Wednesday, April 27, 2011

The Real Skinny: "He was more the flannel shirt type"

The real skinny (according to Boy): Evie’s story is just about the same as mine, but funnier. I only vaguely remember Steve ever wearing a blue blazer, however. He was more the flannel shirt type.

Evie Gives Steve a Haircut, According to Girl


Evie gives Steve a haircut according to Girl: If I were to look into a mirror, a magical mirror that could look inside my soul, if I stared deeply into what was hidden behind my dark brown eyes reflected by that mirror, I think I might discover a polished walnut desk, not unlike one that might belong to the CEO of a major Wall Street firm. There I think I just might find the secret to who I am. But that secret would not be laying on the top of that desk. No, it would be filed away in a securely locked drawer, in a file named "Evie." Inside of that file would be the password that could unlock my soul, and explain just who I am. That secret password would be this: "Evie loves her life."
That’s who I’ve always been—the girl who loved life.


Were it not for that gift of happiness and security, I might have been in over my head. Here I was—a girl from the Midwest, living in New York City, in the middle of a PhD world, surrounded by graduate students from NYU, with all their scholarly talk about dissertations, tests, professors, and textbooks. Steve and his good friend (Paul) would come over to visit Mike and discuss the department, curriculum and credit hours; while I was focused on only the practical. I could not get my eyes off Steve’s head. I was planning the attack.

I checked with Mike, when the guys left. I wanted to make sure he knew about the idea. I had a goal to find a way to solve Steve’s issue.
"Unless I do something about it, he will never find a nice girl," I thought. "He will never get a date. Girls will always think that he has dirt on his head. If only given the chance, I know I can help poor Steve." So, I methodically put my plan together.


We invited Steve over for dinner. After his wine, maybe two glasses, I mentioned that I knew how to cut hair. "I always cut Mike’s hair, and it looks great," I told him. "I would be happy to save you some money by cutting your hair. Shall I get out my scissors and give you a bit of a trim?"
He liked the money thing. Perhaps that was the clincher, as most students did not have any money, so the thought of saving a few dollars was very persuasive.
He agreed, and the next thing I did was grab an old towel, wrap it around his shoulders, find the shampoo and conditioner and bring him to the kitchen sink. The water got warm, he bent over, I put some shampoo in my hands and started to wash his hair. He had sandy colored straight thin hair. I could see the dirt on the top right hand side of his head—there was a lot of dirt. I scrubbed. I rinsed. I repeated the process—more shampoo, more scrubbing, more shampoo. His poor head was turning red; however the dirt remained. I gave it my best shot, but the "dirt" was not going to come off.

Maybe it was a birthmark. I had not seriously considered that possibility.
I rinsed out the soap, I put some conditioner on his reddened skin, he was anxious to have the job finished, I put him in the kitchen chair, gently combed and snipped.
He looked great when I was done. I did a bit of a comb over and put some spray on it to keep it in place.

This was one of those challenges that went bad. I never cut his hair again (he never asked me again). He probably thought of me like the dental technician who cleans my teeth. She is from the old country, wears little or no makeup, wiry gray hair pushed back in a skinny headband. She is a tough, mean, German. I think her motto in life is, "never show mercy." Bleeding gums and stretched smiles are her objectives in life.


I never intended to be mean to Steve. I wanted Steve to look good. At the end of the day, he knew we cared, he held his head high, shoulders back, his glasses and navy blue blazer back on, he had a few more dollars in his pocket and was ready for the world.
I was ready to accept a new challenge. "Perhaps the next time it will go better," I thought. "Next time I think I will target a new victim. And I should probably do a better job at looking into the risk factors and making better decisions."
Steve got filed into the "semi-successes of New York." Sometimes just paying attention to a friend is the best thing a person can do.
I love my life.

Chapter 22 - Evie Gives Steve a Haircut

According to Boy: It was few months after the Steve and Judy affair that Evie decided she should offer to give Steve a haircut. Steve was very bright, and very nice, but he never took great care to look nice.
 
Steve came out to our apartment every week or two, and we visited his about as often. We were not big party people, but we did hang around with Steve and some other friends a fair amount—at least that’s how I remember it.
So, when Evie offered to give Steve a haircut, he understood her offer just as she intended it—a well-intentioned favor. Steve was just too busy to go to the barber shop (or so he thought), and everyone knew that Evie was very handy with hair clippers. She had the tools, and the experience. Growing up, she always gave the haircuts at her house, and she always cut my hair. She did a great job.

"You wouldn’t mind?" Steve asked. "That would be great."
"If you’re not busy Friday night, why don’t you come on out to Glendale," I suggested. "Evie can cut your hair, then we will have some burgers, and drink some wine. Bring your change and we’ll play some poker."
With the acceptance of Evie’s offer, we began to make plans. Steve would probably bring his girlfriend. That was expected. Evie and I both liked her. She was very pleasant, but a little plain; and maybe a little dull. But Steve liked her a lot, and we liked Steve.

Steve’s wine of choice was not Red Ripple. He preferred very cheap, dry red wine. It was almost like a status symbol for him. He had probably read somewhere that the Weather Underground drank the cheap red wine that was sold by the gallon, and he identified. I don’t really know why he liked it so much. I was always suspicious of it because it seemed fruit flies ignored it altogether. I often kidded Evie about the "winery" that bottled it. I suggested that it had found a way to make wine without grapes. I suspect that comment may have been more fact than fiction.


