by Jay Begler
“What happens at 11 pm?”
“We go to a special place.”
“A special place?”
“You’ll see and it’s not back to my place, even though that’s what you’re hoping. In the meantime the sand is slipping through the hourglass, so fire away.”
For the remainder of their exquisite dinner, Goodwin related the story of his marriage to Sheila, her Hypo-Humoresque condition and the end of their marriage. Sophie moved closer to Goodwin so that their hips were almost touching. She took his hand, lifted it, and kissed it. “Are you okay?”
Feeling a shiver of delight at that moment, he answered, “I’m absolutely fine.”
“Great. Want coffee, tea? Then we’ll get the check and go to that special place I mentioned.”
“Where?”
“There’s this great dance hall in the Village.”
“I’m a horrible dancer. I can’t do any of these dances. I look totally spastic.”
“Trust me, Philip. You won’t be disappointed.”
“I do trust you, Sophie, absolutely.”
Goodwin was an inveterate tea drinker as was Sophie. Sophie took two different tea bags, one for a black tea and one for a green tea and placed them simultaneously into her cup.
He was hysterical and seemingly shocked at the same time. “I don’t believe it. Two tea bags?”
Sophie blushed slightly. “I know, it’s a bit crazy. It’s an old habit.”
“No. No. It’s not that. I thought I was the only one in the world who did that.”
“Soul mates,” she responded.
“Maybe so.”
Romance In The Forties
They were in a cab, en route to Greenwich Village. Goodwin was speaking rapidly. Midstream into a tale about a man at his club who cheated so much when he played golf that the members dubbed him the “golfing sociopath,” Sophie moved abruptly towards Goodwin and rolled half on top of him. Their first kiss, deep and sexual, lasted for a good half mile. The cab ride and their embrace ended simultaneously. Goodwin’s erection was so hard that he feared it would not go down. He began to empathize with a number of individuals who really needed the PEP application and momentarily tried to conjure the image of Mother Theresa as a palliative for his condition. Sophie was not at all fazed by the obvious bulge in his pants and said, laughing as she did so, “Don’t make me use the cattle prod App!” He went soft immediately.
They entered a large hanger-like building whose exterior bore a large old-fashioned neon sign that blinked, “The Forties.” The cavernous interior of the place replicated a 1940’s nightclub. At its far end there was a bandstand occupied by musicians dressed in forties styled white dinner jackets. Most of the men in the club wore WWII military uniforms. The women wore vintage forties dresses. While he was not alive in the forties, Goodwin had always loved the decade and went out of his way to see the old black and white movies made in this decade whenever he could. Like many others, Goodwin felt that this might have been the best decade for America. It was, in his view, certainly the most romantic time for the country.
“You’ll love it, Philip. They only play slow music from the forties or before. You can dance a fox-trot can’t you?”
“My specialty.”
“Perfect. Now change into your uniform.”
“My uniform?”
“Sure, don’t you see that everyone is dressed in forties style clothing. Just go over to the door over there where it says ‘Men’s Barracks,’ and they’ll set you up. I’m going to the Women’s Barracks, and we’ll meet back here in a couple of minutes.”
Goodwin chose a vintage WWII Air Force captain’s uniform. The choice was an enormous and sentimental kick for him because when he was still in grade school he had seen the televised movie Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo, with Van Johnson, and had fantasized about being a bomber pilot.
Sophie was waiting for him in a beautiful old fashioned dress. Her hair was up in a bob, a style that was popular during the period. He was struck by how lovely she was in this new, old-fashioned, garb. She smiled and with a mock salute said, “Captain Goodwin, I presume.” In the semi-darkness of the club, with a large ballroom light spinning slowly above, a woman who looked and sounded exactly like Billy Holliday, began to sing “Blue Moon.”
“May I have this dance, Sophie?”
“This and every other one.”
