by Bill Bernico
“If that happens,” Gloria said, “I’ll be sure to get it all on video so you can enjoy it when you get home.”
“I’m just saying,” I said.
“Duly noted,” Gloria said. “Now can we get back to the business at hand?”
I waggled my eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “What business did you have in mind, little goil?”
Gloria rolled her eyes and sat behind her desk. “A one track mind,” she said. “That’s what you’ve got, Elliott.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I said, smiling.
Gloria laughed and shook her head. “Men,” she said.
“Men, you say?” I told Gloria. “Are you going to sit there and tell me women don’t talk like this when they’re in a group by themselves?”
Gloria was silent for a moment.
“I thought so,” I said. “Some kind of double standard going on here, isn’t there?”
“Face it, Elliott,” Gloria said, “Things are never going to be equal between the sexes. That’s just the way life is. Accept and move on or be frustrated for the rest of your life.”
“I know,” I said. “I hear a lot these days about equality and equal rights and equal pay for equal work and equal this and equal that. I’m about up to here with equality. It’s not that women aren’t worth as much as men if they can do the same job, it’s just that in some situations there shouldn’t be equality.”
“Oh yeah?” Gloria said. “Give me an example.”
“All right,” I said. “I don’t know about you, but if I were headed out the window of a burning fifth story building, I wouldn’t want some five-foot, ninety pound female fire fighter trying to carry my six-foot-two, two hundred plus pound body down any wobbly ladder. On the other hand, I feel a bit uncomfortable seeing a guy taking a school to court in order to preserve his right to compete in the homecoming queen contest.”
“That is carrying things to extremes,” Gloria had to admit.
“Which brings me to another point I’ve often pondered,” I said. “Why is that women can wear slacks, combat boots, suits, tuxedos, male police and military uniforms and other so-called masculine attire and nobody gives it a second thought. But just let a guy wear a skirt and a blouse, high heels and panty hose and right away he’s labeled as a cross dresser or transvestite and hauled off to a padded cell. What gives with the double standard here? Why is there no word or phrase to describe women dressing in men’s clothes? Is there such a thing as a female cross dresser?”
“How long has this been a problem for you, Elliott?” Gloria said. “Is there something you want to share with me about your dressing habits that I don’t know about?”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’m just making a point. In restaurants, theaters and other public places it’s customary and sometimes even mandatory for men to remove their hats, no matter how small. Women, on the other hand, are allowed to leave their hats on. Why?
“Again, Elliott,” Gloria said. “I didn’t make up society’s rules. That’s just the way it is. Get over it.”
“And while we’re on the subject,” I said, “why is it acceptable for women to cry openly in public at the drop of a hat and no one seems to care? Just let a guy cry on the bus and everybody would turn around in their seats and stare. They’d probably whisper to each other about what a big cry baby this guy was. Another double standard.”
“I have a feeling you’re going to cry about this whole issue if I don’t agree with you,” Gloria said.
“If a woman is stopped by a state trooper for speeding,” I said, “she could choose to cry and perhaps beat the ticket. Hey, it works! But if a guy tried that he’d end up with two tickets—one for speeding and one for crying.”
There was no comment from Gloria this time. “Females,” I went on, “no matter what age, can refer to their female friends as their girlfriends without repercussions. But should a guy refer to his buddy as his boyfriend, well, he’d get laughed out of town.”
“Except in maybe San Francisco,” Gloria added with a chuckle.
“On the subject of sexual harassment,” I said, “I’ll bet you my last dollar to your last doughnut that if most women came on to men in the work place, the men would be flattered. Women, on the other hand, immediately cry harassment. Double standard time again.”
“That’s not a problem here, is it, Elliott?” Gloria said. “I haven’t run across that in my job.”
“Very funny,” I said. “There is obviously no equality when it comes to sex. That’s why most prostitutes are women. They know some schmuck out there will pay for it. Why are there so few male counterparts? I’m not talking about the gay male prostitutes who seek out other men. I mean, why isn’t there a big call for male prostitutes to service women who’d pay them for it. It just doesn’t work that way. Women could approach just about any guy in a bar and take him home if they wanted to. Guys aren’t so sure about the outcome if they do the approaching. See, there really is no equality.”
“Great,” Gloria said. “Now can you let it go?”
I ignored her request. “Single women could take home a one-night-stand,” I said, “get pregnant and go off somewhere to have a child and be a single parent if they so desired. Let’s see a guy try to be a single parent using that method. No dice.”
Gloria sighed. “I guess when you get right down to it,” she said, “there’s always going to be that major difference in the sexes. It works the other way as well. Loose women are called sluts, while loose men are called worldly. So you can stop complaining that women have all the advantages. I think you’re wasting a lot of time and energy chasing after the elusive dream of complete equality. It just isn’t going to happen. Nature’s trying to tell us something. I think we ought to give her a good listen.”
I had to admit she had a point there and I couldn’t think of a good comeback, so I just let it rest. “Hey,” I said, changing the subject, “I know I can look it up, but do you happen to know where The Damrow Company is? It’s somewhere in town but I can’t place it.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells,” Gloria said. “What’s at the Damrow Company?”
