The Book Tour Episode Twenty-Four: Perfection

 

 

There are perfect moments. They take us by surprise, creeping up when we least expect them: for one fleeting hazy moment, everything feels just right, and we’re perfectly content. They don’t have to come from epic events — just standing in a dry safe place watching a thunderstorm can bring on that feeling, or it can be a heady feeling of joy at finding yourself in a place that might have seemed unattainable once upon a time.

 

And so I felt now, heading for my last book talk on this tour, at the Center for Jewish History in New York. I had no idea if I’d be able to charm the learned audience, impress them, make them chuckle or sigh (and I had no idea that my conference would be filmed) but just being invited was an honor, and I was relishing that. My book, Finding Home in the Footsteps of the Jewish Fusgeyers, had been recognized as an important work, and that was thrilling. “I never could have imagined this,” I kept saying to myself as I tripped through the sunny streets heading for that auspicious red brick building. And I couldn’t help remembering my earlier arrival in this city, back in in 1962.

 

It was, to say the least, an inauspicious entry (youthful experiences often are) although memory preserves it as an ecstatic time, albeit fraught with doubt and fear. I was one of those seventeen-year-old runaways, and after having been expelled from yet another high school, I was unwilling to face what would be dire consequences. My dream was life in New York, and I had some money in my pocket — not a fortune, perhaps fifty dollars — but why worry. Things would work out. Stardom was at my fingertips.

 

It was night when my bus from Michigan arrived at the Port Authority bus station, and I walked over to Times Square, thrilled by the lights, the noise, the strange characters on the streets, excited by my first independent journey and taste of freedom. And when walking around became too tiring, I snuck into a building and curled into the back of a corridor, careful not to wrinkle my good wool coat. I was afraid of nothing – pure innocence can achieve that.

 

The next day, I walked into a modeling school-cum-agency, certain of success. Imagine my surprise when I was told, no, I wouldn’t do. I could sign up for modeling classes (at a steep price) and perhaps with a nose job, I might make the grade. A discouraging start, yes, but not a hopeless one.

 

That afternoon, I found a (pretty awful) job as a page in the First National City Bank and a place to live. But what a place! It was the old Barrymore house, a once-lovely five-story brownstone where John, Ethel ,and Lionel Barrymore had each had their own floor. Yes, of course it had seen better days. Now, there was a Chinese laundry in the basement, and the first three floors were condemned, their windows were covered with big white Xs.

 

The large square room I rented was on the fourth floor — the fifth was occupied by male transients — and it was lovely…or, at least, it had been. There was a large elegant fireplace (that I was never to use unless I wanted the whole building to burn to the ground) a large sash window looking out onto courtyard with the neighbor’s sash window directly opposite. The leafy molding on the ceiling was a visual delight, the bed was a large double, and I felt like a princess sleeping in it. And, like a princess in any old stone castle, I froze. There was, of course, no heating and it was impossible to plug in a heater or any appliance since the wiring dated from the 1930s or even earlier.

 

Halfway down the corridor was an old elevator shaft with its elevator firmly stuck in place for decades: it was now home to a league of pigeons, and they cooed happily all day. Beside that, was an ancient bathroom with a huge claw-foot tub.

 

I rented the room from a Mr. Taylor, a spry weedy man who was always cheery. I didn’t see him very often because he’d only pass by from time to time, fuss about in his room along the corridor, then leave again. In change of everything, was Sally, a slatternly woman who lived in housecoats and was around Mr. Taylor’s age. She lived in the room next door to Mr. Taylor’s. Both had been actors in the old days of vaudeville theatre, they told me. Those days were long over. They were in their sixties now, and back then, that was considered old — especially to me.

 

At the very end of the corridor lived Katie a pregnant woman from California. Her husband was finishing medical studies, and they had no money to live anywhere better. Katie was a handsome dark-haired woman with freckles, and a good sense of humor. She was also very confident and several years older than me. I was rather in awe of her, and would have liked to be her friend, except Sally confided that Katie was really rather odd: “She does very strange things.”

“Really? Like what?”

Sally lowered her voice to a theatrical sotto voce: “In the middle of the night when I’m sleeping, she sneaks out of her room, comes up the corridor and into the kitchen, takes one of the spoons out of the drawer and leaves it in the sink. It drives me crazy.”

I admitted this was a very strange thing to do, but Sally was also rather an odd character. I was fairly certain she came into my room when I was absent and poked around — there were no keys to any of the doors. Once, she slipped up and mentioned a book I happened to be reading; how did she know about it? I took to wedging a tiny piece of thread in the crack of my door, just to see if it were opened in my absence. Of course, the thread was never there when I returned, but I didn’t dare confront Sally. Anyway, with my sparse belongings (little other than books and some cheap clothes) there wasn’t much to spy on or protect.

 

Since Katie was only a few years older than me and had little to do during the day or in the evenings when her husband was on duty at the hospital, we did become friendly. Around Christmas, she invited me into her room for a drink.

The room she shared with her husband was even lovelier than mine. Large, square, it was probably probably the main sitting room in this old brownstone’s heyday. I liked Katie considerably, especially after we had downed several warming drinks, although Sally’s story about the spoons did make me wary.

“Doesn’t it make you angry that Sally keeps coming into our rooms when we’re out?” Katie asked. “Because she does, you know. I’ve seen her leaving your room.”

“I didn’t know she does the same to you.”

“Of course, she does. She even made a comment about my Christmas tree the other day. How would she know I had one? Of course, you do make her crazy by leaving those spoons in the sink.”

“Me?” I stared at Katie, appalled. “But Sally told me you were the one who did it!”

“Why would I? She’s totally mad.”

 

We became firm friends, after that, and as allies, we plotted. Sometimes one of us would sneak a spoon out of the kitchen drawer and leave it in the sink. And, one afternoon when Sally was out, we dared sneak into Mr. Taylor’s room. It was a dark place with heavy sheets covering the windows. There was a bed with a mattress but no covers, and a few bits of furniture. And, stacked everywhere, were bound bundles of pornographic magazines. So that was what Mr. Taylor’s real business was.

 

Naturally, young and romantic, I remember dreaming about finding true love, and entertaining a fantasy about that window opposite mine. What if a wonderfully handsome man lived in that other apartment, a Prince Charming? What if we were to begin a Romeo and Juliet romance?

 

And, lo and behold, imagine my excitement when one Saturday, I peeked out the window and there was a rather nice-looking man smiling at me. He pulled up his sash window, I did the same. No…he wasn’t quite Romeo. Around ten years older than me, he did have a rubbery sort of face, but he was amusing and lively. His name was Ernest Austin, and he was a professional actor. We chatted for a while, then he invited me for breakfast the following morning.

 

I was dancing on air. The next day, there I was, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready for Romeo and a love story. I went around the corner, found his brownstone — things were constructed in a higgledy-piggledy way — raced up the four flights of stairs, and knocked on his door. Imagine my surprise when his door swept open, and there stood fantasy man, totally naked.

 

I do remember scuttling back down the stairs, and his voice calling, “Come back! I’ll get dressed.” But the fantasy was over. Romeo had turned out to be Lothario.

 

 

More about my books and passionate life can be found at http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

and http://www:jill-culiner.com

and on my story podcast at https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner