Young Love

Young love – A true story of a happy time that still continues

My world opened up in Brooklyn as the clock hands tottered towards the 1960’s. I was already a college student at 16½ after flying through high school in 3½ years. Brooklyn College was a fun place.   My friends would pick me up on a motorcycle and take me there, since I wasn’t interested in taking driving lessons. I was a chemistry major, and we all liked sending up rockets and blowing up things. Interest stopped suddenly when a friend lost some fingers. I wanted to buy his chemistry set but my mom said “no!”

I joined a “House Plan” called “Court House”. It was an alternative to a fraternity for guys that were unpopular and refused to pledge for membership.  The result was that Court House was probably the least respected house plan at the college. Maybe, it was also because we were immature, sexist, horny kids…

We were such losers that no college girl would debase herself by coming to our weekend parties. Instead, high school girls, from the nearby Midwood High School, would show up in their bobbysocks and pretend that they were from Brooklyn College. We would ask them questions and roar with laughter at their answers. After about an hour, we would chase them out so we could play poker.

I remember one group that showed up. I took a girl’s coat and hung it up and invited her to sit down. Her name was Mitzi. When she said she was in college, I asked her how many credits she was taking. Her answer was “130”. That was a good start. I then asked her who was her favorite philosopher. Her answer was, phonetically,

“Descardees”. We all continued in this vein until the girls could not stand it anymore and started to leave.

I pointed to her group and said that I guess its time for you to go. Her answer was a firm: “You can take me home”. I smiled and said, triumphantly, “Ha! I don’t have a car”. She smiled and said: “There are buses!” I retorted: Two buses!” Then, I glared at her and exclaimed: “It’s raining!” I knew I lost when she smiled and pointed to her umbrella! I was mumbling “Two buses!” to myself all the way to her house.

Mitzi invited me into her house and I thought this could be my lucky night. We had some cookies and soda and cuddled for a minute or so, before her father dashed down the stairs and introduced himself and, in bellowing voice, said he was a lawyer. He was a tall man with a fearsome look with thin lips in a perpetual frown. When he learned from Mitzi that I did not have a car, he insisted on taking me home, since it was raining. The thought that I was being set up did occur to me. My defense, that I just got there, was rejected by the Judge. He did that every time we went out together! Two years later, we were engaged. He still took me home, saying: “I will not let my future son-in-law take buses home”. Maybe, he didn’t trust me. You think?

Once, I was invited to sleep over because of the lateness of our date. She showed me to my bedroom, down the hall, wished me a good night’s sleep and reminded me not to make sudden noises because he sleeps with a gun under his pillow. (When he passed away, years later, Mitzi and her mother brought the gun to the police station and waved it at the officer behind the desk. Her mother quietly said that they just want to give the gun away, while the police were screaming and ducking for cover).

Before the wedding, he actually lifted me off the ground, put me against a wall, with my legs dangling, and said: “I only ask one thing from a future son-in-law”. I waited in fear what that would be. He added, as he let me down, in a threatening voice: “Just show up!”

Then, with my father’s collusion, he decided, without consulting us, that we should live in the Bronx in an apartment house, where he had an investment. Mitzi and I were shocked by living in a big old building and being in small apartment with a rusty bathtub on legs! What nerve, I thought, to make us move from nice roomy homes, with home-cooked meals and beautiful pictures and furniture to live in this crappy apartment. It just was not fair! I guess I didn’t get the full meaning of “marriage thing” until much later.

Our 5^th floor apartment was in a U-shaped alcove in the building. The windows on one side of this shaded area faced another window on the other side. The bottom of the “U” had a kitchen window that faced the street across from Hellman’s Funeral Home.

We had just a narrow view of the sunny Grand Concourse. Unfortunately, our view was limited to the red neon sign for Hellman’s Funeral Home. We would sit daily at the kitchen table, having our meals, and watching the bodies move in and out. To make matters worse, the only part of the red neon sign that we could see was “Hell”. No kidding!

To make the apartment livable, I spent a lot of time studying on the roof and trying to amuse myself when we were together. One day, Mitzi and I were watching TV, when Mitzi said that she was tired and went to sleep. She was a teacher and had to get up early. As a late night kind of person, I watched a few movies and saw it was already 2 am.

In a split-second of evil genius, I changed the time on all the clocks and watches, and woke Mitzi, and told her it was time to get dressed to go to school. She was very sleepy and looked out of the window and asked why it was so dark outside this morning. I responded that a storm was coming and she should dress quickly and go. I added that I was dressed already.

She got dressed and even put on her makeup before peering and my smiling face and asking me, “OK, what’s so funny? Is there something wrong with my dress or makeup”. I burst out laughing and told her the real time. I had quite a few lonely nights after that but Mitzi eventually forgave me and saw some humor in this cruel joke. Since then, She has seen a cement statue of a black Scotty dog in the freezer, in her bed and, under her pillow. I also mastered the art of stealing her pillow, at the last second when she got into bed and was lying down, and still do it occasionally. We will be married 55 years this June. I might make it, but she deserves better.

^© Norman F. Estrin, Ph.D., April 29, 2016, Young Love.