I must state here that Evie’s offer to cut Steve’s hair contained a hidden agenda. Not only did Evie want to help Steve out with a haircut, she wanted to wash the stain off his forehead. Steve always had this slight discoloration on the front of his head, just below and above the hairline. His hair was quite thin, and very fine. So the discoloration was noticeable running from the top of his forehead into his hair.
We both thought it was dirt. Some of the time it was barely noticeable—such as when he had been in the sun and had a little tan. Other times it stood out.
It was not like a birthmark, we thought. "Usually birth marks are red, right?" I suggested. "Steve’s stain must be dirt."

 
Well, Evie and I were going to find out. On the night of the haircut, Evie took Steve into the bathroom to give him a shampoo.
"It’s always best to cut the hair right after it’s been washed," she told Steve.
When she got him into the bathroom, she had him lean over the sink, and she scrubbed and scrubbed. He must have become a little suspicious, but he never made a comment about it.
She then rinsed his hair, and dried it. The stain was still there, only now it was a little pinker because of the scrubbing.

The haircut went well, and Steve came out looking great. Evie had done a very nice job. We spent the rest of the evening eating burgers, drinking wine (a lot of wine), and playing poker.
And again, the fruit flies found only the Red Ripple, totally ignoring
Steve’s cheap red wine, which we bought for only him (by the gallon). But Steve liked it—he and his girlfriend drank the whole gallon. By the time the evening was done, none of us even noticed Steve’s pink forehead.

Friday, April 22, 2011

The Real Skinny: "I distinctly recall her stating that nothing happened"

The real skinny (according to Boy): I definitely do not remember it like that. I distinctly recall her stating that nothing happened. Now, however, after reading what Evie has written, I have a different understanding of that very eventful evening. This is what I think happened. I think that they did have sex, and that she told Evie all about it. Then, perhaps, Evie told me a different story, in order to protect Steve.

The Steve and Judy Affair, According to Girl


The Steve and Judy affair according to Girl: Judy called. She had been the skinny, freckled girl in 7th grade who introduced herself to me while we were waiting outside in the tile-covered hallway for our first class at a new school. She was the girl in junior high who lived on the edge. She smoked, she drank beer and she drove her borrowed cars 90 mph. She was much too independent to have a boyfriend. She loved life and amazingly seemed to keep out of any type of major trouble. She rather reminded me of an adventurous feral cat—showing up for dinner, and then back out into the wild. Her parents both worked and this gave her lots of opportunities to be on her own.


After her phone call to me in New York, I immediately started thinking about matchmaking.
Mike had a friend named Steve who was very nice. However, my thinking was that he needed a girl. He was the type of guy who spent weekends in the library and weekdays on the working end of a typewriter. His conversation would revolve around the latest found cuneiform script that had just been translated, the Sumerians, and the excitement of the finds from 3000 BC. I tried to explain to Steve that there was more to life than the clay tablets, however I needed help.

She did not go to college—she earned her degree outside academia. She had an enchanting smile, frosted blond hair. Her bangs seemed always in need of a trim, half covering her beautiful brown eyes. She was a cross between a flirt and an alluring diva.
She sat on our couch sipping a glass of cheap red wine, waiting for her challenge.


I had explained to her that Steve was not a Hollywood type. He was, in fact, a little on the pudgy side. His standard apparel consisted of plaid flannel shirts, tan pants, brown loafers, and glasses. He appeared to be prematurely balding. But, he was extremely nice and probably needed someone to show him the ropes.Judy was up for the kill.


When Steve arrived, we had a pizza and small talk, Mike and I took off, found a movie to go to, and let Judy handle the night.
As Steve spoke in pictograms, stylus and wedge-shaped words, Judy smiled and poured more wine.
Her mission was to defrock the gentle (intellectual) giant. She was as good at what she did, as he was at what he did.
Right in the middle of Steve’s explanation of Ugaritic language, she planted a wet kiss on those virgin lips.

When the movie was out, Mike and I went back to our apartment. The dirty deed was done. Judy went home after a few days. Steve recovered and married one year later—but not to Judy. He had fallen in love with a beautiful dark-haired Susan, and no one ever mentioned the visit of our little cutie from Grand Rapids.

Chapter 21 - The Steve and Judy Affair


According to Boy: Evie and I both liked Judy (not her real name). She always tried to be helpful. She was pretty, friendly, and very adventurous. Evie had first met her when they were both freshman in high school. It was a new school for Evie, and she did not know a single person there. Judy walked up to her the morning of her first day, and introduced herself.


"Hi! You’re new here, aren’t you?"
"Yeah, and I don’t know anyone," Evie told her.
"Well, you do now. My name is Judy, what’s yours?"
"Evie. It’s short for Evelyn."
"Cute name. We’re gonna be friends."
And so they were. All the way through high school, Evie and Judy were best friends.


We had been living in our Glendale apartment for only a few months when Evie got a call from Judy. She wanted to come out for a visit. It caught Evie by surprise, because she knew that Judy had gotten married and had a son. "Why would she be coming out alone?" Evie wondered. We were soon to find out.

Evie and I both awaited her visit with a fairly high level of anticipation—nervous anticipation. Evie could not figure out why Judy would be traveling without her husband. I was excited about her visit because Judy was to be the first of Evie’s close friends that I would get to meet.
The day of her trip she called us from Grand Rapids to fill us in on her flight plan. She was going to arrive early in the evening, at LaGuardia.
We offered to come out and pick her up, but she insisted on catching a taxi. Evie still had not asked her what was up—why she was coming out without her husband and son. Our anticipation escalated.
She called us again from the airport to let us know that she had arrived safely, and to confirm our address, and the best route from the airport to our apartment. She wanted to be able to instruct the cab driver in case he had difficulty.

