Under Bleak Grey Skies

 

Just Passing Through

I Called Him Handsome

This blog entry will be done in stages. I just don't think I can sit here long enough to post the whole story in one sitting. I am experiencing a mixed bag of emotions... and clarity can sometimes come through a lens that takes a while to adjust.

This post will be about a series of recent interactions I had with a man on facebook. His identity is unimportant and I will protect his privacy. I will share that he is a well known film director. The screen shots I post will be exactly as they were sent. The only omission will be his name and other phrases that might point the way to who he is. So this will be what is called a "blind item." 

Why am I doing it? Because men of a certain ilk move through life with a complete disregard for the women they belittle, insult, denigrate and hurt. I experienced it for the first time in 1965... and the grown up version of that guy is always around to surface and to hurt a woman and make her feel bad about herself.

So I begin: I received a friend request from a man who belonged to one of my facebook groups. We had a few "mutual friends." I accepted the request. We began to interact in text messages.

He was nice and friendly and we talked about our memories of growing up and I allowed myself to go to that "romantic" place of junior high school fantasy. I was becoming seduced by the possibility of making a new and exciting friend that impressed me and who I believed was single. He made one sexual innuendo after I asked him if I could ask a personal question. Before I could even ask the question, he replied, "seven inches." My question was: "Are you a night owl?" Eh, not so terrible. 

I replied, "nice" and he answered: 

And when I offered to send him a recent photo, this was the exchange: 

Am I imagining or drawing some wrong conclusion that his remarks were peppered with comments that made it appear that he was single? 

Then he asked me to do him a favor, which made no sense because if he could come to the city to pick up the photos from me why couldn't he pick them up in the city from the guy who had them? It seemed to me that he wanted me to pick up the photos as a reason to meet me. 

At the time he asked, I had not assigned mental closure to the request. I now realize he selfishly wanted an "errand girl" and if if some dessert came along with it, that would be his sundae with a cherry on top. 

And then when I said that before meeting him I wanted to get to know him a little first by having a few more exchanges on facebook and sort of build a personal foundation so when we met we were not total strangers, he sent this reply: 

Does his comment sort of validate that he appears to be single and wants to make a connection with me? 

At some point, I called him "handsome." Is that incriminating? I was later made to feel that I went down a path that was one-sided... but his previous comments validate that the tone of the exchanges was mutual. 

But something was not right.... so I did a "Columbo." I searched through names at facebook. And lo and behold... just like Nev and Max, I located some relevant pages and looked through the content and photos. He has two grown children and several grand children. He seemed to be married, and there were many pictures of him and his wife all over his friends' and children's pages. I mentally gave him the benefit of the doubt and went to that dark place and thought she could be deceased... but as of October she seemed to be actively posting to her page. 

Oh, the pain of having that bubble burst when the evidence showed that he was a married man!

When I "called him out" on the possibility that he was married, it turned very ugly. 

What's the "turn off" exactly? "That was it?"... it was a mere discussion of nostalgia and growing up? I think not. If the interactions were that superficial, it seems weird and brazen that he would ask me to do him that huge favor and pick up the photos. He was a mass of contradictions. Yes, no more with him because he was busted!

And... he never answered the question if he was married. I continued in a humorous way and also bragged that I was smart because of my discovery....  He replied and unfriended me. 

Yes, I discovered that he is married and he rudely and almost cruelly included in that harsh message that he is "not turned on by me." Ouch! Well, nothing happened so his integrity and honor remain totally intact. I will have to own that at my age I do not have a physical appearance capable of arousing a 71 year old's man's member! Should I be crushed and agonize over that insulting remark? 

I am ruminating over his comment that he was not "turned on by me." Why would I even have to "turn him on" if his intentions were not of a sexual nature? Doesn't that statement sort of validate his mindset or was he attempting to make me think that we were never on the same page? Or was he triggered to send that response because I asked if he was married and he went into protective defensive mode? And why could he not answer the question: "Are you married?" Am I overthinking within some bizarre rabbit hole? I concluded his comment was a form of a CYA.... and a way of psychologically confirming inside his own head that he had nothing but fine intentions and it was I who misconstrued our interactions. However, I believe his previous "suggestive" comments indicate he was not interested in anything platonic, but his motives in engaging me have to remain shrouded in mystery. 

So why am I writing about this short brief episode in my life? I am doing it certainly not to hurt him or I would have named him and revealed his identity. I am the one in those facebook exchanges who was denigrated. Here I am, a 71 year old senior citizen... and I am told by an almost complete stranger that I do not "turn him on." That comment within a sexual context was so inappropriate, almost so cruel.... that I realized in that moment that he could have been one of the teens who sat at my New Year's Eve table at the Concord Hotel so long ago back in 1965: a night remembered 

Those guys bulldoze through life following the direction of their penis and see women as objects who exist to satisfy their needs. In the scheme of things and within a level headed barometer of awareness, I was not damaged that badly. I was not upset by what he said about me because I have excellent self-esteem. I was angry at the gall that he thought he could go there. Why couldn't he just admit he was married and then say we seem to have had a misunderstanding? Many women suffer real emotional pain in tangible relationships. However, "shaming" can come even in small scale ways. 