When Goodwin heard the song, it evoked a memory of when he first met Sheila at a corporate Christmas party and of his first dance with her. He couldn’t deny that she was extremely attractive. His feelings then were quite different from what he was experiencing with Sophie. Then, he had a strong sense of sexual excitement, an anticipation of a possible sexual liaison. Now, he was overwhelmed by a sense of romance. Part of this was attributable to Sophie herself and part was due to where he found himself at that moment. It was as if they had actually stepped back in time to the forties. The WWII types and their dates, dancing to a beautifully rendered love song, surrounded them. How could he not feel romantic?
Not that any sexual stimuli were missing. If they had danced any closer they would have broken some ribs. Bodies touching, they kissed periodically and moved their hands tenderly along each other’s backs. Several dances later, a male singer, whose appearance was strikingly similar to a young Frank Sinatra, with a voice to match, began to sing “Fools Rush in Where Angels Fear to Tread.” When Goodwin heard the lyrics, he wondered for a moment if he was the fool who was rushing in, but didn’t particularly care. He wondered if he was actually falling in love with Sophie.
Sophie whispered to him in an earnest tone, “Philip, I know that we’ve only known each other for a few hours, but I’m really tumbling for you. No. That’s not quite right. I’ve totally tumbled for you.” At that moment, any doubts he may have had about his feelings for Sophie, totally evaporated and he replied, “And I’ve totally tumbled for you, Sophie.” Realizing what each had said to the other, he pulled back for a second and started to laugh as he said it, “My God, Sophie, tumbling for each other? We’re actually talking like it is the forties. But it’s true I’ve tumbled for you, and just to use the lingo of the time, ‘hook, line, and sinker.’”
Goodwin smiled, but shook his head subconsciously. “What’s wrong, Philip?” she asked.
“Nothing. Everything is perfect. It’s just that my blurting out my love for you, particularly within the space of a couple of hours, is just so unlike me.”
“Don’t change.”
“I won’t. I’m too happy to change. You know I always thought that the forties was a much better era than the time of Apps.”
“The time of what?”
“The time of Apps. That’s what I call the era we are living in where virtually everything we do is somehow impacted by a computer, or a smart phone, or the Internet and, of course, Apps and where the Internet has virtually destroyed our privacy.
“So if I wrote a book about us, should I call it Love In The Time of Apps?”
Without hesitating he said, “Absolutely.”
“Though the title is a bit derivative of Gabriel García Márquez’ Love In the Time of Cholera.”
“True, but there’s no way I’m waiting over fifty-one years for the woman I love.”
“Glad you like instant gratification. I don’t know how alluring I’ll be at 94.”
For a second, Goodwin tried to imagine Sophie as nonagenarian, but couldn’t. Yet, the idea of growing old with her seemed very attractive. Standing directly below the revolving ballroom light, they embraced as other couples danced around them. It might have been the most romantic experience of Goodwin’s life. He was at that moment a WWII pilot and she was, to use an expression he later used to describe the evening, his “gal.”
Just before closing, Sophie took him to a small photography kiosk in the back of the club. The kiosk had various sepia toned large photographs, which were actually taken in the forties and now used as backdrops for the photographs taken in the kiosk. The sepia
tones and the backdrops were intended to lend a forties authenticity to the photographs. They choose as their backdrop the Natural History Building, a beaux art styled structure in Los Angeles with beautiful gardens and palm trees in front.
As the photograph was about to be taken, Sophie said, “Wait,” rushed to a bench nearby, opened up a small prop box, and pulled out a slim paste-on mustache. “Put this on. It will give you an Errol Flynn look.” To give the photograph realism the photographer did not use a digital camera, but an ancient reflex camera with film. After the photograph was developed, the photographer applied a chemical that had the effect of aging it.
The photograph was remarkable in that it was indistinguishable in its character from those old real photographs found in scrapbooks sold in flea markets. “You really do look like Errol Flynn,” Sophie said. “Wait, I want to inscribe it.” She took an old fountain pen that the photographer had for inscriptions and wrote “My Dearest Philip a/k/a Errol, I’ll be waiting for you when the war is over. All my love, Sophie.”