Usually the trip from LaGuardia to our apartment took about fifty minutes, at that time of evening. Judy’s trip took two hours. Finally, our door bell rang, and Evie ran down to let her in. I waited upstairs, as I wanted to give them a little time to greet each other. After only a minute of giggling and loud talking, Evie yelled for me to come down and meet Judy.
"Mike, can you help us with these bags?" Evie asked.
I ran downstairs to meet Judy, and to help her with her two huge suitcases. I wondered at the time why one little person would have brought all that stuff, for a four day visit.
"Hi, I’m Mike."
"Evie told me all about you," she said. "You’re her guy in New York."
"That’s me. And Evie told me all about you too."
"She did, did she? That could be bad."
All three of us laughed, and I headed up the stairs with both suitcases. Judy grabbed one of them out of my hand. And I’m glad she did, as they both weighed a ton.
Once we got up the stairs, and set the suitcases down, I poured all three of us a glass of Red Ripple.
"What’s this?" Judy asked after tasting hers. "I like it."
"Ripple," Evie answered, "It’s a wine."
"A cheap, fruity wine," I added.
"Tastes good," Judy said approvingly. "Cheap or expensive, I like it."


We sat and talked for over an hour. And I kept the three glasses full. I heard all about their teachers in high school, and some of their other friends. Finally, Evie popped the question. "What’s up with you and Dave (Judy’s husband)?"
Suddenly Judy’s eyes grew moist, and she just looked down. "It’s not working out," she said. "All he wants to do is get drunk and beat on me. I finally had enough."
Evie was shocked. "What about your son?"
"He’s living with my parents, until I can get something going," Judy said.
I knew right then why the suitcases were so heavy. Judy was moving to New York, or at least wanting to.
I didn’t hear much more of the conversation. I started thinking about all the possible ramifications of her situation. Our apartment was small. We did not even have a bedroom door. The plan was to have Judy sleep on the hide-a-bed couch in the living room. But that certainly could not be even a quasi-permanent arrangement, no matter how sweet this girl was, or how good a friend of Evie’s. "This could be tricky," I thought.

The weekend went well. She was a great kid. She even went to the store and bought some groceries. She was a really great kid.
Then Evie and I got to thinking about hooking her up with someone we knew, and we could go out. All of our friends were already married, except for Steve (not his real name). So we talked to Judy about Steve to see if she might be interested in meeting up with him in the Village, we’d hit a couple of the little clubs.
"Is he rich and single?" she asked, half serious.
"He’s single, but there’s no such thing as a rich grad student," Evie informed her. "He’s very smart, and he will be rich some day. But right now he’s just as poor as Mike and I."
"That’s okay," Judy responded. "I’d love to go out with him."
It wasn’t like we had a lot of choices. After all, Steve was our only single friend. He was, however, very anxious to join up with us at the Village Gate, one of our favorite clubs.


The two of them really hit it off. Steve was a bit of an egghead, but he was a great conversationalist. Judy was impressed. So, when it came time to head back, she took Evie aside and asked her to have me invite Steve back to the apartment for a drink.
The only thing that could mean was that Judy wanted to get to know Steve better, because the subway/bus ride back to Glendale was an hour or more, at that time of the night.
I asked Steve if he wanted to head back with us, that I had a bottle of Red Ripple with his name on it. I am not sure if it was the lure of food and drink, or the sweet charms of Judy, but he seemed quite anxious to come back with us.
I was not even a little secure with getting the two of them together at a more serious level. I did not know Judy well at all, and I had never known Steve to date much. But, it was Judy’s idea, so what the heck.


When we got back to the apartment we played cards for a bit. Judy, however, was playing a different game. She could not keep her hands off of Steve. And it was very clear that Steve was eating it up. "This just might work out okay, after all," I thought. Soon Evie and I retired into our bedroom, leaving the two of the on their own.
While we had no door on our bedroom, we did have a thick curtain of hippie beads. While the beads did provide a little privacy, they did not block out sound at all. Within minutes I heard Steve and Judy telling jokes and laughing. Then I heard them struggling to pull the couch out and into a bed. Then they laughed some more.
Evie and I were both really tired, and it was late. We immediately drifted off.


The next morning they seemed friendly enough, but not like lovers. I remember thinking that maybe they had a different way of dealing with sex. I got up and offered to make the some breakfast. They were both just sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee.
Neither of them wanted breakfast. And Steve said he had to get back to the city. He had an apartment in Manhattan. He excused himself pleasantly, and left.
Evie came out and joined Judy and me at the table, and I poured her a cup of coffee. Evie never ate breakfast, so I just popped a slice of white bread into the toaster for myself. "Sure you don’t want some breakfast?" I asked Judy again. She did not answer, she just stared into her coffee and slowly shook her head. I could tell something was up, but I was not about to inquire.

Evie, on the other hand, was blunt. "Well, how’d it go?" she asked.
"It didn’t." Judy replied.
"What do you mean?" Evie followed up.
"I have never had a guy try that with me before. It was really weird! I just want to drop it! I don’t want to talk about it!"
I was not a part of that conversation, but I sure wanted to know all about it. However, Evie did not pursue it further.

Dozens of times throughout the following years, whenever we would bring up this story or other stories that involved Steve or Judy, my mind would go back to that morning conversation over coffee.
The more prurient demons of my nature have caused me to speculate in intricate detail some of the things that Steve could have done (or tried to do) that Judy found so crazy weird. I never asked Steve about it, so I never found out—but sometimes my mind still wanders in that direction. I can only imagine.
I guess it will just have to remain one of those mysteries that never get solved.

After a few more days, Judy headed back to Grand Rapids. I considered her a sweet girl, but we never heard from her again.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

The Real Skinny: "I don't remember what she looked like... she was very articulate"

The real skinny (according to Boy): We did meet the sister. She joined her brother and us for a Christmas party in 1969. I don’t remember what she looked like, however, at least not really. She was shorter, and pretty average looking. The only thing that stands out was her intellect—she was very articulate.

