Philadelphia Daily News Thu Nov 15, 1984

Caught by the Paparazzi in the South of France

L to R: Me, the artist Alfredo "Alma" Martinez and the Living Legend, St.-Jean-de-Luz, France 1991

Alexis

The following excerpt from my father’s autobiography chronicles the end of his affair with a 19-year-old student named Alexis in early 1978. He was 40 at the time. Chronologically, this follow the Lucy stories (1977), but was written before those. There are a few things that are striking about this part if his autobiography, most notably the shift to third person, as if he’s telling the life story of someone else. It might have signaled a decision to turn the autobiography into a novel. If that were so, he changed his mind again, as his writing over the days leading up to his death were written, again, in the first person. He also indicates for the first, and only time, that Gudrun and Joanne were his two greatest loves.

Finally, it should be noted that Charles Darwin’s birthday, mentioned in the story, would have been significant to my father in that his doctoral thesis was on Darwin as well as the subject of one of his books. He also borrows two lines from Shakespeare in the opening paragraph.

          So what was it all about? Full of sound and fury; signifying nothing. What a life. He loved not wisely; but too well. But did he do even that? Did he let it all pass by him—an unrequited malcontent who lived the less for wanting more. But he never had Gudrun, or Joanne; those he claimed as his life’s two greatest loves. Who did he have; who did he let get away? Diana? Yes. Elizabeth? Yes. Mary Ann? Yes. Helen? Perhaps, but not when he believed he had her.
          And what about those years after Lucy? after the divorce . . . 65% of the total. Lucy, clearly, must have had an effect on him. Was it something new? Or was it a reconfirmation of long-held beliefs, doubts, fears, insecurities?
          Lucy, it seemed to him, ruined it all. He believed there was much in her that would have constituted a new beginning, a new life; by mid-July of ’77 it was all evaporated. He even nurtured the hope that, somehow, on his return, it might indeed be restored: that glimpse of what could be.
          It hurt him, eleven years later, to think about that fall; the separation, the rendering—of the good, the family, what had been, at least on the surface of things, the good life. He had to leave the house when they returned from Europe at the end of that Summer, for one thing . . . but where to go? Not much of the old charter flight fortune left now . . . merely the humble professor’s salary. David Dickstein, former neighbor and sometime pal, had a big communal house in West Philadelphia. He offered me a room there, but no real privacy; and he got used to that. Besides, the days were ticking away on what little time was left to be with, to enjoy, the girls.
          It was to be the Freshman Interdisciplinary Studies Program that turned him around; a bit. The shared teaching with seven other professors removed some of the aura of the single professor hitting on his young students. There was one stunning young woman, Alexis, who, although only 19, was seemingly quite mature for her age. She was feeling stifled by strict and conventional parents. She had made her iconoclasm felt when she shocked Roxborough (a blue-collar community north of Philadelphia) by having a Black date for the Senior Prom and an illicit affair with the Vice-Principal (facts not known to Peter at the start of things). Alexis was not his “type” save in her tall, slender body and her obvious sensuality. She was dark and quiet; Baudelarian, sultry—like a black panther; a definitely female jungle animal. She had poise and bearing, such only commonly found in women over 30 and with no little worldly experience. He came on and she accepted quietly, with no questions, no conditions, no reservations, and, as it turned out, no commitment.

