JERRY

By Alice Sheba

Shortly after I graduated from NYU, where I majored in radio

communications, a friend called and asked, “Would you want to work at WQXR,

the classical music station?”

I was passionate about music and listened to the station, but I didn’t think

that I could qualify as a secretary. I had no office skills. “No, this job would

require answering questions about music, artists and composers that listeners

would ask to have answered.”

“Perfect! When can I start?”

“Tomorrow,” my friend answered.

“I’ll be there.” And I was prompt to arrive at 57th and Fifth Avenue where the

radio station was located, on a crisp fall morning in 1946. I was interviewed by

the person in charge of programming, and then hired by Abram Chasins, who

had been a concert pianist, composer, author and teacher, and had become the

musical director of the station. He showed me the books and card catalogs in

the library that I would be using to answer questions from listeners. I felt

responsible and well suited for my work in replying to queries about music

broadcast as well as performing artists. My immediate superiors were pleased

with my efforts which reflected my enthusiasm and frequent concert attendance

at Carnegie Hall, Town Hall, and wherever quality classical music was offered.

My piano teacher, who had been a protégée of Moritz Rosenthal in Vienna, told

me that I had an excellent ear for music.

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It was pleasant to arrive at the radio station and chat with the announcers

who would tell me the latest news before listeners heard it over the air. The

office space where I was located, had a sizeable desk with a phone, chair, and

best of all, large windows that allowed natural daylight in addition to the overhead

fluorescent bulbs.

Abram Chasins was unusually friendly and invited me to a variety of

musical events. He served on jury panels for the Van Cliburn, Chopin Prize,

Rachmaninoff and Leventritt Foundation awards. I occasionally wondered if my

accompanying Abram was as much for my critical acuteness or twenty

something good looks. One of the highlights of my time at WQXR was when

Vladimir Horowitz, the great piano virtuoso, came to visit. Abram told me that he

was Horowitz’s friend and designated “pusher,” to literally get him on to the

concert stage, because of his stage fright attacks prior to any performance. One

particular day I was in the station library when Abram entered with Horowitz. I

was aflutter because I attended all of Horowitz’s concerts and anticipated being

introduced to him. Abram approached, turned to the maestro and said, “Valodya,

you must meet someone marvelous, here is Alice Rickel.” These honeyed words

made me question Abram’s motive in saying them, since flattering unction had a

negative affect on me.

Another colleague at the station was Marilyn Congdon, who was

responsible for the WQXR brochure that was mailed to listeners. We became

friendly because of our mutual interest in music and books, and she told me that

her husband, Don, was a literary agent. I considered myself fortunate that

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everything related to my first job experience was not only pleasant, but also

stimulating. I developed some ideas for boosting listener loyalty to WQXR, and I

answered queries about music, composers, and performing artists. The only

negative experience at the station was when the owner encountered me. He

tried to pinch my backside. Most of the female employees, I later found out,

learned to steer clear of him.

One day at lunch, Marilyn said, “There’s someone I know who I’d like to

have you meet. I think that you and he would be very interesting together.”

“That might be fun. Tell me about him.” Marilyn was bright and I

respected her taste and judgment. “He’s a writer. My husband is his literary

agent. Jerry is very intelligent and recently returned to the States from Europe.

How about coming to dinner on Friday evening? I’ll be off, and I’ll ask Jerry to

pick you up here at the office at 5:30. How does that sound?”

“Are you sure he won’t mind? Otherwise, I can come on my own.”

“No, it will be fine, and Jerry knows the way to our house in Greenwich

Village. It’s a bit tricky to find it on your own.”

“By the way, what does Jerry look like? Should I wear low or high heels?”

A man’s height in relation to my five foot six inches without shoes was always a

consideration for me. I didn’t think that a man would be comfortable stretching to

look up at me.

“You can definitely wear high heels. Jerry is over six feet tall.”

“Can you tell me something about Jerry that might be important for me to

know?”

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I knew that some men were reluctant to talk about the war because those

who weren’t drafted were called 4F’s, since they didn’t pass their physical exams.

“Don’t worry about it. Jerry was in the army and he probably won’t talk

about it. If he does, you’ll be fine, and if he doesn’t you’ll be fine.”

“Is there anything else that you ought to tell me about him?” I didn’t feel

that Marilyn was withholding anything important about Jerry but I sensed an

element of mystery about him.

“Well, Jerry was married, but that’s all in the past. He is divorcing his wife

and she lives in Vienna.”

I gulped, divorcing his wife! No one I knew had been divorced. If anyone

was unhappy in a marriage it was perhaps whispered about, rarely discussed,

and the couple stayed together. Divorce was for the occasional film star, or

super wealthy.

