LEAVING LOUISIANA

Paul's sparkling production of The King and I was coming to a close.  He had little to do now except give notes every night to the cast.  So we enjoyed ourselves and relaxed.  After the curtain had fallen for the last time the entire cast and crew were invited aboard a lovely houseboat and we cruised slowly down the river.  Lavish food and drinks were offered and the summer night was perfect.

Although that lovely night was over fifty years ago, it remains with me still in all its grace and beauty.  It was as if we were separated from the world; noise and clamor could not touch us here.  I wanted to float down that peaceful river forever, breathing in the sweet night air.  I smiled at Paul.

We left Monroe the next day and most of my memories of that time have faded.  But the romance of drifting slowly through the water under the stars is still fresh.

WHAT IS THAT AWFUL SMELL?

Good grief!  What is that rotten smell?  I stepped from the third plane of my trip from Gainesville into Monroe, Louisiana, home of many paper mills.  Many, many paper mills, all of which smelled revolting.  I was tired, hungry, dirty and my incision was leaking badly.  None of the ordered wheelchairs had been there and I hobbled from one concourse to another, leaking copious amounts of .....yucky stuff.

Monroe, Louisiana

At last I glimpsed Paul who seemed glad to see me in spite of my ghastly appearance.

"Don't hug me; I really need to change my bandage and I haven't been able to and it's ... leaking."

Paul blanched at this news in spite of having been a medic in the Navy.  We drove to the hotel as I regaled Paul with tales of my lengthy hospital stay.  My father had visited me right after my first surgery and thought I had been decapitated.  (I have the scar to this day.)  Paul told me about the youngest kids playing the King of Siam's many children.  One was three and one was four and they had been cast because they were adorable.  But when they got bored, the little girl did somersaults and the small boy picked his nose.  The resounding laughter these behaviors received from the cast and crew did nothing to discourage our young Thespians.  And yes, the dancer playing Eliza did have huge breasts which did as they pleased.  Paul did not seem unduly concerned by this fascinating display.

Anna and the King

What did concern him was that the custom in Monroe was apparently to hire a professional director with a great deal of experience and then allow anyone in the theatre to give amateur notes to the professional.  Board members, prop people, the costume lady, parents of cast members, the janitor--all were encouraged to give Paul nightly notes based on their complete lack of theatrical knowledge.  Paul was dumbfounded by this custom.

"Why did they hire me if the prop manager knows more than I do?  What about the big-breasted dancer?  Maybe she has some line readings she'd like to suggest.  The actors playing Anna and the King actually have a great deal of experience.  They know what they're doing.  But you don't see them giving me notes every night."

I had grown up in community theatre; I knew that Ego reigned supreme.  The less a person knew about acting and production, the more they felt qualified to give advice.  Mostly dumb advice.  Paul was having a hard time, but I was enjoying myself.  I slept late; I didn't have to work and every night I went to rehearsals and socialized with everyone.  It was exactly what I needed after My Kidney Stone Honeymoon.  And eventually Opening Night came as it always does.  The King and I was a huge success and everyone who had ever given Paul notes took sole credit for its shining glory.

                                                               To Be Continued

LEAVING SHANDS

The kidney stone surgery was over; I was out of Recovery and back in my room.  I was in pain.  A lot of pain.  I felt dreadful.  The phone rang.  I knew it had to be Paul.  As soon as I heard his voice, I burst into tears.

"I feel so terrible and it's an hour until my pain shot and I can't stand it.  I don't want to be brave and cheerful anymore.  I'm NOT brave or cheerful.  I want to go home!"  I went on and on and couldn't stop.  Paul murmured comforting words and I couldn't stop sobbing and sniveling.  We talked for a long time and at last the sweet nurse came in and gave me a pain shot.  Paul kept talking softly until I fell asleep.  The next day I felt no better.  Meals consisted of watery brown soup and Jello.  I hate Jello even now.  I was poking at the green Jello with my spoon in spiteful jabs when someone came in.  I looked up and saw my husband who had taken three different planes to get from Monroe to Gainesville.  My husband who hated to fly and said the Rosary many times when in the air.

