In the Winter of 1963 I was 20 and a weekly “blind” dater. I connected with girls through fix-ups, relatives, social parties, and through courageous chance meetings when shopping and on the street. Although I was shy and self-conscious, I risked rejection with contacts by phone. I never followed up if I sensed rejection. At parties, I initiated with “hello”, but if ignored or if the girl looked away, I gave up.
That summer I purchased my cousin’s white convertible, a 1960 Studebaker Lark with red leatherette seats, an unglamorous boxy car, but a convertible nevertheless. I graduated from high school and started college. A sporty convertible was usually a “chick magnet”. Mine was not even close to sporty, but the top did come down.
My first romantic relationship had just ended and I sought a replacement by dating girl after girl on Friday and Saturday nights. I compared every date to my ex- girlfriend. If new dates were enthusiastic about me, I wasn’t attracted. If by some miracle I was in love at first sight, she was’t interested in me. Single date experiences continued through the summer and into the fall. I was becoming bored and considered taking a vacation from the dating scene. I was discouraged by the relationships that seemed to be flourishing among my other male friends.
My older brother was engaged to be married to Barbara who was not only beautiful, but also creative and intelligent, too much for my brother I thought. During the lull in my dating I went with my brother to her home and enjoyed spending time with her family on Saturdays. I babysat for her younger brother if the engaged couple wanted to go out for the evening.
Barbara knew I was frustrated and depressed about lacking a girlfriend and offered me the phone number of one of her younger friends from the neighborhood. She assured me that Joanne was good looking and fun to be with. I thanked her and believed Barbara to be a trusted source for a promising blind date. I dreaded calling Joanne with the usual fear of initiation. Boys were always expected to risk rejection with that out-of-the-blue first phone call. Although Barbara had called Joanne ahead of time, I took many days to gather my nerve to pick up the phone to call her.
In the mean-time I read the December issue of Esquire Magazine, attracted by a spectacular cover girl dressed in very little clothing standing knee deep in snow. After looking at the centerfold, I was attracted to an article about planning an evening date in New York City.
The New York date article was divided into four sections: Manhattan on $500.00, Manhattan on $100.00, Manhattan on $50.00, and Manhattan on $5.00. I glanced at the first three quickly, none of which would be affordable for me. Then just for fun, I read Manhattan on $5.00 most carefully.
The list of potential evening’s activities included:
- Finding a free parking space on the street near the Port Authority, an adventure in driving round and round the blocks near 42nd Street. Eventually if one goes early enough, a legal space can be found.
- A free walk through Grand Central Station to get a feel for the people who come and go in New York.
- A stroll down Broadway past the theaters with their Broadway show billboards to Times Square with all of its signs and lights including the smoke ring blowing billboard.
- A careful walk down 42nd Street close to cops on their beat for safety.
- Stopping at 232 West 42nd Street next to the Amsterdam Theater and entering a Penny Arcade with Hubert’s Dime Museum and Flea Circus, one floor down. The Museum is a Side Show with performers from old traveling circuses.
- Stop to eat at White Castle Hamburgers or at another street vendor in the area, or if you want to splurge, go to Lindy’s for their famous Cheese Cake.
- Drive home after an unforgettable evening at an amazing low cost.
The thought of these activities on a first date sounded like a wild fantasy that might be borderline dangerous. Oh well, such a date was fun to read about, but probably was not going to happen.
For a Friday or Saturday night date, a guy usually showed respect by calling the weekend before or no later than the Monday before to ask for a date. Sunday evening my parents were out with friends, so I sat in the kitchen with a 3×5 card containing Joanne’s phone number and address. I played with the card for a while, then dialed the number on the kitchen wall phone. I hoped for a busy signal or endless rings to save me from an actual conversation. The phone began to ring. Ring…ring…ring…ring. I started my move to hang up the receiver but the call clicked and connected.
“Hello”…a man’s voice, friendly enough so far.
I croaked first, then cleared my throat, and tried again.
“Hello, is Joanne there?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Michael Silverman, a friend of Barbara Feldman. I think she’s one of Joanne’s friends.”
“Is Joanne expecting your call?” Not as friendly.
“I think so. Barbara spoke with Joanne about me…I hope.”
