to get Hannukah cards from one of the other paralegals) told me that they were always looking for more paralegals at his firm to go through a huge document production in a massive national litigation. And, despite my connection with Temple, I was hired.
I met some great people, most of them a great deal younger than I was because they were either just out of college or on summer break from same. One of my favorites was Jere Beck. Jere was a paralegal who was desperate to write comedy. He would write small jokes on post-it notes and read them to us during break. I can't describe Jere without referring to his brother, who looked just like Elliot Gould. So, picture Elliot Gould shorter, slender, and very very blond with bluer than blue eyes. Jere was a nervous type. He literally exploded with laughter when he found something funny.
When Jere was young, his parents split up. He said it was all for the best because they fought constantly and lop-sidedly. His mother would yell and his father would shut down. He'd leave the room and she would follow him, keeping up her end of the argument. Unlike his other siblings, Jere took sides. His father, in his opinion, was wrong, dead wrong, and that was the end of the story. Being the nervous type myself, I can just imagine how painful that was to listen to.
Jere and I were friends, just friends. I was going through a fallow period on that front at that time, one of many, so I was used to it. One day he invited me over to watch a movie, one of his favorites. He was even going to drive me so either I didn't have to take the T or he wouldn't have to explain to me how to get to his place. Jere had a car ... in Boston. I was carfree since my move to New York. He said that his family was coming over. I had heard so much about them, I thought it could be interesting or stressful, but I picked interesting.
Because he drove me straight from work, we got to his place early. He had a lot to do to get ready, etc., so he asked if it would be all right to leave me in the living room alone. That was fine with me.
His mother showed up early. She was tall and pleasant, if a bit intense. Again I felt the eyes on me. Jere introduced us and went on with his mysterious tasks. His mother asked me what my name was again and how it was spelled. Then she asked me when my birthday was. I don't like giving out my birthday. I don't mind people knowing how old I am, but I don't like giving out the date. She was sweet but insistant and I got this bizarre idea that, like my old friend Kathy's mother use to do, she was going to have a private investigator check me out to make sure I was suitable and not just some ... blonde shikseh out for the family money. That didn't seem logical. Because Jere had sided with his mother, his father wouldn't give him any money. But I supposed Mrs. Beck didn't know I knew that. She took out a small pencil and a piece of paper and wrote it all down. Then, after studying it for a minute, she gave me a horoscope reading. Well, hot-damn! I can't tell you what a relief that was. I had been picturing trying to reassure her that I was not after Jere and our relationship was not like that (which inevitably leads to further explanations about how this could be despite the son in question being a "real catch").
Slowly, the rest of the family arrived. We all sat around the room and watched "The Coco-Cola Kid" - a movie that I wouldn't show my mother.
It seemed a rather odd evening, although I couldn't put my finger on it. Was I so imposing that Jere felt he needed his whole family on hand to keep the evening from looking like a date?
It was all explained the next day, although it didn't make me feel any better, when Jere thanked me for coming over.
"That was the first time my parents have been in the same room together without fighting since before the divorce," he told me. I was there to make sure they behaved themselves. He hadn't told me, of course, so that I wouldn't be nervous.
This is not unlike my elderly aunt Cordella not telling us that she intended to die on the trip we all went on to Europe in 1972. She told my mother this on the plane on the way back. "I wanted to die while I was doing something I loved," she said. My mother had cared for Cordella all through Europe, where locations were recalled by how many angina attacks she had, as in, "Oh, Salzburg, that's where I had three!" "Cordella!" my mother shouted over the airplane noise, "we wouldn't have known what to do with your body!" "Oh, that wouldn't have been a problem," she said, "I looked it up before we left." "But you didn't tell us!" my mother pointed out. "I didn't want you to worry," Cordella replied. "You couldn't have told us if you were dead!" she was told. Oh, she hadn't thought of that.