"You must really like me," I said.  He smiled.

We spent the day together.  Paul regaled me with stories of rehearsals and Paul could always tell a good story and make me laugh.  The show had already been cast before he got there and not always wisely.  The beautiful Tuptim who sang the show's loveliest songs with her forbidden lover was being played by a very plain girl in glasses who couldn't sing very well.  Several blond teenagers had been cast as the brunette wives of the King of Siam and would all have to dye their hair.  The dancer playing Eliza was so buxom that when she leaped from one ice floe to another, her gigantic breasts bobbed up and down in a most distracting fashion. By this time I was laughing so hard I thought I would burst my stitches

"But most dancers are rather flat chested," I said.

"Not this one," said Paul.  "Not this one."

Late that night after Paul had left to begin his long, long return trip to Monroe, I lay awake thinking that soon I would leave this place, cured, and I would never have another kidney stone in my life.

And that is exactly what happened.

KIDNEY STONES AND TUMORS, OH, MY! Part Two

"Why aren't you wearing glasses?" the doctor asked mildly.  "When was your last eye exam?"

"This is my first," I said reluctantly.  The doctor looked at me as if I had said I had just arrived from Pluto.

"You should have begun wearing glasses years ago.  Get some as soon as you go home.  And you have calcium crystals in your eyes."

Calcium crystals?  I had heard a lot about calcium in the past few days.  Apparently, it was all over where it shouldn't be.  I wasn't allowed to drink milk.

  

The surgeon was smiling at me so how bad could it be?

"We've discovered what the problem is.  You have a tumor on the parathyroid gland which is causing your body to make massive amounts of calcium and that's what is causing you to rapidly manufacture kidney stones.  We're removing it tomorrow."

"And the kidney stones too?

"No, that's a whole separate operation.  The parathyroid gland and the kidneys are not even close.  We'd have to make a very large incision."  The doctor laughed merrily.

All rightie then.  By the next afternoon the offending tumor was gone and I was out of recovery and back in my room.  I staggered to the sink to brush my teeth.  When I looked in the mirror, I screamed.  Apparently, I had been decapitated during the surgery and my head had been sewn back on with big black stitches.  I was pale as a ghost.  Perhaps my future included starring in horror films; I wouldn't even need makeup.  I had never looked more dreadful in my life.

At that moment an extremely handsome young man in a white coat entered the room.  He looked at me, then immediately averted his eyes.  I didn't blame him.  As he helped me back to  my bed, this blue-eyed vision told me he was Doctor Larkin and he had come to take my medical history and was I amenable to that.  Oh, I was amenable all right.  He didn't want to take blood; he didn't want to take X-rays; he didn't even want me to pee in a cup.  He just wanted to talk.

Dr. Larkin gave me a dazzling smile and said, "Well, how are you, Miss Linda?"

"I think I'm the bride of Frankenstein's monster."

We both laughed.

To Be Continued

                          

                                

KIDNEY STONES AND TUMORS, OH, MY!

I came out of the urologist's examining room wondering when I'd have to go to Shands in Gainesville, where they were doing research on recurring kidney stones.  Paul and my father were sitting in Dr. Giordano's office looking profoundly serious.

"I've already made arrangements for you to be admitted to Shands tomorrow for various tests and of course more surgery.  There's no escaping that.  Hopefully, they will find what's causing you to rapidly produce kidney stones, fix it, and you'll be fine!"  Dr. G smiled reassuringly.  Dad and Paul attempted to smile.

I felt scared.

By the next afternoon I was sitting on my hospital bed at Shands, dressed in a huge hospital gown, saying Goodbye to Paul.  He was to direct The King and I in Monroe, Louisiana.

He looked very sad.  Jumping into my usual role of Court Jester, I said, "I'll be there in about two weeks at the most.  The King and I is a wonderful musical.  You'll have so much fun and so will I when I get there!"

"All those little kids and hoop skirts.  The King of Siam!"