          They became intimate to the tune of a Nilsson album, A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night, playing in his part-time bedroom at Dickstein’s house. It was no big deal in terms of difficulty, nor was it accompanied by any resistance or form of ritualistic (or otherwise) protestations. She simply became his and they moved into a relationship. The only awkwardness (and that was felt more by her than he) was that she was required to return home every evening. She clearly could not overnight at Wallace Street; not, that is, until October 13th, when Beverly and the girls were to leave. Then there were a few overnights. Friday afternoons were ritualized to include a bottle of champagne and a pound or two of boiled and peeled jumbo shrimp . . . then quietly unadorned lovemaking. Time was spent with the Conroys . . . talking, playing cards (at which Alexis did not feel comfortable), watching TV and out for the occasional movie. While he accepted it as he would any other relationship; she was feeling beset by the restraints imposed by her living with her parents. By January he pushed, and she did what was required to force the issue at home. By the 8th of February time had come for her to make the move. The night of Sunday, the 4th of February 1978, a large snowstorm hit Philadelphia.
           He had to prevail on good old Uncle Al [Seidman, his neighbor two blocks away] and his roomy station wagon, to facilitate the move. Out to Martin Street, it took him, Al, and Alexis’ brother and Alexis herself to complete the move before dark and possibly more snow and before Alexis’ father came home from work and a possible ensuing scene. There was not a lot of stuff . . . two chairs, a chest and boxes of various things—mostly clothes, but some records, keepsakes, etc. That weekend was like most weekends only Alexis didn’t have to go home. He couldn’t remember her talking—at least at any length he might have noticed—with her parents. Friday afternoon they had gone down to the bank to arrange for checks on his checking account to be issued to Alexis in her name. Sunday she had to go home because her house was to be the scene of a bridal shower for her oldest sister who was to be married in the early summer. That Sunday began rather routinely, with a mid-morning breakfast. As they sat together at the kitchen table, he reflected on the fact that this would be her first trip home since her moving out and the first time they would be apart since. The first emotional glitch—seen only retrospectively hours, days, and weeks later—came when he felt moved to say something then. She had been commenting on what time she’d have to leave to make the shower when he reached over and put his hand lightly on her forearm and said that he’d miss her. Even years later he could remember her noticeably flinch at this heart-felt comment on his part. She was clearly feeling the smothering claustrophobia in a relationship wherein one party is moving emotionally faster and more intensely that the other. It passed right by him; not so much from insensitivity as an overwhelming not-quite-at-the-surface feeling he had of wishing she were saying that to him. It was not a good omen, that at the door on her way out—her sister had come to fetch her—he quipped that she shouldn’t forget to come back.
          In his insecurity and his not-fully-healed psycho-emotional state, it turned out to be a long, uncomfortable day. She left just before 11 a.m. And it was just getting dark when, at around 4:15 p.m., she returned. He had to quip again that he was beginning to think she wasn’t coming back. This gave her the easy and convenient opening for her to say that she wasn’t coming back, that she had decided to return home and was just coming back to tell him face-to-face and to pick up a number of items. Perhaps, said she, he could inveigle Uncle Al to let him use the station wagon to re-deliver her goods. This was clearly the moment at which the shock of the moment wore off and bitterness could be felt flowing upwards, from whence his heart had sunk, in his body. He asked how she could even make such a request of him; how he could be expected to haul all the stuff himself?, etc. She said she was in no hurry and the insouciance of this remark let him feel, in no uncertain terms, that she had rather firmly and unswervingly made up her mind on this. It was starkly real: the whole affair was over, ended, finis—in a very finalistic way, standing in the hallway, by the door slightly ajar. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him! And the same snow still on the ground outside . . . now trodden down by many sets of feet going in and out that door in the last days.
          He was in quiet turmoil for the remaining 30 hours before he delivered Alexis’ things to Martin Street. He lived not only all those hours in anguish; but relived those involving Lucy side-by-side with them. By Tuesday morning, his first full day at home not working, alone with his thoughts, he was a wreck. He kept asking himself, over and over again, what he had done wrong. What must have he said, and done, wrong, that pushed her away, that frightened her? And this is when, for the first time, he recalled her flinch when he touched her arm and said how much he was missing her already. Did he scare her away? Was he representing the alternate and equally alarming specter of quasi-parental containment? Emotional claustrophobia of the young who are not quite keeping amatory pace with their nominal lovers? He returned the record that she had bought of Billy Joel singing “Just the Way you Are” for their communal pleasure. Also, perhaps a little more significantly, he returned the gift she had bought him of two lovely sterling silver champagne goblets which memorialized their Friday afternoon shrimp-and-champagne ritual. He clearly felt he would no longer have any use for them. It was his way of signaling in return his equal acknowledgment of it being the end of them. And so it was. He smiled wryly as he recalled it being February 12th; Charles Darwin’s birthday.
           What was to be remembered about Alexis? That she was beautiful, certainly. That she was quiet and asked for very little; that she was understanding, but, like youth, she was not quite sensitive enough to others. That she was only relatively mature for he didn’t think she ever thought very much about what she could be for him; what he so badly needed at that juncture in his life. She was spreading her own wings; there was no question of blame here. And her quietness and reticence prevented her from articulating in a way that would, perhaps, ease his pain. So he went painfully into that good night.

Death in the Afternoon

My father was quite an aficionado of the Spanish bullfight and over the years I attended a lot of bullfights with him. But none was as memorable as July 11, 1987 in Pamplona for two reasons, I was almost killed in the encierro—the running of bulls—and, later that afternoon, I watched a picador narrowly escape death by the one of the same bulls.

I have to admit that in the ten years that I regularly ran the encierro in Pamplona I was always the most apprehensive about running the bulls from two particular ranches—the Muiras, which have the reputation of having killed the most matadors, including Manolete, and the Pablo Romeros, which were the biggest bulls in Spain. That particular Saturday morning, the fifth day of the Fiesta of San Fermín, we were running the Pablo Romeros, known by the American runners as the “boxcar” bulls. Since it was my third year attending the fiesta, I had not run in more than a dozen encierros, so it’s not surprising I made mistakes, serious mistakes.