I met some great people, most of them a great deal younger than I was because they were either just out of college or on summer break from same. One of my favorites was Jere Beck. Jere was a paralegal who was desperate to write comedy. He would write small jokes on post-it notes and read them to us during break. I can't describe Jere without referring to his brother, who looked just like Elliot Gould. So, picture Elliot Gould shorter, slender, and very very blond with bluer than blue eyes. Jere was a nervous type. He literally exploded with laughter when he found something funny.
When Jere was young, his parents split up. He said it was all for the best because they fought constantly and lop-sidedly. His mother would yell and his father would shut down. He'd leave the room and she would follow him, keeping up her end of the argument. Unlike his other siblings, Jere took sides. His father, in his opinion, was wrong, dead wrong, and that was the end of the story. Being the nervous type myself, I can just imagine how painful that was to listen to.
Jere and I were friends, just friends. I was going through a fallow period on that front at that time, one of many, so I was used to it. One day he invited me over to watch a movie, one of his favorites. He was even going to drive me so either I didn't have to take the T or he wouldn't have to explain to me how to get to his place. Jere had a car ... in Boston. I was carfree since my move to New York. He said that his family was coming over. I had heard so much about them, I thought it could be interesting or stressful, but I picked interesting.
Because he drove me straight from work, we got to his place early. He had a lot to do to get ready, etc., so he asked if it would be all right to leave me in the living room alone. That was fine with me.
His mother showed up early. She was tall and pleasant, if a bit intense. Again I felt the eyes on me. Jere introduced us and went on with his mysterious tasks. His mother asked me what my name was again and how it was spelled. Then she asked me when my birthday was. I don't like giving out my birthday. I don't mind people knowing how old I am, but I don't like giving out the date. She was sweet but insistant and I got this bizarre idea that, like my old friend Kathy's mother use to do, she was going to have a private investigator check me out to make sure I was suitable and not just some ... blonde shikseh out for the family money. That didn't seem logical. Because Jere had sided with his mother, his father wouldn't give him any money. But I supposed Mrs. Beck didn't know I knew that. She took out a small pencil and a piece of paper and wrote it all down. Then, after studying it for a minute, she gave me a horoscope reading. Well, hot-damn! I can't tell you what a relief that was. I had been picturing trying to reassure her that I was not after Jere and our relationship was not like that (which inevitably leads to further explanations about how this could be despite the son in question being a "real catch").
Slowly, the rest of the family arrived. We all sat around the room and watched "The Coco-Cola Kid" - a movie that I wouldn't show my mother.
It seemed a rather odd evening, although I couldn't put my finger on it. Was I so imposing that Jere felt he needed his whole family on hand to keep the evening from looking like a date?
It was all explained the next day, although it didn't make me feel any better, when Jere thanked me for coming over.
"That was the first time my parents have been in the same room together without fighting since before the divorce," he told me. I was there to make sure they behaved themselves. He hadn't told me, of course, so that I wouldn't be nervous.
This is not unlike my elderly aunt Cordella not telling us that she intended to die on the trip we all went on to Europe in 1972. She told my mother this on the plane on the way back. "I wanted to die while I was doing something I loved," she said. My mother had cared for Cordella all through Europe, where locations were recalled by how many angina attacks she had, as in, "Oh, Salzburg, that's where I had three!" "Cordella!" my mother shouted over the airplane noise, "we wouldn't have known what to do with your body!" "Oh, that wouldn't have been a problem," she said, "I looked it up before we left." "But you didn't tell us!" my mother pointed out. "I didn't want you to worry," Cordella replied. "You couldn't have told us if you were dead!" she was told. Oh, she hadn't thought of that.
Tourist Haven
My cousin Marylynn Ginsburg in her Red Square dress (for her trip to Russia) which has no back took me to dinner at Tavern on the Green along with the Drummonds, her friends from Rancho Palos Verdes. Marylynn is the glamorous one in the family. I was apparently poor and in need of a good meal. That dress is just hanging off of me. Today Marylynn calls herself "sexy, single, and seventy." Not bad for a former farm girl!