"Topsy and Little Eva and the Small House of Uncle Thomas," I cried.

We hugged and Paul was gone.  I knew he would light a cigarette as soon as he was outside.  I sat on the bed and wondered what to do with myself.

Many years later I learned that Dr. Giordano had told Paul and Dad that it was imperative that the doctors at Shands discover  what was causing me to rapidly produce so many kidney stones.  If they did not,

I would not live very long.  Blithely unaware of this prediction, I looked ahead to the future.

To Be Continued

STREETS OF CARACAS

I stared at my cup of mud wondering what it could possibly be.  Paul had a strange look on his face and he didn't pick up his cup.

"Ah, Leenda, you do not like expresso?"

So that's what it was! "Ah, no, sir.  I find it to be a bit too strong for me.  I guess it's a man's drink!" 

 Paul gave me a thunderous look.  Now his very manhood was at stake!  Why did I always say things without thinking?  He didn't want to drink black mud either!

But he did.  And he studiously avoided looking at his wife who had betrayed him. I prayed he would not throw up.  At last our luncheon was over and Paul was glad.  Back down the mountain we went at death defying speeds.  Our generous hosts wanted us to see the city.  They drove us through the very wealthy part of Caracas first and all the         homes were large and very beautiful. I       asked why all the windows were barred.

"There are very poor people in Caracas, so poor that they will reach into an open window and steal things off the dresser.  Naturally,    the wealthy must protect themselves."

As we entered the city streets, Caracas became a different world.  Groups of people surrounded the car, speaking rapid Spanish and handing flyers and pamphlets through the open car windows.  The car slowed as we made our way through the city.  Our hosts seemed unconcerned about the intensity of the crowd, but I was upset.  I looked at Paul.

  "They want change," he said in a low voice.       "They are desperate."

I couldn't take my eyes off their faces. I    can still see them, sweating in the intense     heat, begging us to notice. 

       Suddenly, I wanted to go home.                       

AN INTERESTING LUNCH IN CARACAS

At last we arrived at the glamorous hotel and very high up it was.  I was pale and Paul was green.  We both thanked God for our deliverance and tottered inside.  Our gracious hosts were solicitous.

"We drive a little too fast for you, Leenda?"  Leenda was weak in the knees and clutched her husband.  "Oh, no, not too fast," I lied.

"I'm just not used to mountains.  I live in Florida, you know."

"Not too many mountains in Florida," said Paul in a vain attempt to be lighthearted.

Suddenly, both men looked very serious as we studied the menus which, of course, were in Spanish.  I realized my three years of Spanish in high school were totally worthless.

"Now, Leenda, a few precautions.  Don't drink the water.  And no lettuce or raw vegetables, very unsafe.  We don't want you to be sick."

I nodded as the list of forbidden foods went on.  What could we eat that would not make us violently ill?  Paul and the two gentlemen had a lively conversation in Espanol and the three of them came up with a menu.  Plates and dishes and bowls and platters of unidentifiable foods were brought.  I was at first tentative, but everything was delicious.  Juan,the young, handsome waiter eyed me every time he came to the table and smiled most provocatively.  Finally, he said something to the men, but looked at me.

"What was that all about?" I said to Paul.

"He thinks you are very pretty, but too skinny. He is bringing you a very rich dessert with his compliments. And he asked if you were married to any of us."

I couldn't help but wonder what would have happened had I not been married?  I pictured Juan emerging from the shadows and pulling me into his arms.  In this little fantasy Juan looked like George Chakiris in West Side Story.  Ah, here was Juan coming toward us in the flesh carrying some unbelievably scrumptious masterpiece. He placed it before me with a shy smile.  Did this type of thing happen often in Caracas?  Who knew?

"Muchas gracias....Juan."

Then each of us was given a small cup of what appeared to be .... black mud.

                                                                 TO BE CONTINUED

CARACAS, VENEZUELA 1965 -- The Very Rich and the Very Poor

 Caracas, Venezuela

After taking lots of painkillers, I felt I could accompany Paul into the city.  He had lived in South America for four years when he was a boy when his father worked in Buenos Aires.