He laughed. “Well, I hope she did too. Hold on.”
He laid down the phone and I heard him walking to the stairs.
“Joanne…a Michael Silverman is on the phone for you.”
She answered. I heard her voice but did not hear what she said.
“She’ll be here in a second.”
Joanne picked up the phone. “Michael?”
“Hi Joanne. I’m Michael Silverman, Barbara’s fiance’s brother.”
“Oh, his little brother?”
I squirmed at “little brother”.
“Yes, I’m Harry’s brother.”
We proceeded in a small-talk conversation for 15 minutes. When a lull occurred, I gulped, took a deep breath and asked the critical question.
“So…would you like to go out with me next weekend?”
The hoped for a yes. Saturday would be the best indicator of the success of the small-talk, but Friday was acceptable. Sunday would be least desirable.
“Well,” she hesitated, “I guess Saturday would be fine.”
Bingo! My confidence swelled.
“Would it be possible for you to bring a friend for my girlfriend, Bevy?”
I understood that both of us would appreciate some support on this “blind” date.
“Sure, I have a friend, Alan who will be happy to join us. I think Bevy will like him.”
“Michael, what do you think we’ll do?”
“I’m not sure. We can decide when we get together.”
“Bevy will be at my house, so you can pick us up here at 7:00 if that works for you and Alan. What kind of car do you drive, so I can watch for your arrival?”
“I drive a white convertible.” (I left out the make and model)
“Oh!” She said with some enthusiasm. “We’ll see you guys Saturday at 7:00. Bye.”
I stared at the phone, appreciating my success.
I called Alan right away, and although he was less than excited about tagging along on a double “blind” date, he agreed, asking if he needed to call Bevy. I assured him that we can just show up together at Joanne’s house. He exhaled audibly with relief. “OK, so you’ll pick me up at 6:30?”
“Yes, that’ll give us enough time to get there by 7:00.”
Monday through Saturday went by as usual taken up with classes and work. Late Saturday afternoon I showered and picked out clothes to wear to look my best for my date.
These were the days of getting dressed up to go out on a date. I wore wool slacks, a white shirt and tie, a blue blazer with brass military buttons and shiny penny loafers. I looked in the bathroom mirror at my most ivy-league appearance.
At 6:15 I called the weather phone number. Snow was expected later in the evening. I wasn’t worried. I had new snow tires.
I picked up Alan at 6:30 exactly and we took off for Joanne’s house in West Philadelphia. I noticed that Alan was dressed similarly to me, but I believed that I looked better, and besides I was the driver.
We arrived at Joanne’s at 6:55, sat in the car until exactly 7:00 and then walked up her sidewalk to ring the doorbell. A man whom I assumed was Joanne’s father opened the door with an amused smile.
“Which one of you is Michael?” I raised my hand and then pointed to Alan saying:
“And this is Alan.”
“Have a seat in the living room. The girls will be right down.”
We both watched the stairs with expectation.
The girls came down one behind another. Which one was which?
The front one, thin with long brown hair, smiling confidently introduced herself as Joanne. I was happy. She was pretty, and she didn’t look disappointed when I said that I was Michael.
Bevy was also attractive with short hair and well-built. Alan blushed and seemed impressed. It was difficult to tell whether she found him attractive.
We all put on our coats and were ready to go.
We walked out and got into my car.
“I’ve never seen a Studebaker. Is this an American car, Michael?”
“Yes”, I said noting her disappointment? A Studebaker was not magnetic with Joanne.
Sitting in the parked car we began a discussion of what we were going to do next.
Alan and I took turns offering suggestions.
“Do you want to go out to eat?”
“We already ate.”
“How about a movie?”
“There’s nothing I want to see.”
“How about a drive to New Hope and a walk around the town?”
Bevy spoke up impatiently.
“I was just in New Hope.”
“Well what do you want to do?”
“We don’t know…you’re driving.” (sarcastically)
I have a wild idea. I read an article about things to do in New York City.”
Alan jumped in at that suggestion.
“That could cost a fortune.”
I mentioned the article in Esquire Magazine and the list of activities for five dollars-a-day.
“Are you serious?”
Surprisingly Joanne seemed excited about the prospect.
