What Is This Thing Called Love? Page 5

  “All right, Essie,” I said a little hesitantly.

  The dining room had a friendly, sand-colored interior with several paintings of Indian chiefs on the walls. There were only a handful of people still eating or about to eat. Essie was wearing a halter dress that was remarkably low cut.

  “Why did you tell me your name was Jimmy? It’s really Joey, isn’t it?”

  Uh-oh. You’re a writer—think fast, pal. “Well, my dad always used to call me Jimmy because he and Mom lost a son . . . they were going to name him Jimmy. I was only two years old then, but my dad always called me Jimmy after that. It just sort of stuck.”

  Maybe it was my imagination, but Essie smiled at me as if she were saying, “Fast thinker.” Or maybe it was “stinker.”

  We had both ordered lamb chops and shared a bottle of Chianti. When our food arrived Essie raised her glass: “Live, love, and be happy—that’s my motto,” she exclaimed, too loudly I thought.

  “Yes,” I repeated, like a chimpanzee who could both mimic gestures and speak English. We clicked glasses.

  When we finished dinner, Essie said: “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

  I gave a lecture to myself as Essie and I walked back along the path that led to my suite: Now let’s get something straight . . . I am not an adulterer! Essie isn’t married—which she made very clear to me during dinner—and I’m not married, I’m just in love. So adultery doesn’t even enter into this situation. Betrayal? Yes . . . but who has betrayed whom? To be really in love with someone who runs off for six weeks—which is fine, I understand that—but she didn’t even let me know that she was going to another town, when she certainly might have guessed that the surprise visit I told her I was going to make, after crying from loneliness for three weeks, would be—

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Essie said, interrupting my mental conversation.

  “I was . . . thinking about Ann, actually.”

  “How terribly frustrated you must feel after making a wonderful surprise visit and then finding out that’s she’s gone,” she said.

  “Well . . . something like that,” I said, wondering if she was a spider talking to a fly.

  “I have a remedy for you,” she said.

  “Uh-oh—I mean, oh?”

  “Would you like to hear my remedy?” she asked.

  “Sure!”

  “Why don’t we have one lovely fuck, just to get all of that useless frustration out of your system, so you can be yourself again, calm and happy, when your beloved comes back?”

  I stood like a dummy, listening to my brain and then to my body.

  No, yes, no, YESSSSS, no, YESSSSSSSS . . . no.

  “I know how to handle you, Joey, so that all of that terrible frustration will just stream out of you like a burst dam.”

  “Well . . . all right.”

  “What did you say, dear?”

  “I said, all right. That might just be the sink that thinks me.”

  It was quick all right, and she knew exactly what she was doing—even providing condoms. I think she had a drawer full. It was like making love in a pharmacy. She was the frustrated one—probably a nympho—and she appealed to my basest self. She was out and gone after fifteen minutes, and I did not feel relieved, I felt disgusted with myself. I made a reservation to fly back to Los Angeles on the ten a.m. flight the next morning and wished with all my heart that Ann would never find out about the disgraceful thing I had done. I thought I was getting a little toy to play with in my loneliness, but instead I received a visit from the devil.

  When I got home I took another shower, my fourth one . . . three last night and another as soon as I walked into my home. As I was toweling off I listened to my messages.

  My sweet darling, They changed our schedule because one of the actors got sick and we all have to leave tonight at eight p.m. I’ve tried calling you three times but there wasn’t any answer. Where were you? Did they make you work late at the studio?

  We’re going to a little town called Johnsonville, which is God knows where. The operator at the Arizona Inn promised me that she would read this message to you as soon as you called, and she even instructed another operator to read it when she went off duty. Our director is giving me off for the weekend, so I’ll see you Saturday afternoon. I don’t want you to be too lonely.

  Good night, my sweetheart. I love you and long for you so much it hurts.

  I kept hitting my head against the wall until I heard a key in the door and saw Ann walk in.

  “Darling,” I hollered in a panic-stricken, squeaky voice.

  “What a wonderful surprise.”

  Ann stared at me, stoically, as she glanced at the towel around my waist, which was the only thing I was wearing.

