Blind Date, 1960

Marcus Epstein stood at his bathroom mirror brushing his unruly dark hair straight back.  Displeased, he forced a fine-tooth comb through the maze of curls.  Ringlets of hair still popped up like maniacal jack-in-the-boxes.  Adding water made matters worse.  It took globs of Vaseline to finally do the trick.  He slicked his hair back, convincing himself he looked Italian–tough, strong and solid.

His parents regaled him with stories about great Jews in history, from Albert Einstein to Neil Sedaka, but Marcus knew that although Sedaka sang about his “calendar girl,” the real Miss April dated Frankie Avalon.

He rummaged through the top drawer of his desk, under piles of school papers, and found a solitary Marlboro.  He had no intention of lighting it; he wanted to see how it looked dangling from his lips.  He tried scissoring it with two fingers, but feared he looked effeminate.  Cupping it with his full hand worked better.  He had seen Tony Capprizio hold a cigarette that way.

Pushing up the sleeve of his T-shirt, he bent his arm at the elbow.  But even Marcus couldn’t delude himself into believing that the slight bump on his skinny arm resembled a muscle.  His Adam’s apple protruded more than his bicep.

The football players at his school had thick necks that rested confidently on their shoulders.  His neck looked more like a pole extending from his spine with his head balanced on top, like a crazy Halloween decoration.

How’d he ever get talked into a blind date?  His cousin, Lenny, two years older and on the basketball team, assured him he’d like her. “She needs a date.  I kind of feel sorry for her, you know?  She’s a good kid.”

“I don’t do blind dates.”  He tried sounding cool.

“I know,” Lenny said.  “I know you don’t need a blind date.  But, look.  She’s Linda’s friend.  I promised I’d do this favor for her.”

To be honest, the prospect excited Marcus.  He didn’t date much.  He went out a few times with Judy Perlman, but she dumped him for that Tony guy.  Italian, of course.   Still, Marcus couldn’t seem too eager about being set-up.  He had a reputation.

He relented when Lenny had showed him her picture.  Long, dark hair that hung over one shoulder, a nice smile.   She looked good.

Too good.

Girls who looked this good, didn’t need to get fixed up.

“What’s wrong with her?”  He remembered asking Lenny.  “There’s gotta be something wrong with her.”

“Nothing’s wrong with her,” Lenny had assured him. “I swear.  On my mother’s life.”

Marcus remembered seeing something weird in the way Lenny looked at him.  He didn’t know what it meant at the time, but staring at the way his ears stuck out from his head like pink earmuffs, it came to him.  He understood.

He was the blind date.  He was the one Lenny felt sorry for.

Despite the Vaseline, his hair started to curl.

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