Bevy and Alan agreed and we were on our way to the turnpike.
All four of us talked about the possibilities of the trip to Manhattan.
I described the suggestions from the Esquire article. It was so cold outside that all of the walking activities were out. The inside possibilities included famous cheesecake at Lindy’s, or sandwiches at The Carnegie Deli and the show at Hubert’s Museum and Flea Circus on 42nd Street. I described what I had read about Hubert’s. Located in the rear of a penny arcade and down one flight, Hubert’s was a transplanted circus side show. Of the four of us only I knew what that meant.
Since 19th century America there were traveling circuses. Ringling Brothers/Barnum and Bailey, Clyde Beatty-Cole and others were presented under the “Big Top”, a canvas tent, large enough to hold three huge ring shaped performance venues surrounded by audience seating for many hundreds. Outside of the main tent there were smaller tents with unusual performances including “freak shows”, and other oddities that were observed closer up for additional payments per tent. These included: bearded ladies, deformed men and women, strong men, giants, and others. These were called “side shows.” Every traveling circus had side shows to draw the curious visitors who sought scary thrills of all kinds. But after the mid-nineteen fifties circuses in tents began to be replaced by large indoor stadium shows. This spelled the end of sideshows, and the end of employment for all of the “odd” performers who were presented in them.
Hubert’s survived as one of the only locations that offered a living for these people.
One of the most exciting attractions of driving to New York was and is crossing under a river to the island of Manhattan through one of the underwater tunnels, in our case the Lincoln Tunnel that emptied cars into Midtown. Again, I was the only one of us who had experienced traveling for a long distance through a tunnel under the Hudson River that dripped as we drove through.
Rather than wasting time searching for a street space, I parked at the Port Authority Building near 42nd Street. As we left the building we were smacked by cold winds rushing down the tunnel streets between the “mile-high” skyscrapers. We turned the corner onto 42nd Street facing the unexpected sleaziness of strip clubs, bars, penny arcades and dark houses fronted by garishly dressed women and scary threatening men. We huddled close, touching to protect each other and presented a united front to all threats.
The three echoed:
“Michael…what have you led us into? We can’t tell our parents about this. We hope we aren’t in danger. Will we come out of this alive? Will we ever get home? “
I breathed some relief when I spotted armed cops walking in pairs on both sides of the street. Then my anxiety returned when I realized that yes, they were walking in pairs. Uh oh.
At 234 West 42nd Street, between 7th and 8th Avenues was a long lit up sign titled PLAYLAND.
I announced: “This is it…I think.” Two smaller signs flanked the PLAYLAND sign proclaiming “Hubert’s Museum.”
Tentatively we stepped onto the grimy tile floor of the penny arcade. I asked at the change booth where Hubert’s Museum was located. He hollered through the bullet proof glass front: “In the back and down the steps!
“Is Hubert’s still a dime museum?”
He ignored the question with a sneer.
“You’ll need quarters. That’ll be $4. or 16 quarters for the four of yous.”
I handed him a Five and he filled my hands with quarters and a dollar change. As we walked to the rear of the crowded noisy arcade full of pin ball machines, mechanical games and coin operated peep shows, I turned to see the cashier staring after us. We were overdressed for 42nd Street in our ties and jackets with dates in dresses and heels. He smiled and shook his head. In the back under a bright neon sign was “Hubert’s Museum and Flea Circus” with a flashing arrow pointing down. Behind the door to go down there was a turnstile where we were to insert 4 quarters each and push through. After the turnstile we walked down a steep stairway to a large, bright room decorated with circus side-show posters and a small stage next to each poster. A larger stage in the center contained a microphone and a spotlight focusing on no one at the moment. A small sign in a chair behind the microphone had a sign that said: “Next show in 10 minutes.” Ten minutes from when? We looked around the room realizing that we were the whole audience so far.
Sure enough 10 minutes after we entered, a thin dark skinned man in a formal suit stepped up to the microphone to welcome us.
“Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen. The show will begin in a short while after more audience members arrive.” As if on cue more people arrived, not so well dressed as we and older. Still we waited. Five minutes later a group was heard thumping down the steps. Ten young Hispanic boys and three girls entered and settled in a group in the rear of the room. They did not seem to be interested in watching the show. They started their own meeting away from the rest of us.