I was looking forward to my date with a certain amount of trepidation.

How old could Jerry be? I wondered, as old as my father? I wanted to meet

Marilyn’s husband, Don; she spoke so glowingly about him. It would be a

pleasant evening. My social life was in need of a boost. Most of my friends were

married right after college. It seemed to be a given that the “Mrs.” followed the

B.A. degree. Matrimony wasn’t a top priority of mine and I couldn’t understand

the rush to march down the aisle. There was too much that I wanted to do before

making a commitment to share my life with a man. I took a leave of acting in off–

Broadway plays because of my work at WQXR, but I didn’t forget it.

Neither did I forget about Jerry being in the middle of a divorce. I was a

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very young, twenty-year-old with little dating experience. I went to a co-ed high

school, but I never had any consistent attachment to any of the boys there. Nor

did I find desirable younger men in circulation during my college years at NYU in

New York City. I often wondered how I would ever find anyone of the opposite

sex who would suit me. I knew that I was choosy and really wanted a smart man

who would dominate me. I was confused about my feelings regarding

domination and love being interchangeable terms. I didn’t want a man who was

a push over and would tremble during an encounter with me. This had happened

too many times and I didn’t want repetitions.

On Friday afternoon I was asked by Abram to turn pages of a musical

score for a pianist who was giving a live on air concert. I could read music but

never had been asked to do this previously. I was introduced to Yella Pessel, the

artist, a few minutes before she would play. As I shook her hand, and she

sibilantly exhaled her name, I detected foul breath. When we entered the small

studio, and she seated herself in front of the piano keyboard, I moved in closer to

be able to reach for the pages, which I would have to turn, not to soon and not

too late. I had to position myself on her left side so as not to interfere with her

arms and hands. Yella would nod her head vigorously to cue me as to the critical

moment of turning the page. As I reached for the score, I smelled horrible body

odor, which was aggravated by Yella’s perspiration and nervousness. I was

trapped, and limited my inhalations. After this ordeal, I longed to take a shower,

but couldn’t. I hoped that the odors didn’t transfer on to me.

When the receptionist rang my phone at 5:30 to say that a man named

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Jerry was waiting for me, I prepared to meet my date. I rearranged my long

blonde hair, away from my face on the left side and the wavy right side of my hair

down to my shoulder. I applied green eye shadow to my eyelids and black

mascara to my eyelashes, freshened my lipstick, took a deep breath and

adjusted the neckline so that enough, but not too much, of my cleavage was

showing from my cocoa colored wool dress.

I opened the door to the reception area and there stood a really tall man,

wearing a charcoal grey suit, white shirt, black tie with yellow polka dots, and a

black homburg hat. He looked like someone important and very much a man of

the world; his well-modulated voice reflected good breeding, and his angular face

had a guarded and sensitive look that I found intriguing. I felt strongly that Jerry

was a complex man, who wouldn’t be a pushover. I tried to remain calm but it

was a struggle. I buttoned the camel hair cape that I placed on my shoulders

before leaving the office, smiled and felt awkward as I extended my hand in

greeting. He took my arm and we proceeded into the Art-Deco elevator down to

Fifth Avenue. I was going to ask him which subway was closest to where the

Congdon’s lived, and was thankful that I kept my mouth shut while he hailed a

cab.

We sat in silence and then both of us spoke at the same time. I said,

“Marilyn tells me that you’ve recently returned from Europe. How do you

experience the difference in the city since you’ve left?”

“It’s depressing.” He didn’t elaborate, and I wasn’t sure if I should pursue

the subject. Jerry finished asking the question that he had begun, “Marilyn

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mentioned that you’re an actress. Have you appeared in any plays recently?”

“Last year I played in a one act play that Tennessee Williams wrote as a

study of Blanche Dubois, called ‘The Lady of Larkspur Lotion’. It portrays the

character in a state of dissolution, as a possible sequel to “Streetcar Named

Desire”. She is reduced to drinking larkspur lotion because she can’t afford

alcohol.”

“What exactly is larkspur lotion?” Jerry asked.

“It’s an insecticide popular in the south for killing roaches. Blanche was

desperate, depressed and so poor that she became dependent on larkspur

lotion,” I answered.

“It sounds as if she would fit right into life here in New York now,” Jerry

answered.

We were talking about theatre and I felt more secure. Jerry asked me to

explain any acting technique that I followed. “I was trained in the Stanislavski

system of asking ‘What if I was in the same situation as my character’? For

example, I’m not dependant on alcohol, but dark, bittersweet chocolate is almost

an addiction of mine. For this part I had to imagine myself to be Blanche. What

would I do if I couldn’t get what I craved?”

