Friday, February 25, 2011

Mike's "Puffy Shirt" According to Girl


Mike’s "Puffy Shirt" according to Girl: The 60s were all about style. We believed in ourselves, and that style involved young groovy kids living their lives beyond the establishment.

Mike and I were not much different; we rode the wave of the movement. We, with the other baby boomers unleashed our creativity. We had ideas, we made soap in garages and computers in the basement and when our generation’s minds were not blown, we came up with lyrics and melodies that would play in elevators for the next fifty years.
We were the hippie generation. We defied convention. We were good kids, liked by the mainstream. It was so much fun to let our hair grow long, not wear a bra, shop for trendy clothes and dress like the mannequins along Fifth Avenue.
The designers follow the kids. I believe that the cyclical world of design will always look to the young first for the fresh and new, whether it be denim shapes and styles, tattoos, to use or not to use fur, to use color or to cast in black and white. Then, it intertwines what is seen with what has been tucked away in the attic trunks, thereby coming up with the inspiration and creations for the windows along Fashion Avenue.


Mike and I were invited to a wedding. Not your normal wedding, this was Tom’s special day. Tom, our very good friend had met a girl from Lancaster (Pennsylvania).
Tom had introduced Mike to me. Even though he was rather crazy about me, I treated him like a brother (which meant I treated him pretty much like crap). He was a year older than I. He had curly brown hair, and was just a little overweight. He had a deep voice and wore thick glasses.
Tom was such a good guy, moms and grandmothers both insisted he was the perfect catch for a girl looking for a husband. I really liked him, but not for a husband. We were so close it would be like kissing my brother. Yuck!
He was a great big brother. He took our church’s youth group (which included me) bowling, out for pizza, and just about every place else that required a car to get to. He was the wheels for the five or six of us that loved to just hang out.
Well, Mike and Tom met in college. They became good friends as well.
So, when I grabbed the mail that spring day in Glendale, I went bounding up the steps with the invitation. It was white on white with the little tissue and reply card all in its place. I was so very happy to hear the good news. We immediately got out the maps, called up the trains, and began to birth an adventure for a spring weekend trip to Pennsylvania. When a friend sends an invitation to something special in his life, and it is possible to attend, the only right thing to do is to say "yes."

We made arrangements for the long day. I got off work, and we talked Charlie Jr. (our landlord’s son) into feeding and walking our dogs. We purchased our Amtrak tickets, and sent back our RSVP. The only thing left was what we should wear. And this is where the plot thickens.

 
We decided on Barney’s. This was one of the most innovative fashion
retail stores in New York. Their slogan was "No Bunk, No Junk and No Imitations." When Barney pawned his wife’s engagement ring for $500 back in 1923, little did he realize that he would be called the amazing marketer of the city, offering free parking, women in barrels handing out matches, and charter boats to take customers to Coney Island. By the time the 70s arrived, he stocked over 60,000 suits by all of the major designers.
I met Mike in the city. We grabbed our credit card for this trip. The plan was to meet at 660 Madison Ave. I waited under the red awning, looking at the window displays. As I studied the latest in designer fashion, I caught Mike’s reflection in the window. He had walked up and was standing behind me. He leaned down and whispered in my ear that he hated shopping. He just wanted to find something in the window, go in the store and buy it. He did not even want to try it on first, nor did he want to first look through racks and shelves to find the perfect outfit. He said what was good enough for the mannequin was good enough for him.
I thought to myself, this was not shopping.
I wondered at the reasoning, but, what the heck, we were buying guy’s clothes. I was completely and positively out of my element.

We looked at the middle window and saw a wide-collared suit paired with an interesting Versace-style ruffled shirt. It actually had the look of the blue eyed soul from the Rascals. It could have been worn on stage by the bad boys of rock and roll—Paul Revere and the Raiders, or even Mick Jagger. This was the perfect outfit for Mike.
The acquisition was made. The boxes were under our arms, we headed home that evening, pleased at our success.
Mike looked fabulous; we made it to the wedding on time. Tom and his bride were in love and the world was a better place because of it.
On the train home late that evening, I was so pleased with the day as well as our style. A young boy came running up to ask us for our autographs, I think we may have given him the impression that we were rock stars. Looking good and feeling groovy!