All together the audience of a dozen people got ready to watch the show. Some brought sandwiches, sodas and potato chips. They kindly offered to share their treats with us. We thanked them but declined. Some recorded music played loudly, the MC came to the microphone to introduce the show.
There were five stages each with a poster showing the performer we were going to see. The MC introduced each one and a person came to his or her particular stage, described his or her odd attribute and history or performed an act.
As each was introduced by the MC, our little audience turned to the designated stage. Then the performer emerged and began to speak.
The order of the performances went from least unusual to most bizarre. The audience realized that these people were performing to survive by showing how they were unusual. Each either made the audience gasp with shock or laugh with surprise. We were curious, horrified and ultimately sympathetic to their plight, that forced them to earn a living by showing their oddness. We couldn’t help but stay to the end because of our youthful curiosity.
Rather than describing them in detail, I’ll list the acts and leave it to you to imagine the sad individuals who appeared to “entertain” us.
The Jungle Creep first came to his stage, a large black man scantily dressed waving his arms wildly and hollering unintelligible words. The MC described him as a man from the uncivilized jungles of a distant island, who was discovered as King Kong the giant gorilla had been.
We moved to the second stage and were introduced to the Woman with Elephant Skin. She was a middle-aged woman in a bathing suit, who sat in a chair before us and told her life story, how she was born with the rough skin that had the appearance of toughness and thickness, as might be seen on an elephant. She invited the audience to touch her arm. Some did and recoiled. Our little foursome did not.
Third stage was occupied by a tattooed woman with black hair once more in a bathing suit with a large snake wrapped around her arms and middle. She described her skill with the snake and danced around the stage lifting and coiling the snake around various parts of her body. We were fascinated by her ability to handle the snake to recorded music while it hissed and showed its fangs. Her performance as she manipulated the animal and her painted body seemed tired and worn out.
The fourth stage was a magic show performed by the MC. He was a fabulous slight-of-hand magician who worked with the audience and showed tricks that, as he predicted, amazed and surprised all of us. This was a real talent in an otherwise strange set of performances. He exhibited a classy, sophisticated smoothness that so far made all of us in the audience applaud enthusiastically.
Finally, the fifth Stage introduced us to the shocking and most hideous oddity, a man whose deformity was horrible and pathetic. Before us was a man in his forties sitting on a chair, his face covered by a mask with cut holes for his eyes. He told of his sad history, how his deformity made his family reject him at birth, how he was raised in a number of orphanages and how he became a main attraction in the side show of the Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus. After the side show tents were closed and the Big Tent was traded for city arenas, he moved on to smaller shows that continued to exhibit side shows with “freaks”. Now they too had closed and he was able to earn a living only here at Hubert’s Museum. Outside he always wore his mask to cover his face. He hoped that when he removed his mask, the members of the audience would be able to stand the sight of him.
We were not prepared for the sight when he pulled off that mask. All of the audience gasped. Some averted their eyes, and then most of us were brought to tears imagining the terrible life he must live. He was an intelligent and sad man with three eyes and two noses. He continued his story with his face fully exposed to us. Then he ended by offering autographed photographs for sale. We all tearfully purchased photographs.
When he left the stage, the MC returned to ask for donations beyond the dollar admission. Again, Alan and I reached into our wallets to place additional five-dollar bills into his top hat.
All the while the Hispanic gang was meeting in the rear of the room, only interrupting their discussion to stare at us in our jackets, ties and dresses. They were curious more than threatening, but when we left for the stairs up to the penny arcade they were right behind us laughing and taunting. We walked quickly to the street. We went one way and thankfully they went the other.
All of us agreed that we were hungry and wanted to have a real alcoholic drink since we were old enough to drink in New York. I hesitated to suggest another place recommended by the Esquire article.
“Let’s go to Jack Dempsey’s Bar. I want to meet him.” I said.
“Who’s Jack Dempsey?”
“He was a famous boxer in the 1920’s. He was heavyweight champion of the world.”
“Do they have food and drinks there?”
“Yes, but the food will be expensive. We’ll get drinks there and eat some street food on our way over.”
