Summer in New York is blistering hot. With school out, I am back to reclining on the couch, watching daytime television–The Dating Game, Match Game and Let’s Make a Deal. I am bored. Bored, with a capital B. Nothing to do. Nothing is happening. Outside, birds chirp and cars whiz by on the highway across from my house, but I long ago stopped listening.
It’s been a few weeks or so since the last day of class. I’ve lost track. Of emptiness and more of the same. I want to get up and move but, despite all the windows in the house being open, I can’t find it in me, and blame it on the incessant heat. Continue reading →
I went to the prom, wearing a pink chiffon dress that my mother had made for the occasion. It had puffy sleeves and an empire waist, and it made me feel like a princess. George arrived on time to pick me up, wearing a white jacket, tie and jeans. He led me to his car, opened the passenger door and as I took my seat, I felt a sense of dread that just wouldn’t quit. A few minutes later, we were at the school, where the prom was being held. Continue reading →
Sometimes you have to get out of your comfort zone.
Try something new.
Dare to embark on a new adventure—a journey to where you’ve never been before.
Like my blogger friend, Kathy (Reinventing the Event Horizon), who sold her home, packed her bags and, together with her partner, Sara, headed to Ecuador for an indefinite stay.
Though getting out of your comfort zone doesn’t have to be such a huge undertaking. Take me. A couple of weeks ago, after returning from my daughter’s graduation, among the voicemails awaiting me at the office was one from Lydia, a woman in charge of education at the California Center for the Performing Arts Museum.
Lydia’s message mentioned a new exhibit they have, now through July 28th, titled, Art Illustrated: Celebrating Comic Art. I had already heard about it and wondered what she could want. So, I returned her call and learned that the museum was hosting a panel discussion on comic art, and how they were in need of a moderator for the panel. As I listened, I assumed she was going to ask me if one of the reporters from my station would be available.
But, that’s not what she asked.
Lydia asked me if I could do it.
Wait. Did she just ask me??
Yes she did, and she didn’t seem to care that I had NEVER moderated a panel before. All Lydia knew was that someone had recommended me.
Wait. Did she just imply that they had a discussion and my name came up as a candidate for moderating a panel on comic art??
The idea of moderating a discussion on a topic I know little about terrified me—and excited me all at once. After all, I grew up reading the Sunday funnies and comic books and still have a weakness for Blondie and Archie and the gang. Plus, I was a big fan and peruser of Mad Magazine. Though, what Baby Boomer isn’t?
As I tossed the idea around in my head, I kept thinking how I love my safe and secure comfort zone. It protects me from crazy stuff like going bungee jumping, pole vaulting, scaling tall buildings in a single bound, or engaging an audience for two hours by moderating a conversation on cartoons. Sheesh. What questions would I ask?
But the idea really made me feel exhilarated. So, after a lot of deliberation, and asking our reporter, who actually has a keen knowledge of comics and has covered Comic Con for my station (she declined, as she is very busy preparing for Comic Con, which is next weekend), I said yes!
And, so I opened the door and took a flying leap out of my comfort zone.
I visited the art exhibit at the museum and got a personal tour from Lydia, who assumed I knew what I was doing. We talked and talked and she gave me background info on the exhibit and the expert panelists, who include the following:
The hip hooray and bally hoo,
The lullaby of Broadway.
The rumble of the subway train,
The rattle of the taxis.
The daffodills who entertain
At Angelo’s and Maxie’s.
–From the song, Lullaby of Broadway by Harry Warren and Al Dubin
They say the teen years can be the most trying of times. We falter, we plow ahead. We push, we dare. We make mistakes and presumably learn from them. Some of us handle the awkwardness of transitioning from childhood to adulthood a whole lot better than others. Some of us come out the other end with flying colors, embracing the change it brings to our lives.
Joan Crawford in the film, “Mildred Pierce.”