Our CIA Connection, According to Girl


Our CIA connection according to Girl: "Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent."


We never really met her. She spent most of her hours each day at the headquarters of the CIA. She was brilliant, like her brother Rodney. He was our good friend and weekend comrade. We enjoyed spending time with him, hearing some of the stories. While he did not have firsthand knowledge, his sister did. She shared exploits with him, and he talked to us. Spy stories and intrigue swirled around the room as we shared a gallon of wine with cheese and crackers. I don’t think he meant to embellish the stories, but he probably did, because they came across with such a "Dragnet" flair.

I felt as though I were sitting there with the famous Jack Webb, as he explained the details of finding actors, writers and production staff who could best develop the right chemistry for his dramas. Jack would tell us why he used the brass and timpani theme music, why he rode along with real patrol officers in order to fine tune his storyline, why they let him use actual crimes to share with his audience.

At first LAPD was against this idea, but with encouragement and a promise to portray police in a good light, it was agreed this could be a good thing for the department. As the popularity of the series grew from the thirty minute radio program, to a long-running TV drama series, I would listen to the famous intro, "It was Wednesday, February 8th, it was cold in Los Angeles. We were working the day watch out of the robbery division. My partner’s name is Ben Romero. The boss is Ed Backstand, Chief of Detectives. My name is Friday."
 
I would listen carefully as 300 sound effects would make the show come alive. The calculated terminology came from the squad room. The stories about real murders, missing persons and robberies kept me on the edge of my seat.

I would then imagine Agent Silver investigating assassinations and double agents, sometimes holding comrades as they died in her arms. I do have a vivid imagination.
Rodney was proud of his sister. He did not carry her picture. She had no real name and no real face. She had to blend in with the crowd. Most likely she wore drab brown, a simple ponytail, glasses and little or no makeup.


Now, forty years later, she could be sitting here next to me in this coffee shop. She could be the woman at the next table—alone, having given the best of her years to her country.
She could be the woman with an iPod earbud, with the cord draping down her back. She listens. She protects. It is in her blood. She cannot stop. Like the ringing in her ear, she is on constant alert.

At the end of the show, one glistening sweaty hand holds the stamp, while the other sweaty hand crashes down with a hammer. Two loud strikes against the metal stamp, and a "MK VII" is deeply indented on the show’s credits. Now the world will be safe again, at least until next week.

Chapter 20 - Our CIA Connection


According to Boy: The story of Valerie Plame Wilson taught me something—do not "out" a CIA operative. Therefore, we have provided an alias for the spy we had come to know. Her name for this chapter is Jessica Silver. Jessica was the sister of a good friend of ours; who, for the sake of this chapter, we will refer to as Rodney Silver.

I was about twenty-five at this time. Jessica looked to be about the same age. She did not want to talk about her work. However, after a few glasses of wine, she talked quite a bit.

It was her brother that I knew. And I knew him quite well. He was a radical, but involved not in the Weather Underground sense. Rodney was active in the anti-war movement, primarily with a group of activists associated with the Catholic Church. Rodney would march, show up at protests, and he admitted that he was involved in some lightweight illegal activities. But he would never make or place a bomb. I would not doubt that he intellectually promoted the more sinister acts, but I can’t see him ever actually participating.

Jessica gave me no indication that she was as radical as her brother. In fact, she seemed almost apolitical. I often thought about it, and found the whole matter incongruous. I wondered how Rodney could be so very revolutionary, while his sister appeared to be traditional.

One possibility that I came up with was that Rodney was a plant in the movement. In almost every other respect, Rodney was conservative. Why would he be so cavalier about breaking the law with regard to illegal protest and trespassing, while he would not even jaywalk. It did not make sense to me.
When the Bill Ayres group allegedly blew up the Greenwich Village townhouse right by the NYU campus, Rodney seemed disinterested. "Surely," I wondered, "Rodney must have been at least somewhat concerned about the bomb factory explosion; if those were his buddies." But he was not.


I also wondered how Jessica could get security clearance, if it was known that her brother was such a radical. I know these things are checked out very carefully.
Rodney could drink a gallon of cheap wine without spilling a word about his connections. Jessica, on the other hand, became quite lucid after a few drinks.
I could never help but think that Rodney was actually the CIA operative, and Jessica a glorified secretary. I have since Googled Rodney’s real name on several occasions, without turning up a thing. He was extremely bright. I think I should be able to find something on him. It makes me wonder if I ever knew his real name; or, perhaps, he later ran into the business end of 007’s Walther.
I can only speculate.

Rodney, if you are still out there, and you happen to read this, give me a call.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

The Real Skinny: "We did not try to set records, but she could keep up"

The real skinny (according to Boy): Evie is a little too modest about this. I do not recall her running with Charlie and me, but she and I did run a lot. She could flat out fly. I do not know the distance, but I would guess it was about 5K. We did not try to set records, but she could keep up. Mister was the problem. Half the time we ran in the summer, we had to stop and rest for him numerous times. Occasionally I had to carry the poor Norwegian Elkhound home—sometimes a rest was not enough, he would flat out refuse to go on. Mister was cool with it in the fall and winter, but he did not think much about summer running.

Charlie Junior, the Runner, According to Girl


Charlie Junior, the runner according to Girl: I did not know much about the sport. I was not even sure it was a sport. What was this running thing? An exercise? Or perhaps an excuse to buy new clothes in order to participate, or at least new shoes.

