Nathan in Spite of Himself

By Bernie Silver

It's the turbulent sixties and young Nate Rubin has problems. For one thing he’s a virgin, and for another he's a drunk, and for still another he’s in love with forbidden fruit. All of which makes you wonder: Will he ever get laid? Will he ever get sober? Will he ever get the girl? Also, will he ever write that damn novel, the one about a Jewish shikker in love with a black shikseh?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bernie Silver
• Release date: Mar 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370795161

Bernie Silver

I was born and raised in Detroit and have lived in southern, central and northern California. I currently reside in northern Arizona with my wife Patty and two dogs and a cat (Freddie, Sadie and Sammy, respectively). I've worked on corporate and business publications as an editor and reporter and am now writing fiction and essays. I follow politics reluctantly and cinema enthusiastically.

Book preview

Chapter 1

1958

I hated Detroit winters. I mean, I hated them.

I was reminded of this while trudging up La Salle Street on my way home after another boring day at Central High. My rubber boots helped me negotiate the snow-covered sidewalk, but not even a flannel shirt, wool sweater and sheepskin jacket could shield me from the cold eating at my bones.

Hyperbolic? Maybe. But only a little.

By the way, have I mentioned lately I hated Detroit winters?

And in case you’re thinking I’m a hateful person, believe me I’m not. Some things, like insects, gym class and smelly cheese, I merely disliked. But Detroit winters were something else. They deserved to be hated, along with rats, spiders and malodorous farts. Oh, and devious politicians. Meaning all politicians.

The current deep freeze was even worse than usual. It showed up early, the first week in November, and wasted no time in assaulting drivers and pedestrians alike. It even played pranks, like icing the streets and sidewalks, then covering them with innocent-looking snow. Now, the second week in November, we could look forward to four more months of this shit.

Slogging home, I did everything but torch myself to keep warm. I turned up my coat collar, hunched my shoulders, tucked in my chin and said a prayer, or at least my version of one. When all these measures flopped I told the weather to go screw itself, but for some reason that too failed to warm things up. Next I jogged, trotted, cantered or whatever you called my sorry excuse for running. Same result. Plus, once stationary, I could barely catch my breath. When I finally regained it, I tried distracting myself from the weather by whistling Heartbreak Hotel. But my lips refused to cooperate, maybe because they were numb.

I was about halfway home, still freezing my ass off, when a familiar voice rang out. Hey, Nate! Wait up!

I rotated slowly, like a frozen turret. Lumbering toward me was Sheldon Feinberg, fellow senior and good friend, or as close as anyone came to that status. While awaiting his arrival I did a jig to keep my blood from coagulating. When he finally arrived I stopped jigging and tilted my head upward, the better to see his large, moonlike face. Most guys towered over me, but it was only standing next to Sheldon that I felt like David in the shadow of Goliath.

Smooth moves, Comrade, he said. Speaking of which, you getting any yet?

I looked around for a slingshot.

His greeting, if you could call it that, pissed me off. For one thing, in addition to rats, spiders, stinky farts and frigid winters, I hated trendy words, like gig, dig, square, daddy-o and the latest to gain popularity, comrade. Why this particular word was in vogue I couldn’t say. Maybe the country’s obsession with communism and Russia had something to do with it, seeing as the Russians addressed each other as comrade rather than buddy or pal. If you believed Hollywood movies, anyway. The second thing that ticked me off was Sheldon’s question, because it reminded me I wasn’t getting any, and in fact had never gotten any. Still, rather than bite his head off I bit my tongue.

I’ll take that as a no, my good friend said, his usual response to my silence on the subject. Nor did he cease badgering me after we resumed walking. Hey, you really wanna be a virgin when we start college next fall?

Oh, and I suppose you won’t be?

I knew damn well he wouldn’t be, since he never stopped bragging about shtupping his girlfriend, Arlene Shapiro, who’d distinguished herself from most Jewish girls by consenting to go all the way before marriage. But lacking a clever retort, I’d gone with a question I already knew the answer to. Which raised the question: why were zingers never around when you needed them?

Sheldon shifted his books from one arm to the other and adjusted his watch cap around an unruly mop. I keep tellin yuh. Arlene and I do it whenever my parents are outta the house for the evening. Which ain’t often, but at least I don’t have zits. Now he was attacking my acne as well as my virginity. I said nothing even though doubly pissed off. Apparently Sheldon didn’t notice, or didn’t care. That stupid pimple on your schnoz, he said, you get a little pussy and shazam! He tried in vain to snap his fingers. It’s gone, man.

My mood and the sky both darkened as the sun vanished in a graying sky. Forget my zits, I said. You’ve got other things to worry about, like knocking up your girlfriend.

He gave me a look that pronounced me hopeless. "I already told you, I use Trojans. The things are a royal pain, but they keep her from getting pregnant and me from being a daddy, which I’m not ready for yet. Not by a long shot."

So rubbers were a pain? Funny, that’s what this exchange was, at least to me.