Not me. Having to face adulthood is what I dreaded most. I wasn’t ready and doubted I’d ever be. Young people aren’t supposed to worry about getting old or the passage of time. But, I did. On the eve of 1970, while revelers were partying and rattling their noisemakers in Times Square, I sat in my room and cried, lamenting the end of a decade that, to me, represented my youth. It was as if the new decade was quashing what was left of my childhood, snuffing out the free spirit inside. Peter Pan didn’t want to grow up and neither did I. My mother put her arms around me, not really understanding why I felt so bad.
Well, my friends seemed oblivious, too, eager as they were to get their driver’s licenses, and get on with their plans for college. So I tried not to think too much about the future, nor how junior year would be ending soon, and I would need to find a job for the summer. Whether I liked it or not, the pressures of adulthood were creeping in.
My feelings for James continued to run the gamut. One minute I couldn’t imagine life without him. The next, I’d flat out ignore him, feeling the shame of being a year older than him burn my cheeks. I could kiss him and spurn him in the space of a minute. And always, he waited. No matter what I did, he stood by patiently. I knew he deserved better, but I couldn’t bring myself to be any other way. Yet, I worried what would happen to us once school let out.
Max proved to be a fresh dose of reality. When the day of our planned trip to the city arrived, he showed up to pick me up with his usual panache.
“Miss Thing! I’ve seen hyenas in heat that look better than you!”
It was 8:30, Saturday morning. Crack of dawn if you ask me, but he insisted we get an early start.
I was at Liza’s, where I’d spent the night. Max, dressed in a flaming red ascot and a silk smoking jacket, was looking rather cavalier as he assessed my “I just fell out of bed appearance”—gray circles under my eyes, and my black ringlet curls were all frizzed out. Having gone into panic mode, they looked more like a mound of Brillo pads that had been pinned to the top of my head.
“This simply won’t do!” He said fretfully, plopping down a valise he’d brought along with him. “Now, where can we go to doll you up?”
I was curious as to what he had in mind, but also dreading it. Still, I pointed to the parlor to the left of the entryway of Liza’s Victorian home.
Yanking my arm, he grabbed his valise and pulled me into the small, cozy room with over-stuffed chairs and an upright piano. Motioning me to sit down, he flicked his suitcase open and began pulling out an assortment of garments, circa 1940s, as well as cosmetics, a hairbrush and hairspray, and a container of bobby pins. For the next 30 minutes, he did my hair as best he could, working feverishly to stick pins in all sorts of ways, until, miraculously, my hair looked quite fashionable–had I been Joan Crawford in Mildred Pierce, that is. Then, he handed me a violet-colored dress to wear. All I needed were a pair of arched eyebrows and a smear of red lipstick to complete the Mildred Pierce look.
When he was finished and pleased with the results, we hastily rushed off to make the 9:23 train to Penn Station, New York. I was consciously aware of the looks we got as we boarded the train. Taking our seats, Max began to tell me what he planned for the day, how many shops we’d be visiting, and where we’d be having lunch.
“There’s a whole world beyond school, Miss Thing,” he’d say, “and you need to see it!”
I rolled my eyes, once again feeling like I was the only one not ready to move outside my comfort zone of school and riding my bike around the island. I imagined it was easier for Max, as he’d be graduating soon and seemed eager to move to the city. Maybe I’d feel better when it was my turn, and, like him, I’d find myself hankering to leave home.
As I gazed out the window, watching the scenery whiz by, I knew one thing to be certain. Sitting next to Max on the train, he in his ascot, eyeliner and mascara, and me, donning a vintage dress, it occurred to me we were nothing more than a pair of misfits.
Max must’ve known what I was thinking because he smiled and blew me a kiss.
“Now, about your love life,” he said exuberantly. “Tell me, is there something going on between you and James, or are you still dating that insipid George?”
Nothing like cutting to the chase. Max never ceased to leave me dumbfounded. He had his arrows and knew exactly where to sling them. Perhaps he sensed the angst his question gave me, for his face was filled with consternation.
“You’re not going to the prom with George!” I wasn’t sure if that was a command or a plea.
“Well, I’ve heard George mention it this week in the cafeteria, but I assumed he was lying. You wouldn’t waste your time.”