I was not athletic. I hated gym class in high school. Most sports were at best another chance for me to get embarrassed for my lack of ability, or worse, a forty-five minute period of the day for me to bruise my lily white skin. I hated to exercise. My face would turn red, and drops of sweat would start to bead up on my forehead. Then, after that humiliation, I had to take a shower in front of my wacko gym teacher. She would hand me a tiny hand towel as I got out of the shower, physically checking to make sure there were the proper number of drops of water on my back to prove to her that I actually did take a real shower. Geez, I hated it.

Then, Mike said, "Guess what? Charlie is a runner." This sounded interesting. Mike said that Charlie ran for his high school. "What was this all about?" I wondered. He received ribbons and trophies. He decorated his room with them. They were colorful red, blue, and gold trophies with his name stamped on them. He was skinny and fast. He trained at school every day. His events were the 50 and 100 yard dashes. And the ribbons and trophies proved he was good.
I was interested in finding out more. Perhaps I should start running with them. "This," I thought, "could involve new shoes." Any excuse for buying new clothes got my attention. I told Mike and Charlie that I was going to start running as well. Charlie seemed semi-excited. I think I detected a look that said he would wait and see.
However, when I came home with my beautiful red running shoes with the white laces, both of them realized I was well on my way. The shoes were lightweight, with tiny heels and great arch support. The new shoes were the most important items in my running wardrobe; but I did not stop there. The list went on. I needed a sports bra and halter. They should match the red. I found some cute striped tanks and tees, and some gray long sleeved shirts. I needed tights, pants, vests and headbands. I actually found a gray and white polka dot headband that brought the entire outfit together. I was so adorable and pumped to join my guys in the challenge.

We decided to ask Charlie if he knew of a good location to get started, and he suggested the park. We chose our days and times. Charlie had other good suggestions, like bringing a water bottle. Mine was red of course. We also brought a stopwatch, just in case one of us might like to sit on the hill with the dog and watch, while the other would run past.

We were ready, we took off. We were slow—actually I was slow. Mike ran ahead. He was in charge of the dog. I ran behind—well behind. I loved my shoes. That was the most important thing to me.
"It won’t be long before I’m running circles around Charlie with all of those cute ribbons," I thought. "Easy-breezy."

The first block went well. We had three more blocks to get to the park. I needed a drink. I knew if I took in too much water, I would have to go. Better be careful. I sipped a bit. We kept running.
Block two. I started to sweat. This is not cool. This is work. Charlie did not mention the sweat. It was hot out. Mike and Mister were in the next block. "Wait!"

When it was over, I said to myself, "Okay, this was very hard, but it was still fun. I will keep at it."
We chatted that evening about the run and how it went. I told Mike that I was more into the fashion end of the idea, but I would continue to accompany him and Mister to the park. I think on that particular day, I resigned myself to allowing Charlie to win the ribbons, while I would be content with congratulating him for his great accomplishments.

Chapter 19 - Charlie Junior, the Runner


According to Boy: Charlie Junior was a genuinely nice person. He had only one fault—he kicked my butt running. I ran every day, often twice a day. I would run five miles in the morning before heading in to the university, and usually five more when I got home. Charlie usually ran with me in the evenings.

The only running mate I ever had who had a better kick than Charlie was Mister, my Norwegian Elkhound. If Mister saw a rabbit or a squirrel, he could cover fifty yards in about .5 seconds. Of course, that is an exaggeration. But suffice it to say, Mister could fly. Charlie could fly too, but not quite as fast as Mister.

Charlie was a junior or senior in high school when we started running together—I don’t remember which. At first, I did not even know he was a runner. Usually I would run alone, or with Mister. Finally, Charlie stopped me on my way out and asked if he could run with me. I was happy to have the company.

We jogged along 72nd Street, past Central and Edsall, until we reached what was then called the Lutheran Cemetery. We stopped there and stretched a bit.
"Whaddya usually do?" Charlie asked.
"Five. Four and a half at about six, and open it up the last half mile."
"Sounds good. Let me know when we’re gonna open it up."
We started out at a six-minute clip. Charlie had no problem with it at all. He was talking and joking as though we were just taking a casual walk. "This kid’s pretty good," I thought.
We moved up on four miles, and still Charlie was barely breathing hard.
At four and a half I asked him if he was ready.
"Sure."

I opened it up as fast as I could. Charlie looked like he had been shot out of a cannon. The five mile mark was the railroad tracks. He beat me by a huge margin—probably a hundred yards or more.
When I finally got to the tracks, Charlie was all bent over and breathing very hard. "I should have brought water," he said. "Mom usually sends water with me on a long run."
"Holy cow. Where did you learn to run like that?"
"I run track in school."
"What distance?"
"Fifty yard."
"You’re not a distance runner?"
"No. Mainly the fifty yard dash, and sometimes the 220 relay. I usually don’t open it up for a full half mile. But it felt good."
"You did pretty well on that five mile run. How do you usually train?"
"I usually run one mile, and then kick fifty at the end. Then another mile, and a fifty. The five miles was more than I’m used to. But it was probably good for me."
I asked him what his best time was, and he told me. I don’t remember what he said, but I remember being impressed.

Charlie and I ran together on a regular basis the summer of 1969. When school started for him, we stopped. His coach had him on a regular training schedule that did not allow for improvising. When the season got started I remember asking his father how track was going, and he told me that Charlie Jr. had set the record in the fifty-yard dash for all of the Catholic Schools in New York City. Charlie Jr. never let on just how good he was. The kid had a lot of character (or maybe his dad lied a lot). I’m just kidding about that. Charlie’s whole family had a lot of character. They were good people.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

The Real Skinny: "Aside from his snobbishness, he was easy to get along with"

The real skinny (according to Boy): I think Evie was right about Fred—the thing that I remember best about him was that he was often in the way. Aside from his snobbishness, he was easy to get along with. I doubt that we ever had a cross word. But he did tend to annoy me with his bantering. And when Evie came to visit, he was a little too nosey. Quite possibly he and I might have become better friends (or just more friendly) had I not become so obsessed with Evie. I thought of nothing else. He probably grew a little tired of hearing about her, especially when he did not have a girlfriend.