I tucked my books in the crook of an arm and scooped some snow from a two-foot drift paralleling the sidewalk. I packed it tight and hurled it at a nearby lamppost, missing the mark by roughly a mile.

Naturally, Sheldon had something to say about that too. Nice pass, Bobby Layne.

He could at least call me Bob Waterfield, former Rams quarterback whose wife, the succulent Jane Russell, occupied most of my fantasies. I spent more time than I’d care to admit imagining her beneath me, mammoth breasts pressed against my chest, soft lips whispering in my ear …

We stopped at Cortland Street.

Think about it, Sheldon said. You wanna do good on your wedding night, right? Well, you’re gonna need more than that baby face of yours. You wanna satisfy your wife, you gotta practice, man. So pick a girl you don’t care about and do it.

This last instruction puzzled me. But you and Arlene … I mean, I thought you were tight.

She’s going to UCLA next year, so how serious can we be? ’Course, she thinks I’m gonna follow her there, but you gotta lie a little or you’ll never get any. See what I mean?

I saw, but so far my lies, and I’d told more than a few, had failed to produce results. Hell, I hadn’t even copped a feel, let alone gotten laid. How pathetic was that?

Sheldon gave me a bassackward wave as he headed down Cortland, while I continued north toward Sturtevant, still stewing over my lingering virginity.

Frankly, I couldn’t believe that some guys had gone all the way, and even more amazing, that some girls had let them. To me, sex remained a fable, a tale told by a boastful friend and most of my classmates. Yes, characters did it in the trashy novels I studied along with my texts, but Harold Robbins might be lying, right? I mean, wasn’t that what authors did, make things up? It’s what I planned to do when I wrote my first novel.

True, Descartes once said, I am, therefore my parents have screwed (okay, I’m paraphrasing), but that meant my parents had screwed, which I couldn’t imagine and didn’t want to.

So rumor and logic weren’t enough. I needed firsthand proof, and I don’t mean babies, that sex existed.

God, how I needed it.

Chapter 2

I kept glancing at Diane Goldfarb, as if looking at her equaled having her. She sat two rows to my right in fourth-period Econ, legs crossed so a good portion of them showed below her hiked-up skirt. Did she know what effect this had on guys? All right, on me. Hell, was anyone else even watching the show? I looked around. No, everyone was feigning interest in the charts Mr. Hinton was pointing at, like they were important.

An ex-Marine impersonating a teacher, he faced his captive audience while standing ramrod-straight between two wooden easels. He swept one arm to the right. Adam Smith. And the other to the left. Karl Marx.

Well, that explained everything.

I suppose the numbered lists below the two names offered some illumination, but truthfully the only explanation that interested me was how to get laid.

Mr. Smith believed what about capitalism?

Like I gave a damn. I believed in Diane Goldfarb’s legs, so I resumed admiring them. After a moment I heard from afar, Mr. Rubin. Followed by a slightly louder repeat of my name. And then, "Mister Rubin."

I tore my eyes from those legs and directed them at The Jarhead.

Ah. Thank you for joining us.

This show of gratitude confirmed my theory that teachers memorized the same script. All of them, without exception, said Thank you for joining us after disrupting a sound sleep, whispered conversation or erotic reverie. Did they think they were being witty? Amusing? The least bit entertaining? Whatever they thought, they were none of the above.

What did Adam Smith mean by the ‘invisible hand,’ Mr. Rubin?

How the hell should I know? I’d retained almost nothing of yesterday’s reading assignment.

Come, come. Who, or what, governs the marketplace?

My response escaped before I could head it off. Um, the government?

My classmates snickered while Hinton hurled the supreme insult. Mr. Rubin, you’ll make a fine politician someday.

He looked pleased with himself as the class went into convulsions. Meanwhile I willed the bell to ring, and when it finally did I rushed out the door to escape the inevitable razzing. I’d traveled a short distance to my next class when someone, a female, called out, Nate?

Apparently there was no getting away. I turned and saw Diane Goldfarb heading toward me. While recovering from the shock—we’d exchanged maybe two words in three years—I stopped and waited for her to catch up.

I zone out too, she confessed as we continued down the hall. But I try to look interested.

Since Diane had made the honor roll three years running, I figured she was interested, or at least paid attention in class.

After her confession, we strolled along in silence, which suited me fine because I was so nervous around girls I often said things that I later, if not instantly, regretted. Didn’t matter if they were pretty or homely, I got jittery around girls, though admittedly the jitters increased around good-looking ones.

While Diane stared straight ahead I checked her out, as unobtrusively as I could. She certainly was no beauty, thanks to a large nose and long chin, but her waist was slim and her boobs, now straining against a yellow wool sweater, were substantial. Though I couldn’t see those legs at the moment, I knew they too were among her assets.

I tried to relax by studying my environment, but that just reminded me school was a prison, with its dim lights, faded paint, concrete floors and omnipresent guards, in this case called hall guards.

Diane stopped outside room 126. This is my next class, American History. She yawned for effect.

I’m off to Trig, I guess.

You guess?

I gave her a weak smile. No, for sure.