It was nearly morning when they exited The Forties and walked up Eighth Avenue. In a way he felt as if he was in a romantic movie. He was walking with his jacket over his shoulder, shop keepers were just opening up their stores, and the rising sun gave everything a beautiful orange cast. All he needed was background music. Goodwin said, “No sense in me going home, I’ll just shower in my office after I drop you off.”
“No need, I’m further uptown. I’ll drop you off, but on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“That I see you again tonight. Maybe we could just eat in at my place. I’ll fix us a gourmet meal and then I’d like you to sample some Carnal Knowledge Pour Homme. Here’s my card Sophie D’Amour, 1000 3rd Avenue, 6th Floor.”
“Here, Sophie, take my card; just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“You know, you can’t make it; there is an act of war, a safe falls on your head.”
Sophie leaned towards Goodwin and kissed him very tenderly, not quite a sexual kiss, but not a perfunctory kiss either. It was, however, a kiss on the lips. When he exited the cab that they were in, Goodwin looked at the sky and without knowing who or even what he was addressing said a heartfelt, “thank-you.”
Sophie’s Choice
Goodwin was certain that he was in love. He was so pumped up and excited that he made a copy of the back and front of his photo with Sophie and sent it as an attachment to an email to Kass even though he knew that Kass had not yet arrived at his office. “Peter, meet Sophie. That’s me in my uniform. I think, no I know, I’m in love. I know it’s not the typical reasoned, reserved, behavior for me, but my feelings for Sophie are genuine.”
One thing that Goodwin always liked about Kass was that for the most part Kass had usually strong optimistic streak. Goodwin would describe him as a man who always saw the “glass three-quarters filled, and generally with expensive champagne.” Kass didn’t call back, but later that morning sent an email: “Philip, I’ll call you later. I hope you are okay and not losing your grip. This looks like a photo of some woman with Errol Flynn, taken 70 years or so ago. Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I am concerned. Take it slow and GET YOUR ARMS AROUND YOUR EMOTIONS. For your own sake, lower your expectations, for now at least, and don’t be a Pollyanna about this. You need to take a deep breath and take stock of what you’re doing. I’m telling you, buddy, you sound like you have a classic case of rebounditis. Been there, done that and it’s not pretty. PS: THOSE AFFLICTED WITH THIS MALADY DON’T KNOW THEY HAVE IT.”
Kass, troubled by his friend’s highly unusual email and his possible mental state, had copied Goodwin’s message and forwarded his reply to Ricques and Graves. Ricques counseled: “Just saw your email to Peter. A word of caution Philip, you need to understand that the most important law of dating when you are over 40 is Murphy’s Law.”
Graves emailed, “Bear this in mind, 95 percent of the people you meet nowadays who are single and over 40 are functioning psychotics. I know. I married one.” Goodwin laughed when he saw the words “functioning psychotics,” recalling Sophie’s use of the same words the night before.
Disregarding the collective wisdom of his friends he replied to all: “Gentlemen. Thanks for your advice and concern, but I’m perfectly fine.”
For the remainder of the day, Goodwin attempted with only moderate success to focus on his work. He was in the quintessential champing at the bit mode. It seemed to Goodwin, however, that time was passing about as slowly as the passage of time when he used to arrive at a movie a half an hour before it started at the insistence of Sheila who wanted to assure seats that were perfectly in the middle. He would then be obligated to watch previews of previews and advertisements that touted upcoming television shows, movies as well as popcorn and soda in containers suitable only for giants. What he found unfathomable in these situations was that at the end of these presentations there was a brief recap of all he had seen. He sometimes said to Sheila, “Glad we got the recap, just in case they test us.” She never laughed. Goodwin and some of his friends called these times “sitting in the land of ennui.”
Despite the drag of the day, Goodwin showed admirable restraint and left by cab at a time that would assure a timely arrival at Sophie’s place. He was so absorbed by his thoughts of her that he didn’t even realize that he had arrived at his destination until the taxi driver said. “Here we are, sir.”
