© Copyright 2018, Stan Charnofsky
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
ISBN: 978-1-387-82827-2
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-643-70509-5
Though much is taken, much abides;
And although we are not now that strength
Which in old days moved earth and heaven,
That which are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate,
But strong in will to strive, to seek, to find,
And not to yield.
— Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson
ONE
It’s a bitch, but I remind myself of the adage about the alternative. I’m seventy, and the arthritis started about twenty years ago, first in the lower back, than the shoulder, and later in the hand and wrist. Not debilitating, but it does wake me up at night.
Used to be, at the start of the twentieth century, life expectancy in America was fifty-one or fifty-two. Now in the twenty-first, it is up to seventy-seven or seventy-nine depending on your gender. I heard recently that folks born around the year 2000, will have a life expectancy of a hundred and two. Does that mean seventy will be considered middle-aged?
I still work full time. I’m a psychologist and a college professor and I like to profess too much to give it up. Anyway, my memory is good, and the students seem to be entertained.
The one thing about being old, which gives me grief, is how one’s attractiveness changes—that is, to the opposite sex. I see how the women’s eyes scan the room in a café or a coffee house, lingering on the youthful faces and athletic bodies, avoiding the silver-hairs as if they were contagious. I’m in good physical shape, still play tennis a couple of times a week, exercise each morning by jogging about my townhouse, stretching, doing sit-ups. But, all that aside, I’m old.
Well, a friend recently told me that seventy isn’t old these days, that old is a frame of mind, and he buttered me up pretty good by saying he thought of me as a man with a young perspective.
Anyway, that is the stuff of this tale: what ends up missing in an older person’s life, or more to the point, in this older person’s life.
The English poet, Tennyson, wrote, “…Something ere the end, some work of noble note may yet be done.” I believe that. I’m working on that.
The famous psychologist, Carl Rogers, who lived in La Jolla, California, at age seventy-five said, “I carry my own luggage, walk a mile a day, and still believe that the female form is the loveliest thing around; though I must confess I no longer have the same capacity to perform.” My friends and I agreed that he was courageous to share something so personal, though it was a bit more than we needed to know.
Well, I’m happy to say, I do still have the capacity to perform. I simply do not have the person to perform it with.
TWO
A little history is needed to catch you up to why, at seventy, I’m alone. My wife didn’t die. I’m not a widower. But there have been some stormy entanglements in my past, which I’ll lay out in due time.
My relationship story goes back to when I was sixteen. I didn’t have one. I did have a crush on Jeanie Sciarelli, a dark-haired, dark-eyed, Italian beauty in my class, but so did five other guys. We used to hang out with her and her cousin, Toni, sometimes playing a hide-and-seek kind of game in the evening, near her house. For me, it was love from afar. I had no clue about how to create a connection with a girl or what to do if I did.
One of my best buddies, Chuck Manuele, also of Italian background, kind of gave me lessons. At one of our evening games, he and Jeanie and I were hiding from whoever was “it” and I heard him say, “I guess I lose the five dollars.” Jeanie asked, “What for?” Chuck answered, “I bet Teddy, here, that I’d get to kiss you tonight. I can see that’s not going to happen.” Jeanie looked distressed, though, at first, I didn’t know why. Then I saw her lift her right hand in front of her and wave it at her chest like she was fanning herself, and I realized it was an invitation. I was both embarrassed and wounded to see them kiss passionately, ignoring me as if I weren’t there—and I was also pissed because the bet between Chuck and me never happened.
Then there was Angela Arena. She and Jeanie Sciarelli were in the same class, but were not close friends. In Spanish, the word “arena” means sand, and even now, as I think back, I remember Angela with sandy coloring: light olive skin, not quite blond hair, eyes a sort of gray-green. She had a sweet, winsome look and I had a silent crush on her, revealed to absolutely no one. There was nothing I could do about it, since dating, courting, girls were mysteries to me.
In our senior year, Jeanie and her family (other than Toni and her mother) moved somewhere and I never saw her again. Angela graduated with me and I learned, a couple of years later, that she married Milton Brandolino, who was a year ahead of us. About nine or ten years later I ran into them at some political event. They had two children. To me, Angela still seemed radiant, with more color in her cheeks and a serene look that comes with womanhood.
The first female I ever did anything about was a petite twenty-year-old with short, golden hair and piercing blue eyes, who worked as a waitress in a steakhouse in upstate New York. I was twenty-one and had a shot at playing minor league baseball in Binghamton, a Yankee farm team. Many of the single players would have an early dinner at the same café each afternoon before walking over to the ballpark. The Johnson City Steakhouse (I think that was its name) was a block from the stadium.
Two or three of my teammates kept talking about how they’d like to get into the pants of this young woman, but she was shy and conservative, and would blush if anyone flirted with her.
She came to the games now and then, and one night I walked her home and we kissed on her front porch. That must have scared her because she withdrew behind an embarrassed smile whenever I came near her. I recall that she was from a Polish family, but I can’t remember her name. Might have been Sonya, or something like that.