Jake Baumgartner, a beanpole with ratty hair and concave cheeks, approached us with a smirk on his face. Hey, Rubin, when you gonna run for mayor?

We ignored him, so he shrugged and slouched away.

Diane ran a hand through her lackluster hair. So tell me something. Why haven’t you ever asked me out? I’m curious, because I see you staring at me all the time.

So much for stealth surveillance.

I, um, I don’t know.

Really? You don’t know?

No, I mean yes, I really don’t know.

I could make a calculated guess, but why bore her? Instead I said, You want to?

Want to what?

Go out.

Of course, silly.

Diane rummaged through her purse and extracted a chewed-up pencil and small spiral notebook. She scribbled, tore off the sheet and thrust it in my shirt pocket.

Call me.

#

I got home in late afternoon, stretched out on the bed and gazed at the Jane Russell poster on the opposite wall, above my desk. That pose from The Outlaw almost made a believer of me. But if God really wanted to prove he existed, he’d persuade Diane Goldfarb to have sex with me.

Though optimism usually eluded me, in this case I had reason to hope. After all, unlike most girls, Diane had practically asked me out, thus breaking the unwritten rule against a girl making the first move. So maybe she’d ignore that other instruction, widespread among Jewish girls, that stipulated she must save herself for marriage. Shiksehs were rumored to be more flexible, but they remained off limits to Jewish boys who wished to remain members of their families. So I’d prayed an atheist’s prayer, if there was such a thing, for a slutty Jewish girl like Arlene Shapiro.

And maybe now I’d found one.

Chapter 3

Since I was slow to take action, to put it mildly, I waited a whole week before phoning Diane Goldfarb. Even then, I discussed news, sports, weather and the latest rock-and-roll hits before getting to the reason for my call, which was to ask her out, specifically to a double feature at the Linwood Theatre on Saturday.

Diane readily accepted the invitation despite my tardiness, and even put a smile in her Of course, silly.

The night of our date I shaved, showered and deodorized, then took a year to fuss with my hair, dousing it with Wildroot, then shaping, reshaping and re-reshaping it until I had the perfect pompadour and duck’s ass. I required a little less time to dress.

After arriving at Diane’s Glynn Court residence—on time, incidentally, despite the lengthy preparation—I parked my parents’ Dodge in the alley behind her apartment building, entered through the rear and rode the elevator to the fourth floor.

I knocked on 408. When the door opened I couldn’t help but stand there and gape. My date wore a mid-calf red skirt that emphasized her thin waist and long legs, and a snug white blouse that stressed her other plusses. Her lifeless hair had come alive, reborn as long, lustrous and sexy. Not Veronica Lake sexy, but close enough.

Eventually we exchanged greetings, after which she led me into a small living room crammed with a plastic-covered couch, two high-backed chairs, a thirteen-inch television set, an upright radio and a cabinet full of tchotchkes. I relaxed a bit until two sourpusses entered the room and Diane introduced them as her parents.

Mr. Goldfarb offered a bony hand while his wife, three times his size, folded her arms across her chest and gave me the evil eye. Where you going?

Her daughter jumped in before I could answer. I told you, Mom. To the movies.

I wanna hear it from him.

I tried remaining calm and almost succeeded. Double bill at the Linwood, ma’am.

What’s playing? Mr. Goldfarb asked as if testing my character.

"Um, South Pacific and The Inn of the Sixth Happiness, I think it’s called."

He peered at me through horn-rimmed glasses. "You think it’s called?"

"No, that’s it, The Inn of the Sixth Happiness. With Ingrid Bergman."

His frown cut ridges in his brow.

Dad’s an accountant, Diane explained. He’s led a sheltered life.

Never you mind—

Oh, who cares? Mrs. Goldfarb broke in. My only concern is that you behave like a gentleman and get my daughter home at a decent hour. Make it ten o’clock.

"Mah-ahm. It’s the weekend."

Eleven then. And not a minute later.

My date proceeded to dicker. How ’bout not a minute later than midnight,

No, young lady. Eleven o’clock or you stay home tonight. You hear me?

Puh-leeeeeeze.

Mrs. Goldfarb pursed her lips and glanced at her husband, who shrugged.

You’re a big help, she said in a whisper audible in Canada.

Deserted by her troops, Diane’s mom surrendered. All right, but not a second past midnight or you’ll never date again. Understand?

Diane nodded but her eyes registered victory. Not a second past, her mom warned me.

No, ma’am. I tried for a smile but no doubt fell short.

Okay, now that that’s settled, you kids better skedaddle or you’ll be late for Miss Bergman.

Diane grabbed a brown camelhair coat off the couch and urged me toward the door. ’Night, she called over her shoulder.

We skedaddled before her mom reneged on the deal.

#

The two of us remained silent while emerging from the theater amid a swarm of moviegoers.

What’d you think? I asked in a voice shaking from the cold.

They were both all right, I guess.

"I kinda liked South Pacific," I confessed.

Especially Mitzi Gaynor’s legs and, to a degree, her singing. I didn’t care for all the bigotry, though.