“My target,” I said. “Apparently he works there and I have to follow him when he leaves work this afternoon.”
“Nope,” Gloria said. “I guess you’re going to have to look it up.”
I tapped a few keys on my computer and found what I wanted to know. The Damrow Company was nestled in the San Fernando Valley north of Hollywood. I’d have to leave myself a good hour start before Steve’s quitting time if I expected to make it through the rush hour traffic. I planned on leaving the office shortly after three, leaving me enough time to grab a sandwich on the way.
I made it through the morning and decided to grab an early lunch. Gloria and I usually didn’t go to lunch together. One of us stayed behind at the office to watch the phone and take the occasional client who wandered into the office while the other took a few minutes for lunch. I decided to go first, leaving Gloria at the office. When I got back I found a note Gloria had left saying that she was meeting with a potential client in Pasadena and that she expected to return in ninety minutes or so.
I ate my lunch in solitude and spent some time updating our client database. It was ten minutes to three and Gloria was still not back from her appointment. I could wait until three but then I had to leave myself. I left Gloria a note telling her I’d meet her at home when I finished tailing Steve Powers. At five minutes past three I couldn’t wait around any longer and locked up the office.
I caught the freeway and drove north into the valley. I had to admit that I was a little more than curious about whether or not Steve Powers had cheating on his mind or if his wife was just the suspicious type who needed confirmation. I found The Damrow Company and parked across the street from the main entrance. It was four twenty-five and I settled in, wondering if Steve left work at four-thirty or five o’clock. Either way I’d be covered. I pulled a three by five photo that Anita had gi
ven me from my shirt pocket and studied the face. Steve Powers looked to be in his late twenties, even though I knew he was thirty-three. He had a smooth baby face with short brown hair and matching brown eyes. According to his wife, Steve stood just over six feet tall and weighed one eighty-five. She said he was a sharp dresser as well. She said she could never be sure if he was always a sharp dresser, or if he was trying to look his best for his rendezvous.
At four-thirty the doors to The Damrow Company opened and a dozen or more people filed out, heading toward various cars on the street. At the end of the crowd I spotted Steve Damrow, wearing a blue blazer with tan slacks and shiny loafers. He looked every bit the young executive. I watched as he crossed the street and got into a silver Toyota sedan. I followed at a safe distance as he drove south. We’d driven three and a half miles through the city when Steve Powers pulled into an alley and then into a parking lot. He got out of his car and walked to the rear door of the closest building. I parked a few spaces down and followed him inside.
It turned out to be a bar. The interior was very dark, with just the occasional candle on small, round table situated throughout the room. Maybe Steve was just tipping a few with the boys, like he had told his wife. Either way, I’d make sure Anita Powers got her money’s worth from my detecting skills. I watched as Steve slid into the booth at the end of the bar. I slid onto a barstool and ordered a diet soda.
I could see Steve’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar and kept an eye on him without drawing attention to myself. He was sitting alone and had ordered a drink from the guy who came around to the tables. A minute later another man slid into the booth next to Steve and held up one finger to get the waiter’s attention. The waiter returned with two beers and set them on the table in front of the two men.
I nursed my diet soda, trying to look inconspicuous with my occasional glances in the mirror. It didn’t take long before a man sat down on the stool next to me. He turned to look at me and smiled a friendly smile.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi,” I said, and went back to sipping my soda.
“You’re new around here, aren’t you?” the man said, swiveling on his stool to face me now. He held out a hand. “I’m Stewart. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t give it,” I said, trying to brush him off without offending him.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been watching Steve in that back booth,” Stewart said. “Listen, take it from me and don’t waste your time with him.”
“Excuse me,” I said.
Stewart laid one hand on his chest, his fingers splayed open. I’d seen my grandmother use that same gesture when someone said something that shocked her. “Steve’s got a guy,” Stewart said. “Now me, on the other hand, I’m always available—no strings attached. What do you say we blow this pop stand?”
He accented ‘blow’ and I got a shiver up my spine. I snuck a quick look at Steve and the other man in the booth. Their lips were locked and their hands were intertwined in each other’s hair. I spilled my glass of soda and quickly slid off the barstool, not wanting the soda to spill any on my pants. I looked at the bartender. “Sorry,” I said and turned to leave.
Stewart raised a hand and called after me. “So, is that a no?” he said.
I hurried out to my car, locked my doors and started the engine. I couldn’t get away from that place fast enough to suit me. Anita needn’t have worried that there was another woman in her husband’s life. And then it dawned on me. What was I going to tell her? Should I just say that I followed him and that I could categorically state that there was no other woman and leave it at that? Did I have to tell her that her supposedly normal husband was leading a double life? What did I really owe this woman?
If Steve turned out to be a murdered or a burglar or some kind of thug on top of everything else, he’d have three different sides to him…the three faces of Steve, so to speak. That made me think of the Joanne Woodward movie, The Three Faces of Eve, about a woman with three different personalities. Well, I thought, I wanted something different than the standard cheating husband tail job and I got it.