I started the run in a position that only an experienced runner should take, near the top of Calle Domingo, only a few hundred feet from the corral, which meant that the bulls would catch me at the 90 degree turn where the course heads up the dreaded Calle Estefeta. The Estefeta is a straight and narrow uphill street of shops shuttered for the run. The street holds no quarter for runners looking to bail out other than a small alley that bisects the long two-block stretch.

In my short time running the encierro, I was aware of the particular dangers of the course and one of them was that turn, which was difficult for the bulls and even some of the lead steers to negotiate. I was told that I didn’t want to be on the outside corner as the bulls skidded into the turn and to be between a 1200 pound bull and the heavy wooden barricade.

But on that chilly July morning that’s exactly where I found myself, at exactly the wrong time. One of the bulls skidded into me and hit me with his hind-quarter so hard that I flew about 10 feet into the barricade well ahead of him and out of his path. It felt like getting hit by a car.

It was an inglorious encierro for me. I lost all the skin the entire length of my left arm and, unknown to me until I returned to the States, had dislocated a disc in my vertebrae. That morning, however, the medics at the makeshift enfermaria, bandaged me up and sent me on my way.

Aching all over as I was, I knew I had to bare the pain to see these bulls fight that afternoon. If my father didn’t have a date for the bullfights, I could wrangle his other ticket in his abono from him. I enjoyed seeing a bullfight with my father as he was quite knowledgeable. He also had a press pass, which he occasionally used to get us into the callejón, the passageway between the barricade and the stands to get closer to the cuadrillas, the bullfighters’ entourages, and the action. That he said I could go with him.

Of course, the Pablo Romeros did not disappoint. I remember the hush that fell over the crowd when the door from the stalls opened and an even larger bull came out for the second fight of the afternoon. His name was “Chivito,” little goat, and weighed 651 kilos or 1435 pounds. I couldn’t imagine why he was given such a name, but it would soon became apparent.

Chivito ran the length of the ring twice then trotted out to the center and, after turning abruptly as if something had caught his attention, charged the barrera and leaped over it, landing in the callejón, where he chased mozos through the narrow passage before being led back out into the ring.

“He’s big enough he can see over the barrera,” my father observed. “He’s attracted to any movement behind it.”

Then the first picador, a horse-mounted torero with a lance, came out along with another torero carrying the traditional magenta and yellow cape to draw the bull’s attention. The bull immediately charged the horse and hit it so hard that the picador flew off. He quickly got to his feet, but would have been gored if not for the torero attracting the bull’s attention with the cape. The picador scrambled over the barrera into the callejón. The bull turned again to the now rider-less horse, and butted his head under the horse’s belly like a goat and proceeded to lift the horse completely off the ground and with a flip of his head tried to send the horse over the barrera.

As the mozos held his now battered but yet unbroken mount against the barrera the picador climbed back on his horse, while the torero caped the bull a few more times. Again the bull, ignoring the torero, charged the barrera and leaped over it. Again mozos ran for their lives in a chase to lead the bull back into the arena.

By then the second picador had come into the ring. Chivito immediately charged the horse, pinning it against the barrera and then got his head under the horse and proceeded to lift both man and horse off the ground. If it hadn’t been for the mozos pushing back from the callejón, he would have flipped both man and beast out of the ring.

The bull turned his attention back to the first picador and charged him again. The picador got his lance into the bull just as it met the horse, got under it again and gave it a toss. Because the picador was leaning over so far, the toss caused him to fall off the horse and be impaled on the horns of the bull. The bull started violently tossing his head, throwing the picador off who was stuck to his horns.

The bull was eventually distracted long enough for the medical team to pick up the fallen picador. As they raced out of the ring with the picador on a stretcher, he managed to give the crowd a thumbs up, which they acknowledged with cheers and bravos.

“That’s always a bad sign,” my father said. “He’ll be dead before they get him out of the plaza. I’ve seen it too many times before.”

Finally, the first banderillero came out and placed the first pair of banderillas in the bull. I noticed, due to the sheer size of these bulls, it was difficult for the banderilleros to get their barbed sticks, banderillas, over the horns and into the back of the bulls’ necks. They were arching way over and leaping higher than I’d ever seen them to avoid the lethal horns.

It’s not uncommon for the matador himself to place one of the three pairs of banderillas into the bulls neck, but that day the matador who was to fight Chivito, Luis Francisco Esplá, refused and was jeered by the Pamplona crowd and even had a bottle thrown at him. After all six banderillas had been placed and Chivito was showing signs of tiring, Esplá came out to fight.