Diane shrugged. Doesn’t matter. I liked being there with you.

Really?

Of course, silly.

She took my hand and we started for the parking lot behind the theater.

I liked it too. I mean being with you.

I especially liked our knees knocking in the dark and our hands touching as we groped for popcorn in the large tub we shared. By the end of South Pacific I was focused less on Emile De Becque’s chances with Nellie Forbush than on mine with Diane Goldfarb.

After we arrived at the Dodge I opened the passenger door and Diane slid in. Her dress rose a fraction and she tugged at it, the way girls do to show their modesty. I strolled around to the driver’s side, got in and turned the key in the ignition. The motor coughed and hiccupped twice before engaging, after which I turned on the defroster to rid the windshield of its icy coating.

We need to wait a few minutes, I informed Diane.

Good. She leaned over and kissed my cheek. Am I being too forward?

Uh-uh.

More eloquence from Cicero.

Nevertheless Diane seemed reassured. I want you to know I’ve liked you ever since we sat across from each other in English last year. You were so quiet, but when you said something it was intelligent, not like what those other boys … you know … what they had to say.

I said something intelligent? I chose not to argue.

I sorta hoped you’d ask me out, Diane went on, "or at least talk to me. But when you didn’t, except maybe to say hi once in a while, I thought I’d give you a nudge."

I’m glad. I can be a little dense sometimes.

If only this were modesty. Yet even I recognized a chance to advance the cause, so I drew Diane closer and kissed her. Softly at first, then considerably harder. Much to my surprise, to say nothing of delight, she kissed me back with equal intensity. Then, like a yutz, I pulled away.

I needed to go slow, I rationalized. This was our first date, so if I tried anything—to go further, that is—I’d only aggravate her and screw everything up.

Diane laid her head on my shoulder. That was nice.

Yes indeed. So nice, in fact, my shvantz stood at attention. I glanced at the windshield, which thankfully had cleared.

I guess we can go, I said, then eased the car out of park and inched it toward the exit, allowing my pecker to settle down.

Next time, I promised myself.

#

I delivered my date home with ten minutes to spare. We dallied outside her apartment, surrounded by the lingering smell of Jewish cooking, a mixture of onions, garlic, schmaltz, borscht, cabbage and corned beef. Diane and I kissed again, more chastely this time, and I promised to call her.

She said I better.

With pay dirt in sight, she could count on it.

Chapter 4

I sat in my usual spot at the kitchen table, watching my mom set it for breakfast. Hardly anything my parents did was interesting to me, but I admit to being fascinated by how Mom distributed glasses, silverware and ceramic plates as if the fate of the world depended on their proper placement: fork on the left, knife and spoon to the right, plate in the middle, napkin to the left of the fork, glass above the knife.

I mean, who gave a shit about place settings, really? Well, I guess some people did and that was their privilege.

But Mom’s diligence in performing a trifling chore wasn’t the only thing that intrigued me as I observed her in action. Another was knowing with absolute certainty that one of those plates she’d set down, namely hers, would soon be filled to capacity. Judging by the amount of food my mom consumed you’d think she weighed a ton. But just the opposite was true. Though she ate like a horse she looked like a jockey. I mean, I was skinny, for sure. But in my case you could at least see why: I ate like Gandhi on one of his fasts.

My dad cited Mom’s metabolism as the reason she could pack it away and still weigh under a hundred pounds. Her metabolic rate, he claimed, was exceptionally high. If that was true, his must have been exceptionally low, or normal, or whatever, because while his appetite easily matched hers, his weight was far more proportionate to his consumption. All that said, I was skeptical of Dad’s theory. Yes, he knew a lot about real estate, which he sold for a living, but he knew very little about anything else, including, I suspected, the mysterious workings of the human body, and why some people gained weight and others didn’t while eating the same amount of food.

My dad didn’t know much about cooking either, but he did have one specialty, fried matzos, which he made every Sunday morning and whose ingredients, including about forty pounds of butter, he was now pouring from a large glass bowl into the frying pan on the stove.

Meanwhile my mom, finished setting the table, set down a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice and settled into her reserved seat to my right.

So how was your date? she asked, as I knew, and feared, she would.

Okay.

What I meant was, did you have a good time?

Uh-huh.

You took a nice girl?

Yes.

And you went to the movie theater?

Uh-huh.

Well, how were they, the movies?

Okay.

Dad looked up from stirring his culinary delight. Is this one of your monosyllabic days? I only ask so we’ll know what to expect from you today.

I fiddled with my napkin while answering his question with silence.

I see, Dad replied.

Al, enough already.

It’s not nearly enough. Talking to him is like talking to a mutant.

A mute, I corrected.

Ah, he speaks, if only to repair my English.

Dad turned off the stove, carried the frying pan to the table and ladled the matzos onto our plates, heaping enough on Mom’s to feed the state of Israel.

She speared a forkful. Well, he won’t say much if you keep badgering him.

Who’s badgering? I’m just commenting.