Fred, According to Girl


Fred according to Girl: The people we live with are sometimes so annoying. I cannot deal with roommates. I was not accustomed to sharing my space, my stuff, my place, and neither was Mike.

Kari was my roommate in college. By the time the first semester ended, we hated each other. Yes, she moved out, taking the empty room next to me. It was tiny, the girl had left to get married. I think she was pregnant.

So, I ended up with a double-sized room all to myself. That was perfectly fine with me. I could sleep in until classes called to me. I could hide a gallon of cider in my closet, waiting for the stuff to get hard. Unfortunately, the one time I tried this the cider never really got hard. Instead, I forgot all about it until it turned green, moldy and very nasty. When I finally rediscovered it (when looking for a missing boot in the middle of December), I plugged my nose and flushed it.


Without a roommate I could decorate my walls with a little Batman in one corner, and a cute little apple tree in the other. Was I turning this into my own personal bat cave? Didn’t matter, it was okay if I lost my "damage" deposit. I could blast my music, not make my bed, and throw my clothes on the floor (or on the ironing board).
I could have a stash of chocolate, and it would remain untouched by some slimy roomy. It actually felt great to be free of parents, and have my own place. The best thing about my room was my ironing board. It was always ready to go, so the other girls in the dorm would just knock on my door, borrow my iron, slide the mound of clothing onto the unmade bed and press their "whatevers." I never considered this sort of intrusion annoying, but I did not like roommates.
Wait, would I live with me? Perhaps not.

I wasn’t the worst of all roomies, however. When Mike and I shared war stories of people we had to live with in the past, I do not really think I gave him much insight into the fine art of sharing space from Evie’s eyes.
He talked about some great roommates in college at Central Bible College. But, underneath this sweet kid from South Haven had some wild stuff going on. The stories he shared were about all night poker games, passing around nude pictures of a friend’s girlfriends, tying people up, hanging them from the third floor window upside down, throwing bagged buddies into the library, directly at the feet of the bespectacled, gray haired, eighty year old librarian.


So, when Fred came along, how bad could he be? The only thing I remember about him was that he was always in the way. Our (Mike’s and my) time together in New York did not include Fred. Mike did not want to share space with Fred and Evie, so we found other places to stay. He used his student ID and we crashed in hotel rooms uptown.

I was glad Mike and I never became "roommates." The ironing boards and the library could not handle the strains.

Yes, we both grew up a bit. I don’t paint on the walls anymore and he does not play poker all night with the boys. Ok, suddenly I am having a Peter Pan moment. Did we really have to grow up?

Chapter 18 - Fred


According to Boy: I had a roommate at the Fifth Avenue Hotel (throughout the pages of this book I refer to him as "Fred"). In a lot of ways Fred was an okay guy. He was a Georgetown graduate working on his MBA at NYU Business School. He worked hard and kept out of my way, for the most part. Aside from the fact that I really did not consider him a friend, he was a decent roommate—actually, that very well could have been the main reason why I liked him for a roommate. I think that good friends make poor roommates. It was just simply true, neither one of us liked the other well enough to want to hang out together, but we did not hate each other enough to commit murder. What the heck—it was obviously a match made in heaven.

I am not very good at describing faces. It is likely that if I were to have run into Fred on the street (even in 1968) I would not have recognized him. I might pick him out in the lobby of the hotel, and certainly in the room, but beyond that, I could have bumped into him and not known it. Nevertheless, I will describe Fred as best I can.
First, you have to understand why we have chosen an alias for Fred. By the time Evie and I are done writing about him, the reason will be clear.

Fred was of average height—perhaps 5’ 9", or even a little less. I was taller. At that time I stood about 5’ 11". Or, at least that’s what I told people. Fred was shorter.
One of the more interesting characteristics of this guy was his aire of superiority, at least when it came to his apprehension of himself vis-à-vis Mike Carrier. After all, he was a graduate of Georgetown, and I was not.

I did not lie to him; but I came close. He asked me where I did my undergraduate work, and I told him I had graduated from Central in Springfield, Missouri. I assumed that would be the end of it. But, he would have none of that.
"Central? Central what? I never heard of that. Springfield, Missouri? Is that "Central Missouri? Or Central what?" He kept asking me. He wouldn’t stop.
It was too late, at that point, to clarify. Had I said "Central Bible College," I would never have heard the end of it. It was not that I was ashamed of attending a religious college. After all, Georgetown is a good Jesuit school, with a tremendous heritage. I knew he would constantly poke fun at Central Bible College. But, if I simply said Central College, I thought he would drop it. I was wrong about that. Had I it to do over, I would have been more candid. I would have "fessed up" and accepted his ridicule. Unfortunately there are just too few "do-overs" in history.
I did tell him that I took classes at Drury College, and Southwest Missouri State (both also in Springfield, and now both universities), but it didn’t matter to Fred. He knew he had me. Probably my uncontrollable blushing gave my deception away. There is little doubt that his obvious condescension with regard to me was the major cause for my distaste for him.

In 1968, if you were to run into Fred on the street, he would be wearing an expensive suit. In cold weather, he would have on a very fine gray wool coat, also very expensive. He dressed well. I have no idea what he is doing today, but I would bet that he has had a very successful life. I have no doubt that he married a great girl, took a position in a major accounting firm, had three or more children, and has now retired a wealthy man.
Don’t get me wrong—I did not hate the guy. In fact, he inspired me to purchase my two Brooks Brothers suits, and some other decent clothes. For that I am thankful. Even though Fred did look down on me, and I resented him for it, when we were forced to leave the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and move to a lesser NYU housing facility (at 55 East Tenth Street), we chose to be roommates there as well.