“He asked me weeks ago. I said yes. It’d be rude to back out now.”
“It would be crazy not to! Tell him you’ve come down with the flu–or, better yet, the clap. That boy is as bland as tapioca pudding, and furthermore, he doesn’t appreciate you. Not like James.”
I winced. “What do you know about James? You only met him once!”
“Don’t think I missed the looks between the two of you, Miss Thing. That boy’s pining for you like nobody’s business, and if you don’t snap him up, I will, because he’s drop-dead gorgeous!”
The idea of Max finding James attractive made me uncomfortable and I was suddenly overcome with a fierce desire to protect James.
“I like James,” I said flatly. “Only it’s complicated, which is why I haven’t told anyone.”
“Why’s it complicated?”
“Because he’s a sophomore and I’m a junior. That’s why.”
Max looked at me incredulously and then laughed. “That’s your reason? I thought you were going to say he has cancer and only weeks to live. Darling, don’t let that stop you. Show him off! Walk arm in arm with him at school and watch all the other girls be insanely jealous. I know I am.”
“You don’t think I’d be ridiculed?”
“Honestly, do you know how many times I’ve been the source of ridicule? Has that ever bothered me? Sometimes, maybe, but you just deal. Each of us has something to hide. The question is, are you willing to own up to it or are you going to let it eat you up?”
As the train reached Penn Station, passengers began to gather their belongings and move towards the doors. As Max and I followed suit, he gave a wink.
“Choose wisely, Love. James is hot and adores you,” he said, adding salaciously, “You’ve no idea what I’d do to him if he were mine!”
I cringed at the thought, wishing Max wouldn’t be so forthcoming, but I knew he had a point. Yet, was I willing to heed his advice?
Once on the platform, he took my hand, and guided me through the throng of travelers. Two misfits were we, trying hard not to melt into the crowd. Only one of us was succeeding.
“Well, hello! And, who might this delicious young man be?”
Speaking with his usual flare for the dramatic, as if he were emoting on a stage, and not standing in the musty hallways of our high school, Max was referring to James. We were amidst a flurry of students who were in the process of getting to their next class, some of whom couldn’t help but stare at us, drawn as they were by Max’s gregarious persona.
I blanched. Max and I had been talking about venturing into the city, when suddenly James appeared out of nowhere. Having completely ignored the coda I had established—no speaking to me at school (except in geometry, of course)—James had nonchalantly greeted me as if I were any old friend whom he’d bumped into between classes.
Only, I wasn’t.
I was, however, in a clandestine relationship with him. Emphasis on clandestine. Private. Mum’s the word, and all that.
Since that day in the park, James and I had become practically inseparable. Outside of school, that is. No one knew or suspected one iota. We’d meet surreptitiously after school, taking walks through his secluded, tree-shaded neighborhood. Then we’d head to his home, and slip under the covers of his bed. No going all the way, mind you–I wasn’t ready for that–just a lot of hot and heavy, shall we say, breathing. You get the picture.
I couldn’t get enough of him. When we were together, I felt more buoyant, more adventurous, and yes, more alive. Happier than I’d been in ages. Still, I’d tell no one about our relationship. As far as I was concerned, that’s how it had to be, mostly because of the embarrassment I felt in being with a younger guy. The last thing I wanted was to let the cat out of the bag. Still, every time we met, in my head there were many others in the room along with us. And, they were all judging.
First and foremost, my parents, who’d have read me the riot act had they known what I was up to, particularly since, in the six months that I dated Jake, I never stepped foot in his bedroom. Then, there was my best friend, Liza, who was smarter and savvier than I, and almost certain to see my interest in James as a sign of inopportune weakness.
As for my other friends, whom I’d party and hang out with, I could feel their disapproving eyes boring tiny holes into my back. Had this been one of those James Cagney gangster flicks, you would’ve heard me yelling, “Top of the World, Ma!” as my parents and friends riddled me with bullets for bringing a pox upon all their houses.