Dad set the frying pan back on the stove, returned to the table and sat across from me. His blue terrycloth robe strained to cover his protruding belly, while his hair struggled to lie flat. In contrast, Mom’s pink robe hung loosely on her meager frame and her bouffant sat regally atop her head, brushed, combed and precisely shaped even on a Sunday morning.

My mom kept the house like her hair, in a state of perfection. With a little help from the cleaning lady, she’d divested it of dirt, dust and cobwebs, while guarding the furniture against intruders such as coffee cups and newspapers. As for the rest, like rugs, knick-knacks, appliances and the like, they too were neat, tidy and of course spotless.

Perhaps not coincidentally, our house mirrored the neighborhood, in which the homes were carefully aligned, the hedges clipped, the bushes trimmed and the lawns mowed to within an inch of their lives. Nothing marred the landscape except sterility.

My mom stopped shoveling food in her mouth, at least temporarily. So tell us, who was the girl? You ran out of the house so fast we couldn’t ask.

"And if we had inquired? Dad said. He’d have grunted, or given us a non-answer."

Mom gave him a menacing glare.

What? What’d I say?

Instead of answering, she returned to me. Nu? Do we know the girl?

No.

Is she Jewish?

Yes.

Where did you meet her?

At school.

See what I mean? Dad said. He’s a fount of information, our son.

Al Rubin, if you don’t stop it I’ll cut out your tongue.

Mom delivered this threat in a calm, steady voice, which impressed me because I sounded like Henry Aldrich when I threatened someone, which fortunately was seldom.

While I admired my mom’s placid demeanor, I had difficulty coping with her, as well as with my dad (as you my have guessed by now). I suppose they meant well, but they were so old-fashioned, so out of touch, so—I guess you could say—so-so. For instance, neither of them appreciated rock and roll. My mom merely ignored it, but Dad threw hissy fits whenever I threw on my forty-fives. I kept the volume fairly low but his ears perked up as soon as he heard something by Elvis or Chuck Berry or Little Richard playing on the phonograph in my room. Automatically, it seemed, he’d come charging in to deliver his favorite tirade.

Filth, garbage. It’s a shame what passes for music these days. In my day we listened to songs you could dance to and enjoy. Now it’s strictly noise and vulgarity. Even girls like all that screeching and wailing and lewdness. You watch, someday they’ll be … you know … doing things they shouldn’t do, and they’ll be doing them all over the place. And that rock-and-roll will be the cause of it. Mark my words.

I rarely marked anything my dad said, especially his dubious predictions. I could only dream of girls doing things they shouldn’t do, and doing them all over the place.

Well, at least tell us how work is, Mom said.

You mean at the drugstore?

No, Dad interjected, at the Vernor’s factory where you don’t work.

Mom and I both ignored him.

It’s okay, I said.

Her brow furrowed. Just okay?

Yes, just okay.

Dusting, sweeping and stocking shelves weren’t the most exciting tasks imaginable, but the job did provide some much-needed cash.

Anyway, by now I was tired of this interrogation so I asked to be excused.

You haven’t eaten anything, Mom observed.

I’m not hungry.

Let him go, Dad said. I’m tired of all his yakking. He never stops, our son. Yak-yak-yak, yak-yak-yak, yak-yak-yak. It’s a wonder he’s not hoarse from all that yakking.

A regular Jack Benny, my dad.

I took his directive to Mom as permission to leave the table, and in the seclusion of my room I called Diane Goldfarb.

Chapter 5

We sat in a booth at Domenico’s, one among a slew of pizza parlors that had mushroomed throughout the city over the past few years. Located on McNichols Road in northwest Detroit, this particular emporium drew mainly people my age, which appealed to me almost as much as the pizza.

Speaking of which, a medium cheese and sausage lay between us on a large metal platter, while two glasses of Coke idled nearby. Diane grabbed a slice and took a substantial bite, using her tongue to reel in the ropy cheese. If she meant to titillate me, she’d succeeded.

She washed the pizza down with a sip of Coke. So what’re you gonna do?

About what?

I grabbed a slice while she worked on an answer.

Job, career, your future. You know.

Oh.

What’d you think I meant?

I shrugged.

Actually I’d suspected what she meant but hoped I was wrong. I hoped she meant, so what’re you gonna do, ravish me please?

My hopes dashed, I informed Diane I planned to be a writer.

A writer?

Uh-huh.

She looked puzzled. I’ve never met anyone who wanted to be a writer. What kind? Of writer, I mean.

I’m not sure. I want to write is all I know.

Which was an outright lie. But saying I intended to write fiction might sound a little goofy, meaning impractical, especially to a Jewish girl.

Diane drummed her blood-red fingernails on the table. You don’t want to be a doctor or lawyer or something?

No. I want to write.

Does it pay well, writing?

I don’t know.

You don’t know?

Uh-uh.

And didn’t care, though I knew Jewish girls did, which is why they routinely grilled their dates about their prospects. But knowing this in advance didn’t make Diane’s probing any more palatable.

She took another, less sensual, bite and sipped her Coke. You’re different, you know that?

