January 4, 2013--Chapter 21: The Club

Dicky called to see if I wanted to play golf with him on Saturday.  It was the summer between our freshman and sophomore years at college.  He said that he had hoped to be able to take me to his family’s club on the north shore of Long Island, but couldn’t because they had used up their annual quota of guest passes.  “It’s really an amazing place,” he said, apologizing again for having run out of passes and for not having gotten me there for a visit.  He assured me that he had been trying.

Though his family lived in Brooklyn and the club was in Manhasset-- and even without traffic it was at least an hour’s drive to get there-- they were both eager and privileged to be members:  Eager for two reasons--because though they were doing well financially they were in effect “stuck” in the neighborhood where they began because Dr. Samuel (Sugar) Traub, Dicky’s father, was a dentist and at age fifty it would have been impossible to start a new a practice closer to the Club; and, two, there was nothing nearly equivalent to the Club in Brooklyn that would be suitable for them, considering how high they had risen.  And they were privileged to be members for just one reason--because it was the only country club on the North Shore that accepted Jews.  All the others, in the parlance of the era, were “restricted.” 

So religiously each Sunday the Traubs would pile into their royal blue Chrysler Imperial and schlep out to the Club, feeling it was well worth battling the traffic that perpetually snarled the Long Island Expressway. 

“The Club’s course is so much better than the public ones in Brooklyn.  They have real greens there, not like the worn out ones at Dyker Beach,” which was the municipal course where he and I played,  “And all the girls wear short skirts,” he added leeringly.

But without the required passes, we would nonetheless take our chances on securing a starting time at overcrowded Dyker Beach.  He chuckled, “And don’t forget to bring both your mashie and your machete.”

To tell the truth, I was confused why he kept talking about the Club when he knew, if we were to play on Saturday, it would have to be on the crabgrass-infested Dyker Beach.  I always thought our friendship was such that he would not knowingly point out, or rub in the obvious differences in our life circumstances.

*    *    *

When Dr. Traub returned from service in the Pacific at the end of World War II, he came home to the family’s cramped two-bedroom apartment above John Inusi’s shoemaker’s shop on East 56^th Street and resumed a practice that had barely gotten off the ground before he had been drafted.  Though he had seen the other side of the world and had been decorated in combat, the local yentas still joked, “Sure, they gave him the Navy Cross for making cavities under fire.”

But as the result of practicing dentistry the same questionable way back in Brooklyn and the advent of cavity-preventing fluoride treatments which he liberally administered for a handsome fee, the Traubs began to move up and were able to leave that airless apartment for a single-family house that they had designed for them, by an actual architect, and built on what seemed a vast piece of land, on what The Daily Worker-reading glazier Mr. Perly contemptuously labeled a piece of real estate, because that’s what it was, real estate, decidedly not merely the vacant lot it more truly was, across from the Perlmutters, on the north side of Snyder Avenue.  

And though no more than a few hundred feet from where the rest of us were destined to remain, the house, centered on its land and engulfed by a forest of landscaper-designer floribunda, looked from the south side of the avenue like a version of Long Island—especially to those who had never been to the South much less North Shore and seen the real thing.

Further, though some had issues with the way the misses, Trudy Traub showed off her zaftig figure and streaked bouffant, more than anything at that time, to the many of us who wanted more the Traub’s glittering life represented the full expression of America’s promise--to be able to move from a fetid apartment above a shoemaker’s shop to such a house on such a piece of land and perhaps, also in unacknowledgable truth, for Dr. Sugar Traub to have such a wife who never needed to do housework (she had a “girl” for that), because of all of this, this meant that anything was possible for the rest of us.  

Including golf.  I had learned to play without the benefit of lessons when my cousin Mark arranged for the entire family to have access to a hilly nine-hole course in Tannersville in the upper Catskills where my extended family spent summers—for the cool night air of the mountains and to get away from the scourge of polio which decimated many neighborhoods, including ours.  As an ominous reminder of the threat here were people living in iron lungs on every block.  With very little else to do during the week while waiting for the excitement and activities the men brought when they arrived from the city, my cousins and I sought ways to occupy ourselves. 

One cousin, Rose, fell in love with the trumpet player from the band at the Lily Garden Hotel and spent the summer being miserable, pining for him since he had access to a bevy of stranded female teenagers; and my cousin, for a variety of reasons we need not fully explore (she was over six feet tall, need I say more?), was not among his favorites.  He was, to be frank, a shit.  But since feeling sorry for herself suited Rose, she thus had her version of an excellent summer. 

My cousin Larry was not coordinated enough to even think about talking up golf, considering the skills required just to hit the ball, forget landing it in fairways much less shooting pars and birdies.  He therefore devoted himself obsessively to swimming in the Lily Garden pool, family access also arranged by cousin Mark; and though Larry had not as yet mastered the Australian Crawl or even the kick, he in fact swam entirely without doing any kicking whatsoever, he decided that he would prepare to swim the English Channel, a rarity at the time, and in pursuit of that goal spent endless hours literally dragging himself, using only his arms, back and forth, back and forth to the point that none of the hotel’s regular German-refugee guests ever came to the pool since it was such a pathetic and depressing experience to have to watch Larry pulling his fleshy body through the water with such graceless torture.  But to an entire generation of cousins, male cousins, his ambitions and wild imaginings inspired a belief in the pursuit of impossible transformations.  That was his American vision.  And golf, not that leaky hotel pool, would have been a more appropriate venue for him to achieve this if only he had been able to make both his arms and legs move at the same time.

And since I could at least manage to do that, during the week golf and the course itself were left entirely to me, and in a self-taught manner I hacked and chopped and putted my way around—across the swamp that sat 150 yards from the third tee, a lurking hazard for me since my drives averaged just 150 yards; up the humpbacked sixth where virtually all drives wound up in the wasp-infested woods; over the precipice to the invisible seventh green; and the final 400 yard ninth—the only par five.  I got to be fairly good at the game, typically shooting 45 for a round (double that and you have 90—not bad).  And when the summer was over I kept at it, enjoying an occasional round at one of the city’s municipal courses. 

Dicky in the meantime, with the benefit of lessons from the pro at the Club and having a full 18 holes on which to play, quickly earned a six handicap—in Tannersville no such concept even existed.  And so when playing with him at Dyker or Forest Park in Queens, my only advantage was that I was a better putter on crabgrass than he since he had gotten spoiled by and used to the immaculate wall-to-wall grass carpet of the Club’s greens.

“So we’re on for Saturday?” he asked when he called to confirm.  I agreed and he suggested that maybe this time we should play for money, “Five dollars a hole?”

“That’s a little steep for me,” I stammered since it was always an issue for me that in comparison to him I had very little money to spare; but not wanting to reveal just how little I counter offered, “How about a dollar a hole?”

I could hear his chuckle, “Sure, whatever you say.  I just wanted to make it a little more interesting.  So come over at 8:00 on Saturday.  My mother said it’s OK for us to use her car.” 

“But if we leave at 8:00 it will be too late to get a staring time.  All those guys who get on line at 2:00 a.m. and sleep in their cars will get the morning tee times.  We’ll have to hang around until at least 3:00 to start.”

“I can’t believe you Lloyd.  You need to put your trust in the Dicky Man.  Have I ever let you down?”

He had me there.  I couldn’t remember an occasion when we didn’t get the best seats at a ball game or a table in a crowded restaurant.  When with him, all doors seemed to open.  I must confess, that’s why I considered him to be my best friend.  And having occasional access to his mother’s red convertible also didn’t hurt.

*    *    *

Dicky and I raced south across the heart of Brooklyn with the top down, the wind slapping at our faces, and the radio blasting.  A lot of heads turned as we sped along Fort Hamilton Parkway, leaving behind in our wake a stream of the latest from Motown—

How sweet it is to be loved by you.

How sweet it is to be loved by you.
Feels so fine, how sweet it is to be loved by you.

When we screeched into the parking lot at Dyker Beach, Dicky saying how he loved “burning rubber,” it was obvious to me that we would never get a tee time—it was a beautiful day and as I suspected the line of cars with guys still asleep in them stretched all the way out onto 89^th Street.  Reading my mood, Dicky said, “Not to worry Lloyd, be cool, the starter is a personal friend of mine.”  He winked at me.  “So just wait here buddy,” he hopped out of the car without opening the door, “put on your spikes and I’ll be right back.  As I said, trust me.”  And with that he darted toward to clubhouse.

I decided to wait before doing anything; still certain there would be no golf for us that day.  Thinking, though, that since we had that car we could have quite a good time tooling around the city, maybe even going over to Rockaway or perhaps all the way out to Jones Beach.

But he was back before I could finish making my list of possible alternative plans, the familiar bounce in his step now more a skip and a hop, his face cut even more deeply by his irrepressible shit-eating grin, displaying those perfect teeth to which his father had shown so much devotion.

“No problemo, buddy boy.  We tee off in half an hour.  Just enough time to get in a little putting practice.”

“Half an hour?”  This was even more than Dick’s usual magic.  “But look at all these fellows still lined up.  You really do know the starter?”

“Well he knows me now.  It’s amazing how a twenty can help make friends.”  He roared with laughter so loud that two guys slumped in the car ahead of us were jolted from their sleep.

*    *    *

And in just that half hour there we were perched on the first tee with Dicky and Melvin, the starter, his newest friend, dancing around together, jabbing each other in the ribs with their elbows.

“Give these other two guys a chance, Dicky,” Melvin said with a grin, “I put them in your foursome because they also belong to a country club and thought they’d give you a little run for your money, if you know what I mean.”  I couldn’t believe that Melvin already knew so much about Dicky. 

Dicky strode over to the other two players to introduce himself.  I couldn’t hear what he said but they were already bent over with laughter, exchanging high fives.  He then pulled me toward them and told me that Todd was an insurance broker and his “buddy” Herb a cardiologist.  “Lloyd here will probably need both of your services before we’re done with our round.”  More laughter, now directed at me.  “So what were we saying, five dollars a hole; and if we half it we carry that five over to the next hole?”  Todd and Herb nodded.