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Chapter 5: Mike's "Puffy Shirt"


According to Boy: The episode was first broadcast on September 23rd, 1993. It was known as Seinfeld’s "Puffy Shirt Episode." In it Kramer, Elaine and Jerry discuss a puffy shirt that Jerry unwittingly agrees to wear during a TV interview. Leslie, the resident "low-talker," got him to agree to it by talking so low that Jerry did not hear what she was saying. And Jerry, always trying to be nice, nodded his head in agreement to her inaudible request.

Well, I had my own "Puffy Shirt." The year was 1968—puffy shirts were popular back then, at least in Greenwich Village. Actually, it really wasn’t a puffy shirt. It was more like a "ruffle shirt." It was light green with long sleeves. I am not sure from what material it was made, but I suspect it was not totally cotton—it did not breathe, and it had to be dry cleaned.
Shirts such as this were pretty common back in the early 70s. You could expect to find someone such as Bob Dylan or Jim Morrison wearing one on the cover of a record album (perhaps even a 1970 Mick Jagger wannabe named "Mike"). No one could actually perform under the lights wearing such a shirt, however—no ventilation.
The cuffs were longer than most shirts, with a ruffle that extended almost another inch past the end of the sleeves, reaching well onto the thumb. There were two rows of vertical ruffles on each side of the front, with no breast pockets. These ruffles started at the shoulders, and ended just above the belt. The shirt could be tucked in, or could be worn out. The collar was standard, so it could be worn with a tie. But I doubt that anyone ever did such a thing. I wore the shirt for a dress-up look, usually with denim bells.


My wardrobe was very basic in 1968. I had a couple Brooks Brothers pinstripe suites, and a lot of hole-riddled jeans. I had little to wear outside those two extremes. So, when we were preparing to go to a mutual friend’s wedding (Tom Thompson’s), I had a bit of a difficult time deciding what to wear. I knew I did not want to wear a business suit, so that left the ruffle shirt and bells. Evie thought it would be fine.
Initially that seemed the natural thing to do. Tom already knew that Evie and I were hippies. He wouldn’t be shocked. What we didn’t take into account was the location of the wedding—Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
When we first got on the Amtrak, all seemed well. There were a lot of people on the train that looked like us. However, the more stops we made, the more we seemed to stand out—especially I stood out.
People would get off the train, and others would get on. Soon nearly half of the passengers were wearing basic black and white. Parents would walk by us, and their children would point at me. It was too late to turn back, and there was nowhere to hide.
Just as we were leaving the train station, one little boy walked past us with his parents and baby sister. He pointed at my ruffle shirt and said, "Dad, look at that."
"Yes, Son, that’s a "sissy dresser," the father said matter-of-factly.

So, that was me—the sissy dresser. I thought I was Mick Jagger, but that Lancaster family probably had never heard of the Rolling Stones. I knew at that moment that this could easily be one of the worst days of my life.
Evie sensed my discomfort. She said something like this: "No one knows us here except Tom Thompson, and he is just going to be happy that we came. Besides, we will give him something to talk about." That helped, the rest of the trip went pretty well.
I have often wondered if that little boy might have been Jerry Seinfeld. Why not? Perhaps I am the source for his aversion to Leslie’s puffy shirt. Could be, I think. He didn’t want to be a sissy dresser. But, being the brave soul and gentleman that he is, he sucked it up and wore the stupid shirt.
That episode of Seinfeld became a classic, to the degree that in November, 2004, Jerry’s famous puffy shirt was accepted by the Smithsonian. How wonderful for him. My earlier version found no more than an ignominious demise in a trash can the day we moved from the Village.
My only regret (regarding that ruffle shirt) was that I did not save it for my children to see. They even had a difficult time believing that their parents actually ever wore bells.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