"No, I didn’t know that.

Another fib, since I saw no reason to tell her I felt different, meaning alienated, from everyone around me, like I’d wandered into a nudist colony fully clothed.

Sweating under the spotlight, I turned it on Diane. What about you? What do you want to do with your life?

Probably teach, until I get married and have kids.

Such mundane plans were predictable coming from a girl, but I’d never learned how to react to them. So I kept her going with a string of insipid questions, in return for which I learned Marlon Brando was her favorite actor, Elvis Presley her favorite singer and Harold Robbins her favorite author. With these last two favorites, I spotted an advantage.

I like Elvis too, I informed her.

You do?

Uh-huh. And Harold Robbins.

No.

Yes.

I asked a few more frivolous questions, then, eager to capitalize on our shared values, I suggested we leave. Diane agreed, more heartily than I expected, so I got us out of there.

Fast.

#

I was still forming a plan of attack when I pulled into the alley behind Diane’s apartment building and parked in front of several snow-covered garbage cans. I’d no sooner turned off the ignition than she scooted over and kissed me, and I don’t mean on the cheek. So much for the best almost-laid plans. Adapting quickly, I returned the kiss, then, after a respectful moment or two, unbuttoned her coat and cupped a breast through her snug wool sweater. Hearing no objections, I squeezed.

She groaned.

This emboldened me to raise the garment, slip a hand under her bra and, for the first time in my life, touch a naked boob. Fondling it in the flesh beat all my imaginings, as did her response. She moaned, leaned into my hand and ground her lips against mine so hard our teeth scraped. Heart pounding, I slid my hand under her skirt and ran it along her leg, eventually arriving at the smooth, silky thigh above her stocking.

She groaned again.

Anticipating nirvana, I nudged Diane toward the passenger door, which she conveniently fell back against. Nearly delirious by now, I raised her skirt, grabbed her panties and tugged.

Don’t, she whispered.

I stared into two glazed eyes. What?

Don’t, she repeated, louder and more insistent.

I don’t understand.

Diane quickly rearranged herself and sat up. What part of ‘Don’t’ don’t you understand?

Her harsh tone rattled my nerves. But I thought, I mean you seemed—

What?

Um, willing.

"Look, I’ve got urges too, you know.

A bold admission from a girl, especially a Jewish maidel. Maybe I still had a chance.

Then why—

"Because I can’t."

Well, she could, but obviously she didn’t want to, probably for the usual reasons.

I’ve never gone this far before, Diane said. But I’m fond of you and—

I’m fond of you too, I rushed to assure her.

But can’t you see, that’s not enough. She buttoned her coat. Maybe for you boys it is. Wham-bam and you’re on your way. But it’s different for us girls. We’ve got our reputations to think of and parents to deal with. And what if I got preggers? She slumped back against the seat. I’ll bet you don’t even have a condom.

I replied by saying nothing.

That’s what I figured.

We were both quiet.

After a moment her tone turned gentler. I do like you, Nate, and I’m sorry you thought we could go all the way. It’s my fault.

I agreed, but her contrition softened me up. No, it’s mine. I shouldn’t have tried anything.

Let’s say we both got carried away.

I said okay, but I was far from that. For once I envied my dad, or at least his sales ability. Now I’d have to satisfy my urges by myself.

Again.

#

I returned home a little after 11 and tiptoed into the den. As usual at this time of night my parents were dozing, Dad on the recliner, Mom on the sofa. His head was flopped back, mouth open, nose pointed skyward. She drooped sideways, like a wilted flower, if a wilted flower could snore.

On a typical evening, my parents retired to the den after dinner, turned on the TV and fell asleep, either promptly or an hour later, maybe two hours if they’d had more than their usual one cup of coffee. At the moment they were sleeping through John Cameron Swayze, who seemed not to notice, or if he did, not to mind.

I crept down the hall to the bathroom, confident my parents would snooze until after the Star Spangled Banner, which meant I could do what I had to do uninterrupted. And thank God for that, since I was embarrassed enough at having to resort to this without one of my parents intruding.

I knew guys who jerked off as a matter of course, like peeing when they felt the need, but for me self-gratification spelled failure, more humiliating even than paying for sex, which I couldn’t afford anyway. I’d suffered amorous defeats in the past—after all, I dated mostly Jewish girls—but none hurt like tonight’s. Coming so close to the Promised Land and then being turned away was physically painful.

I locked the bathroom door, stood over the toilet and raised the seat. I noticed my hand shaking, probably from anger as much as eagerness, because I was pissed—at my dull-as-dishwater parents, at prick-teasing Diane Goldfarb and at a cruel world bitterly opposed to my getting laid. And I wanted revenge. Against all of them. I knew how to get it, too: by committing the biggest sin of all, the one Jewish parents frowned on even more than their son marrying a shikseh, namely his screwing a shvartz. And I’d do it in the one place where anything was possible. In my imagination.