“Dicky,” I whispered to him, “I thought you said it would be only a dollar a hole.”  I was thinking how much nicer it would be if we were on our way to Jones Beach.

“I got you covered Kemosabe.  Just try to keep your balls in the fairway, or in your pants.  OK?  I’ll take care of the rest.”

“But Dicky,” I sputtered just as Melvin announced, “All set to tee up?”

“Not yet,” Dicky said, “Let the next party pass through.  I’m waiting for my caddy.”

“But they don’t have caddies here Dicky,” I again whispered, “You know that.  This is a city course, not your club,” I was beginning to feel a little annoyed in general at his breezy behavior.  I had been taught by my parents that when in public to be as undemanding and inconspicuous as possible—they saw that as a sign of “good breeding.”  And even though I saw it more as their way to preclude disappointment, which in their lives was always lurking, in this circumstance, when paired with a broker and a doctor, as two nineteen year-olds who had barely finished a year of college and had not as yet accomplished very much, I felt it would be more appropriate for him to rein in some of his relentless exuberance and just play golf.

As I was struggling with these thoughts, Dicky’s caddy arrived, saying, “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Traub.  The busses are slow Saturday mornings.”  He looked to be about sixteen.  His black skin was already damp from racing to get there.

“That’s all right Joeboy,” Dicky said in his universally breezy manner, “Here, take my bag.  The other fellows will tote their own.”

“I don’t mind doing a double.  I do that all the time at the club for Dr. Traub and Mrs. Traub, when they play together.”  Then he added quietly to Dicky, “I could sure use the money.”

“Not a problem.  Here, take Lloyd’s bag.  Let him live a little.”  He tossed one of his classic winks at me.

“But Dicky,” I protested, “I’d rather carry my own bag.  I’m not comfortable  . . .”

“Like I told you,” he cut me off, “I got you covered.  Come on time’s-a-wasting.  Let’s get started.”  He then rubbed Joeboy’s head, for good luck he said.  His father always said having him caddy for them, and rubbing his head, brought them good luck.

Dicky teed off first and drove one about 200 yards right down the middle.  He twirled his driver as if it was a baton and tossed it behind him to where Joeboy retrieved it.  I was next and was so agitated that I sliced my drive so severely that it shot to the right at such an oblique angle that it screeched toward the 9^th fairway right in the middle of a foursome struggling up the hill toward the green.  They needed to scramble to get out of the way as I, with considerable embarrassment, yelled “Fore!”  Dicky and Todd and Herb and even Joeboy thought it was just about the funniest thing they had ever seen and knew immediately that I would keep them entertained all morning.

I didn’t disappoint them. 

After the near beaning with my drive off the first tee, I managed not only to slice my drive on three but did so with such perverse precision that my ball did hit someone coming up the sixteenth fairway, luckily on a bounce so no damage was done.  Though Herb, the ever-responsible insurance broker insisted that the fellow I hit take my name and address in case overnight he developed a headache (I had hit him in the leg) or the effects of whiplash from trying to dart out of the way.  Dicky assured me again that he had me covered, which prompted more gales of laughter.

And on the short par three eighth, the only water hole on the course, I drove four balls into the algae-crusted pond, depleting my supply so I had to borrow more from Dicky when I hit one over the fence on the ninth, almost onto the campus of Brooklyn Poly Prep where Dicky had gone to high school; and when attempting to hit out of a sand trap on fifteen, thankfully with only three holes remaining, rather than scooping under it so as to explode it onto the green, I slashed my wedge into the side of the ball with such frustrated force, that I cut the cover so severely that it was useless.  Dicky assured me that it was no problem letting me have another ball since he was going to buy two dozen more of the most expensive Pro Titlists with his winnings as he was “taking these guys to the cleaners.”

Herb and Todd did settle up with Dicky and promised to come by the Traubs’ club before the end of the summer to take up Dicky’s offer to meet Dr. Traub—“You know, with the way things are these days,” Todd winked, “dentists can’t have too much insurance.”

I wondered where the Traub’s would get the guest passes for the two of them.

*    *    *

“My mother told me you have to stay for dinner,” Dicky was behind the wheel again as we retraced our route of the morning, now north up Fort Hamilton Parkway, past all the Italian pork stores and pizzerias and then, as the neighborhood morphed, the Kosher butchers and bakeries.  “She wants to hear about everything that you did at Columbia.  She thinks it will inspire me.”  He stared straight ahead, “I nearly flunked out of Muhlenberg.  I spent the whole year drinking beer and getting laid.  I never went to class.  They put me on probation, and if I don’t do better in the fall they’re going to kick me out on my ass.”  He was driving fast, and recklessly, weaving around double-parked cars and darting across intersections when yellow lights were changing to red, once almost slamming into an orthodox Jewish woman surrounded by a cluster of four small girls in long skirts.  And as if to punctuate what he had just revealed to me—his recklessness--Dicky had to swerve into the lane of on-coming traffic to avoid plowing into a bus that had stopped in the middle of the street to pick up passengers.   “Out of my way fuck-face,” he screamed at the bus driver as we roared past.

“So she wants you to help motivate me by telling her how wonderful it is to be a pre-med and be on the crew and all that other rah-rah bullshit crap.”  

This was the first I heard about Dicky’s troubles at college.  He was sounding agitated and cranky, not his usual ebullient self.   Trying to reassure him, I said, “I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to straighten things out.  You’re good at that.  Look how you did today.  You had everyone eating out of the palm of your hand—the starter, those two other guys, everyone.”

“And sure,” I added, “I can stay for dinner.  When we get to your house I’ll call to let my parents know.  They’ll be fine with that.”  I knew they would be—they liked me to spend time with the Traub’s.  Just as Dicky’s mother thought I might set a good example for him, my parents thought some of the Traub “class,” as my father put it, might rub off on me. 

*    *    *

As Dicky pulled into the basement garage we could hear Mrs. Traub’s fluttering soprano from somewhere above us, “Not those glasses, Ella.”  She was directing her maid up on the second floor where the Traub living and dining rooms were placed by their architect, Lorenzo del Pesto (Dicky said “Yeah, I know,” when he spotted my raised eyebrow when he mentioned his name), expressing what Dicky told me del Pesto called an “upside-down motif,” with the bedrooms below, on the first floor, in order to emphasize, in his words, “the living over the sleeping.”  

“We’re having company for dinner, Ella,” I could hear Mrs. Traub sing, “Dicky’s friend Lloyd.  So let’s put out the crystal.”

“Take off your shoes,” Dicky told me with a shrug, “My mother doesn’t want anyone walking in shoes on her carpets.  Once we get upstairs she’ll give you some slippers to wear that she bought on one of her trips to Morocco.” 

And immediately I could see why I needed to remove my shoes.  I had never entered the Traub’s house this way.  I had always used the side door which led directly to the wing of the house where Ella’s and Dicky’s bedrooms were.  The rest was off-limits to his friends—it was Dr. and Mrs. Traub’s private preserve. 

These stairs, as Dicky opened the door from the garage, admitted us to a landing that ran the full length of the bedroom floor.  Everything was carpeted with a deep white wool shag, into which my shoeless feet sank almost to the ankle.  Everything was immaculate and hushed.  Clearly Ella was as good at vacuuming as she was at baking—Dicky had brought to Dyker some of her memorable pecan and bourbon brownies that she made especially for him. 

I was in awe of this silent splendor.  I couldn’t help noticing the Traub’s “master suite,” again del Pesto’s words, looming before us, its two brocade-covered pocket doors almost completely hidden within the walls.  It was almost as large of my family’s entire apartment.  Not only was there the largest bed I had ever seen but also to one side there was what looked to me like a full living room—a magenta silk sofa, two matching side chairs, and a crystal coffee table, though I was not sure if it was appropriate to call it that since it was unlikely that coffee of any other form of food or drink would be served there.  There was, though, a small stack of worn leather bound books, one of which lay open with a pair of antique Ben Franklin spectacles serving as a sort of bookmark, to note the place where Mrs. Traub had probably left off reading the night before.

However, it was the bed that most captured my attention.   Though it was at least the size of two queen-size beds, most remarkable was not the unimaginable comfort that that sumptuousness alone would provide, but rather the headboard.  It appeared to be made of solid gold.  Though there was just the light from two small brass side lamps it was enough to set it glinting as if bathed in full daylight. 

It was also unusual in its shape.  It was a huge semicircle that almost reached the ceiling and on it were embossed what appeared to be the markings of some forgotten language or pictorial alphabet.

Dicky saw me involuntarily drawn to the foot of the bed as if to an ancient temple. “It’s not real,” he said.  “It’s only a reproduction.  Lorenzo designed it and had it made in Mexico.”

I stood mesmerized in the dim red light that was a blend of that golden bed and all the magenta furniture, window treatments, and wall fabrics.  Even the air in the room felt tinted.  I could barely speak.   “What is it?”  I asked with a hushed voice so as not to disturb the atmosphere.

“You know, it’s the Aztec calendar.  Half of it anyway.  The real one’s in Mexico.  It’s a full circle so it wouldn’t fit in a room this small.  But Lorenzo thinks even half of it is a good thing for my parents.  He means it to bring them many years of happiness.”  I thought I heard Dicky snicker.  “He told them that the Aztecs believed that the world goes through something like 52-year cycles, and they built this calendar to keep track of them.  Since the cycles last for so many years they needed a really big calendar.  Not like the ones we use.”

“I seem to remember reading about this.  Though I think it was the Mayans who believed in these cycles.  But either way the headboard seems like an incredible idea to me.”

“Yoo-hoo, Dicky,” it was Mrs. Traub calling from the floor above.  “Where are you?  Dinner will get cold.”  This snapped me out my trance and we turned back to the steps, still carpeted, which now swept in a glorious arc up to the living floor.

