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.

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.

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.

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.

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.