I lowered my pants and briefs and closed my eyes. I tried visualizing an attractive Negro girl, but then realized I didn’t know one, since few coloreds attended Central High. Then a Negro girl in my French class, Francine something, came to mind. She was no raving beauty, seeing as her teeth were mottled and her eyes slightly crossed. Yet her boobs and booty were substantial, fully qualifying her for this assignment. I envisioned Francine standing next to me, admiring my cock, and then, unable to contain herself, reaching over and stroking it, which I couldn’t do yet or I’d finish prematurely. She finally let go and, in rapid succession, removed her clothes, strode over to the tub, lowered herself into it and lay on her back. Wearing a lascivious smile, she motioned me over. Naturally I went. Which is when someone rapped on the door.

Nate, are you in there?

My mom.

Yes.

Are you all right?

Uh-huh.

We didn’t hear you come in.

You were both sleeping.

"Oi, we were so tired."

My schlong was also tired—of being ignored. So it did what Mom should have done instead of interrupting me. It went to sleep.

Okay, we’re going to bed, she said.

Now they’re going to bed? Oi was all I could say, and only to myself.

We’ll see you in the morning, Mom added, and you can tell us all about your date.

I couldn’t wait.

I said good night and tried resuming, which proved impossible. So I pulled up my briefs and pants, washed my hands and, while drying them, gazed in the mirror over the sink. Staring back at me was a sad sack with mournful eyes and down-turned lips. Which wasn’t surprising, since he couldn’t even get laid in a fantasy.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I went to bed without an answer.

Chapter 6

I poured milk over my Puffed Rice, a poor substitute for the Corn Flakes my parents had failed to restock. The cereal was like everything else around me. Hardly there, less substantial even than Rice Krispies, which at least snapped, crackled and popped. The cereal shot from guns, on the other hand, just floated along, going nowhere, waiting to be consumed.

It reminded me of my parents, floating along, going nowhere, waiting for time to consume them. Their range of interests was narrower than a hair strand. All they could talk about was people’s comings and goings. Who’d moved into the neighborhood, who’d left, who’d gone on vacation, who’d returned, who’d come into the world, who’d departed. Mom specialized in births, Dad in deaths. Neither was particularly fond of books or magazines, which helped explain their limited fund of knowledge.

My dad at least read the News’ sports section, which he was doing now rather than listen to Mom go on about some twelfth cousin who’d gotten preggers, to use Diane’s scholarly term.

I will say this, though. Despite the headache Mom was giving me, I’d rather listen to her chatter about minutiae than answer any inquiries she might make about my date last night. Maybe she’d even forgotten I’d gone on one.

"Nu, how was your date last night?"

Shit.

She’d sprung the question without even pausing between subjects. I tried countering it by playing dumb, with a little hard-of-hearing thrown in.

What? I asked.

How was it?

How was what?

"The date."

I tapped the tablecloth a few times with my spoon but said nothing.

Nu, tell us, Mom insisted.

It was okay.

Dad peeked from behind the sports pages and looked from me to my mom and back. He resumed reading without comment, though his silence could be construed as one.

Meanwhile, Mom resumed her prying.

Just okay?

Yes, just okay.

No better?

More silence from me.

Well, I guess you don’t want to talk about it.

Nothing much to talk about. At least not with them.

Mom shoveled down a spoonful of cereal, which she’d topped with thick slices of banana and strawberry. That’s all right, she said. I never told my parents what your father and I did on our dates.

Now she was crossing a line, and I prepared to bolt rather than hear what my parents did on their dates.

Dad set the paper aside. So, is it my imagination or do the Lions stink this year?

Bless you, Father.

Taking advantage of this escape route, I suggested the gods were punishing the team for trading Bobby Layne to the Steelers after he’d led the Lions to the NFL championship last year. So what if he’d broken his leg and couldn’t finish the season? If Tobin Rote, his replacement, had played every game, the Lions would have stunk last year too.

Before Mom—who couldn’t tell an end run from a home run—returned to my date with Diane or to hers with Dad, I glanced at my watch and asked for permission to leave the table.

Which, thankfully, the two of them granted.

Chapter 7

The Monday after my fiasco I was trudging toward school over a snow-slick sidewalk when Sheldon caught up with me, his face flushed, his breathing labored. After catching his breath he gave me his equivalent of Nu?

So?

Then he flapped his eyebrows in a poor Groucho imitation.

I knew what his abbreviated question referred to, since I’d informed him beforehand of my pending date with Diane. Now he no doubt wanted to know the outcome. So I described the evening in morbid detail, perhaps as penance for another failed attempt to lose my virginity.

Man, that’s the shits, he said when I’d finished. "But you’re a schmuck."

No, I was a glutton for punishment, and proved it by asking, Why am I a schmuck?

Because you know as well as I do you ain’t gonna make it with a Jewish princess. Arlene’s an exception, and thank God for that. But what you need is a shikseh. At least she won’t give you some lame excuse for not doing it.

This time he batted his eyebrows, in imitation of who knew what. But the strange eye-batting accompanying his advice was the least of my objections to it.

Are you kidding? I asked, knowing full well he was dead serious. "My parents would kill me if they suspected I even dated a shikseh, let alone shtupped one."