Fred was one of these guys who always had a smart-assed response to whatever was said to him.
"What’s the weather like, Fred?" I might ask.
"It’s colder than shit. Don’t even bother to go out," he would say. "I hate this fuckin’ New York weather. And I hate the fuckin’ subways. They smell like piss. This place is fuckin’ insane. I don’t know if I am going to be able to stand this shit."
He would say all this while tossing (for emphasis) his briefcase and umbrella on the bed. He always carried an umbrella; even on sunny days. I am sure that had I not asked the question, he would have gone to the closet, hung up his coat and umbrella, and carried on normally.

Everything was a tirade to Fred. He would scrunch up his mouth into a phony smile, squint his eyes behind his unusually thick glasses, and belt out his complaints.
That was Fred—can’t say I disliked him, can’t say I liked him. Fred was Fred.

Friday, April 1, 2011

The Real Skinny: "Both of them were super - both in character and in stature"


The real skinny (according to Boy): Evie probably had this just about as correct as was possible. The accommodations at 55 East Tenth Street were in the form of a suite consisting of two bedrooms, and a common bath. The roommates in the adjoining room were Dimitri (the Russian) and a German young man (not named Vladimir).


Both of them were super—both in character and in stature. Either one of them could have whipped Fred and me, probably at the same time. The main reason that Evie and I did not spend much time in my room at 55 East Tenth Street was because we would never get any privacy, and it was not a terribly cool place to stay.

One thing I think she got wrong was her statement that the Russian and the German lived with Fred and me at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I don’t think we met them until we moved to 55 East Tenth Street. But it’s been a long time, I could be wrong about this.
The best thing about 55 East Tenth was the TV room on the first floor. It was a lot of fun going down there to watch the Knicks play. My guess is that Evie (not Fred) might actually have been in the room with me the night that I bombed the drunks on the street with a drinking glass, but I do not know for sure about that.


On a recent visit to New York, I tried to get into the building to shoot a few pictures, but a security guard stationed inside rejected my request to do so.

Next time I will just click a couple off before I ask.
Sometimes it is just better to ask forgiveness than permission.

International Relations at 55 East Tenth Street, According to Girl

International relations at 55 East Tenth Street according to Girl: When growing up, he basically always had his own bedroom because his next closest sibling was seven years older than he, which left Mike growing up as the last of the kids, or virtually an only child. He ended up in undergrad school sharing a room, then moving to NYU, the accommodations provided also were meant to be shared with another student, who happened to be the "Voice of America" person in the flesh. His name was Vladimir. He would record his broadcast in Russian each evening in their shared dorm/hotel room on Fifth Avenue. His voice would travel by satellite and radio waves (FM and AM frequencies) around the world, giving listeners the opportunity to be touched by American culture.
 
Moving from the Fifth Avenue Hotel down the street to their new dorms, he met his new roommate, his name was Dmitri. He was a blue-eyed blond who spoke both Russian and English with eloquence and ease. The dorm room they shared had two single beds, a desk and bathroom. Even though the room was small, Mike was not discouraged. He knew that it would be for only a few months. How bad could that be?

I do not remember much about Dimitri, as I only met him once. I do recall that his "Hello" gave me the overwhelming urge to try the Russian Cossack dance. That’s the dance where you crouch down with your back straight, heels together, and arms folded across your chest. You then spring up, using both legs, and kick one leg out. You then drop back to the crouch position, only to bounce back up, kicking the opposite heel out. Because this is a dance, it has to be done to the beat of the music.

I admired Dmitri’s and Vladimir’s love of life, their dedication to their birth country, and their loyalty to the United States. I was glad that Mike had the opportunity to share time and space with acquaintances from the other side of the world.
Mike always spoke highly of Vladimir and Dmitri; he encouraged me to start reading the Russian works by Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov (who Mike said represented "The Golden Era of Literature"). He gave me some of the books by these authors, and they kept me company during my commutes on the buses and subway. I loved the artistry and poetry in the Russian literature, but at the same time was frequently saddened by it.

The dolefulness of Russian literature was best described by Shklovsky
when he said, "Russian literature has a bad tradition. Russian literature is devoted to the description of unsuccessful love affairs."
I think that Konstantin Podrevskii also expressed the sentiment well in his poem:
"Once upon a time there was a tavern
Where we used to raise a glass or two
Remember how we laughed away the hours
And dreamed of all the great things we would do. . .
Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end."

Chapter 17 - International Relations at 55 East Tenth Street


 According to Boy: After Evie and I got married, but before she joined me in New York, I moved from the Fifth Avenue Hotel to a somewhat less luxurious abode—55 East Tenth Street. This residence was also owned by NYU, and it served exclusively as a residence hall for NYU students.

Here the arrangement was more like a suite. There were two rooms, and a single bathroom. Fred (not his real name), my roommate at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, remained my roommate at the new residence. The fact that he choose to remain my roommate surprised me a little, because I really didn’t think he liked me at all. We never associated with each other outside being roommates. He was a business major (working on his MBA), and I was in the School of Arts and Sciences. I can’t say that I liked or disliked Fred. He never greatly irritated me, and that was really all that mattered.

The two fellows in the adjoining room made life very interesting. One was a visiting scholar from Germany, and one was the son of Russian parents, both of whom were university professors—one taught at Columbia, and I am not sure where the other worked, but they both taught Russian Literature. I do not remember the first name of the German gentleman, but the Russian was named Dmitri. I am not sure about his last name, but I do recall it being very Russian.