Representatives from that company in Caracas were to meet us and show us the sights.  Notice the mountains.  I was a Florida girl.  Little did I know what lay ahead.  We rose early to watch the ship dock.  The impressive mountains seemed to have brown rectangles everywhere.

"What is that all over the mountain?" I asked Paul.  "It looks like a bunch of boxes."

A long pause.

"It IS a bunch of boxes.  Packing boxes for refrigerators, stoves, things like that.  The poor take them out of the garbage of the rich and live in them.  They have nothing." *

"I don't understand.  How can you live in a box?Where do you go to the bathroom and bathe?"

"Here there are only the very wealthy and those who live in poverty.  There is no middle class."

Up until now I had thought that I was poor.  Now I realized I was not.  Remember, I felt too ill to leave the ship in Haiti where naked children begged so I was unprepared.

Two charming gentlemen met us as we left the ship.  They immediately presented me with a huge orchid corsage.  I was overwhelmed.  In the States those orchids would have cost a fortune. I said Muchas Gracias about a hundred times. Although their English was quite good, Paul's Spanish was excellent.  The three men chattered away in Spanish as I tried to adjust my world view.  And I was about to be shocked yet again.  Our gracious hosts were beautifully dressed and had important jobs, but their car was very old and banged up.  Paul and I sat in the back and the gentlemen sat up front and explained that there were no automobile manufacturers in Venezuela at that time so old cars no one in America wanted were shipped to Caracas at great expense and then sold to men like them for a great deal of money.  Then the ancient auto took off at great speed on the narrow mountain roads--guard rails were non-existent--and we climbed higher and higher and I knew I would soon be in Heaven one way of another.  I saw that Paul was silently saying the    Rosary as I gripped his hand in mine.  I prayed we would be at the hotel before I experienced heart failure.  We flew into clouds.                             

                                                       TO BE CONTINUED                                                            

 *I could not find a photo of what was on the mountain in 1965.  The above pictures must reflect more modern times.

SAILING AWAY ON GRACE LINE

Grace Line

Paul and I set off on our week-long honeymoon cruise.  We would visit Curacao, Aruba, Haiti, St. Thomas and Caracas, Venezuela.  I had never been to any of these exotic locations and I was pumped! Paul loved the sea and was always happiest when aboard ship. I didn't feel quite well, but tried to ignore it.  However, by the third day I had familiar symptoms and we visited the ship's doctor.

"Well, it certainly sounds as if you have more kidney stones and since we are at sea, there is nothing I can really do," the doctor said, sympathetically. "You will probably need more surgery as soon as you get home." 

Discouraged, Paul and I trudged back to our room.  How would we pay for more surgery?  I had given up my job (and insurance) and Paul had no insurance at the Players.  We both tried to be cheerful but a pall had settled over our honeymoon. Because of feeling ill, I had missed seeing Aruba and Curacao. 

We ate a delicious dinner in the elaborate dining room; we tried to laugh and joke but our stories fell flat.  After dinner we walked on deck and looked at the stars.  I suddenly thought of Paul's mother, Mabel, and her last words to me in private.

"Now, Linda," she said, "Paul's dad and I have been married many many years and during all that time we have never seen each other naked.  I hope that you and Paul can follow this tradition."  I had no words.

But now I repeated Mabel's sage words of advice to my new husband.  He looked at me in the moonlight and said, "I think the ship has already sailed on that one."

We both began to laugh and couldn't stop.

TO BE CONTINUED

A MAGICAL DAY AT THE WORLD'S FAIR

             I don't think there has been another World's Fair since the glorious Fair of 1964.  Remember--at that time DisneyWorld and Universal did not exist.  There was no CGI.   Cell phones, computers, Kindles and all the other electronics we have grown so accustomed to today had not yet been invented.  So what we experienced at the Fair was amazing, unbelievable, fantastic, unheard of.  And even though I had been born in New York, I had lived most of my life in a small Florida beach town.  So what I saw that day impressed me as nothing ever had before.  Paul and I went from one marvel to the next, agog.  We were like children exploring the Circus for the first time, the best circus the world had ever seen!