  “I just listened to your message . . . only just this minute,” I said.

  Ann didn’t come any closer. She just stared at me with cold eyes.

  “Is this your work outfit?” she asked. “Or is this something Essie picked out for you?”

  Oh dear god in heaven please help me.

  “I’m leaving you, Joey. I’ll pack up my things and be gone in half an hour. All I ask is that you don’t start explaining.”

  “Wait, wait, honey, please. I love you. Don’t do this. Please forgive me. Don’t leave me, darling. Please. I don’t want to live without you. It wasn’t love or desire, it was—”

  “I DON’T WANT TO KNOW WHAT IT WAS OR WASN’T—I’M LEAVING YOU! Tú est un con, tú comprend?”

  “But where will you go?” I cried out as she walked into our bedroom.

  “None of your fucking business! That is your business, isn’t it?” she said as she slammed the bedroom door.

  I sat on the sofa, quietly going crazy. How could this happen? I was only three and a half years old. I didn’t know any better, Melanie. I want to marry you . . . I gave you a ring, remember? Please forgive me . . . I’ll let you play with my truck. I’m just a stupid little boy. Don’t leave me, Melanie. Please don’t leave me. I really love you.

  My Old Flame

  In 1983 Buddy Silberman was in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, having dinner with the Silberman family and a few of his old friends.

  When he finished eating, joking, and laughing, he got lonely. He couldn’t get his old girlfriend, Shirley, out of his mind, ever since his Aunt Clarabelle said at dinner, “Buddy, I bumped into your old flame yesterday. She’s coloring hair on Capitol Drive . . . a new place called Lovely to Look At.”

  Buddy hadn’t seen Shirley for three and a half years, after he “sort of” dumped her. Shirley wasn’t a beauty or a knockout or a “honey”; she was a simple, very pleasant, ordinary girl with ordinary brownish hair and an attractive body. He liked her, but not in the way that she cared for him. He was never in love with Shirley—or anyone else, for that matter—he was just in sex with her.

  But as long as I’m back in Milwaukee for a few days, what the hell—why not give Shirley a call? he said to himself. See if she’s married or something.

  He looked up the telephone number of the beauty parlor and dialed. When he heard Shirley’s voice, he said:

  “Hey, good lookin’, what’s new?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Buddy Silberman! Remember me?—the tall, good-lookin’ guy you used to have a crush on a few years ago?”

  “Where are you?” Shirley asked with an unfriendly tone in her voice.

  “I’m in Milwaukee. I came all this way to see if you were married or if you’re still a honey.”

  “Who died?”

  “Whaddya mean? Nobody died.”

  “Then why are you here?” Shirley asked.

  “Well—I had a little business and thought I could kill two birds with one stone.”

  “And I’m one of the birds?” Shirley asked.

  “No, no—I mean—come on, Shirley. I just wondered if I could get to see you if you were free tonight, and if you still liked me and wouldn’t mind a porter house steak and the best bottle of wine you’ve ever had s
ince you saw me last.”

  “Are you looking to shtup me tonight, Buddy?”

  “Now, Shirley, be fair. I’m trying to pay you compliments and you’re throwing hot coals at me. Don’t you know when I’m trying to be funny? You always used to.”

  “You haven’t changed much, Buddy.”

  “Oh yeah, I have. I promise you. I moved to L.A. and grew up a little. I’m a smarter and deeper schmuck than I was before. And I get lonely when I think about you. Is that so terrible?”

  After a long pause, Shirley said, “There’s lots of people waiting to be colored. I’ve got to get back to them, Buddy.”

  “Can’t I please see you again, Shirley? I really do miss you . . . and the steak is real good . . . ?”

  Silence for a moment. Then Shirley said, “I wonder if you have changed.”

  “Does that mean yes for the porter house?”

  “You’re not going to hurt my feelings again, are you, Buddy?”

  “Opposite.”

  After another pause, Shirley said, “I get off at six, but I want to go home first and shower and get dressed and everything. You can pick me up at seven. Where did you want to go?”

  “I thought the Tuscany steak house, if you still like that place?” Buddy asked.

  “That’s fine. I’ll see you at seven. I’m in the same house, Buddy.”

  “See ya later, alligator,” Buddy answered.

  True to his word, Buddy ordered a twenty-two-ounce porter house steak for two, plus a bottle of Château Magdalena, his new favorite wine and one of the only wines he could remember the name of. He and Shirley each had a “Martini of Shrimp,” which was just a shrimp cocktail served in a martini glass, and they both ate their shrimp with Absolut vodka.

  “Like old times, Shirley.”

  “I’m happy you called, Buddy—if only it could stay this way.”

  “If ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ were candy and nuts, the world would be a fruit tree,” Buddy said, as if he had just made up his little saying on the spur of the moment.

  “That’s what you used to say to me four years ago,” Shirley said, not unkindly, but with an ironic smile.

  “Oh well, I still feel the same way,” Buddy answered.

  “About me or the candy and nuts?” Shirley asked.

  “Both. I’m a poet, Shirley. That’s my way of expressing my feelings about you.” Buddy reached over and held Shirley’s free hand.

  When the sommelier arrived and poured a little wine into a glass for Buddy to test, Buddy said, “This beautiful lady is my wine sommel whatcha call it. Let her decide if it’s any good.”

  The sommelier offered the glass to Shirley. When she took a sip, her eyes lit up.

  “This’ll be fine,” Shirley said to the sommelier. She took Buddy’s hand and said quietly, “Buddy, this is a wonderful wine. Thank you.”

  Their steak arrived. It had been carved into perfectly even slices, going from medium to rare. Shirley’s face was filled with awe after her first bite.

  “I haven’t eaten meat like this in a long time, Buddy.”

  “Stick with me, kid.” Buddy said as he chewed on a mouthful of steak and asparagus au gratin.

  When they finished eating the steak, Buddy asked,

  “What do you like for dessert, Shirley—the Cherries Jubilee? You used to love that.”

  “I couldn’t eat any more, Buddy. I’m stuffed and everything was delicious. Just a cup of coffee would be great.”

  “Me, too. Don’t wanna get too full. Not tonight,” Buddy said with a smile and a little wink.

  Buddy pulled up to Shirley’s house in his rented Cadillac. When she opened the front door and stepped into her living room, Buddy started to follow, but Shirley stopped him.

  “Not tonight, Buddy.”

  “Wait a minute! What happened? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No. tonight you didn’t do anything wrong. I just want to remember how lovely this evening has been, in case I never see you again.”

  “But . . .”

  “Good night, Buddy. Thank you again.” Shirley gave Buddy a quick kiss on the cheek, went into her house, and shut the door.

  For twenty or thirty seconds, Buddy stood next to his rented Cadillac, trying to understand what had happened. He felt as if he had just seen a French film without subtitles.

  A week later, in Los Angeles, Buddy and Sonny were having lunch at Junior’s delicatessen.

  “You’re morose, Buddy.”

  “I’m not a moron and don’t ever say that to me again.”

  “I didn’t call you a moron, you jerk. I just wondered why you were so sad today.”

  “I got some strange thoughts running though my head that you don’t know anything about, Sonny.” Buddy took a sip of his Dr. Brown’s cream soda as his eyes drifted off into space.

  “Well, you’ll feel better if you tell me about those strange thoughts. I’m your friend—talk to me!”

  “It’s about my old girlfriend, Shirley.”

  “The girl from Milwaukee?” Sonny asked.

  “Yeah. My old flame,” Buddy said quietly, as he took a bite of his corned beef sandwich.

  “What’s up?” Sonny asked.

  “I am. I’m up in the air. I saw Shirley last week and got that old feeling again. We had a nice time, but she wouldn’t come across. She said I hurt her feelings when I dumped her four years ago and she doesn’t want to go through that again.”

  “You blame her for that?” Sonny asked.

  “No, that’s the trouble. I blame myself for being such a moron. She’s a good girl and very sweet and always kind to everyone and we always had a nice time together . . . and then I screwed up. Now I’ve lost her.”

  “Are you in love, Buddy?”