The Real Skinny: "Pretty much on the same page"

The Real Skinny (according to Boy): Boy and Girl were pretty much on the same page on this one. Certain details were confused. When the stories diverge, most likely Boy was more correct. That seems likely because his role was the more active one in the story of the shirt. Obviously, Girl ad-libbed the bit about FedEx, as that company was incorporated thirty years after this story unfolded. For the most part, Girl had to base her memories of the shirt on what Boy said through the years. (I have now learned that while "FedEx Corporation" was incorporated in 2000, "Federal Express" has existed since 1973 or 1974. So, I supposed you could say that Girl was right about that too.)

Evie Work Mike's Shirt, According to Girl

Evie wore Mike’s shirt according to Girl: I think it was made into a poster. It was a black and white photo blown up to lifesize, featuring brown eyes staring directly at the camera, a magical smile and a messy head of dark brown hair. Of course in the black and white world, my hair looked black with tender curls of sunlit hair framing my face with the window behind me, the daylight backlit the "wispies" just as an artist would brush on his canvas.



Mike was a great photographer back then (and still is today). We can be walking along, and he will say, "Hey, Ev, this would make a good shot." So I point and shoot a digital, and I sell it online.
During those New York years Mike shot black and white with his Nikon. Photography back then was not forgiving. You had to send the film off for developing. When it came back, you then selected the negative you wished to be transformed into a picture.
So, as the poster boldly shouted, this girl was wearing only a light blue shirt, mostly unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up. Because the picture was in black and white, the light blue of the shirt was contrasted only slightly by her ivory skin, in the soft gray of the morning sky, just before the sunrise.

This is the shirt I remember. This is the shirt I wore for an entire weekend. I slept in this shirt, I made love in this shirt, I toasted champagne dreams with our paper cups, in this shirt, and I had pizza in this shirt. Finally, it was in this shirt that I became the poster child for Mike.
After heading back to Michigan, this shirt was what I left. This was the part of me that Mike would remember. It belonged to him, but became bigger than both of us; it was the memories in the shirt that continued to keep our love alive.

He took my negative from the Nikon, sent it to the lab. It was about six weeks before the poster arrived from FedEx. Meanwhile, Mike did not send that special shirt to the laundry with his other shirts.
That shirt was what dreams were made of. It was the faint scent of Evie and Estee Lauder that Mike loved.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Chapter 4 - Evie Wore Mike's Shirt


According to Boy: The shirt in question—white, button-down collar, starched, not stirred. Wait! Why did I say that? The shirt Evie wore was one of my dress shirts. You should have seen her. She spent the whole weekend in it, and we spent the whole weekend in bed. It was her first trip to New York to see me.

I had anticipated this weekend for weeks. We had made love before—once or twice in Grand Rapids. I knew the first time that I looked into her deep brown eyes that she was something special, and that I would love her forever. I remember well our first kiss, the sweetness of her wet mouth.
I do believe that I loved her even before we met. Evie was everything I had ever imagined a girl being. She was the girl that my mother talked about when I was young. Mom said I should find a beautiful girl; that a beautiful girl would make me happy. That’s what Evie was. But she was more than beautiful. Evie could make me laugh, and she always listened to what I had to say, and she even laughed at my jokes. What a totally perfect person!
As I remember it, we actually did spend almost the whole weekend in bed. We would get up a bit, go out and get something to eat. Then come back to the hotel. Evie had not brought pajamas—at least that is what she said. So, she found one of my shirts, rolled up the sleeves, and that’s what she wore.
When she left, I was devastated. I missed her beyond measure. My first night alone, I could not sleep. I got up, and wrote her a poem. About 2 a.m. I tried again to sleep—still without success. I got up again, and went into the bathroom. As I walked in, I smelled her. "How could that be?" I wondered.
I looked down and spotted my laundry bag. As I lifted it, the familiar smell grew stronger. I loosened the cord at the top, and opened it up. There it was—the shirt that Evie had worn during her entire visit. I took it out. The smell was powerful. I got excited just touching it. I brought it to my face, and buried my entire head in it. "Oh, my God! That’s her."
It was an intoxicating mixture of Estee Lauder Youth Dew, sweat, and love making—three days’ (and nights’) worth. I stood there with that shirt in my hand for an eternity. Finally, I carried that shirt to bed with me, folded it up, and placed it on my pillow. It was almost as though I had Evie in bed with me, and I went to sleep.
The next night, I went to bed as I would normally, but now with that shirt on my pillow. It still smelled just like Evie.
I did this for two weeks. My roommate eventually asked what that shirt was doing on my pillow. I was too embarrassed to explain. This had become an obsession. I should get a ticket and go back to Grand Rapids, or fly Evie out to New York. I did not bother to explain what the deal was with the shirt, I just tossed it in the laundry, and made my travel plans.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

The Real Skinny (According to Boy)

The real skinny (according to Boy): Both of us shared similar memories of the bar at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Evie obviously remembers what she ordered. I am not that certain what I ordered. It is likely that she gets closer to what really happened that evening than do I. If she ordered something other than a beer, I probably ordered a Scotch and soda, as that was the only cocktail that I came close to liking. We probably did leave shortly after arriving. I doubt that she would have been able to drink a Rye on the Rocks, so we would have wanted to move along. Regarding Evie’s statement about the long history of the Fifth Avenue Hotel—while its past certainly is storied, on a recent visit to the address we were surprised to find that it was no longer a hotel. It now houses condos. Because we were not able to get inside, we do not know the status of the bar. But my guess is that it is still there. Maybe we can get in and investigate on one of our future trips to our city.

Bar at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, According to Girl


Bar at the Fifth Avenue Hotel according to Girl: Like a page from the historical novels of David McCullough, this little bit of history had been there for years before we graced New York, and will continue to thrive in the educational and wealthy widow community long after we are gone.

Plush, brick colored tapestries covered the walls; heavy drapery softened and quieted the street noises, covered with an elegant Fleur de leis design and braided gold ropes that pulled the outer drapery from the soft cream colored sheers on the fourteen foot windows. The floors were hardwood, dark, a Jacobean color, matching the edge of the bar and the wood parts of the leather stools, pulled up much like soldiers in formation, waiting for the next command.
A brass rail circled the empty bar.
We had been in Mike’s room much of the day, and by late afternoon, he suggested we go down to the bar for a drink.


Cheryl (a best friend of our daughter Meredith) lived in a house across from a cemetery. Down the street from her was a lonely house. We always thought that someone lived there; but we never knew for certain. At night the faint glow of lights shined through drawn curtains, and then they would be switched off at 9 p.m. But that was it. The rest of the time the house appeared to be uninhabited—the grass was never cut, the snow was never shoveled. Cheryl’s comment about the spooky house was, "Nobody ever goes in, and nobody ever comes out."


This, I must say, was the perfect description of the tiny bar next to the front desk there at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. It was empty, all the time. I really could not say that from personal experience, but I heard, from my sources that it was never frequented.
So, we slipped into street clothes, headed downstairs, and found a stool. It looked clean, the bottles were dusted, the glasses sparkled, the counter glistened, and the bartender looked at us like we were from another planet. We had interrupted his Wall Street Journal reading. As he sized us up from over the top of his tortoise shell reading glasses, he looked past us, into the beyond as he asked for our order. Now, I was not sure what to order, however I had just read The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. In his story, the bad boy hero smokes and drinks his way around New York. So, I just came up with Rye on the Rocks. It sounded sophisticated and upper class; just sort of rolling off my tongue. Obviously, I had no clue what I was doing.
Well, it was nasty, I choked a bit down. Coughed and sputtered like a baby. We left a ten on the bar for both drinks and the tip, and decided to find something else to do on that fine afternoon.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Chapter 3 - Bar at Fifth Avenue Hotel


According to Boy: When I was in Bible College in Springfield (Missouri) I found little out-of-the-way bars intriguing. However, when I moved to New York, they lost their charm for me. In fact, unless Evie was visiting, I never went to a club or a bar. The lone exception to that rule was the bar on the first floor of the hotel where I lived in early 1968, the Fifth Avenue Hotel.