Esplá’s fight was mediocre, not worthy of such a fine bull, but eventually death came to Chivito, but not to the picador, Victoriano Cáneva, who survived his cornada. I found out later, that the horns of the bull had punctured a lung and his liver. He was in surgery for two hours in a Pamplona hospital and spent the next 11 days in intensive care, after which he was moved to a hospital in Madrid. Luis Francisco Esplá vowed that day he would never again fight in Pamplona.

Fraulein Clausewitz

I spent the Christmas of 1990 with my German girlfriend Anke and her family in Hamburg. While we were there we took some trips through what was until a few weeks prior, East Germany. Germany had just been reunified a couple of months before and you could drive from Hamburg to Berlin, for the first time in over 40 years, which we did. We were thinking about opportunities there might be in the newly-unified city. I had never been there and was eager to see what it looked like before the wall that surrounded the western half of the city was completely torn down. I grew up on spy novels and Berlin was, of course, ground zero in the Cold War, the gateway between East and West through the Iron Curtain.

By the time we returned home to Brooklyn, we had decided to move to Berlin the following summer. I had to break the news to my parents. My mother would be fine as long as she could meet the girl with whom I was making the move. The problem was meeting my father was always a potential deal breaker in any relationship I’d had.

I remember introducing him to a beautiful girl named Cornelia I was dating in college. We were at his house in Philadelphia one evening and I remember my father handing off the phone to me while talking to one of my sisters. While I was talking on the phone, my father offered to show my girlfriend his war room in the basement where he had a giant table set up with a World War II battle scene with toy soldiers, artillery and tanks. When they came up from the basement Cornelia glared at me. She took the first opportunity to tell me that my father had made a pass at her in the war room.

That’s the way it was with my father. If he liked a girl I was dating, he eventually ended up making a pass at her and if he didn’t like her, he was vicious and cruel toward her. So you can understand my apprehension. I wasn’t concerned whether my father would like Anke, but that he wouldn’t at least be civil to her and she would come away from the experience wondering what kind of family she was getting involved with. Add to this the fact that Anke herself was very quiet and unassuming.

A few months after coming home from Germany, my father called to say my sisters were coming to Philadelphia to spend their spring break there. He invited me and my girlfriend  to come for the weekend and I thought it would be a good opportunity for Anke to meet my sisters and, of course, my father, if ever there was a “good” opportunity. So we drove down to Philadelphia from New York.

At first everything was going well. I think my father was on his best behavior because of the presence of my teenage sisters. I don’t remember what we ate, but it was probably one of my father’s great pizzas he made from scratch, having spent the afternoon picking up ingredients at the Italian Market in South Philly. Anyway, family gatherings with my father usually converged around the playing of a board game, in which he would berate us on the stupidity of our moves and otherwise humiliate us in the company of whomever had the misfortune of letting themselves be dragged into this private hell known as game night.

 I think in my father’s mind the choice of the game was decided by the fact of Anke being German. The Second World War would be reenacted in a game of Risk. As my father handed out the different colored playing pieces, he looked at Anke and—in a bad German accent—said, “And SS black for za fraulein,” as he gave her the black tokens. The pained expressions on the faces of the rest us showed embarrassment, if not surprise, at my father’s typical bad taste. I knew this wasn’t going to end well.

I never understood by father’s fixation with the military. The full extent of my father’s service was being bounced out of ROTC after being classified 4F for bad eyesight, bordering on legal blindness and flat feet. But it never seemed to dampen his interest in all things military. In his library of over six thousand books, there were over 500 books on war and military. He had a toy soldier collection that once belonged to Hermann Göring. He knew by heart the dates of all the great battles in history. A game of Risk then was mere child’s play for a great amateur war strategist. Except that the black tokens were slowly spreading across the board from Europe and into Africa, Scandinavia and Russia.

The Risk board was beginning to look a lot like those maps in World War II newsreels showing what would happen if Nazi aggression went unchecked. When my girlfriend Anke made any kind of unconventional move in the game, my father would stroke his chin and say, “Verrry Interrresting,” like Arte Johnson in a German uniform peeking through a potted plant. He started referring to her as “Fraulein Clausewitz,” alluding to the great German military tactician, which, coming from my father was the closest she’d ever come to receiving any kind of compliment.

It was not my father’s finest hour as Britain fell to Fraulein Clausewitz’s army, which she then used as a stepping stone to Greenland, Canada and eventually the United States. One by one the rest of us were eliminated from the game leaving my father and Anke battling it out in what was left of the U.S. My father was beginning to seethe as Anke clearly demonstrated her Aryan superiority and more importantly seemed to be immune to my father’s remarks, which always had the effect of throwing us, his kids, off our game, allowing him to win.