  “How the hell would I know?” Buddy said angrily.

  “Well, Buddy—I’m the one who can help you,” Sonny said with authority.

  “Thank you, doctor. Start helping.”

  “Why don’t you invite her out here? You pay for the trip, spend a little time with her, take her to some nice restaurants, stay at your apartment a lot, and see what it’s like to be alone with her. Cook with her and watch TV together. Maybe that way you can see how deep the water is.”

  “You’re smart,” Buddy said. “You are a smart son of a bitch, Sonny.”

  “Coming from you, that’s almost a compliment,” Sonny replied.

  “I got an idea,” Buddy said, as if lightning had just struck. “What if I tell her that I suddenly got an opening in my schedule and how about if she came out and visited me and stayed at my place, just for a week, and I’ll pay for everything—tickets and everything—and I’ll take her to nice restaurants and make her as happy as a clam? I don’t know why the hell clams should be so happy, but it sounds good. Whaddya think, Sonny?”

  “You hit the jackpot, kid.”

  That night, the telephone rang in Sonny’s apartment.

  “Sonny Hurwitz speaking.”

  “It worked,” Buddy said with a rare burst of excitement in his voice. “She’s coming here this Saturday and she’s gonna stay till next Saturday.”

  “Congratulations. Now get some plants and flowers and spread them all around your living room and bedroom. Maybe even in the kitchen.”

  “In the kitchen? What for?”

  “To make your apartment seem romantic instead of looking like a betting parlor for football and horse races. And turn off the television set in your bedroom when she arrives.”

  “Okay, you’re the doctor. I hope this works,” Buddy said and hung up.

  Five days later Buddy called Sonny from a drugstore.

  “Sonny Hurwitz speaking.”

  “I’m goin’ nuts.”

  “What’s the matter?” Sonny asked. “You said everything was hunky-dory.”

  “The first night, yes,” Buddy said with some desperation in his voice. “But now I can’t get rid of her.”

  “But this is just Tuesday. She doesn’t leave until Saturday
.”

  “I KNOW IT—THAT’S WHAT’S DRIVING ME NUTS!” Buddy shrieked.

  “All right, all right! Calm down and tell me what seems to be wrong.”

  Buddy took a few deep breaths and then started calmly.

  “I got brand-new tubes of Colgate toothpaste . . . she uses Arm and Hammer. I wanna see Bruce Willis in a Die Hard flick and she wants to see Little Women. I like to watch television at least till one a.m. She wants to go to sleep, with lights out, at ten thirty. I like coffee in the morning, she likes tea. I like steak and chops for dinner, she like fish most of the time. Beef is okay, but just once in a while, she says. I tell ya—I gotta get her out of here or I’ll have a conniption.”

  Sonny thought for a while before answering.

  “Who invited her, Buddy?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah! I knew you were gonna say that. So what? You want me to go crazy?” Buddy asked, as if he were the most reasonable man in the world.

  “No,” Sonny answered softly. “I want you to be the decent, compassionate gentleman that I know you can be.”

  “Yes, Mama. I’ll be a good boy. I’ll just tell her that someone died in Florida and I have to—”

  “No, no. None of that stuff,” Sonny said. “You can be a gentleman for three more days, it won’t kill you. But don’t hurt that girl again, Buddy. You mustn’t hurt her again.”

  Sonny’s words got to Buddy. He was a gentleman, with heartburn, for three more days. On Saturday, he took Shirley to the airport for her 10:00 a.m. flight to Milwaukee. When it came time to say good-bye, Shirley looked at him with soft compassion in her eyes.

  “I know my visit was difficult for you, Buddy.”

  “What’re you talkin’ about?” Buddy answered, as if he had never heard of anything so absurd in his life. “It was a joy. You know I’m a little nuts sometimes, Shirley. I think business worries got to me and I think I took it out on you once in a while. But I loved every minute you were here.”

  “You told me once that you never lie,” Shirley said softly.

  “Don’t start now. It was one of the things I admired most about you. Most people lie all the time.”

  Buddy didn’t or couldn’t answer. He looked away from