Now how they gonna find out, pray tell? I’m curious. He showed it by plowing ahead before I could answer. And even if they did find out, at least you wouldn’t die a virgin.

As if on cue, two girls, one a gangly brunette wearing glasses, the other a green-eyed blonde wearing a knowing grin, pulled up next to us. They glanced our way, then sped ahead while jabbering nonstop.

Sheldon pointed his chin at them. You should take that blonde out. Name’s Nanette or something. and she’d put out for sure.

What makes you so certain?

She’s a shikseh. And the word is her father got her started.

You mean …

I mean.

I let this sink in while watching a Cadillac crawl by on the icy street. I’d heard whispers about such things, but couldn’t bring myself to believe them. So I told Sheldon he was full of crap.

To which he replied, I’ll bet it’s true. And from what I hear, she hasn’t stopped since. Hell, even Ernie Schwartz did her.

How do you know?

He told me.

What if he’s lying?

Sheldon halted abruptly and wagged a stubby finger at me. "See, that’s the trouble with you. You’re always thinking, always questioning. You’ll get nowhere that way. You wanna do something, do it. Screw all the questions, which is the only thing you will screw at this rate."

I couldn’t argue the point. People were always telling me I thought too much, and when I thought about it, I could see my thinking had gotten me nowhere and given me nothing, except maybe an occasional headache. It certainly hadn’t gotten me get laid.

We resumed walking and my eyes gravitated toward Jeanette’s rear end, the outline of which not even a winter coat could conceal. Instantly, my friend down below awakened.

Go on, ask her out, Sheldon said.

When? Now?

No, in thirty years, when she’s almost fifty.

I cringed at the thought of doing it with a hag. But I don’t even know her.

So? Introduce yourself.

I was skeptical and hopeful at the same time, with optimism ahead by a nose. If that weasel Ernie Schwartz could have this girl, anyone could.

Don’t think about it, Sheldon said. Go on, ask her out. Now.

The two girls swiveled around. The brunette giggled and Jeanette smiled, maybe. I couldn’t be sure because my eyes were tearing from the cold. But let’s assume she did smile. I’d still want to think about this, alone, with no distractions. Sheldon was right, though. If I thought about it, I wouldn’t take action. So, contrary to my nature, I ran after the girls as they continued toward school. I slipped once on the hard-packed snow but regained my balance, a pleasant surprise and maybe a good omen.

A foot behind the two, I was still gasping but managed to get out, Uh, excuse me.

They kept going, so I scurried in front of them and backpedaled. I stared past Jeanette rather than face her head on. Can I, um, talk to you a second?

She glanced at her giggling friend, then returned to me. Do I know you?

No, but—

I think I’ve seen you around. Her smile was unmistakable now, revealing a gap between her two front teeth.

Yeah, I’ve seen you around too, I said. And that’s sort of what I want to talk to you about.

You wanna talk to me about seeing me around? That sounds kinda boring.

Her friend giggled while Jeanette’s eyes flashed a challenge.

No, I mean, please. It’ll only take a second. I hoped my desperation didn’t show.

Well okay, go ahead.

Alone, maybe?

She glanced at The Giggler. You mind? I’ll catch up.

Her friend shrugged and departed.

So talk, Jeanette said.

First off, I’m Nate Rubin.

She seemed to think this over. Jewish, huh?

Shit.

Don’t ask me why, but the only thing I wouldn’t do to get laid is deny my heritage. So I said Yes and swore if this turned out to be a deal breaker I’d vow celibacy forever. I could handle goys calling me kike or hymie occasionally, but a shikseh punchboard rejecting me because I was Jewish? That would be too much even for me.

I’m Jeanette Bigelow. She extended her hand.

I took it and we shook, but the hand felt limp so I still sensed failure ahead.

I guess I’m blowing this, I said on impulse.

What? You saying you want a blow job?

She said this without hesitation, without even a second’s pause, so maybe I’d misheard. I searched her face for a clue that I had.

Nothing I could draw only one conclusion; I was in over my head. Now my only goal was to escape. With a shred of dignity if possible.

Look, I’ve seen you around, I think you’re pretty, I’d like to take you out. If you say no I’ll un—

Sure.

Sure what?

Sure I’ll go out with you. What else we talkin about here?

Um, uh, it’s just that—

Too easy?

I remained noncommittal.

Hey, I like that zit on your nose, Jeanette explained. Goes with mine. See? She raised a chin that bore one small pimple. All right, now memorize this. She recited her phone number and gave me a wink, then resumed her trek toward Tuxedo Street.

By the way, Jeanette said without turning, you can drop the bumpkin act. You don’t fool me a bit.

I watched her recede, but was too busy thinking to admire her ass.

Chapter 8

Hoping to strike while Jeanette was hot, I called her the next day and suggested we take in a double bill at the Astor on Saturday. To my surprise, and chagrin, she proposed that we go bowling instead.

I say chagrin because bowling to me was serious business, no doubt because I was good at it. In fact, it