*    *    *

Mrs. Traub was wearing an elaborately embroidered crimson caftan, which I imagined she must have also brought back from Morocco.  It billowed like a sail in the breeze she generated as she glided across the shag toward us.  She reached out to me as if I had returned from a long voyage, “Oh Lloyd, darling, did you make any birdies?”  And without waiting for a response, said, “Here, take these and put them on your feet.  They will make you feel so good after so much walking.”  From an ivory-inlaid cabinet she retrieved a pair of Moroccan slippers, as Dicky promised, the ones with the tiny mirrors embedded in them and the turned up toes.  “Oh they fit perfectly.  You look so adorable.  Doesn’t he Dicky?”  Dicky grunted.

“I only made one birdie, Mrs. Traub; I’m not a very good golfer.  Not like Dicky.  I think he shot an 82 today, which on a city course, which doesn’t have the kind of greens he’s used to, is an excellent score.”

“But enough about that.  Between you and I,” she pulled me close to her and whispered, “I hate golf.”    I could smell her scent—either something exotic, also brought back from North Africa, or the faint residue of the hairspray from her twice-weekly visit to the Elegant Lady Beauty Salon. 

“All that chasing after that silly ball.  I go to the Club to see my friends.  If Dr. Traub would only leave me alone I wouldn’t ever set foot out of the Acorn.  That’s the bar you know.”  She quickly moved to correct herself, “But of course, I’m sorry, you don’t.  We haven’t had you to the Club.  We must one day soon.  They give us so few guest passes.  I’m sure Dicky explained.  It’s a scandal considering what it costs to be a member and how much we have to spend every year in the Acorn Bar and Tack Room.”  She looked over to Dicky, “Go fetch your father.   He always has his nose buried in the paper, the sports section, when he isn’t looking into someone’s mouth.  He’s such a sportsman.”  I thought I sensed she was being ironic, but quickly realized that I was wrong, considering their magnificent life.

“Come Lloyd, come over here and sit by me,” Dicky had left to look for Dr. Traub.  She had swooped over to the love seat in the living room, whipping her caftan in waves as she moved, which was a duplicate to the one in her master suite on the floor below.  Patting the swollen cushion next to her, she trilled, “I want to hear all about Columbia.”

Though Ella was hovering in the dining room end of the “living suite,” again, how Dicky told me del Pesto designated it, I felt uncomfortable sitting so close to Mrs. Traub, especially since, as she beckoned me to join her, the neckline of her caftan fell away from her voluptuous chest. 

“Is it OK, Mrs. Traub, if I sit over here?”  I stammered with diverted eyes, “I hurt my back during crew practice, and the orthopedist wants me to sit only on straight-back chairs.”

“Of course darling.  I’m so sorry you hurt yourself.  Anything you want.  You must be careful.  But please, you must call me Trudy.”  Her smile was radiant.  She too had perfect teeth.

Dicky reappeared to announce that his father was still involved in reading about the upcoming Belmont Stakes and would join us shortly.  Dr. Traub was also known as the neighborhood’s foremost horseman.  Rumor had it that he even owned a “string of ponies,” or at least was part of a “syndicate” that did.  Mrs. Traub frowned but told Dicky to sit in the other straight-back chair facing the love seat which she now fully occupied, having pulled her legs up under her with her ruby-lacquered toes peeking out.

“Dicky, Lloyd was about to tell me about Columbia.”  Dicky squirmed in his chair.  He too tried to sit on his legs but the chair was too small to accommodate his muscular calves and thighs.   “Weren’t you Lloyd?”  I knew from what Dicky told me when we drove to his house that I needed to be careful not to make things worse for him.  It was not so much that I had done well or fit comfortably into campus life—quite the contrary (I was one of the few freshmen not to have been invited to join a fraternity, not even a Jewish one); but at least I had passed all my courses and wasn’t on probation.

“Well,” I began, though my father always slammed the table whenever I began a sentence that way, “Well, to tell you the truth I just managed to squeak by, and as I mentioned I got injured before the rowing season began and didn’t even get to row in any races.”  I stopped hoping that would deter her from asking further about my studies.  Maybe, even though she hated it, she’d want to know more about our golf game, and then I’d be able to tell her more about how well Dicky had done.  Of course, I would say nothing about the betting.

“Dicky isn’t Lloyd just so modest?”  He sat staring at his mirrored slippers.  “Why just the other day, at the hairdresser’s,” I noted that she didn’t refer to it as the “beauty parlor,” “Lloyd’s mother was telling all the girls about how well he had done at college.  How his advisor said if he kept up his grades he felt certain he would be admitted to a very good medical school.  Maybe not Columbia or NYU, forget Harvard, but a very good place nonetheless.  Accredited and in the United States.  He wouldn’t have to go to Mexico to medical school.  Like your cousin Phil had to do.  And she told us how hard he studies.  Even on the weekends.  And how many books his father had to bring home when he picked him up at the end of the year.  Books that he had to buy and read for his required courses.”  All of this had been directed, like arrows, at Dicky, both of whose legs and feet were vibrating so violently that I thought that the chair might tip over or shatter—it looked fragile, like a real antique. 

And then, again to me, Mrs. Traub continued, “Your mother said there were so many books your father had to build more shelves.  Is that true?  You know, Dicky, that Columbia has very difficult requirements.  In, what is it Lloyd, your mother mentioned something about ‘civilization?’”

“Contemporary Civilization,” I muttered.  “It’s a requirement for everyone.”  Dicky appeared ready to explode.  I should have just nodded. 

He jumped out of the chair almost shouting, “I’ll go get dad.  Look at Ella, she’s going crazy.  She probably burnt the roast already,” and with that he again bolted down the stairs, two at a time.

Mrs. Traub leaned further forward.  Again, avoiding her neckline, I looked around the room, noticing for the first time something in the distance that looked like an antique piano.  Mrs. Traub noticed that my attention had drifted in that direction.  “That’s a harpsichord.”  Thankfully we had moved on to another subject.  I could resume normal breathing.  “It’s not an original, it should only be, but a reproduction.  My architect insisted I have one, knowing my interest in music,” she sighed.

“Of course, sorry, I should have known that.  In my required Music Appreciation class, at Columbia, we studied Baroque music and some of Bach’s harpsichord music.  We listened to records of Wanda Landowski, and . . .”   As I uttered these words I realized that in my eagerness to cover for Dicky, and talk about anything but Columbia, I had taken us right back there. 

“I do know her playing very well.  I tried to get Dr. Traub to take me to St. John the Divine Cathedral, actually right up by Columbia, to hear her play Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier.  But as usual he was too busy with his horses.”  I knew for certain that this time she was being critical of him.

“I’m sure he was so tired from all his work,” here I was now making excuses for him as I had been attempting to do for Dicky.  I should never have agreed to have dinner with the Traubs.  Minimally I should have just sat there and kept my big mouth shut.

And with that, as if on cue and to rescue me from myself, Dr.Traub appeared with Dicky, hang dog, right behind him.  He mumbled something inaudible, which I assumed was some form of greeting, and gave me a limp hand to shake.  The very hand that had been so forceful and confident when it spent hours in my mouth exploring, palpating, and drilling on my juvenile and adolescent molars and bicuspids. 

Ella simultaneously announced, “Miss Trudy, dinner is finally served.”  And with that we marched over to the dining end of the floor, with Dr. Traub, Major Traub in the lead.  And then, surrounded on three sides by floor-to-ceiling smoked mirrors, none to be sure fabricated by Mr. Perly, the local glazier (Mrs. Traub said Lorenzo had them made in Murano, in Venice), we proceeded to eat dinner in almost uninterrupted silence, broken only by Dr. Traub asking Dicky or me to pass the platters of whipped yams or creamed spinach. 

He sat at the head of the table, reflected in the mass of mirrors into smoky infinity, so bent over his plate that his nose almost touched the mound of potatoes.  He leaned both arms, to the elbows, on the table so that they surrounded his dish so completely, like battlements, that even an advancing enemy could not breech those arms to attack his food, which he gobbled down, swallowing without any sign of chewing in just minutes.

Mrs. Traub did attempt to bring a conversation back to college, but Dr. Traub’s massive, silent presence overwhelmed her efforts.  As a consequence I could see Dicky relax and even manage to banter a bit with Ella who was kept busy literally running back and forth to the kitchen to bring evermore helpings of her special yam and marshmallow casserole, clearly Dr. Traub’s favorite.  It was now obvious to me how he had earned his nickname--Sugar.

I counted the minutes until I could escape.  But not before downing an enormous slice of Ella’s peach cobbler, her grandmother’s recipe she said, which was so delectable that it was worth delaying that escape and risking more talk about Columbia or Bach.  Some risks are worth taking. 

But very soon, after the cobbler and all its crumbs disappeared off everyone’s plates, I said a quick goodbye and thank you and raced across Snyder Avenue back to the sanctuary of my bedroom.   But not before Mrs. Traub, hugging and kissing me, again saying, “We must try to get you out to the club.  Before the end of the summer.  Promise?” 

I was glad my parents were visiting relatives so I could also escape the grilling I would surely have received about everything that happened at the Traubs.  My father would ask, “So you pulled her convertible into the garage, and . . . ?”  And I would be expected to report on everything, every minute-by-minute detail, including everything about the décor and especially the food.

*    *    *

The rest of the summer was by comparison uneventful.  I had trouble finding a job so I enrolled as a visiting student at Brooklyn College to occupy my mornings, taking a course in Modern American Drama—lots of Odets, Miller, and especially O’Neil.  The instructor was quite inspired and expressed open pleasure in having a Columbia student sitting in among his regular public college students.  He quickly lost interest in me, though, as soon as he discovered that their papers were superior to mine.  At least I wouldn’t have to experience the further humiliation of receiving a grade—as an external student I had opted for a simple pass/fail.

To compensate, and as a way to prepare myself to go out for the track team if my crew injury didn’t heal properly, self-taught, I took up the shot-put—a field event in which you compete by “putting,” or hurling, a 16-pound steel ball.  The world’s record at the time was about 60 feet, set by Parry O’Brien, a mass of a man.  By the end of the six-week mini-semester at Brooklyn College I had passed 24 feet, almost halfway there.  Who knows?  Not bad, I thought, for someone learning on his own and weighing only 175 pounds. 