I had ton of fun with Dmitri. He was like a gentle giant. He stood well over six feet, and was put together like an Abrams Tank (that would be a larger and tougher version of the Sherman Tank). The really unique thing about Dmitri was that he was born in the Soviet Union, and managed to escape with his parents.

Dmitri spoke fluent Russian. Of course, it would have been impossible for me to know that from personal observation. But Dmitri was an on-air talent for Voice of America. For those who are not familiar with the Voice of America, it was a federally-funded international broadcasting system, ostensibly set up to promote the English language. But in reality, its primary focus was to promote American culture and interests. Originally it was set up under the auspices of the Office of War Information, but later it was placed under the control of the  U.S. Information Agency. In 1968 it was a major U.S. weapon in the cold war.

So, I would guess that if our government chose Dmitri to produce, read and broadcast U.S. propaganda throughout Eastern Europe, his Russian must have been pretty good. I imagine his parents had much to do with landing him the gig.
  

He usually chose to record his program during the day, when all three of his roommates were in class. Unfortunately (for Dmitri), my schedule was relatively flexible. I really liked Dmitri—he was a genuinely nice person. But the mere fact that I liked and respected him did not stop me from being my normal trouble-making self.

It was very common for me to stop back at 55 during the day. I would carefully unlock the door, and enter. I got so I could do it without making any perceptible noise. The entry door led into a small hall, with a common closet. From that small hall, I could look into my room, and also into the room Dmitri shared with the German. I would always gently open their door, peek in and greet my two friends—it was just the neighborly thing to do.
Many times I would hear Dmitri recording his broadcast tape. I would carefully open his door a few inches. When he was recording, he would be standing behind his drapes. I suspect that the acoustics were best behind them. He would be talking into his mic, squeezing out every ounce of energy he could muster. I never had any idea what he was saying, but it really sounded great.
I would then close the door back, just until it almost touched the jam. I left it open just a crack so that I could see the lump behind Dmitri’s drapes. Then I would re-open the door that led out into the residence hall, and slam it.

Without fail, Dmitri would let out a startled shout. Sometimes he would even drop his equipment. I would then peek in the door, and apologize. Dmitri would stick his friendly smile out of the drapes and greet me. He was such a nice person. I sometimes wondered if he might have been a spy. Spies have to be nice, don’t they? At least until they kill you. Who knows?

 
Dmitri’s size and demeanor really came in handy in one instance. It was about 2 a.m. I had been sleeping, when a group of six or seven partiers exited the bar across the street, and wandered over to my side of the street, directly beneath my window. We lived on the seventh floor, but they were so unbelievably noisy, that they totally disrupted both Fred and me.
Finally, I went over to the window, opened it, and told them to "Shut up!" It did not work. They took offense to my "request." It just got worse.

I knew better than to go down there, in spite of their unanimous invitation to join them. So I did the next best thing—I delivered a glass to them so they could fill it up for me. I aimed it to hit the sidewalk a foot or so from the building, and tossed it with medium force. It traveled straight the first forty feet, but then caught a little air, and it drifted the last thirty. It smashed right at their feet. They really did not like what I had done. They were yelling something about kicking my ass. But they did disperse. I thought the problem was solved.
Unfortunately, they were sober enough to figure out my floor and room number. About five minutes later there was loud pounding on the door. I reasoned: "Steel door, steel jam, I should be okay." I had not taken Dmitri into consideration. He answered the door.
"Oh, God! I’m dead!"

But Dmitri was every bit as clever as he was big, and nice. He opened the door and started speaking Russian. The guys outside the door knew that the guy (me) that had yelled down at them was not a Russian. So they did not figure out who this guy (Dmitri) was. I guess they assumed they got the wrong room.
I am sure Dmitri knew what was going on, but we never discussed it. He simply opened the door, and did a very good "Vladimir Klitscho-esque" routine. Of course, he could have responded to these drunks in impeccable English. But why should he?

Probably the most criminal act I ever committed had to do with Dmitri’s German roommate. I am so thankful that I never got busted for it. I am definitely not proud to have done it. But I did the deed, and I will not hide from it.
I wanted to go back to Grand Rapids to see Evie. I was lonely, and bored, so I cooked up this scheme. I decided to order a round-trip plane ticket, and have it sent to 55 East Tenth Street, under the German’s name. Then I would just check the mail every day, and intercept it when it arrived. Back then, you could do things like that. My plan was to get the tickets, and then pay for them with a bad check at the airport (I think they call it "kiting").

I knew that it was possible to have the airlines mail you the ticket (I had done this before), so I thought I might be able to pull it off. I would wear some sort of disguise when I paid for the tickets. I would be gone for only a couple days, and I knew enough about the banking system to be certain that my check could not clear before I got back.

I reasoned that the airline could never prove that the German ordered or used the ticket, so he would not get stuck with it. I saw no reason for my plan not to work. But it didn’t.


Somehow I missed the mail on the day that the ticket arrived. I heard the German talking about it with Dmitri. And I heard Dmitri tell him, "Let’s go talk to Mike. He’s from Michigan. Maybe he might know something about it."
So they came to the door, and knocked. "Do you have any idea what this is all about?" Dmitri asked me. The German did not speak English very well, so Dmitri did all the talking.


I have no doubt that Dmitri knew exactly what was going on. It was a good thing for me that my roommate, Fred, was not home. Had he been, he would have bent over laughing about my getting busted. Instead, I simply denied it.
As I said, that was just about the worst thing I ever remember having done. I am not proud of it. I did remain friends with my roommates, and I never tried anything like that again.


In retrospect, I think it miraculous that anyone listened to Reagan when he demanded of his Russian Counterpart, Mikhail Gorbachev, to "Tear down this wall." That had to have happened in spite of me.