The hotel was located at 24 Fifth Avenue—on the northwest corner of Fifth Avenue and 9th Street. It was a fine hotel, by most standards. There were a large number of wealthy old people who lived there. They did not approve of the university students, but they tolerated us.
I think almost every paying tenant at the Fifth Avenue Hotel was long term—old people and students. I don’t recall seeing any salesman types wander through. It was probably for that reason the bar at the hotel was nearly always empty.
Technically it was a piano bar. It had a beautiful, shiny Steinway Grand; but no one ever played it. There was, however, an exception to this rule. One evening as I walked through the lobby, I heard this amazing sound coming out of the bar. I stopped in my tracks, and headed over to get a peek.
Sitting at the piano was this old man, and he was playing the Blues. He had a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the top of the piano, right beside his gin and tonic. The ashtray was half full.
That night I was not the only person who had wandered in to see what was going on. While normally there would be three to five patrons,
on this night there must have been fifteen. My initial thought was that this could be fun, so I took my books up to my room, and brushed my teeth. I then headed down to my newly discovered piano bar.
I don’t know what I ordered, but I think it was probably a beer. That figures, because I really did not like the taste of the standard drinks, such as Scotch or Bourbon. I did not have any idea what a Martini tasted like. Beer was safe; I knew I liked beer.
Even though there were tables available, I chose to sit at the bar. There is just something less lonely looking about a guy sitting at the bar, as opposed to a fellow sitting alone at a table.
I probably sat there enjoying the music for two or three beers. Finally, Mr. Blues Piano Man gathered up the money that grateful patrons had laid on his piano, and he waved a goodbye to the bartender. Within five minutes almost everyone left, including me.

A short time later Evie came out to visit. I had rented her a room at the hotel. On the evening of the second day I told her about this great piano bar at the hotel, and suggested we go down for a while. When we walked in, we noticed that no one was playing the piano, and that there were only a handful of people there, all sitting at the bar. We took a table.

Evie and I each ordered a beer, and talked. We were very good at talking. The longer we sat there, the more obvious it became that this was the loneliest bar in Manhattan—Evie was the only female in the place.
We finished the beer, and decided to hit the Village. I think that might have been the night we discovered what was to become our favorite hangout: a little bar called "The Back Fence."
From that day on every time Evie would come out to visit, we would always hit that little intimate club. It was a hoot. Something was always going on. Evie and I would sit there sometimes for a couple hours, drinking, kissing, and listening to live folk artists.

I often thought about that little boring piano bar at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Had it been cool at all, we might never have ventured over to The Back Fence, the Village Gate, or any of the other great little clubs in the West Village.
Damn, life is good! And one of the best things about it is that you really can go back—at least now that they have turned the Village Gate back into an intimate little nightclub.
And when you can’t actually go back physically, you can write about it—sometimes that can be twice as good.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

The Real Skinny: "It Was Magic"

The real skinny (according to Boy): As usual, Evie got some things right, and some wrong. One thing she got entirely right was her exuberance about traveling to New York. She was excited. However, in the forty plus years we have been married, I could count on one hand (not counting thumb or pinky) the number of times I have ever seen her not at the top of her game. She is an incredibly happy person. She has truly made my life wonderful. To this day, when we get in the car to head to the airport for a trip, she puts her emotions into a higher gear. She is a joy to travel with.
 
Of course, she was correct when she wrote that I was a "cute guy"; but she was wrong when she referred to me as a "brilliant scholar." That was just not the case. I was a very good student, but not a brilliant scholar—the two are very different. I suppose you could say I had her fooled a little bit.

I’m glad I was the one who drew the task of writing the "Real Skinny" on her first trip to New York. I think I have read her take on it five times tonight—I’m getting really excited.