But from the pressure my mother applied to her sister, my Aunt Hattie, who in turn exerted pressure on her husband, my Uncle Morris, I was given a job up in the South Bronx in his meat processing plant.  Where the most orthodox of my relatives smoked hams, pork loins, and pig’s knuckles, as well as more traditional Jewish fare—pickled tongue and pastrami.  After dragging myself up there at six in the morning via an endless subway ride, I spent eight hours a day unloading trucks.  The hams, for example, arrived semi-frozen packed into the body of huge trailer trucks.  I stood on the back of those trucks and with a meat hook, shades of On the Waterfront, tossed them into huge stainless steel tubs which we then wheeled into one of Morris’s enormous walk-in refrigerators.  At least that supplied some respite from the scorching heat.

Actually, there was some excitement that summer—Morris got a large order for tongues from Macy’s meat buyer (at the time Macy’s had a gourmet meat market at its flagship store on Herald Square); and to make what he thought would be a reasonable profit, Morris had us pump so much pickling juice into each steer tongue that they ballooned to three-times their anatomical size.  Needless to say that when Macy’s customers cooked them at home they shrank down to their original puny size; and as a result of an avalanche of complaints Macy’s buyer came looking for Morris, who we effectively hid between racks of pork butts in the smokehouse.

At least I made good money, which would help offset some of the tuition that was burdening my parents.

                                                   *  *  *
Dicky and I did get in a couple of rounds of golf at Dyker Beach.  Nothing much to report about that.  Joeboy did show up each time to caddie and Dicky did manage to hustle a podiatrist and a limousine driver one time, and a high school teacher and a building superintendent another morning.  So there was no problem keeping me supplied with balls since the pond at the eighth hole and Brooklyn Poly Prep’s campus alongside the Ninth continued to serve as targets for me.

But then, in late August, just as I was beginning to think about what I needed to do before returning to college, something remarkable occurred:  Mrs. Traub called me.

It was a Saturday morning and I was still sleeping so my mother answered the phone.  I could not think of any reason why she would wake me from a deep and healthful sleep—maybe if the air raid sirens went off and it was “the real thing”--but wake me she did, shaking me to tell there was an “urgent” call for me.  In my drowsiness, half-emerged from a nightmare, I imagined it must be something like the Dean at Columbia calling to say they recalculated my grade point average and were expelling me, advising me that I had better secure my job with Uncle Morris and begin to reconcile myself to a life of pumping pickling juice into cow’s tongues.

“Who is it?” I mumbled.

“Dr. Traub’s wife, Mrs. Traub,” my mother whispered as if it were a call from the White House or the Vatican.

As I stumbled into the breakfast room where our one phone was located, I asked again in total bewilderment, “Mrs. Traub?  Dicky’s mother?” thinking now that maybe he had been paralyzed when thrown from the horse he stabled in Canarsie.

“Yes.  Her.  Pick up the phone before she hangs up,” she admonished me for moving so slowly.

“Hello,” I said, attempting to be matter of fact and to mask my nervousness.  “How have you been?”  I didn’t know what else to say.

“Lloyd, I have wonderful news for you.  Do you know the Silvergolds?  How silly of me. Of course you don’t.  They are members of our club and have given us a guest pass for the Labor Day weekend.”  

The what? I thought.  “Ugh,” I stammered.  “That’s great.  Very nice of them.”

“And Dr. Traub and I thought you might join us there that Saturday night for the annual end of summer dinner dance.  It’s formal you know.  Dicky will be wearing his tuxedo pants with his white jacket.  You of course would have to rent one.”

In my half-sleep I still didn’t understand why she was calling me.  “I didn’t know he had a tux.”

“I think you’re confused—I’m calling to invite you.  Can you make it?  It would be so wonderful if you could.  Dicky has so much wanted you to see the club.”

“I know, he keeps telling me that.”

“And the Silvergolds have a wonderful, actually, a beautiful daughter, who is about to go to college, who they would like you to meet.  So please, darling, just say ‘yes,’”

Which I did.  And went back to bed, dreaming now about the Silvergold daughter.

*    *    *

Mrs. Traub told me that I could unfasten my cummerbund and take off my rented tux jacket as we crept along in their Imperial, mired in end-of-summer traffic on the Long Island Expressway, crawling toward the North Shore, Manhasset, and their Club.  “You’ll be more comfortable and they will be less wrinkled.  We want you looking handsome when we show you off at the Club,” she added with a wink that she relayed back to me via the rearview mirror.

Dicky and I were crunched together, our ungainly legs entangled in the backseat, re-cementing our relationship. 

It was late afternoon.  We had left earlier than necessary to get to the pre-dinner cocktail hour because Mrs. Traub wanted Dicky to give me a tour of the Club.  “The pass we have for you,” she explained when she called to invite me, “is just for dinner and the dance, not for golf.  But Dicky wants you to see the course anyway.  So come to our house at 3:00 so there will be time for you to see everything.  I know you’ll enjoy that.  Dicky will be sure to show you the locker room where he keeps his clubs and golf clothes and who knows what else.  It’s very convenient.” 

So I did arrive as requested; and because of Mrs. Traub’s fine plan, even if it took two hours to get there, there would still be an hour for the tour.  

“Sugar, why don’t you take the service road?  At least they’re moving.

Dr. Traub just grunted but did begin to inch the car toward the right lane and eventually was able to exit at Little Neck Parkway.  Which turned out to be a considerable improvement, even with the frequent traffic lights.  We were able to move at twice the rate of those left creeping along the so-called Expressway.  Looking over toward them, Dr. Traub spoke, under his breath, the only word I heard him utter during those two uncomfortable hours, “Sheep.” 

Mrs. Traub, whose legendary auburn bouffant, even more splendidly assembled for this special occasion, filling the rearview mirror, sent me another complicitous wink.

*    *    *

The Squirrel Hunt and Racquet Club was in fact magnificent—just as Mrs. Traub had promised.  Dr. Traub drove their lustrous Chrysler slowly, processionally up the cobblestone-paved circular drive, it must have arched for more than a quarter mile, so one could take in the full expanse of the Tudor structure.  It seemed a greatly expanded version of their own house back in East Flatbush.  Though it was at least another quarter mile in breadth, I recognized the similar artful integration of latticed brick, fieldstone, and faux half timbering.

When we finally reached the main entrance, guarded by two massive doors that had what looked like silver armor shields affixed to them, we were greeted by two footmen who, in spite of the oppressively humid weather, were wearing full scarlet hunting outfits complete with jackets with brass buttons and tails, gleaming calf-length boots, and velvet hunting hats.  I was struck by the fact that they did not appear to be perspiring while my dress shirt was soaking wet.  So much so that I was worried that the studs I borrowed from my father would rust and stain the shirt and I would have to pay extra when I returned it to Zeller’s Tuxedos. 

Tipping their hats, they simultaneously opened both of the car’s front doors and greeted, by name, both Traubs.  And after helping them out, with a hand extended for Mrs. Traub who rewarded them with a glittering smile and an extra second’s glimpse of her cleavage, they proceeded to open Dicky’s door, but not mine since I had already done so on my own.  I thought I caught my footman frowning, as I stood on the cobblestones, struggling to rehook my cummerbund.  I thought I heard the one on the other side of the car say, “Welcome Mister Dicky.”

Mrs. Traub was gracious enough to help me reassemble myself and before sending me off with Dicky whispered to me, as if reading my thoughts, “Yes Lorenzo designed the club and then made our little house for us.  You have a wonderful eye, Lloyd.  And be sure Dicky gets you back to us in an hour.  No stops in the Acorn please.  There will be time enough for that.  You must be on time to thank the Silvergolds for your guest pass.  And of course to meet their beautiful daughter, Jewel.” 

And with that she gently launched me toward Dicky who was pawing the ground in eagerness for a little time on our own.  And as soon as we were alone, he said, “Let’s forget the fucking tour.  I’m dying for a drink.  A green’s a green, and I can’t believe she wants me to show you the stupid locker room.” 

So off we went toward the Acorn Bar.  Also clearly designed by Lorenzo—I immediately recognized his unique use of colors and reproductions.

We found two leopard-skin covered bar stools down at the end of the bar that opened onto a slate terrace that swept around the 18^th green, which did indeed look like fine carpet even from my perch.  This assured that players when finishing their rounds would have just a short walk to the cool sanctuary of the bar and its offerings.

“My parents think I’m a moron,” Dicky said, unprovoked, while at the same time snapping his fingers in the direction of the bartender who was dressed, it seemed appropriately, in a jockey’s suit since he was so small that just his head appeared over the top of the tin bar.  He bounded right over to us.

“How’s it going, Dicky?  The usual—Beefeaters and tonic, hold the garbage?”

“Yeah, Snappy, and the same for my pal.  Is that OK, Lloyd?”  I nodded.  “I’m parched.  We had some drive out here.”  Snappy disappeared under the bar, I assumed to find ice for our drinks.  “I mean it,” Dicky turned back to me, “they think I have the brains of a hamster,” he laughed, “and though I’m sure I’m not brilliant like you,” he chuckled again, but this time with a slight touch of malice, “I’m really more of a fuck-up than a retard.  That’s why they wouldn’t let me invite Betsy Sue here tonight, to the dinner-dance.  My dad assumes that anyone who’s interested in me must either be after my money, which is a joke, or is a bimbo who would embarrass him to his big-shot friends.  They should only meet her.  She’s the real thing, not a phony like the rest of them.”

Snappy reached up toward us and placed two gin and tonics on the bar.  “She’s from California, Santa Barbara, and is staying in New York for the summer with her aunt who lives on West End Avenue.  In the City.  I met her while riding.  She’s an eventer, you know someone who competes in horse shows.  Dressage, jumping, all that kind of thing.  Of course she only rides English.  I’m trying to learn.  She’s teaching me.  My horse, though, is used to my riding Western so I don’t know how it will work out.  But in the meantime she has a whole trophy chest full of cups and ribbons and all my parents have is a case full of pictures of themselves standing in front of the Pyramids.”  I smiled at him.