Celebrity Impression
I have picked out some sunglasses in the Village. I bought two pairs that day from a street vendor.
Washington Square
The Drummonds (friends of my cousin Marylynn) doing the "model walk" with me in Washington Square, 21 April 1985. I am back to being the (dirty) blonde shikseh after having red hair for a couple of years.
Eponymous
For three years I lived in Manhattan. I am originally from New York state (an upstate hick), but my family had been steadily moving southward until we wound up in the southeasternmost corner of South Carolina. After a number of years of being a big fish in a little pond, I decided to go somewhere where nobody knew my name. I moved to New York City.
New York is a city full of stories, they just need someone with some flair to write them. I don't have that, I only have the stories. This is my favorite.
I was living in the worst apartment building on 82nd street on the Upper East Side, a mere block or two from actual luxury at either end. It was a studio apartment with a former boyfriend as the leaseholder. That's another story.
I was out late on a Saturday morning to pick up some things from the grocery store. I had one of those ubiquitous two-wheeled carts and, for a change, I had gone to the smaller grocery east of us instead of the Grand Union with the enormous pear out front on 86th. Living on a shoestring, I was always looking for a bargain somewhere. To get there, I had to pass a large apartment building with a lobby and doormen. I was on my way back, with a full cart when I was stopped by an attractive but snappish young man who was looking for a deli. "Not what they have in there," he indicated jerking his head at the grocery, "a real deli where I can get a sandwich." I knew just such a place. There was a great deli on Second Avenue. I directed him westward and gave him the particulars of the place. He was so grateful, but still snappish, that he asked if I would like to go.
It was still early for lunch, I had to take the groceries back to the apartment, and this was a stranger who accosted me on the street, so of course I said I'd go. We strolled back up 82nd Street to my drab apartment building and he started telling me about how he came to be looking for a deli (so unsuccessfully) at that hour.
"I'm here for my cousin's son's bar mitzvah," he told me. It was his job to give the opening blessing. Andrew (let's call him that because I promise I can never remember names) had taken the early train in from Boston. He was interning at the JFK School of Government at Harvard. That was nice. I had a friend at Harvard Law School. I went up there occasionally to see him. When he got to his cousin's apartment building, he couldn't get upstairs. The intercom system was down and the Nazi doormen were unable to reach his cousin. So there he was, hungry and nowhere to go.
We reached my building and he offered to carry the cart upstairs. I said he could help, but that it wasn't that heavy, but he insisted on carrying. On the way up the stairs he told me it was the first time he'd picked anything up since he'd had the casts removed from his arms. Hmm, I thought, he's starting the Guilt Thing early. "Casts?" I asked. Yeah, he did gymnastics and was working out on the rings when he snapped both his forearms. I looked him over. I'd seen male gymnasts before and none of them were that tall.
I unlocked the door, hoping my roommate, Fred, would be up. He had just gotten up (he worked on Broadway, keeping late hours), but the sofabed was still out and he hadn't dressed. Fred had an impressive physique from the waist up, but no ass. His chest was covered in mounds of hair of three different colors. He had a carefully trimmed beard. He was wearing tiny silken trunks and no makeup. I told him we had company. I explained to Andrew that as Fred and I had once dated, he felt it his duty to vet all my male companions. His excuse was that People Knew that we lived together and if they saw me out with someone else, they'd wonder why I wasn't with him. So, my male companions had to pass inspection. Fred looked him up and down as I put away the groceries and explained that we had met on the street and were going to the Second Avenue Deli for a sandwich. Fred then said Andrew looked "okay."