And, she is right about a couple more things. I am sure I was smiling when I looked at her at the top of the escalator. I doubt that I have ever been able to look at her without smiling. And, I did arrive at the airport early enough to find the best place to greet her. I wanted to watch her descend to me. It was magic.

Evie's First Visit To New York, According to Girl

Evie’s first visit to New York according to Girl: United Airlines was happy to have me on that big silver bird that day, I was so very excited to be leaving the great state of Michigan, with the lake effect overcast days, and endless waves of clouds and dreariness.
My mind raced as I realized that I was about to take off. Back in the 60s the stewardesses were nice, they were impeccably dressed, nails painted, with sparkling white teeth behind their Miss America smiles. They were there to offer me tea, coffee, donuts or whatever my heart desired.
It did not matter what they were offering because my heart desired someone 700 miles away in New York. I could picture him waiting for me to get off that plane. As the jets started their typical noisy winding up, my heart was winding up as well. I sat back in my seat. I am sure I had a big smile on my face, as I allowed the rush of the runway takeoff to take my breath away. I was ecstatic. First the front of the plane lifted off, then the rear. As the plane continued to climb to the top of the clouds I felt my heart lose touch with the mundane of Michigan. I was ready to start a new adventure.

Mom and Dad were wonderful parents, but when I got to be 20ish, I knew it was time to make my own life. I packed lightly, because I did not want to have to explain where I was going. I parked my 1965 buttercup yellow mustang at the airport, pulled out my bag, wearing the brown boots that matched my medium length "unstyled" brown hair, denim jacket, and all of the mascara and eyeliner that I could possibly put on. That was my style. I knew that New York and I would hit it off just fine. It was, after all, the days of flower children—happy little kids, not wanting to quite grow up, but, wanting all of the fun that grownups have. That defined me pretty well.

The two hour trip from Grand Rapids to LaGuardia went much too slowly for me. I needed to see my guy. He was so very intriguing—a brilliant scholar, and very cute. And, he was from South Haven (Michigan).
I remembered that an acquaintance had once told me that South Haven is known for really cute guys—and she was right. Mike was tan, tall and handsome. He was very opinionated. He knew what he liked, and what he didn’t like. He could discuss politics, good books, writing, religion, and he had a lot of just practical knowledge. Once he even took the plumbing apart at a hotel just to retrieve my contacts (but that’s another story).

Mike and I just hit it off. He could make me laugh. We could sit by each other for hours and not say a word. We liked the same things—corny movies, popcorn, pizza, Perry Mason, and just about everything else.


We had been writing feverishly back and forth for the past year. Sometimes the letters were goofy, sometimes they were serious; but they were all "really missing you" letters.
It was a long year to be away from each other. The days of undergraduate school were gone for both of us—I had spent the past year working third shift in a factory, and Mike had been granted a graduate fellowship to attend New York University.
I liked to work, but that job did not excite me. The company I worked for did send me to soldering school. When I finished my training my first job was soldering circuit boards for the landing gear on Lear jets. Wisely, when my supervisor discovered that too many of my soldering joints were a mess, he transferred me to a clean room, third shift, no supervision, welding and sandblasting under a microscope.
It was nice to be trusted and on my own; however, I did not want to spend the rest of my life there. Most of the other women in the factory were wrinkled smokers, divorced and unhappy. Their life at the bar after work was all they got up for. That was not for me. So I worked hard, saved money, and put in my time thinking about a better future. I would take my entire lunch and break time to compose almost a letter a night to my love. I would even paint flowers or hearts and decorate the envelope, using pink and green markers and ink to make that girly statement. Mike loved it, even if the post office and mailman found it hard to decipher where to deliver my letters.