“Do you want to hear the best thing yet?”  He had drained his drink and gestured toward Snappy who quickly provided a refill.  I indicated I was still OK; I had only sipped at it since I wanted to be careful about how much I drank.  “They think Betsy Sue is Colored, a Negro,” he slapped the bar so hard that my drink jumped up off the metal surface.  “Because her last name is ‘Robinson.’   When I told my parents about her my father asked if she was related to Jackie.  Can you believe it?  He’s such an asshole.

“And when I somehow managed to convince them that she wasn’t, and I can’t believe I even entered into the conversation with them, my mother chimed in to say, ‘Then she must be Catholic.  Only Catholics have two first names—“Betsy” and “Sue,” which isn’t much better.’  At that point I just checked out.  They’re hopeless.

“The irony is that she’s really Jewish.”  He grinned at me in the radiant way of the old Dicky I knew so well.  Her family name is ‘Rabinowitz.’  Her grandfather came from Russia, from St. Odessa where he was a violin teacher.  A famous one.  His best friend was Jascha Heifetz’s teacher.  I think his name was Leopold Auer.  So many Jews studied the violin there.  It was a ticket out of the ghetto, to respectability and a way, they thought, to avoid discrimination and worse--pogroms.  For those who got out, like Betsy’s grandparents, it worked.  We know what happened to the rest of them.”  He sighed.  This was not the familiar devil-may-care Dicky.  I had no idea he knew about much less cared about any of these subjects. 

“So they became ‘Robinsons,’ also to avoid anti-Semitism, here in America, which was then widespread, especially during the Depression when no one had jobs.  Can you believe it, my parents, whose families crawled out of shtetls in Poland, really more peasants than scholars,” he laughed again, “they look down their big noses at Betsy’s people.”  He gestured toward the entrance to the Acorn as if to dismiss them.

“Then they make fun of my interest in horses, which is also ironic considering my father’s reputation as a ‘sportsman,’ his so-called involvement with the ponies.  I’ll tell you what that really means.”  He looked around then to make sure we were alone and not being overheard.  “One day I’ll tell you the whole story, the truth.”  He didn’t remember that as a kid I had worked at Augie’s barbershop, sweeping up the cut hair and running errands, and knew about what went on in the back room, and about his father.  But I decided not to say anything, to let him talk. 

“I wish they’d just get off my back and let me do what I want to do, what I’m good at.  I can make a good life for myself.   I tell you if I got a little encouragement from them I could do well enough in college to get into veterinary school.  I know you also don’t believe me, you think I don’t have the brains or discipline to do that.”  I shook my head, “But you don’t really know me either.  You only know the fun-and-games Dicky.  Dicky the empty-headed fuck-up.  Well, there’s also another Dicky.  Again, not brilliant, I admit that, but smart enough.”  He downed the last of his second gin and tonic and Snappy was right there, unsummoned, to get him another.

“You can ask me anything you want about horses, and I don’t mean handicapping bullshit.  About that you can ask the great Dr. Traub.  And I also don’t mean bridle and saddle talk, though I know that too.  In fact, I made my own saddle, and not from a kit, which anyone who knows anything would say is impressive.  But I’m talking about equine medicine.  I’ve been studying that on my own and when the vet comes to the stable to treat any of the horses he asks me to assist him.   I’m not there just shoveling shit, though I do that too and groom all the horses without anyone asking me to.  The vet, Dr. Jencks, thinks I’d be a strong candidate for veterinary school, but I’d be crazy to even think about applying unless my parents would be willing to help with the tuition.  It costs a fortune and there is very little scholarship money for people from east coast cities whose fathers are rich dentists. The last thing in the world they’d want is for me to be a horse doctor. What would their fancy friends think?” 

The bar was filling up.  It was close to the time when the dinner was scheduled to begin and other club members, who needed a drink, were trying to get in a few quick ones before being called into the club’s restaurant.  “Just the other day Dr. Jencks was there because one of the horses suffering from constipation.”  Dicky winked at me, “You’d think that with all the roughage they eat, their basic diet, that this would be unheard of, but it’s actually quiet common, especially for stabled horses.  The treatment is to give the horses laxatives.  Just like with people.”  He smiled at me, “But unlike people they need horse-size suppositories.  They’re about the size of a big lemon.  And guess how they are inserted into the horse?”  He paused, “Right, by hand.  And guess who did that the other afternoon?”  He waited for me, but I just smiled back at him, “Right, your best friend Dicky boy got the assignment.”  He again waited for my acknowledgement, and I nodded at him to show that I was impressed. 

“So I took that friggin thing in my hand and shoved it, way past my wrist, up that horse’s ass and held it there, waiting for him to relax and suck it in.  Which he did.”  Now I was indeed impressed. 

And, turning away from me, he took a long look out over the steaming golf course, and said, as if to himself, “It was awesome.” 

Then, deep from within, he said, “That’s what I want to do with my life.”   He paused again and growled, “And they would love to see my horse sent to the glue factory.”

“Oh there you are, Dicky.”  It was Mrs. Traub yodeling to us from the waterfall end of the bar.  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere—the pro shop, the putting green.  I almost went into the men’s locker room.”  And with a trill, she quickly added, “But of course I didn’t.” 

Hearing that, one club member who must have known her quite well hopped off his barstool and, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulled her to him, grinding his hip against hers, and whispered something right in her ear that so amused her that she squealed with laughter.  And she, as if to admonish, squirmed out of his grasp and gave him a soft punch in the shoulder and a kiss on the cheek while saying, for all to hear, “Oh, Lanny, you’re such a bad boy.”  All the other men along the bar joined Lanny and Mrs. Traub in good-natured laughter.

“And Lloyd, darling,” she sang out to me, “the cocktail hour is starting and the Silvergolds are just dying to meet you.”

*    *    *

Mrs. Traub waltzed up to me, that is the only honest way to describe it, and took me by the hand, pausing to adjust my clip-on bow tie, and said, “Please escort me to cocktails in the Bridle Lounge.  Dicky of course thinks that’s a silly name.  But it is spelled with a ‘d-l-e’’ and not with a ‘d-a-l,’ though many a romance began there.  And who knows about tonight?   After all, you are about to meet Jewel Silvergold.  But before that let me take your arm, darling, I want to make a grand entrance.  And show you off to everyone.” 

I didn’t quite know what this meant or what to do, but she came to my rescue by letting go of my hand, crooking my right arm, and placing her own hand there so that we were transformed into a version of an elegant couple, only familiar to me from certain movies of the period—my only point of reference for what was I was being drawn into.   And reflected in a mirror along the bar, where I glanced to check to see how I looked with Mrs. Traub at my side, I also saw Dicky mopping along behind us as if in tow.

We passed behind a waterfall that served as the far wall of the bar (Mrs. Traub said to me, “Isn’t Lorenzo a genius?”) and right there spread before us was a sweeping set of marble steps that descended into what was clearly the Bridle Lounge.  Seemingly all of it made of crystal. 

Most striking was a series of immense chandeliers that traversed the full length of the room, each sparkling with hundreds of bulbs that were not only in the shape of candles but also had special filaments that flickered in imitation of real candlelight.  Also the full length of the lounge, there was a table covered with rose-colored linens down the middle of which was placed a two-foot wide red satin ribbon on which there were centered huge crystal bowls and tureens and platters, all overflowing with what seemed from a distance to be cornucopias of fruit and salads and meats and vegetables and various kinds of bubbling and fizzing and steaming concoctions. 

Sensing how struck I was by all this glittering splendor, Mrs. Traub leaned over to whisper, “And don’t forget to notice the crystal champagne fountains (mind you that’s real Piper Heidsieck flowing, from France) and the ice sculptures—all of animals that are hunted, especially squirrels.  Silly, no?  And the tapestries,” she gestured toward the wall behind the vast table, “See them?  They’re from the Cloisters Museum.  They are pictures of Unicorns.  White horses with mythical horns.  They’re copies of course.  Lorenzo had them specially woven in Belgium and had the silver frames made so they would go with the rest of the décor.  I’m not sure I like them.  The frames I mean.  It feels a little much, don’t you think?  But there is no disagreeing with him.  I wasn’t sure about the Aztec headboard either, but he insisted.”

Then I noticed that a group of Club members had gathered at the foot of the stairs.  “But come, it’s time to meet everyone.  And stand up straight.  You’re so nice and tall.”  Hearing echoes of my father’s voice when he admonished me not to slump (“Shoulders back.  Chin in.  Chest out”) I attempted to do that while at the same time holding my breath and attempting to be careful not to stumble on the hem of Mrs. Traub’s ball gown as it swept the floor.  And then step-by-step, in truth led by her, side-by-side, arm-in-arm, we managed to make quite an impressive entrance, if I may be allowed to say so.

“And of course there waiting for you is Rose, Jewel’s mother.  Mrs. Silvergold.  I’m sure she’ll also want you to call her ‘Rose.’”  But before turning me loose, Mrs. Traub leaned close to me to whisper, “Isn’t she adorable?”  I nodded since she was in her own firmly-rounded way.  Not much more than five-feet tall, even in her tiny silk pumps, she was stuffed, not unattractively, into a short pink dress, which went as well with the red table ribbon as her crystal earrings, which emitted a full spectrum of prismatic light, a perfect fit for the room.  And with her silver-streaked hair, which was whipped into an airy soufflé, she was the picture of coordination.

Just as we reached the bottom step, in her full bubbling voice, Mrs. Traub announced, “Rose, honey, here he is at last.  This is Lloyd.  All the way from Columbia.” 

And to me, “Lloyd, meet Mrs. Silvergold.”  I reached out to shake her hand, but she ignored me for a moment to say to Mrs. Traub, “He’s just like the way you described him.  So tall.  And even with a good nose.”  Mrs. Traub stood aside, beaming proudly, to allow her friend to take my full measure.