As we left the apartment building, Andrew decided that he would try his cousin one more time. We walked east to the fancy-shmancy building and when we got inside, the doorman explained that they had been able to reach his cousin by contacting someone else on that floor and he was to go right up. Andrew then explained he was going to leave me in the lobby. My recollection of the lobby was that it was pretty large and modern with lots of white marble. Andrew was leaving me there because if his cousin knew I was there, I'd be invited upstairs. If I went upstairs they would invite me to the bar mitzvah. If I went to the bar mitzvah, for the rest of his life Andrew would hear about the Time He Brought the Blonde Shikseh to his Cousin's Bar Mitzvah.
That was fine with me. The bar mitzvah was that afternoon and I had other plans. It was a shame, because I'd never been to a bar mitzvah and it would probably make a good story. Whatever I was doing was something I couldn't get out of because I remember being disappointed. Andrew left me in the lobby and I pulled off my mittens and undid my coat and scarf to wait. He was gone a very long time. When he finally reappeared, he explained that he was almost unable to get away at all. The only way he escaped was he had to admit that he had someone waiting downstairs for him. Now, of course, they had to meet me. There was no way out. He went all Dennis Leary on me, bent over, gesticulating, and running his hands through his hair.
We got on the elevator while he coached me.
"I'm really sorry, but if they invite you to the bar mitzvah, tell them you have something else to do this afternoon."
"I do have something else to do," I said.
"They're going to insist," he added, all stressed out.
"It's fine. I have some other commitment."
"And if they ask you, your last name is Schwartz!" he groaned.
Tch, such misery! Why all the tsimmis?
In the apartment, I was surrounded by the whole family. The women had their hair coiffed and protected by toilet paper swaths (as my mother used to do), but, like the men, they were in jeans and shirts. I was introduced all around as "Marf," something Andrew considered to be neutral. Their hungry eyes were on me and it occurred to me that, being in his late 20s, Andrew was being pressured to bring home possible marriage material.
They wanted us to stay and eat there, but Andrew squashed that one.
They invited me to the bar mitzvah and I told them truthfully that I would love to go, but I had a prior engagement.
Andrew extricated us as quickly as was politely possible and we walked silently to the elevator. Inside the elevator he sighed and relaxed and I, unable to contain myself any longer, burst out laughing.
"What's so damn funny?" he asked.
"Schwartz," I said.
"It was all I could think of. It's a good thing they didn't ask."
"You don't even know my last name!" I said.
"Well, what is it?"
"Shopmyer."
"Oh hell, " he said, somewhere half-past relief, "that would have passed."
New York is a city full of stories, they just need someone with some flair to write them. I don't have that, I only have the stories. This is my favorite.
I was living in the worst apartment building on 82nd street on the Upper East Side, a mere block or two from actual luxury at either end. It was a studio apartment with a former boyfriend as the leaseholder. That's another story.
I was out late on a Saturday morning to pick up some things from the grocery store. I had one of those ubiquitous two-wheeled carts and, for a change, I had gone to the smaller grocery east of us instead of the Grand Union with the enormous pear out front on 86th. Living on a shoestring, I was always looking for a bargain somewhere. To get there, I had to pass a large apartment building with a lobby and doormen. I was on my way back, with a full cart when I was stopped by an attractive but snappish young man who was looking for a deli. "Not what they have in there," he indicated jerking his head at the grocery, "a real deli where I can get a sandwich." I knew just such a place. There was a great deli on Second Avenue. I directed him westward and gave him the particulars of the place. He was so grateful, but still snappish, that he asked if I would like to go.
It was still early for lunch, I had to take the groceries back to the apartment, and this was a stranger who accosted me on the street, so of course I said I'd go. We strolled back up 82nd Street to my drab apartment building and he started telling me about how he came to be looking for a deli (so unsuccessfully) at that hour.
"I'm here for my cousin's son's bar mitzvah," he told me. It was his job to give the opening blessing. Andrew (let's call him that because I promise I can never remember names) had taken the early train in from Boston. He was interning at the JFK School of Government at Harvard. That was nice. I had a friend at Harvard Law School. I went up there occasionally to see him. When he got to his cousin's apartment building, he couldn't get upstairs. The intercom system was down and the Nazi doormen were unable to reach his cousin. So there he was, hungry and nowhere to go.