With my memories of the past year whirling through my mind, all of a sudden I felt the plane descend. "Oh my gosh, it won’t be long now." The stewardess (now known as a "flight attendant") reminded us all to get back to our seats and make sure our seatbelts were buckled, because we would be landing in twenty minutes. The plane was slowing down and from my window seat (I have always liked the windows). I could see the skyline of New York, the Empire State Building, Yankee Stadium, and Central Park. There was no World Trade Center yet; but the granite and concrete of that big rock called Manhattan was getting closer.
LaGuardia, I later learned, was actually in Queens. I did not understand all the intricacies associated with the five-borough concept, the islands that made up the city, the government, the politics, the laws, the dangers or the wonderful ethnicity of this great city. I did not even notice that the landing approach at LaGuardia airport was built out over the water. And as I look back, it did not even worry me that it looked like we would be piloted into the drink. Nope, I was trying to picture what his expression would be when he first caught a glimpse of me.

The wonderful pilot landed the plane smoothly and we were allowed to exit the plane. Everyone was so very nice to me, probably because they could see I was in love and the world was a better place because of it. It seemed to me on that June day in 1968, nothing in the world could ever stop my determination to find my guy and follow my dream.
There was a line of people waiting for their loved ones. I looked for his green eyes and incredible smile when I got off the plane, but could not find him. I followed the signs to the escalator, and headed down. It was then that I saw him. There he stood at the very bottom, flashing his incredible smile and sparkly eyes. I am sure he had all this planned. He probably walked around looking for the most dramatic place to meet me. I knew when our eyes met, that our lives would from this point on be different—different and better.
If I had any doubts before, they were now gone. As our eyes met that day at LaGuardia, I knew we were both ready for a commitment, and that we both wanted to spend our time together—not 700 miles apart.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Chaper 2 - Evie's First Visit to New York


According to Boy: Ten bucks seemed like an awful lot of money, at least for me. I didn’t have a real job—I was a graduate fellow at NYU (At least that’s what I called myself. I had an "NDEA Title IV Fellowship"). The stipend I received covered food and lodging, but that was about all. I am not sure what indentured servitude might feel like, but I think my first year at NYU gave me a hint.

The bus ride from the East Side Air Terminal (which might have been Grand Central Terminal) to LaGuardia cost ten dollars. It would be times three—one fare got me to the airport, then two fares got the two of us back to Manhattan. Then there would be three more fares for the return trip. Sixty bucks, plus subway fare from my apartment to the Air Terminal, plus cab fare from the Air Terminal back to the apartment after I had picked Evie up at LaGuardia.
I had planned to take the subway from the apartment to the Air Terminal, but I would not put Evie on a subway with her luggage.


I had a whole list of subway rules. One of them was, "Never ride the subway carrying anything that was not a weapon, could not be used as a weapon, or was too precious to leave behind." If I rode the subway, I always wanted to be able to run in case of trouble. I was an excellent runner—five miles twice a day. I figured it was smarter, and safer, to run away from trouble than to confront it.
Another subway rule was never to sit down. It’s just too hard to escape from that position. Also, I never liked to ride the subway with anyone for whom I was responsible. I always believed I could escape a conflict, but the odds against avoiding danger diminished when there were additional people to protect.
For the most part, my subway rules applied only after dark, not during rush hours. Rush hours were pretty safe, I thought. But if I wanted to go to a club or a restaurant at night, I hailed a cab.