I managed to stutter, “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Silver . . .“

“But you must call me ‘Rose,’” she cut in.  “I’m only ‘Mrs. Silvergold’ to the help.  Though I try to be a liberal with them.”

“I’ll try to . . .”

Again as if not hearing me, and I was sure that I was speaking up, Mrs. Silvergold continued, “Trudy can’t stop talking about how well you’re doing at Columbia.  Tell me again, you are pre-med?  And on the crew?  A wonderful golfer too, Trudy says.  But too thin.”  She pinched my side below my cummerbund.  “I’ll bet you eat like a bird.” 

She turned away from me and Mrs. Traub who had drifted off toward one of the champagne fountains in order to leave me alone with Mrs. Silvergold.  “Sid,” she called out, “doesn’t he look like he eats like a bird?”  She directed this toward a small, square man who had his back to us and was talking to Dr. Traub who appeared not to be listening, though he occasionally nodded his head.  “So,” she instructed me again, without waiting for Mr. Silvergold to respond, “be sure to eat.”

I tried to interrupt so I could thank her and her husband for letting me use one of their guest passes.  “Don’t mention it.  We never use them, even though we have to buy them.  We never bring anyone here so they would just go to waste.   Don’t think about how much they make us pay for them.  Just be sure to eat.  They have everything here.  It’s a buffet.  And then they serve you dinner.  Prime ribs.  But let me tell you something I shouldn’t be saying,” she drew nearer to me, “What they have at the buffet is better than what they give you at dinner.  So eat as much as you like.  Don’t be shy. 

“They stuff you here like a pig.  Of course not really like a pig.  Sid and I are Kosher you know.  But there are all kinds of salads and cold cuts.  I like them because everything is very lean.  Just like the way Sid and I like it.  So eat.  They don’t charge us by how much you take.  Just enjoy.  Look how nice everything is laid out.  Such a big table.  It must be forty feet long.  It’s a wonder it doesn’t collapse considering how much they put on it.  So tell me more, Floyd, about Columbia.”

And though I tried to tell her I was “Lloyd” and say something about my courses or the crew, once again she turned toward Mr. Silvergold who did not seem to hear or notice her though her voice carried quite well, “Sid, isn’t it a bigger spread than last year?  I see lobster this time.  They only had shrimp last year.  Of course we don’t eat that.  It’s traif you know.  But you can eat that too.  As much as you want.  Whatever you want.  But I’m sorry, you were going to tell me about pre-med.  But before you do, don’t forget to have the chopped liver.  You know with Jews, even though it will kill them, they need to have their chopped liver.  And see how it’s shaped?  Like a squirrel.  Like the Club—the Squirrel Club.  When we joined I said to Sid what kind of a thing is it to name a club after a rodent?   But he told me that in England all their exclusive clubs have the same kind of names—the Fox and the Hare, the Elephant and the Castle.  Am I wrong or am I right Sid?” 

Again, since he did not appear to hear her, Mrs. Silvergold continued, “Tell me then about you.  You go to Columbia?  You are going to medical school?”  I began to say that I hoped to if I couldn’t be a successful poet, she interrupted once more, “I know.  You’re still a pre-med.  But Trudy says you’re doing very well and God willing will go to a good medical school.  Here in America.  Not Mexico.  I know, Trudy tells me, it won’t be the best one but that’s still fine.  A doctor’s a doctor.  Isn’t that true?  Who cares what kind of diploma you have hanging.  They’re all in Latin anyway.  My gynecologist, Dr. Raab, went to Flower Fifth Avenue.  Since they didn’t take Jews, his rich Uncle Sam had to pay them money under the table to accept him but he’s now one of the biggest doctors in Brooklyn.  He has an office at Grand Army Plaza.  You know where that is?  It’s where the goyim live.  I think he even has antiques in his waiting room.  Isn’t that right Trudy?” she hollered across the room to where Trudy had found Lanny from the bar.  Mrs. Traub didn’t appear to hear her either. 

“Dr. Raab has antiques.  She knows.  Trudy knows everything there is to know about antiques and reproductions too.  And about young men.”  She was looking toward Mrs. Traub and Lanny who again had his arm around her waist.  “Forgive me, I don’t mean it that way.  I know what everyone at the Club thinks, but I mean she knows about young people like Dicky and you.  Though I don’t mean to compare the two of you.  I know he’s nothing special.  If it wasn’t for his father, poor dear, who works so hard he would be out on the street.  He has no brains at all.  All he cares about is his horse and his hair.  Sid told me that when he went to the men’s room last weekend at the club Dicky was there all through dinner looking at himself in the mirror and fixing his hair and patting his pompadour.

“But I know how smart you are and Trudy tells me you’re getting such good grades.  So before long you’ll be able to put ‘Doctor’ in front of your name and ‘MD’ at the end.  Doctor-doctor, no?”   She chuckled at her own joke.  I smiled back at her.

And with that she called out, again, “Jewel, my gem, come over here and meet Floyd.  Or should I say ‘Doctor Floyd?’”

*    *    *

And with that Jewel, in shining splendor, materialized. 

“Mom,” she said, “do you have my lipstick?”

I was instantly enchanted.  To this day I am not sure if it was her lack of pretense, for surely she knew I had been invited to the club as a potential “good prospect,” and that things had been set in motion for us to meet.  And yet the first words she allowed me to hear were about her makeup.

Or was it because she was a cute and sexy version of her mother?  Also in a short, tight, strapless, almost matching mother-daughter red silk dress that compressed and exposed just enough of her flesh to make me instantly ache to know more of it.

“Look again in your purse, Jewel.  But first you must say hello to Floyd.  He’s the pre-med.”  Jewel did not look up to acknowledge me, rummaging in her sequined bag in search of her lipstick.

“It’s not here.  What am I going to do?  Look at me.  I knew I shouldn’t have eaten anything.  My lips are a disaster.  I guess I’ll have to borrow yours though I hate your Fire and Ice.”  She was pouting which made her look even more alluring. 

At last she noticed me, “So you must be Lloyd.  Trudy thinks I’ll like you, though you’re a little tall for me.”  She looked me up and down as if considering a purchase.  “I prefer boys less than six feet.  I’m a midget.  We’ll look ridiculous together on the dance floor.  With my head in your stomach.  I’m glad I at least wore these heels.”  And with that she bent over to show them to me, though I must confess I was more interested in her neckline, which was now gaping and bountiful.

“I think,” I stammered, trying to divert my eyes, “that we will be  . . .”

“I doubt it.  But since Trudy and my mom are just dying for me to like you, they think dating a pre-med is every girl’s dream, for their sake I’ll give it a try.  Though to be honest with you, I think pre-meds are boring.  All they want to talk about is dissecting frogs and how they want to be dermatologists so they don’t have to be on call nights and weekends.”

“I don’t . . .”

“It’s OK.  It’s the end of the summer.  All the other boys are creeps.  I should know.  I dated every one of them.  Ugh.  So you’ll have to do for tonight.”  She smiled at me for the first time.

I was willing to accept that.  “We can . . .”

“Look, I know my mother wants to fatten you up.  For the kill, so to speak.  But I want to dance, OK?   We have Tito Puente here every Labor Day.  Don’t you just love him?    He’s such an amazing drummer.   I hope you know the cha-cha.”  She began to move her hips.  “Did they teach that to you at Columbia?  I mean along with frog anatomy?”  She was playing with me and I loved it.

“Well, not . . .”

“Let’s go,” she took hold of my hand, “before it gets too crowded and my parents and their friends ask him to play foxtrots or whatever.”  She pulled me along behind her down toward the far end of the lounge, passed the ice sculptures and heaps of cold cuts, dodging waiters who were circulating with trays of hors d’oeuvres, and then off to the side, into another room that was situated between the lounge and the club’s restaurant where, on a platform, Tito Puente himself and his band were positioned.  All were wearing tight black pants with satin stripes running down the sides, foot-wide cummerbunds, and pleated shirts with huge puffed sleeves.   The music was already throbbing, even though there was no one as yet on the dance floor, and members of the band’s rhythm section were singing to themselves--

Vamos a bailar esta vida nueva
Vamos a bailar na na na

Jewel was in immediate motion, dancing her way into the center of the floor.  The music rippled through her body as she began to dance, alone.  The band picked up on her energy and I could feel them take up the tempo and become connected with her.  Transfixed, I watched her.  It looked as if she might dance right out of her dress—it moved one way as her body twisted in the opposite direction.  This prospect both thrilled and frightened me.  What would I do if that were to happen?   Would I  . . . ?

As I was having these wicked thoughts, Jewel danced her way to me, reaching out as she moved her torso to Puente’s relentless drumming.  I was drawn to her, took her hands, and was led out onto the dance floor.

Vamos a bailar esta vida nueva
Vamos a bailar

“There, see, you can do it,” Jewel shouted so I could hear her over the soaring music.  “Like that—one-two-three.  Cha-cha-cha.”  She threw her head back and laughed, “So you did learn something useful at Columbia.”

I couldn’t believe that my feet were moving as if beyond my control and that I was able to keep up with Jewel who, intermittently, danced her way in a circle around me, all the while singing along with the band—

Vamos a bailar esta vida nueva
Vamos a bailar na na na

And then she was at my side and stayed there, with our hips touching, moving in unison as if we were one organism.  “I’ll be going to Finch College in the fall,” Jewel said, a little breathlessly, never leaving my side.  “My mother thinks I need some ‘finishing’ so they’re sending me there.  (Right, you’ve got it—one-two-three.)  It’s really a school for rich girls who can’t get into a real college, but I want to go there because it’s in the City.  That’s where I want to be.  I hate Great Neck.  (Vamos a bailar)  I know I’m not too smart,” I’m embarrassed to admit that I was so concentrating on the dancing and the heat searing my hip that I failed to contradict her.  “I may not be smart but I know what I don’t want.”  She swept the room with a gesture that was timed perfectly to fit the music.  “Grace Slick went to Finch.  From Jefferson Airplane.  That’s the kind of life I want.  Far away from all of this.  I’ve had it with this stupid club and all the manipulations to get me married off to some bald-headed proctologist.”   I became self-conscious of my prematurely receding hairline and tipped my head to the side to angle it out of Jewel’s line of sight. 