                           

I had no favorite exhibit; I loved all of them.  But Paul loved It's a Small World After All the best.  He continued to love it for the rest of his life and saw it over and over again when the exhibit came to DisneyWorld.  He liked to think that Small World was the world of the future--a place where all the people in the universe coexisted in peace and harmony, where no one was marginalized.  And we had reason to think it was possible as those years were the beginning of the civil rights movement, the women's movement and the birth of gay rights.

We were naive of course, but I remember that day at the Fair showed us a world of unimagined possibilities.  And just think of what we have now; it's almost beyond belief.  But the ideal of peace and harmony that Paul saw in It's a Small World eludes us still.  We're not even close.

And that breaks my heart.

THE 1964 WORLD'S FAIR IN NEW YORK

Paul had arranged a honeymoon cruise on Grace Line, the company he had once worked for.  He didn't like to fly so we took the train from Sarasota to New York.  In those long ago days the train station was downtown.  When the train roared into the station, we boarded, all set for our honeymoon adventure.  I got off the train in an unknown town and walked up and down the platform trying to get my sleeping leg to wake up.  As I strode along with a broad smile, the heel came off my left shoe and I fell down on the filthy platform (the stains on my homemade going away suit never came out.)  I looked around for my high heel and saw that it had fallen onto the tracks.  I then noticed a huge run in my nylons.  My big smile slowly faded as I limped along in my soiled suit and ruined stockings.  I saw Paul coming toward me with two cups of coffee and a stunned expression.  His pretty young bride looked like a homeless woman.  Paul helped me back onto the train (I had twisted my ankle) and when I was safely seated he handed me a cup of coffee and told me to be careful as it was very hot.  Exhausted from the wedding, I fell asleep within five minutes and the hot coffee poured into my lap.  I screamed so loud the porter came.  Chaos reigned.  Passengers handed me napkins, paper towels, hankies-- anything to stem the tide of coffee which was now dribbling down my legs onto the floor.

We arrived in New York many, many, many hours later.  Paul looked fresh as a daisy.  I, on the other hand, had wild hair, a filthy suit, a broken shoe, ruined stockings, a dirty face and a look of profound shock.  Paul's mother was speechless.  My new husband tried to make the best of it.  He brought forth a big, phony smile
and said, "We're all ready for the 1964 World's Fair!"

To Be Continued

MY WEDDING DAY

Our wedding day dawned bright and clear....and very, very warm.  It was the hottest May 22nd in Sarasota's recorded history.  I thought of my beautiful handmade wedding dress with it's long sleeves, long skirt and 35 covered buttons.  I was already sweating.  My dad drove me to the church and let me off at a little wooden cottage where brides dressed.  As we passed the rectory I saw Father Smith, the priest who was to perform the ceremony, in old work pants, scrubbing the steps.  Not a good sign.
                                                                           
I had left the Catholic Church while I was at Wesleyan for many reasons and yet here I was.  I would have liked a small garden wedding with a few close friends.  I was paying for the wedding on my $50 a week salary, but somehow decisions were made by others and I stood by like a sleepwalker.  I was a guest at someone else's wedding.  My maid of honor, Sue, and my dear friend, Kathy, arrayed me in my bridal gown.  Putting the 35 buttons in the loops took 20 minutes as we all stood, smiling, as the sweat poured down our slender, nervous bodies.  At last I was ready and my friends escorted me across  Orange Avenue and into the packed church which was so hot I thought I would faint.  (Father Smith had forgotten to turn on the air conditioning until five minutes ago.)  Someone handed me my bouquet of pale yellow roses and I took my father's arm.  Little Debbie, Paul's niece and our flower girl, was walking down the aisle, strewing rose petals while my brother, Jim, looking so sweet and handsome in his little tuxedo, was carrying a satin pillow with the ring.  Both children looked so young, so vulnerable that I wanted to cry.  Sue looked at me and smiled (I think I looked terrified), then started down the aisle in her yellow silk dress.  Then it was my turn.  I saw Paul standing by the altar; he looked miles away, but smiled reassuringly.

My father and I started walking down the endless aisle and I realized that the woman playing the Wedding March was the worst organist I had ever heard.  Friends smiled at me, but I couldn't remember who any of them were.  I started to panic and then I saw 12-year-old Paul Rubenfeld,* my close friend from the Players.  Young Paul was wise beyond his years and we had connected.  I looked into his eyes and my heartbeat slowed down.

My dad handed me off to Paul  and the wedding began.  I remember absolutely nothing about the ceremony, but suddenly it was over and we were walking up the aisle, husband and wife.  Father Smith had done his duty.  As Paul and I walked along, nodding and smiling to everyone, the organist once again showed us all her astonishing lack of talent and musicality.  Paul looked at me and rolled his eyes wildly.
I laughed.

*Paul Rubenfeld grew up and became Paul Reubens, the actor  who created Peewee Herman.  We still have a connection to this day.

LIFE CHANGES

The old Players Theater

I had always been a girl with goals both large and small.  Now my goal was to get through the day.  I wasn't good at my job; my family was fractured and I had no idea what to do with my life.  In the early 60's girls went to college and then married a lovely boy from another college to whom she was "pinned."  Some girls had careers.  I had been trained to become an actress, but for some reason I was too terrified to try.  I had no idea how to start.  I pictured myself living in New York City in a tiny apartment with four other girls.  Working as a waitress while going to auditions.  Being rejected.  Over and over again.

To escape this grim fantasy (which was probably very realistic) I spent my spare time at the Players Theater, where I had spent a good deal of my youth.  I made some friends; I worked on costumes; I went to cast parties.  At work I went out to lunch with Lorrie who was pregnant and was trying to figure out if she should marry Boot.  Marrying a Black man in 1964 seemed fraught with danger.  Becoming an unmarried mother of a biracial child in the South seemed equally dangerous.  But I kept these thoughts to myself.

On the homefront my parents were determined to keep my grandparents in the dark about their separation as they feared they would be shocked and upset.  My personal feeling was that since dear Nana had abandoned her first husband and son when my father was 12 so she could have a better life, she had no real reason to be shocked.   But as usual I kept my thoughts to myself.

But then one day everything changed.  I needed to ask our director, Peter, a question. Someone said he was in his office so I went and knocked on the door.  No answer.  I knocked again and called out his name.  Silence.  I opened the door and saw Peter on the floor unconscious.  I ran for help and honestly what happened after that is all a blur.  I think an ambulance came and Peter was taken to the hospital.  No one talked about what had happened.  I never found out exactly what was wrong with Peter, but I knew he drank.  If explanations were made, I didn't hear them.  Quite suddenly Peter and his wife moved to New York without saying Goodbye.  A new director was needed immediately to direct Bye, Bye Birdie, a musical Peter had already cast.

A professional actor and director named Paul was hired.  He had run his own summer stock theater in Malden Bridge, New York, for many years and had given a 14-year-old girl named Barbra Streisand a chance to be an apprentice one summer.  She turned out to be a capable little actress and played five roles.  No one knew Barbra could sing.  Paul stepped right up and directed Birdie, which turned out to be a huge success.  I was his assistant for the next production and dutifully wrote down his notes for the cast at rehearsals.  Paul turned out to be a sweet man I felt comfortable with and he could easily make me laugh.  We became friends.

Six months later we were married.

COULD I HAVE BEEN THAT NAIVE?

Before I died of terminal boredom working for a boss whose only clients appeared to be some very ancient ladies whom I was told never to bill as they had all promised "to remember him in their will."  I hope they did. (He did have several male visitors from the Ringling School of Art who were hoping to borrow his car.)