In my mid-twenties, I took to going up to Idyllwild, a little village in the San Jacinto mountain range, which towers above Palm Springs on the other side. I’d rent a cabin in the Silver Pines Lodge for a couple of nights between Christmas and New Years and hope for snow, since in my Los Angeles area home it snowed only once every fifty years.
I was twenty-five and never been involved with a woman, curious about what it would be like, but not desperate, and still unschooled in the strategies of romance.
In Idyllwild, there was one gourmet restaurant, the Gastrognome, as far as I know still functioning today. I’d treat myself to a dinner of pork medallions, wild rice, home-baked bread, almond green-beans, and a glass of Cabernet. I felt rich, as if I were rolling in money, a crackling fire a few feet away, a brilliant painting of a mountain scene with pines and peaks and a meandering stream above the hearth, and through a small window at my side a clear view of the frigid outside, replete with snow drifts and ice patches. It didn’t get any better. All I was missing was…what?
A woman sat along the opposite wall, alone, wearing a flecked green and orange sweater and a woolen cap with an orange tassel. Her face seemed flushed, more than likely burnished from the glow of the fire. I tried to make eye contact, not at all sure what I’d do if she caught my look and smiled at me. Alas, my initial perception was hasty; she was meeting someone. A female companion appeared at her table, both women screeching welcomes, the newcomer discarding heavy clothing, the two hugging warmly, old friends, obviously, who hadn’t seen each other for a while.
Hold on a minute! The late arrival—I knew her. It had been a few years, but clea
rly, this was someone from my high school days. Yes, it was Toni Pastori, Jeanie Sciarelli’s cousin.
I stood and made my way across the room. I wasn’t shy with friends when there was no sexual agenda, and there was absolutely none with Toni. For an instant, I forgot that I would also be meeting this new woman, though that didn’t last long.
“Toni,” I said. “It’s Teddy, from Lincoln. How are you?”
She had just seated herself and now jumped up. “Teddy! What a surprise. It’s been seven years.”
I hugged her briefly and stood dumbly, waiting for whatever else would happen.
“Oh,” she said, “this is Kacey Cloud. We met in college. Kacey, this is Teddy Bronte, an old high-school pal.”
I shook hands with Kacey, a soft, loose touch, not at all firm, not like businessmen greeting, but more like I was carefully holding onto a tissue. She smiled and squeezed my hand gently. “A pleasure,” she said.
“You’re welcome to join us,” Toni said, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to abide a barrage of catching-up talk between girls.”
I tried to think fast, and said, “Tell you what. I’m on my dessert, and I’ll finish it first and maybe slide over after a few minutes. Okay?”
Toni appreciated the consideration, and I saw Kacey smile as well, as I turned back and settled into my warm pecan pie smothered with vanilla ice cream.
After ten minutes, it was Kacey, facing me, who caught my eye and waggled her head toward the wall, inviting me to sit with them.
I have to say that there was an immediate sexual agenda, at least on my part, with Kacey Cloud. Aside from curiosity about her odd name, I was stunned by her bold coloring: those cardinal-hued cheeks, without makeup as far as I could tell, translucent blue eyes that made me wonder how such a clear-sky color could maintain its piercing tone indoors on such an ebony, occluded night, and when she smiled, perfect, straight white teeth that spoke of either braces or excellent heredity.
I pulled up a chair from an empty table and, as I sat, both Kacey and I began to speak at the same time––with startling serendipity, the exact same words: “How did you get…?”
We all three laughed, and I fell silent to let her finish, “…Such an unusual last name?”
“My grandparents,” I said, “were European, and when they passed through Ellis Island, the officials couldn’t pronounce or spell their five-syllable name. Grandfather was a scholar who loved English literature, so he exhorted them to name our family after his favorite writers, Emily and Charlotte Bronte.” I stopped, afraid I would bore them, but then decided to add on, “Did you know that Emily only lived thirty years?”
Kacey smiled and said, “Charlotte was two years older, and outlived Emily by seven years. She died in 1855.”
I looked impressed and Kacey graciously said, “I was an English major. Specialized in romantic British writers.”
“How about you?” I asked. “Did your family fall from the clouds?”
“My mother was from Scotland, but my father was an American Indian, whose name was Silver Cloud. He decided to take the pigment out of the name and I grew up as a member of the Cloud clan.”
“I feel a little left out with all this exotic name sourcing,” Toni said. “My father’s name was Pastori, and my mother’s not much different. They both originated from Sicily and when they came to America, heard about a whole colony of Sicilians living in East Los Angeles. Mom still lives there.”
“What happened to Jeanie?” I asked.
“That branch of the family moved up north. Jeanie’s father was a huge Joe DiMaggio baseball fan, and since Joe and his brothers, Vince and Dom, all lived in San Francisco, Papa Sciarelli decided he’d feel a little famous too if he hung out near them. Kind of dumb, if you ask me.”
“You still hear from Jeanie?”
“Once a month or so. Haven’t seen her in two years. She’s been married and, to her parents’ shame, divorced. No kids. She’s a kindergarten teacher in Alameda.”
“What’s your professional passion?” Kacey asked me.