Vamos a bailar esta vida nueva
Vamos a bailar

“Don’t take it personally.  I’m sure you’re very nice and we could probably have fun in the City once I’m there.  But if you’re thinking about dating or going steady or anything like that, forget about me.”  One breast was about ready to pop out of the top of her dress and I was more focused on it than on what she was saying.

“But if you want to get laid or anything like that,” she paused for a moment, “be sure to look me up.” 

And with that she let go of me, tossed her hair, and cha-cha’ed her way over to the band stand where she and Tito Puente and his men finished the number in a great flourish, while I’ll remained out on the floor, alone, no longer dancing—

Vamos a bailar esta vida nueva

*   *   *

“Lloyd, darling,” it was Mrs. Traub, “Dinner is about to be served so please take my arm so we can find our table.  I see that Jewel is taking very good care of herself.”

I was intoxicated from what she had offered and how I might “look her up,” as she put it; and, as if in a state of rapturous automatic pilot, I was swept along again by Mrs. Traub, away from Jewel, down yet another few steps into the Tack Room Restaurant, which was decorated as if it were a medieval mead hall.  The walls were half-timbered and the ceiling, which soared above us, was crisscrossed with deeply carved hammerhead beams whose bosses were illuminated by the light that trickled in through mica glass window fragments set in lead-lined traceries.  The coffered, wood-paneled walls were oiled and lined, cheek by jowl, with stuffed animal heads—deer and moose and black bears as well as bigger game such as lions and leopards and even two massive elephants. 

“Here, Lloyd, this is our table.  And this is Mr. Silvergold (‘Call me Sid,’ he said as Mrs. Traub escorted me to my high-backed leather chair), he wants you to sit next to him.  He knows you’re about to be a doctor . . .”

“Well, not . . .”

“. . .  and since he’s in that business—not a doctor but in the medical business, I’m sure he’ll explain it better than I can—he wants you to sit with him so you can get to know each other.  I love Sid,” they exchanged a long look, “He’s so funny, I’m sure you’ll like him too.” 

He patted the zebra-skin seat of the chair on his right.  “I know you’d probably prefer to sit with Jewel and Dicky but there’s a gang of good-for-nothing boys here she grew up with; and since this is the last weekend before they all go back to school I assume, unfortunately, she’ll want to be with them.  But she’s going to college in the City and maybe you’ll be able to get together there in a few weeks.”  Especially with Mrs. Traub on my right I was glad to be sitting because the thought of that prospect continued to excite me and thus, in my rented trousers, took visible form.

“So, Floyd, what kind of sore bones are you planning to be?  O-B-G-Y-N?  They have the most fun,” he was smoking a cigar and choked on the smoke.  Mrs. Traub also thought that was funny. 

“In truth, Mr. Silvergold . . .”

“Please, my name is ‘Sid.’  My father’s name is ‘Mr. Silvergold.’  Or was, he should rest in peace.  He died two years ago.  Just went out to get some cigarettes and never came back.  Dropped dead right on the corner of Livonia Avenue.  In Brooklyn.  Do you know Brooklyn?  It’s a terrible place to die.  Especially right out on the street with all that traffic.  He smoked two packs a day since he was sixteen.  They killed him.  That’s why I only smoke cigars.  As long as I don’t inhale.  Still a filthy habit.  Rose hates for me to smoke.  Says it will kill me too.  But we live in Great Neck on Cherry Lane so at least I won’t die in the street.”  He laughed at his own joke.

Mrs. Traub said, “Sid, what kind of talk is this?  This is a dinner dance.  Talk medicine with the boy.  You’ll both enjoy that.”

“Sorry,’ he said to me, “do you want a cigar?  I have three more of them here.”  He reached into his tuxedo jacket, but I thanked him and shook my head. 

“And don’t worry about all of these forks and knives and spoons.”  He had noticed that I had been staring at the lavish table setting, at all the silverware and pewter beakers and crystal glasses.  “If you ask me, it’s all about the prime ribs.  The rest will just fill you up.  You can pass on the salad and the soup, though the shrimp they tell me are good—I don’t eat them you know.”

“Yes, Mrs. Silvergold told me that . . .”

“Yeah, well,’ he chortled, “with my family history it doesn’t hurt to have God on your side.  I told you about my father.  And my circulation they tell me is all clogged up.  I could pop off right here.  Even before they bring out the first course.”  He patted his expansive stomach, which was stuffed into a plaid scarlet cummerbund.  He exhaled again and this time a belch accompanied the cigar smoke.  “I hate these things.  They give me gas.  I’d love to take it off, but Rose would kill me.”  He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, which was too unyielding to accommodate his shifting bulk, and glanced across the table at Mrs. Silvergold who was laughing at something Dr. Traub had just said to her. 

“But that brings me closer to the subject at hand.”  Mr. Silvergold shifted nearer to me and draped his arm across the back of my chair. 

“Everyone is just waiting around to die.”  Some of his cigar ash fell into my lap.  “Distracting themselves as best they can while waiting for the inevitable to happen.  And also before they die they spend half their time with doctors and in hospitals.  That’s where I come in.  And you too.  We’re both in that business.  Right?”

I tried to say, “I’m just going to be a sophomore . . .”

“I know, I know.  But even you have to think about the future, because the future is just around the corner.  And then we know what’s waiting for us.”  He chuckled to himself, “So here’s how I look at things—Everyone is going to need ostomy supplies.  Right?”

He saw that I wasn’t following him, “That’s my business—ostomy supplies.  You know, bags for people who have had colostomies.  My sales went up twenty-three percent this year alone because, as I said, everyone nowadays needs them.  It’s an epidemic.  Problems with the colon, considering the shit, pardon my French, that people eat.” 

He turned to the liveried waiter who was just then serving the first course, “Not for me.  I’m taking a pass on the salad.  Rabbit food if you ask me.  But what about you Floyd?  Don’t forget what’s coming.”

“Ah, I don’t know . . .”

“Leave him be Sid,” it was Mrs. Silvergold who was now focused on the food, “I told you he eats nothing.  So let him eat.”

“You see what I mean?  Take the salad,” he whispered to me so his wife wouldn’t hear, “but you don’t have to finish it.”  The waiter placed a massive portion before me and from a silver bowl ladled onto it a clotted stream of thousand island dressing. 

“But as I was saying,” Mr. Silvergold resumed, “colorectal surgeons are cutting out hunks of people’s large intestines and colons as we sit here stuffing ourselves.  Even on Labor Day weekend.”  He looked over to me, “How’s the salad Floyd?  Do you have enough dressing?”  I said that I was fine.  “And when they stitch them up and send them home from the hospital, they need what I sell.  I’m the largest supplier of ostomy products on the entire east coast.  You wouldn’t believe how much mail order I do.  Most people who need these bags are embarrassed to go into the drug store to buy them, so I save them from having to.  It works out very well.”

I was beginning to feel full from just the salad and was thinking more about Jewel’s breasts than colostomies, which in truth I didn’t know too much about.  So I let the waiter clear my salad plate and told him I would skip the soup and wait for the prime ribs—well done, if possible.  Mrs. Silvergold saw and heard all of this and looked across at me with disappointment.  I just shrugged back at her.

“We stock colostomy pouches, ileostomy and urostomy pouches, closed-end pouches, drainable pouches, pouch covers, glue-on wafers, one-piece systems, two-piece systems, skin barriers, irrigation items, ostomy belts, tapes, adhesives and cements, adhesive removers, deodorants, gas vents, and accessories.”

He smiled proudly at me, “That’s the whole enchilada.”  I continued to strain to catch a view of Jewel with her friends. 

“Then we have our tagline, right on the mail order catalogue it says: 

Silvergold’s Sickroom Supplies--If you gotta buy it somewhere- - how about here?  We'll both be glad you did. 

“Pretty catchy, don’t you think?”  I grunted something about how I liked the alliteration. 

“Sit back in your seat Floyd,” he proclaimed, “because they’re about to roll out the beef.  They serve it from flaming carts so be careful.  You don’t want to damage the goods, if you know what I mean.”  I think I understood what he meant but was still more interested in looking for Jewel and thought I saw her, through the flickering candle light, on the other side of the hall, sitting and wriggling on the lap of one of her friends.

And with that, before I could be certain, the lights dimmed further and Tito Puente moved over to his largest set of Mambo drums where he began to beat out an intricate Latin rhythm to accompany the appearance of about a dozen stainless steel grills from which flames were shooting so that it looked as though we were celebrating the Fourth of July rather than Labor Day.  Each cart was propelled forward among the tables by waiters who were dressed now in what looked more like blacksmith’s aprons and gloves than equestrian attire.  I was glad that Mr. Silvergold had warned me since, as one of the carts approached us, it belched a geyser of sparks some of which landed on our table and burned small holes through the thick brocade cloth.

“Here, sir,” a cinder-stained waiter said to me, “you asked for it well done so I hope you like it this way.”   His tone was a little condescending as he plopped on the wooden slab that served as my dish a triple-thick set of ribs that looked as if they had been incinerated.

“You know,” Mr. Silvergold said, his piece was so rare that blood was still seeping from it, some of it onto the tablecloth since the tortured piece of ancient-looking wood that was his plate was so warped that it couldn’t contain the gravy, “your hunk of meat also reminds my of my business.”  I must have given him a skeptical look as I began to hack away at it with my wrought-iron steak knife.  “I mean it.”  He had already cut off a piece and was chewing and sucking on it as he spoke, “After the surgeon resects the colon, he pulls one end of it through an opening that he cuts in your stomach and staples it in place.”  He reached over to illustrate, poking me on the right side of my abdomen.  “The piece that they leave sticking out right there,” he jabbed me again, “looks just like your piece of prime ribs.”  I stopped slashing at it for a moment.  “Not the same size mind you, but the same color and texture.”  I put my utensils down, no longer hungry, and gulped some water.