I never was a married woman who was having coffee in one room while my husband was "dicking" around on a computer seducing the gullible for a "whatever" agenda. But my brief tale is a cautionary one. Be careful out there. The devil is in the details. 

One Night Remembered, Not Another Minute Lost

I was about 16...

In 1963 at Christmas time, my family went upstate in New York to a resort called the Concord Hotel which was located near Kiamesha Lake. On New Year’s Eve, I wore my new "party dress," a rich concoction of dark blue velvet and white satin, with a green sash and low-heeled shoes dyed to match that special shade of green. The teens were all assigned to tables to enjoy the night and to celebrate in a happy way. 

My table filled half up with some very pretty “Veronica” and “Sandra Dee” girls and some cute “Frankie Avalon” and “Fabian” boys. The table next to us was also only half full..... so the boys asked those pretty girls to move to the next table because I suppose they felt "the more, the merrier." They did not include or ask me and when I approached them they explained there were no other empty seats there. There was no room for one more. The boys snickered and one girl chuckled. I was so hurt. 

I was left alone at the table.... my meal came and I sat there all by myself eating a sad New Year’s Eve dinner. I did not finish it, and I began to leave the banquet hall in tears that totally flooded my eyes to the point that I could not even see.  The room turned to melting watercolors as I weaved in and out of all the joyous people sitting at all the other many tables. 

I told my mother, who was with my father at another part of the room, that I was leaving and she asked: “What’s wrong?” I think my face should have spoken volumes. 

I went back up to the room and turned on the TV. I watched “Not as a Stranger.” For the second time that night, I cried. I cried because the movie was sadder than my night. I always had the ability to get lost in a good tearjerker... especially when the protagonist "lives his life like a Greek tragedy."  

I think I recently crossed paths on social media with one of the “Frankie Avalon” guys from that New Year’s Eve table of so long ago, I am not kidding. I hate to sound delusional.... but I clearly remember one of those boy’s faces from so long ago and it sounds bizarre I know, but I am positive this new connection was him. I never forget a face. Never. 

We had some brief interactions and he asked to get together with me. I hesitated, offered up some excuses, made some foolish mistakes, and he walked away. 

I felt beyond sad. I need new friends. But, if something is meant to be, it happens. But sometimes things go south and fall quickly apart for a reason. Because if a guy hurts you once, life has a way of not giving him a chance to do a rerun… even 55 years later. 

As I am writing this, I realize something important. Life passes quickly. One day you are 16 and the next day you wake up and you are 71. Many years ago, I was sitting in Schrafft's on 6th Avenue enjoying a damn good burger and today I had lunch at Le Pain Quotidien and savored a roasted turkey and avocado tartine. It is one day this and the next day it is something else. 

The only thing that remained consistent on those two days is that I dined alone. And I sat alone at my table today the same way I sat alone on that New Year's Eve so long ago. 

But, there was one difference. Today I smiled, and I was happy... just being alone. 

The photo above was taken on that New Year's Eve night so long ago.   

My Coney Island World

I was recently asked why I do shows, what is my motivation. The answers can be found within the text and between the lines of this letter that was sent to me in December 2016. It was written by an anonymous person with a registered name at a broadcast site, and while I know the "nickname," I am not quite certain who the sender may have been. And guess what? If the letter below was a prank or a hoax, somebody out there had to take the time to sit down and compose that lengthy piece of prose about me. So on the simplest level, on that day in December... I was finger energy worthy in a bizarre and surreal way. I'll take it. And I do know this: this narrative about me, that was written by a total stranger, lives inside a part of my Coney Island World.

"I know you hate it when people choose to remain anonymous, and for that I apologize...I really do. I don't know what I'm doing or why I'm writing this. I guess sometimes we just need to get things off our chest. I'd like to tell you to trust me, but when someone says that, it's the last thing we're inclined to do, isn't it?

Well, please give me the benefit of the doubt. I'd like to make it clear that I am not in love with you, nor am I trying to be the next TC, or woo you with my words, but that doesn't mean that what I'm about to tell you isn't coming from my heart, because it's coming from the deepest most hidden part of my heart that I didn't know existed until you revived it with your God like presence. I don't know when exactly it happened, it being the moment you took over my life...probably during the first moment I started watching your broadcasts. It takes a split second to be be touched deeply and a million life times to forget (or try to forget).