When Goodwin looked out of the cab’s window at his destination, he said with some alarm: “Wait, there must be some mistake. I want 1000 3rd Avenue.”
“This is it, old chap,” the blue eyed, blond haired, nattily dressed and well-spoken driver replied. Goodwin could still not get used to the latest phenomenon in the taxi industry of having WASPS, high WASPS, as taxi drivers. Members of every race, country and ethnic group had worked in the taxi industry and the cycle had come back to the original group of drivers. Thus, while several years earlier his driver might have been someone called “Abdul,” the present driver was “Monty,” actually Monty Graves of Darien Conneticut.
“But this is the back of Bloomingdales.”
“Correct. Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, Armani.”
“Goodwin started to protest: “There must be some mistake. I’m supposed to meet a woman at 1000 3rd Avenue.”
“I have a phone book. You can look up her address.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Don’t mention it, old boy; my pleasure. By the way, want a martini? I make a pretty mean bacotini. Anyway, the meter keeps running until you exit the cab. As far as I’m concerned you can sit back there and read The Rise and Fall of Western Civilization.”
There were no Amours and only two people whose last name were D’Amour, a “Melody” and a counselor on dyslexia named Lorothy D’Amour. Sensing Goodwin’s distress, Monty offered to look at the card Sophie had given Goodwin the night before. “Oh, that’s a Bloomies employee’s card. My Aunt Muffie used to have one just like it till she moved to Israel to work on a shopping kibbutz.” Goodwin examined the card again and noticed the font was similar to that used by Bloomingdales. He entered the store and took the escalator to the sixth floor. Sophie was waiting for him.
They embraced lightly. “You don’t know how happy l am to see you Sophie. I thought l had the wrong address.”
Sophie led him to the back of the floor and said, “Wait here. We’re closing for the night. I’ll be right back.” At this point, however, he was thoroughly confused and just a bit concerned. He thought, “Didn’t she say she was a lawyer?”
By the time Sophie returned, several minutes later, the floor was virtually empty. Except for the dim light thrown off by a few lamps, the floor was dark. Sophie was holding a bottle of champagne and two very elegant Baccarat champagne glasses, which she had borrowed from the crystal department on the floor below. They entered the section of the floor devoted to model rooms and walked into a gorgeous kitchen. Sophie popped the cork on
a Cristal champagne bottle, poured and said, “To you, Philip. I’m so utterly happy we met.”
He was going to ask her about her apparent job in Bloomingdales and her position as an attorney, but thought that it might be better to discuss that question over dinner. Goodwin kissed her on the cheek and said: “I am, too, Sophie. I find you nothing short of wonderful.” Noticing that the store was virtually deserted Goodwin, a tad apprehensive, said, “Now, where do you want to eat?”
“You’re so sweet, Philip. But, I told you I was going to fix you a gourmet meal and I’m keeping my promise. I wouldn’t think of having you spend your hard-earned money on going to a restaurant. You’re going to have a home cooked meal at my place and then for desert you can try some Carnal Knowledge, the perfume, and the real thing.” Saying this she gave him a sly smile.
Goodwin could only describe what he felt at that moment as a great sense of euphoria. He thought, “Sometimes life can be so perfect.”
“Great!” Goodwin said. “Can we walk or should we take a cab? Where is your place?”
Sophie began to laugh hysterically. “Why, Philip, my place is right here in the model rooms.”
Goodwin felt his muscles tense ever so slightly. He had the feeling that Sophie was not joking, but nevertheless said, “Seriously, Sophie.”
“No. Really, I live here. The model room over there is my bedroom. You were already in my kitchen, and we are standing in my living room and my bathroom is down the hall. Actually, it’s the employees’ bathroom and locker room. I’ve been here so often that I have business cards and a key. The night watchman believes I’m the evening supervisor. And sometimes I pitch in and work. I’ve even drafted memos on building security.”
There were times in Goodwin’s life when he knew that when someone was telling him something that sounded totally incredible that it was nevertheless true. Something in the timber and pace of Sophie’s voice made him realize that this was one of those times.
