Daily Excerpt: A Movie Lover's Search for Romance (Charnas) - Pathetic Crush #2
.jpg)
Excerpt from A Movie Lover's Search for Romance -
HENRY,
OR PATHETIC CRUSH #2
Just as my crush on Adrien Brody began to wane, I began
crushing on Henry. Henry, as in Henry Cooper, direct descendent of James
Fennimore Cooper, who wrote the well-known classic, The Last of the Mohicans. Henry Cooper, of the Coopers of
Cooperstown. Until I met Henry, I’d never actually heard anyone who sounded
like George Plimpton. I thought that high, guttural, WASP accent was an
anachronism, like hula-hoops and the Ed Sullivan Show. If Henry was not the
highest of high WASP, he would be a parody of rich Americans. But Henry is the
real deal. He has piles of the Social
Register stacked casually around his living room, along with old copies of The New
Yorker, for which he once wrote.
Henry is my father’s friend. They went to Andover together in
the late ’40s and early ’50s. My father is not high WASP. Dad is the product of
four Eastern European Jewish grandparents, each of whom traveled to the United
States alone in childhood or early adulthood to make better lives for
themselves. Dad will turn seventy in a few months. He’s aging beautifully and
has less gray hair than I do. Henry is not aging beautifully. He looks like an
old professor badly in need of a haircut; his bangs, while still brown, often
fall in his eyes. At forty-four, I’ve been divorced for three years. I’ve had
no major romance in my life since my divorce. Instead, I’ve been reduced to
pining for the old high-school classmate of my father. I’m sure I could go
lower on the humiliating divorce scale, but I don’t want to think about where
or what that might be.
I met Henry when my father and I were in New York to
participate in a big family Seder, the Passover meal. When either of us visits
New York, we usually stay with my Uncle Jon, Dad’s brother. Jon can only
accommodate one of us at a time, and Dad graciously ceded Jon’s blow-up air
mattress to me. Dad has many old friends in New York with whom he can camp out
although he’s also happy to stay at a Bed and Breakfast as he had the year
before. But Henry had made overtures to Dad to visit him, so Dad stayed at his
apartment on 5th Avenue, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art—Jackie
O. territory before she died.
On my first day in the city, I agreed to meet Dad at Henry’s
apartment. I’d never met Henry before. I stepped into a different world upon
entering his building, different even from the one I’d just left outside on 5th
Avenue. Inside the exquisitely sedate and elegant lobby, there might as well
have been a continuous loop over a loudspeaker stating, “Hello, welcome to the
world of OLD MONEY.” Tasteful wood furniture and beautifully framed prints of
well-bred animals, pastoral scenes, and still lifes filled the space. I thought
I had stepped into a Woody Allen movie. I could clearly envision Mariel
Hemingway in Manhattan informing
Woody that she couldn’t get back together with him because she was about to
leave to attend school in London. After I snapped out of my movie reverie, I
noticed the building had an inner courtyard lush with blooming plants. The area
was breathtakingly serene and lovely. Sight unseen, I might have married Henry
right there. We could have held the ceremony in the courtyard and invited the
other co-op members so as not to create neighborly animosity.
I once read that Jackie O. didn’t keep her belongings in
pristine condition, and in fact, they tended to be a little frayed around the
edges. The relaxed attitude about maintaining possessions must be attributable
to possessing old money. With new money, everything must sparkle. I suppose
with old money, one can relax about the details. I contemplated this after
leaving the elevator and entering the hallway of Henry’s floor. The
appointments were lovely, but the paint could have used a touch up.
Dad greeted me at the door and introduced me to Henry.
Transfixed by his accent, I had no idea what he said. No doubt something polite
and appropriate. He could have been reciting lines from a Harry Potter movie
for all I knew.
After introductions, Dad and I set off to enjoy the city. We
made plans to meet Henry and Uncle Jon later for lunch at the Trustee’s dining
room in the Metropolitan, where Henry is a member. At lunch, Henry flirted with
me. I made a disparaging remark about my pants, and Henry responded, “Oh, I
think you would look good in whatever you wore.” Dad and Jon were so
preoccupied with the great food, the sublime dining room, and their
conversation that Henry’s flirting passed them by. I’m a big sucker for a brainy
guy, even one who’s my father’s age. A modicum of flirting and a big dose of
smarts will do it for me every time, so Henry was on very solid ground by the
end of lunch.