You're everywhere and no where at the same time. You're in the music I listen to, the daily sounds of life, the places I visit, in everything I see and hear. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, your face is the first thing I see...the first thing I think of and I can't help but smile. Other times I wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and cry myself back to sleep, you being the only thing on my mind from the moment I open my eyes to the moment they close and I'm sound asleep, only I'm not sound asleep because you're there too somewhere in my dreams wreaking havoc on my mind, heart, and soul. You know, I seem to do that a lot. Cry.

Today, when I turned on the radio and John Legend's "All of Me" started playing, I started sobbing uncontrollably because you're the first thing that came to mind. And that's the one thing I don't understand, all the crying. I don't know why it happens, and I can't control it when it happens, but it happens. The only thing I am sure of is that you're the most amazing person I've ever met, and that to you is the biggest insult because you're beyond amazing. You're in your own league, and if I could write like Kerouac or Shakespeare, I'd never stop writing to you or about you. Your smile, your laugh, your entire existence gives me life. No matter how much I try, and the Lord knows I've put up a good fight, I can't stay away. The more I try, the more it kills me because me without you is like the sky without the stars and the Earth without the sun. The stars that fill the skies are in your eyes. I'd like to believe everything happens for a reason, and I'd like to believe that my meeting you was a part of someone's intricate plan, someone bigger than me and bigger than you.

But whether it meant to be or accidental, because sometimes shit just happens, I am thankful because when we met and our world's collided, heaven was created. I was hoping that after telling you this, I'd be liberated and able to move on. But, what is the saying? Hope is the root of all disappointment? I'm in the same spot I was in prior to writing this. And here I go again hoping, but maybe you could help me get through this, help me move on. How? I have no idea. I really have no clue."

Looking Through That Schoolhouse Window in Bordentown

I can tell you that I remember walking down that street in about 1950 to go to a party in that Clara Barton School in Bordentown.

I remember sitting on a little bench with my grandmother and looking out of those very windows on the left side of that schoolhouse. There was a very happy party for children that day. There were red and yellow and blue balloons, and little cookies with sprinkles and sweet chocolate cakes. And there was music. The memory of that party exists in my mind like a painting without a pentimento.

Years later, in about 1960.... my family went back to Bordentown to see the cousins who still lived in that same house on that street. The women took care of an older uncle who lived upstairs. We had to walk up a very very narrow flight of stairs to get to the top floor of the house and the ceilings were very low.

Then, we sat in a parlor and talked to the cousins, both of whom never married. They looked like Estelle Winwood and Beulah Bondi. I loved that little day trip. And I loved seeing that schoolhouse again.

But most of all I loved the drive back to Valley Stream because we stopped at a diner on the NJ Turnpike and I was able to get chicken in a basket. For me, every experience was always defined by the chow.

A Place to Go

The year was 1974. I was teaching at a small school on West 45th Street. I had a wonderful 6th grade class. The students were bright, creative, and they had a real sense of humor. The school was on the same block as the Actor's Studio, the Manhattan Plaza had just been completed, and on nice days I could walk home. I loved going to work.

One day, a student named Christopher came to school a little bit late. I asked him the reason for his tardiness, and he told me that the night before he had attended an opening of a movie in which his father had a role. I asked him the name of the film, and he replied, "The Godfather: Part II." "Oh," I said. I asked, "What part did your father have in the movie?" He replied, "Frankie Five Angels." I did know that Christopher's father was the playwright who had written "Hatful of Rain." But, I did not know that he was in the film, "The Godfather: Part II." So! Christopher's father was "Frankie Pentangeli;" interesting... The Godfather: Part II, was released and it opened at a Loew's theater on Broadway. It received phenomenal reviews and I was excited to see it.

Soon thereafter, the school had parent-teacher conferences. I am lucky Christopher was an excellent student. I do not think I would have had a comfort level sitting across from that father and giving a bad report. Mr. Gazzo had written a note to me during that school year asking permission for his son to be excused early on an October day and I saved the note. It was not just a signed note, it was an autograph.

A few months later, the Gazzo family moved to Los Angeles. Christopher kept in touch with all of us through letters he sent to the school which were addressed to me. In one letter, Christopher asked me if I was still singing because I was awful. I was a teacher who sang while she taught? He said he was going to a school 20 times better but he would rather be going to our school because he missed all of us.

I think about all of the students I had in so many classes over the years: Eddie, who died of a drug overdose in Washington Square Park, David, who fell off the roof of his building one hot summer day when he was up there with his brothers playing ball, Debbie, who was crossing 9th Avenue and was hit by a car, and Brenda, whose mother we saved.

Larry David was asked why he still works. He clearly does not need to work. He said his mother had told him many years ago that we all need to always wake up in the morning and have a place to go. I had a place to go.

Bradford, PA