Prologue: My father would urge to trust everyone, but cut the deck.
I am blessed with a myriad of family and friends – all shapes and colors. I am surrounded by love and laughter and (all too often) unsolicited advice. What’s funny is that most of the latter comes from people who are, in 2010 parlance, relationship challenged. These well-meaning folk tend to have a few things in common: a), they neither respect nor get along with women, b), they volunteer their “wisdom” with true altruism, and c), they are alone.
Always alone.
Like this week:
His voice came from behind as I was leaving Starbucks.
“Bruce, when you going to call her? I told her you would.”
(It was Cousin Norm. He’s my father’s age and for good or bad, irrepressible as ever). “I told YOU I WOULDN’T!”
“Yeah, but I told HER you would. Don’t make me into a liar.”
This was not the first time we’d had this dialogue, (nor, I supposed, would it be the last). Eighty-somethings never let up.
“Listen to me—I’m telling you call her.”
“My friend at the mall says she’s nuts.”
“She’s beautiful,” he shot back. “And everybody’s nuts!” Then, pausing, he went in for the kill: “You going to trust a friend or your family?” he demanded, dumping our entire ancestry in my lap.
It was an essay question. Rather than answer I merely smiled…and remembered…
Six weeks earlier: In the dead of winter, when Norman first brandished her name I’d done what any semi-neb of the Dobie Gillis generation would have done: a “drive by.” That March Saturday Beachwood Place was slammed. Perfect time for, shall we say… due diligence.
• Some guys care if they have kids at home; others run
D & B’s or background checks. Me? I just want to know
if they smile. The rest is incidental.
Within the madding crowd I caught a glimpse. Could there be a connection? I doubted it. Generally I can tell in a New York Minute. Still, my buddy Steve’s store was in the mall and she looked somewhat normal, so I ventured over to him. He’s my age, Brooklyn-bred, and has sachel. His word: you can take it to the bank.
“What’s the story with Susan that works over there?” I asked, pointing to her shop, (about 4 o’clock on his watch).
“Stay away.”
“She’s not bad looking.”
“Stay away.”
“My cousin Nor—–
”F#&! your cousin Norm. You want to piss up a rope—then call her.”
(I had no idea what that even meant. None. People with east coast accents, though…they’re always so sure of themselves!)
And so it was that six weeks before my cousin re-accosted me this week, heeding my friend’s advice, I’d passed. And yet it was that now standing, smiling, I found myself compelled, yet again, to respond.
“I’ll see Steve tonight.” Then, weakly: “Maybe he got it wrong,”
Norm’s grumble was melting as he waived me off.
“Bruce, I love ya,” We shook hands and parted, tacitly agreeing to live to “fight” another day. I love him too.
Epilogue: That was just this past Wednesday. As expected, I did
see Steve that night:
”Hey,” I opened, “Remember when I asked you about Susan from the mall and you told me to stay away?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, I saw my cousin Norman and…”
“No, Bruce,” he interrupted. “I didn’t say ‘Stay away.’ I said RUN!!!”
“Never mind.”
(My Dad died twenty-five years ago….and I do trust cousin Norman. Still, I always cut the deck).
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