We reached my building and he offered to carry the cart upstairs. I said he could help, but that it wasn't that heavy, but he insisted on carrying. On the way up the stairs he told me it was the first time he'd picked anything up since he'd had the casts removed from his arms. Hmm, I thought, he's starting the Guilt Thing early. "Casts?" I asked. Yeah, he did gymnastics and was working out on the rings when he snapped both his forearms. I looked him over. I'd seen male gymnasts before and none of them were that tall.
I unlocked the door, hoping my roommate, Fred, would be up. He had just gotten up (he worked on Broadway, keeping late hours), but the sofabed was still out and he hadn't dressed. Fred had an impressive physique from the waist up, but no ass. His chest was covered in mounds of hair of three different colors. He had a carefully trimmed beard. He was wearing tiny silken trunks and no makeup. I told him we had company. I explained to Andrew that as Fred and I had once dated, he felt it his duty to vet all my male companions. His excuse was that People Knew that we lived together and if they saw me out with someone else, they'd wonder why I wasn't with him. So, my male companions had to pass inspection. Fred looked him up and down as I put away the groceries and explained that we had met on the street and were going to the Second Avenue Deli for a sandwich. Fred then said Andrew looked "okay."
As we left the apartment building, Andrew decided that he would try his cousin one more time. We walked east to the fancy-shmancy building and when we got inside, the doorman explained that they had been able to reach his cousin by contacting someone else on that floor and he was to go right up. Andrew then explained he was going to leave me in the lobby. My recollection of the lobby was that it was pretty large and modern with lots of white marble. Andrew was leaving me there because if his cousin knew I was there, I'd be invited upstairs. If I went upstairs they would invite me to the bar mitzvah. If I went to the bar mitzvah, for the rest of his life Andrew would hear about the Time He Brought the Blonde Shikseh to his Cousin's Bar Mitzvah.
That was fine with me. The bar mitzvah was that afternoon and I had other plans. It was a shame, because I'd never been to a bar mitzvah and it would probably make a good story. Whatever I was doing was something I couldn't get out of because I remember being disappointed. Andrew left me in the lobby and I pulled off my mittens and undid my coat and scarf to wait. He was gone a very long time. When he finally reappeared, he explained that he was almost unable to get away at all. The only way he escaped was he had to admit that he had someone waiting downstairs for him. Now, of course, they had to meet me. There was no way out. He went all Dennis Leary on me, bent over, gesticulating, and running his hands through his hair.
We got on the elevator while he coached me.
"I'm really sorry, but if they invite you to the bar mitzvah, tell them you have something else to do this afternoon."
"I do have something else to do," I said.
"They're going to insist," he added, all stressed out.
"It's fine. I have some other commitment."
"And if they ask you, your last name is Schwartz!" he groaned.
Tch, such misery! Why all the tsimmis?
In the apartment, I was surrounded by the whole family. The women had their hair coiffed and protected by toilet paper swaths (as my mother used to do), but, like the men, they were in jeans and shirts. I was introduced all around as "Marf," something Andrew considered to be neutral. Their hungry eyes were on me and it occurred to me that, being in his late 20s, Andrew was being pressured to bring home possible marriage material.
They wanted us to stay and eat there, but Andrew squashed that one.
They invited me to the bar mitzvah and I told them truthfully that I would love to go, but I had a prior engagement.
Andrew extricated us as quickly as was politely possible and we walked silently to the elevator. Inside the elevator he sighed and relaxed and I, unable to contain myself any longer, burst out laughing.
"What's so damn funny?" he asked.
"Schwartz," I said.
"It was all I could think of. It's a good thing they didn't ask."
"You don't even know my last name!" I said.
"Well, what is it?"
"Shopmyer."
"Oh hell, " he said, somewhere half-past relief, "that would have passed."
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