“What would you do?”

“I would do without food and get the best dark, bittersweet chocolate

available.”

We arrived at our destination and mounted the steps to the Congdon’s

brownstone apartment. Marilyn radiated warmth as she opened the door. After I

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met her husband, Don, who was charming and welcoming, we sat down for some

drinks before dinner. My experience with social drinking wasn’t extensive.

Sweet Passover wine summed up the extent of it. When Don asked if I preferred

white or red wine, I was going to say a little bit of both, but caught myself in time

and asked for white wine. The few dates that I did have which included ordering

a drink, found me asking for a multi-colored concoction called a Pousse Café. I

liked the layers, which were poured into a narrow glass and there were many

variations of this favorite amongst young women launched into the dating game.

There was the Parisian Pousse Café, made with orange Curacao liqueur, cherry

brandy, cognac and green Chartreuse. The basic ABC recipe, called for

Amaretto Almond liqueur, Bailey’s Irish cream and Cointreau, and of course there

was the American Pousse Cafe made with grenadine, orange liqueur, and

maraschino cherry. These concoctions were all sickeningly sweet but looked so

pretty. It was the different weights of liqueurs that made the heavier ones sink

and the lighter ones float on top of each other. The real reason for my ordering

the Pousse Café was that I felt utterly sophisticated in saying the words.

This was the very first time I was invited to dinner at a young married

couple’s home. It had an unmatched aura of glamour. Don and Jerry were

talking about people they knew and trends in the publishing business. Jerry’s

voice resonated in my ears, “We were all affected by the end of World War II the

previous year, in April of 1945, with the linking of American troops and the Soviet

Russian soldiers on the river Elbe. It cut Germany in two and Hitler realized that

all was lost; he committed suicide in his bunker.”

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Jerry had been in Vienna, Austria, in 1938 perfecting his linguistic abilities

in German and French. He was fortunate to get out of the country a month

before Hitler overthrew Austria. Marilyn had sketchily filled me in with this

information, as well as his having been in the U.S. army in Germany.

We had a leisurely dinner, and I offered to help clear the table, when Don

said, “I’ve a great idea. Let’s go to the Vanguard and catch Irwin Corey’s act.

You’ve been away so long, Jerry, that a good dose of Corey will make you feel

glad to be home again.”

Marilyn called to make a reservation at the Vanguard for the 10:00 o’clock

show, and we walked over. On the way, Jerry asked if I had ever seen Corey

perform. When I said that I hadn’t, he said I was in for a special treat. I asked,

“Why?” “Because he has brains, calls himself ‘professor’, and once he gets

started there’s a constant barrage of non-sequiturs and double-talk.”

We were seated at a small round table, and when a waiter came around

to take our order, I asked for the same as Marilyn ordered, a Champagne

cocktail. Music was playing before Corey was featured and Jerry asked me to

dance. I made my way on to the dance floor, and as I placed my left arm on his

right shoulder, he put his right hand on my back above my waistline. He held me

close, in a way that no other man had. His touch felt possessive, and good.

Why then was I nervous about yielding too much to his pressure? Was I perhaps

thrusting myself at him? We danced well together. The disturbing knowledge

about his marital status was dancing along with me. I didn’t want to get involved

with a man going through a divorce. I could almost see my name mentioned in

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an adultery charge in his divorce action. He might even be the father of a child. I

was aware of being very attracted to him, and I felt it was reciprocated.

The announcement was made that we should be seated so that the show

could begin. Irwin Corey sauntered on to the stage wearing a tuxedo with tails, a

white wing collared shirt and black string tie. He had gym shoes on his feet,

wispy strands of hair jutting out of his scalp and framing his face. He gave the

impression of being absent-minded, to perhaps heighten his self designated title

of professor. He turned his head and said, “If I don’t look where I’m going I’ll be

there soon.” This was followed by his remarks about marriage, “It’s like a bank

account. You put it in, you take it out, you lose interest.”

We all laughed as the evening came to a close. Jerry said he would see

me home, and I thanked Marilyn and Don for a wonderful evening. It was

wonderful. As Jerry opened the cab door for me at my apartment house on the

West Side of Manhattan, I stepped out and asked him if he wanted to come up

for a nightcap. He said that he would like to another time. He had an early

appointment the next morning. I thanked him for a special and memorable

evening, and then said, “I don’t know your last name. What is it?” I was to find

out how memorable my date had been. As he leaned over to kiss me goodnight

he said, “Salinger.”

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