Finally, my father conceded the game to Anke by throwing down his cards and saying, “I’ve had enough. I’m going to bed,”

“You surrender?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he answered curtly.

“Unconditionally?” I added.

“Smartass,” He said and without so much as a by-your-leave stalked upstairs to bed. Suffice to say that the atmosphere for the rest of the weekend was chilly.

Although my relationship with Anke ended that following summer in Holland, just 10 kilometers short of the German border, I don’t believe that in this particular instance the breakdown of the relationship had much, if anything, to do with my father being an asshole. But I underestimated my father’s ability to hold a grudge until some four years later when I was going through my father’s papers after his death and found a version of his will, almost identical to the version that was ultimately probated except for a few minor additions and deletions, that excluded me from any inheritance if I was married to “that Nazi bitch, Anke [Last name misspelled].”

Coffee, Tea or Me?

The story of my father meeting his second wife, Beverly, is told here in two parts: first through entries in my father’s journal at the time, which gives some insight into his state of mind in the days leading up to meeting and marrying her. The details differ between his journal entries, written only a week later, and his unfinished autobiography written 28 years later, but the basic facts are consistent. They met at around 10:30 pm on Friday, December 9, 1966 and were married less than 72 hours later.

Dec. 5, ’66 I guess I burn my bridges as fast as I erect them. Like Karen, for example. Just couldn’t take her lack of feeling. 28 years have hardened her too much. Frenchy can’t make the Gemini Ball, so I’ll not go. Back to “0” again. Still awaiting the return of the ticket from Diana—also be interested to see if she’ll reply. Mary Ann called last night—very warm and friendly for a change. Says she might come down with the boys in January. Might just be starting the new year off right. Still waiting to hear from Verena about word on her job. Two months since I heard from Suzanne & 1 week from tomorrow is the first anniversary of our engagement. So much for sentiment. Three weeks from now I’ll be in Washington—ugh! This job rat-race again. I still feel like an emotional zero—but getting out of here will surely help. Haven’t got much mail lately. 207 days left. (29½ wks)

Dec. 8, ’66 I often tell myself that I shouldn’t be alone like this—that I don’t deserve to be alone. I suppose I have had the opportunities—and muffed a good many of them. But people who love or have loved people should forgive & forget. Maybe that’s it—maybe I just haven’t been really loved. They—Gudrun, Suzanne, Mary Ann, Diana, Alicia, Carol, Nilla, etc.—all know I am alone—they’re not exactly overleaping themselves to get here. And here I am—29 more weeks! I drive at night—like to my class—or I lie awake at night—I feel as though there should be someone by my side. Where have all the young girls gone? I’m nearly 30 and my prime is passing. Not much, if anything to show. Some photos, some writings, some memories. We really live in the minds of others—even before we die. How many people think of me? Soon it will be a year since Susanne & I were engaged & soon a year since she left. Soon it will be 5 months since I was last alive. Yes, I have been dead for 5 months—five long months. But I shall be dead much longer. There are only three people who can bring me back to life—Gudrun, Susanne or Mary Ann.

Dec. 18 ’66 That was some sentence, that last sentence, “Someone new and fantastic.” Less than 24 hours after I wrote that I met Beverly. Bill came up to my place around 8:45 with a friend called Karl. We drank and talked until 10—then Bill left. Karl and I drank to 10:30 then went down to the 3rd Unit rec room where his room-mate was having a party for his fellow Philco workers. Bev was there with Karl’s room-mate. I only got to know where she lived. I agreed to drive her to her job at 4 p.m. the next day. I showed up at 11:00 a.m.—we talked, then she came over for lunch to my place—then I took her to the airport, where I was to pick her up again Sunday at 10:30 p.m.
                [On Sunday] I brought her back to my place & we never left each other’s sight until we were married 5 p.m. Monday!
                It is so nice to have someone to live for. Beverly will fill a big empty spot in my life. She has more class than Susanne, more beautiful & less screwed up than Gudrun. I am more than happy to trade in my past for a future with Beverly. I might even stay on at the NASA job!



For their first wedding anniversary my father gave Beverly a copy of the book Coffee, Tea or Me? inscribed above, which had just been published two months prior. Not the most thoughtful gift, but the traditional first anniversary gift is paper.

This would be the last entry my father would in his journal for 389 days. What follows is my father’s detailed version of his whirlwind romance with Beverly, which he wrote in his autobiography in late 1994.

                Life at the Villa Monterrey was picking up. Bill Hamilton, ever the ladies’ man, was quite a help. We shared a lot of information on the girls at the Villa. Indeed, we ‘created’ the Seven (Social) Dwarfs. It started with a girl who had distinct body odor—she was ‘Smelly’; then there was a thoroughly dense one—‘Dopey’ naturally; then there was one with a notoriously bad sleep-around reputation—she was ‘Easy.’ And on it went: ‘bashful,’ ‘rock,’ ‘bitchy,’ and ‘sloppy’. Bill and I actually took a pair of identical twins to a Villa costume party once.

                The first big event of the fall was the NASA Gemini Ball, that was to be held on Saturday, the 10th of December.

                Now there was this exceedingly sexy, sultry, attractive girl who worked at NASA and who lived at the Villa—Sharon Huvar. She was about 5'6", blonde, blue-eyed and got men all worked up just walking down the halls of the MSC. Men had wet dreams about her. I suppose, however, that most believed that she was beyond their reach. I got along with her, though I'd been warned that she had a middle-aged divorced Mom with whom she lived who was extremely jealous of her daughter and kept her under as tight a reign as possible. Well, be that as it may, I asked Sharon to accompany me to the Gemini Ball—and was surprised and delighted when she accepted! I think we had one date, a rather ordinary one, before the big night. Bill was amazed that I'd hooked Sharon for the Ball and gave me a few ‘nudge, nudge, know what I mean?’ jabs. He thought that, if I performed properly, that Xmas would come early for me in 1966!

                A few days later (it being still two weeks before the Ball), Bill approached me with news of an upcoming Friday night [December 9] party in the 3rd Unit Rec Room—being thrown by a ‘buddy’ of his. He said the guy was also a GE contract worker at NASA; I would have no problem if I showed up. He was also anxious to inform me that a new “gorgeous” tenant had just moved into our unit: a tall, leggy blue-eyed blonde that I ‘would just kill for.’ He said that his buddy had also authorized him to invite her to the party; so I should definitely be there. It was the Friday night before the Gemini Ball.

                That was an interesting week: Sharon dropped by my office several times, usually with such marginally relevant questions as to what color and type of dress I thought she should wear. Only now, looking back with venerable hindsight, can I appreciate that the girl was definitely attracted to me (and probably her mother, a working class woman herself, thought a professor would make a good catch). I was proud of the fact that Bart and others would stick their heads out the door to watch Sharon's seductive fanny as she exited our hallowed halls.

                Friday night soon arrived and Bill and I, after a few drinks at my place (overlooking the 3rd Rec Room), decided that the party was getting full enough to warrant our attention at a closer scrutiny.

                As we wandered around the crowded place I was relieved to see that Sharon was not around, but curious as to this new beauty that Bill promised would be there. When I asked him, he pointed up to the mezzanine area and said that she was up there talking to our host. I bounded up the stairs to check out this babe.

                Bill was right, she was a beauty. But that twangy Southern drawl: it sounded like an audition for Scarlet O'Hara! Now, if I could just overlook that . . .

                But I succumbed nonetheless. I was delighted to hear that she was an airline stewardess (for Delta). She had just moved to Houston from Atlanta the previous Wednesday, so she was fresh meat. We made petty, pseudo-sophisticated small talk for about half an hour and then, in my usual, now-legendary, manner, I asked her if she would become my mistress. I must say this, she took it right in stride, not battering one little Scarlet eyelash: “Sonny boy, why you just couldn't afford me!” Two things I did not know at the time: (1) that within 60 hours she would be my wife, and (2) that she would be totally correct in her warning! I was not discouraged, but pressed her for a date for the following night—then I remembered the Gemini Ball. But, she said, she had to work this weekend, so . . . I quickly asked her when she was returning. She said on Sunday. I asked her when on Sunday (I clearly was not to be dissuaded). She said she wouldn't get back until just after Midnight. I offered to pick her up at the Airport. She said that wouldn’t be necessary, then looked as if she was going to turn away and enjoy the rest of that evening. My mind was churning, it had to claim some psycho-emotional beachhead. Sharon and the Gemini Ball were the furthest things from my mind! Then she turned back to me.

                “Peter, there is one small favor you could do for me, if you don't mind . . .” I was overjoyed—she had remembered my name, at least!

                “Anything, sweetheart. What is it?”

                “Well, my car hasn’t arrived yet and I could use a lift over to the airport tomorrow.”

                “What time?”

                “I have to be there by 1:15.”

                “No problem.” I paused. “But there is one condition . . .”

                “What's that?”

                “That you have lunch with me beforehand.” She looked a trifle put-out.

                “Well, I usually sleep late and then just grab a cup of coffee—cause I can always eat on the plane.” I was not to be deterred.

                “Look, I'll be over at noon, we'll take it from there.” She thought about it for one fateful moment, then decided in the affirmative.

                Her apartment was only down the stairs and about 10 yards away. I rang her bell precisely at noon.

                A voice on the other side of the door said that she couldn’t open the door because she didn't have any clothes on. She said she would unlock it and I could come in, but I was to wait about half-a-minute to give her time to get back to her room to put on her robe. I agreed, then heard the door latch unfasten.

                I waited a full 5 seconds before I tried the door. I wanted to see the goods, but all I caught was a glimpse of a pair of tender succulent bums turning into a doorway down the hall. When she came back out in her robe, she showed me her kitchen area and said I was welcome to make us whatever with whatever I found available there. I made a small cheese omelet which we downed with some white wine.

                As we walked to my car I asked her what time she returned. She said that the plane got in a little after midnight and she would be out about 15 minutes later. I said that the night would still be young and that I‘d pick her up where I was dropping her . . . about 12:20 a.m. She started to protest but I guess she realized that I would hardly take no for an answer, so reluctantly agreed. I was so delighted that I didn't give a moment's thought to Sharon or the Gemini Ball that same evening. I only remembered that I was picking Sharon up at 7:30. Hopefully, not expecting any amatory success with Sharon, 11:30 would not be too early to call it quits at the ball.

                Sharon looked lovely when I came to fetch her, and her mother was quite enthusiastic about the whole thing. I knew precious few people who would be there (Bart & Sally Hacker were not going), so was not all that enthused about the whole thing. Further, I was feeling guilty knowing in advance that I had to make an early evening of it, particularly as how eager Sharon had been. So off we went.

                The ball didn't amount to all that much—especially to relatively new people like me, who had neither participated to any real extent in the project and who had friends at the Ball. At about 10:15 p.m. the tension became too much and I just had to get out of there. It was, I thought, going to be difficult to leave so early; Sharon had been at NASA for a few years and knew quite a few people at the Ball. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it—Sharon misinterpreted my urging that we make an early getaway. She thought I was so hot for her that I couldn't wait to get her back to my place.

                We got back to Villa Monterey just before 11 p.m. Because I was thinking in terms of taking Sharon back to her apartment, I took the turn on the path from the garage in that direction. Again, she saw this as an admirable lack of presumption on my part—and steered me back in the direction of my own place, reminding me that a gentleman always invited a lady for a cup of coffee after an evening's drinking, so why shouldn't I? Egads!, the less interested I was, the easier it became.

                When we got into my apartment Sharon made a lunge for me. Not only was it a hungry, intense kiss, but I felt one of her legs rise up as she rubbed me very obviously with her thigh! Well, as Confucius say, “a stiff prick knows no conscience” so, putting all thought of Beverly aside for the moment, I obliged Sharon in the large Naugahyde recliner that dominated my sitting room (why soil good sheets when they might soon be used again in such a short time?!) It was still just a little past eleven and I guess, in her mind, my performance rated an encore, so Sharon moved on top of me this time in the recliner and I was ready in a flash. Next thing I know, Sharon is urging me towards the bedroom. I sneak a furtive peek at my watch. It was almost 11:30 p.m., I had to walk Sharon home, clean up the place a bit, then drive over to pick up Beverly by 12:15 a.m. It was definitely time to give it a bit of a rest, besides, I got the first half of a hoped-for twofer, why screw it up now? Besides, if I listened to that voice of the little man inside of me and opted to linger with Sharon, there were still two additional considerations: first, I would have to bring Sharon home to her overbearing mother, second, going all the way plus lingering or steeping in it, would only connote a more serious, potentially marital-type, relationship. So, in this, one of my final moments of rationality for that year (read: decade), I took Sharon home, promising her that there would shortly be a re-match, but that right now I was past it, and needed to get my beauty sleep. Lord only knows what path my future would have taken had Sharon said to hell with her mother and insisted on sharing that night with me! But she didn't and, in a few minutes, I was in my car, heading towards the airport. I picked Beverly up at exactly 12:15 a.m.

                My psycho-traumatized memory will not allow me to recall the events of that night. Suffice it to say, the hour, the booze, the loneliness and poverty of my existence in Houston, job dissatisfaction, when coupled with the beauty, intelligence, and interest of this Southern beauty, led me to propose to this woman. We naturally tested the relationship in the sack and—surprise! surprise!—it worked! When dawn broke I roused Beverly, boinked her one more time (to make sure I'd contacted reality) and insisted on going into the Marriage Bureau in downtown Houston. I remember driving, top-down, in my TR-4A convertible, with my super-duper Blaupunkt radio blaring Happy Together by the Turtles, oblivious to the world and its responsibilities (it was, after all, a workday that Monday a.m.).