“Believe it or not, it was also baseball. I was a solid achiever in college, so got a chance to play for three or four years. Sorry to say, I didn’t make it. Good enough for college, but not what they call the ‘Big Show.’ Now, back studying again. Might even go on for a PhD, maybe in psychology or something.” I felt off balance and vulnerable whenever I spoke about myself in a biographical way, certain that my listeners would find my story mundane.
There was a brief silence, not necessarily uncomfortable, but as if each of us was wondering what else we might talk about.
I finally asked, “How are you using your English major?”
Kacey smiled—she had a wide, perfect smile, at least it seemed so to me—and answered, “I try to write. I work in a bookstore in West Los Angeles to bring in my rent money. So far, no blockbuster hits, though I have had a couple of short pieces published in magazines.”
“She’s modest,” Toni put in. “A novella about two opposite twins is with an agent now. He’s a New York dude, and likes her work a lot. I’ll bet on it being picked up.”
“I ought to make sure Toni is around all the time, if only to keep my spirits high. Writing is like acting, too many people trying it, too many with talent.”
I took a risk and said, “Do you think I could read it? The novella, I mean.”
She leaned over the side of her chair, lifted a leatherette briefcase onto her lap, reached in and produced a spiral bound manuscript, no more than eighty or ninety pages long.
“Here,” she said, with another of those to-die-for smiles. “Take it. I hope you find it interesting.”
I was nonplussed, reached for it without removing my eyes from Kacey’s face, and said, “But how will I get it back to you?”
“Bring it to my store, where I work. It’s on Santa Monica Boulevard, a block west of Bundy.”
In my man-woman naiveté, I wasn’t sure if her actions were an invitation to get to know her better or simply a writer’s way of asking for feedback.
“Thanks,” I said softly. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it. Shouldn’t take me too long to read.”
I caught Toni smiling. Kacey looked triumphant, as if she were perched on top of a mountain, the planet spread out below her.
THREE
So that’s how I met Kacey, my first relationship. I’m living proof that there is never a loving connection quite as profound as the first one. Something elemental happens. Passion, long inhibited, pours over the edge, while an idealization kicks in, unreal but powerful and palpable. Urges press at every cavity in the body, screaming for release. No one else will do. The person is the only person. Time away is a crisis. Time together is never enough. More is needed. If courage can rise, more is asked for. When more happens, it is transcendental, ephemeral, and never satisfying. A destination is dreamt of, but not understood. Where will this go? How can we consummate these sublime feelings? There are no answers, but that’s of little consequence. The questions are delicious.
There is a subterranean aspect to every love affair that cannot be measured, explained or understood. I’ve heard it called chemistry, like in ‘there is a mysterious chemistry between those two.’
Kacey and I had some sort of mysterious chemistry, but as I will soon explain, it was not enough to sustain a relationship.
Her novella was a dark tale of fraternal twins, one the mother’s angel, the other a mutant, distant and critical. It had a bizarre ending, with a rape, a suicide and essentially no resolution to the crime. But, it was cleverly conceived and written with polish. I could certainly see a talent with words in Kacey, and couldn’t wait to tell her so.
The bookstore she worked in was called The Children’s Book World, owned and operated by a formidable woman named Genieve Wolfe, who was massive physically and impressive intellectually. I met her the day I delivered the novel, Kacey introducing me as “a literary critic.”
“I’m an amateur,” I said. “Actually, t
his is the first book I’ve ever been asked to respond to.”
“And?” Genieve asked, arching her eyebrows. She sat behind an oak desk, cluttered beyond redemption, hardly a spot available on the surface for anything new. Her office was not separate, but merely a space at the back of the store, positioned so that she could see all the activity going on out front.
“I’m stunned. I mean it’s a brooding kind of story, confusing in many ways, but inventive and brilliant. It’s hard to say I enjoyed it, but I was profoundly moved by it.”
“Ah, so you are a critic. Yes, I have read the story and I agree. I’m not sure about the commercial market for it, which is the bottom line for publishers. It is too brief to sell as a novel. I have told Kacey she must write a second novella and package the two together.”
“Right,” Kacey said. “I’ll just whip off another eighty-pager, and tell my agent to hold onto the first one until he gets my sequel.”
I laughed. It was good to see Kacey poking a little fun at the writing world. I had no idea how serious she might be. Genieve grimaced and wagged her finger at Kacey.
“Don’t joke about it. You can write whatever you choose. Think of something tonight, start writing tomorrow. Surprise yourself. With your talent, something remarkable might be a month away from completion.”
What I didn’t know at the time was that Genieve was a diabetic, and her legs were grotesquely swollen keeping her from walking without a walker. Her own career as a writer, I found out later, had been productive, if not distinguished. She had written four novels and a book of poetry. Two of her novels had been published with modest success. I saw a twinkle in her eye, and anguish as well. It was clear that she treasured Kacey.
“Come on,” Kacey said. “It’s my break time. There’s a coffee shop next door. My treat.”
I smiled sheepishly at Genieve. Part of me relished being manhandled by strong women. My timidity and shyness could be forgotten, replaced by a comfortable subordination to their agendas.
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