I saw Henry twice more during my trip, each time when I
picked up Dad to begin our day together. On one of those mornings, Henry asked
me about an invitation he’d received to a social function. The dress code for
the function read “festive attire.” Henry’s divorce had occurred about the same
time as mine. His ex-wife must have helped him select party clothes. We both
mused about what might constitute “festive attire.” Henry thought tweed could
be festive. I had my doubts. When I expressed them to Henry, he said, “Oh,
tweed can be very festive.” All I could think was, in what universe is tweed
festive? But I kept my mouth shut. Perhaps if you are a Cooper of Cooperstown,
tweed is festive. Who would not be smitten with a man who thinks of
tweed as party clothes?
On the last day we spent together in the city, Dad disclosed
that Henry really liked me. I replied that I really liked Henry, too. But I
wasn’t ready to admit I had a thing for his old high school friend.
Dad left New York a few days before I did, and I spent the
rest of my trip hanging out with Uncle Jon, visiting relatives from the other
side of my family, and seeing old friends. But I had Henry on my mind. I
wondered what he wore to his party. I wondered if he would flirt with me if we
saw each other again. He’d said he wanted to visit the new Disney Symphony Hall
in Los Angeles, something I also wanted to do. I fantasized about us going to
LA together.
When I returned home to California, I confided in a close
friend about my thing for Henry. She said Henry and I should date. This friend
has given me bad dating advice for two decades. I refrained from telling her I
thought she was stupid. Instead, I patiently explained the geographic distance
between Henry and me, along with our age disparity and other impracticalities
of her suggestion. I thought about movie romances I might have seen about
middle-aged women and elderly men. I couldn’t think of one film that depicted a
love story with those demographics.
Shortly after my trip, I joined eharmony.com. I’ve decided to
let my membership expire at the end of the month. I’ve become sick of
insensitive, middle-aged men who complain about their exes. Maybe someone
Henry’s age would know better than to whine about his former wife. Dating in
one’s forties, I’ve learned, is radically different from dating in one’s
twenties and thirties. When I was younger, I was tolerant of my romantic
interests’ complaints about their exes. Now I’m old and hardhearted, and I
don’t want to hear about it, let alone be supportive. I don’t care if a guy
lost the house, his dog, and half of his 401K. I really don’t. I had to pay my
ex-husband a lump sum when we divorced. My family was outraged. I just wanted
to move on. I wasn’t upset about it then, and I’m not upset now. All I want on
a date is to enjoy the sushi and flirt a little.
I recently saw a
movie that triggered a wellspring of mourning. I’m grieving all of the romances
of my youth. I feel self-absorbed and monumentally silly. Usually when you
think about people mourning their youth, it conjures up sentiments about lost
opportunities. I don’t think I missed anything. In fact, looking back, I can’t
believe how many great romantic experiences I had. I honestly don’t know how I
was so lucky. But the time since my divorce could most generously be called a
dry spell. In the last three years, there have been no brief encounters with
men at weddings; no running into someone I once dated casually and enjoying a
night of long-delayed consummation; no seasons of sincere, handwritten
correspondence from men who live far away; no spiritual encounters in unlikely
places with captivating strangers. I am not so much upset about being single
now as feeling sad that the phase of easy, optimistic romance has left my life
and may never return.
In order to
counteract my mourning, I made a list of all men in my life unrelated to me but
who love me. Some of these men frequently tell me they love me. The length of
the list surprised me. Five of the eight men are straight; three are gay. All
but one of the straight men are married or in relationships, but I’m not a
threat to their wives or girlfriends. The men include my childhood sweetheart,
another old childhood friend, someone who confessed sixteen years ago, while in
a car I was driving, that he had “feelings” for me, three former colleagues,
and two other ex-loves and friends. I’m in regular contact with most of these
men but speak to a couple of them only occasionally. However, I could tell all
of them almost anything about my life. Each is a wonderful and close friend.