I took a subway this night because I could dress down to quasi street person level. That made me feel safe—I didn’t look like I even had subway fare. And, I wanted to save money.
"Sometimes a little paranoia is just good thinking," I always thought and frequently said.
I was so looking forward to seeing her. Even though I was mentally complaining about the cost of airport transportation, I would have gladly sold my car (if I had one) to cover the cost. For the first time in my life I loved someone more than I loved myself. I was crazy about her. Her lips were soft and kissable. They had an unbelievably sweet taste, and I am not talking about her lipstick, or her Estee Lauder Youth Dew perfume. When we kissed, her lips, or perhaps her breath, had a hot sweetness. I was captivated by that taste 24/7. I could think of nothing else.
I had not seen her for over a month. It was horrible. It was like nothing I had ever before imagined. Food didn’t even taste good. All I could do is think about her.
She was tall, by most standards—five feet, six and a half inches. I think she appeared even taller because she was very trim. Not skinny, though—her butt was full, and her legs perfectly shaped.
She enhanced her aura of tallness by wearing high-heeled footwear—high-heeled boots, high-heeled clogs, and just plain high-heeled shoes.
And she was good at wearing high heels. "Elegant" is the best word I can think of to describe her. Not even a hint of awkwardness. I had never seen a woman handle herself as well as she did in high heels. That thought alone could keep me up nights.
Her face was beautiful, with high cheek bones. She liked to think of herself as an Audrey Hepburn "Sabrina" in Paris. And I think that she did have that look. I think she liked to identify with the Hepburn’s character.
But, I thought of her more as an Ava Gardner. I just hoped she would never find a Spanish bullfighter and leave me high and dry like Ava did Frank.
Anyway, I always thought Ava was the most beautiful woman to have walked the face of the earth, and I was in love with her younger look alike, Evie.
Then, as now, I loved her more than anything else in this life.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Chapter 1 - "The Painting" According to Girl


The Painting according to Girl: One of my favorite all time movies, the one that makes you laugh and cry at the same time, the remake of Love Affair (starring Annette Bening and Warren Beatty). The pivotal clue that pulls the story together is the picture. It is a painting done by him of her. They had pledged to meet in six months from the time they fell in love on the cruise ship. The meeting place was to be the Empire State Building. Unfortunately, as Terry McKay was crossing the street on her way to keep the date, she was hit by a car, and rushed to the hospital.
Mike Gambril could only assume that his love must have forgotten, or simply decided she did not really love him.
Of course, the story did not end there. A year or so later they were again brought together. This time their love was sealed. It was the painting that he had done of her that brought them back together, unfolding the final love scenes, and bringing out the tissue boxes.
Yes, I am a sucker for happy endings.

This painting (The Painting) above the fireplace was one of those peaceful settings of river, cottage and warmth that captures the soul. Paintings can do that to you. They can draw you inside their story. It was rather Monet-esque with soft colors, green and yellow hues. When Monet visited the Louvre, he witnessed other artists copying the old masters. He, however, chose to sit by the window, in the Louvre, painting what he saw. He painted landscapes, seascapes, his gardens, ponds and bridges. During World War One, he painted a number of pictures (the Weeping Willow Series) in tribute to the French fallen soldiers. Some of his paintings are now sold for over eighty million dollars.


Mike was living in Springfield (Missouri) when he bought The Painting for his parents. He knew his mother would especially love it. She was refined, reflective and loved gardens and flowers. When the cancer progressed, when she could no longer pull weeds, go for car rides on Sundays, bake cookies, or play on the floor with grandkids, she would put her red sweater on, with a little matching lipstick, sit in her rocking chair, and enjoy the fireplace picture.
Tot (Mike’s sister) lives there now. I am not sure where The Painting is.


I do know that if I made a promise to meet Mike at the Empire State Building, I would be there. Yes, I might also get hit by a car. I might end up with a dent in my leg (oops yes, did that).
It wouldn’t matter how long the line might be, even if it was lined up around the block and halfway to Madison Square Garden, I would pay the forty dollars for the "Express Tour" and head up to the viewing area. I would wait, in the sunny corner until it became dark, cold and rainy. I would wait until the guard came to send me away. I would give him twenty bucks for ten more minutes. I would do these things because I knew Mike would somehow get there. And when he did, he would find me waiting.
After all, Terry did say that the Empire State Building is the closest thing to heaven in New York City.



The real skinny (according to Boy): Evie is right—she would have crawled on hands and knees to get to the top of the Empire State Building. If the elevators were broken, she would have used the stairs. She has never let me down since the day I first met her. Besides, Evie knows firsthand what it is like to tangle with a car. When she was still a teenager, she was struck by a car when she was crossing the street. She still has a bruise on her leg show for it.
It is obvious from her description of The Painting that she had a pretty good understanding of its significance. It is reasonable that she thought I had bought it for my mother—Evie and I never hung it on one of our walls.