We stopped at a couple of corner food carts and bought four Sabrett hot dogs with mustard, kraut and relish. Then four bags of crispy french-fries with vinegar. And finally sugar coated nuts for dessert. We walked the seven short blocks to 49th Street and Broadway as it began to snow lightly
A large neon sign lit up fifty feet on Broadway, “Jack Dempsey’s Broadway Bar.” Hosted by the nineteen-twenties world boxing champion, Jack Dempsey’s was a Manhattan landmark. It was said that the champ himself could usually be found at the end of the bar greeting guests.
We walked in and headed straight to the bar, where four seats just happened to be open. Far at the right end sat the great man himself, an unrecognizable old man to my companions, but a celebrity to me. I ordered the girls two glasses of white wine, and Alan and I each ordered Jack Daniels on the rocks. After we toasted to our New York adventure, I walked down to the end of the bar to meet the ”Manassa Mauler”, who 40 years before had been the Boxing Champion of the World.
Surprisingly there was no line ahead of me to meet him, and he smiled as I sat down next to him. I offered to buy him a drink, but he declined, offering to toast me with his glass of ice water. We talked briefly about boxing today as compared to the twenties. I knew very little but told him that I had heard the play-by-play of his last fight with Gene Tunney. Best of all I told him that my favorite part of the story was his message to his wife: “Well honey, I guess I just forgot to duck.” We both laughed and he held out his huge hand to shake mine. His grip was unexpectedly gentle. He was a kind welcoming host who seemed genuinely happy to meet me. I was thrilled and returned to my friends.
“Well?” they all asked at once
“That was a great experience.” I answered.
After we finished our drinks, we all agreed that we’d better start the ride home. It was 11:30. When we walked out to the street, the snow had fallen more than we expected. Two inches had lain on the sidewalk, and even though the street was only wet, we rushed to the Port Authority to get my car.
We pulled out of the parking building and headed for the Lincoln Tunnel. Then we entered the New Jersey Turnpike and the snow was sticking on the roadway. Inches of snow were building. But no worries, we were on our way home. The speed limit was 60 MPH and we were moving along at 65.
After a few miles we heard grinding coming from the underside of the car. Then even though my foot was holding steady pressure on the gas pedal, we began to travel slower and slower, while the snow was piling deeper and deeper. And we were becoming nervous and more nervous.
Eventually the car slowed to and stayed at a speed of 20 miles per hour. I could maintain that speed, but could go no faster. What should have taken about two hours to get to Joanne’s took us more than four.
I pulled up in front of her home at 4:30 AM. All of the lights were on downstairs and when Alan and I walked the girls to the door, both sets of parents were waiting, nervous, relieved and angry.
I attempted an explanation, but there was no room for that. Two sets of parents expressed their anger and upset at me because I was the driver. I listened to all of it without defense, and when there was a moment of silence, I asked if Alan and I could call our parents.
Calmness followed as Alan and I called home. I asked to be picked up, since the car would not move from where it was now parked. Alan’s father had been in touch with my parents and he volunteered to pick us up.
At about 6:00 AM our New York adventure finally came to an end with all of us at home in our beds.
A few days later my car was towed to an auto parts yard and I received a check for $200.00.
A couple of weeks passed, and I decided that all had calmed by now. Perhaps I might call Joanne again to see how she was after our challenging, unforgettable first date.
I dialed her number and her mother answered.
“Is Joanne there, Mrs. Berman?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Michael Silverman, I’m the date with the broken-down car from the New York adventure.” Mrs. Berman silently allowed me to apologize for the upset I had caused her and her husband. With no humor or forgiveness, she told me to hold on.
“I’ll see if Joanne wants to talk with you, Michael.
After a few moments, Joanne answered the phone.
“Hello Michael.” I hoped for and imagined a smile on her face.
“Hi Joanne. First of all, let me apologize for what happened on our New York date.”
“I’m over it. It sure was an unforgettable first date.”
“Yes, it was.”
We both laughed.
I took the laugh as encouragement.
“Well, would you like to go out again this weekend? I promise we’ll stay local.”
Joanne laughed and laughed.
I laughed too.
Then after a brief silence…
“You can’t be serious!”
Click.