I decided in order
to ease my sadness, I would reach out and feel the love. With several of them,
I didn’t need to reach out. My childhood sweetheart e-mailed me, which he does
regularly. I had dinner with one of my former colleagues, our routine every four
to six weeks. I finally caught up with the friend in Florida with whom I was
playing phone tag, and the father of my youngest godchild called to thank me
for the birthday present I’d sent his son. In the last two weeks, either in the
normal course of my life, or because I made a call, I’ve had contact with six
of the eight men. When I told my tale of mourning to a co-worker, she couldn’t
believe I had eight close male friends. Neither could one of the eight men with
whom I discussed my current state of mind. (I even confessed to making the list
and told him he was on it, although his appearance was self-evident.) He told
me most people are lucky if they have one
person they can relate to intimately. I had to agree, but the idea
comforted me only briefly. As he hung up, he told me he loved me.
I’m still
mourning, and I’m still pining for Henry. I’ve been listening to Bob Dylan’s
great record from 1975, Blood on the
Tracks, over and over again. This is an album of the most baleful,
beautiful, and sometimes angry love songs imaginable. I’m fairly certain Henry
has never willingly listened to Blood on
the Tracks. Sometimes, a girl just needs a good dose of Dylan.
My father and
stepmother visited me recently. I confessed my crush to them and then pined out
loud for Henry. I said I could make the last ten years of Henry’s life very
happy. Dad laughed at my numerous Henry references although he also began to
take me seriously. He made an offer to set us up. He even volunteered to make a
special trip to New York to make it happen. But I told him I couldn’t pursue
Henry because his three grown daughters, who no doubt hover near my age, would
all hate me. They would think I was only after Henry’s money. Dad saw my point.
But I keep
thinking about Henry. I recently saw the new movie Before Sunset, in which two former lovers meet in Paris and talk
nonstop about their past affair and present lives. I asked Dad, via e-mail, if
he thought Henry would like to meet me in Paris for a romantic rendezvous. Dad
was very encouraging. He wrote back that Henry and I could meet, talk endlessly
like the old lovers in the movie, drink coffee at sidewalk cafés, and nap
together. It all sounded good to me.
Dad also wrote
that Henry would snore, and that I would make fun of his accent. I wrote back
that Henry would not snore, and I would never make fun of his accent. Henry’s
accent is central to my wonderment of him. I told Dad if Henry and I fall in
love and marry, I would give each of his daughters notarized copies of our
pre-nuptial agreement so they could avoid all worry about their inheritances.
After making Henry happy for a decade or two, all I would want upon his demise
is the apartment in the divine building and a modest trust fund to pay for the
co-op fees. While we were both still healthy, Henry and I would enjoy all the
cultural events of the city. I’d go to the opera with him. We’d see many of the
independent movies I now attend with my movie buddy or alone. Henry would place
his hand in the small of my back when I stepped off the curb. He’d ask my
opinion on what to wear to parties. I’d thoughtfully tell him, “No, sweetheart,
I don’t think tweed is festive enough.” We would read The New Yorker together and discuss the articles. We’d sleep like
spoons. His three middle-aged daughters would see us together and grudgingly
acknowledge that I married for love.
Maybe I should let
Dad set me up with Henry. Maybe I should get out of the house more often or
join a new Internet dating service. Maybe I should give Bob Dylan a rest. Maybe
I should call friends number seven and eight on the “men who love me” list to see
if talking to them snaps me out of this ridiculous phase. I just don’t
know.
But in my
imagination, I see myself with Henry in Paris. It’s Fall. The weather is cool
but pleasant. We’re drinking heavily sugared coffee with cream. We’re chatting
about the art we just viewed in some out-of-the-way gallery. Henry
absentmindedly touches the back of my hand as he makes a point, and life is
good again.
Read more posts about Joanna and her books HERE.
To purchase copies of this book at 25% discount,
use code FF25 at MSI Press webstore.
Want to buy this book and not have to pay for it?
Ask your local library to purchase and shelve it.
For more posts about this book and its author, click HERE.
 |
Follow MSI Press on Twitter, Face Book, and Instagram.
Interested in publishing with MSI Press LLC?
Check out information on how to submit a proposal.
Planning on self-publishing and don't know where to start? Our author au pair services will mentor you through the process.
Julia Aziz, signing her book, Lessons of Labor, at an event at Book People in Austin, Texas.
Want to communicate with one of our authors? You can! Find their contact information on our Authors' Pages.
Comments
Post a Comment