I found a job at a law firm with several partners as apparently I gave the mistaken impression of knowing what I was doing.  The secretary in the cubicle next to me typed 100 words a minute and was "wild."  During slow periods Lorrie regaled me with stories that proved that she was both wild and progressive.  She was living with a Black man named Boot in 1964 and she told everyone else that Boot was an Indian which no one believed.  I admired her principles on race relations, but now I think she just liked Boot.  The second week I was there Lorrie said a large group of Florida legislators was coming to Sarasota and there would be a gala party.  Would I be willing to be a hostess?  Well, of course, I would!  My grandmother was thrilled and was sure I would meet the governor.  (I did not.)  I was to meet Lorrie at a posh resort on Lido Beach where cocktails would be served.

I saw Lorrie immediately.  She was wearing a bright red cocktail dress and talking to a much older man who turned out to be a Representative from a very rural county who was her "date."  I was introduced to a bland young man who represented Volusia County and who was apparently my date.  I was confused.

Alcohol was flowing freely and there was a great deal of jolly talk. I had a Coke with lemon. Lorrie was complimented on her "pretty legs" and I was told what a nice figure I had.  There was lots of laughter, bad jokes and extravagant compliments as we wandered around the pool consuming endless appetizers.  Somehow I had thought the evening would be far more  fascinating than                    it was turning out to be.                  

At some point the entire party drove to the Mecca for dinner.  Since everyone but me was quite drunk by this time, this was probably not a good idea.

"What's that thing on top of the tower?" asked the Representative from rural Florida.  "It looks like a
woman's tit!"

Neither Lorrie nor I could think of a suitable reply so we both studied our menus.  My date looked embarrassed.  Score one for him.  We all ate enormous amounts of delicious food and my tablemates kept on drinking.  I tuned out and concentrated on my plate, wishing I were back at Wesleyan singing the blessing at Sunday dinner. My longing was interrupted by Mr. Sophisticate's beefy hand on mine.

"So, what do you think of that, Missy?"  I stared at him stupidly until Lorrie helped me out in a voice freighted with meaning.

"He was saying that he told a man to get off the sidewalk and stand in the gutter."

"Oh, I guess I must have missed something.  Why did he have to get off the sidewalk?"

"Because he was a nigger," he said.

I looked at Lorrie who was staring into the distance, her face expressionless.  My "date" was flushing deeply.

"Well, I need to get on home," said Lorrie, standing and clutching her purse.

"But I thought you and I were--"

"No, my babysitter will be wondering where I am.  Thanks for a lovely dinner."  And she was gone.  Thank God she had brought her own car. Her babysitter was of course Boot.

"Well, shit," said the Honorable Representative.  "I thought..."

My date stood up.  "Miss Linda, you probably want to get on home too, don't you?" I nodded silently and stood.  He threw a lot of cash on the table, then took my arm.

We both got in his car, saying nothing.

"You don't do this kind of thing do you?" he said staring at the steering wheel. I shook my head.  "Did you even know what you were getting into?"

"No, I didn't realize....I was horribly naive."

He smiled at me.  "I like that in a girl."

Startled, I laughed.  And then he drove me home. 

A FALLING APART LIFE

Sarasota is beautiful, but I didn't notice.  My life had quickly fallen apart and I had no idea what to do next.  My parents split up; my best friends got married.

I didn't return to Wesleyan for my senior year.  I had no car; I had no job; I had no plans.  My father and I lived in a dump and my high school friends had scattered.  I went from being busy every moment of the day doing activities I loved to doing nothing.  With no enthusiasm whatsoever, I looked for a job and found one as a secretary to an attorney who had no clients, which was a good thing as I was a pitifully slow typist and had forgotten my shorthand.

 My boss was gone most of the time doing God knows what and I was alone in my windowless office hoping the phone would ring and it seldom did. I was seriously depressed but didn't recognize the signs.

I auditioned for a play at the Players and was given a small part.  I made some new friends.  There were several charming young men hanging around and I liked them very much, but they were not exactly boyfriend material.  My days and nights were filled with mild boredom, but I didn't really notice.  I was sleepwalking through my life and was going nowhere so very, very fast.

TO BE CONTINUED