I drove back into Hollywood and parked outside the coffee shop near my office. I ordered a ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of chocolate milk. The total bill came to $6.77 and I carried up to the cashier after I’d finished my meal. The gal behind the counter couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty and seemed like a real airhead. I gave her a ten dollar bill and two pennies, knowing I should get back three singles and a quarter. Simple enough? Apparently not. This gal looked at me with strange look, then glanced at the two pennies as if I’d just handed her a red-hot coal.
After a few strenuous mental calculations, she handed me $4.75 in change. This was an older establishment without the benefit of one of those new cash registers that calculate the change for you. They had an old push button cash register and the clerk had to count the change herself.
I gave her back a buck and a half and started to explain that the only reason I gave her the two extra cents was so that the change would come out to an even twenty-five cents. She looked like she was ready to break down and cry, but instead just seemed to take my word for it that what I gave her back was correct.
This wasn’t an isolated incident, either. I run across this type of thing a lot with today’s youth. Either they’ve come to rely on pocket calculators or the schools have eased up on the knowledge necessary to graduate from high school today. I have a feeling it’s a combination of both.
I went through a lot of frustration in school myself twenty years ago. I knew back then that I’d never have to tax my brain in real life to come up with the exact date that Ponce De Leon arrived in Florida. I also seemed to know that no future employer would ever ask me about Denmark’s average rainfall or the capital of Rhodesia.
I was right. Instead of filling kids’ heads with a lot of useless information that will be forgotten the minute they leave school, why not teach courses in everyday survival? Courses like balancing a checkbook, counting out change, budgeting money to last until next payday, economics of smart shopping, car repair or tax preparation.
A home handyman repair course would help prepare kids for the real world. A crash course on plumbing, electrical work and house painting would help round out the courses. I’m not saying that all courses taught today are useless. Twenty years later I’m still using some of the bookkeeping courses I learned at school. Some of my algebra has helped me from time to time. Spelling was a big plus as well as a handy tool later in life.
I guess what it boils down to is Reading, Writing and Arithmetic...the basics. It worked so well for so many years. Why not stick to it?
I took my change and returned to my car. I should have gone back to the office, but it seemed to me that I really hadn’t earned my day’s pay. On the other hand, I really did not want to go back to that bar and watch Steve Powers tongue wrestle with some other guy. I decided to visit Anita Powers instead. Maybe on the way to her house I could think of something to tell her.
During my ride to the Powers house, my mind began to wander. I was thinking about last night, while I was channel flipping over the hundreds of stations we got with our cable package. My favorite station ran episodes of those old westerns that were popular when my dad was a kid.
Last night as I flipped past all the stations, I happened across a rerun of The Cisco Kid and my thoughts turned to sidekicks. The whole premise of The Cisco Kid was weird by today’s standards. There they were, the forty-year-old hero and his sixty-year-old sidekick, Pancho.
Pancho was there for the comic relief value. He, like all the other sidekicks of the day, was made to look like a bumbling idiot. Still, he had that underlying air of competency that made him invaluable to the hero. Pancho’s holster was not tied low to his leg. He wore it in front like the buffoon that he was; yet he never seemed to have any trouble getting the draw on professional gunslingers.
Wild Bill Hickok had Jingles
to slow him down whenever he was in hot pursuit. From over his shoulder Bill would hear, “Hey, Wild Bill, wait for me.” It’s a wonder they ever caught any crooks. Jingles, like most other sidekicks, was there simply to make the hero looks even better by comparison.
Roy Rogers’ had two sidekicks—his wife, Dale Evans and that clown, Pat Brady, who drove the Jeep, Nellybelle, that always ran away on its own. Imagine having to rely on your wife to get you out of a jam, like Dale did so many times with Roy. It’s probably not as good idea to share that last example with Gloria.
Gene Autry went through a couple of sidekicks in his career. One of the first was “Frog Millhouse” (Smiley Burnette). Like Jingles, he was overweight, clumsy, comical and incompetent on the outside. Both he and Jingles would usually sit on the bad guy to detain him while their bosses were busy tasting knuckle sandwiches.
To help drive Frog’s comic value home, he rode a white horse with a black ring painted around its eye, much like Petie, the dog from the Little Rascals series. Even Matt Dillon’s sometimes deputy, Festus, rode an ass. I guess the old saying, “you are what you ride” applied here.
Smiley must have had enough of playing second banana to Gene and was replaced by Pat Buttram. Pat had an irritating voice and Marty Feldman eyes, but he was there when Gene needed him, like a good sidekick. Strangely enough, both Burnette and Buttram ended up on TV playing buffoons in Petticoat Junction and Green Acres, respectively. Once a buffoon, always a buffoon, I guess.
Of all the TV sidekicks of the fifties I’d have to say that Tonto was the most competent, although not the brightest character around. The Lone Ranger would always send Tonto into town ahead of him to see if there was any danger lurking. There usually was, and Tonto got beat up again and again. You’d think after a few beatings, he’d wise up and tell the Lone Ranger to check out the next town himself. But of course, with his broken English, he had a little trouble conveying his thoughts to the masked man.