So, for these reasons, I lived my double life. Publicly, I continued to meet up with my friends, have lunch with George, and have the occasional sleepover at Liza’s. At home, I was the dutiful (sort of) daughter, doing my chores and homework, while my mother sewed my dress for the prom. And, whenever I could, I’d sneak off to see James. Yes, everything was going smoothly.
I hadn’t counted on Max.
Max was a senior and the only openly gay guy at my school. Jake somehow knew him and had introduced us one night, just before a school performance of the musical, Good News. Max, who had designed the scenery, and the show’s posters which had been plastered all over town, was backstage doing last minute makeup touches on the female lead.
Upon meeting me, he took hold of my face and, holding it up to the light, cheekily remarked, “Miss Thing, don’t ever wear blue eye shadow. It’s absolutely not your color.”
I wasn’t wearing any makeup that night, but I figured, he must know what he was talking about. Most days, Max came to school wearing tons of makeup. He’d keep it on until one of the teachers sent him to the men’s room to wash off. He’d oblige but, first chance he got, you’d find him back in the bathroom, reapplying it. Max never stopped testing the school’s boundaries, and would often end up in the principal’s office.
I didn’t know what to make of him, having never met anyone who seemed to enjoy calling as much attention to himself as he did. Without fear of consequence. When everybody else was trying to fit in, he was embracing his own flamboyant self.
And now, he was commanding me to spend the day with him in the city, and there was no turning him down.
“Miss Thing, what is wrong with you?” He cried in mock horror. “I can’t believe you haven’t been to any of the vintage clothing shops in East Village. Looks like I’m going to have to take you there myself! This weekend, no excuses. Trust me, you will love it!”
I was skeptical. I’d never gone into Manhattan with anyone outside my family, except Liza, and our favorite place to shop was Macy’s or Gimbel’s in Herald Square, so I didn’t know what to expect. But Max knew I had a thing for movies of the 30s and 40s, particularly the musicals, and I did love the style–padded shoulders, sweeping skirts and cocktail hats–so, maybe it would be fun.
While we stood in the school hallway finalizing plans, James happened by. Max waited expectantly for an introduction.
“So, whom do we have here, Miss Thing?” He tapped his foot, impatiently. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
I tensed up, as a sense of doom crossed my face. I wasn’t sure James could hold his own with Max. In some ways, James seemed too innocent.
Max glanced from me to James, and slowly, he nodded, as if things were beginning to gel.
“Oh, I see,” was all he said.
“Max,” I began to stammer. “This is–”
Max cut me off, taking matters into his own hands.
“Dear boy, I’m Max and believe me, the pleasure is all mine.”
James shrugged, muttering a casual, “Hey,” under his breath.
“This is James,” I intervened. “A friend from geometry. He sometimes helps me with homework assignments.” I was hoping my words would convince Max that there was nothing more than a distant connection between us.
“You mean he’s in that remedial class you’ve told me about?” Max nodded, seemingly going along with the bill of goods I was selling. “Now, why didn’t I sign up for that class, I wonder?”
I could tell James was feeling uncomfortable by his keen interest in him. Frankly, so was I.
“Well, then,” said Max, “I don’t suppose James would like to join us for our excursion Saturday?”
Getting together with James and Sam was one thing, but James and Max? Out of the question.
“Probably not a good idea,” I replied before James could say anything. His shyness seemed to have kicked in, full throttle.
“No?” He feigned a forlorn look. “How disappointing. Oh well, I guess I’ll leave you two alone. Seems the lad is eager to help you with, ahem–your homework?”
With a smile and a flick of his hand, he tipped the fedora he was wearing to one side, adding,
“Until Saturday, Dear Heart! I expect a full report on your–what was it? Oh, yes. Your homework!”
And, with that, he strode off, disappearing down the hall.
“Uh, that was weird,” said James, matter-of-factly.
The bell marking the start of the next period sounded. There’d be no time for explanations. I simply nodded in agreement, and headed to my class, wondering what Max had surmised about me and James. Could he tell there was something between us? Would he even care?