Cantankerously Yours
Confessions of a Lothario Wannabe
By Wendell Abern
Dear Y Chromosomers,
‘Fess up, guys. We all imagine ourselves as great lovers; Romeos of Don Juan proportions.
Well, I abandoned such fantasies long ago. In fact, given my history with women, I try to not even permit memories of past relationships creep into my consciousness.
However, this is November. Alas! I confess that November always makes me think of Cindy Berman.
1 – Thanksgiving week, 1945.
My brother and I had attended eleven different grammar schools in seven different cities before coming to Chicago.
I was twelve. I walked into my first class – seventh grade – in my new school, looked around at all the strange faces, and fell in love.
Dimples. Dimples! She had dark brown hair, combed neatly into a little flip at the bottom, all the way around, framing a face shaped like a valentine. And dimples! And chestnut brown eyes behind glasses that swept upward into points at the end.
Cindy Berman. I learned her name later.
In 1945, after attendance, the “new kids” were always asked to go to the front of the room and tell the class a little about themselves. I had done this so many times, I’d memorized a short little speech. However, Cindy was whispering to a friend. I had to get her attention! So I improvised.
After rattling off the names of the towns we’d lived in, I said, “We have a dog. A girl dog. A Cocker Spaniel. Her name is Blondie. But we had a fight over her name. We got her in Omaha, just before we moved to Minneapolis, but my brother and I were both born in North Dakota, and I wanted to name her Fargo and he wanted to name her Bismarck, so I said we should just name her Peezalot, and then my parents got mad.”
Most of the guys smirked or chuckled, Cindy wrinkled her nose in disgust and I was sent to the principal for using foul language – in those days a crime almost as heinous as chewing gum in class.
2 – The Sunday before Thanksgiving, 1948.
Cindy Berman again. More beautiful than ever, and in my confirmation class at Temple Beth Am. I knew she had just broken up with Jerry Gordon (mediocre third baseman), so I decided it was time to make a move.
The rabbi had asked our class to name some famous Jews in sports besides Hank Greenberg, and no one could come up with an answer. An idea occurred to me. No, I thought. Don’t say it. Don’tsayitdon’tsayitdon’tsayit, but I had to get Cindy’s attention, so I blurted out, “Jew Louis.”
My friends laughed. Cindy grimaced and shot a deprecating look at the ceiling. The rabbi sent me to his office.
I never make good impressions when I blurt.
3 – June, 1950.
Her name, I learned from my teammates, was Maxine Klein.
I had joined a softball team that had won the Windy City Championship the previous year. Great hitters on that team.
In those days, there were few athletic teams for girls. Many of them would follow the guys’ teams and cheer them on. The better the team, the more girls it would attract.
My first year with the team, we led the league in extra base hits, home runs, runs batted in and paternity suits.
Anyway, each game, I noticed one girl who always sat on the ground, covered in a blanket and surrounded by several friends. I thought she was gorgeous and whenever I looked at her, she smiled.
The guys told me her name and said, “She always asks about you! She’s told us a thousand times, she wants you to ask her out!”
So one day, before the game began, I walked over to her. She and her friends saw me coming. They all smiled.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I answered, demonstrating my ability for clever repartee.
She smiled. “You’re cute,” she said, “but I don’t date center fielders.” Her friends giggled.
“Hey! Sometimes I play shortstop.”
She looked at her friends. They all smiled. She stood up. She literally towered over me. She was so tall I thought an eclipse had happened. She peered down at me.
“So, sometimes-shortstop,” she said, “you gonna take me to the prom or what?”
I looked up at her and couldn’t believe she was even more beautiful up close. And there is nothing more alluring to a short guy than a tall, beautiful woman.
“Will you marry me?” I asked.
Another blurt. She collapsed into her crowd of friends, laughing with them. I looked over at my friends, who were rolling around the lip of the infield, holding their sides. Some of them are still laughing.
4 – January, 2012.
I had been married for 54 years, and a widower for a little more than two, when I went to a regional bridge tournament in Pompano Beach.
I had been playing a lot of organized (or duplicate) bridge, and knew several of the players. But I had spotted a woman at one table I’d never seen before; she looked exactly like a sexy young art director I’d worked with decades ago.
I had not really pursued women now that I’d reached my dotage, and this young lady – probably in her early forties – was clearly too young for me. However, I found her irresistible and initiated a conversation filled with thinly-veiled suggestions and not-too-subtle innuendoes. My partner, embarrassed, said, “C’mon, Wendell, she’s too young for you.”
Keeping my lifelong streak alive, I turned to the young woman and said, “Okay, I know you’re a lot younger than I am, but I was kind of hoping you had daddy issues.”
Another wonderful blurt. I played terrible bridge that day.
*
It’s November. And yes, I’m thinking of Cindy Berman. But no more gaffes with the opposite sex. In fact, since that tournament a year ago, all of my bridge partners are men.
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at [email protected].