                At the Marriage Bureau I was informed that, while there was no waiting period and no blood test in the state of Texas, a Doctor’s certificate attesting to a negative Wasserman test was a requirement. Undaunted, I took us from City Hall directly to my friend [Dr.] Joe MacLemore's office.

                When we got to Joe’s office, his secretary had only just opened up the door. When I told her I was an old friend from Cambridge, England and it was an emergency, she let me straight in. I grabbed Joe and told him he had to do me a pre-marital blood certificate, stat! But Joe was not one to be pushed into anything that quickly. He urged me to slow down, catch my breath, send Beverly back to his office so he could meet her himself, then he might consider my request. Beverly duly went back to see Joe in his office, while I paced around the waiting room.

                When Joe came out of his office, having left Beverly sitting inside, I collared him.

                “Well? . . . How about it?” I looked questioningly at him.

                “Well, let's put it this way,” he said, looking quite seriously, “If she’s got a twin sister, I’d join you in a double ceremony!” So that was it, another nail in my bachelor’s coffin. Now, back to City Hall!

                City Hall was enjoying a slow day at its Marriage Bureau. We had forms to fill out. In the middle of it all, while the clerk was typing out the forms, I looked over at her and stammered “Are we really doing what I think we’re doing?” And she stammered back “I think so . . .” When the forms were ready, we had to ask what we did next. We were told that all we had to do was find someone to perform the ceremony. Then, as we looked quizzically at each other, the clerk informed us that any judge we could find in chambers on the 4th floor who was willing, could perform such a ceremony—unless, of course, we had a preference for a religious ceremony. We headed for the elevator, and the 4th floor

                Despite it being only 10:30 a.m. the judge we found was obviously intoxicated. But he was obliging. He started the usual ceremony, but about 1/3rd of the way through reading it, his eyes started to fail him and he handed over the little book to Beverly and I to read aloud to him, then cut us off just before the end and declared that we were married. He fell back into his chair and I tucked a $10 bill in his handkerchief pocket and, thanking him profusely, took Beverly and left. By 11 we were back in the car, heading south, married. It was December 12th, 1966; total elapsed time of knowing each other beforehand: 4+ hours. The marriage, with two children [Jennifer and Jessica], would last until October, 1977.

Letter to My Sister Jennifer April 28, 1993

April 28, 1993

Dear Jen,

Well, after a pleasant evening at Lipton's, Helen took me to Gatwick where I arrived at 9:15 a.m. I had to go Trash class, but since it was but half full, I had a bank of three seats on which to camp out. Janet was there to meet me. Today is Wednesday, she left Saturday to go up to New York to rendezvous with her Dad at her sister's house, from where they would leave Sunday afternoon for the airport and Rio, leaving me behind to gear up for Rio.

Jess just called to get her monthly check early--as she has a date in Traffic Court for a speeding ticket she got while in Houston! Now, she'll probably have to go for the Defensive Driving Course!

Jeff called Mark to ask about the Marriage Law in Texas(e.g. no waiting period, but a blood test), so I guess things are getting bad. Aborigine grandchildren, I can't believe it..it just keeps getting worse..worse than a bloody Finn! Oh well, what can you expect from a product of a broken home? Please promise me you'll marry someone of the same race! Ukrainians are close enough! Maybe I'll be dead before the Yannomammos start dropping. I'm leaving here on 7 May, will be back on the 22nd. Weather is much improved here. I fixed the back door on the little Solido ambulance. Managed to get back here with 8 jars of curry sauces and a 1/2 liter jar of Branston pickle. Those bastards/creeps at the coin shop claimed not to have the proof sets in yet! Found a good bookshop, called Ulysses, on Museum street which had 2 Colin Wilson books I didn't have, but couldn't find Atlantis on that street.

Hope you're not working too hard..but I guess I needn't worry, you'll be in Naples soon! See what you can find for transport to Pamplona around July 6th..if you can take the fast train to St. Jean, Alfredo can pick you up, and then take you to Irun for the Pamplona train (one always has to change from French to Spanish trains at Irun)..only one stop to Pamplona and if you call the hotel Maisonnave from St. Jean I can have a taxi out to meet your train and take you in.

Janet liked that red cedar house nr. Royston for which we had the pretty color brochure. It looks like we'll be able to sell this house between now and October and thus we'll be able to buy in England right after.  Not much else new, except the weather is nice.  Thanks for putting up your old dad and coming up to Cambridge with me..who knows? maybe I can come over before the 25th..  

Study hard, do well, I'm sure you'll find a good position somewhere.

Love,