“And, again, that’s where I come in.  I make all the equipment they need to glue the bags to their stomachs and of course manufacture a whole line of the bags themselves.  You’d be amazed how quickly people learn how to take care of their own wafers and bags so it all works out very well.  We even try to make it fun.” 

I had pushed back my chair, feeling the need for fresh air; but before I could get up and make my escape, Mr. Silvergold leaned even closer to me.  I could smell his breath—it was a mixture of stale cigar smoke and extra rare beef, “And if you play your cards right, son, one day,” he looked out over to the dance floor to where he and I saw Jewel with a close friend moving sensuously to a mambo beat, “all this, Floyd,” he swept his hand in a grand gesture that took in all of the Club, “all of it will be yours.”

*    *    *

I bolted from the table and raced back through the Acorn Bar and out onto the terrace.  The sun had nearly set but the air had become even more saturated.  In spite of that, I took a few deep breaths in an attempt to regain my equilibrium and settle my stomach.  I was happy that I hadn’t eaten too much, though that one gin and tonic was still surging around in my system.  Or maybe I just needed to be alone to sort out my raging fantasies and to think about what Jewel’s father seemed to be suggesting.  How much of a bargain might I be willing to strike . . . ?

“Oh, there you are Lloyd.  I thought I might have to look for you in the men’s room.”  It was Mrs. Traub.  “What was it that Sid was saying to you that made you so upset?” 

“It wasn’t so much that.  I don’t know.  I guess I just got a little overheated.”  She had moved quite close to me so that I was now breathing her perfume as much as the moist air.  She took my hand in hers and looked at me, as if asking me to tell her more.  I tried to accommodate her, “This has been a very different kind of day for me.  I mean, being here at the Club.”

“I know Lloyd darling.  I do understand.  I really do.  You see, this life is a very different life for me too.”

“I don’t . . .”

“You know me the way I am now.  In my home.  And now here at the Club.  How I look.”  She held her arms out to the side and turned in a slow pirouette, showing me her dress, her hair, and I thought perhaps even her face and body.  “This is who I have become.  Mrs. Doctor Traub.  Trudy Traub.  But before that I was Ida Zimmerman from the Bronx.  From two blocks east of the Grand Concourse.  No Trudy.  No Dr. Traub.  No Lorenzo del Pesto house.  As a matter of fact, when I came home from school one day, I was in the fourth grade, I found my mother on the street in front of our apartment house, sitting on one of our kitchen chairs.  It was out on the street along with all the rest of our hand-me-down furniture.  And all our other things were in boxes.  On the street.  We had been evicted.  The year before my father had died in an accident—he worked in the City in a hat factory and had been killed there in an elevator accident.  We had no money.  My mother had to take in laundry and clean apartments.  Our life was quite a cliché.  But still there wasn’t enough money to keep us above water.  She never complained or let on how much trouble we were in.  She wanted me to have a childhood and to stay in school and not have to work.  But then I found her there, sobbing on the street.”  Mrs. Traub stepped back away from me, staring off over the 18^th green as if to call up an image of that sad scene in the Bronx.

“I had no idea Mrs. Traub.  I’m so sorry to hear that . . .”

She turned back to me.  “No need for that because look at me now.  Just look at this.  At my life.  We always dreamed about one day moving those two short blocks to the Concourse.  But it was as far away as the moon.  But here I am now.  Beyond the moon.” 

She paused and then said, “It’s also what you want.  That I also know.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure that . . .”

“It’s OK, Lloyd.  To want this is normal.  Your parents are fine hard-working people who only wish the best for you.  But do you want their life?  Do you want to spend your life with us in East Flatbush?”  He voice had become husky.  “You realize of course that our house is just across the street from yours.”  What was she trying to tell me?  “So don’t think, in spite of how things appear to you, that this is all of life.”

“I don’t, but you do have . . .”

“You have no idea what I have.  More important you do not know what I gave up.  To you it looks like I have everything.”  She looked around to take in all of the club and its perfect grounds.  “I worked in an office typing invoices to put Dr. Traub through dental school.  He didn’t have the grades to get into medical school.  We met at a dance at a Jewish Center in Queens.  We both had friends there.  I was quite beautiful then.  I didn’t have money but at least I had looks, and he saw what he wanted.  He was going to Brooklyn College and was pre-med, so I saw what I wanted.  He had already lost most of his hair and he only came up to my nose, which by the way is also a reproduction, but I saw in him a one-way ticket out of the Bronx.”  She paused again, and with a self-mocking laugh said, “From the Bronx all the way to Brooklyn.” 

She took a handkerchief from her bag and wiped what I assumed was perspiration from below her eyes.  She spoke now with a harder edge to her voice, “I know what you and everyone else in the neighborhood think about us.  What a war hero Dr. Traub was.  I could tell you about that.  And such a wonderful professional.  There are things I could say about that too.  And what an upstanding citizen and sportsman.  But I know, Lloyd, that when you were about twelve or thirteen you had a Saturday job at Augie’s barber shop and that you knew about the back room which Sugar Traub visited quite regularly.  No one ever talks about that.  And other things too, which I will not now go into.”

She paused for a moment to take in the fully risen moon. “But I’ve achieved my dream, haven’t I?  I’m no longer Ida Zimmerman from East 172^nd Street.”

She took both of my hands.   She was trembling.   We were close enough so that even in the lingering light of the day I could see that it was not perspiration on her cheeks. 

“You know, in my house, on the ‘living floor,’ which I still tell Lorenzo is a ridiculous idea--no matter--that there is the harpsichord?  We spoke about it.  About the music I love so much?  And appreciate and understand.  I really do.”  Her makeup began to run.  “That was the life I should have dreamed about.” 

She let go of me and turned away.  I think I heard her say, “All I have of that now is the fucking harpsichord.  And even it’s a reproduction.”

I thought I should probably go over to her and try to say something like “It’s not too late,” or think of some way to comfort her.  Maybe touch her or even take her in my arms since I thought she must by now be crying.  But from the gin and tonic and all the excitement, I desperately needed to pee and said, as I passed by her, “I’ll be right back.  I really have to go to the men’s room.”

*    *    *

I fled back inside and almost ran into a liveried footman assigned to the Acorn Bar who told me the bathrooms were just behind the waterfall.  Out of breath and in truth happy again to be alone, I pulled open the hammered bronze door and entered into the half-light of the onyx-inlaid men’s room.  And though I was hoping for a respite, I realized immediately that something was terribly amiss. 

Right at the entrance, on the slate floor was what appeared to be a torn cummerbund and floating in the first of the three black sinks a discarded clip-on bow tie.  As I stepped carefully over the cummerbund so as not to disturb it, I saw, also on the floor, by the first toilet stall, an inside-out white tuxedo jacket so twisted and knotted that it looked as if it had been ripped from someone as the result of a fierce struggle.  I thought I had come upon a crime scene and began to back away toward the door, thinking I should summon help.  But as I was about to, from that stall, I heard, “Can’t get this fucking fly open.”

I tentatively looked in and saw Dr. Traub standing before the toilet and struggling with his suspenders.  “Is there something I can do to . . . ?”

“Just stand back will you.  Need to drop my pants,” which he finally managed to do.  They gathered around his ankles.  A weak stream of urine began to dribble into the bowl.

“Ah, that’s better,” he groaned, “Goddamn prostate.  Need to piss every half hour.  Size of an orange my urologist claims.  Wants to slice it out.  Turn me into a capon.  Rather die than be made into a eunuch.  Trudy, ah Mrs. Traub, disagrees.  Sure.  She’d like to see me with my whole pecker cut off.”

I started to back away but he stopped me, “How’d you like that?  A dick that doesn’t work?  Wouldn’t be a lot of fun, eh?  Bet yours works pretty good.  You’re in your prime.  I hope you’re making the most of it.  Giving it a good workout.”  He snorted.  “She thinks that would change things, Trudy does.  Get even, if you understand.  Fat chance.  All she knows is spend, spend, spend.  Can’t keep that woman out of my wallet.  How she carries on with that Pesto faggot.  You have no idea how much he took me for.  One hundred fifty grand for that house.  And she complains about what I spend on the ponies.  Hasn’t worked a day in her life since I graduated from dental school.  A man needs a little relaxation every now and again.   What’s the harm?  You see any harm?” 

He didn’t wait for me to respond, for which I was relieved.   “One-fifty.  You know how many cavities that is?  At 25 bucks per?  That’s a shit load of drilling.  A life sentence to hard labor.  On my feet ten hours a day.  Most Saturdays too.  Just need a little fun.  You have any idea what standing on your feet all day does to you?  Stand back a little and I’ll show you,” which I was as only too willing to do. 

Dr. Traub sat down on the toilet seat and removed his patent leather dress shoes, black silk socks, and garters.  He reached down, almost toppling off the toilet, and grabbed hold of his right foot.  He took it in his hands and lifted it so I could see better.  As it was quite dark with the two of us in the stall I needed to bend forward to see it.  “Look at that.  Ever see anything that beat up and ugly?  All corns and bunions and calluses.”  I agreed that it was quite a twisted mess of a foot.  He let go of it and, from its weight, it slammed down onto the floor.

“And you know something else?  What an abscess smells like?  I need to deal with them too.  Clean ‘em out.  When you open them up they smell like this toilet.  In fact, more like an open sewer.” 

He looked up at me and I looked down at him, “That’s my life.”  His eyes were blinking rapidly.   He said, “Don’t be fooled by everything you see.” 

He held my gaze.  “But I shouldn’t be talking to you this way.  Especially on such a fine evening, with you just starting out in life.”  He rose from the toilet, hoisting his pants at the same time. 

He hooked his arms back through his suspenders and winked at me, “I did see you dancing with that Jewel.  She quite a hot number.  Think you’ll get any?  I’ll bet she’ll put out for a Columbia pre-med.”